Rednecks & Weed-eaters
B. Lynne Zika
August: I’ve made three more trips since I wrote the following; William never was home. So the weeds are still tossing their curls into the wind.
June: The weed-eater’s not cranking up. My neighbor Bob recommended a fellow down the road who does small-engine repair. Bob said William’s the truest definition of a redneck you’d ever hope to meet, which was saying something since Bob himself sports a goodly twang and two missing front teeth. Don’t get me wrong; I sympathize with dental issues, and Bob’s a good fellow, married to a German woman who’s got the sweetest, trimmest little kitchen garden a backyard ever boasted. And Bob’s the one who found me the used weed-eater to begin with. It worked well… for a while.
So at Bob’s recommendation I called up William and arranged to swing by the following day. After 5:30, which is when he gets home from work.
William lives a block over, almost directly behind me. There’s something about his section of the street that’s just a tad seedy. Nothing you can exactly put your finger on right away, but as I waited… and waited… for someone to answer the door, the details began to fill in.
1. A piece of chain from a child’s swing set wrapped around one of the wrought-iron pillars on the front porch. Meant for a yard dog, obviously, but there was no dog.
2. Next to the chain, a metal water bowl growing mold samples under an inch of water.
3. On the other porch pillar, the industrious homeowner had tied a black plastic flowerpot with a strip from a black plastic garbage bag. This was the mailbox.
4. Two trucks parked on the grass, one sedan in the driveway.
William never answered the door. I left a note, with my phone number, asking him to give me a call to reschedule. Haven’t heard anything, but he may get around to it eventually. I did notice that despite the fact that I knocked several times, I never did hear any dog barking. May be it died and William just hasn’t gotten around to tossing out the chain and bowl. He might get around to that eventually, too.
Wonder what the turnaround is like on repairing a weed-eater—assuming, of course, he’s actually at home one of these days.
Meanwhile, I reckon I’ll sit out on the porch and watch the grass grow.
Roll tide.
B. Lynne Zika
August: I’ve made three more trips since I wrote the following; William never was home. So the weeds are still tossing their curls into the wind.
June: The weed-eater’s not cranking up. My neighbor Bob recommended a fellow down the road who does small-engine repair. Bob said William’s the truest definition of a redneck you’d ever hope to meet, which was saying something since Bob himself sports a goodly twang and two missing front teeth. Don’t get me wrong; I sympathize with dental issues, and Bob’s a good fellow, married to a German woman who’s got the sweetest, trimmest little kitchen garden a backyard ever boasted. And Bob’s the one who found me the used weed-eater to begin with. It worked well… for a while.
So at Bob’s recommendation I called up William and arranged to swing by the following day. After 5:30, which is when he gets home from work.
William lives a block over, almost directly behind me. There’s something about his section of the street that’s just a tad seedy. Nothing you can exactly put your finger on right away, but as I waited… and waited… for someone to answer the door, the details began to fill in.
1. A piece of chain from a child’s swing set wrapped around one of the wrought-iron pillars on the front porch. Meant for a yard dog, obviously, but there was no dog.
2. Next to the chain, a metal water bowl growing mold samples under an inch of water.
3. On the other porch pillar, the industrious homeowner had tied a black plastic flowerpot with a strip from a black plastic garbage bag. This was the mailbox.
4. Two trucks parked on the grass, one sedan in the driveway.
William never answered the door. I left a note, with my phone number, asking him to give me a call to reschedule. Haven’t heard anything, but he may get around to it eventually. I did notice that despite the fact that I knocked several times, I never did hear any dog barking. May be it died and William just hasn’t gotten around to tossing out the chain and bowl. He might get around to that eventually, too.
Wonder what the turnaround is like on repairing a weed-eater—assuming, of course, he’s actually at home one of these days.
Meanwhile, I reckon I’ll sit out on the porch and watch the grass grow.
Roll tide.
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