Craig Lancaster - 600 Hours of Edward

I’ve occasionally heard people say something like “I know his heart,” and I wonder how someone could possibly know such a thing. A heart is a mysterious thing to know. Doctors know how they work, of course, and can sometimes fix them when they’re not working correctly. But the mechanics of the heart are not what people are talking about when they say such things. They are talking about a person’s intentions or nature or goodness—or perhaps, in the case of someone like Mike, the opposite of goodness.

I do not understand how one can know such things, the way people know that the Declaration of Independence was signed on July 4, 1776, or that the cheetah is the fastest land mammal. Those things can be measured and verified. Hearts cannot. Still, I cannot fight the notion that Donna has a strong heart, no matter how imprecise I know that feeling to be.

I feel bad for Donna Middleton. It must be difficult for her. Boys, even good boys like Kyle, must be difficult to raise. She is doing it alone, though she must be doing something right. I guess Kyle will be coming home today from his grandparents’ house in Laurel. I hope he is a good boy to his mother for a while.

I don’t think Donna Middleton wants to be alone like she is. How could she, having been with the Mikes and Troys and Donalds that she has been with? I think it must be very difficult and sad to want something and to not get it, no matter how hard you try. She lived with Mike, and he tried to choke her.

I feel bad for Donna Middleton. But I do not feel sorry for her. This is a fine distinction, I think, but it feels right to me. I do not think Donna Middleton would appreciate my feeling sorry for her. I don’t know her heart, but I feel confident about that. That confidence will have to do until the facts come in.

At 4:38 a.m. on the 293rd day of the year (because it’s a leap year), I’m munching on corn flakes and sitting in front of the computer, logging on to Montana Personal Connect.

Inbox (1).

I click the link.

Hi Edward!

Thanks SOOOOO much for answering my questions.

Yours’ are great. Here are my answers:

1. I’m not sure of the number. A bunch. Online dating is hard. But what are you going to do. Its not like Im going to meet someone in Broadview. Ha ha.

2. I like summer. Go to the lake, ride in a boat, get a tan. LOL. Do you like the lake?

3. What is Dragnet?

4. Any kind pretty much. I like classic rock and country. I LOVE Garth Brooks.

5. I don’t go on many vacations. The last one I took was to Colorado for mountain biking. What about you?

Edward do you think maybe you would like to meet? Let me know.

Bye!

There is so much wrong with this note I almost do not know where to begin. But then there is that question. Do I want to meet? I am shocked to realize that, until this very moment, 4:44 a.m. on October 19, the 293rd day of the year (because it’s a leap year), I never suspected that participating in an online dating website might actually result in an online date.

Also, I have an idea.

I’m in the basement, and I’m taking inventory.

The front wheel and the pedals on my eighteen-speed bicycle will work. It’s not like the bike is getting much use from me. My parents gave it to me for Christmas in 2002. I took it out once and nearly got run over by a car on Lewis Avenue. It has been down in the basement since.

I know the big back wheels on my mulching mower, which is out in the garage, will work. Taking them will render the mower useless, but I won’t need to worry about that until next spring.

I’m going to need some lumber and some hardware—bolts and nuts and such—and some paint and some lacquer and some other things, too. I need to write my inventory down and take some measurements. Home Depot will be open in two hours and forty-three minutes.

My idea—for now, I am going to call it “The Big Project”—is one of the best that I have had in a while. I used to have a lot of big ideas, and I have never made any secret of the fact that I enjoy new projects, but many of them never came to fruition. (I love the word “fruition.”) It’s not that I couldn’t do them; it’s that they often collided with my other, more established projects, like watching Dragnet every night.

I am confident, however, that The Big Project can get finished. It will require close attention not only to the fundamentals of the project itself but also to the clock.

My idea has come on the day that the Dallas Cowboys play football.

Today’s trip to the Home Depot store in the West End of Billings goes so much better than the one Tuesday I can hardly believe it. But it’s a fact, and I trust facts.

This has happened for a couple of reasons. First, I know exactly what I need and exactly where to get it, so there is no need to seek out potentially unhelpful store employees. Second, there are no choices involved—even with the spray paint. I can see in my mind exactly what color The Big Project will be, and so I simply grab the appropriate cans and put them in the cart.

As I wheel the heavily laden cart to the front of the store, I see that Home Depot even has self-checkout stands. If I kept data on such things, this might be the best day ever. Until today, however, it never occurred to me that the days were worth rating.

The total bill at Home Depot comes to $221.95. This sounds like the sort of cost you might hear on a late-night TV commercial, but in Montana, it’s common. Montana has no sales tax, which is something that most of its residents seem to appreciate. My father, as a Yellowstone County commissioner, is not so ebullient about it. (I love the word “ebullient.”) My father often bemoans the fact that the county doesn’t extract more money out of tourists by imposing a sales tax on them. He even led an unsuccessful charge against the state legislature to get it to empower individual counties to impose sales taxes as they please. An editorial in the Billings Herald-Gleaner criticized my father over this and said, “In his zeal to tax visitors to Montana, Commissioner Ted Stanton apparently fails to realize that he would also be soaking the many thousands of people who live here and pay his salary.” My father did not talk to anybody from the Billings Herald-Gleaner for several months after that.

Here’s something else that my father will not be happy about: a bill for $221.95. He will get it next month. I will surely hear about it thereafter—perhaps even from his lawyer.

I arrive home at 9:23 a.m. The Dallas Cowboys will play in an hour and thirty-seven minutes against the St. Louis Rams. I am nervous about this game. The Cowboys’ best player, quarterback Tony Romo, is not going to play because he has a broken finger. The Cowboys ought to be able to win without Tony Romo because the St. Louis Rams are terrible, but I am still nervous.

You are probably wondering why I am a Dallas Cowboys fan. I will tell you. First, the Dallas Cowboys are “America’s Team.” People call them this all the time. I don’t think America took a vote on it—and there are probably a lot of people in America who don’t even like professional football, although I can’t know for sure without taking a scientific poll, and I already have The Big Project.

Also, my father grew up in Dallas, and his parents—my Grandpa Sid and Grandma Mabel, who are both dead now—were very good friends with Tom Landry, who used to be the Dallas Cowboys’ coach. Tom Landry is dead, too. The only time I saw my father cry was the day Tom Landry died. He didn’t cry when Grandma Mabel and Grandpa Sid died, at least not that I saw.