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had little respect for those who were not. He had started breaking horses when he was a kid and 1 swear he spoke a secret language with them.
Our menagerie of farm dogs and cats followed him about as if he was the Pied Piper. One of his favorites, a scampy little white mutt named Willie, still waits week after week for Clai'ence to come home.
But Clarence is home. If Heaven is as it is supposed to be, and I have no reason to think it is not. Clarence is up there sitting around the front of a country store with some other good ol’ angels, talking about Nasear and truck suspensions, about rasslin' and haulin' hay, and he's riding the range with his favorite cowboys from the Western channel. Up there the tractor never breaks down and everybody gets a new Chevy truck every year. And there he is free of the crippling pain that plagued him these last few years. Free as the geese that fly across the winter sky.
When I was about five years old, two of my uncles opened a truck stop in what
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