The old man stepped carefully. almost not touching the ground. This time of year, the air was colder than the ground and a thin film known as "black ice" -- damned near invisible, could send a person ass over teacup. Clarence certainly did not need a broken bone or major injury at his age.

Clarence Whittleby, a name that he hated since he was old enough to understand it, walked the mile and a half to the store every morning for some fresh made doughnuts. Clarence Whittleby. He may be 87 years old, but people still made fun of that name. All except for Cindy, that young baker who wrapped his doughnuts individually before placing them in the bag, keeping them warm and moist, but still firm enough to dunk in his coffee without those irritating crumbs floating on top. "Yep", he said out loud, "if I weren't so old...". The sudden vision of his beloved Myrtie caught him by surprise. He could see her plain as the knot on that old birch right there. For a minute, he was confused. He hadn't had her appear to him like that in what, 8 years now? He bowed his chin and closed his eyes, moving his head side to side to clear his brain. Satisfied that this episode was over, he continued walking. "Not much further now", he spoke. A skittish starling, startled by his voice, bristled at the sound and fluttered away to a quieter, less hectic place. Clarence traipsed along, more of a shuffle by now than a walk, and he could see the spire of the tallest building in town, the Congregational Church. He could almost taste those doughnuts, and decided he would buy a couple extra to eat on the walk back home-- that is, unless he could hitch a ride. Someone or another was always headed in the direction that he would take going home.

His walk was cut short just before the village by another vision of Myrtie. So real; it seemed to him that he could FEEL her walking right next to him, just as she used to do. Clarence saw her as she was, before the illness had robbed her energy, her outer beauty, and her resolve. "Myrtie, now you know that you shouldn't be out walking on a day like this"; the words coming out of his mouth suddenly sounded younger, vibrant. He had reached a small rest stop, constructed by the local youth sentencing deferment program; and gratefully sat down on one of the benches. He loved this place. The benches were constructed from whole logs, cut the old-fashioned way, with crosscut saw and axe. "Those kids did a fine job", smiling as he always had at the rough but handsome woodwork.

Clarence had spent his life in the woods, first as a gofer at a logging camp in Orwell, learning his trade and eventually becoming known throughout the state as a woodsman without equal. He bought the best tools, NEVER loaning a saw, or a peavey, or a hatchet to anyone lest they might damage them. His tools were a part of him; always oiled, sharper than the best razor, and custom-made for lefthanders. The forests were his theatre, and those lucky enough to be given a chance to work with him saw a true artist at work. He worked hard, but then everyone had to back then, and when he came out of the woods or the small sawmill that he had built, Myrtie was always there to greet him with a peck on his still dirty cheek and a squeeze on his arm. God, he missed her so.

Myrtie was 4 years his senior, and when he had met her she was boarding at Old Lady Brewster's place down in the village. Myrtie was the schoolteacher, known back then as the Schoolmarm, in the one-room schoolhouse about a mile away from Brewsters'. Like most teachers at the early part of the 1900's, she did more than just teach. She helped with the chores each night, as Mr. Brewster had fallen down an embackment and broke his leg real bad, tended garden, and taught Sunday School at the Methodist Church. Now Myrtie wasn't what men around there called a "looker", but she was not wont for suitors. Women were scarce around these parts, most dying when that blasted flu came through. But to Clarence, she was the prettiest lady in his early life. He would bring cut firewood to the school each morning, as the old stove burned wood almost as fast as it could be stoked. Myrtie would have a glass of lemonade, or in real cold weather a mug of warm goat's milk with honey. One day Clarence got up the nerve to ask her to accompany him to the barn dance one Saturday evening. She accepted, and after a long(for back then) courtship of 7 months, they were married. Since her parents were back in Illinois, he had to ask Old Man Brewster for her hand. The old man asked him why he thought a woman would want to marry a man by the name of Clarence Whittleby, and his response? "Cause I'm gonna make her the best damn home in these parts, that's why!!" Well that was apparently surprising enough to Brewster, so his blessing was given. Life was hard for the couple, and children were in the plans, but after three miscarriages, the Doctor said to try no more. Saddened by this news, their life settled into peaceful coexistence, with the love that would have gone towards children reserved now only for each other.

The cold day beckoned Clarence from his remembrances; a soft crackle coming from the trees behind him. "Myrtie is that you?"; the sound from his lips barely could be called a voice, but the only response was the sight of a Whitetail buck, flashing his tail indicating that at least HE heard Clarence's voice. Clarence had no idea of how long he had been sitting on the makeshift bench, as he had never worn a watch. He had seen too many accidents in the woods where a branch or a wayward saw blade would catch the band and near rip a man's hand off. Pocket watches were better, but as he always had holes in his pockets made by the rubbing of bark against his pants, he just figured that he was in no hurry to get anywhere, so the time didn't matter. Oh, he owned one alright, a watch given to his Grandfather for his service in the Civil War, but that was in a purple velvet lined box back at the house. He had been made many offers to sell, but what did he need the money for? He remembered the day that Myrtie wanted to get him a new suit for Church. "What do I need a new suit fer, it's the Reverend who needs to look good for us, not the other way around!" Oh, how he could make Myrtie laugh. He loved to hear her laugh. It was a silly, high-pitched thing that only she could do. His laugh was like the sound that old buck would make-- a snorting kind of sound, and he would make Myrtie laugh even more at the sound of it. "Stop it Clare, don't make me laugh". Clare. Only she would call him that. He'da decked any man who called him that, and he wasn't even a fighter. "God, I hate that name". "Now you stop that fuss right now; yours is a good Christian name. I'll hear no more about it". "Myrtie, you're right, but I still wish I hada been named something else". Now his voice was the only sound, but he was FEELING her voice; a voice that he wished that he could join together with soon."

Clare, would it help if I went out looking for a job? We're almost out of food, and the Doc's going to want his money real soon". Damned that tree; he knew that something wasn't quite right. Just looking at it most people would see a straight old beech. No big problem cutting down that old boy, he thought at first, but when he made his first few cuts, he knew that the tree had beat him. All it took was one time when you're a logger, and you'd be lucky to have a go at another. That day he was good, but not lucky. Clarence misjudged the weight at the top, and the tree kicked back and struck him square in the hip. Sent him flying near ten feet, and when he woke up, he couldn't stand. Had to fix himself a splint, and then Clarence Whittleby, Master Logger, half dragged by his workhorse Lonnie barely made it home. Broken femur, the Doc said. Laid up all winter, and who knew if he would walk right after that. Damn that tree. He wouldn't let it win. "Myrtie, you're already trying to do too much. You do the wash for the Ratliffs and the Cowers, You cook dinner for old man Gero, and you baby-sit for half the town already. And for what? They can't afford to pay you on time either. Who does have the money? We'll get through this, and I'll be fit as a fiddle again".

It was turning colder. He loved this time of year. The air was crisp, and the trees cut easier when they were asleep. This year was a might slow, though. Just a trace of snow, and the ground hadn't froze enough to skid out logs. Well, that was for younger men now. He went as long as he could, but he wasn't as spry as before. Oh, he'd still go in the woods and cut some brush for the wreath makers, and occasionally somebody from down country would call and ask if he'd go out and find them 'the perfect tree'; but he mostly just walked now, like today. He was tired. "Myrtie, I'm too damned old. You went first, and I'm just no good on my own. Eight YEARS!! Isn't it my time now?". Clarence was almost in tears, his voice raised but choking off. He could see her, hear her, but he couldn't reach out to her. "CLARENCE WHITTLEBY!! I'm not going to listen to that. You get on your feet, and go to town. You're an old fool, but you're not a CRAZY old fool!! When it's your time, I'll come and get you." Damn, that woman could raise a fit. He always figured that it was the schoolteacher in her, or maybe 'cause they had no kids she'd take him to the woodshed every once in awhile. "Okay Myrtie, I'm going, but you're coming with me." With stiffness in his joints from the cold, Clarence Whittleby stood up, stood tall, and began to head to town.

Clarence had never truly recovered from his leg injury, even though it had been over 40 years now. The cold bothered him, the dampness bothered him, walking bothered him--Hell everything bothered him about his leg. Every day he rubbed this foul-smelling liniment on it; a natural concoction that his neighbour had ordered for him off the interweb. Computers. Didn't believe in them. He never did trust a machine that he couldn't take apart and figure out how it worked. But the liniment helped. Natural oils made with herbs and flowers, Joanie had told him. Well, she would know. She and her husband Ray lived down the road a piece, and raised those Alpaca things. Odd looking animals, but they gave milk like a goat, wool like a sheep, and they'd eat just about anything. But they SPIT, though, sorta like a guy chewin' tobbaca. Clarence tried that some time way back, but that didn't set well with Myrtie.

"You're not bringing that filthy habit into MY house MISTER Whittleby! What you do in your woods out there is your business, but what goes on in here is MINE!"

He went about 3 weeks, and then decided that he'd rather give up HIS chaw than listen to Myrtie's chawing. Clarence could still laugh at those times, but lately the memories tended to come and go. Like this morning. He got up, went downstairs to make breakfast, got interrupted by that damned cat Jonah(Myrtie had named him after the whale story, didn't know why), and completely forgot about making breakfast. Now he was REALLY hungry for those doughnuts of Miss Cindy's. He realized that the sun was high in the sky. "It must be near noon. I left before breakfast. Where did the time go? I still got only about a quarter mile left to walk, so that weren't bad for an old man I guess".

"Clarence, are you going to eat today or die a starvation? You know what happens when you don't eat regular. You get titched in the head is what. You get yourself inside and eat something!"

Myrtie was right. She usually was. Clarence always wondered what a child of theirs would have turned out like. They had always thought that they'd like a girl first, and then boys. That way the girl would be able to help with the baby boys as they came along. The boys of course; they would have been strong, good-looking boys just like him, he always liked to joke. The girl. She would have been just like her Mom. Myrtie had the prettiest green eyes that he'd ever seen. She thought that they made her look sneaky, like a cat. And put that together with her light brown hair--well, Angels themselves must be jealous when they got a look at her. That got another chuckle from Clarence, and he realished that he was now on Main Street. The bake shop was just down the street. People waved to him as he went by, yelled "Heya Clarence, or Mister Wittleby!!". A friendly town, North Wolcott, but he liked to spend as little time here as he had to. Home to him was the woods. He could usually smell the aromas coming from the bake shop, but not today. Late. He looked up at the clock in the Town Clerk's office cuppola. 12:37. "Yep, hope she ain't closed up yet. Be just my luck I'd have to eat overta The Oasis". Lousy service, ants enjoying the spilt maple syrup and Doug the cook had a damn cigarette in his mouth all the time. "Wonder how many eggs were eaten with ashes in em?" Humpfff. But Clarence was in luck. The lights were still on in THE FLOURY DOUGH. At the front door looking out was Miss Cindy. She looked upset from this distance for some reason.

Cynthia Ellsworth had worked for 2 years off and on at the Floury Dough; vacations, weekends, holidays mostly as she was a Junior at Middleview College. A double major in psychologyand anthopology, she certainly was a brain, but affable, gentle, and caring. Her hopes were to graduate and open up a mental health clinic/social counselling practice somewhere local. She also felt that by examining the social and climatic environments in which people lived, she could best help on many levels. She wasn't out to get rich, but after moving to this area when she was 12, she had learned to study people and the difficulties they had in trying to survive and prosper in this rural, forgotten place. Through her studies, and with a healthy dose of real life thrown in, she KNEW these people: honest, hardworking, humble folk. Just looking for some respect and a promise of support from the leaders of this state, who, had looked upon the small population of this area and saw only very little political support OR opposition--in other words--they just didn't matter. Well for darned sure she would help them know that they mattered.

Cindy(she had very seldom used "Cynthia" except on her passport and driver's license) had seen Clarence every day for the past two years, and even though he didn't like to talk about himself much, she felt like she knew him. She had listened to stories others had told about him and even though they kidded him about his name, everyone in town seemed to like and, more importantly, respect him. In the last 3 or 4 months though, she had noted a difference in Clarence's demeaner. He was more "inwardly", seeming to be present in body, but his mind being somewhere else. Cindy knew the signs. Some would say that he had Alzeimer's, but Cindy knew the real reason. Clarence was ready to die, and was preparing himself for the journey. "He's a strong man', she thought, 'but he needs to know that people care"

"Mr. Whittleby, are you OK? I was getting ready to close up, but I wanted to wait as long as I could for you. It's after noon! Come in out of the cold."

"Clare, now you up and got this young girl worried about you. I don't for the life of me know why you do some of the things that you do!!"

" Myrtie, you told me once that women worried about their men because they didn't know enough to worry about themselves. I ain't doing nothing wrong.

"Cindy couldn't help but hear Clarence's end of the "conversation" In some respects it was sad to see, but despite the analytical study that she knew that she could have done , she was jumping in feet first to be his friend and to ease his pain and loneliness. She wanted him to know that there was more life left here if he wanted it. But she also was realistic. Once a person has made a decision to "run out the clock", as her old sports nut professor liked to say, then maybe that decision should be accepted as part of life. "Oh Boy, life and death can be complicated", she thought. Books just don't prepare any student for the daily doses of reality one will face. This was one such dose.

"Now I'm doing fine there Cindy, I just lost track of some time and was enjoying my walk. Have you ever really stopped to look at a tree? Sometimes I believe that I prefer trees to people-- not you mind you, and my Myrtie too, but most folk. I can't work in the woods like I used to, but I just love being out there. I always thought that I would die up in those woods, but I'm not so sure anymore. I'm not sure 'bout lots of things these days. Myrtie tells me that I'm just gettin' old -- I mean she DID before she passed on. Funny, sometimes I see her like she's right here with me. 'Scuse me Cindy, I didn't mean to hog the whole conversation . You wouldn't still have any coffee hot would ya? Damn, this cold goes right into my bones, and it really ain't even winter yet. I still got some wood left over from last year, not nearly enough, and I keep telling Myrtie that you can never have enough in these parts for winter. What do you think, Cindy?"

"I agree, Mr. Whittleby, you never can have too much." She was beginning to notive each time that Clarence came in that he seemed more talkative, but that much of his conversation included comments to his late wife, as if she was still there with him. And really? Who Knew? To him perhaps she was still present much of the time. She never had tried to correct him, and he had an interesting way of being both here and there at the same time.

"I'll make a fresh pot. I'm going to have a cup with you and then give you a ride home, if you're heading back that way". Maybe you can tell me more about Myrtie and you."

They sat. The Floury Dough wasn't a big shop, but then again nothing was really big in this town. There were 3 tables, wood with one leg or another short on each, 3 chairs for each table -- Cindy always wondered why 3 chairs not four, but since not many couples came in here together, it was no big deal; 2 low milking stools by the door, and 2 ladderback woven seat rockers. She loved those rockers -- just pefect to sit and talk or just plain sit, as most in this town were apt to do. Clarence of course had his coffee black, strong, and with a drop of dark maple syrup. Cindy had her own taste in coffee. She liked it with milk and shavings of peppermint. She'd always buy up all the last of the Christmas peppermint sticks after Christmas at half off, and they'd last until almost the next Christmas. A "kid thing" her friends at school teased, but to her that was perfect. Holding on to some part of childhood was a good thing, right?

Cindy's parents had divorced when she was 17, figuring that she was old enough by then to accept it better. Accepted, yes; understood it, not to this day. She had lived just down the road in Thomas' Gore with her mother after the divorce, but her mother never did like country, so she moved to Cleveland last year. Cindy reasoned that it was loneliness, but even though she was now living in the Victorian-style 4 bedroom "Gingerbread House" by herself, she didn't feel alone there at all. Just the opposite, she still sometimes felt like there were so many memories there that she could never be alone. Her studies, this job, her quilting, keeping ahead of the eight birdfeeders that she maintained -- well, just a full life to her. For now. She knew that she'd "grow up" someday, but hey, life was supposed to be fun, wasn't it?? That was one of the reasons that she chose her majors and her career dreams. If people could learn to have more fun and take themselves and life less seriously, there would be less stress, divorce, suicide, crime -- an idealist philosophy to be sure, but if she could live it, why couldn't she help others to?

They sat, and it seemed like she was doing most of the talking; she felt easy talking to Clarence, and even though sometimes it seemed like he was nodding off, he always had another question for her that would get her to talking about some other thing or that.

"I like hearing you talk is all, it's like music or something. Myrtie used to talk up a storm like that, and I liked to keep her going."

"Clarence, why don't I give you that ride now, before it gets too late. You have to get home to feed Lonnie. Big horse like him, must eat like a horse!!

That was the most Clarence had laughed in a long time although as a joke Cindy thought it was kinda weak .

Cindy locked up the bakery and walked with Clarence to the parking lot in the back. Hers was a 1978 Chevrolet Malibu, light blue four door. Here it was almost 12 years old, but the body was solid(with a few dents from sliding off into a few snowbanks over the course of 12 winters) and it didn't burn any oil. The best thing about it was the trunk. Big. She could go to yard sales all weekend and never have to empty it out until she was done buying. She was a collector of anything that caught her eye, and soon she'd have to think of having one herself before she had to move out of her house and let the "stuff" take it over.

She could have taken the direct route to Clarence's place, but she thought that it would be a good time to try and get him to open up. Turned out that she didn't have to try real hard, as being in the coccoon of a warm car seemed to be all he needed to start.

"I remember when this town had but one road. In and out, I mean. Wasn't much need for another. Old man Delisle had the first car in town, a '24 Model A. Everybody thought that he was a big show-off alright, but we all wanted to go for a ride. I 'member piling in with a bunch a people, 6 or 7, and he took us up to the Craftsbury town line and back. Never was in another until Myrtie and I bought on in '34. Funny. Delisle was so proud of that car, and he kept it parked out back so it wouldn't get any pitch from the pine trees on it. Turned out that was a dumb thing to do, cause in 1927 when we had that big flood? Took it right down the river. Still buried down past the bridge somewhere in all the silt. Long time until he could bring himself to get another vehicle.

"Looking out the car window, it almost seemed like Clarence was just talking to himself -- and maybe he was -- his recollections were coming at a leisurely pace, in a voice that was upbeat and clear. Cindy decided to just let him talk. It was good practice for her, and his history lesson was interesting and heart-warming.

"I never told ya this story. It wasn't long after Myrtie and me had gotten married, and we went out for a picnic on a Sunday. Not far from that spot right over there'. He didn't have to point for Cindy could see the reflection of his eyes in the window and could follow where he was looking. 'Course now, Myrtie wasn't much of an outdoor gal until I married her, and she was kinda ignorant to the land. She found a place in the shade and put out the blanket. She sat, and me, I just stood around waitin'. Wasn't long she started shifting, and then jumped up real quick and rubbing her backside. She had put that blanket down right on top of some prickly weeds. Sowthistles. Went right up through!!

"Clarence was chuckling at his own stories, and she could tell that he really enjoyed talking about life when he was young. Cindy decided to take an even longer route to his place, down into the Gore, and back around. She wouldn't have missed this awakening for the world.

"Cindy; can I get ya to pull over in that turnaround there? Something I want to show you"

Cindy looked around and saw the turnaround spot, but she couldn't for the life of her figure out what he wanted to show her, but she was up for a mystery. She pulled in and shut off the car.

"We're going to have to get out for me to show you. Good, ya got your boots on. Could be a little wet out there. Not far, if I can just find the place. Watch your head now, we gotta duck under this fence. Looks like Gilles has fixed it lately. You know Gilles? Gilles Rochelieu. Old Frenchman from Quebec. Moved down here oh, maybe 20 years now? Spends most of his time in Florida now winters. Nice place he's got. 'Bout 300 acres. Watch your step, woodchuck hole right there. Yup, came down here and started that big chicken farm down on 15th avenue. You probly don't remember. Closed oh 6, maybe 7 years ago? Damned state. Too many rules. Couldn't bury the dead chickens, had to have a pit for the manure, inspectors comin' around all the time. BUT, the guy made money all right. Now what was I sayin?"

Cindy could hardly keep up with him. Clarence had turned from an old, broken down man into this spry, seemingly younger man. 'Amazing', she thought, 'he feeds off the life in these woods it seems.' "I'm right behind you Clarence, don't slow down for me. Now what were you saying?"

"There. Right over there. See that big old butternut tree? That was the first tree that I ever climbed. Didn't used to be all growed up in here like this. Nice pasture, and before Gilles bought it, used to belong to my Uncle. Uncle Morris had shire horses in here. I'd come over to visit, and there that tree was, just callin' to me. Boy and his tree, I guess. You ever climbed a tree, Cindy? Tall tree like that, get up there and it's like being up in heaven looking down on the Earth. By Godfrey, I wish that I could still get up there, but I guess I'll just have to wait to get to heaven for a little while longer"

Those were the words that Cindy had been wanting to hear. She could only smile, and she knew that Clarence would be perfect for the job that she had in mind. One that would make a difference to quite a few who really needed the chance that THIS man could help give.

"Clarence, can I ask you a question? You can say no if you want, and I won't ask again."

"Well sure, I guess that'd be Okay. Lets sit a minute over there" Clarence pointed to a big boulder, rounded smooth centuries ago when the glaciers came through and retreated, but still looking today as if a stonemason had just finished polishing it. "OK, shoot. What's in that pretty little head of yorn."

"I, I well, sometimes I hear people laughing when you go by. I never asked anyone, and I wondered why your friends would act that way."Clarence smiled, more with his eyes than his mouth, and she was sure that behind that wind burned, ruddy complexion that there was a slight blush. He looked upward, and spoke softly out loud, barely a whisper. "Think I otta tell her?" Still smiling, but now with a gentle nodding of his head, he said "Myrtie says it's OK, so I guess it's alright with me too."

"Before I was born, everybody thought that my Mother was having a girl. She was carrying high, her feet were always cold, and she had a craving for the saltiest pickles that Dad could bring home. So when I finally decided to enter the world, the Preacher had already made up the birth certificate and signed it. See, he wont going to be around when they figgered I was coming, so he got it all done and sent off to the town clerk. They were all surprised when I came out a boy. My father was happy, but by then it was too late. I had already been called by my mother's aunt's name. Clarise. Oh, they called me Clarence, but we were poor, and to change the birth certificate it cost 5.00, which was a lot of money. And they just figgered it didn't matter what the piece of paper said anyway. 'Til the time came for me to go to school, and the school had the birth papers to prove who I was. Well, didn't take long for the kids ta find out, and you know kids. Got inta some scuffles, and shut some up, but they always did snicker. Name's changed now, did that when Social Security came around. Clarise. A growd man named Clarise. Glad I didn't get into the service. So that's why little lady. I got used to it after awhile."

"Clarise Whittleby. I won't ask if they gave you a middle name!!" Cindy couldn't help but laugh, but it was in good fun, and they both laughed at the middle name that he told her. Abigail. He had kept the middle name too, but changed it a bit to Abbie. Time to get back to the car, and she thought that as they walked back, Clarence was walking a little taller, a little more proud. She doubted that it was something that she was imagining.

The ride to Clarence's house was a short one, and very few words were spoken. Cindy was formulating a plan in her mind and Clarence rode silently, watching the land that he loved go by the darkening landscape. Cindy knew where he lived, but had never visited his home. His driveway -- up in these parts it was still referred to as a road -- was the usual hard packed dirt, fortified each mud season with a fresh load of crushed stone and now almost as hard as blacktop, and rose in elevation just enough to be called hilly. At the end of the road sat a Cape Cod style house, the primary architecture used in many rural New England homes. Off white in color, with dark green trim around the windows and doors, with a side porch and 3 outbuildings. All the structures were neat as a pin, and they were straight and true , quite telling of the couple who had called this home for almost 60 years. One of the outbuildings was a three-sided with a rail fence extending out from the open end. Standing stoically was a huge workhorse. Dabble grey, with a white mane and tail. His back was beginning to sway some, but Cindy could tell that this horse, while old, was not ready to pack it in any time soon. Lonnie. Just like Clarence, he was not ready for calling it a life just yet, she hoped.

"Yep, that's old Lonnie alright. Got him when he was just a year old. Came from good stock, and I always took real good care of him. Had to for him to last this long. He's going on 45 years old now. There's no tellin' how old he'll get. Oldest I'd heard about was 65. Probably outlive me. I don't work him too hard nowadays. I harness him up and get him out in the woods every so often just so he can remember, and he does. Gets out in those woods and does just what he's supposed to do. Cut down a tree and old Lonnie'll back right up to the log without even gettin' him to. Smart. Almost human sometimes the way he looks at me. Myrtie used ta bring him feed with a little molasses on it. Not often -- didn't want to spoil him -- and water with some beet juice in it. Good for 'em. Old fella told me that once. Guess that it's true ."

"Clarence, do you know that forestry conservation program that they started up at Middleview? I know the professor there, and I think that you would be someone who would make a good lecturer there. The students are really interested in ways to protect our forests, but everything is just from books so far. You could give them a love of the woods. Just like you have. There's a lot of wisdom in that head of yours."

"Me, teach? Nah, I'm no teacher. There's lots of folks better to do that than me. Thanks for the offer, but I don't imagine so. Hah, Myrtie would have a laugh to think of me teachin' something. How many they got in that program down there? Gotta be tough learning about the woods from a book. Man's got to get out there, smell the smells, feel the trees, get some blisters on his hands. Nope, can't learn that from a book. What's this professor's name anyway? Maybe I've heard of him. I know the guys from the county and the state; they grew up around the land and then went to school. Know a Pales Weevil from a Saratoga Spittlebug. Kids these days don't grow up learnin' these things. Be nice though to meet some who want to though. Now you got me thinkin' there, Cindy. I'd just be talkin' to the kids? Wouldn't have to give 'em a test or anything? Maybe they'd like to get out in the woods to see from someone just what it's really all about? Can you find out and I'll do some thinking on it?"

This man never ceased to amaze her. He was talking himself into doing this right in front of her, and she didn't have to say a word. She will talk to Professor Lane(Professor Treehugger was the name that the more cynical students called him) tomorrow. Clarence is just the perfect fit.

"Clarence, I'll call him tonight. You think on it overnight, and you can call me at the shop tomorrow if you don't come in. Those kids will be lucky to have you there you know. If you decide to of course."

After Cindy drove down the road, Clarence walked over to the pen. Lonnie lumbered over as only a 1600 lb. animal could do. He expected a scratch on the nose, and Clarence had never disappointed. The rail fence was nowhere near strong enough to hold Lonnie if he desired to get out, but he never tried. No reason to. A warm place to bed, plenty of hay, some grain once in awhile, and plenty of water was all he needed. Oh. And to hear the voice of his friend, the one who worked so well with him all these years.

"Old boy, you and I. We've seen a few haven't we? We both got some grey hair, and our backs aren't so straight anymore, but maybe we've both got some things to show people? Yeah, good boy. I'll have to give you a good brushin'. Winter coats a little thick this year already. Gonna be a cold one. We'll go out next week and cut some boughs to pile up ginst the wind on this side. You like that, huh? Get back out there? Well, you got your food, so I'm gonna go in and get some for me. See ya in the mornin' old pal. You be here when I get up, now!"