Truth and Tall Grass

Truth matters.
When I was fourteen my family lived in a small house in an unassuming neighborhood. A quiet and friendly neighborhood where I had a number of friends and two best ones. We rode bikes, played football and baseball, explored the woods, shot our twenty-twos, set pennies on the train tracks, and were generally encumbered only by a curfew. For money I collected bottles from the roadside, worked on an occasional home improvement project for my father, and mowed a few lawns. It was a good time in my young life and I was innocent.

The neighbors to the left were pleasant enough people. Clean-cut thirty-ish couple with two young kids. They moved out a couple of months after we moved in. During the brief time we were neighbors I never visited but we did say hi once in a while. One day the man – Tim - approached me as I arrived home from school. He told me they were moving to Texas tomorrow and asked me if I would be interested in earning a few dollars. Tim led me to his back yard which was enclosed by a chain link fence. Though his front yard had been maintained, the back yard was completely out of control. The grass and weeds were probably three feet high covering the whole yard. No exaggeration, three feet. Tim told me he was unable to mow it before he left town and asked me how much I would charge to cut it down. No bagging, just a cut. I told him I was interested in the job but wasn’t sure at the moment what to charge. Tim suggested twenty dollars and offered to pay up front. I wasn’t sure if the job was worth twenty dollars, since it wasn’t a huge yard and – with a little effort - my mower should handle it OK. I told Tim how about if I contact him after the job is done and advise him the price. He agreed that would be great.

The weekend came and Tim and his family were gone. I dragged my mower next door and realized the grass was way too much. For some reason we owned a sling sickle which hung in the shed. I took that sling sickle to that grass, and after a couple of hours and a couple of trips to the garden hose, I had knocked down the top of the grass to a height of less than a foot. I followed up with the push mower which stalled in the thick grass a dozen times before finishing the job. So about three hours in the sun on a job unexpectedly challenging.

Still, twenty dollars seemed a bit steep. I decided ten dollars was fair. I went home, put the equipment away, cleaned up a bit and wrote Tim a bill in the form of a note. I wrote that the job was pretty tough but not really worth twenty dollars, and I was asking for ten. I placed the note in an envelope, sealed it, addressed it to Tim’s new address in Texas, rode my bike to the corner store, bought a Mr. Pibb, and dropped the letter in the mailbox.

A month or so went by and nothing. I sent another bill. Nothing. I never got that ten dollars and never heard from Tim again.

I have childhood memories but I’m sure I’ve deleted many more than I recall. This one somehow remains burned onto the permanent section of my brain’s hard drive. I think I learned the value of one’s word, and the displeasure caused by breaking it.

Hunting

My friend Rich to his eleven year-old son Tony:

"Tony, you want to go hunting?"
"Sure, what do we need, Dad?"
"A loincloth and a Bowie knife."
"Hm.. I don't have a Bowie knife."

Flossing

I just thought of an important question. I don’t know the correct answer.

Scenario: While flossing your teeth – perhaps during anemergency flossing situation – you pluck out a substantial morsel of this or that. A stubborn piece of steak or corn. A shred of lettuce or raisin bran. A chunk of cracked black pepper (or maybe it’s not that at all but an unidentifiable food particle).

Question: Now what do you do?

Coffee Talk

Last night I ran into a guy in line at Starbucks. I stood at the counter waiting for a barista to appear and this guy walked up from somewhere in the back, perhaps the men’s room.  Here’s what he looked like: white guy about 30, average height and build.  Short black hair, light complexion.  Clean shaven, dressed casual but neat.  Black sweater, gray jeans, black loafers.  I was in my police uniform and as I glanced at him he saw fit to make conversation. 

“Is it busy for you?  When it’s rains?” he smiled and asked.  Definite accent of some kind.  I was in the heart of the tourist area so I assumed he was visiting Orlando.  I said, “No, not busy.”  He then began to explain why he asked.  Evidently, some time earlier, he had observed something involving a guy in a car stopped in the middle of the road, with its lights off, blocking traffic.  The thing is, it took the guy about two solid minutes to describe what he had seen (and he never got to the part of why he had been fascinated).  As it turned out he had a French accent, and his English was especially weak.  And he stuttered.  It was like this:

I saw……………….a car with a………MAN!…………………………………………………………..and he was parked………………………………………………………………………………………………….in THE STREET!…………………(he struggled to help the words escape)………………………………………with the………………………………………………………………………lights off  and he was like….(leans back describing the driver reclined in his seat waiting for a tow truck maybe?)…………………leaning back in the ……………….CAR!……..

That’s when the barista arrived.  I focused on the French guy, and the barista girl made sure not to interrupt while adjusting the money in the tip jar.

He continued painfully (for me, anyway) to describe the guy in the car in the middle of the road in the rain.  During an extended pause, I took the opportunity to order my coffee.  “Tallblack!” I ordered, as quickly as I could.  She said ok and walked away.

Then I interrupted.  “That’s crazy.  No-it’s-not-really-busy-in-the-rain,” I enunciated.  “The-rain-makes-it-slow.”  Frenchie looked at me and cocked his head, not understanding.  I continued, “But-the-NBA-this-weekend?  Wow, now-THAT-was-busy!”

He smiled and nodded.  “Oh yes the………………………NBA!  The………………………………. basket……….ball.  Yes.”

Coffee up.  I grabbed a stopper, inserted it and told the guy it was nice to meet him.  He agreed and I left. 

So there you have it.  You’ve wondered if one stutters in multiple languages and the answer is, I think so!

www.stutteringhelp.org

I found the accompanying sculpture at my local city hall yesterday. Though I was intrigued by the form and moved by the sheer elegance of the design, I could not help but feel dumb, faced with all them big words.