Land of a Hundred Wonders

Lesley Kagen Land of a Hundred Wonders

© 2008

To my family

Acknowledgments

Heartfelt thanks to all my wonders:

Editor Ellen Edwards, who leaves no literary stone unturned, no matter what creepy thing may be hiding beneath. You are magnificent.

The amazing advertising, art, editorial, production, promotion, publicity, and sales teams at NAL and Penguin.

The inimitable Jeff Kleinman and the stellar crew of Folio Literary Management.

The readers, who have been nothing short of miraculous. Your lovely notes of encouragement have meant the world to me. Wish I could give each and every one of you a bag of dark chocolate- covered cherries.

The generous booksellers across the country who have made me feel welcome in so many ways.

English teachers and librarians, my earliest heroes.

Early readers and dear friends, the Flemings, Eileen Sherman, John and Marsha Bobek, Connie Kittelson, Hope Irwin, Susan Shimshak, Sharry Sullivan, Nancy Kennedy, Sara Schroeder, Eileen Kaufmann, and Robert Welker.

Restaurant Hama.

Mike Lebow, the wise guy.

Peter the Great, who makes me feel like I’m the honey on his toast.

And, of course, Casey and Riley, who make my world quite right with their every breath.

There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.

– Albert Einstein

A Deadline

Ya ever notice how some folks get well known for how they dress or hunt or even what kind of truck they drive? Along with my outstanding Scrabble playing, I’m well known for my newspaper.

Who: Me

What: Reporting

Where: Top O’ the Mornin’ Diner and Pumps. Cray Ridge, Kentucky, United States of America. Conveniently located at the corner of Main and Route 12.

When: Friday, August 13, 1973

Why: ’Cause if I don’t get cracking, next week’s front page is gonna have all the pizzazz of a piece of one-ply.

I put my favorite No. 2 back to work.

Welcome to Cray Ridge

You can set your watch by Miss Cheryl and Miss DeeDee showing up for biscuits and gravy every Sunday morning at the diner. Miss Cheryl tells me she’s a secretary. Her friend, Miss DeeDee, has been experiencing some trouble with her vision, so they’ve been driving all the way from Paducah to visit regular with Miss Lydia.

As you probably already know, an investigative reporter needs folks to write about. Late- breaking stories about trees, for instance, are few and far between. So when I’m not busy bussing tables, I’m allowed to interview subjects from all walks of life who later on become the who what where when and why of my stories. That’s one of the things that’s so rewarding about working here with Grampa at Top O’ the Mornin’.

We’re the last stop for refreshments before you hit Highway 75. You’ll know the diner when you see it. Shaped like a shoe box, it’s got tires washed white and lip-pink roses lining the entrance. Candy-cane awnings billow like crazy when the west wind kicks up. There’s a counter inside with slick yellow stools, booths that sit four, and up at the cash register there’s toothpicks-Take Two… They’re Free! And since everybody knows what a tremendous part the good or the bad version of luck can play in your life, a rusty horseshoe all the way from Texas hangs lopsided above the screen door that creaks when you open it, but not when you close it. Just another one of life’s little mysteries. (In case you haven’t noticed… life is chock-full of ’em.)

This morning, like every morning, my grampa, who owns the place, is where he is most of the time when he isn’t out on the lake. In the kitchen. Decked out in his white apron and cowboy fishing hat. He’s wrassling up the breakfasts he learned to cook in that army mess, and damn, if there’s anything that smells better on Earth than sizzling pork sausage, I wish somebody’d let me know. Oh, wait, I just remembered lily-of-the-valley smell… it’s simply outta this world.

“Hey, Lois Lane, there’s tables need your attention,” Grampa yells, sticking his head through the kitchen peek window.

“Gimme a minute, Charlie,” I call back. “Gotta get down a few more words ’fore this story flies outta my head.”

Lois Lane is not my real name. Grampa’s just making a joke due to his keen sense of humor. My real name is Gibson McGraw, but most everybody calls me Gibby. I’m twenty, or maybe thirty-three years old. (I’ll check with Grampa and get back to you on this.) I’ve been living with him permanent in Cray Ridge since the night three years ago, the kind of night anybody in their right mind stays home and is grateful to do so, me and mine were heading down here so I could start my usual summer stay. The rain was gushing down so bad it erased the highway line and our Buick sprouted wings more than a few times. And the sky wasn’t the only one spittin’ mad that night. The very last thing I can remember my mama saying in her crossest of voices is, “We’re not gonna outrun this storm… get off at the next exit and find us a motel… ya got talent at findin’ motels, don’tcha, Joe? ’Specially the real cheap kind.” Then my daddy bellowed back, “I’m warning you, Addy… for the last time…”

Little did he know how right he was. A wiper stroke later, we rounded a bend in the road and bounced off a stalled Champion bus, also from Chicago.

Thank the Lord for passing Dixie Oil trucker Mr. Hank Simmons, who found me wadded up on the edge of a creek and called for help on his 10-4 radio. I got three broken ribs, a gashed-up ankle, a cracked