It was a beautiful day. The most oppressive part of the summer was over. It was cool and the Old Geezers in town were in a cheerful mood. You could be outside and do things without the oppressive heat sapping your resolve. It still looked like summer but without the heat, it was the kind of day that begged to be enjoyed. Fall was approaching and the morning cool added a crispness to the air. The trees haven’t started to turn colors yet. The “Whittling Bench” was going to be, once again, an integral part of the men’s life. It was a bench in front of Carr Benton’s feed store. So named because all of the men kept sharp pocket knives for carving. A couple of guys would carve wooden chains that amazed the little boys who accompanied their fathers to the feed store. The rest would just take a tree branch and slowly cut thin shavings from the stick until there was nothing left. They left a mess of wood shavings that had to be cleaned up before closing every day. Carr Benton, the store owner, wasn’t concerned about the mess and made cleaning up part of the employee’s daily to-do list. The wooden bench had been covered by galvanized tin in deference to the abundance of pocket knives. The tin had been polished shiny and black by the years of use.
The retired old men would start showing up around 9 o’clock in the morning. After breakfast, the wives would usher their husbands out of the house. “Go be underfoot somewhere else,” was their parting advice. Leaving the house in the morning just felt right. Besides, they would circle back home for lunch. a nap, and some Judge Judy. There was plenty of coffee at the feed store. Newspapers and lots of stories from all of the other old men. The view from the whittlin’ bench was of the entire little town. The comings and goings of every one were narrated by the denizens of the bench. If someone driving through town would notice the bench, they would see five or six heads turning to watch their passing. Like baby owls in a nest turning their heads as if they were connected.
The core of the bench brigade was three men who were there every day. Glenn Spencer, a retired truck driver. He had been a medic in the Green Beret during Vietnam. Harold Sims was a retired high school history teacher. He did his best to keep the conversations fact-based. He did admit the well-turned phrase took precedence. Witty bullshit was allowed. Then there was Vic Caster, a retired helicopter pilot. He had worked all over the world flying for the oil fields and medivac services in the U.S. The hard life had taken its’ toll. He had an oxygen regenerator that he carried with him everywhere. COPD was the alpha and the omega of his life now. A lifetime of a pack of cigarettes and a pot of coffee for breakfast put him in this predicament. I didn’t quit smoking until I hacked up some phlegm that got up and crawled away. These men were the triumvirate of the bench.