Her father, Lanes Milford Dane Randolph was given two middle
names by his father forty-two years ago.
Samantha Randolph wasn’t given any.
When confronted with the reason for this, her father replied, “be
grateful, more is not always better.” Samantha knew that what her father really
meant was less was always better. If given a choice, Lanes would have
non-regrettably packed up things dear to him, easily fitting into the old green
stamp decorated trunk left by his father, and moved from their spacious five
bedroom house into a comfortable trailer.
Instead, he chose to honor his marriage vows.
Lanes was a
talker. Elevators, bank lines, drive-thrus,
no situation was too intimate, too constrained by a ticking hand, too
pointless. If there was a mouth, nay, a
pair of ears, there was a conversation.
Lanes lit up like a refrigeration bulb, quickly and without prejudice.
As if it were a game, Lanes would generally start the conversation by asking a
question he’d already partially figured out, like, “Where are you from, I hear
a long ‘au’, do I hear a bit of New England dialect there?” It surprised Samantha that more often than
not, her father was correct and that the person was exceptionally flattered by
this.
