Tuesday, June 16, 2015


This picture is a bit different.

We’ve seen that silly well in the middle of the intersection; but, we haven’t seen the old bank building cum hardware store with the wrap around porch straight out of A Few Dollars more or some such.

That’s it right there on the corner. Three stories with a cupola and as a hardware store, a drive through interior, we kept the vehicles in the white building you see, along with lots and lots of timber.



The hardware store had faulty wiring the State inspectors wrote them up on five or six years running and I have part of one wall of stone in my creek bottom to help with erosion and Renters mom has a bunch of the other walls in a gully down back of their place.

The old hardware store was owned by a character. He died and one of the workers told everyone that was the best thing that ever happened to the hardware store. He was, he said, very happy to see the man die.

Of course, the worker man wasn’t necessarily a straight person himself. His son was caught selling drugs in WY and the old man called him back and every time there came a trial date the old man told his lawyer to get a postponement because the hardware store wouldn’t let him off to bring his son back to WY for trial, and they put up with that for almost five years and then got made.

Anyhow, the old man borrowed lumber from his place of work to build a better cabin on the lake, you see. He claimed that the trailer house him and his son were living in wasn’t big enough and he needed the space.

The hardware store let him build his house on credit that way and him cursing the father of the woman who owned the place. But the worker bee died him self, and the the son went to jail and, I suppose, the half built house was sold off.

And the hardware store started to go down hill badly, and then burned.

The lot sat empty for a year after being cleaned up, and the insurance company told the lady owner she could do two things: 1. Re-build; or 2. Take ten percent of the insured value and hit the road.

She re –built.

A huge building. I haven’t taken a picture of that yet, either.

That white building was purchased by a fellow the deputies claimed was a drug dealer and they kept a strict eye on him. Let him know it, too. He farted about the place trying to out wait them, but he ran out of money before they ran out of patience and he sold out to the brother of the lad whose mother tried to kill him for being unfaithful to his wife.

That story is elsewhere.

Anyhow. The lot and the building are what they are calling a machine shop now. Service all kinds of vehicles and take care of some of the school buses.

Fellow that owns the place is a very good person, two kids and he has trouble keeping hired help. He pays well, but there’s a lot of work in that lot and it keeps coming to the door.


From the reaches,

Ten Whiskey

About tenwhiskey

User tenwhiskey is also the author of this blog. He currently lives in small town Kansas in a semi-retired condition. His kids are married and gone (thank you). An empty nester. Divorced. Very happy with life as it is. Ten Mile maintains a personal blog here, writing of events as they appear to him; commentary, and opinions abound. He deviates into fiction as the mood strikes and creates flash fiction stories and short stories. He will not warn the reader when he drifts from fact to fiction. He feels adults are, generally, smart enough to figure out which is which. He does, however, attempt to make his fiction sound as true to life as possible. You have been warned. He, as time permits, writes and occasionally sells writing. More often than not he gives it away to various non-paying publishers of Ether Magazines, forums or for entertainment on a wall for in need of a hand friends. He likes candy, pies and a certain amount of strife. In the matter of strife - in his yourth on the farm, he became embroiled in a slinging fight. The fight involved lath as a launcher, fresh cow patties as ammo and it was a six way free for all. A little mud only adds (Umm?) a certain taste to life.
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