Starting at 62...

Author's note : Not really a funny story, this falls in the other category I enjoy. The twist in the tale. Just for the sake of adding a challenge to the old art of story telling : Can you guess what the twist is before "December 1980" comes up for the second time in this story?

December 16, 1980

The old man looked at the crowd gathered at the Cave Hill Cemetery in Louisville for the burial. He hadn't planned on being here today. But he had to come, for his wife's sake. Even though she had not said a thing to him about being here for the funeral, he felt it was only right he attended. He gazed at the huge gathering as the body was brought in. Everywhere he looked, people were dressed in black. He thought he spotted tears in the eyes of these strangers he had never seen before today. He looked down at the body of the man, this Colonel he had known so well all these years. A smile crossed his face. A smile that was in fact, his trademark. Luckily noone else spotted the grin on his face. It didn't seem right to be grinning at a funeral, he mused.

1930

Harold was tired. At 40 years old, he had nothing much to look back on with pride in his life. Jobs as a firefighter, a steamboat driver, an insurance salesman and now a service station owner were not really worth a letter home, even if it was 1930 and the Great Depression was on. And it wasn't like he had many talents to fall back on. All the jobs he had held till date were temporary. He sat and recalled the good old days, as a child when life was hard but yet simple - when his mom would leave for work, leaving him to cook for the family. ( his dad had died when he was just 6, there weren't many memories of him to fall back on for either solace or inspiration. The age where everyone could be backed up on video cameras for memories had not yet begun..)

"Now what, ol' man ?" he said to the unforgiving mirror, eyeing the grey in his hair. "Just another insignificant life, eh ? Day after day attending to people's cars till one day I keel over and collapse. Maybe noone will even notice I'm gone for a few days. They'd be like " Hey ? Where's that guy with the funny beard ? What's his name ? Harris..no, no. Harold ! That's it. And they'll come over and they'll find my body rotting over. I hope there'll be atleast 10 people for the funeral. Ha ha. Where would I get 10 people ?? Oh Harold Harold. Whatever became of all those dreams of success, man ?"
He looked back at the 'CLOSED' sign over his service station and his eyes watered. What could he possibly do different so that people would notice him, he wondered as he tucked himself into bed that night. It was in his sleep that a thought crossed his mind. He awoke early the next morning, racing the cock's morning wake up call. There was work to be done.

The first Visitors to the service station in Corbin the next morning, Mr and Mrs Timothy, were surprised to find an appealing aroma serenading their nostrils. "What is that smell, Harold ?" they asked. "Why, it's home made chicken, of course. I figured you folks would like something to eat while I fix 'er up. " "But where are you gonna serve it, buddy ? You don't have any place for people to sit." Harold flinched. In all his enthusiasm to make food, he had totally forgotten this simple step. "Why don't you people come into my living quarters in the station and have your meals?" he improvised, his fingers crossed. The old couple looked at each other, unspoken words passing between them on unseen rails. Mr Timothy turned to Harold. And smiled. His nod was the best thing Harold had seen all year.

1935

It was a golden age. Word had soon spread around the locality of this man selling home cooked food in a service station and and soon people long forgotten to Harold were flocking to his service station for suspiciously minor repairs. Not that he minded. As his popularity grew, Harold expanded his business, giving up the station to become a chef in a restaurant. Luckily for him, it was still an age where hard work was appreciated and at the age of 45, Harold was fast becoming a legend in his hometown.

Why, in appreciation of his determination and enterprise, hadn't he just been given a honourary title by Mayor Ruby ? Harold smiled as he read the award over in the plaque. " And to think, I was penniless just 5 years ago. " he told his wife Claudia as they retired to bed that night. " You know, if I play my cards right, I'm sure I can attract a bigger crowd from out of this state too, you know ? I've the plans all worked out in my mind, Claudia. I'm gonna wear a distinctive outfit which I'll make my trademark. Cook for many restaurants. We'll be even more popular than this, Claudia." "Whatever honey. You know best. I'm just so happy. Can things get any better for us, Harold ?" she said as she snuggled into his arms.

1952

"Can things get any worse for us, Harold ?" Claudia cried, the piece of paper in her hand feeling heavier than an anchor buried into the deep waters. Harold stared at the eviction papers in her hand from the corner of his eye. Their land was being taken away from them to build an interstate road. Sure, they'd get some money but at the age of 62, the thought of starting all over again was harrowing to Claudia. "What will we do, honey ?" she asked of him, this man she trusted more than anyone else in the world. Harold looked at her and a smile painted his white beard . "The one thing we know to do. We start from scratch, dear. "

And that is exactly what he did in the year ahead. At the age of 62, Harold went around the United States in his car, cooking for various restaurants which would allow him the freedom of their kitchen. As part of the deal, for every chicken piece sold in these restaurants, he demanded a nickel from the restaurants. His hard work once more was to find favour with a nation looking for unlikely heroes. In the years that were to come, he once more rose to the top, earning enough to start his own restaurant, then two. He never looked back. Refusing to rest on his laurels, he carried on being 'the cook with the golden hands,' his smile a magnet attracting parents and kids, lovers and friends alike to his restaurants. When he finally retired as a cook at the young age of 74 in 1964, he still stayed on to promote this gift he had had to learn all by himself way back in 1898 while his mom worked.

The advent of the television as a household item gave him a further platform to bring the nation to his restaurant via a new fangled concept called 'the television commercial'. He doubted it would work, preferring to let his food speak for himself. He needn't have worried. The audience fell in love with this aging man old enough to be their grandfather. Even when he finally sold the franchise in 1964, he remained critical of the quality of the food prepared in his restaurants, not being ashamed to publically humiliate any of his own chain of restaurants who deviated from his methods and tried to sacrifice quality for quantity. This even led to a lawsuit against him in 1975 for insulting the food at one of his own restaurants... a sign of the insane times that were seeping into courtrooms.

December 16, 1980

The icy hand of leukemia is often unsparing even today in this new century. Back in the '80s then when it embraced Harold, he had no choice but to accept death's call gracefully. A huge crowd attended the funeral of this service station worker as he was buried in his characteristic white suit and black bow tie. His wife gazed longingly at the first award he had gathered years ago. The one given by Mayor Ruby Laffoon in 1935, at the ripe age of 45 years, conferring him the honourary title of "Colonel".

As his body was put to rest in Louisville, Kentucky , the state where he had sold his first chicken piece in 1930, 'Colonel' Harold David Sanders watched his burial from up above and smiled. "Ha ha. Harold, ol' man, guess what ? I got more than 10 people to attend the funeral, after all. I guess 62 isn't old enough to restart one's life, eh ?"
He would know. Colonel Sander's service station chicken is known today by a slightly more recognisable name to us all. You may have heard of it.

It's called KENTUCKY FRIED CHICKEN.

Final word : Personally, I couldn't get the right mix of fact and fiction I wanted. Anyway, while the conversations are obviously imaginary, the facts on which they are based are true. Just wanted to make the point : There's no such thing as Too old . And not every inspirational story need be about a freedom fighter. Ask the Colonel the next time you try his childhood recipe, which till today remains one of the most closely guarded secrets in the world.