Of millionaires and paupers in the great state Missouri

May 4, 2025

By DELL FRANKLIN

Editor’s Note: The following series, “Life in Radically Gentrifying Cayucos by the Sea,” to be posted biweekly includes the notes, thoughts, and opinions of an original American voice: author Dell Franklin. 

Franklin’s memoir, “The ballplayer’s Son” and “Life on The Mississippi, 1969” are currently on Amazon.

Hanging out with a millionaire means, as a pauper, accepting a world of abundance that can be alien and sometimes overwhelming.

Was I overwhelmed?

Not in the least.

Did I compliment my millionaire host (a good friend since 1973) on the spacious home he shares with his lady that has at least five TVs and rampant luxury?

Of course, though, I did find one of his two dogs a bit neurotic and claimed there might be a reason, eyeing up the millionaire with suspicion.

Was I in awe when he took me out in the St. Louis sticks to run his dogs and show me his airport hangar (he’s a retired airline pilot), where he once housed two planes, and now stores at least nine motorcycles (including a 1926 Indian), a Triumph TR 4 convertible, a foreign compact car for errands, a 1976 cherry Lincoln Continental he remodeled himself, a racing car built by himself, every large and small tool in captivity, carefully numbered drawers of accessories, a golf simulator, two sets of clubs, an upstairs rec room with a pool table, and, yes, a TV on both levels, and much, much more?

Nope. I studied the immaculate downstairs floor and commented that it looked dirty, kind of a disgrace, and took my time sweeping it and was not miffed when, pausing from busying himself, he pointed to a dust pan.

Ignoring him, I said to myself, “Don’t push me.”

Of course, the grand allure allowing me to be flown to the clueless ‘heartland,’ stocked with bib overall-clad clods clumping around in boots and jeans and plaid flannels, was Woody’s (real name Elwood) “cabin at Lake of the Ozarks,” some 170 miles from an insufferably boring St. Louis sprawl Woody characterizes as “where the real people live.”

Woody grew up on an Illinois farm, where the poor thing had to do filthy, heavy chores and supposedly used an outhouse, as opposed to myself having grown up in blue collar working-class Compton, where we actually had a toilet for four to share, a situation Woody constantly describes, with a knowing smirk, as “elite, upper class luxury.”

I feel it is boring to describe how Woody made his damn money and became this multi-millionaire, because these stories as well as Woody’s can be awfully boring to a professional slacker and freeloader who would rather talk about literature, the cinema, and various cultural issues—subjects Woody pooh-poohs as a “waste of time that could be made of better use.”

One morning Woody and I set out on an off-the-main-artery “country lane” in his electric pickup truck with-all-the-amenities for Lake of the Ozarks to visit his cabin. He was quite proud of the Ozark landscape, pointing out rural scene after rural scene, almost every home along the way stocked with excess debris, pickup trucks and flying American flags.

And yes, the country was impressive, though, as we neared our destination, there was a barrage of roadside billboards, one after another—Jones Bar B Que, Patriot Roofing, etc.—and an entire hill with T-R-U-M-P carved out of its side.

“Nobody’s gonna attack me, are they?” I asked my sponsor.

“People out here are as friendly and tolerant as they come,” Woody exclaimed. “They’re not elite coastal snobs who’d turn their noses up at ‘my people.”’

When we arrived at Woody’s so-called “cabin,” well, it turned out to be a mini mansion among other mini mansions on “millionaire row”–with several rooms, at least five TVs, a rec room with pool table, pier, boat launch, canoe, large boat, copious fishing gear, Jacuzzi, two decks – the main one featuring four plush swivel chairs that cost $600 a piece.

Some Ozarks!

Was I impressed?

I went along, nodding my approval. I knew Woody was proud of what I characterized over and over as a “mansion.”

Then, just as I was starting to relax on his deck in the early afternoon and maybe sip some Gray Goose, he began pushing me to take a “little hike.”

“I’m not a hiker,” I testified.

“Come on. Beth and I take this little hike all the time. If Beth can stand up to it, so can you.”

Beth, his companion of over three decades, is petite, radiating wholesome former Miss Iowa beauty, has a lucrative full time job and runs and works out hard almost every morning. “How far is it?”

“Not even two miles.”

“You promised me you weren’t going to try and shame me into doing things you like to do that I hate.”

Woody nodded. “I’m not going to make you fish or water ski…but a little hike? I didn’t realize how soft you coastal elites become in your dotage.”

Both Woody and I, at 81, are physically fit fanatics and ex-athletes and basketball teammates and opponents who know well our weaknesses and strengths.

“I have no hiking shoes, I only have lounge sneakers.”

An Ivy League school grad, Woody made a face designed to shame me.

So we drove in a Corvette with a 650 horsepower engine that he keeps in his garage to this craggy hill beside the lake, and he immediately pulled out these goddam walking sticks made to ascend and descend craggy switchbacks. Woody, in his hiking shoes, handed me one, which I turned down.

“You’ll need it,” he maintained. And I immediately realized he had tricked me into doing something that would cause me misery and outrage and, yes, pain and vehement resentment!

Well, we started up this fucking mountain away from the lake. The path was not smooth. If I didn’t watch each step, I could stub a toe or turn an ankle or stumble and crash. It was an obstacle course of jagged rocks and slopes and poison ivy on all sides, and so I took the fucking walking stick so as not to seriously injure myself.

It went on and on, uphill. Woody, who’d walked this goddam path hundreds of times, struck out in a speed march, leaving me in the dust, occasionally halting to await me, the look on his face meant to humiliate a guest who’d made the sacrifice of allowing himself to be flown out from San Luis Obispo–free–for the first time in a plane in 15 years!

“You gonna be okay?” with the familiar smirk.

“I’m fine.”

I struggled up a long climb. I was puffing. My shoes were twisting and turning and already my left arch began to twinge. But I made it to the top, where Woody awaited me.

He pointed to a path leading back and suggested I go on back and wait while he completed the hike. Of course I refused. I lugged on. Both feet hurt. We rested on a log on which I somehow scraped my calf, drawing blood, and Woody made a big deal of my clumsiness, and asked if I could continue.

Well, the rest of the hike was a fucking two-hour death march designed to further humiliate me! Two miles, my ass! It was two fucking hours plus!

I made it, a wreck, badly needed a drink, and upon our return, after a long hot shower to soothe my aches, and some Ibuprofen, I began pounding the Gray Goose on one of his luxury swivel chairs and savored the well-deserved lake view.

Later, Woody mentioned a bar where the food was supposedly great, and before we got too drunk, we attended a joint that did not even slightly resemble the Ozarks I anticipated. And though the food was good, I had to reiterate how I still hadn’t experienced real “Ozark atmosphere.”

When we returned to the mansion, we got massively drunk on the deck in the luxury chairs, a period during which Woody and I caviled against each other, Woody maintaining that the overweight Iowan husbands of his girlfriend’s many sisters made the hike we took easily in 100 degree heat, and that I was a whiner and so on. But I fired back, mentioning my ruined shoes, and later I insisted the view at my Cayucos cracker box was superior to his of the lake, and, since he’s been on my deck that looks down upon Cayucos, the pier, and ocean, he had little comeback.

In the morning, after various health smoothies, Gatorade, and  more Ibuprofen did little to improve my crushing hangover, Woody, of all things, talked me into golfing.

I was utterly shot from the plane ride, the death march, a left shoulder that no longer works and needs replacement, and nearly an entire bottle of Gray Goose oozing from my pores.

Well, I haven’t picked up a golf club since 1985, when a pro in a golf cart kicked me off a snobby course and threatened to put up a wanted sign if I ever came back. This is how I feel about golf, and I told Woody, an avid golfer, that “golf, along with fishing, is the most worthless endeavor in captivity.”

Woody was nonplussed. In a kind of daze, I went along, prepared to play nine holes in my broken lounge sneakers. At the first hole tee, I took an iron out of my assigned clubs. (Woody has two in his pickup, possibly to coax others to play with him.)

Woody, fairly stiff, hit a pretty decent drive while I hammered my first drive at an angle far to the left. Woody remained patient as I praised his play on the next two holes (pretty inconsistent) and suddenly, on the third hole, I shocked him by hitting consecutive resounding and accurate shots and actually sunk a 10-foot putt, demonstrating to Woody that after all these years who was the more versatile athlete.

To his credit, Woody saw fit to praise my performance (possibly to inspire me). Several times he alluded to the verdant knolls of the course, and I went along even though my shoulder throbbed and my arches cried.

By the eighth hole I was completely beaten down and could hardly walk, but I forged on, continuing to praise Woody’s play (he’s a dead serious golfer). And afterwards he took me to a kind of backwoods bar/restaurant called the Willows, where we had chicken wings that were excellent and which I praised though I was disappointed there were no toothless bearded moonshiners around to whom I could relate.

“They’re a few miles off the road from here,” Woody explained.

On the way back, Beth came on the car phone, which meant I could sit and listen to their conversation. He missed his two dogs. Beth wanted to know how “we were doing.” I told her about the death march. I also mentioned we might go to Jones Bar B Que. Beth then suggested Woody take me to the finest prime rib place in the area and perhaps Missouri. I jumped on it. Woody made an exasperated face.

“That’s another hundred and fifty dollars, Beth.”

“Oh, he deserves it, he’s your good friend.”

Woody sighed.

Now, since I had no long pants, I was forced to wear my shorts at the snazzy restaurant—definitely a clash, but what the hell.

The prime rib dinner was very possibly the highlight of my six-day trip and I made it a point to praise it over and over again, savoring each bite as I observed all around me Missouri porkers in their simple dinner attire chowing down with relish. I kept my observations to myself, a thankful man at being fed. The wine was wonderful.

Back at the mansion, after a go in the Jacuzzi and more wine, we resumed our perches on $600 chairs as a storm began to brew. It didn’t take long for Woody, a man of supposed superhuman stamina, however, to nod off snoring, while I sipped a newly opened bottle and chortled to myself.

Returning to Woody’s other residence because of the storm, which carried on through the night, I got to further ingratiate myself with his dogs, with whom he carries on the sappiest love affair I have ever witnessed.

Of course, to Woody, who has two daughters and grandchildren and various associates he’s helped stay afloat, these two female dogs, a Boxer and Goldendoodle, are integral parts of his St. Louis family. And I showed my reverence, though voicing a constant reverie to my two deceased Labs, Marley and Wilbur, both of whom Woody has met and was forced to praise.

Woody, a relentless planner and scheduler, informed me we were to go out to a sports bar with the greatest “burgers” and meet a couple deemed their very close friends, which meant I should be on my best behavior and not unsettle or outrage, or, worse yet, “make a scene,” always a concern.

Well, I wore my only collared shirt and was an exemplar of social grace and more than meshed with a handsome couple twenty years my junior (Beth is but 60), and in fact hit it off with them since they hated Trump.

It seems Woody’s male friend met Beth at a marathon race they both completed, and introduced her to his wife. I was surrounded by high functioning people capable of making scads of money, were involved in humane causes, lived healthily, in short were credits to the breed, and who were only too happy to socialize with an obvious slacker and freeloader, though Woody, to his credit, mentioned I was a “published author,” certainly a smidgen of note.

Afterwards, there were hugs all around, and back at the suburban household it was time to watch a little NBA playoff hoop on Woody’s too small and constantly fucking up’ TV.

At this point I began tossing a rubber ball to his dogs, who adore me, while Woody and Beth nodded off from time to time as their guest stayed awake, multitasking by continuing for hours to toss balls to the dogs, watch the games, and occasionally raid a large jar of mixed nuts, feeling, as an adept freeloader, I might as well try and get as much as I can before returning to pauper-hood in Cayucos By The Sea.

On the final morning before being driven to the airport, Woody summoned me from my spot observing the multitude of birds zeroing in on his two tall bird feeders in his spacious backyard while the neighborhood squirrels and rabbits took turns on the ground (another highlight).

He led me to the front yard where he used an elongated power saw from his garage and sawed off a dead branch from a large tree that would have been impossible to cut without a ladder. The branch was quite long and so Woody, with an air of smugness, returned to his garage (which has every tool and appliance and spray can imaginable) and emerged with a smaller power saw in which he sawed the long branch into three smaller pieces and asked me to place them in the trash can by the curb, and showed a disgruntled reaction when I placed them in another can nearer to the house.

I quickly corrected my mistake.

Then it was out to the hangar where there was mention of my riding this electric powered skateboard with a handle while the dogs supposedly chased me, certainly another of his attempts to expose my incompetence and even injure me so he could again in a long suffering manner come to my rescue.

Well, I pooh-poohed this venture and swatted balls to the dogs while Woody worked on a project Beth assigned him in the morning, obviously wanting to give him something to do besides golfing and playing handball and, disgracefully, pickleball, which I termed a “pussy sport for broken down pseudo athletes without the skills to play tennis.”

I swept and watched the news at the hangar while he started his project, and later accompanied him to the hardware store where a weathered middle-aged female clerk immediately showed respect for Woody as a person “knowing what he was doing and belonging in a hardware store,” unlike the tag-along who looked “suspect.”

The lady at the front counter also sized me up as “not belonging,” but I said something that brought her a smile and later I told Woody, “I like those ladies. They’re nice.”

“Nice as can be.”

“And they voted for Trump.”

He nodded. “And they’ll end up suffering the most.”

Woody completed his project, much to Beth’s delight, and we all then went to a huge gym they both belonged to, and after I road the exercise bike, Woody lured me to the basketball gym where I showed him I still had my shooting stroke while he struggled.

Later, Beth showed up and claimed “nobody can leave until we make our last shot.” Well, she stood close to the basket and made a lay-up, which caused Woody to upbraid her for taking an easy shot.

And this was when I took charge. “She gets to shoot from wherever she wants,” I testified with conviction. “She makes the rules, she runs the show.” Woody had no choice but to comply, and when I made two 20-footers that never touched the rim, while he threw up bricks, Beth cheered me on and declared me the winner, obviously having witnessed enough of my subtle humiliation by her millionaire.

It doesn’t take much to please a pauper and I felt pretty satisfied about my trip when Woody dropped me off at the airport that afternoon (Beth’s nourishment package tucked into my backpack) with explicit directions that he claimed would help me “not to get lost and screw up.”

It’s good to be home.