Steve Stratman Writer

Do you have any wine that’s not sweet?

“I put sugar in everything,” he said. “Coffee, spaghetti. When I flip my hashbrowns I toss a pinch in the pan. You won’t find wine around here that isn’t sweet.”

The clerk nodded. “He’s right. And he knows. He’s the beer distributor.”

I glanced around the liquor store. Cobwebs hung off a cluster of Muscatel bottles standing politely above a dust-coated row of cheap champagne. The beer man leaned on his two-wheeler and continued. “Barbecue sauce. Shrimp dip . . . ”

I’m used to solid, Scandinavian dialog. Someone talks. I say something funny. The person quips back. We both laugh. Then we’re back to our bullet points. Mowing lawns, charging batteries, buying coffee. Why chat when I have leaves to rake? But no short dialog here and the South is just around the bend.

“My mom taught me how to cook,” said the beer man.

“He’s right,” said the clerk. “He’s an excellent cook.”

“I started with chicken legs, then steaks. I smoke ribs with hickory chips. Gotta wet ’em first . . . ”

The door clanged and a gaunt, broad-shouldered man stalked through the doorway. He had longish grey hair jammed in a disheveled ponytail. A tattoo of an iron cross was inked on his neck and a black teardrop hung under one eye.

“Hi Bill,” said the clerk.

“Hi,” said the man. The word whistled past a gap in his teeth as he strode toward the beer section.

“You know,” said the clerk. “Actually, I don’t like sweet stuff very much.”

It’s Southern Indiana

We’ve had just about enough friendliness and there’s an endless supply in southern Indiana. Like Big Ed, the golf cart guy at the Spring Mills campground. Used to weigh 375, now he’s down to 185. His wife loves to travel so he takes her here. Five miles away. Gentle anecdotes and aw-shucks humor chuckle into his lap between the quakes of his shoulders. I wanted to take him with us but 40 miles to West Baden Springs is as far as he ever goes.

There’s another guy who sells firewood across the street from the park. If I hadn’t have walked off in mid sentence he’d still be talking. He narrated as I picked wood. “That one’s really dry. I got even drier ones in here. My wife splits ’em with this splitter. See that cat? She’s got one eye. Went out one night and came back like that. My son’s inside, that’s his car. I shot a deer over there last week behind the garage. See that patch of fur? I shot it with an arrow from up there.” He hooked his thumb up at the roof of his house. “I’m half Chippewa Indian. I was born on Turtle Mountain Indian Reservation in North Dakota. Moved to Grand Forks when I was five . . . ”

I have no defense system for back story. It hits me like a solar wind. But the secret truth is, I crave back story. Talk on, brother. Talk on until the tipping point – there’s one in every conversation. When it arrives an alarm sounds in my head: Don’t ask it! If you ask it you’ll never pull free! You’ll have to chew your arm off and leave it in the trap. But I can’t help myself. I always ask it. “How’d you end up here?” Now I’ve done it. Another nickel in the meter.

“My dad moved us to New York in a station wagon. I met my wife in Philadelphia and moved here 20-years ago . . . ”

There was something about a piano and a welder too but I was climbing into the Dollop. I started the engine.

“My brothers and sisters are all dead. I’m the youngest . . . ”

I put the van in gear and rolled away with my trademark, back story smile and a gentle wave.