In the late nineties Marta and I visited Fort Collins, Colorado where I grew up. While in town, I learned that a high school friend was also in visiting her parents. I reached out and she invited Marty and I to join her for a picnic in the foothills her family had planned. After pulling into her driveway and being introduced, her father and I had the following conversation.

BRENT
Where do you live Troy?

TROY
Saint Louis.

BRENT
Did you know that until two years ago, it was legal to shoot a mormon on sight in the state of Missouri?

TROY
Uhh. I did not know that. If it helps I don’t think people have been taking advantage.

BRENT
Hah. It does help. I’m glad to hear that.

Little did this man know he just set a new standard for getting right to the marrow of a conversation that I would strive to match, mostly unsuccessfully, for decades. I mean how the hell are you going to top saying it is legal to shoot people two sentences into meeting someone. I can assure you, after more than two decades of attempts, it is not an easy mark to meet. Our conversation that day settled a bit before he hit me with another body blow.

BRENT
Can I ask you a question Troy?

TROY
Of course.

BRENT
What does your water storage look like?

TROY
Water storage? I’m not sure I know what you mean.

BRENT
How much water do you have saved in your house?

TROY
Well, I don’t think I have any. If we need water we just get it from the sink.

BRENT
And what would you do if when you turned the faucet on, nothing happened?

TROY
I guess I’d call a plumber or the water people.

BRENT
The real question I’m getting at is if there is an emergency in your community, do you want to the be the person that needs help or the person who can give help?

This conversation happened over twenty-five years ago and it still plays through my head with embarrassing regularity. Once home from that trip, after we finished our first gallon of milk, instead of putting it in the recycling bin, I filled it with water, took it to the basement and cleared a spot where I could put it, along with the forty-nine other jugs I intended to save.

Years later when visiting my high school friend, she told me her father Brent had taken ill and was bed-ridden. I shared the above memory with her family and they all laughed and said that sounded about right. Keri even expressed her incredulity that someone would open a conversation with “did you know it is legal to shoot …” More laughter. As the conversation died down, Keri’s husband asked me how often I rotated my water stock. Rotated my stock? What? Why? I was told that water stored that way (in plastic jugs) should be refreshed every so many years. So once I got home from that trip, instead of filling my first gallon jug of water, I RE-filled my first (of fifty) gallons of water.

I can say that when I walked onto that Fort Collins driveway in 1999, I did not suspect such an indelible mark would be drawn on me. Thank you Brent (and later Michael).