1/21/95

Dear Ann,

We were talking the other day about rituals. . . . This morning (Saturday) as I passed by Sidney's station just before seven and saw the lights on and Caroline and the boys inside, I thought, YES.

Sidney Smith was a Verden man, a good mechanic and local character who operated a filling station for years. His greatest joy sometimes seemed to be nothing more than bad jokes. I even at one of his Rastus and Liza jokes, which offend me. Seriously irreverent, he also had a fully developed sense of community. I stopped by to talk business one time, and we had to hide in the back of the station because he didn't want to be seen doing business during the funeral of some local personage directly across the highway at the Baptist church. Sidney could be counted on to overhaul a motor, run gas out to a stranded car, or get a combine running during wheat harvest.

And Sidney's station was an integral part of the Verden social order. In the office or parlor (what do you call that little front room in a service station?) at any time of day you might find several country boys visiting, reading the paper, drinking coffee. This scene was especially tuned to the morning. Between 6:30 am (when Sidney and his wife Caroline opened) and 7:30 or 8:00, you could find the regular crew parked there. Local rancher Steve Winn called it his office—one morning when I phoned him, his wife said, "Steve's not here, he's gone to the office." Buddy Winn, the school bus mechanic, was a morning fixture at Sidney's, as were Rick Willis and Eddie Flood. (Eddie would breakfast at Vivian's Café, then drive to Sidney's.)

When Sidney died of lung cancer last January, the community genuinely and collectively grieved. It was one of the biggest funerals I've been to in Verden. He died with his sense of humor intact. On the subject of pallbearers he said, "Preacher, I don't b'lieve there's six guys in Verden that don't have bad backs."

Caroline, Sidney's widow—who's only about your age, too young for widowhood—has been unable to sell the station. Dalton Abbott runs another station a block down the highway. Sidney's station is economic deadwood in a declining community like Verden. The wrenches still hang on the wall; the soda machine is still stocked and lighted; the place is exactly as it was a year ago, the day Sidney last closed up.

But something of an electrical charge ran through me one Saturday morning about ten months ago when I drove past the station about seven and saw the parlor lit up and Caroline and the boys drinking coffee. And when I drove by this morning and saw it again, I thought YES.

These are the rhythms that thrill me. I want to write as priest and prophet of the everyday. I see no less power in that lighted Saturday morning station than in, "Take, eat, this is My body which was given . . ."