Yes, Carmon
was his own man, from the boots on his feet to his brown felt hat. For most of his nearly 20 years of working
for his employer, his maverick attitude was rarely, if ever, a problem. Like Sinatra, he did it his way, and since he
was the best in the business, the fact that his way involved Wranglers and tee
shirts never got in the way. Or, at
least it hadn’t until 1982.
The new
boss arrived in the spring. He was a
college-educated suit from the west coast office. It didn’t take long for the two of them to
clash. Carmon knew something was wrong, but he couldn’t articulate what that
something was. I could see the game plan
developing, but I didn’t know how to help him.
“I’m me,” he used to say. “I am
who I am” Therein lie the problem: He was who he was, an anachronism
out of time and space. He was Davy
Crockett and Daniel Boone, Jim Bridger and John C. Fremont, Kit Carson and
Brigham Young. He was a Huckleberry Finn
who was born 100 years too late.
I’d never
seen Carmon depressed in all the years I had known him, but he was then. He had finally met a problem that he couldn’t
whittle down to size with his pocketknife. Even long walks with his Brandy didn’t soothe
his troubled heart. I listened when he
needed to talk and just sat with his silence when he didn’t. I was glad that he had something to which he
could look forward. He and two of his
best friends had planned a trip to the Mogollon Rim the last week in August to
scout out likely hunting spots for a bow-hunting trip they had planned for
September.
~ ~ ~
The night
before he left, he couldn’t sleep. I sat
up with him, even though I had to work the next day. I’ll be forever grateful that I did. I made hot chocolate and we talked. We played Canasta and I beat him – the first
and only time that ever happened.
Sometimes I just held him. It
must have been nearly dawn when he finally fell asleep.
The alarm
went off at 6:30 and I staggered to the kitchen to start breakfast. Carmon had already gone. He’d left the little brown Tonka truck
at home and had ridden up in his friend’s pickup. He had left a note on the
refrigerator door reminding me to call the doctor about his recent medical
tests. He told me that he loved me and
that he would see me on Sunday. It was
the last message I was to receive from him.
©
Gebara Education, 2001. No portion of this book may be copied by any method
without the express written permission of the author
Picture of boots and hat from www.flickr.com
Picture of mountain man from www.homeschoollingk.blogspot.com
Picture of dog from www.dogbreedpicture.net
Picture of hot chocolate from www.fanpop.com
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