A Little Story for My Friend, Terry Tilson

Just a quick story (as promised) for Terry Tilson...

Several years ago, my brother-in-law Scott McKinney and I were on my first vacation-by-motorcycle. He had been before and was the more experienced rider. I hadn't ridden a bike much since I was a teenager. It was the first of what would be two trips out west on our bikes, the second coming the next fall. We departed Norman around 11pm on a clear September night, and headed west.

The next few days we traveled, without an itinerary, through the panhandle of Texas, New Mexico, Colorado, Arizona and Utah, through the Four Corners, and circling around the Grand Canyon stopping for a few minutes in Las Vegas. Then south through Arizona, to Ruidoso, New Mexico and on to Roswell. The last leg of the journey took us through the cotton and other crop fields around Lubbock, to Altus, Lawton and then home.

A few hours after heading east out of Lubbock, we approached the small town of Matador, Texas, and accompanying us were three separate thunder storms. All three were merging toward us and the little town, so we decided to wait it out. The torrential rain we met after passing Matador was the clinching factor in the decision to ride out the storm at the local Dairy Queen. We parked our bikes under a very small awning on the west side of the building, the only refuge available for the bikes. The next couple of hours were a bit boring. We made some small talk with the employees, hung out inside, then outside, feeling the rain and watching the occasional car drive by. At one point, we were outside next to the bikes, and close to the drive up window, as an old van pulled up, and the driver ordered. We were easily close enough to hear the conversation between the driver and the waitress inside the window.

While waiting for his order, the driver asked, "Those your bikes?". "Yes they are", we both responded." We had an easy conversation for a few minutes before he asked, "Where you boys from?" Scott mentioned that we were from Oklahoma, to which the driver responded, "Well, I'm from Oklahoma." "Really?", was my surprised response, given the fact he was obviously ordering dinner in some remote west Texas farm town. "Yep!" he said. Scott mentioned that he was from Edmond, and that I was from Purcell, to which the driver offered, "Well, I'm from Purcell." "Sure", I thought. "Well" I said, planning on stumping him once and for all, "I'm really from Lexington." I fully expected a puzzled look, suspicious that he was just "going along" with me to suggest he knew small town Oklahoma. "Oh, well actually, I'm from Lexington." "OK", I thought, "this is a bit much." "Really?" "Yep, lived there for several years before I moved back out here, back home." "What's your name?" I quizzed. "Tilson", he said, "and I've got a couple of daughters you might know, Grace, Terry, and..." "You're Mr. Tilson? Grace and Terry's dad?".....

We had a nice chat and visited about Lex, and some mutual friends. He finally got his hamburger, we said goodbye and he drove off in his little old van. I was just stunned that in this little spot of a town, in west Texas, I'd run in to Terry Tilson's dad. First thing that I could think of was to Scott, "That just goes to show you. You'd better act right, no matter where you are, because you never know who's watching you."

Hadn't seen him since I was in high school, but had a great visit, the last time I saw him....

Curt Massengale