The tide of battle had turned and with the victory came the spoils in the form of an enormous pile of metal frames and cushions of what had once been assembled seats. I thought of just backing the bus up to the metal pile at the landfill and simply toss the whole lot out the rear door but that would be a waste of such proportion that I wouldn't be able to sleep at night.

Lucky for me Toad happened to stop by.

Toad is a friend of mine. He also goes by a couple of other names; Darryl and Jody, but he prefers to be called Toad. He's also a riot. One day he came into my shop and as we stood there talking he happened to look down into an open cabinet and spied a few 12" spikes. He picked up three, handed them to me and looked seriously into my eyes saying, "Can you put me up for the night?" Toad often stops whenever he sees my truck sitting in front of the shop and today was no exception, especially with all the apparent activity going on. Basically, his little ones were eating his big ones and figured it was his responsibility to find out what I was up to.

"Hiya, Toadley," I said, and watched as he jumped from his pickup, "Whaaasuppp?"

"Whaaasuppp?" Toad returned and walked over to where I was standing.

"Ohh, not much now," I said, nodding toward the heap. "Just trying to figure out what to do with them seats over there. You got any ideas?"

"We could take them over to Charlie's," Toad replied, "You know how much of a packrat he is."

Charlie is Toad's step-father and your first impression of him would be that he's been there and done that...twice. His posture, his longish beard and deep voice all couple together to command one's respect. I like him and he is a packrat - a far worse one than I could ever aspire to be. If packrattedness were a disease his would be epidemic for he has stuff squirreled away in every outbuilding and wrecked or abandoned vehicle on the place - some of it bursting out of windows and doors to the point where it looks as if it's multiplying on its own.

"Toadley! You're a genius!" I said, then instantly became alarmed. "Hey, you reckon we oughta call him first? I mean, to see if he's interested?"

"Nah," Toad smiled and said, "If we do that it'll give him the chance to say no, with it sitting in his driveway he can't say no."

I was taken aback. If I didn't know Toad any better I would have pegged him to be a learned philosopher for coming up with such a thoughtful statement. But, since I knew he couldn't even spell philosopher let alone attend college long enough to become one, I chalked it up to being a rare moment. We climbed aboard the bus for the five-mile ride to Charlie's and walked into the house.

"Howdy Charlie...," I said, and was cut off. Toad's interpretive mind signaled the end of the formalities and got right to the issue at hand.

"What do you want to do with your seats?"

Charlie, looking around as if the living room had suddenly exploded with additional seating, asked, "What seats?"

"You know, the seats you want for your church." Toad turned to me and said, "Charlie's opening a church..." He smiled then shrugged, "...a church for loggers." and then went on to explain where the seats were from.

"Humm..." Charlie pondered, and then decided. "Stack them neatly in the corn crib."

I piqued with the statement, 'stack them neatly', and found it to be rather amusing since, aside from the logs that make up his house, there isn't a single thing that is neatly stacked anywhere on the whole damn place.

Arriving back at the shop we swept out the bus then set about the task of getting loaded.

That is to say we got loaded because that was when Brad, my brother-in-law, showed up with a case of beer - followed seconds later by Rich and Bob who paraded in with their refreshing adult beverages. At that precise moment a whole new definition to the term "work party" was inscribed in my Webster's.

Every time someone would begin to spew out some preposterous idea on how to stack this or load that he'd open a beer and then we'd all have to sit and listen to his plethora of experience gained from years of moving. Throughout each instance of this Bob would emphatically agree with whoever was saying whatever and then open a beer in exaltation and immediately embark on an in-depth explanation on why he thought the fellow was right. Meanwhile, Rich is so caught up in the discussion that if a band of Zulu tribesman were to suddenly crash through the door on tricycles and set their hair on fire, he wouldn't have noticed them.

Revelations were born, nurtured and then tested by Brad as he would explode out of his chair and run out to the bus to measure the available space for whatever item we were talking about at the time and then race back inside to report on what he discovered. Of course nothing had changed. On each of his expeditions he measured the same damn spot because nothing had been loaded yet! Cripes, if we'd had a small yacht it would have fit in there! It came to pass that in just few short hours there wasn't a single one of us who could stand and effectively smack a bull on the ass with a banjo let alone be trusted to load even the lightest item on the bus.

The next day was Saturday and all the moving experts reconvened back at the shop as we had agreed at the end of the previous night's festivities. It was impressive anyone even remembered it to say nothing of the fact they actually showed up. I tend to believe they only returned because they knew there was beer left over, but I digress.

We got straight to the chore and as the day waned and darkness prevailed upon us, we could look about the shop and see only a few scattered items still remaining to be loaded. We chose to while away the rest of the evening by talking about everything and then nothing and at the same time we were saddened because Monday, the appointed departure day, was fast approaching.

Continue to CHAPTER THREE