Big Bay, Michigan, 1938

Silas Simonson parked the lumber camp truck outside Big Bay's general store. The pulpwood company had finally scraped together enough funds to restock some bare necessities, not easy in the middle of the Great Depression.

Silas gawked a few moments at a shiny new Ford Deluxe Coupe in the prime parking spot, then strode inside. With a nod he greeted Mr. Flurry who stood at the counter, busy talking to a short well-dressed man.

The customer's profile looked familiar, but Silas couldn't place him. Not a lumberman, obviously, in his fancy duds. Townsfolk didn't dress that fine neither.

Memory flickered. Literally. He'd seen this man in flickering light somewhere.

Silas snapped his fingers. At the cinema! On a newsreel! The U.S. News Review, that played before every feature film.

He was seconds away from dredging up the celebrity's name when Mr. Flurry waved him over. "Mr. Simonson, I would like you to meet Mr. Ford."

The customer turned face on, and sure enough, that famous face belonged to Henry Ford!

Silas managed some small talk, then made a leap. "Mr. Ford, how'd you like to come on down the railroad tracks a ways and see our pulp loading machine? It's called a jammer. I 'xpect you've never seen a machine that can pick up a cord of wood from a truck and swing it out onto the gondola car in one grand sweep."

Mr. Ford chuckled. "No, I 'xpect I haven't. I'll be out there tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock. Will that suit? Till then, gentlemen." He tipped his hat and headed for that sleek coupe out front.

Silas watched the man drive off. "I bet that's the last we'll see of the richest fella on earth!"

Mr. Flurry huffed. "You don't know Mr. Ford! If he says he'll show, he'll darn well show. He's a man of his word."

.

The next afternoon Silas arrived at the jammer early enough to brush the worst of daily debris from the camp's valuable labor-saver.

Right on the hour, Henry Ford drove up. He got out of the car, trailed by a bodyguard, and inspected the hulking machine.

Silas pointed out the motor -- which ironically enough was made by Chevrolet -- and the wench and other components.

Mr. Ford studied a long shaft in the apparatus. "You need a bearing placed in the middle, son," he advised, then continued looking everything over. He glanced around. "Got a spot to sit a while?"

Silas guided him to a log nearby where they settled down for a hearty conversation.

A few minutes in, Mr. Ford reached into a pocket and drew out, of all things, a carrot.

Silas grinned. "What's that for?"

"My lunch," Henry replied, and set to peeling it. "A carrot, you know, is about the best food obtainable for your health."

Silas fished in a pocket, too. He drew out a notebook. "Would you sign this for me, sir?" he asked. "A keepsake."

"Glad to, son."

.

For over 30 years, Silas carried around the notebook that held the same exact scrawl as is found on every Model T radiator shell.

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From "50 Years in the Sandhills and the Forest," by Jesse Simonson, pages 107-108

Slightly reworded by Joyce Holt, who rendered narrative into dialogue and added only the details about the newsreel and which model Mr. Ford drove that day.

Prompt: review