Where the Buffalo Roam

Summary: Changes abound when a pretty stranger comes to a tiny town.

Author's Note:

This fictional work is a small town, slow-burn romance with some light humor and some conflict along the way. For any who might ask, it takes place when COVID isn't a concern. ________________________________

Nobody ever moves to Bettleys Corners.

A tiny town in the middle of nowhere, Bettleys Corners is set smack dab in the middle of the American Great Plains where it's flatter than a flitter biscuit for miles on end and raging twisters can drop out of the sky at a moment's notice. The summers are hot and usually dry, and the winters are long, cold, and windy. In short, it's not a place for the faint of heart.

There's only about a thousand people in our whole part of the county and, in addition to the weather issues, there's a good reason for that. There's just not much to do here except farm or provide goods and services to those supporting farmers, and it's a long way to anywhere fun. Big cities like Denver, Kansas City, Wichita, and Omaha are hours away and it takes over thirty minutes to even reach the nearest bowling alley, skating rink, and most everything else down in Creek City.

Yes, people leave Bettleys Corners, few return, and almost nobody comes to stay.

Of course, there are occasional exceptions.

Some of the local boys and girls head off to college and some come back with a spouse in tow. Those have a tendency to stick around.

Two of the construction workers who helped build the county reservoir ended up staying, too. One opened up a little construction company and the other married a local girl. That was well over a decade ago and the guy with the construction company is still here as is the local girl. She's married to him now with the other guy long gone.

I stood outside my hardware store at the corner of Bettley and Main Streets with a broom in my hand looking at the big eighteen wheeler as it pulled away from one of the two traffic lights in town. The name of the moving company on the door of the cab was one I'd never heard of, but it was from New Jersey, according to the line written just below the company name. There was no name on the trailer, but the plate on the back was from Jersey, too.

"Somebody's lost," I mumbled to myself as it headed up the road. I finished sweeping and went back into the store, wishing I had customers, or better yet, a buyer.

I was one of the equally rare exceptions; I'd escaped from Bettleys Corners but returned. After college and grad school, I'd gotten a good job, traveling the world as an engineering consultant based in Chicago. There was an engagement for several years, but whether it was the frequent travels or the lack of commitment on either of our parts, that eventually fell through.

Then, when Dad died, Mom took over the hardware store but it was too much for her, so I came home for a few weeks to help her sell it before starting a new job in Arizona. She got sick before we could find a buyer and over eight years later, I was still here with Mom long buried, the store still up for sale, my current girlfriend (if you could call her that) over a hundred miles away, and my dream of Arizona still as distant as ever.

There were a handful of customers during the day but the store was empty when closing time rolled around so I locked up promptly at 6 and was about to walk home when I heard it, the same tractor trailer as that morning. I watched as it approached and went through the green light. The driver and the guy in the passenger seat both looked hot, with the passenger fanning himself with his cap.

I briefly wondered where they'd been and who was moving out since nobody ever moves to Bettleys Corners.

***

It was a few days later when the front bell tinkled as someone entered the store.

I came forward from where I was working in the rear to see a tall woman dressed in blue jeans and a light-tan t-shirt looking at a display. The shirt was tucked in, making it rather form fitting, and a fit form it was. Even wearing flats, she was at least 5'-10, just a few inches less than my 6'-2. Lots of dark, brown hair cascaded almost halfway down her well-defined back. I was smiling as I approached.

"Good morning, ma'am. May I help you find something?"

She turned toward me to reveal a pretty face with beautiful, dark brown, doe eyes, perfect teeth in her smile, and flawless skin that would have made a Victoria's Secret supermodel jealous. A pair of dark sunglasses sat atop her head.

I smiled at her and would have enjoyed the view longer but she replied, "No thanks, just browsing." She turned back toward the display, putting an end to further discussion and polite observation.

Early to mid-thirties, maybe? I might have attempted to refine my guess on her age but the bell tinkled again, drawing my attention. My great uncle, Horace Bettley, was entering the store. He waved, suppressing a yawn as he stepped behind the counter to get a cup of coffee.

"Hi, Uncle Horace, how's it going today?"

"Fine, fine, Alan. Looks like it's going to be another hot one today."

"Yes, sir. It's Bettleys Corners; what else can you expect?"

"So true. Course it's not Arizona hot..."

Somewhat like James Garner planning to go to Australia in that comedy western, I'd always wanted to live in Arizona and had been planning to move there to take a new job when Mom's call came. Like Garner's character in the movie, I still talked about moving to Arizona at times, so Uncle Horace tended to remind me about the grass not always being greener on the other side.

"So what's your plan for today?" I asked the elderly man as I poured a cup for me.

"Oh, 'bout like usual, I expect, but I do have one piece of news. Final numbers on the fundraiser are in. We made just over $1,900 in profit this year. Final report on Monday."

"That's not so bad."

"Yeah, I guess," he grumbled. "Almost two bucks a resident, but if we could do something bigger to draw people in from beyond the county line, like back in the old days, it wouldn't take years to get stuff done."

"You can only do so much, Uncle Horace."

I looked at the old man. He was well over 80 with a ring of white hair around his bald head. Lines covered his face and he walked with a slight stoop, always carrying his oak cane with the brass tip and the brass buffalo head on the handle.

Horace Bettley, the great great grandson of our town's founder and my late grandmother's older brother, was a fixture around town, often wandering from business to business to talk with the shop owners and townspeople before heading to the little park at the southwest corner of the original Bettley's four corners where the roads crossed, right across from my store, meeting up with several of the other elderly men to spend the day in leisurely pursuits, coming across the street into the store when they needed to use the restroom or buy a cup of pop at the soda fountain.

"Alan, since ya' mentioned it, that's something I wanna' talk to you about."

"What's that, sir?"

"Son, I'm gettin' on up there and may not have too many more good years left. Hate to say it, but this year's fundraiser took a lot out of me. What would you say to standing for grand poobah in the next election?"

There was a loud snort from a couple of aisles away, followed by a coughing spell. I looked up at the overhead mirrors to see my lone shopper wiping her nose. "Excuse me!" she said before stuffing the tissue in her pocket and putting another item in her basket.

"It's not a hard job, Alan. Hell, I've been grand poobah for almost all of the past ten years or so since Delmer died and served quite a few more times before that. The only hard part's the annual fundraiser, and that's just once a year."

"But it takes months to get ready for it and everybody gets pissed if it isn't successful!"

"True, but you can do it, son, and it won't be that much of a problem for you since you already close the store early on Mondays."

"Uncle Horace, I can't," I said, and then I played my trump card. "I came home to Bettleys Corners to help Mom and then sell the store after she died. True, I've never been able to find anyone to buy it yet, but I still don't want to do anything to tie myself down in case I get a seller. After all, I'm still moving to Arizona."

He shook his head knowingly, having heard that more times than I'd prefer to admit. "Hotter 'n hell fire in Arizona, boy. Yeah, we get a twister a few times a year but that heat, it's every damn day. You oughta' think on that, son, and think about standing in the election. After all, it's only a few months away."

He extended a hand and I took it, helping him up out of the chair. "Well, gotta' go. Gonna' tell everyone 'bout the result and see if I can drum up some support for your campaign."

"But Uncle Horace," I protested again to his back as he walked away. "I haven't said I'd run!"

He gave a little wave off with his free hand and said without looking back, "No, but if we wait 'til you decide, son, ya' won't have time to campaign."

He shambled out the door without another word and was off to the next shop. I watched him through the front window, thinking about what he'd said, but the clearing of a shapely throat drew my attention.

The woman was standing in front of the counter, the basket in her hand. "I'm ready to check out now," she called.

I rang up a claw hammer, a pack of small wire nails, a box of 8d nails, a roll of duct tape, and a can of WD40. My eyes opened wider when I saw the last two. With a grin, I asked, "You're not an engineer, are you?"

Her face hardened and her eyes, so dark and lovely moments earlier, glared at me as if a tempest. "No, but I've heard the stupid joke enough."

Taken aback, my own face fell as I looked at the register. "Ahem, that will be $21.97."

Silently, she handed me three bills which I deposited in the register and I handed her three pennies in change and her receipt. She dropped that and everything else except the hammer in her purse before picking it up and walking out. I watched the flex of her shapely jeans and the gentle swish of her hair until she was out the door and I sighed, chastising myself for admiring her a bit too much.

As if punishment, my thoughts turned to Dolores, my more-or-less girlfriend, and what excuse she would use to avoid seeing me again this weekend. Returning to my work, I tried to put them both out of my mind.

***

With the store closing at 5 on Saturday and closed on Sunday, it was a boring weekend, with Dolores being 'busy,' an indefinite, undefined term that allows her to get what she wants without having to be overly creative with her excuses. On Sunday, I attended church and then drove down to Creek City for lunch and some shopping.

My waitress at the Barbecutie Pit was eyeing me while I ordered and she came around a few more times than necessary during the meal, making sure I had everything I needed. I didn't mind, though; in her mid-twenties and wearing the standard Barbecutie Pit short-shorts and tight-fitting tank top, she was extremely easy on the eyes. When she brought the check, she had a nervous smile as she asked, "Say, are you new around here?"

"No, but it's been a while since I've been in. I live up in Bettleys Corners." I gave her a pleasant smile in return, but on hearing my location, her face fell, she dropped the check, and practically fled. I watched as she went, her shorts and tank top looking quite good on her.

Perhaps I needed to reevaluate my life. Between living in the middle of nowhere, having a not-quite-girlfriend girlfriend, and having the uncanny ability to make women flee from me at the drop of a word, perhaps I really needed to start over.

Maybe so. After all, Arizona was less than a thousand miles away.

***

The store is actually open on Mondays, but customers are even more rare that day than the rest of the week so I usually spend the day doing some contract engineering work. I leave anything having to do with running the store, except for the bare essentials, until Tuesday.

The engineering work is usually fairly straightforward, and it pays much better than running a hardware store in Bettleys Corners. It took a little floor space, but I'd set up a desk with a workstation and two big monitors to handle the projects and my customers seemed to understand and appreciate me keeping the store open so they could purchase what they needed in the event of a hardware-related emergency.

The bell tinkled and I looked up from my computer screen to see in the strategically placed mirror that someone wearing a baseball cap was entering. "Help yourself but let me know if you need anything," I called.

The person moved to the fountain drinks area, one of the few other things I'd added after Mom's passing, and I heard the ice falling into a cup as I finished drawing the part and adding a dimension. There was more ice, and then the drink dispenser was going as I hit 3-D Render and watched as the surfaces filled in and the finished model of the part started to rotate on the screen. I looked up a moment later to see her, the tall woman from days earlier, standing in front of my desk holding out a drink while holding a second in her other hand.

"Here. I'm buying you a drink to apologize. There's a kernel of truth to it, but it really is a tired old joke, with my ex repeating it far too many times over the years, which made it even worse. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bite your head off about it."

I looked at her and saw kind eyes and a caring smile. After the events of the past few days, that surprised me, so I gave her a smile in return. "Thank you, and apology accepted. My name's Alan Sizemore."

"Hmm, I thought you were a Bettley. That's what the sign outside says, anyway."

"Oh, I am, but my grandma, a Bettley, married a Sizemore, so, different surname but same family tree."

"And they never changed the name of the store," she said with a nod.

"Yep. Bettleys Corners, Bettley Street, Bettley Hardware? Might as well capitalize on the name, for what it's worth, I guess. Grandma and Grandpa took over the hardware store while her big brother, my great uncle Horace, the guy who was in here the other day, grew up to run the feed mill at the edge of town."

"I don't know; he's a grand poobah, whatever that is. Are you sure he grew up?"

I laughed. "I thought you heard that based on the snort."

"I do not snort," she said rather indignantly.

Suppressing a grin, I let it pass, knowing what I'd heard. "It was originally a term from Gilbert and Sullivan, but around here, the grand poobah is the head of the Shaggy Buffaloes."

She gave me a funny look. "This keeps getting better. Okay, I'll bite: shaggy buffaloes? Please, what's that? You have a bison petting zoo around here?"

"No, not quite," I replied with a chuckle. "It's a fraternal social and service organization. You know, most places have Lions, Elks, Moose, Rotary, or something similar, but in the early 60s, the potential membership in Bettleys Corners was too small."

"So they formed their own?"

"Yep. Delmer Owens, one of Uncle Horace's friends, went away to college and joined a fraternity. When he came home after a year, he suggested to Uncle Horace and their friend Frank Ledbetter that they should form their own fraternal group so they could drink beer on Monday nights and look official."

She had a rather cute smile at my admittedly quaint story. "Let me get this straight: this Delmer guy spent a little too much time at the fraternity house enjoying himself and not enough time studying so he flunked out?"

"Yeah, you got it."

She shook her head as if in disbelief. "Okay, how'd they come up with the name? Because the buffalo used to roam around here? No deer and antelope playing?"

I nodded at her reference to the song. "Yeah, that's part of it. The American buffalo, bison, are the biggest land animals in the Americas, so that seemed like a good, strong symbol. But there was another reason, too. When they decided to form the group in 1962, what was on TV?"

"I have no idea--some western with buffaloes?"

"Umm, probably, but these three were all big fans of another one, The Flintstones."

"Oh! I remember that! Pebbles and Bam-Bam! Bam! Bam!" I got a big smile a moment later when she did a fairly good imitation of Betty Rubble's giggle.

Her exuberance made it look as if she'd been a fan, so I laughed, too, before taking a sip of my drink.

"Well, the guys loved the show so they decided to take Delmer's experience with fraternity life and Fred and Barney's Loyal Order of Water Buffaloes from the TV show to create their own lodge, writing their own rules and 'mystic' rites, with occasional help from Robert's Rules of Order--Frank had a copy from his his high school days as parliamentarian of our school's Future Farmers chapter. If water buffaloes were good enough for Fred and Barney, the big shaggy buffaloes that once roamed this area in the hundreds of thousands seemed like a natural fit. They became The Shaggy Buffaloes Lodge and it's been that ever since."

She nodded and took a drink, too. "Tell me, are you a member of this august organization? And do they wear funny hats?"

"Ahem, no hats, but yeah, most everyone in town is a member these days. When it started, though, it was the three of them and a couple of their friends who wanted to get out of the house away from their wives on Monday nights. For the first couple of years, they enjoyed a Monday evening having a few beers, but over time, the little group grew. By the 25th anniversary of the founding, in 1987, most of the men in the town were members, and they'd raised enough money to buy an old building at the edge of town. They spent Monday nights renovating it and drinking beer for several more years."

"So it really is just a drinking club?"

"No, I think that was basically it at first, but then when other guys started joining, they started doing community projects and fundraisers for them, too. Small town, almost no tax base; if it's anything beyond the essentials, the Buffaloes do it or it doesn't get done. The pavilion and game area in the park across the street are some examples."

"I'd bet their wives had something to do with that change. If the men were going to spend that much time out of the house drinking, the women probably wanted something to show for it."

She said it in an amused fashion, but I nodded. "I think you'd win that, because eventually the women got into the act, too."

Her look changed, as if a sudden spark of interest. "Oh? Women can be members now?"

"Yeah, but I think it was a fight getting there. Some fraternal organizations have women's auxiliaries, and that's what happened here, too."

"Mom home alone with the kids while the men were out drinking every Monday? I bet they needed some alone time out of the house, too."

"Maybe so, but it may also have something to do with the men acquiring the building--it doubles as a community meeting hall now, when needed. Whatever, something attracted the women's attention and Wanda Owens, Delmer's wife, got them together to form their own auxiliary organization. Wanda convinced Delmer to allow the women's 'sewing group' to use the Shaggy Buffaloes Lodge on Thursday nights in return for helping the men with the annual fundraiser, making curtains and banners, and such. That wasn't such a big deal since the wives and girlfriends had been doing that from the start anyway."

"I don't know; a sewing group's a far cry from a fraternal organization."

"Oh, I doubt they ever sewed a stitch--on Thursday nights, anyway--with the women meeting at first to formalize their auxiliary group and later to do their own thing. They had some of their own ideas, though, and since female bison are called cows and since hairy wasn't an appealing female trait, they weren't into just being The Shaggy Buffaloes Lodge Women's Auxiliary."