Read Online The Guardian by D.E. Hall - Free Book Online Page B

that he wouldn’t be around much longer; “the place is for sale,” he would say. It was always for sale. Not that many people were interested in owning it. They didn’t want to run it. They just wanted to come and enjoy the hospitality and the friendly atmosphere of the place.
    The Town Hall was across from the Baptist Church on Payroll Street. That was about the extent of the major buildings besides the little bitty post office. Of course, there was Van Meter’s, who was a silversmith and it was the home of the Chloride Serpent.
    There were only two places to eat, DJ’s Café and Yesterday’s Restaurant. The Guardian preferred “Yesterday’s” restaurant. It was a rustic, old building.
    Out in front were a couple of old gasoline pumps no longer in use. The pumps were made by the Wayne Pump Co. out of Ft. Wayne, Indiana. It was considered the fuel pump capitol of the world. These particular models were called the Mae West pumps for their shapely design. They were the old 1920’s type that had the glass fuel tanks on the top.
    Once past that, you walked up an old wooden walkway and inside. Once inside, the wood planks on the floor would creak and crack as you walked on them.
    As you entered, the band stand was immediately to your right, which consisted mostly of Turner’s Karaoke equipment. To the left was the kitchen area. They still used the old wooden cooler boxes with the glass in the doors. You felt as though you had stepped back into the 1800’s. You could hear the old country music wafting out of the old jukebox that sat in the corner.
    There was only about 10 or 12 small tables. Most of which had folded up napkins or some other form of paper under one or more of the legs to keep them from wobbling. There were two large tables which were basically several of the smaller ones pulled together. At this table was a group of senior citizen types that would go there on Sunday afternoons at two for Turner’s Karaoke.
    Turner himself had a damn good voice. Then there was George in his black pants and black western shirt with the fancy white embroidering on the front and down the sleeves. He wasn’t too bad, singing Merle Haggard’s “Mama’s hungry eyes”, but he looked great. George would be followed by Bob, Nancy, and the rest as they all took turns singing their favorites. Nobody cared how good you were or how you looked, just that you were there sharing a good time with old friends on a Sunday afternoon.
    He would go in and eat his meals, not talk to anyone other than a polite “howdy,” or some very short, one or two worded conversation. It wasn’t anything personal. He loved it here, it was quiet, the people were friendly and nobody bothered with your business. He just felt that the less said, the less questioned and the less to worry about later. The people here minded their own business. He liked that especially.
    The buildings weren’t fancy or expensive looking. It was quiet, with memories of its own. Even the cemetery was unkempt. There was one lonely grave where an old biker was laid to rest. You could tell by the seven various rims and rusted old gas tank from what may have been his bike or one like it.
    As you looked around, all you saw was wooden crosses, faded, aged and weathered. Most of them you couldn’t read what had been put on them years before. The burial sites, each one encircled with stones that had been scattered about, were sadly uncared for. Some had gravestones detailing who they had been in their life. It told of a mother, father, son whom ever. Most of them, unfortunately, said nothing.
    There were many graves for the dead soldiers who had died defending their country. Either World Wars I, II or Korea. One young man, Ronald Hulse, Jr’s grave was the exception. Across the top of the grave was what appeared to be a handmade throw. It consisted of eight, large Marine Corp emblems. The cover had been carefully covered in plastic to protect it from the weather. There was a