Weekend trip

The first inkling that the weekend would be unusual was at the Chandler-Millwood football game Friday.

A lady who was working one of the sticks on the chain gang was having trouble getting an arm into the sleeve of her orange vest, so I held it up for her.

She slid in her arm, turned, almost curtsied and said:

“Why, thank you, kind sir.”

“My honor, fair damsel,” I would have said, if I’d thought of it in time. But I didn’t.

Saturday morning, Kindra and I slid out of town for an over-night trip to the Talimena Drive, which was fun even if the leaves hadn’t changed colors.

We stopped for gas at a station in Mena, Ark., and I noticed a familiar shape two pumps over.

It was a 1946 Ford pickup, the same model Grandpa Blansett drove when I was a kid. His was black and so worn that you could see the road through holes in the floorboard, but this one was a stunner.

The owner said he and his brother had done the body work and paint job, which was all white, even the grill and bumper.

They’d also pulled the flathead engine that came in it and put in a 351 Windsor, which sounded gnarly when they pulled out.

Then it was on to some of my old haunts near Wilburton.

It was past dark when we rolled into town and scouted for a motel. Our friend, Google, said there were three in town, so we reconnoitered them and settled on the likeliest-looking one.

There was no one at the office, but the desk clerk apparently saw us drive in, because he soon appeared.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes,” I said. “We need a room.”

“What kind of room?”

“Just one with a bed.”

He unlocked the front door, walked behind the counter, looked me over and said: “The only room I have with one bed is upstairs.”

“Ok.”

“Are you ok with that?”

“Yes.”

“It’s upstairs, and you’re ok with that?”

I thought we’d already settled that issue, so I said: “Yes. Do you think I can’t make it up the stairs?”

“I think you act like you want to fight me,” he said. “The way you talk... I’m ready.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m tired, I guess.”

He had to answer the phone at that point, so Kindra and I exchanged glances.

“What a weird thing,” she telepathed.

“Yes,” I agreed. “I’m pretty sure I could take him, but then we’d have to find another motel.”

Finally, he got off the phone, asked if we were baseball fans and pointed to an aerial photo of the motel.

“Your room’s right here.” We settled in to the room, which, strangely, had

We settled in to the room, which, strangely, had no cold water - only hot - and reviewed the day’s events.

It was interesting, we agreed, and an interesting day is never a bad thing.