A while back everyone was seated around the big table in the middle of the cafe enjoying a cuppa Folgers out of their CMC mugs.  Pretty much a morning like any other.  Somehow, and it’s never really clear how these things come up, but there seemed to be a lot of discussion of what happens to all the things that get returned to Amazon.  That led to what happens to the two million pieces of luggage that are lost annually by the airlines in this country.  Eventually, Lucinda brought the Bunn-O-Matic coffee pot over for refills.  

As she walked away, someone mentioned ‘true love’ under his breath.  Because half the guys around the table are hard of hearing, it wasn’t really under his breath at all; it was more of a low shout.  At first, everyone thought he was referring to the Captain My Captain story titled True Love about the Ohio guy who had one of his testicles blown off by his girlfriend, but proclaimed he held no grudge and would gladly take her back.  Hard to say there was any real ‘moral’ to the story, but the point seemed to be that the Ohio man’s feelings went deeper than any man in Fort Stockton could ever have claimed in that regard.

“That ain’t nothin’.”  Lucinda seemed to have sneaked back up on the table although, as has already been mentioned, most seated there are hard of hearing.  “I had a great uncle who would put that story to shame, as far as depth of love goes.  That and any other tale of affection you could come up with in this god-forsaken town.”

Well, that was a bold claim.  One that seemed to demand further examination.  And of course, being a slow morning, one that Lucinda needed only minimal encouragement to relay.

It seems that her definition of true love was based on the actions of her great uncle on her father’s side.  (Her biological father, not the stepfather she rarely speaks of other than to put on display as an example of her mother’s poor judgement and the overall poor view of men in general, despite her fondness for a select few.)

“Joesph Horace Greasley was his name.  Born in Leicestershire, England on Christmas day in 1918,” she started.  “A handsome man.  And, like far too many of the men on my father’s side of the family, one who had a way with the ladies that would make most other men blush.”  New Guy pointed out that a way with the opposite sex seemed to be a trait passed down through generations.  It was probably a little bit out of line, but nobody around the table disputed it and Lucinda didn’t seem fazed, although that may just be because she knows New Guy is a fopdoodle and pays him no mind.

It seems that Uncle Joseph was serving in the Army for the Commonwealth when he was captured by the Nazis in May of 1940.  That’s how he found himself a prisoner of war in a German prison camp.  The thing about it was, he had a girl on the outside that was his one true love.  An attractive young lady by the name of Rosa Rauchbach held his affections to such a degree, Lucinda explained, that he actually escaped the prison camp to go see her.

“Granted, having a nut shot off and still proclaiming love for the girl who pulled the trigger is a sign of love,” Lucinda said as she relayed the tale.  “But risking your life to break out of a German prison camp to go see your girl is something that is tough to top.”

Most agreed, she had a point.  New Guy seemed a little less than convinced.  Rusty from the hardware store seemed dubious, as well.

“That’s not the full story.”  Lucinda was on a roll.  “He broke out of prison every night to go see her.  Then broke back into prison before morning to avoid getting caught.”  That information seemed to convince Rusty, but you know how New Guy is.

Lucinda pulled out her iPad, searched Bring a Trailer, and found a 1943 Volkswagen Type 82 Kubelwagen.  She flipped it around so everyone at the table could see it.  “Rumor at family reunions was that he stole one of these more than three dozen times during the course of his prison breaks.  He would scoop up Rosa from her little A-frame cabin in the woods and take her to play Hide-the-Schnitzel before returning back to camp, ditching the Kubelwagen a mile or so from the camp.  “He risked his life to get out; risked his life to get back in.  Over 200 times each direction!  Tell me that isn’t the best example of true love ever!”

Lucinda had a point.  I mean Buttercup and I go back nearly forty-five years, and she’s been the woman of my dreams the entire time.  But risking my life 400 times just to motorboat that bosom in the Black Forest is probably asking more than I might be capable of.

“Here’s the other thing about Uncle Joseph.  It wasn’t just about the love he had for his sweetie.  Every time he broke back into prison he brought news, supplies, and treats for all his starving fellow prisoners.  He was thinking of his mates almost as much as his love.”  Lucinda seemed convincing, but we all knew it wasn’t his mates that were the first priority.

“Sounds a lot like Hogan’s Heroes, if you ask me,” Rusty said.

“You know why, you little smatchet?  Because he was the inspiration for the series!” she stated unequivocally.

Now, we all know Lucinda can be forgiven for stretching the truth.  I mean, a lot of us from Fort Stockton would climb up a tree to tell a tall tale when we could just as easily stay on the ground and tell the truth.  But this seemed different.  She seemed to know what she was talking about  That’s when, because he’s a millennial after all, Chad on break from the Piggly Wiggly pulled out his iPhone and googled ‘Joesph Horace Greasely’.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered.  Lucinda just put one hand on her hip and smiled.  “Everything she just said is true.  There’s even a picture of him in prison.  He’s shirtless and looks like he’s giving Himmler the stink eye on the other side of a barbed wire fence.”

“What else does it say?” Pastor Peterson asked.

“Says right here he was finally liberated after five years on May 24, 1945.  By then Rosa was working for the Americans as a translator.  They wrote to each other devotedly.  Then, all of a sudden the letters stopped coming.”  Chad stopped reading for a moment, staring off out the window off towards the Ben Franklin.  Like the story was getting too close for comfort.

“Go on Chad, we don’t have all day!”  Lucinda seemed to be ready for the story to come to a close.

“Turns out she died in childbirth.  Based on the timeframe, Greasley assumed the child had probably been his,” Chad said.

“You can put that away,” Lucinda declared.  “The rest of the story is that he eventually married my Great Aunt, a woman named Brenda.  They lived out the rest of their days in Costa Brava, Spain.  About as close to Fort Stockton as you can get without getting on a plane or a boat.  He died at 91.”

“Well, Lucinda, that was a good story.  As usual.”  Pastor Peterson always knew how to wrap up a tale, just like a sermon.

“That ain’t all,” Lucinda said.  Pastor Peterson had a hunch it might not be.  “He wrote it all down in a book about his life.  It’s called Do the Birds in Hell Still Sing?  You can get it on Amazon.”

But hearing Amazon come up again reminded everyone about where all the things go that get returned.  The 1943 Volkswagen Type 82 Kubelwagen was quickly forgotten, as was Joseph Horace Greasley.  The discussion of what constitutes true love, or truer love was all but forgotten by lunch when Lucinda brought the menus back out and explained what the Special of the Day was.  (It’s the very same thing every day.  She no doubt gets tired of explaining it.)

Only Chad thought any more about Joseph Horace Greasley.  Later that afternoon, back at the Piggly Wiggly in that tiny elevated cubicle next to Customer Service where the Assistant Manager sits, he thought about escaping from prison 200 times just to go see a woman.  He wondered if it had ever been that way with Prudence from Produce.  Before they got married and had kids.  And a mortgage.  And car payments.  He ordered the book on Amazon.

And he thought maybe love was easier in a prison camp.