Sometimes, saying a lot requires very few words. Sometimes, rambling on and on says nothing at all. When Harrison Winkle and Jimmy (Harry’s good friend and avowed contrarian) got together, words started to fly, Consensus of opinion got tossed to the wind, and logic became an unnecessary distraction.

Usually, these discussions started with Jimmy finding fault with all the things that require an act of congress to correct (time zones, VA benefits, the US-31 extension to I-94), which then required Harry to find fault with Jimmy’s fault finding. It was a difficult, thankless job — one that required constant vigilance — but, Harry was always up for putting Jimmy down. Two simple rules accompanied these debates: (1) solutions were not as important as knowing who to blame, and (2) Harry made up his own set of facts and wasn’t afraid to use them — it was up to Jimmy to prove that Harry was up to his elbows in horse apples.

“I am sick and tired of having to drive down Napier Avenue to connect with I-94 from US-31,” Jimmy was heard to complain. It was the kind of complaint a lot of folks near the Center of the Universe shared — the kind of complaint that lost its voice decades back. “All because some lepidopterist caught a bunch of butterflies using that chunk of Blue Creek fen as their fornicatorium.”

Jimmy set himself up as a huge target with that one. So much to refute in such a small statement. All Harry had to do was figure out what a “fen” was, what a butterfly he never heard of had to do with the highway not getting completed, and was being called a “lepidopterist” a bad thing? However, Harry was having nothing to do with the “fornicatorium” debate — he did not know what it was, and was pretty sure he wanted things to stay that way.

“You don’t even drive that way,” Harry gave up, quickly, on the aforementioned intellectual topics, and went straight for the low hanging fruit. “When was the last time you drove north?” This was a safe bet, since Harry knew Jimmy maintained a tight orbit within the Center of the Universe.

“I used to do it all the time,” Jimmy countered with a nonchalant toss of his ancient ponytail. “Twice a year I journeyed north for the meeting of the clans in the great woods near Hesperia…”

“Ssssoooo…you don’t do that anymore,” barked Harry like a defense attorney, on meth, working pro bono, “You haven’t done it in quite some time,” he continue, “And, you are not apt to do it anytime soon?”

Harry knew this was his best chance to take Jimmy down. If he didn’t strike now, Jimmy was likely to run off topic and focus his monologue on why Jimmy Carter failed at changing to the metric system or the truth about what goes on in Covington, Kentucky on the weekends.

“It won’t impact you at all if that road never gets completed.” Harry felt pretty good about his line of counter reasoning — and was equally pleased about keeping “fornicatorium” out of the conversation.

“As usual, you missed the point,” groused Jimmy. “It’s not about me ever driving that way, again. It’s about so many supposedly smart people, taking decades, spending millions, and still not being able to figure out how to build a three mile stretch of road.”

“You are absolutely wrong,” countered Harry with a big ‘gotcha’ grin — he knew he had Jimmy on this one. “I do not usually miss the point.”

“Which means I’m right,” Jimmy dryly observed. “Mitchell’s satyr butterfly is on the endangered list. I get that.” Jimmy did get it because, in spite of all his quirks and idiosyncrasies, Jimmy knew right from wrong — and was always right (which was what really tied Harry’s knot). “But, you can’t tell me, 25 years after they found that swamp full of breeding, wing flappers on the endangered list, someone couldn’t figure out how to go around that pig puddle.”

“Maybe you should tell MDOT about the ‘fornicatorium.’  I’ll bet that gets something done.”

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.