Lance Bresee

Went to California and returned after nailing my thumb to a partition stud at a construction job. Worked for Lear Siegler in OKC until laid off. Worked for Keltronics Corp in OKC until 1982. Returned to OU and got BA in Math in 1985.
Worked for the Lick Observatory until 1999. Married Julie Bradfield on 4-6-1997. Moved to Massachusetts in 1999, recruited by Cambridge Accusense. Briefly worked for Intel, now at International Rectifier.

You could get money for Coors bottles at that time.

I’m not sure how or where. None of my friends knew, and it wasn’t much anyway. Two cents a bottle, I think.

One day Stan the Man, Clay Sommerville, and I were out at the I-35 overpass drinking a case when an old, white International step-side roars down, belching smoke and parks alongside the concrete wall under the interstate. A couple of kids climb out followed by a thin, wiry man in his thirties with dirty, dark hair. The man starts busting up some pallets and driftwood and sets to building a fire alongside the truck. The boys start running around scavenging.

We were sitting against my Rambler Classic wagon, listening to the radio and drinking our longnecks, when those boys come up to us and ask if they could have our empties. Well, we were a little embarrassed for our wastefulness; three had already ended up shattered against the pylons. We gathered up our empties and put them in the cardboard sixpacks and gave them to the boys, and told them we’d give them the rest when we were done. They thanked us and took those two, partially full sixpacks back to their Dad at the truck like they were a treasure.

Clay turns to me, nods in the direction of the truck, and says “seein’ some hard times.”

I nodded, but I thought those kids looked happy. Dirty, unkempt and unhampered, off on an adventure. It made me think of Mike and Huck headed downstream. Now, I don’t know. I wonder how I would feel if that was how I had to take care of my boys.

Due to the complexities of intoxicated, adolescent mathematics, we three headed down to the river with four sixpacks and ended up with two beers at the end, which we could not divide three ways, so, without a word, just a few quiet nods in the direction of the truck, we decided to put those two beers in with the empties. We called the boys over, gave ‘em the bottles and we loaded into my station wagon.

I’ve learned over the years what generosity can be expressed in a small, unaffordable, extravagance.

As we were driving up the bank, the Dad waved to us, holding those two bottles between the fingers of one hand. It was all the thanks a man would give, and we would have been embarrassed by any more expressive gesture. We responded with silent nods, and drove off. As young as we were, we understood that there were quiet ways between men, which spoke much with few, if any, words.

As we drove up behind the drive in to the service road, I saw dark smoke rolling over the rushes in the rear-view mirror.