Gonna Live to 93

The train pulling Harry Truman's special car ground to a stop at flat, dusty Uvalde, Tex. As vestibule doors banged in the silence of the sunny afternoon, a little old man with a bright pink face came hurrying up to the train. It was ex-Vice President "Cactus Jack" Garner, the copilot whom Franklin Roosevelt had dropped in 1940. John Garner, now 75, was wearing a worn work shirt, buttoned at the throat, a pair of dingy pants. There was an outrageous twisted rope of cigar between his teeth and a faded ten-gallon hat pushed back on his white hair. His old friend from the U.S. Senate stepped down, rushed forward, hand outstretched. Old Jack Garner clapped him on the back, beaming: "I'm glad to see you, Harry, bless your old soul."

Garner's hands were stained black. He leaned forward slightly, favoring his left ear, talking fast. "Got my hands like this hulling pecans yesterday. Today I've been in the cornfield since early morning--I took the 'down row'--had to bend down, following the wagon. I wish we had time to strike a blow for Liberty, Harry."

"We have got time, Jack," Truman said. "You come right back here in my car. We've got some good bourbon whiskey." The nominee led the way.

When he was seated inside the car the old man slapped his leg. "Yes, sir," he said, "this is fine." He recognized the grizzled porter, Lawrence Ervin, as he stepped up with a bottle of bonded bourbon. Said the old man, "Hello there, boy. How are you coming along? Glad to see you. Put a little branch water in there, son, yes sir. Harry, I never felt better in my life. I'll be 76 next month and I'm gonna live to 93. I get to bed early--and I still drink whiskey. Couldn't live to 93 if I didn't." He tossed off a hefty drink. Truman asked him about the fantastic cigar. "Why, it's a Mexican cigar. Best in the world. Well, Harry, this train is fixing to pull out." He got up, glanced carefully at the bottom of his glass, said goodbye and started for the door.

When he climbed back down to the ground Ervin jumped down behind him and tucked a box of Truman's cigars under the old man's arm. Garner said, "Thank you. Thank you. These are mighty good.'' He stood, looking up, as the train began to roll away. Then he walked off, stopping once to strike a kitchen match expertly on the seat of his trousers and relight the frayed stump of his Mexican cigar.

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