A Penguin in the Orchard

Dixville Notch

Danny was an inveterate biker. In the coldest Iowa winters, he rode, even when the freash snow crunched beneath those two fat tires and made riding beyond fifteen miles per hour a life and death proposition. He never saw it that way. The cold was always just an inconvenience. It drove him to add a hooded sweatshirt beneath the leather jacket he wore even in the summer and a flapped fur hat atop his head. And, he rode with gloves which, he complained, robbed him of a good feel for the throttle, clutch and brake.

He worked sheet metal at the University, a job with moderate pay, good benefits and unsurpassed security. He spent twenty-four years bending heating ducts and tucking away the meager excess pay for the benefit of his mother and the latest shiny chrome for his bike. In the duplex they shared, he made sure her doors closed without squeaking, the dishwasher washed the dishes and the clothes were always clean. He never married and seldom dated.

As he grew older, he shaved away the few remaining gray hairs, trading them in, as it were, for a beard that grew to ZZ Top proportions. Age also brought a few pounds. He carried them well, solidly, on his five foot, five inch frame. The combination painted a troll-like picture. That was fine with Danny. You just had to take a little more time to discover the gnome.

To be continued.

Dixville Notch is the first post of a true story told in pieces.