i met a great old man yesterday. his name was lester. i was driving through maryland, going faster than i should have been, but there's just something about winding country roads on hot summer days that makes your right foot heavy and thus the wind on your face and all through your hair indeed all the more glorious.
in my speed, i passed an old white farmhouse that had a sign propped in the front yard next to a table full of glassware that said "FREE." so, i pulled into the nearest driveway and turned around to head back to the table full of glassware and the sign that said free. and that's where i met lester. i hope that some day i'm like lester, or that my husband, widowed or not, is in some way like him too.
he had beautiful, countless wrinkles all over his face like a map of the state of virginia. rivulets and winding roads, his face with elevated plains. he was suntanned like sweet caramel and wore a crown of bleached white hair. he moved slow but with strength. he had a crisp white undershirt on with suspenders by his side, chashew colored trousers and his work boots nice and worn like an old thatched roof.
he had lived there in that house about forty years and in that small town since the 1930's. he had two wives over the course of his life- both now deceased. they had each shared some time, living with him in that beautiful old white farmhouse.
his smile drew you in and his gentle voice was a near whisper. his daughter lived in another white house across the road from his. i glanced back as he told me this, thought maybe i'd see her on the porch, but had no such luck. he had a ball cap on with a large visor that stood tall atop his wispy white hair. lester. you just don't hear names like that these days.
i found some beautiful dishes on the long tables that his belongings were strewn across. when i first pulled into his drive he was "just setting up shop," peeling back tarp after tarp, going from one table to the next, uncovering all the dishes that had been hidden from the rain that was on-again off-again all week. he said that the large sign boasting "FREE" always got the people to stop- just like it did me. i told him he had a great collection of tools. some were new but mostly old. it's the old things that have such beauty and character. just like lester- old and full of stories.
while i walked along the tables, filling my plastic grocery bag, lester sat on a covered bench swing next to the table that held most of his tools. he told me that most of the items for sale he had acquired at auctions. he brought a crystal dish over to me still donning its old price tag; $25.00, it said. lester showed me the only blemish he could find, said his eyes were too weak to see it, but his fingers had come across it. gently caressing the rim of the bowl he came to the small chip of missing glass and had me feel its roughness. he probably would have asked a quarter for it. he seemed to be a very generous man.
i wondered how much stuff he had inside. if his whole house was full of nick knacks and trinkets from living life the past seventy years there- with his first wife and second, the scampering of children in and out, young and now grown. living on in that house and a bed once shared. i wondered how often his daughter, in the other white house, came for a visit or maybe to share some dinner. if i lived near those white houses, i'd like to think that i'd sit out there a lot with lester. we'd sit out on the bench swing and watch the sun set and hear the birds sing. and maybe i'd remind him of his former wife, or a daughter, or maybe just that there is still love to be held and life to be shared.
after i gave him five dollars, we exchanged goodbyes and waved a few times. and as i pulled back onto that winding country road, with the windows down and my hair all a mess, lester waved once more. glancing back, the sunlight became surreal and quite suddenly soothing. and picking up speed, the white house out of sight, i simply thanked God for this humble introduction.
Showing posts with label Strangers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Strangers. Show all posts
07 July 2008
09 May 2008
Good Night
Today at the local shopping mall I watched a teenage girl sit down to a McDonald's meal. She was at a small round table, identical to the one I was seated at, directly across from me. I watched as she ate one greasy thing after another and then watched her lift a large purple knapsack from off of the floor and onto her lap. With sack on her lap, I watched as she wrapped the remains of her hash brown loaf, tight, in the yellow and red grease stained paper. Then she stuffed the wrapped loaf in her front pocket- just like Napoleon. I had to laugh.
I met two people today. Didn't get any names, but at least struck up some friendly conversation with a few strangers. First was the barista at Starbucks. The one, and it seems they all do these days, that made my drink improperly. So we got to chatting, as he remade my drink, and he ended up rewarding me the errored one as well.
50 minutes later, after I sat and wrote, and watched the girl stuff the tater loaf in her pocket, I met a lady in the Produce Junction parking lot- who drove a Jetta identical to mine. We got to talking, because there I was, strawberries in hand, trying to enter her vehicle. I should have known better- her car was cleaner, but any way, that's how we got to talking.
And then it started raining and the tears of God softened my day. And once the rains subsided, I was back home, with flour dusted hands, kneading shortbread stacks into perfect four inch rounds, sandwiching tiny dots of butter between.
And now I'm tired. There are only crumbs scattered across this tablecloth where I now sit, where once the biscuits cooled, reminding me of the mess I made just hours ago. Dough covered bowls and batter soaked whisks fill the sink- and the dishes will have to wait for tomorrow. I just hope the ants don't vacation tonight.
We read from James earlier- about oaths, sickness, confession and faith. And it's by this faith I tread on- I do hold on. It's always been and will continue to be the unknown in which I live. I'm here, right now, at this crumb covered cloth and that is all I'm guaranteed. But in faith I've set my alarm clock and in faith I've dreamed a dream. And just like that hash brown loaf, wrapped tight in red and yellow, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
I met two people today. Didn't get any names, but at least struck up some friendly conversation with a few strangers. First was the barista at Starbucks. The one, and it seems they all do these days, that made my drink improperly. So we got to chatting, as he remade my drink, and he ended up rewarding me the errored one as well.
50 minutes later, after I sat and wrote, and watched the girl stuff the tater loaf in her pocket, I met a lady in the Produce Junction parking lot- who drove a Jetta identical to mine. We got to talking, because there I was, strawberries in hand, trying to enter her vehicle. I should have known better- her car was cleaner, but any way, that's how we got to talking.
And then it started raining and the tears of God softened my day. And once the rains subsided, I was back home, with flour dusted hands, kneading shortbread stacks into perfect four inch rounds, sandwiching tiny dots of butter between.
And now I'm tired. There are only crumbs scattered across this tablecloth where I now sit, where once the biscuits cooled, reminding me of the mess I made just hours ago. Dough covered bowls and batter soaked whisks fill the sink- and the dishes will have to wait for tomorrow. I just hope the ants don't vacation tonight.
We read from James earlier- about oaths, sickness, confession and faith. And it's by this faith I tread on- I do hold on. It's always been and will continue to be the unknown in which I live. I'm here, right now, at this crumb covered cloth and that is all I'm guaranteed. But in faith I've set my alarm clock and in faith I've dreamed a dream. And just like that hash brown loaf, wrapped tight in red and yellow, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
14 April 2008
Dianne
Today I met Dianne, security personnel, employed by the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Her generously sized bottom was hanging off the base of this giant marble sculpture, in the Early American Art wing, under a portico and next to a water fountain. I sure did learn a lot about her in those eight minutes we shared.
Her husband had a black father and a white mother. She had leftover meatloaf from the previous nights dinner for lunch that afternoon, and she gets a 30 minute lunch break each day (and uses every minute of it). She smokes a pack of cigarettes a day, and for a while she was pretty generous with her cigarettes, but then people started taking advantage of her and her cigarettes. So, she started saying no, to the people she didn't like (and she told them off too), and to the people she liked, she charged them a quarter.
She is bipolar. The previous Saturday she had to leave work (her 12 hour shift) early, because she started having an anxiety attack- thinking about her son that had just gotten locked up. She was in the emergency room two hours (and has the papers to prove it).
Her husband makes her dinner every night. Last night he made her fried chicken, and tonight he was making pork chops and rice, and she thought that was just alright. She said I was skinny and said she used to be skinny too. She weighed 110lbs- then she got the job at the art museum, just standing around all day (not sittin'- that's how she introduced herself, "...psst...don't tell my boss I'm sittin'") and ballooned to 210lbs. She said she's tried all kinds of diets. One diet she ate all healthy, went on walks after dinner, and after several long months, lost only two pounds. 2lbs! So she went back on the fried chicken, meatloaf and pork chops. Next, she told me, she wanted to try the cookie diet. "Have you heard of the cookie diet?" she asked me. I told her yes, but didn't know what it consisted of. She went on to tell me you eat only cookies- but not just any cookie, they were expensive, healthy type cookies.
She had light skin- looked half black, half Hispanic. She had beautiful, toffee almond colored freckles, all over her pale, fair skinned face. Her hair looked a bit frizzy (the type of frizzy you get when you brush out your curls and it's humid out) and was dyed a lighter shade of her natural brown color. The textured lines created by her brushed out curls had become thicker with the days rain and heat and seemed to want out from the elastic that kept them bound in ponytail.
On top she wore a light blue cotton uniformed shirt, which was tucked into her navy blue polyester trousers, letting just the tips of her black boots show. She was short in stature and round in form. Her left front tooth was a gold one and because it sparkled so much, I caught myself noticing it quite often as we spoke. The tooth wasn't solid gold- just the outline of the tooth, the rectangular perimeter, but you sure couldn't miss it. Like I said, she had a pale, fair skinned face, so that shiny tooth sure drew attention. She had a slight lisp and even a slight accent- not so much a regional accent but more a lazy one, slurring her words and letters. But it was nice and refreshing, even down to earth.
She said her feet were on fire (this is before I knew her name, that she was bipolar, that she had fried chicken last night or that she had her husband's meatloaf for lunch earlier). I was filling up my water bottle, just to the right of where she was doing the unimaginable for an art museum security guard- sitting, and that's where we first met. I guess I looked like the type of person who would tell on her, a tattletale type, because this is how she introduced herself; "Don't tell no one you saw me sittin'." Then that's when she told me her feet were on fire.
I liked meeting Dianne. I liked that she was so sociable, so honest. I could see myself having a good time with her at a barbecue. Sitting back at a picnic table, sippin' some sweet tea, listening to her talk about her son that was locked up. And I'd listen, just like I did for those eight minutes we shared under that portico and next to the well, just listen.
Her husband had a black father and a white mother. She had leftover meatloaf from the previous nights dinner for lunch that afternoon, and she gets a 30 minute lunch break each day (and uses every minute of it). She smokes a pack of cigarettes a day, and for a while she was pretty generous with her cigarettes, but then people started taking advantage of her and her cigarettes. So, she started saying no, to the people she didn't like (and she told them off too), and to the people she liked, she charged them a quarter.
She is bipolar. The previous Saturday she had to leave work (her 12 hour shift) early, because she started having an anxiety attack- thinking about her son that had just gotten locked up. She was in the emergency room two hours (and has the papers to prove it).
Her husband makes her dinner every night. Last night he made her fried chicken, and tonight he was making pork chops and rice, and she thought that was just alright. She said I was skinny and said she used to be skinny too. She weighed 110lbs- then she got the job at the art museum, just standing around all day (not sittin'- that's how she introduced herself, "...psst...don't tell my boss I'm sittin'") and ballooned to 210lbs. She said she's tried all kinds of diets. One diet she ate all healthy, went on walks after dinner, and after several long months, lost only two pounds. 2lbs! So she went back on the fried chicken, meatloaf and pork chops. Next, she told me, she wanted to try the cookie diet. "Have you heard of the cookie diet?" she asked me. I told her yes, but didn't know what it consisted of. She went on to tell me you eat only cookies- but not just any cookie, they were expensive, healthy type cookies.
She had light skin- looked half black, half Hispanic. She had beautiful, toffee almond colored freckles, all over her pale, fair skinned face. Her hair looked a bit frizzy (the type of frizzy you get when you brush out your curls and it's humid out) and was dyed a lighter shade of her natural brown color. The textured lines created by her brushed out curls had become thicker with the days rain and heat and seemed to want out from the elastic that kept them bound in ponytail.
On top she wore a light blue cotton uniformed shirt, which was tucked into her navy blue polyester trousers, letting just the tips of her black boots show. She was short in stature and round in form. Her left front tooth was a gold one and because it sparkled so much, I caught myself noticing it quite often as we spoke. The tooth wasn't solid gold- just the outline of the tooth, the rectangular perimeter, but you sure couldn't miss it. Like I said, she had a pale, fair skinned face, so that shiny tooth sure drew attention. She had a slight lisp and even a slight accent- not so much a regional accent but more a lazy one, slurring her words and letters. But it was nice and refreshing, even down to earth.
She said her feet were on fire (this is before I knew her name, that she was bipolar, that she had fried chicken last night or that she had her husband's meatloaf for lunch earlier). I was filling up my water bottle, just to the right of where she was doing the unimaginable for an art museum security guard- sitting, and that's where we first met. I guess I looked like the type of person who would tell on her, a tattletale type, because this is how she introduced herself; "Don't tell no one you saw me sittin'." Then that's when she told me her feet were on fire.
I liked meeting Dianne. I liked that she was so sociable, so honest. I could see myself having a good time with her at a barbecue. Sitting back at a picnic table, sippin' some sweet tea, listening to her talk about her son that was locked up. And I'd listen, just like I did for those eight minutes we shared under that portico and next to the well, just listen.
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