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Now, I don’t know what kind of fortune other folks haul around with them, but mine tends to be loud, inconvenient, and just smart-aleck enough to make a fool outta me when it counts.

It was a Thursday, late April, which meant the county dump was taking tire drop-offs for free. I don’t know who in town spreads the word on these things, but somehow, every man over forty with a garage full of dry rot finds out about it like it’s gospel. I was no exception.

I’ve had a truckload of old tires behind the shed since last century. Bias plies, steel radials, even a whitewall from my cousin Kenny’s Oldsmobile back when he thought chrome was a personality trait. I stacked them high in the bed of my old Ford—twelve in all, two balder than a Baptist preacher’s head, wobbling with every bump like a stack of pancakes.

Common sense— a rare bird these days—would tell a man, “If you’re hauling tires, check your own first.” But I hadn’t heard from common sense after it ran off with my jumper cables.

Halfway down County Road, where the fields start looking like green corduroy, and the cows have opinions, is where it happened. My rear passenger tire went out with a bang like a starter’s pistol, and the whole truck gave a lurch that sent the stack of rubber rocking. I pulled off onto the gravel shoulder, cursing the particular shade of irony that picks days like this to teach lessons.

Now, here’s the kicker. I had no spare. None. Nada. I had a dozen tires in the back—some barely cracked, sun-baked—but not one on my Ford. One was from a riding mower. Another had a hole big enough to fit a raccoon through. I even found a tire that still had a length of garden hose sticking out of it. Don’t ask.

So there I was, chewing a peppermint I found in the glove box and contemplating my next move, when along came Earl Jenkins in his beat-up Dodge. Earl’s the kind of man who’s worn the same ballcap forever, and I’m not sure he knows how to use second gear.

He rolled down his window and looked at me over the rim of a Styrofoam cup.

“You broke down or just sittin’ there for dramatic effect?”

“Blew a tire,” I said. “Got a dozen in the back, but no spare.”

Earl looked at the tires. Then at me. Then the tires again.

“That’s rich,” he said, sipping from his cup like high tea.

He gave me a lift back to my place, where I rummaged through the shed and found a spare I didn’t know I had—like it was waiting for its big debut. Once I got back and changed the tire, the sun was already low, and the cows had lost interest in my misfortune. And the dump had closed an hour before.

Looking back, I reckon life’s filled with cosmic jokes. You’ll have everything you don’t need right when you need something else. But that’s just the world’s way of keeping us humble—and maybe nudging us toward being prepared next time, or perhaps it’s just bad luck with good timing.

I was still 13 that summer when you’re old enough to know your GI Joes aren’t real soldiers but still young enough to panic when one goes missing in action. We lived on Redwood Drive, where the blacktop surrendered to gravel, and the gravel gave up entirely somewhere around our mailbox.

One afternoon, the sun had settled into its regular post at two o’clock high, watching over us like a lazy warden. My brother Adam and I had deployed our five GI Joes along the front porch–all locked and loaded. We were maneuvering along the house wall, and the sidewalk crack voices hoarse from whispering classified intel and battle cries when they showed up.

Deirdre, age seven and already an iron-fisted matriarch, marched onto the scene with a shoebox full of Barbies under one arm and Marcy, age five, clutching a Ken doll by his head.

“We’re here for the peace talks,” Deirdre announced as if she’d just stepped into a UN summit.

Adam and I gave each other the same look our dad gave the weather radio every time it mentioned “light scattered showers.” Suspicion. Dread. The scent of betrayal riding in on the wind.

Deirdre, unbothered, seated Barbie on the porch rail, legs dangling over as she’d just returned from a week at the spa and now had time to address global conflict. Ken stood behind her, shirtless, expression blank, like a man who lost a bar fight with existential dread.

Our GI Joes didn’t negotiate with civilians. They came trained for covert operations and mountain reconnaissance, not diplomatic summits with women who wore heels to breakfast. But Deirdre insisted Barbie had come with intelligence.

“There’s a snake in the grass,” she said solemnly.

Adam dove to the side, knocking over a flower pot. Marcy screamed. And my GI Joe fell off the porch.

Turns out she meant figuratively. Barbie warned the soldiers that “the snake” was Ken, who had—according to Deirdre—been “passing secrets under the table at the Pizza Hut,” which was impressive since none of us had been to Pizza Hut.

A diplomatic incident broke out almost immediately. Barbie accused Ken of treason. Adam tried to court-martial him using a Lincoln Log as a gavel. Deirdre objected. Marcy sobbed and took Ken hostage inside an empty Folgers can, demanding a pony and a wedding.

For the next hour, we negotiated terms. Barbie refused to let go of her Malibu estate. Adam’s GI Joe offered to build her a new one out of mud and pinecones before he launched a rescue mission that failed spectacularly when Marcy pushed him into the flowerbed.

In the end, we declared a ceasefire. Ken got exiled to the sandbox. Barbie and my GI Joe started seeing each other “casually.” And Deirdre? She promoted herself to General of the Peace Corps, which I didn’t have the heart to explain wasn’t a military unit.

That night, over dinner, Dad said he’d seen us from the window and thought we were reenacting the Cuban Missile Crisis.

“Well,” I said, “we learned that love is war.”

He chuckled and said, “Just wait ’til high school, next month.”

Looking back, I reckon it was our first brush with diplomacy, heartbreak, and the complicated mess of human emotions wrapped in tiny plastic torsos. But I’ll be darned if we didn’t make peace, even though Barbie got all the good stuff.

And to this day, I’m sure my sister Deirdre could out-negotiate a NATO ambassador.

“Why do you work for a non-rated radio station?” someone asked me not long ago, their eyebrows doing a little dance that implied I was either a saint or a fool–probably the latter. Halfway through my black coffee—no sugar, no cream, no regrets—I smiled the kind of smile that comes from knowing a thing other people have forgotten.

“The answer,” I said, “is simple. I’m employed by one of the last honest-to-goodness mom and pop radio stations in the U.S.”

Mom and Pop are Bonnie and Harry Dixon, owners of KUEZ—“Easy 104.1,” if you’re hip to our decades-old branding. The station is near the heart of Reno, like a stubborn old mule who’s too ornery to move and too proud to die in a stucco building that looks like the 1990s, which no one has the heart to change.

I do the early show. It’s not flashy. No wacky sound effects, countdowns of “The Hottest Hits,” or Morning Zoos.

Mostly, it’s Linda Ronstadt, the Eagles, Boz Skaggs, a little Fats Domino sometimes, and whatever Elizabeth Rose brings in from her mysterious milk crate she keeps under her desk like a sacred relic.

Elizabeth’s been my friend for nearly 40 years. We met back when bell-bottoms weren’t ironic, and she’s the only person I’ve ever known who can fold a fitted sheet without cussing. She wears silver bangles that jingle when she laughs and smells faintly of lilacs and vanilla wafers.

The thing about KUEZ is it’s not about the talent behind the microphone. No one’s trying to be the next big voice in broadcasting.

And I like it like that.  I’m just trying to get people to their morning coffee with a little company and maybe a Bonnie Raitt tune that hits them in the chest like it did back when their hearts still worked overtime.

Our listeners are the folks who leave their radios on all day, not because they’re listening, but because silence is just a little too loud. We got Lucille, who calls to correct my grammar and remind me that my weather is “too chipper for someone predicting snow.” And Bob from Fallon, who swears he can pick up our station on his CB radio.

I don’t question it.

There ain’t no Nielsen ratings, no corporate emails telling us to “pivot to digital.” And we still read the headlines and give weather temperatures.

It’s ain’t fancy, but it’s real.

And doing real is getting harder to come by in a world where everything’s filtered, scheduled, and algorithm-approved. On weekday mornings, I flip a switch and chat as if it’s just me and the folks on the porch with the sun rising slowly.

Sometimes, the best signal doesn’t come in high-def–often, it crackles, skips, and hums in just the right places–like a good memory or an old friend who never did learn to whisper.

So, why do I work at a non-rated radio station? I’d rather be a whisper in the right ears than a shout into the void.

And besides, Elizabeth brings the coffee.

Lawrence Leroy “Butch” Butcher passed away. Quietly. Just like he lived. January 8, 1933 to June 21, 2025. Ninety-two years on this Earth and none wasted.

He was part of that old Klamath guard—the kind of man who didn’t boast, backed down, always had a wrench, a pocketknife, or a piece of advice on hand.

I grew up around him. His son, Jimmy, was in my graduating class. His daughter, Cindy, came up the line with my brother, three years behind me. The Butchers were like pillars in the fog—always there, always steady.

Now, I need to come clean about something.

There was a night long ago when I was behind the wheel of my ’68 Charger, hauling up that twisting stretch of Highway 101. It was about 10:30 p.m., and the Redwoods blurred past like ghosts in the mist.

I had my brother, along with three other high school knuckleheads. I wasn’t thinking about safety or scenery. I was thinking about Candy–red-headed, blue-eyed, and waiting for me back in Crescent City.

I hit the 30 mph curve, going closer to 80, tires squealing like sinners in church. I flew past the Butcher’s car like a bat outta Hades. I made it home, dropped everyone off, and tore off again like James Dean.

The next day, my folks got a call.

Mr. Butcher had seen it all and wanted them to know. He said I could’ve killed every last one of us. My mom, bless her, tried to defend me, “Oh, you must be mistaken,” but I knew better.

So did she. So did Mr. Butcher.

He was right, of course. I was young, dumb, and full of adrenaline. He didn’t yell; he presented the facts like a good witness, a good neighbor, and an even better father.

I never told him thank you, but I should have.

Mr. Butcher had been preparing for this final stretch for a while now. You could see it, according to Cindy.

The way he got his affairs in order. The way he spoke softer but more clearly. The way he looked at the world—longer, with more weight behind it, like he was memorizing you for the road ahead.

He didn’t want a service, and I reckon that fits. The man didn’t need a spectacle, just our quiet remembrance. Cindy asks us to hold him in our hearts, which is easy enough, as he has been in mine since that misty night in the Redwoods.

He was a father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and—this part’s hard for me to say out loud—a friend, though he never knew it. I didn’t see that coming.

Not back when I was peeling through corners and burning rubber with KPOD on the radio. But, as time passes, many things change, and one of the best aspects of aging is discovering who your true friends are.

Now, as I look around, there aren’t many left from that generation. Mrs. Dorothy Pasch, Mr. Ralph Rode and Mr. Mike Collins, as far as I can tell. The last of our parents. When they goe, a whole era will slip away into the fog like headlights on a winding road.

So, here’s to Mr. Butcher. May he ride the curves in peace, mist on the trees, stars overhead, and may we all be lucky enough to have someone like him call our folks when we’re being stupid.

When I was a boy, I used to think getting old meant you could finally eat dessert first and swear in front of children without consequence. It turns out it means making new noises every time you stand and forgetting why you came into the kitchen, even though it seemed important at the time.

Now, my body is no longer a bunker. It’s an old house—creaky, drafty, and home to an old fart who won’t shut up.

The first time I noticed something was wrong was when my left knee started making a noise like someone opening a screen door in a horror movie. I wasn’t doing anything heroic, either. I was bending down to tie my boot, a man preparing for a day of labor, and then I was gripping the edge of the porch rail like a Civil War widow in a thunderstorm, whispering, “Oh Lord, not again.”

My friend Everett, who still wears his high school letterman jacket even though the high school itself burned down in ‘92, swears it’s because I don’t drink enough pickle juice.

“It lubricates the joints,” he says while pouring it into a Mason jar and sipping it like fine wine.

It’s the same man who once got bit by a raccoon and tried to cure it by rubbing bacon fat on the wound. So, take that for what it’s worth.

Please, don’t get me wrong—there are benefits to getting older. For example, nobody asks you to help move furniture anymore. And you’re allowed to complain about everything, from gas prices to modern music to how they don’t make garden hoses like they used to.

Heck, I’ve even perfected the Old Man Sigh. It’s a slow, gravelly exhale that says, “Life’s been hard, son. Let me tell you about it over some coffee.”

But this old house body of mine? It’s full of things I didn’t invite. There’s the thing in my knees that moans every time I try to get into my truck and the one in my back that throws dishes on the floor if I stand too long washing them. I even have a thing in my bladder that wakes me up three times a night to remind me who’s boss. And let’s not even talk about the missing metabolism, which died sometime in 2003 and now hangs around the waistline of my jeans.

Still, there’s a charm in my decay, like an old barn that’s leaning but still standing—full of rusted tools, wasp nests, and stories. People think I’m hilarious when I grunt like a hog whenever I get off the couch. And maybe I am. Life’s not about staying pretty and smooth and young.

It’s about wearing out your parts and doing the things that matter. It’s loving people, planting gardens, feeding chickens, chasing raccoons out of the attic with a broom and a prayer.

So yes, my body’s an old house now. But the lights still work, the roof mostly holds, and the old dude inside—despite the creaks, groans, and colorful language—gets up every morning and heads to work.

Besides, an old house is still a home.

Want to hear about the time I tried yoga with a pulled hamstring and a pulled pork sandwich?

It was a rainy afternoon in Eureka, Cal., where the clouds settled like they bought property and planned to stay. Barbara Webster and her mother had taken refuge in the warm, pie-scented embrace of Marie Callender’s, a place that still believed in tablecloths, proper whipped cream, and a pot of coffee that never runs dry.

Barbara and I go way back, so when she told me this story, I could hear her mama’s voice before she even got to the punchline. Her mama was one of those women who wore a brooch the size of a biscuit and had a stare that could pin a man to the wall, but always with a twinkle behind it—as if to say, “Don’t test me, sugar, unless you want to be politely annihilated.”

Anyway, there they were, mother and daughter, sharing a slice of pie—pecan, if I had to guess, though Barbara’s always been partial to anything with meringue. The rain was pattering gently against the windows, the hum of conversation filled the room like soft jazz, and all was right in the world.

Then it happened.

Across the room, some poor fella unleashed a nose blow that could’ve registered on the Richter scale. One of those real barnburners—a honking so vigorous it might’ve launched his tonsils into his mashed potatoes.

Barbara’s fork froze mid-air. Her mother lowered her cup of coffee, eyes narrowing like a sheriff sizing up a drifter. And in that dry, unhurried tone that only years and confidence can deliver, she muttered, “People should get a ticket for doing that.”

That was it. No raised voice, no huffing and puffing—just a simple decree, like Moses issuing a minor amendment to the Ten Commandments.

Barbara tried to hold it together, but you know how laughter is—it sneaks up on you like a raccoon in the trash. And now, each time she’s in a restaurant and hears someone let loose on a napkin, she hears her mother’s voice and whispers, “Give him a ticket!” then giggles like she’s back at that table again, rain on the windows, pie on the plate, and her mama delivering justice with a spoonful of sass.

It’s a little thing, I know. But isn’t it always the little things?

Life gives us big moments—graduations, weddings, the occasional dramatic fall off a ladder—but the stuff that sticks is usually pie-sized. A certain laugh. A look, a phrase that sticks to your ribs longer than meatloaf.

And if you ask me, we could all stand to carry around a few more of those moments. We’re so busy these days, noses buried in phones, hurrying from one thing to the next, forgetting to notice the world’s full of characters. Full of mothers who still believe in manners and aren’t afraid to lay down the law, one napkin violation at a time.

So the next time you’re out somewhere—say a diner in a town you can’t pronounce, waiting on a sandwich you probably shouldn’t eat—and someone honks like they’re trying to call geese down from the heavens, smile to yourself.

And say it soft, just loud enough for the spirits of all pie-loving mamas to hear, “Give him a ticket.”

It started innocently enough—just another morning here at the edge of nowhere, where the cows moo louder than the Internet signal, and the rooster still thinks he runs the place. I was brewing coffee so strong it could refinish furniture when I heard the whir of the printer upstairs. That alone was odd–since I hadn’t asked it to do anything lately–unless you count my plea last week for it to stop being a jerk.

For the better part of our marriage, my wife Mary regarded computers the same way she regards tofu–something unnatural and vaguely threatening. She’d stand two feet back from the keyboard, pointing like she was defusing a bomb.

“Why’s it doing that?” she’d ask while the screen blinked innocently.

And, I’d come to the rescue with all the grace and wisdom of a man who mostly just hit ‘restart’ and hoped for the best. But between online quilt forums and an unhealthy fascination with Pinterest, Mary’s got good.

Not “works for NASA,” kinda skills, but “makes the printer obey her commands” good. Which, in this house, is a form of sorcery.

So anyway, the printer spits out this piece of paper, right? Just one page. Plain old white with black ink. No smiley face, no clipart, just this little typed note that said, “This is your printer. I am aware. I know where you sleep.”

I’ll be the first to admit she got me a couple of times.

Once, Mary put googly eyes on all the apples in the fruit bowl, and it took me a full hour to notice. Another time, she replaced all the desktop icons with photos of our dogs, who now manage the Wi-Fi.

So naturally, I held up the paper and hollered down the stairs, “Real cute, Mary. I get it. You’re the tech queen now.”

She hollered back, “What are you talking about?”

I paused because she ain’t that good of an actress. When Mary’s fibbing, her right eyebrow does this little twitch like it’s trying to signal Morse code for “I’m full of it.”

But she wasn’t even in the room. That’s when it hit me: I sleep in the same room as the printer.

Now, I’m not saying I believe machines are becoming sentient. But I am saying since then, I’ve been sleeping with one eye open. I even unplug the printer at night, just to be safe. I swear I heard it sigh in disappointment. It could’ve been the wind, the dogs, or my dignity escaping, but I don’t sleep too soundly.

After all, Mary knows where I sleep, too.

Driving south along Pyramid Highway the other day, I shook my head at what used to be and what’s become. Now, I try not to turn every drive into a lecture on modern decay, but it’s hard to keep quiet when a place you knew as bare bones and barbed wire now looks brushed over with a suburban powder puff.

Thirty years ago, Spanish Springs was little more than a few hay fields and a windmill that hadn’t spun since Nixon left office. You could see from Eagle Canyon to the Pah Rah Range–nary a stucco wall in sight.

Now, the whole area’s filled out like a young girl, blossoming into a full-figgered woman — shopping centers where there used to be cattle pastures, big houses in tight rows like teeth in a too-small mouth. It ain’t bad, exactly. Just different.

But what caught my attention–what rubbed my fur the wrong way–were the sound walls. You know the kind. Big, beige, stucco-looking fences running along the road like someone’s trying to hide a secret.

Supposedly, they’re to protect the delicate ears of folks living in those new houses. They don’t want the woosh of a passing Peterbilt to upset little Gavin during his pre-algebra Zoom session.

Now, I remember when noise was just part of life. My friend lived right off Highway 101 back in the seventies. His folk’s old single-wide rattled every time a semi went by.

He said it helped keep his heart in rhythm, “That’s the Lord’s metronome,” he’d say, sipping his black coffee with a dash of yesterday’s bacon grease.

His family also kept a goat, which they swore could predict earthquakes, and a rooster that crowed every morning at 2 a.m.–claimed it had East Coast blood. But never once did he complain about the noise.

“Life’s noisy,” he said. “Only the dead enjoy silence.”

But now? We’re so soft we need government-mandated quiet.

We can’t abide tires on asphalt, jogging us into remembering we live in a world that moves. Gotta be coddled by concrete and cushioned by HOA-approved landscaping.

Now, if you listen close enough behind one of those walls, you can hear a thousand folks trying to pretend they’re still in the country while their Amazon packages pile up on the porch.

Of course, maybe I’m being unfair as I’ve grown fond of soft things, a good recliner, a second slice of pie, or a cold beer. And progress ain’t always a bad thing, and I’ll admit, there’s a certain peace in not being jolted awake by a Jake brake at midnight.

But I do wonder what we’re losing in the name of comfort. Noise used to mean life–kids yelling, dogs barking, trucks sputtering to life on cold mornings. Now everything’s filtered and muffled like we’re trying to live in a padded room.

Still, I smiled as I drove past. Because even if the walls keep the sound out, they can’t keep the memories in. And I carry enough of those to drown out any silence.

Lesson? Maybe it’s this–you can soften the world all you want–but don’t forget where the hard edges came from. They’re what shaped us and keep us honest when the remote batteries die–and the quiet gets too loud.

You never really know the last time you’ll see someone. Sure, folks say that a lot, but it doesn’t sink in until you’re flipping through the news and a name hits you like a rake to the shin. Tina Wu. Gone.

Tina had an office a few doors down from mine when we both worked at the Regional Transportation Commission on Sutro Street in Reno. We weren’t close friends exactly, not in the way folks usually mean, but we shared hallway air, stale coffee smells, and more than a few chuckles over broken printers and doomed city plans.

We were working on a project for paratransit operations—small buses that assist people when a regular bus ain’t suitable. Tina was the design lead, and I was, well, something vaguely helpful. My title was long enough to make me feel important and vague enough to hide that I didn’t know what half the buttons on AutoCAD did.

Tina had a clipped way of speaking— originally from somewhere in Taiwan or Singapore, I think–and her English was excellent but accented enough that sometimes my brain would trip over itself trying to keep up. I’d lean in like an old hound trying to locate a squirrel in the wind.

One day, we were elbows-deep in diagrams and route tables when she said something—clear as a bell, I thought—but I didn’t quite catch it. I asked her to repeat it.

She did. It still didn’t land. I asked again. A third time. Now she squinted at me with the kind of expression you get from your Aunt Dot when you say you don’t like her lemon bars.

Then she tilted her head, all mock-serious, and said, “Do you have a problem with oriental rugs, too?”

I blinked. What?

Tina didn’t miss a beat. “I said ‘entrance plugs,’ not oriental rugs. You hear what you want to hear.”

And then she laughed. Loud, wicked, and joyful, the kind of laugh that doesn’t apologize for itself. I hadn’t realized she had that kind of humor in her.

From then on, I started listening harder, not just to the words but to the rhythm of her voice. There’s music in people if you take the time to hear it.

We drifted, as folks do. Life rolled on. I left the RTC for a slower, less bureaucratic life. Tina stayed a while longer. Our project never made it past the idea stage.

Far too many meetings and not enough follow-through. Funny how that works.

Now she’s gone, and I think about how I should’ve lingered longer in our hallway chats, could’ve brought her a cup of tea now and then instead of just nodding in the break room like a well-meaning mannequin. So here’s to Tina Wu–brilliant, sharp, and sneakier with a joke than most people gave her credit for.

And here’s hoping wherever she’s gone, they listen the first time she speaks. And if not, I pray she gives them hell—with a smile and a carpet pun.

My longest earthly friend, Goldie Arnold, had a Dad who reminded me of President Abe Lincoln, tall and gangly, minus the beard or top hat. His name was John Arnold, but I called him “Mr. Arnold” like he was the only one.

He had a slower way of talking–like the words had to hike uphill through molasses to reach his lips and a habit of scratching his head when he was about to tell you something he figured you didn’t already know.

Now, Mr. Arnold owned the only Allis-Chalmers tractor in three counties that still started with a crank and a prayer.

The thing was a wheezing orange beast that smelled like diesel, tobacco spit, and stubbornness. You could hear it from two miles away—three if the wind was right—chugging across the pasture like a mechanical bull with asthma.

One summer, when Goldie and I were eleven, we decided to help Mr. Arnold plow. Help, in our minds, meant we’d take turns joyriding the tractor until we either ran out of daylight or something caught fire. Mr.

Arnold looked at us, scratched his head, and said, “Well, try not to kill the cows or each other.”

We lasted twenty-seven minutes before Goldie hit a stump and bent the plow blade like a paperclip. The tractor gave a mighty ka-thunk, belched out a black cloud, and stopped so suddenly I thought we’d finally killed it.

We sat there, quiet as fenceposts, waiting for Mr. Arnold to come over and hand us our funerals. He walked up slowly, chewing on a toothpick like it owed him money.

He didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at the blade, at his daughter, then me. Then he did that little head-scratch and said, “Well now. That blade’s got a better curve than the Missus’ back when she used to dance in the church pageant.”

Goldie turned redder than a beet in July. I couldn’t help but laugh, and Mr. Arnold just shook his head and walked back toward the barn. We trailed behind him like whipped puppies.

When we got to the barn, he opened a cabinet that looked like it’d survived the Depression, rummaging about, coming out with a crescent wrench, a rubber mallet, and two orange sodas.

“Fix it,” he said, handing us the tools and the drinks in that order. “You broke it, you fix it. That’s the way the world works. Sodas are so you don’t pass out.”

It took us four hours–three pinched fingers and one good whack to my thumb that made me see stars and possibly a few dead relatives. But by sundown, the blade was nearly straight, and the tractor was back to making its unholy racket.

Mr. Arnold never yelled, never scolded. Just nodded once and said, “Kiddos, experience is what you get when you didn’t get what you wanted.”

Then he tossed Goldie the keys and added, “Don’t hit the same stump twice.”

I’ve thought about that day a lot over the years, especially when fixing something I had no business breaking. And I always remember the sound of that tractor, the taste of warm orange soda, and the quiet wisdom of a man who looked like Lincoln and taught like Solomon—one busted blade at a time.