Remember that date. It comes up later.
Image Courtesy of PFFK #7
Let’s start with some song lyrics. They also come up later.
Turn out the lights, the party’s over
They say that all good things must end
Call it a night, the party’s over
And tomorrow starts the same old thing again
-- Wille Nelson, The Party’s Over
To which I say all good things must not end. The party is never over. There will be no “calling it a night” on my watch. And tomorrow we are going to do something so totally different you might not even recognize yourself in the mirror, assuming you can even find one!
Just sayin’
It Happened in March
It’s March 20, 1986. Afternoon. I just left school. Backpack over my shoulders, Trapper Keeper in my arms. An ordinary school day. It’s a Thursday.
My mom, Hannibal, was there to pick me up and, I thought, take me back home. She was wearing a red oversized rugby jersey with “Coca-Cola” written all over it in big white letters. Personally, if I am going to be wearing someone else’s brand, they should be paying me, not the other way around.
It was an ordinary school day, a Thursday. I could have walked home or ridden a bike from school. It wasn’t far. They wouldn’t let me, though, so Hannibal usually picked me up. She was driving her usual red and grey Suburban.
“Get in” she said, unemotional and strangely calm.
I climbed in, closed the door and stared out the window for a few minutes. I thought we were going home, instead we ended up in the parking lot of Gophers. My dad, Fredo, was standing outside the building.
Gophers was a restaurant not too far from home and down the road from the Allsup’s gas station. It’s not there anymore. Gruver Cafe is there now and we love it.
“Stay here”, Hannibal said to me as she opened the car door and slid off the seat. After closing the door, and walking up to Fredo, he quickly gave her a full hug, a hard one, with both arms. Like he meant it. She raised her own arms slowly and, reluctantly it seems, returned the hug. But only loosely. She showed no emotion I can remember.
My eyes froze and my corners of my mouth turned down. I started to tear up. Somehow I knew what happened, as if someone had whispered in my ear.
Dayton died.
He collapsed and fell off his horse, his face blue, I was told later. He was only 60.
I will write about that in a future Episode entitled “Six Days From Sunday” -- when I can stitch up enough courage to do so, that is.
All the Good Things
For now, I remember all the good things and the fun stories that stick with me forever.
I told you a few of them already. Like the Cristal Pistol story – the adult place where no adults go.
Or how Dayton showed me the correct way to stack and count grain bags in the store. The store is still there, by the way, mostly just as he left it. Last time I was there, it felt like he was about to walk in and say “hey, kiddo”.
Or about the time when he had just returned from the War, and someone he didn’t know was heckling at him. Dayton walked up to the stranger, placed his left arm on the man’s right shoulder and said “Son, I don’t know you, but you seem to know me. Why don’t we settle our differences like gentlemen?”
After telling that story, he asked me “why do you think I put my left arm on the stranger’s right shoulder”? “I don’t know”, I responded, “Were you trying to reassure him?” “Nope” Dayton said. “If I had to clock him, his right arm was tied up and mine was free”. That was Dayton. Cool, wise and crafty.
Here are a couple of pictures of Dayton when he was in the Marines and stationed overseas. I think this is in Okinawa. There is a notation on the back. His friends called him Commander, even though he was a Corporal. Dayton is on the right in both pictures. He’s holding the Colt .45 Model 1911 in the first pic.
Author’s archives
Here is an embossed version of the right hand picture.
Author’s archives
Dayton had a great sense of humor and a calm and deliberate way about him. He helped out so many people in his short life. He was more than an inspiration. He showed you how big life could be. That everything is possible. That the only limits are the ones you set for yourself.
Dayton was always so kind, nurturing and easy with me. Well, except that time I hid his cigarettes . . .
Here is a grainy video of him riding a kids’ pedal tractor with my cousin following him on a bike.
My cousin sent me this a few years ago. I laughed and cried at the same time.
I know that inside a part of 9 year old little me got fixed and locked away on that day in March 1986 -- and still lives there.
Here are a few more stories I remember.
My Repeated and Failed Attempts to Stay Up All Night
When I used to stay over at Muff and Dayton’s – which was frequent but not often enough -- I never wanted to go to sleep. I was always having way too much fun.
I loved being in their house. I was always at peace there. It made me want to jump up and down on the bed and sing Xanadu and other great Olivia Newton John songs – wait, are there any?
Dayton made sure I got to sleep though.
Either he or my Grandmother, Muff, would read me a book. Then Dayton would say “well, kiddo, time for bed. The party’s over” as he reached his arm up into the lamp and begin singing:
Turn out the lights, the party’s over
[pause]
They say that all good things must end
[pause]
Call it a night, the party’s over
[pause]
And tomorrow starts the same old thing again
Dayton had a great singing voice. I can hear it now, this chorus so clearly, as he reaches his arm up and clicks off the lamp. Then he would keep his head inside the closing door right up until the last word – “again”. That was it – lights out, door closed, and a safe warm good night’s sleep.
There was nothing to worry about, at Muff and Dayton’s, and it was the best and safest feeling. Subconsciously, I knew that Hannibal could not get to me, or throw me out of a moving car, when I’m asleep here.
Instead, I knew my grandparents were right across the hall. The bonus, waking up to breakfast at their house. Muff made these great scratch biscuits. And Belgian Waffles. And eggs. She also used to make me these little apricot turnover fried pies for my Birthday, except Fredo would eat them all before they ever got to me. Does that not just sound like Fredo?
My Favorite Book
My favorite book at their house was Mr. Angelo. I have a copy in my library right now. It’s about a man who lived in a house at the top of Butternut Hill who loved to cook. He cooks so much food, he can’t eat it all, so he opens up an Eatery and a Bakery in his front room. He almost gives up until a boy named Jim says “you need someone to help you.”
And that is so true. Or as the Beatles say, “leave it all ‘til somebody else lends you a hand”.
Muff and Dayton must have read this book to me over a hundred times. The difference each time was the following day. I would ask them “what if Mr. Angelo had made cookies?” or “what if he had handed out free samples? You know, get them hooked first?” Each would entertain my questions and would have great responses. So the book wasn’t an isolated story it was like slowly furnishing a room in their house piece by piece.
Both would help me think through different business plans for Mr. Angelo. Always with a sense of humor, and a big vision.
Let’s say I had asked Hannibal (I don’t think she knows this book exists) a question about Mr. Angelo’s business plans. I can imagine she would say “Oh, there was a hair on one of his donuts. So he had to close his business.” Then she would go out, buy some donuts, and put hairs on them. Hannibal’s idea of business is sabotage and also grifting.
Stop Yammering
Thanksgiving 1985.
The evilness of Hannibal, hounding anything good like a Beagle, has been going on for all of the decades she has been alive. As much as she has been chasing me, she chased Dayton too. But in that case it was tactical.
For most Thanksgivings, Muff would always do the turkey, tenderloin and top sides.
Hannibal made a few side dishes. She would groan, every family meal, that Mrs. Gomer shows up hours late and only contributes the relish tray. While that may indeed be true, what’s the use in groaning? Like that really got to Hannibal. It’s a running holiday grudge of hers. Hannibal has lots of grudges. So this Thanksgiving, one of Hannibal’s sides was candied yams (barf).
I had just finished getting dressed. We had to look as perfect as possible to Hannibal because pictures would be taken. Where these pictures are these days, I have no idea. No doubt keistered somewhere. I heard Hannibal yelling my name. So I ran up to the 2nd story where the yellow kitchen was.
HANNIBAL
“I will carry the yams down to the atrium. I need you to load the yams into the suburban. Do not drop or spill them! They are Dayton’s favorites. So be careful.”
That surprised me, Dayton didn’t really eat yams, not willingly anyway.
ME
“Why can’t you just carry them on into the suburban, and I can help with some of these other things. That way you don’t have to sit them down in the atrium.”HANNIBAL
“Stop being difficult. Just hurry up. I will sit them on the stairs.”
ME
“Okay but you are making me nervous.”HANNIBAL
“Stop over thinking everything. You are too sensitive. Hurry up. I don’t want us to be late. Now you will need to hold the yams in your lap. Again, don’t drop or spill them.”I watched as Hannibal carried the yams down the atrium stairs and set the dish on the last stair. She then wiped the dish with a towel to clean it, or so I thought.
I walked down and picked up the dish. With my bare hands. I made the step down from the atrium to the garage door. Hannibal approached the door, to close it.
HANNIBAL
“I said be careful! Don’t drop it! Do not drop it!”In between the garage door and the suburban . . .
I dropped the dish of yams. Or, more accurately, it felt as if the unseen hand that turns up at crucial moments knocked the dish out of my own hands. The dish shattered and the yams splattered everywhere. The marshmallow chunks were strewn across the garage floor. Who puts marshmallows in yams, anyway?
My hands held in place, as if they were still bracing the handles on each side of the dish.
HANNIBAL
“Damn it! You idiot! Those are Dayton’s favorites! UGHHHHH! You are such a pain! Now we have to clean this up. We are going to be late.”
Hannibal loaded a few other dishes while I hosed out the garage. I was crying. She continued to berate me as we pulled from our house – that would be on Van Kurt, down yonder from the Allsup’s – and sped West on Hwy 15 to Dayton and Muff’s.
I remember thinking the yams were disgusting. I couldn’t imagine Dayton liking them. It was true that he was the only one that ate them, but that was out of politeness. Year after year, you could see only one small spoon dent in the yams. The whole yam thing was different this year. Her going on and on about how they were Dayton’s favorite. She had never mentioned this before. I was curious how she did not realize he ate them so her feelings would not be hurt. That’s how bad they were.
It was like she decided to weaponize that the yams were Dayton’s favorite for a 1985 Thanksgiving special or something. It was an odd feeling, one beyond my emotions. I don’t think I dropped the yams because Hannibal was yelling “don’t drop them.”
I’ve been yelled at by Hannibal before – a lot – and am quite used to it. When it came to my Grandparents, I was practiced at pulling up my very best to make sure I delivered, especially for them. So, I was confused how I dropped the yams. I was also confused, and not a little bit miffed, by the anger from Hannibal. There was a buffer zone around events at my Grandparent’s home, where Hannibal kept calm. She did this so we would all walk in happy, or at minimum, calm. Appearances, and all.
This time, she was so outwardly enraged, that I was continuing to cry.
HANNIBAL
“You better get inside and tell everyone why we aren’t having yams this year. And wipe those tears from your eyes.”Naturally, I sought out Dayton first.
ME
“Dayton, I am so sorry! I dropped the yams. We won’t have any this year.”DAYTON
“Aww kid, that’s alright. One thing we have plenty of around here is food. Take a look at the counter. There probably would not have been room anyway.”It was like none of the others even noticed. Our family head count was typically around 30. And we are talking about a reasonable small, yet efficient, house. Muff was so busy, I don’t think she noticed until we were all seated.
HANNIBAL
“Sorry everyone. Our little darlin’ dropped the yams. Absolutely shattered the pan in the garage.”MUFF
“Oh that’s OK. It’s OK. We have plenty. And look at our adorable little girl all dressed up. Isn’t she so lovely?”
This was Dayton’s last Thanksgiving. Thankfully we all survived it because Christmas 1985 was one of the best from my childhood. The next, as you paying subscribers know, was Christmas 2019. After that, the next time Dayton would come through for Christmas was December 2021 and he came through big. He recreated Christmas 1985 and even stopped the Texas panhandle wind for a few days, so we could get set up. So typical low wind there is 13 mph and gusts regularly reach 25 mph. I will tell you all about that in our Christmas Episode this year. With pictures!
To this day, I don’t know what all was in the yams.
Who Yam I?
I do have a theory, which relates to when autopsies need to be performed, when they don’t and a particular loophole psychopaths seem to know about to avoid being busted for poisoning someone. Hint: Our yams may or may not have included some special deadly spice concocted in or around Pineville, MO, a town of three people.
A Salute to Commander Dayton
I love his birthday. I hope I can give him as much as he continues to give me. He always finds a way and so can I. As much pain that gets dished my way, I will drop it all, like the yams. I’ll brush it off and remember I “have plenty.” Plenty of good, that is. Evil can just go suck on these Chinese yams!
I know if Dayton had lived the 20 or so more years that he was meant to, everyone’s life around him would have been so much better. He would have ended up running the largest agri-business in the TX panhandle. He was already on his way when he died.
Dayton’s contributions to our world, they are still here. That’s how big he was. His ways were always for the greater good, not for himself. On my worst days, since learning Hannibal is a highly refined Cluster-F’ing psychopath – in my totally First Amendment protected opinion, that is – I have felt pain. I let myself feel it for as long as it wants to linger. Why? Because, I can?
Here’s a lesson: Once you see the psychopaths for who they are, they lose all power over you.
I have Dayton to thank for helping me see that. Genetically speaking, I am built to take the pain, crystalize it and turn the pain into an even deeper grit.
You Mentioned Something About the Date?
Oh yeah, I forgot about that.
Dayton was born on September 18, 1925.
I found the Memorial in Hannibal’s trinket bible, here it is.
Notice the date? September 8, 1925? He was born on the 18th. Which is not the 8th.
I showed this to my Aunt Ju Ju recently and she nearly broke down. How did this mistake get made? Who made it? Why was it stashed in the trinket bible?
I will answer those questions and more in the next Episode, Everything You Ever Needed – And More – Part 2. For paying subscribers, that is.
