PAST SHADOWS.

Setting is 1938, a WPA (Works Progress Administration) camp in the Ozark Mountains of Missouri.

Hanging in frames on the wall to his left were city maps, all the Missouri notables along Highway 66 from St. Louis to Joplin, including Lebanon. While I memorized a route to its downtown, Mr. Morgan made out the pass for us to leave camp next day. Business finished, I stepped into the lodge.

"Baby Surbaughs, your uncle thinks I should go to town with you tomorrow." Our crew foreman, Forrest Barton, plopped down his tray and joined us for supper.

A burly, barrel-chested man in his middle-forties, his dark brown hair sparkled with specks of silver, a bit of flesh peeking through on top. With his shirt sleeves rolled back above his elbows, his gorilla-like, muscular forearms were two-times wider than mine when pressed upon the table. His paws were scarred from hard labor. They laid flat with plenty of meat on his strong fingers. His eyes equaled the chocolate-brown color of the paper wrapping his fat cigar, and a cigar was always with him, either stuffed in his shirt pocket or clamped in his molars, lit or not.

"Mr. Barton," I welcomed him, "that will be a hoot. We baby Surbaughs and Cecil here will ride in the bed of the pick..."

"No need for that," he cut me off, removing the spit-saturated cigar from his mouth and slapping it down onto his tray. "We can all pile into my Buick. Plenty of room."

"All right. That sounds even better."

We were too hungry for talking, at least until a few bites were swallowed and Forrest remarked, "Well, gentlemen, I reckon by middle of next week we'll be ready to start on the bridge."

"Forrest here helped build it," Jack piped in. "Back in the twenties."

"1924, to be exact. That's when we finished it."

Cecil wondered, "Were you a foreman then, Mr. Barton?"

"Oh, hell no. Just a laborer. Did what they told me, but I will tell you this. Something didn't seem right about that bridge. You know that feeling you get? Like things ain't what they're supposed to be? Well, that's a feeling I had the whole time we worked on it." He sat up straight, puffed his chest, put his thumb in the middle of thick chest fur exposed by his unbuttoned shirt buttons. "And by God I was right. There's no way its deck should be crumbling like that. Only fourteen years old. Me and Jack have been talking about it."

"I figure they used a bad mix of concrete," Jack analyzed. "Contractor probably trying to skim the county."

"Could be, or the girders beneath aren't right, but I guess we'll find out when we get up there. No use fussing over it now. Right, Jack?"

"Right. It's a holiday. Let's chow down, get a good night's sleep, and take Raymond shopping in the morning."

We did devour silently for awhile, but Forrest liked to talk. "I haven't been to Lebanon since I was here before, except passing through on my way to our camp."

"Are you from this area, Mr. Barton?"

"Name's Forrest when we're relaxing, fellas, and no, Ernest, I come from Kansas City, born and raised."

Cecil asked, "How did you get into the highway-building business?"

"During the Great War in Europe. They threw me in with road crews. Building temporary bridges for movement of ground forces and transports. Running the big Cat graders to level off ruts in the dirt roads. After the war, I took what I learned and got into road building."

"How did that work?" I wondered. "I mean, how did you end up here in the Ozarks?"

"Well, it's like this." He swallowed what he'd been chewing, forcefully wiped his mouth with his supper cloth, stuck his cigar into his jaw and fired it up with his Zippo lighter. "With the growing number of people owning automobiles, there was a national effort to connect the old dirt pathways made for horses, pave them over and make them into continuous highways. This road here was once known as Missouri 14. When we got finished, it was officially designated as the Missouri stretch of U.S. Route 66. Each county paid for their own sections, and a man could sign up at any state office. Be put on a waiting list for assignment to a county where there was work. Since my wife contracted the influenza and died on me while I was overseas, I didn't have any strings keeping me at home. I took whatever came up anywhere in the state, and believe me, there were plenty of choices. Last I checked, there's only six counties in the entire state where one Forrest Barton hasn't worked on their highways."

"You know, Forrest, Uncle Jack lost his wife same as you did." Instantly, I wished I hadn't chosen that subject to follow up on. After all he'd just said, with one simple nudge Forrest Barton would have told exciting tales of his experiences in the Great War, or some of the more interesting road projects he'd worked on, or anything not involving death. I guess I was in awe of this man, his manner, his appearance, all of him, and my intimidated brain wasn't quite functioning properly.

"Well, damn it, Ernest, your uncle done told me that." His tongue maneuvered the cigar between his right molars and he chomped down hard. "Lost his daughter too," he growled, "so I guess Jack's one up on me." A couple of sucks fired up his cherry, and then he removed the stogie from his mouth. Wedging it between his first two fingers, he waved it at us while talking. "That there epidemic of 1918 was a horrible, horrible thing. Forty million people died from it. Made the Great War seem like child's play, but by God, there's no use sitting around moping about it." He scooted his chair away from the table. Clasped both hands to the back of his head and stretched, his heavily-muscled chest thrusting forward until I thought he'd pop off what few shirt buttons were fastened. "Now, look here," he sat straight up with fingers spread atop his thighs. "Things are rough out there, but in here, we've got solid meals every day and money in our pockets. Let's think of good times and celebrate the birth of this great nation. I'll see you at breakfast, and then we'll go to town."

With that, Forrest Barton stood, took his tray and marched to the kitchen area. Shook hands with Barney the cook and his assistants, apparently thanking them, and then exited the lodge. Everything the man did had an effect on me. The way he walked, his head held high, spine erect, chest and eyes straight forward. Certain men are born to inspire others, like generals, kings and statesmen. Forrest Barton was such a man, at least for me, and when we got back to our cabin I asked Raymond to draw me a picture of him.

"In... black?"

"Yes, Raymond. I know you're out of colored pencils, but that's fine. He should be in black and white."

____________________

Well, I guess you can see where this part of the story is headed. Ernest seems smitten.

Speaking of smitten, I am all that and more with the result of this:

Green River - City of Emeralds Candle

What's that, you say? You want something more risque? Oh, brother. That figures. Here, you perverts.

You can read another excerpt at the publisher's web site.

MLR PRESS - GREEN RIVER