#79, Johnny P.

Johnny lives across the street from my dad in Montana, with his wife Linda. He says "crick" instead of "creek" and has a softly booming, mumbling voice. Wears flannels, vests, jeans and boots and trucker caps. He used to send over homemade salami and sausage for us during the summers, back when we kids were young. He was an avid hunter, you see, and still is, despite losing a couple of fingers at the steel mill where he works. He has a white horse named Dooley who has been around forever. (Our dog Chewy, rest his little soul, was overly fond of stealing across the road to eat Dooley's steaming piles of excrement. This is completely true.)
Johnny saved my dad's life. After lying on the landing for two days because of suffering a bad stroke, my dad finally managed to crawl to the phone and call... Johnny. not '9-1-1', but Johnny. He ran right over and took dad to the hospital. When my brother and i went up by train a couple weeks later, Johnny drove us around to buy air mattresses and groceries. Even though he uses derogatory words a lot, i just can't hate him. (i wish he wouldn't say things like that, obviously, but unfortunately i don't think the man will change any time soon.) Thank you for being there, Johnny.