Paul Marchant

I’ve known Bobby for a long time. If you were to meet him for the first time, you’d probably think of him more as a Bob or a Robert than a Bobby, on account of the gray that’s now in his beard and the deceptive maturity in his voice. For most of us that have known him for decades, however, he’ll never be able to outgrow the more youthful and mischievous moniker that’s managed to stick with him since his childhood.

I glanced at the clock on the dash of my pickup as I rolled through the four-way stop sign. The gentle green 7:08 a.m. glow painfully reminded me that I was once again several minutes late. I was sure my action was far from what would be considered a full stop, but I was counting on Tyler, the county sheriff’s deputy; and Andy, the state trooper, both locals who resided near the center of town, to be engaged in something more pressing than spying on Oakley’s lone stop sign.

It may not be every morning, but on a semi-routine basis, my day begins with a little pep talk to myself. Some days it’s simply a little note to myself in my head that prods me to just stand up, walk out the door and start the morning chores. On other days, it’s more of a stern talking-to or even a desperate plea to my guardian angels to allow – or force – my better self to prevail in those moments of doubt, anger or frustration.