"IF IT IS TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE....."

IMPORTANT NOTICE: This is a work of fiction and all persons, events, and related information is a product of my over-active imagination.  









Jill Thompson was neither a country gal or a city slicker. She was born and grew up in a small country town in Wanokia, OK. To the west of this village of 2918 residents was the Little Sahara sand dunes that was a regional Mecca for dune buggies and assorted 4-Wheel ATVs.


Uncle Walter took her on his 4-Wheeler when she as 19 months old. Neither Mom or Dad knew about it at the time. Jill's Dad always said Uncle Walter thought he was bullet proof and never got over the Vietnam War. The three failed marriages of Uncle Walter gave substantial evidence to support his assertion.


Uncle Walter retired as parts manager for the local John Deere dealership after 37 years of service. To the east of Wanokia was the beginning of the famed wheat belt of Oklahoma. During harvest season the large bug-eyed combines at night looked like slow-moving, other-worldly, monster space machines.




In high school Jill worked as a waitress in the Home Town café and gas stop. During harvest time she would often work well past midnight serving the local wheat and cattle ranchers and professional wheat cutters who each year transited  Texas, OK, Kansas, Nebraska, the Dakotas on their way to So. Canada. The work was hard in the field and in the café during these hectic three weeks. Jill would sometimes make as much as $50 in tips in her day and night shift. Many wheat cutters started each day with a cup of coffee and a sweet roll and would not eat again until they were through for the evening. Big appetites produce big tips. She once received a crisp $100 bill as a tip for bringing an assortment of sandwiches, chips and five gallon of sweet tea to the field where a travelling crew of cutters was frantically trying to finish an entire 640 acre section before an approaching storm hit. To make matters worse, they were four days behind their promised Kansas start date. Just as soon as the OK job was completed they were loading and heading north.


Just as Jill slowly returned to the café in her old Ford pickup large raindrops pelted her windshield. When she reached the porch of the 55-year old café the caravan of travelling cutters she had fed in the field flew by honking their horns and waving. She spontaneously blew a couple of kisses to the happy crew. That's the least she could do for a $100 tip.