Slow day. It certainly seemed that way for that “other paper” that arrives from the sprawling, asphalt and concrete metropolis across the river to the south. I had deposited three quarters into the vending machine Wednesday morning in front of Black Bear Diner, opened the lid to find, not only a skinny tabloid, but also dated the day before. Eight in the morning and no new newspaper. And just think Racer, the dog, perks his head up before four in the morning when he hears the Tribune hit our driveway.
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Coate’s cast. However, despite the aforementioned, it was still a good morning with the always-smiling (especially at my corny jokes) Kara, waiting on me and two other pleasant gentlemen sitting nearby. Even sans my infamous hat, Barrick McKesson recognized yours truly and mentioned that he also enjoyed reading Bill Coate’s stories.
With that, and directly behind Barrick, another gentleman said he also enjoyed my fellow writer’s chronicles. In addition, Barrick said he had Bill as a teacher at Sierra Vista and the other gentleman said Bill had taught his daughter at Berenda.
But I had them both beat. As a student at Monroe back in the early 80s, my son Michael had the honor of being number one in a history contest devised by Bill and his fellow teacher, Art Davis. That was way back, but I have photographic proof of the competition...