This is the third chapter of a seven part story that will run all this week.

By the time Mason got back from his sister’s in Fredericksburg, the toll the trip had taken on him was obvious.  Even Sutton looked weary as he turned in circles a few times before falling into a heap in front of the fireplace.  The heat felt good on his old joints.

When Whiskey made his way into the barn and found the two of them half asleep with Honky Tonk Heroes by Waylon Jennings playing on the turntable, it looked like at least one of them could be dead and it scared the bejesus out of him.  He tiptoed in and was startled when Mason said, “Pour a drink and sit down.”

Drink in hand, boots on the table, Whiskey was glad Mason and the dog were back home.  “How was your sister and her family?”

“Good,” Mason stated.  “Waited too long to go see her.  She got old.”  Sutton stirred a little in front of the fire, seemingly put out by the interruption.  “She and Bud have a good life in Fredericksburg.  Kids are good.  Seemed to be pleasantly surprised by the gift of the Ford.  I think they’ll enjoy it.  Hope so.”

There was a prolonged silence between the two.  Sometimes those could go on for an hour or two, or until one of them just got up and walked away.  This one only lasted about twenty minutes.

“What’s next?” Whiskey asked.

“Need to get the Falcon ready to go.” Mason replied.

Whiskey just smiled.  The ’62 Ford Falcon sedan had always been one of Whiskey’s favorites.  The simplicity of it appealed to his cowboy nature.  Probably worth the least amount of money of any of the cars Mason kept in the barn, Whiskey would have given more for it than just about every other one.

For the next day or two, Whiskey tuned up the 144 cubic inch Thriftpower inline six, adjusted the downdraft carburetor, replaced the fuel pump, and drove it into town for a brand new set of 155/R13 blackwalls.  Mason took several trips to town, meeting with lawyers, bankers, even the town council off the record, taking Sutton with him everywhere.  By the time the two of them got back home they’d both be exhausted and ready for the leather couch, a glass of bourbon and a dog biscuit.  Mason usually gave the whole dog biscuit to Sutton, although he’d occasionally take a bite off the end just to try and figure out what about the damn things the old dog found so appealing.

As much as Mason and Whiskey knew about each other, there were still more mysteries between them than most people would have thought.  The Falcon was a good example.  When Whiskey asked Mason if it was the actual ’62 Ford Falcon Fordor Sedan 3-speed that Miss Throckmorton had driven, or one he had found that was just like her, Mason’s only reply was, “Yep.”

The fact is, it was identical in every single detail, if not the same one the English teacher at Jim Bowie High drove from the time she bought it brand new till the day she retired, fifty years later.  Miss Throckmorton could never go anywhere under the radar because everyone in Fort Stockton knew the Peacock Blue Falcon was hers.  It was probably the only one in town in 1962; it darn sure was not long after that.  Everyone knew whenever Miss Throckmorton was at the Piggly Wiggly for groceries, over at the Blue Collar Pet Store getting food for her cat, Gerund, or at the Rex Hall Drug picking up her prescriptions because the Peacock Blue Falcon would be parked out front.

The ol’ girl was an institution in town.  Well, both ol’ girls really.  The Falcon for its timeless, classic style and design: Miss Throckmorton because nearly everyone who grew up in Fort Stockton had her at least once for English if they attended Jim Bowie High School.  She argued with Administration till her last day on the job that the motto should say “Home of the Fighting Knives” instead of “Fightin’ Knives”, but they refused to give in on that one.  Probably the only battle over grammar she ever lost.

Her students had a love / hate relationship with Miss Throckmorton.  They hated the fact she made them work hard and think, two things many of them would rather avoid at all cost.  They dreaded the novels she required them to read, struggling with the words, phrases, concepts and language used in many of them, especially in British Literature.  They wrestled with what the author was trying to say.  Until they didn’t.  Until the skies parted, meanings were revealed, and the secrets of the written word were decoded and they understood passages in a new light that had never occurred to them before.

Of course, not every student ever got every text.  Not every student even tried.  Those are the ones that frustrated her most and therefore the ones she rode the hardest..  “In the end, I don’t care if you don’t spell well.  I can even live with the fact you refuse to memorize the rules of grammar.  But I will not tolerate apathy and ignorance in my classroom,” she used to say.  Until you bent to her will, she would ride you like a wild Mustang until you were broken.  And then, you would know how to write, and generally speak, and be able to read something more advanced than the comic section of the Stockton Telegram-Dispatch and understand what was being communicated.  And that was Miss Throckmorton’s gift.

Mason’s interaction with Miss Throckmorton did not start off on the right foot.  He awoke one day in his desk at the back of her class, Miss Throckmorton hovering over him with her copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls in one hand, a review sheet in the other, drilling the class in preparation for the first exam that would take place the following day.  As he returned to reality, leaving behind a dream in which subjects and verbs were happy never being identified, Miss Throckmorton asked Mason how he expected to pass the exam.

“Pass it?  I don’t think I can even swallow it!” was his reply.  Fellow students had a quick appreciation for Mason’s wit, though Miss Throckmorton clearly did not.  

“You will remove yourself from my class, go down to the Principal’s office, and tell Mr. Hodge the exact same thing you just said to me.  You will not return to my class until tomorrow for the test.”

Mr. Hodge had just the slightest grin break out on the right corner of his lips, despite his best efforts to stifle it when Mason relayed the incident. But Mason knew Mr. Hodge thought it was funny. That slight grin made the three ‘Licks” with a wooden paddle almost worth it. The two dozen holes Mr. Hodge had asked the wood shop to drill through the wooden paddle created much greater speed as the armament came through the air. The additional velocity made for brutal force as the white oak device made contact with Mason’s arse. It stung like hell. Was it worth it, in the end? Hell yes. Mason would have done it again a dozen times in a row.

The following day, Mason earned a D on the exam to his surprise.  He knew he was iffy on the facts of the story, having only skimmed the reading assignments, but figured he could make up for it on the essay questions, which had always been his strength.  Of the forty possible points for the essay questions, Mason earned twelve.  In red pen, out in the margins, Miss Throckmorton had written, “Not knowing the content can never be covered up with poorly phrased platitudes, regardless of the wit employed in crafting them.  I’ll let the circled words speak for themselves as far as your ability to spell correctly, as my pen has run out of ink.”  

Mason had met his match.

With a D on his first exam, he was not able to get above a C+ for the semester, the first time he hadn’t made an A in English. He took this as a personal challenge as to his abilities in the Language Arts and vowed to do whatever he had to in order to get the coveted A the following semester. In that process, he learned how to write correctly, how to read for content, and that words were more powerful than any of the plays made on the football field, but only if used correctly. A football game was over quickly and forgotten. Words lasted. Well, they did if they were well crafted and could either sway or entertain the reader. And that was the lesson Miss Throckmorton wanted him to learn.

Mason eventually finished all the details that had to be ironed out before he got in the old Peacock Blue Falcon and drove over to see Miss Throckmorton at her bungalow on Culbertson Drive, a few blocks from the high school.  The place looked pretty good as he pulled up and parked the Falcon out front.  Putting the Falcon in first gear, turning off the engine, and setting the parking brake, he tried to figure out just how old Miss Throckmorton would be by now.  She had to be at least a hundred when he was her student, so a hundred and forty or hundred and fifty maybe?  Hard to tell.

Mason walked around to the passenger door and opened it for Sutton to get out.  The two of them walked up to the steps of the house and made their way past the wicker furniture on the porch to the front door.  Sutton sat on the welcome mat, tired from the steps.  Mason rang the bell.  And they both waited.  For a long time.  Finally thinking that perhaps Miss Throckmorton was either not at home, or had died years earlier but not been found yet, Mason began to turn away and head back to the car.  That’s when the door opened slowly and Miss Throckmorton made herself known.  She looked the exact same way she had all those years ago.

“Miss Throckmorton,” Mason said, “you probably don’t remember me.  I was one of your students.”

The door opened all the way so she could get a better look.  A slight smile broke out on her face, not unlike the one that had been on Mr. Hodges before the fury of the white oak Paddle of Retribution had come raining down on Mason’s arse.  “You are Mason McCulloch.  How could I forget.”

Surprised at her memory, Mason smiled widely at the old woman before him.  “I thought I might have a word with you.  I won’t take up too much of your time.”

Miss Throckmorton looked at him for a moment, as if she was going through the card catalog of her memory, getting all the details in order.  She looked down at Sutton, sitting beside Mason on the porch.  “Come in,” she said.  “But the dog stays on the porch.”

“Actually, I thought I might ask you to step outside first, if that’s alright.” Mason stepped to the side so the old woman could see the street in front of her house. As he did, the Peacock Blue ’62 Ford Falcon came into her view. She didn’t even try to conceal the smile that broke out on her face.

“Alcott,” she said slowly under her breath.  “Where did you find Alcott, my old Falcon?”

“Did you name her after Louisa May Alcott?” Mason asked.

“No,” she replied.  “Virginia Woolf.”

There was a silence, and then Mason said, “Got me.”

“You weren’t the only one with an appreciation for wit, Mr. McCulloch,” she smiled.  “Did I pass the test?”

“Can’t believe you swallowed it!”  They both laughed.

He held her arm as she navigated the steps from the porch down to the sidewalk, and then to the Falcon.  She didn’t try to contain her smile as Mason opened the door and helped her in.  “Would you like to go for a ride?  Maybe over to the Dairy Twin?  My treat.”

“That would be lovely.”

Mason called Sutton off the front porch and opened the back passenger door for him to jump in, then walked around the Falcon to the driver’s door, got in and started the little engine.  As they pulled away from the curb, Miss Throckmorton looked around at the inside of the little blue sedan like she’d been transported back in time.  Of course, she had to some extent.

“Does it look the same?”

“Exactly.  I am at a loss for words.  And that never happens.”

She ran her fingers along the dash, the knobs of the radio, and the grey patterned cloth of the bench seat she sat on.  “Where on earth did you find this?”

“Long story.  I’ll save that for later, maybe.  There is a more important one I want to tell you before that.”

They made their way to the Dairy Twin for a couple soft serve cones.  As they sat across from each other in the booth, Sutton waiting outside in the car, Mason said, “The car is for you.  It symbolizes everything about you and what you’ve done for the youth of Fort Stockton for decades.”

“It’s lovely Mason, it truly is,” she said, fighting back tears of gratitude.  “But I don’t drive anymore.  I haven’t in years.  That’s why I don’t have the Falcon any longer.  I’m afraid it would be wasted on me.”

“I don’t think so,”: Mason told her.  “Let’s take a little drive.”

They got back in the Falcon and drove the ten blocks over to the old Jim Bowie High School. The red brick high school that had been built in 1903 and served as the only high school for decades. The building that held the school when Mason was a student and Miss Throckmorton taught. “It’ll be a shame when they tear this down. But I suppose that’ll be better than just watching it decline further and eventually be reclaimed by the earth,” she said as they pulled up beside it and parked.

“It won’t be torn down,” Mason said.  “The Falcon is really a metaphor for the old high school building.  I’ve purchased the building for a dollar from the city.  To save it.  But better than just saving it, really.  Come take a look.”

They got out of the car, went around back to the trunk, and pulled out a thick set of plans.  Mason rolled them out on the truck lid after closing it.  The whole thing is being repurposed.”  He flipped through the pages of the blueprints.  “The main floor is going to house a coffee shop and a couple community reading rooms.  Every room will have book shelves filled with books.  I’ll be donating my collection, and have talked with a few friends who will be raising the funds to purchase more.  It will be a meeting place for people to share ideas and stories.  Downstairs will be classrooms for new teachers to be mentored by those who have some practical experience.  Share the best way to reach students and make them actually want to learn.  Figure out how to challenge them.  We don’t challenge our kids anymore.”

Miss Throckmorton shook her head back and forth in disbelief as she looked at the plans and heard the ideas.

“Your Falcon?  That’ll be the first thing people see when they walk through the big double doors leading into the building.”  Mason couldn’t contain his own enthusiasm.  “It will be on display in the atrium as a symbol of simplicity.  And dedication.  And sacrifice.”  Mason could tell the vision he’d sold the city fathers was striking a cord with his former teacher.  “And the best part?  The entire upstairs will be reconfigured into studio condos available to retired teachers.  Pay what you can, first come first serve.  I’ve set up an endowment to cover the majority of the costs.  Thought of you while I was putting this together, but it will be open to those who are interested.  The whole thing is called the Throckmorton Center for Educational Excellence.”

“I don’t know what to say.  What an incredible gift.”  Miss Throckmorton seemed genuinely touched, almost unable to wrap her mind around the whole thing, which was understandable.

“I hope I’m able to live long enough to see the whole thing come to fruition,” she said.

“I hope I can, as well,” Mason told her.  “Don’t know if that will be possible.  For either of us.  But then, that’s not the point.  I remember you saying in class that ‘We don’t always get to enjoy the shade of the trees we plant, but that doesn’t mean we stop planting trees.’  Do you remember that?”

“I do indeed.” Miss Throckmorton was filling in the blanks of the plot diagram of this story, understanding more than just the basic elements. Digging deeper into the nuances. Clearly, it was bigger than just her. The two of them stood beside the Falcon and talked about plans and looked at drawings for the finished building while Sutton ambled around and tried to decide if it was worth the effort to bring a stick over to either of them to throw. In the end, it was easier to lay down in the dirt and wait.

Both Miss Throckmorton and Mason tired more quickly than they used to and eventually got back into the car.  Sutton curled up on the back seat.  After she was firmly planted on the grey fabric covered bench seat, Mason reached over and opened the glove box on the far right side of the dash.  Inside, he pulled out a small package wrapped in tissue.  He handed it to Miss Throckmorton as he pulled the Falcon away from the curb and drove towards her small bungalow where he would drop her and the Falcon off.  Inside the tissue was a first edition copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls, signed by Hemingway.  A note tucked inside read simply, “It tolls for me.”

If you’re enjoying this series, consider buying the Captain a cuppa Folgers at the Grounds for Divorce to help offset the cost of maintaining the blog. He’d be grateful, and promises to leave a big tip for Lucinda.