DEAD MAN FINDS HAPPY TRAILS

I was in my bookstore, taking a short break during the Christmas rush, drinking an espresso with my friend, Webster Hood, when the phone rang.
"Fourwinds. Richard, here. How can I help you?
"Hello, my name is Sally Macdonald. I'm a reporter for the Seattle Times, and I'm trying to find a Roy Rogers lunchbox. I've been told you have one in your store. Is this true?"
"Yes, I've got a Roy Rogers lunchbox. It's a Roy Rogers/Dale Evens Chow Wagon. Why do you ask?"
"Is it for sale?'
"No, not really. I have been asked several times if I would sell it, but I have told people it is not for sale. Everything in the store is for sale, but the buck stops there. Are you scouting for a certain antique dealer who persists in asking me to name a price?"
She laughed. "Goodness, no. My situation is entirely different. May I explain?"
"By all means, go ahead."
"A couple of weeks ago, the Times ran a feature article on Roy Rogers. The story was a reminiscence of growing up with Roy Rogers and the gang at the Double R Bar Ranch. It was a full page spread with pictures, and soon after the article appeared, a letter arrived from a lady, who asked if anyone might know where she could get a Roy Rogers lunchbox. She said she and her friends had been scouring antique stores without luck, and that she was getting desperate. I asked her why, and she told me it was for her husband's ashes. I said, "What!?" She told me she wanted the lunchbox because it was her husband's wish that his ashes be stored in a Roy Rogers lunchbox. I was incredulous, at first, and she said she knew it was a strange request, but she had been looking for six months, and she wanted to give her late husband this last gift after twenty-five years of marriage."
I said, "I don't believe a word of this. I bet you are trying to trick me out of the lunchbox by concocting this story."
"Really, Sir, this is the truth. She says she will pay almost anything for an authentic Roy Rogers lunchbox. I asked around the newsroom, and a colleague of mine, Randee Fox, said she had seen one in your bookstore when she was visiting Ellensburg. Believe me, although this story seems farfetched, it's true."
"I think I will have to talk to this woman in person, just to be sure. Can you give me her phone number?
"Yes, I can give you her number. Really, this is on the up and up. Trust me."
She gave me the lady's name and her number, and I said, "Ok, I'll give her a call, but this sure sounds bizarre."
"I know," she replied, "but you'll see I'm telling the truth."
After she hung up, I said to Webster, "You won't believe what I just heard." I told him the gist of the story and, then, I dialed the number I had been given.
"Is this Mrs. Beverly Gibson?"
"Yes, I am Beverly Gibson. Who is calling?"
"My name is Richard Denner, and I am the owner of the Fourwinds Bookstore in Ellensburg. I just received a call from a Sally Macdonald, who says she is a reporter from the Seattle Times, and she told me you were looking for a Roy Rogers lunchbox. Is this true?"
"Oh my, yes. I have been looking everywhere. Do you have one? I need one, ever so bad."
"Yes, I have one. It's been in my store for years. It's sort of like a masthead. I keep pennies in it."
"Did Miss Macdonald tell you what I wanted it for?"
"Yes, she did, but I had a hard time believing the story."
"Mr. Denner, my husband, Bruce, was a great fan of Roy Rogers. As a kid, Roy Rogers was his idol. He always had to be Roy when the neighborhood kids played cowboys. He sang "Happy Trails' as his own theme song. He told me, 'When I die, skip the funeral urn and just keep my ashes in a Roy Rogers lunchbox.' Is there any chance you would sell me your lunchbox?"
"Excuse me for a minute, Mrs. Gibson. Let me consult with a friend."
I looked at Webster, who was listening to my conversation and smiling. "Webster, you teach ethics, if I've told people I won't sell the lunchbox under any circumstances, I shouldn't back down, should I?"
"You should stick by your guns, or in this instance, your lunchbox, Roy," he said.
"Mrs. Gibson?"
"Yes?"
"I have made my decision."
"Yes?"
"This lunchbox has sat on a shelf in my store for twenty years. My ex-mother-in-law found it in a secondhand store and gave it to my son, Theo. After he grew up, it wound up in the store. It sits with some Old West books in a little display. Once, a friend was going to a Roy Rogers Show, and he asked if he could take the lunch box with him to get it autographed. I don't think it was actually signed by Roy, probably by his son. It's signed 'Roy Rogers and Trigger' in green ink. The signature has faded to where you have to know where to look to see it. An antique dealer offered me $300. She said in New York, it would fetch more, but I told her, 'No deal. It's a keepsake.' So, I don't think I can change my mind about selling it, now."
At the other end of the line, I could hear a sigh of disappointment.
I waited a beat, for dramatic effect, and then I told her, "On the other hand, I could give it to you."
"My goodness," she exclaimed, 'do you mean it? You would give it to me? Oh, that is marvelous."
"Give me your address. I will wrap it up and mail it to you."
"Mr. Denner, you are just too kind."
"Don't mention it, Mrs. Gibson. It is my pleasure."
I wrote down her address. I dusted off the lunchbox and put the pennies in a jar. I found a cardboard box and some bubble wrap, and I made a tidy package for Beverly Gibson. And for Bruce. I mailed the box that afternoon, and I thought no more about it.
A couple of days later, I got another phone call from Sally Macdonald. She was full of enthusiasm about my kind-hearted gesture, and she asked if she could write a story about what I had done.
I said, "Sure," and I told her pretty much what I had said in my conversation with Beverly. I concluded with, "I'm an old hippie. It seemed sort of cosmic to me. Now, Bruce can rest in peace, and I won't be bothered with people always wanting that lunchbox."
That was a week before Christmas. I should have anticipated what the newspapers were going to do with this story. The next day, on the front page of the Seattle Times there was a picture of Beverly holding the Roy Rogers/Dale Evans Chow Wagon and a story by Sally Macdonald entitled, "Roy Rogers Fan gets Last Wish." Then, the phone began to ring.
Associated Press picked up the story, and it was run as a piece to make you feel good in every newspaper in the country. People phoned to thank me for being an angel. A guy phoned wanting to know if I wanted to buy more Roy Rogers paraphernalia. I got cards and letters from everywhere.
The tabloids competed. The National Enquirer wanted the story, but World News beat them to it. I reiterated what I had previously told the Seattle Times, and at the check out counter in Safeway I saw a piece on the back page of World News under the heading "Dead Man Finds Happy Trails" next to a sighting of Elvis. They didn't have to change a thing in the story to make it sound surreal.
The TV program, Ripley's Believe It or Not, contacted Beverly, and they interviewed her in her home in Federal Way. She was standing by her mantelpiece. She took down the "Chow Wagon" with Bruce's remains, and she told the interviewer about how her husband had had chemotherapy and several painful surgeries and that his last wish was for his ashes to be kept in a Roy Rogers lunchbox. The interview was aired between pictures of the smallest city park in the state of Washington and the largest apple.
My uncle, Remos, phoned from Albuquerque, New Mexico, to tell me that he had read the story, and as soon as he saw "bookstore in Ellensburg" he knew it had to be me.