Babe Martin fired the old beast up for the drive into town. It growled and roared, burped and coughed, ran on four or five cylinders for awhile, the weird off-rhythm passing not uncomfortably through Babe's tired frame. Another bad night's sleep. The cold winter morning was dark as midnight and as cold as a witch's stare.

After about five minutes the engine rhythm smoothed out. Babe turned on the defroster and watched the fog on the windshield slowly disappear. A couple minutes more and it had warmed enough to go. He turned on the headlights, and tried out the turn signals, watched their reflection in the garage door window. No need to give them another reason to stop him/He had to move the chickens out of there one of these days.

Everything looked like a go. He gave a thumbs up to the imaginary ground crew and slipped her into gear for the take off. He thought of it as an airplane taking off because the twenty-year old car with a broken exhaust pipe roared and throbbed as it shuddered up the road's slight incline, sounding like a B-52 Bomber taking off for Berlin or one of them places. Loud, obnoxious and ready to die. Babe just hoped he'd have enough money saved up to buy another one just like it when it did.

Babe drove the back roads for reasons mostly to do with past run-ins with the law. One cold morning he was surprised to see old Farmer Ooka Brown walking towards Nedville. Stopping, he offered him a ride. Laboriously Ooka climbed into the seat and buckled in. The roar of the engine picked up as they accelerated slowly away.

"Name's Babe Martin," Babe called over the uproar.

"Ooka Brown," Ooka replied, offering a hand.

"What a ya doin' out at this time of the morning?"

"Walking to town. And you?"

"Gotta work, gotta eat, gotta pay off the wives."

Farmer Ooka chuckled. "Ah, children?"

"Eight of the little buggers. Oh, they ain't all mine exactly, and only a couple of them live with me, but they feel like mine. You?"

"Well, there's Fred, he's in Tennessee, and Aldra's in Maine. Sin-Quoe is oh, probably at about Adelaide right now. Kono is either in school or surfing. Oh, you can let me off at this corner." Ooka waved goodbye.

Play as though you're in the game.

—Farmer Ooka Brown

The next morning they continued the conversation when Babe picked him up again walking the road to Nedville. And the morning after. No matter the weather Farmer Ooka was out walking the three miles into town for needful thing like a Wall Street Journal or a pack of Luckies. Babe finally started dropping by Ooka's farm to pick him up. Each day they continued their conversation.

Ooka was 96 years old. Babe 46. Ooka was born and raised in the Australian outback. What we would call Aborigine. Nevertheless he qualified for a scholarship to an American college in the 1920s. Ooka chose The University of Indiana in Boomington, Indiana.

Babe was born on Gooseberry Ridge in Vinegarroon County and never saw any reason to move away. He had climbed up the Bitterroot Cliff to school every day as a youngster and it had never hurt him. He played a little football in high school but never tried college even though the University was only 8 miles away. He'd worked every job within a hundred and twenty mile radius of Vinegarroon County.

As a student Ooka loved exploring the hill of Vinegarroon, as wild a land as the one he'd left behind. Later, as a professor at Indiana, then a diplomat for four administrations over three decades, he had bought a summer retreat here, starting a farm that he continued working in retirement. With the help of his grandchildren, of course.

Babe roamed Vinegarroon County like a nervous dog, never able to lie down long. Which might explain the four wives and no home. (Oh, the fourth wife was the "real deal" but she died late last year. Leaving him with another kid and more animals.)

Ooka had seen people die during World War II, and afterwards in disputed areas of the world. Death, he didn't fear.

Neither did Babe, who had missed Viet Nam and hadn't really seen anybody dead except Mrs. Coughlin, that time, and his dear Cleo, of course, and supposed, all them folks in those Schwarzenegger films he liked to watch so much.

One day the Bomber finally flew its final mission. Babe sat in his house the next day in despair. How was he going to get to work? Unexpected bills and a short "check-out from reality" during Super Bowl weekend had left him flat-busted, too broke to buy another car. Even a wreck. He moaned like an animal and sat in the corner of his bedroom watching bad TV most of the day.

The next morning he had just finished breakfast when he heard a deep horn braying outside. To his astonishment it was Farmer Ooka Brown in a gigantic 1968 Rolls Royce.

"Need a ride?"

On the way into town Farmer Ooka admitted that he had never really needed a ride into town. He had only gone along with Babe for the conversation and, in fact, had to walk home every morning because his wife thought he was being silly and wouldn't come pick him up.

Every day for the rest of the winter Ooka drove Babe to work. Sometimes arriving in his Rolls, sometimes in a Ferrari or a Lincoln Continental. Finally that spring Babe managed to find a decent Dodge Caravan in his price range. His first morning back on the road he expected to find Farmer Ooka Brown walking along but he never did.

They planned a barbecue instead.