William R. Norman

“Grandpa, what would I do?”
The old man could see the boy was eager to learn. He could read and that was good.
Gently he removed his dusty old work sombrero to reveal a sunburned scalp and an unruly patch of thin gray hair.
The old man drank deep from the clay mug of cool water the young man had eagerly fetched, allowing a rivulet to track past the high cheeks, weathered brown skin and trim gray beard. The boy watched as a drop fell from the old man’s chin to his clean white cotton shirt.
He set the mug down on a table tired and beat from the generations. Extending an open palm to the west, he said:
“There lies the trail where the rattlesnake and cottontail live side-by-side. Where the sun drags its feet having sprayed light on those distant purple mountains,’’ he said, pausing for another drink.
“Follow the hummingbirds in search of flowing wells,” he continued. “When you arrive, ask the first friendly face you see, ‘What am I doing here?’ Follow her advice.”
This he did. The boy and his b***o traveled many hours and many miles through the mountains west. He followed the hummingbirds by day, dining on dried rabbit in his travel bag, foraging nuts and berries along the way, at night marveling at the stars flung deep into the blackness and the call of the coyotes echoing off red canyon walls.
He reached the flowing wells and waited. The wells were alive with animals and wild things growing. Birds and butterflies gathered as if assembling an entourage and there she was, just as the old man said she would be.
They smiled. She seemed familiar, radiant with love. As he drew closer the aroma of cactus bloom filled the air.
He remembered the question. She said this:
“Pilgrim, if you take one message, consider this: Honor your wife, father many children and gather more food than you need,’’ she said. “Then care for the old ones, never let them die alone.”
“Be kind,’’ she continued. “And generous to people, animals and the earth, all are your friends.”
He wanted to know more, but it was time for her to go. Her parting words: “Go back and help the old man.’’ Then she was gone. Leaving only a sweet memory and the fragrance of blossoms.
After the long journey home and many thoughtful miles, the boy returned to the old man. They made tortillas and talked about the journey, the many sights he had seen, the new thoughts in his head, the wonderful old lady at the well.
“Grandfather,” the boy asked, “How did you know there would be an old woman at the well?”
“Not just any woman,” the old man corrected him gently. Then, allowing a pleasant grin, eyes moist with longing: “She is your grandmother.”
The boy was stunned.
“But grandfather, you said grandmother had been gone for a long time.”
“It’s true, my son,” answered the old man. “She was searching for something she lost a long time ago. It had to do with her innocence. She had her reasons. I loved her enough to let her go. She always wanted to know what was beyond the next valley. I just hope she found what she was looking for.”
The boy reflected on this for a moment. Then asked:
“Grandfather, why did you not tell me this before?
“You weren’t old enough to start asking questions,” the old man said. “Besides, you had to be old enough to ride the donkey all that way to the flowing wells.”
This made sense to the young man. But much of the rest did not. For many years he had wondered why he seemed to be one of the few kids in the village who did not have both grandparents living nearby and a big part of his life. Grandpa was there, yes, but he missed having grandma, not really knowing what had become of her. Grandpa always said she was searching for something. She loved us, but that she couldn’t stay.
But of course, now he was beginning to understand that not everyone has the same path. Indeed, as there are many different types in the village, there are just as many paths.
This should not be mistaken for complaining, mind you. The ideas she gave him, the love that came with it, was just the nourishment a young man needed to go out and face the world.

I got french-kissed one night after shutting down the grill at Ron’s Drive-In 1965.
It took me by surprise. I didn’t know you were supposed to open wide and explore. For her it probably tasted like cheeseburger with ketchup and pickle, since she mostly got my greasy upper lip. For me, it tasted like Marlboros and Southern Comfort.
Quite a thrill for a teenage grill cook from Limestone Township. The next time it happened I was ready. Many years later, of course.
She was a cute little cheerleader with short dark hair from Bradley, which meant she was exotic; a little naughty and loads of fun. Some of the cutest girls in the area worked at Ron’s during its heyday from 1959 to 1968 on Fifth Avenue in Bradley (now Kennedy Drive).
We kept the carhops running when Ron’s got busy. We normally had a couple of people front and back, making the famous shakes and bagging up burgers and fries for the carhops. Other places had girls on skates, even just down the street, but Ron wasn’t that adventurous, says Mary Jane. That aside, we had them running.
Once Ron got the place going for the evening, he trusted us to finish the night on our own. I was a good enough worker to stay busy and look for things to do, which is a nice habit to gain, if you want to stick around and be part of a team.
And we were a team: frying burgers by the dozens, stacking them up high under a tomato juice can and steaming the buns, a little trick that most joints don’t take time to do, but makes a huge difference in the mouth feel. We grill cooks goofed up some, but mostly did nice work. And we kept the place kind of clean, you’ll be pleased to know, if you’ve had burgers there in 1965. I learned a lot at Ron’s. Served me well for a life on the road.
People from towns all over came to work there. One kid even came all the way from Reddick, mostly just to meet people and hang out. Ron’s was great for that. Besides, if you’d ever seen Reddick as a teenager, you would know.
Big crowds of hot rivals would come in after high school ball games. You could feel the tension out in the parking lot if, say, Bradley pounded the crap out of Kankakee in football, or some such. Which seemed to happen a lot, not to mention that you had to travel to Bradley’s turf to hang out at Ron’s. Complicating matters, just down the road apiece, was the local semi-pro Catholic team St. Pat’s (McNamara), and all of their fans.
Ron liked seeing the kids and their hot cars, but he had to keep things moving and not let it become a parking lot. He would charge you to linger. Even turning people away. You had to eat and move on. Ron knew what kids liked and he had lights and music to set the mood. The food was simple, fast and pretty good. On top of burgers, fries, coke and root beer they had 50 flavors of shakes, malts and floats
I parked my little Honda 50 out back so it wouldn’t get run over by the traffic circling around Ron’s lot. Toward quitting time kids would come to the back door with booze and we’d load them up with burgers and fries. Bob Trautman masterminded a lot of this. He worked up front with my brother Tom making shakes and taking orders.
Trautman fancied himself as a practical joker. One night he deep fried a sponge, slid it on a bun with lettuce and tomato and sent it out to Mark Shultz, another Herscher High school kid. Mark was not amused.
Trautman had an old Dodge four-door tank of a car big enough for six people, so sometimes we would load up after work and go down by the river among the trees to drink and smoke and make out. Bob loved being the party guy. He was good at it. Broke my heart when he married Denise Wade, ‘cause I liked her, too.
The Ron’s adventure for me and my brother began the minute Tom lied to get the job. Ron Harbour wanted a kid to be 16 to work for him and Tom was only 15 at the time. He only had a few months to go. Ron gave him the job anyway out of respect for his brass.
Ron took a liking to Tom and put him up on a ladder to paint the building red. That was a color thing he had going. The girls wore short red skirts and white tops.
Tom protested that he wasn’t a painter. Ron said: “You work for me. Now you’re a painter.”
Tom liked it so much he would volunteer to work extra, didn’t matter what Ron had in mind, just so as to ride the girls around on his Yamaha, one of the first things he bought after getting his license that summer.
To apply for the job, they sent you to the house behind the store where Ron lived with his wife, Mary, daughters Peggy, Mary Jane and Barbara, and son, Michael. Ron died in an accident in the 1970s.
It was all very casual. You’d sit at the kitchen table and he’d ask questions. They were nice. Mary Jane, a little younger than me, grew up car hopping for mom and dad with sister Peggy. Barbara worked the back. It would only last until 1968, but it had a good run. It became the site of an Arby’s, which Tom would later visit to install ceramic tile.