Just before 6:00 a.m. the other morning, I was standing out on the back porch, a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, enjoying the panoramic view of the meadow, the river, and the Sandhills beyond.
It
appears spring’s finally arrived. It wasn’t a cold winter, although the last half of April’s seen record-setting low temperatures and tons of snow. It’s been most peculiar; six out of each seven days it’s been like spring, everything growing green and lush, temperatures in the 70s.....and one out of each seven days it’s been like early January.
This week, it was Monday that a blizzard had happened; last week, it was Tuesday, and the week before that, Monday, and the week before that one, Tuesday, and the week before, Tuesday. One day out of each seven, massive snowfalls, all of which suddenly evaporated the following day.
Because these have been one-day phenomenons, with low temperatures in the high 20s, they didn’t affect anything growing up from the ground, which as been going on since mid-March, although it started a month earlier than that on the William Rivers Pitt, which is “warmer†than the soil surrounding.
Just as I turned to go back into the house, a guy trod out from the back door.
A thin and wiry cowboy, maybe mid-20s, whom I’d never seen before.
He stopped in his tracks, startled, but I managed to re-direct his stare upward, to my eyes.
He told me I was to call the owner, that it was an urgent matter and I needed to talk with him right away.
Well, if it was that important, best I go immediately to town for a face-to-face encounter, rather than using the telephone, so I quickly got dressed and left.
- - - - - - - - - -
An hour later, I was in the waiting room of the hospital in the big city.
Late the previous night, there’d been a drunken-driving accident, and the property caretaker had been seriously injured. It’d been touch-and-go most of the night, but by the time I heard of it, his condition had stabilized and he’s going to make it okay.
My first thought had been that the caretaker had been drunk and was to blame for this, as he drinks a lot.
But in this case, that wasn’t the case; he’d been cold sober. The driver of the other vehicle, who escaped unscathed, had been sordidly drunk.
Even though it was early in the morning, the waiting-room was jampacked with people from town. The caretaker, who’s 67 years old, is a life-long resident, and enormously popular. He’s a thin, wizened bald little guy with (apparently; I wouldn’t know myself) a high-pitched voice and obviously with a bug-eye that can drive one nuts if one looks at it long enough.
He’d spent much of his growing-up years around this place, being a shirt-tail relative of the owners, and had gone to Vietnam during the mid-1960s. When his first tour there was up, he re-enlisted for another one, as many of his friends were still in service there. He came back home, undamaged.
He began working for the steel company in the big city, married, and had a son. But his wild streak wasn’t purged out of him until he was in his late 20s, and one day ended with himself and his super-duper motorcycle in a ditch. Helmets weren’t required at the time, and he sustained some brain damage, happily only minor (but noticeable) and acquired the bug-eye.
After recovery, it didn’t keep him from working, and he finished thirty years at the steel plant, after which he became caretaker of various properties the owners have scattered around the county.
- - - - - - - - - -
The caretaker’s wife was there, and I kissed her. So too were his son and daughter-in-law, and I shook their hands. But then because there were so many people around and because there wasn’t a thing I could do myself for anybody, I left.
The caretaker’s always called me “young man†when he’s sober, and “boss†when he’s drunk. (And so usually he’s called me “boss.â€) It’s sarcasm, of course, because he’s much older than I am, and wiser.
He’s been an invaluable friend in that whenever I’ve been full of it, he’s told me so without pulling any punches. We all need such people in our lives, so as to maintain a realistic perspective about ourselves.
I’m very grateful he’s going to make it.
- - - - - - - - - - -
The next morning, the neighbor was here. I’ve seen him only rarely the past ten days, and that for only a couple of minutes at a time, because of the recent birth of his fifth child, a daughter.
“Well, what do you suppose is going to happen now?†I asked; “you can’t tell me because you don’t know any more than I do, but [the caretaker]’s going to be out for at least three months--â€
“Oh, but he’s not coming back,†the neighbor interrupted. “Of course, he’s coming back, and he’ll be hanging around here and everywhere else, especially during hunting and fishing seasons, but he’s not coming back as caretaker.
“When he retired from the steel mill, he’d hoped to relax, but then [the family of the owner of this, and other, properties] prevailed upon him to come to work for them, after their previous overseer went to operate a hog farm in the next county. Because of the Reagan-Bush-Gingrich-Bush Prosperity, everybody already had jobs, and it was hard to find a replacement.
"This was an ideal set-up, they thought; since he was family, and knew all the properties, and since he wasn’t doing anything in particular, well, it was just ideal.
“In case you haven’t noticed, it’s taken its toll.â€
No, I said; “I hadn’t noticed. He’s always been as animated as vinegar-and-beans.â€
“Well, both of us have a long ways to go, to reach 67, but I imagine by the time we do, we’ll be tired too.â€
Hmmmm. I had no idea.
“They’ll hire a new caretaker,†the neighbor added; "as you and I know, there's lots of people out looking for jobs now."
to be continued