Two days ago, for various reasons, I left the Samuels Public Library in Front Royal, Virginia, in a funk and started the short drive to my daughter’s house. (Perhaps my tombstone should someday read: “He thunk and he thunk/And died in a funk).
Near the public high school on the four-lane road an old man was hitchhiking. For whatever reason, and for the first time in thirty years, I stopped the car for a hitchhiker and motioned for the old man to get inside. “I’m only going another two stop lights,” I said as he settled in the seat.
Near the public high school on the four-lane road an old man was hitchhiking. For whatever reason, and for the first time in thirty years, I stopped the car for a hitchhiker and motioned for the old man to get inside. “I’m only going another two stop lights,” I said as he settled in the seat.
Then began one of those weird conversations to which I am sometimes privy.
The man was dressed in overalls, a checked shirt, a coat, and a dirty cap. (He looked a little like the man in the photo, only more gone in the head). He spoke with an accent common to the countryside around Front Royal, but that was not the reason I could understand only every third word or so of what he said. No—my incomprehension stemmed from the fact that the man was toothless. When I asked him how far he was going, he said “Awbowt choo mile,” which I interpreted as two miles. (It turned out to be six, so either he had a dismal sense of distance or more likely I misinterpreted what he said. For the rest of this story, I will record his conversation in proper English).
At any rate, I decided to drive him home. It was one of those “what the heck” moments.
So in the eight or ten minutes we were together I learned that this old man 1) was a wonderful leaf raker—“You got leafs need rakin’, I’m your man”; 2) had last year lost his “woman” to death; 3) lived alone with a cat; 4) had seen a buck recently in a field we passed (or maybe he said duck); 5) inhabited a large but utterly dilapidated farmhouse, the front yard of which was littered with various pots, pieces of machinery, and furniture.
At one point, he reached into the plastic bag he was carrying, pulled out a Christmas card, signed it “Carl F.” (I am withholding his last name), and handed it to me. “I’m in the book, you need any leafs raked,” he said.
As he was getting out of the car, Carl said, “I love peanut butter cookies. You bring me some cookies and we’ll visit.” Then he added, “God bless you.”
It’s unlikely Carl and I will share cookies together. But I did get a laugh out of his request. And a blessing.
And it’s laughter and blessings that chase away the blues.
The man was dressed in overalls, a checked shirt, a coat, and a dirty cap. (He looked a little like the man in the photo, only more gone in the head). He spoke with an accent common to the countryside around Front Royal, but that was not the reason I could understand only every third word or so of what he said. No—my incomprehension stemmed from the fact that the man was toothless. When I asked him how far he was going, he said “Awbowt choo mile,” which I interpreted as two miles. (It turned out to be six, so either he had a dismal sense of distance or more likely I misinterpreted what he said. For the rest of this story, I will record his conversation in proper English).
At any rate, I decided to drive him home. It was one of those “what the heck” moments.
So in the eight or ten minutes we were together I learned that this old man 1) was a wonderful leaf raker—“You got leafs need rakin’, I’m your man”; 2) had last year lost his “woman” to death; 3) lived alone with a cat; 4) had seen a buck recently in a field we passed (or maybe he said duck); 5) inhabited a large but utterly dilapidated farmhouse, the front yard of which was littered with various pots, pieces of machinery, and furniture.
At one point, he reached into the plastic bag he was carrying, pulled out a Christmas card, signed it “Carl F.” (I am withholding his last name), and handed it to me. “I’m in the book, you need any leafs raked,” he said.
As he was getting out of the car, Carl said, “I love peanut butter cookies. You bring me some cookies and we’ll visit.” Then he added, “God bless you.”
It’s unlikely Carl and I will share cookies together. But I did get a laugh out of his request. And a blessing.
And it’s laughter and blessings that chase away the blues.