7 comments/ 36900 views/ 10 favorites Connecting Rod Ch. 01-02 By: coaster2 Chapter 1: The Cowboy Starts a New Life August 14, 1958 The old, olive-drab jeep rolled down Meadowbrook Road. Might have been doing near fifty, I thought. Not bad for this old refugee. Not bad except for the dust. I'd miss this ugly old girl. Quicker than any horse I ever rode. A fifty dollar wonder at an army surplus yard. I spent a lot of hours getting it to go again, but she ran like new. Better than new, some said. Just a few minutes to town and I'd be at the feed store. Pick up the week's order and head back to the ranch. Wouldn't be doing this much more, I thought. Damned if I knew what I would be doing though. The army would decide that, not me. Long as I was going to learn some trade, that'd be fine. Motor Pool or Engineering Corp. That's what I was gunning for. Finally done with school after all these years and I can't wait to get more schooling, I thought with a laugh. I made it through my final year with a B average. Pretty good for a cowboy who'd rather wrestle with a near twenty-year-old Jeep than wrangle cattle. When the draft notice turned up in the mail, it wasn't a big surprise. I'd report and hope for the best. I wanted to learn a trade. I particularly wanted that trade to have something to do with vehicles -- maintaining and fixing them. That's who I am, the cowboy with the monkey wrench. My name is Roderick Franklin Williams. I was born on October 2, 1940, in Cut Bank, Montana, on the family ranch, the W2. My mother gave birth in her bed at our home with a midwife in attendance. I weighed six pounds, four ounces and apparently had a shock of dark hair right from the womb. I was their only child. I became known as Roddy, and I grew up healthy and active, but was never very big. I attended school in town, riding the twelve miles to and from the ranch on the school bus, and later in my jeep. I loved sports, particularly football, but was just too small to make the team, even in my junior and senior years. At five foot-eight, one hundred and fifty pounds, I settled for the track team and cross-country running. I am fairly handsome in some people's opinion. My blue eyes and usually unruly mop of dark-blond hair, along with regular features gave me a solid, but not spectacular look. The girls liked me and I liked the girls. I never had trouble getting a date for a dance or a movie, but living as far out as we did and with all the ranch chores, didn't date very often. My mother and father were proud of me, they said. I am a hard worker, always helping my father and doing my duties without complaining. It was the way I was brought up. My dad, Frank, and my mother, Eleanor, ran the W2 cattle ranch, and although it was modestly successful it didn't earn enough money to send me to state college in Billings. My school work would qualify, but the money just wasn't there for both tuition and my board. Mother in particular was disappointed that they were unable to help me further my education. I had given my future a lot of thought. It was 1958 and the times were changing. My ambition didn't include ranching. In all likelihood, my parents' land would be gobbled up by a larger outfit someday. I wanted to be involved in the new, more prosperous America, but I also knew I had an obligation to fulfill. Uncle Sam had called. I was healthy, single, and had no reason for a deferment. I had been reading the recruiting brochures for the services and found something I was confident I would like. The Army Motor Pool was dedicated to keeping their mobile equipment maintained and operating. It was my opportunity to learn a skill and get a chance to fix cars and trucks. I would serve my time and come out ready to join the modern work force with an ability in demand, just as the brochures promised. I would have to have a physical first, but I doubted I would be found unfit. My cross-country training would have revealed any weakness. It was time to talk to my folks. "The Army's gonna' get me anyway, so I want to see if I can get into the motor pool. In four years, I'll have a trade and job prospects. I think it's the right thing for me." My father nodded and smiled. As much as he wanted me to remain on the ranch, he would never deny me an honest ambition. In Dad's eyes, nothing could be more honest than serving your country and learning a trade. Mom was not so happy. It would mean losing her only child, and that was very difficult for her. She would never stand in my way if it was to better myself, but she would be sad to see me go, not knowing when she would see me again. Two weeks after my eighteenth birthday, I waved farewell to my parents. I sold my Jeep to one of my high school buddies for two hundred dollars and a ride to the Army recruiting office in Great Falls. Shortly after enlisting I was at Fort Dix, undergoing basic training. It was said that the Army often assessed men for their talents and then assigned them to tasks with no remote connection to their capabilities. Fortunately for me, that was not the case. When I completed basic training, I was assigned to the 63rd Engineering Battalion, deployed in Bad Hersfeld, Germany. However, when I arrived in Germany, and barely had time to look around, I was informed that the battalion would be redeployed again in a few months and I was to be reassigned. Within a month, I found myself with the 15th Army Motor Pool in Friedberg, near Frankfurt. In a round about way, I had ended up where I wanted to be. I spent nearly eight years in the Army. I learned a great deal about trucks and armored vehicles and a lot of other machines. I did well and rose to the rank of sergeant. I began my first tour in Germany, and after serving in Alabama and North Carolina, ended my Army career back in Germany. At the end of July 1966, age 25, I picked up my discharge papers and boarded a C-118 transport for the U.S.A. I was almost a civilian once more and now it was time to put my plan into action. The army had filled me out. I was now a solid, fit 170 pounds. I was ready for the next step. I hitched a ride on another transport to Omaha, then bought a train ticket to Great Falls. It was time to go home. I had seen my parents only four times in eight years, the most recent was over two years ago. On my last visit, I could see my father's health wasn't good. I spent two days in Great Falls searching for a suitable vehicle at the right price. I finally found it in the classifieds of the local newspaper. A widow was selling her late husband's truck, a '60 Ford F-100 pickup. It was exactly what I was looking for -- low mileage, well cared-for, free of rust and dents. It was never going to be as pretty as a '55, but it would do. I paid the woman cash and took the title. A full tank of gas would get me home in a day. When I rolled to a stop in the driveway of the family ranch, I sat in the driver's seat for a few moments, taking in the scene. The ranch house didn't look any different, even after eight years. It was quiet, just as it always had been. I looked over at the barn, but saw no signs of activity. I glanced at my watch. It was nearing 6:00 pm. It was supper time. I stood on the porch, wondering whether I should knock, or just walk in. I chose both. I rapped firmly on the door, then opened it and walked in. "Hi folks, it's me ... Rod," I called loudly. I heard the clatter of utensils on plates and the scrape of chairs being moved. My mother appeared first, with a look of astonishment on her face. I wondered briefly if I had forgotten to tell them I was coming, but recalled the telegram I had sent from Omaha. "Roddy ... oh god ... Roddy," she cried, rushing toward me, arms outstretched. "Hi Mom," I said softly into her head as we embraced. I looked up and saw my father moving slowly toward me. He looked so much older than I remembered him. He had lost weight, his face drawn and pale where once it was full and ruddy. I held onto my mother and my arm extended to take the offered hand of my father. "Hi Dad. Good to see you." "Good to see you too, Son. It's been a long time. We've missed you," he wheezed. "I'll set a place for you, Rod," Mother smiled, her face stained with tears. "You must be hungry." "I'm always hungry for your cooking, Mom. Let me wash up first." We gathered around the kitchen table. The evening meal was a big plate of stew and baking powder biscuits fresh from the oven. I hadn't had this fine a supper in all the time I was away. It felt very good to be home. Over the next couple of days, I realized I would be putting my plans on hold. My father was ill, and the ranch was failing. Dad's health was worsening. He was in the later stages of emphysema, brought on by a combination of smoking and the dust off the dry grasslands of western Montana. I can clearly remember him, astride his favorite horse, his dusty Stetson pulled down low over his eyes, hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his lips, watching the herd. Those days would never be repeated. The ranch was no longer profitable; too small at only 640 acres. My parents had used up all their savings and most of their line of credit trying to keep it going. They refused to re-mortgage the home. It couldn't support enough cattle to make a go of it, nor generate the cash to permit modernization or lease summer grazing land. At some time in the not so distant future we would have to sell. Ranching was the only thing my father knew. He had been born here just as I had. Cut Bank was his home and raising cattle was his life. But times had changed, and without the help and skills to change with them, Frank Williams would be the last of our family to run this ranch. Mom felt bad for Dad's disappointments, but worried more about his health. She could tolerate losing the ranch she told me, but she couldn't imagine life without her Frank. Just the same, each day as we watched his gradual decline, we knew it was inevitable. I assumed the duties around the ranch that my father had formerly performed. In fact, I was able to make some improvements that, for a brief while, helped our situation. The hard work was being done by two ranch hands, but it was my intervention that put a stop to the decline. I had returned home with nearly $50,000 after saving every dime I could while in the army. I had earned side money by fixing and tuning cars and motorcycles for other base personnel. Cash only, no receipts. I was determined not to throw good money after bad when it came to the ranch. If I was going to use my savings, it was going to be for improvements that would be investments toward the sale of the property when the time came. I rebuilt the hay mower, widening the cut with salvaged equipment from a now-defunct neighboring farm. The baler required a good deal more work, but with Dad's guidance and my learned skills, it was renewed in time for the second cut. There would be no need to buy supplemental feed for the winter that fall. The truth was, however, that any significant problem that cropped up could finish the ranch for good. There was no reserve. Bad weather alone could mean disaster. A flood in the creek or a prolonged dry spell could be equally fatal. We needed some luck, and for a while it looked like we had it. Over the first fifteen months, I committed to get the most out of the ranch and the cattle. Prices were fairly good, so if we could produce two or three hundred head for the spring sales, we would be in much better financial circumstances. But early that fall a freak hail storm destroyed the second hay crop, and we were right back where we started. Mom was never really sure if it was the hail storm or just the progress of Dad's disease, but his decline accelerated. In early November, my father, Frank Williams, age 61, died in his bed, a shadow of his former, robust self. Mom and I were both heartbroken, but we carried on. She had me to support and comfort her, and that made it possible to accept the passing of her beloved husband. I grieved for my father, but knew I must shift my concerns to looking after my mother. With the loss of the hay crop, all the hard-fought-for earnings of the previous year had been wiped out. We would have to buy hay to get the cattle through to the spring sales. Although neither of us said it aloud, we both knew this would be the last winter on the W2. I debated with myself exactly how to go about proposing to Mom that we sell the ranch. I was uncertain just how strong her ties to this land were. She was a "town girl" when my father married her and became a ranch wife and mother. Whatever her history, I knew we couldn't carry on much longer and we needed to make the best of a bad situation. In my opinion, it was wiser to sell in the spring before it became known that the ranch was in financial trouble. My savings from my army service had made it appear to the bank that the ranch was solvent, and thus no rumors circulated. It would be important that no one think they could get this ranch for pennies on the dollar because the Williams family was desperate. I talked it over with mother and was pleasantly surprised that she was almost anxious to leave the ranch, but uncertain where she would go. I reassured her as I reminded her of my plans. She would accompany me to our new location and we would use the proceeds from the sale of the ranch to buy a home where she could start a new life. She was only fifty-two, nine years younger than my father. When I told my mother that our destination was Bellingham, Washington, she was taken aback. I had to show her where it was on a map. She had never thought of living on the coast. For the first time in many years, I think she was optimistic about her future. While losing Dad still hurt, she could start fresh with me nearby. "You'll like it, I think," I said. "It's not so cold in the winter and not so hot in the summer. They say the scenery is fantastic. It's always green ... all year around." "I'm sure I will, Roddy. I hope this is what you want, not what you think I want. You have your own life to live, son. I'm just happy you want me to come along." "I wouldn't have it any other way. Besides, I need a bookkeeper for my business. You're just the person for the job," I grinned. Her smile in return was all I needed to see. My lean, attractive mother seemed relieved and happy that she could share my dream. The ranch was put up for sale early in 1968, and fortunately a buyer was found within three months. The new owner was a large cattle producer with an even larger feed-lot operation and was willing to buy the stock along with the land and buildings. The price was fair and on an early July summer day, we loaded our belongings and a few pieces of cherished furniture into the back of my pickup and headed west. -0- Chapter 2: A New Beginning July 25, 1968 We took our time along U.S. 2 and we were both pleased that our trip and our welcome to Bellingham was blessed with good weather. July of 1968 in northwest Washington was mainly warm and sunny and welcoming to us. Within a week, we had found a furnished house to rent. Almost all of our previous furniture had stayed with the sale of the ranch. It was only good luck that the house we found was an elegant, older Victorian-style home with five bedrooms and three bathrooms. It was far larger than the two of us needed, but it had charm and it was in immaculate condition. The owner had been transferred to Alaska with the ferry system and if he and his family decided to stay in Juneau, they would put the house up for sale. On the advice of the rental agent, I negotiated a first-right-of-refusal for purchase on the house and furnishings. There was no need to do anything but stock the pantry, fill the refrigerator, and buy a television set. We had the phone connected, and took out a subscription to the local paper. Mom didn't drive, so for the time being my truck would be our sole transportation. It wasn't a hardship for Mom. We lived in the established, older part of town, within walking distance of several stores and the harbor. That first summer she explored her new town on foot, quickly falling in love with it. Again, a warm sunny summer didn't hurt her opinion of Bellingham. I had arranged a meeting with Ted Reynolds, the district manager for Atlantic Richfield. We had been corresponding over the past two years. Ted's nephew, Jerry, had served in Germany with me, and we had become friends. I expressed an interest in buying a service station connected with a major oil company. Jerry contacted his uncle and in an exchange of letters, let me know that there might be a station or two for sale. I did my homework and Ted sent over his company's requirements for establishing a formal business relationship. Foremost was economic stability. I needed the financial capability to run and maintain the station. Second was staffing and third was station standards: cleanliness, hours of business, service capability. At first I was overwhelmed, but as I worked through the various requirements, I could begin to see how I could make everything come together. The only real issue would be finance. Even there, Ted was helpful, letting me know how much cash down would be required for each of the franchises available. Of the possibilities, Bellingham looked like the most manageable. It had been in decline for several years and no buyer had stepped forward. Mother had kept the books for the ranch. She was thorough and precise with her calculations and Dad never had cause to doubt the accuracy of the current state of their finances. She and I spent several hours looking at which way to manage the purchase of the Bellingham station. We were in a good situation. The sale of the ranch had provided us with a healthy amount that we could invest. Some would be reserved for buying a home of course, but there was a good deal more available for the purchase of the station. The question really boiled down to how much cash to use, versus how much to borrow. We needed some advice. Ted had recommended Carl "Stumpy" Jorgensen. He was a well known character in Whatcom County financial and business circles. Despite his backwoods style, he was a trustworthy interpreter of federal and state tax law. It was natural that Mom and I would consult with him on the purchase. Carl listened carefully to our plan and nodded in agreement with our suppositions. He seemed to be impressed. He told us that for a pair of neophyte entrepreneurs, he was surprised at how well thought-out our ambition was. He had no idea what it had taken to run our cattle ranch, but it was obviously more complex than he thought. He wanted a couple of days to look over the operation with me, and discuss how much investment was required to bring the station up to acceptable standards. That would be the key to how much to spend and how much to borrow. I had already scouted out the station. I had stopped by to gas-up the truck earlier that morning and took the opportunity to wander around to see what kind of condition it was in. I was discouraged at what I saw. The washrooms were in poor condition and dirty. The floor of the shop was deteriorating, having been saturated over many years with gasoline, oil, anti-freeze, grease, brake and transmission fluids and who knows what else. There were three people visible on the site. A scruffy old man who ran the old-style pumps and the cash register. I guessed he was the owner. There was a tall, thin man in his middle age, perhaps fifty or so. He appeared to be a mechanic and was neat and clean. The third person was a woman, wearing a greasy smock, tattered Levis and a very worn pair of what I thought might be army boots. It appeared she too was doing shop work. Not much of a roster, but at least one of them looked semi-professional. Well, there were lots of people looking for work, so I could replace the ones who didn't cut it. But the station itself was a mess. I tried to imagine what was going to be required to make it into what I wanted. And what I wanted wasn't anything like this. Connecting Rod Ch. 01-02 I wandered into the shop, looking at the tools and equipment. Nothing like an army shop, but then the army didn't appear to worry about budgets. They got the best and plenty of it. This was a whole different story. Again, I was struck by the difference between the two employees. The older man was organized and efficient. He worked quietly on his own, not pausing to see who the stranger was. The woman, approximately my age, was curious. She stopped in the middle of the lube job she was doing and walked over to me. "Something I can do for you, mister?" "Naw ... just lookin' around." "Nothin' much to see here," she said idly as she walked back to the lube rack. I watched her for a few minutes, wondering just how much she knew and if she could be counted on to do a job properly. Women weren't usually found in service bays. And her appearance? I would never allow her to look like that in my shop. The man was more the image I was looking for. I walked into the office. The old man looked up from his magazine and blinked. "Somethin' else you need, son?" "Some information. I understand this station is for sale." "Yeah. For the right price." "How come you're sellin'?" "Gittin' old. I'm about wore out and just want to go down to Arizona and retire. Got a brother and sister down there waiting for me." "You don't seem to be overrun with customers." "Not today, but ... it comes and goes. There's enough to get by. We ain't up on the interstate like them other fancy stations. We're a local service kind of place." "I'd like to bring a business associate along with me tomorrow and go over the place. That OK with you? You can check me out with Ted Reynolds if you like." "If Ted sez it's OK, then it's OK. Jes' gimme your name and phone number. I'll let you know when we can meet. I suppose you'll want to see the books?" "Yep. My mother will be with me. She's my accountant," I grinned. "Well then, I guess I won't be slippin' anything by you, will I?" "I wouldn't try. She's good and she's thorough." "Where you bin boy? You know anything about this business?" "Not much ... yet. I was in the army motor pool for nearly eight years. I ran my folk's ranch for a couple more. I know machines and I know about runnin' a business. I guess I can learn this one too." "Yeah ... I 'spect you can. Well, here's hopin' we can make a deal," he smiled, extending his hand. "I'm Bart Towsley." "Bart ... I'm Rod Williams. I'll see you tomorrow if you can arrange it." "I'm pretty sure I can. I'll call you. I suppose you'll wanna to talk to my people too?" "Yeah. I think so. That's all part of the deal, I figure." "You can't run the place by yourself. I think you'll be surprised at what those two can do. Long as you ain't prejudiced or anythin'." I looked at him, wondering just what he meant. "Aw ... you'll find out tomorrow. See you then." Mom and I were early arriving at the station. I wanted her to see just what we had in front of us. I had already warned her that we would be spending both time and money getting the station brought up to acceptable standards, much less my even more ambitious standard. What surprised me was that mother wasn't discouraged. She wasn't happy and she wasn't kidding herself about what it could take to put the place in order, but she said she didn't see anything except the shop floor that didn't look like it could be repaired, painted or cleaned. She would leave it to me to determine the state of the equipment and the shop in general. Stumpy Jorgensen arrived at the appointed hour and we walked over to my truck to talk before going in to see Bart. "What do you think?" Stumpy asked, acknowledging both of us. I nodded to Mom. "It's filthy and I wouldn't want to touch it without gloves on, but most of what I see is fixable. It doesn't look like anybody cleans anything as far as I can tell. But, with lots of elbow grease, some paint, new fixtures in the washrooms, it can be saved." Stumpy nodded and turned to me. "I don't think the shop floor can be saved. We're going to have to grind it down and resurface it, at least. That isn't cheap and it'll mean a few days we won't be able to do any other inside work. But ... I don't see any option. The rest of the equipment looks pretty standard. It badly needs some organization. I don't know how that girl finds anything on that work bench. There's tools everywhere. At least the guy keeps his stuff organized. He looks pretty good, just on sight." "So, now it's a matter of figuring out what it's going to cost to do all this. At least you'll get a tax break on everything you do, including your time and closing the station, if you have to," Stumpy said optimistically. "Can I keep the staff on to do some of the work and still deduct that as part of the cost?" I asked. "Yep. That's legit." "Well then I guess it's a matter of looking at the books," I suggested as the three of us began to move toward the office. We walked into the office and Bart immediately stood to acknowledge my mother and Stumpy. "Howdy, Stumpy. How you been keepin'?" "Fine, Bart. You?" "Not bad for an old fart," he laughed. "Ooops ... sorry ma'am." Mom smiled and waved her hand in dismissal. I interrupted. "Bart, this is my mother, Eleanor Williams." "Howdy, ma'am. Nice to meet you. I hear you're the brains of the outfit," the old man grinned. "Not hardly. Rod's pretty sharp, so don't underestimate him," she warned with a slight smile. "I'll be sure not to. The books are right here," he said, passing a large ledger to her. It looked like it had served the business since the beginning of time. Worn and grease-stained, it barely held together at its binding. "Why don't you sit at this desk, Mrs. Williams?" Bart offered. Mom smiled, nodded her thanks, and sat down. She opened the ledger carefully at the most recent entries and began her review. "Who does your audit, Bart?" Stumpy asked the old man. "Ain't had one in some time, Stumpy. Mike Childress did the last one, but that was ... maybe ... three years back. I'd have to look." "Was ARCO OK with that?" I asked. "I guess so. Ted never said nothin'. I figured you might want one if it came time to sellin'." "You figured right," Stumpy grinned. "You might as well call Mike. You're goin' to need one sooner or later." Bart nodded and shrugged. "You mind if I talk to your people?" I asked. "Nope. Help yourself. They both know I'm sellin' out." "Thanks. Stumpy, you want to stay here with Mom in case she's got any questions?" "Sure. I'll leave you to the other stuff. That's not my thing." I walked out into the garage. The presence of three people in Bart's office couldn't have been missed. Both of them looked up as I walked toward them. "Hi again," I said to the woman. "Hi." She was cautious in her greeting. "My name's Rod Williams. I'm lookin' to buy this station. Don't know if I will or not. Thought I ought to talk to you folks." "I'm Shelly Dawson. This here's Jurgen Burgmann. He doesn't speak much English." I looked at the tall, handsome, gray-haired man. I addressed him in German. "How long have you been in America?" A very surprised Jurgen looked at me and smiled. "Almost ten years. I was in a prisoner of war camp in Italy until I was brought back to Germany. There was nothing left of my city ... Dresden. My family is gone." "I'm very sorry to hear that," I said, then looked quizzically at the man. "Dresden is in the east. How did you get out?" "Through Czechoslovakia, along the Ohre River and then to Bavaria. I was lucky." "Yes, you were. How long have you been here in Bellingham?" "Two years soon. I was staying with family in Chicago, but I needed to make my own way. I could not live on their good wishes. Always I wanted to see the west," he smiled. "Yeah... I can understand that. Where did you learn your skills?" "In Chemnitz, near Dresden, before the war. I was an apprentice mechanic for Auto Union. We prepared their race cars." "Really!" I exclaimed. "You've got to tell me all about that some time. I'll bet it was fascinating." "Yes. Very exciting. We even had a visit from Goering to our shops. He owned a Horch, among other cars." I shook my head in envy. This man had seen the golden years of German auto racing. I pulled myself out of my reverie and turned to the girl. "So, Shelly, how long have you been here?" I asked, reverting to English. "Going on five years," she answered, still cautious. "Where did you learn your trade?" "Here and there. My old man taught me. I used to help him fix stuff. I guess I've got a knack for it. I can read a manual. If Jurgen could speak more English, I'd be a lot better. He knows everything," she said assuredly. "He's been at it a long time and he's worked in top-class shops. You look to have done pretty good for someone who just watched and learned. What do you do around here?" "Lube and oil, tires, a muffler now and then, change plugs, filters, clean carbs, timin'. I can weld. I can do a bit of bodywork if need be," she said with a hint of pride. "Huh. That's quite a lot. That makes you two pretty versatile. Just what a small station like this needs." I was thinking out loud. There was a lot of talent in these two, if they weren't bragging. "One thing for certain. If I buy this place, it's going to need a top-to-bottom clean up. I'll need your help for that. You'll still be paid, but there are some major items that have to be done right away." "Like what?" Shelly asked. "This floor, for one. It's going to have to be completely redone. I've come from a military operation and you could eat off the floors in our shops. I can barely stand to walk on this one. When I'm done, this is going to be the cleanest service station in the state." I turned to Jurgen and repeated some of my remarks in German. The smile on his face spoke volumes. It was definitely something he wanted to hear. "What will you do with this floor?" Jurgen asked, having understood some of my comments to Shelly. "We'll probably grind it down and resurface it with high-density concrete," I answered. "May I suggest epoxy coating for chemical resistance?" "I thought about that, but it's very slippery," I suggested. "We had a solution to that. We mixed clean silica sand in the topcoat. It gave the surface a rough texture without interrupting the barrier." I looked at the man. "That would be worth a try. Do you know how it's done?" "Yes. We can do it ourselves if we are careful. I have done it before," he said with some confidence. "Shelly, Jurgen says he can help us resurface the floor with a new process that will resist staining. We will need your help too." "Sure. I don't like this mess any more than you do. I get upset that nothing's clean and organized. I don't even use the washrooms any more. I know I don't look great, but this is all I've got. All I can afford right now." "OK ... we're getting ahead of ourselves. I haven't bought this place yet. But if I do, you'll have proper overalls to wear in the shop and there will be a new floor and a proper tool rack. I think you'll find the work environment will be a lot better." I was liking these people more already. I saw smiles on both their faces. I was feeling good about this station. But I was curious and turned again to Jurgen. "OK, Jurgen. Just how much English do you understand?" "Perhaps more than I admit," he confessed in heavily accented English. "I am not very confident, so I say nothing unless I am asked." "Well, aside from me, I don't know how many other German-speaking people live in Bellingham. I'd say we need to help you work on your English. Shelly can use your help in the shop and I'm sure she'd be willing to join with me and help you with your language." I looked to her for confirmation. "That sounds like a good trade, Mr. Williams." "It's Rod. You two should do that anyway, even if I don't buy this place." "If you don't buy this place, I'm going to be lookin' for another job," Shelly said, shaking her head. "Why?" "I can't hack this place much longer. I get depressed just walking in the door each morning. Jurgen and me ... we don't have a lot of choices, but I swear, I can't stay here if things don't get better." She looked as unhappy as she sounded. "Don't do anything rash, Shelly. At least give me a chance to see if we can make a deal with Bart. I know ARCO wants to see this station improved. They can't do much with Bart because he's one of the original Richfield lease-holders. They could make him fix up the place but I figure he doesn't have the money. That's why I think we can make a deal." I was right. We could and did make a deal. With the blessing of Ted Reynolds, Stumpy's help, and the support of the bank, I became the new owner of the ARCO service station in downtown Bellingham. -0- My thanks to ErikThread for his helpful and skillful editing. Any errors are mine alone.