First time I heard a living person say Howdy 
was at a gas stop near the Mississippi 
in the early 70s. We had just crossed over 
on a no-name ferry and took back roads 
through backwater hamlets unmarked 
on our map, rickety clapboard shacks
molding in humid air. The tank nearly 
empty, about to give up, we stumbled on 
a tiny store with two rusted pumps out front—
fair enough, they had the gas we needed 
and a helper, a tousled boy in coveralls, 
a ringer for Huck Finn—grinning
at the East Coast mother and daughter, 
belting out a HOWDY! that made us 
grin back, spared by a prayer
from what might have happened
on that hot August day 
getting hotter by the second.
                        

It was March, evergreens bent with snow, 
lake frozen, ice boat rigged and ready.
“Cash” and Ed, loyal friends, launched 
their adventure at the Erie bayfront—
 
a brisk wind at their backs, blowing 
northeast straight to Shorewood. They 
flew out of sight, spectators shouting, 
white sail raised high. Despite rough ice,
 
they clocked 25 minutes without mishap, 
went faster than any car on Lake Road—
made the local paper with the headline, 
“A Venturesome Trip.” Those small-town 
 
men could have done it again, but didn’t—
they knew when to stop, how to be content 
with oars—puttering at their tiny boathouse, 
every spare moment spent by, on, or in 
 
the water. Always together, they tamed 
crows while building lakeside cottages,
honed their recipe for dandelion wine.
At the height of summer, on their 
 
rock-strewn beach, they posed for 
posterity, arms entwined, beaming—
the lake lapping at their feet.