The Elevator

Don has a great story to share, so he's writing today's blog.


Conversation with a nice lady from Oak Ridge:
The lady and I were in the Tigo store in the MegaPlaza in French Harbor.  Me waiting on my friend Rick to get his phone repaired.  She waiting for her number to be called.  (These Hondurans are rapidly getting up to date; now they have these same “Take-a-number” dispensers that we have in U.S. post offices.)
A chance remark in the store elicited a comment from the lady, I nodded my agreement, and a conversation ensued.
She said she had been living on Roatan since 1975.  Now this alone will always hook me.  Anyone living here that long has a thousand page book of stories.  I was fortunate to hear one before her number was called.
She said her father first came here (Honduras) in 1949.  I asked her why.  She said to install an elevator.
Now this seemed pretty unlikely to begin with.  “An elevator?” I said.  “Here on Roatan?”
“No,” she replied.  “In the Banco Atlantida building in La Cieba.  Have you ever been in it?”
I said that no, I hadn’t.
“It’s a two story building,” she continued.  “The building has a very nice, wide stairway to the second floor.  Do you know why the elevator was installed?”
I shook my head.
“Over on the mainland the elite, the tall dogs, don’t drink rum.  They drink scotch.  Several times a year the board of directors of the bank held their board meeting in a room on the second floor.  During the course of the meeting a great deal of scotch was consumed.  So much so that, more than once, one of the board members fell down the stairs after the meeting.  They decided this had to end.  That is why my father was called to install the elevator.”