Discovery on Little Hog Island, part 15

No retreat today. I don’t even get a walk, probably, because I’m going to mow the lawn shortly. It's beginning to look like a hayfield again. Hope the mower will start.

Discovery on Little Hog Island, part 15

Part 1, part 14

Dana pulled over to the side of the road. Buck leaped off the bike and ran back to the cop car as it pulled up behind her. A moment later, he returned and told her to go ahead.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” So, with some trepidation, she pulled out on the road. The cop car pulled out behind her. She started to pull over again. “No, no,” Buck hollered, “he’s giving us an escort to the boat to assure my safety.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all. I asked for the service, for emergency protection.”

It was only a short ways, and when they turned into the campground, the cop continued down the shore highway. Dana breathed a sign of relief.

“What on earth was that all about?” she inquired, when they stopped at her old campsite, now barren and dark. “I never heard of such a thing.”

“That was Byron, my older brother.”

“That was your brother? You have a brother named Byron?” Why, Dana wondered was she always repeating everything Buck said, like an imbecile.

“Buck’s not my real name, of course.”

“And?”

“It’s Rudyard Kipling Dennison. That’s why they call me Buck. Can you imagine me on my first day of kindergarten introducing myself as Rudyard?”

“You could have been Rudy. You weren’t Buck then, were you?”

“Bucky. I caught a lot of flack for that, too. The relatives called me Rudy. When I was a teenager, some of my friends just called me Rude.”

“I can imagine.”

“I was thinking about legally changing my name.”

“To Buck?”

“No, to Ross. Ross Robert Dennison. It has a nice ring to it. No bad connotations I can think of. Simple and easy.”

“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?

“Yeah, I am, I think. Pretty much. I go around about it, but I think I’ll do it. Buck makes me sound illiterate, like some backwoods hick in the Ozarks or something. I’m no Einstein. But I’m not a dunce, either."

"I can see that. Were your parents really into poetry?”

"Yeah, my parents like poetry. A lot.”

“I guess that's a no-brainer. Well, Ross, or Buck, or whoever you are, it’s been a pleasure. Sort of.”

“Are you sure you don’t want a beer?”

part 16