clad Gypsy harlots. It was like the Renaissance Festival minus the big turkey legs and Dungeons and Dragons geeks. I wondered if Kennie was going to love this or hate it. I also wondered if the troupe knew the Senior Sunset folks were on lockdown. The rules, probably dictated by the Sunset’s insurance policy, said the residents could only leave the premises if checked out by family. There was going to be no Gothic carnival for them, but I was intrigued.
“Sure,” I said. I shoved the flyer back at him and studied his face. He wore the wide, empty grin of somebody who smiles for a living. His nose was broad, and his eyes, small and close set, darted around the room even as he talked at me. He seemed in habitual need of an audience. The Harlequin clown and lion wove in and out of the crowds, singing, dancing, and huzzahing, and I couldn’t get a good look at either of them.
“ ‘Sure,’ it is! We are in agreement!” The lion tamer made a departing grand gesture with his plastic mini-whip and strode purposefully out the front doors of the Sunset, the clown and lion dragging along behind him, their backs to me. I looked around at the stunned room of nursing assistants and old folks. A familiar face came forward, shaking his head.
“And they call me crazy?”
“Hey, Curtis. How’s the fishing?” Curtis Poling was another of my faves at the raisin ranch. People said he was crazy because he fished off the roof of the Sunset around lunchtime every day. The crazy part was that the closest body of water was a quarter mile away. I had found Curtis to be harmless myself, and he had a wicked smart streak that most people overlooked because he was old. He was also a hit with the ladies, due to his ice-blue eyes and rakish charm.
“Hmm, not so good. I might need to switch bait,” he said.
I shook my head knowingly. “That’ll happen.” Truth was, I didn’t eat fish and knew nothing about fishing. I had a rule about consuming anything that spent its whole life wet.
“Yup. Don’t be a stranger.” Curtis slapped me once on the butt and walked away.
It was time to go rent a diving suit and tank. I had already had too much human interaction for one day. As I stepped outside the home, the sun broke free from the clouds for the first time that day and warmed me to my toenails
The only place to rent scuba equipment in all of Otter Tail County is a little business called the Last Resort. The Last Resort has seven two-bedroom cabins, all carved out of the same country-schoolhouse theme. Every one of them has chipping white paint and pine green trim with screened-in porches on the front, and they all line up in a row to face the sandy brown beach of West Battle Lake. Each front porch holds a splintery picnic table next to a rusted Weber grill. The owners, Sal and Bill Heike, place a complimentary can of pine-scented Off! in every kitchen. To the far side of the seventh cabin is a fish-cleaning shed with running water inside and a scale-and-gut hole outside. Closer to the main road, Highway 78, is the Heikes’ house, with the front office attached.
If you stay a full week at the Last Resort, you can rent a fishing boat with a ten-horsepower Evinrude for a hundred dollars. The bait is not included, though you can buy that and more at the store attached to the front office. The leeches and worms are in the same refrigerator as the vanilla Cokes, cheese, and bologna.
Years ago, Sal and Bill taught scuba certification as a side business. There was a train car intentionally sunk about two hundred feet straight out from cabin number three, and the scuba crowd brought in extra business. Unfortunately, pesticides and waste ponds around the lake had upset the delicate balance in the water, and now the weeds were so thick on this side of the lake that underwater visibility was only seven feet.
The Heikes kept the equipment, because used scuba gear doesn’t go for much. Bill also kept the tank filler, though he always complained
“Sure,” I said. I shoved the flyer back at him and studied his face. He wore the wide, empty grin of somebody who smiles for a living. His nose was broad, and his eyes, small and close set, darted around the room even as he talked at me. He seemed in habitual need of an audience. The Harlequin clown and lion wove in and out of the crowds, singing, dancing, and huzzahing, and I couldn’t get a good look at either of them.
“ ‘Sure,’ it is! We are in agreement!” The lion tamer made a departing grand gesture with his plastic mini-whip and strode purposefully out the front doors of the Sunset, the clown and lion dragging along behind him, their backs to me. I looked around at the stunned room of nursing assistants and old folks. A familiar face came forward, shaking his head.
“And they call me crazy?”
“Hey, Curtis. How’s the fishing?” Curtis Poling was another of my faves at the raisin ranch. People said he was crazy because he fished off the roof of the Sunset around lunchtime every day. The crazy part was that the closest body of water was a quarter mile away. I had found Curtis to be harmless myself, and he had a wicked smart streak that most people overlooked because he was old. He was also a hit with the ladies, due to his ice-blue eyes and rakish charm.
“Hmm, not so good. I might need to switch bait,” he said.
I shook my head knowingly. “That’ll happen.” Truth was, I didn’t eat fish and knew nothing about fishing. I had a rule about consuming anything that spent its whole life wet.
“Yup. Don’t be a stranger.” Curtis slapped me once on the butt and walked away.
It was time to go rent a diving suit and tank. I had already had too much human interaction for one day. As I stepped outside the home, the sun broke free from the clouds for the first time that day and warmed me to my toenails
The only place to rent scuba equipment in all of Otter Tail County is a little business called the Last Resort. The Last Resort has seven two-bedroom cabins, all carved out of the same country-schoolhouse theme. Every one of them has chipping white paint and pine green trim with screened-in porches on the front, and they all line up in a row to face the sandy brown beach of West Battle Lake. Each front porch holds a splintery picnic table next to a rusted Weber grill. The owners, Sal and Bill Heike, place a complimentary can of pine-scented Off! in every kitchen. To the far side of the seventh cabin is a fish-cleaning shed with running water inside and a scale-and-gut hole outside. Closer to the main road, Highway 78, is the Heikes’ house, with the front office attached.
If you stay a full week at the Last Resort, you can rent a fishing boat with a ten-horsepower Evinrude for a hundred dollars. The bait is not included, though you can buy that and more at the store attached to the front office. The leeches and worms are in the same refrigerator as the vanilla Cokes, cheese, and bologna.
Years ago, Sal and Bill taught scuba certification as a side business. There was a train car intentionally sunk about two hundred feet straight out from cabin number three, and the scuba crowd brought in extra business. Unfortunately, pesticides and waste ponds around the lake had upset the delicate balance in the water, and now the weeds were so thick on this side of the lake that underwater visibility was only seven feet.
The Heikes kept the equipment, because used scuba gear doesn’t go for much. Bill also kept the tank filler, though he always complained
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