Little Town, Great Big Life. Curtiss Matlock Ann

years old, and each morning he was a little surprised to wake up. That was his entire future: being surprised each morning to wake up.

      It was at that particular moment, when his spirits were so low as to be in the bottom of the rut, an idea came upon him with such delightful force that his eyes popped wide. A grin swept his face.

      “I’ll show ’em. I ain’t dead yet.”

      His feet hit the cold floor with purpose. Holding to the bedpost, he straightened and stepped out quietly. Then, moving more quickly, he washed up and dressed smartly, as was his habit, in starched jeans and shirt, and an Irish sweater. Winston Valentine did not go around dressed “old,” as he called it.

      After a minute’s rest in the chair beside the bedroom door, he picked up his polished boots, stepped into the hall in sock feet and soundlessly closed the door behind him.

      He had forgotten his cane but would not turn back.

      The hallway was dimly lit by a small light. The only bedroom door open was that of Willie Lee. Winston automatically glanced inside, saw that the boy had thrown off the blankets.

      The little dog who lay at the foot of the bed lifted his head as Winston tiptoed into the room and gently pulled the blankets over the child, who slept the deep sleep of the pure in heart. When Winston left the room, the dog jumped down and followed soundlessly.

      Gnarled hand holding tight to the handrail, Winston descended the stairs, knowing where to step to avoid the worst creaks. He located the small key that hung on the old rolltop desk in the alcove.

      Then he went to the bench in the hall and tugged on his boots. Seeing the dog watching, he whispered, “Go on back up.”

      The dog remained sitting, regarding him with a definite air of disapproval.

      “Mr. Munro, you just keep your opinions to yourself.” Winston slipped into his coat and settled his felt Resistol on his head.

      The dog still sat looking at him.

      Winston went out into the crisp morning, closing the door on the dog, who turned and raced back down the hall and up the stairs, hopped onto the boy’s bed and over to peer through the window. His wet canine nose smeared fog on the glass. The old man came into view on the walkway, then disappeared through the small door of the garage.

      Munro’s amber eyes remained fastened on the garage. His ears pricked at the faint sound of an engine. The small collie who lived next door came racing to the fence, barking his head off. Munro regarded such stupid action with disdain.

      Moments later, a familiar green-and-yellow lawn mower came into view on the street, with the old man in the seat. Munro watched until machine and old man passed out of sight behind the big cedar tree in the neighbor’s yard. The sound faded, the stupid collie lay down and Munro reluctantly lay down on the bed. All was quiet.

      Winston headed the lawn tractor along the street. The cold wind stung his nostrils, bit his bare hands, but his spirits soared. He imagined people in the houses hearing the mower engine and coming to their windows to look out.

      Halfway along the street, it came to him, as he noted the limbs of a redbud tree that had just begun to sprout, that only the calendar said spring. The morning was yet cold and everyone’s house shut up tight. No one was going to hear him racing along the street.

      Crossing the intersection with Porter Street, he hit a bump and had to grasp the steering wheel to keep from bouncing off the seat. He saw the newspaper headlines: Elderly Man Ends Life Plowing Mower into Telephone Pole.

      But he was not about to downshift like some old candy-ass.

      He kept his foot on the pedal and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He wished he had thought of gloves.

      He did slow when he came alongside the sheriff’s office at the corner of Church and Main streets. Maybe Sheriff Oakes was in this morning.

      No one came to the door, though.

      Driving down the middle of the empty highway, he was forced to slow a little. His hands were growing weak on the wheel, the old arthritis getting the best of him. He turned onto graveled Radio Lane and bounced along until he finally came to a stop outside the door of the concrete-block building beside Jim Rainwater’s black lowrider Chevrolet.

      He had made it. And in all the distance traveled, nearly two miles, he had encountered no other person or vehicle. It was a deep disappointment.

      He got himself off the mower, and was glad to have no witnesses. He moved like the rusted-up Tin Man. Inside the building, he might have leaned back against the door, but just then Jim Rainwater, coffee mug in hand, appeared from the sound booth. Winston brought himself up straight.

      Jim Rainwater’s eyes widened. “Well, hey, Mr. Winston. Whatta ya’ doin’ here so early?” Jim Rainwater was a tall, slim young man in his twenties, a full-blood Chickasaw, and of a solemn nature. In a worried manner, as if he had missed something important, he checked his watch. “You know it isn’t even six?”

      “Hey, yourself. I may be old, but I can still tell time. I got up early…what’s your excuse?” He sailed his hat toward the rack, but it missed.

      Jim Rainwater picked up the hat, saying, “I always get here by now.”

      “You need a life, young man.” Winston shrugged out of his heavy coat. “I thought I’d start us an early-mornin’ wake-up show.”

      “Now, Mr. Winston, no one has said anything to me about that. Have you worked it out with Everett or Tate?”

      Winston’s response to this was, “Why do you always call me mister?”

      “Uh…I don’t know.”

      “You don’t call any of those other fellas mister.”

      Jim Rainwater gave a resigned sigh. “Mr…. Winston, what is it you want to do?”

      “Aw, boy, don’t get your shorts in a wad. I’m not gonna step on Everett’s toes. He can have his show at seven, but we need somethin’ before that. A lot of those city stations start mornin’ shows at five. We’re losin’ audience share.”

      “This is Valentine, Mr. Winston.”

      “So it is, and it is time for a change. There’s folks here that need wakin’ up. I’ll thank you kindly for a cup of coffee,” he added as he made his way stiffly into the sound studio and dropped with some relief into his large swivel chair.

      Jim Rainwater returned with the coffee. Winston sipped from the steaming mug that bore his name, stared at the microphone hanging over his desk and felt himself warm and his heart settle down.

      “We’ll start up on the hour,” he told the young man.

      Jim Rainwater shoved the weather forecast and a playlist in front of Winston. Slipping on his headphones, Winston positioned himself and adjusted the height of the microphone. He spoke in a moderate tone. “Testing…one, three, six, pick up sticks.” Retaining his own front teeth helped Winston to come over clear, and Jim Rainwater corrected a lot of the graveling of his voice with electronics.

      The hour hand hit straight up. The young man pointed a finger at him.

      Winston put his lips to the microphone and came out with, “GET UP, GET UP, YOU SLEE-PY-HEAD. GET UP AND GET YOUR BOD-Y FED!”

      Jim Rainwater jumped and grabbed his earphones. Dumb-founded, he stared at Winston.

      For his part, Winston, imagining his voice going out over the airwaves and entering radios in thousands of homes of people just waiting breathlessly for him, continued happily: “It’s six o’clock, ’n’ day is knockin’. GET UP, GET UP, YOU SLEE-PY-HEAD! GET UP AND GET YOUR BOD-Y FED!”

      CHAPTER 2

      1550 on the Radio Dial

       Joy in the Morning!

      IN