Harrison Winkle lived in the house on the corner with the huge, wraparound, covered porch. Few people knew him by his full name of Harrison. The guys on the production floor knew him as Harry. Kids in the neighborhood knew him as the grumpy old man that lived on the corner.

His 36-year career at the factory came to a crashing end when age and the company retirement policy collided at the intersection of “Happy Birthday, Harry” and “It’s Time to Let the Younger Guys Take Over.” All Harrison got for his decades of service was a gold-plated cup inscribed with some exaggerated expression of appreciation, a quick twirl in the direction of the door and a swift kick in the pants.

Deeply mired in retirement, he spent his days sitting on the porch swing, grumbling about the boredom of retirement, watching traffic and life pass by on the street, all while drinking coffee from his gold-plated cup. Sometimes something stronger found its way into the coffee, but that didn’t seem to stop the grumbling.

When neighborhood kids rode by on their bikes, he would scowl and they would ride faster for fear of incurring his loathing. For most of the people passing by Harrison Winkle’s place, he was a grumpy old retired porch sitter with nothing better to do than sit and scowl at the world. That was for most of the people.

“Watcha doin’ Mr. Winkle?” The cherubic voice of Harrison’s 8-year-old neighbor, Mandy Hess, eased the cacophony of the street.

“Being grumpy,” was Harrison’s quick and unconsidered retort.

“Can I come over for a story?”

“Nope, I can’t stand telling stories to little girls.”

This was how most of Harrison’s stories would start. He would tell Mandy that he didn’t like little kids and especially didn’t like telling stories. She would ignore his grouchiness, sit down on the top step of his front porch, and wait patiently.

Mandy didn’t mind that Mr. Winkle was grouchy. She really didn’t seem to notice. She just knew that when Harrison Winkle was sitting on his front porch, she could go next door, settle down on the top step, and hear some of the most amazing stories an 8-year-old could ever imagine.

Harrison would stand up from the porch swing, walk to the railing, and pour the contents of his gold-plated retirement cup into the shrubs.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I rode a spotted space turtle to the other side of the sun?” he asked as he sat down on the porch step, next to Mandy.

Mandy’s eyes would grow big with astonishment and a poorly stifled smile would inch its way towards the outer edges of Harrison Winkle’s mouth.

 

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.