We had a treat this week at Dinner.
Somebody had pulled into the parking lot earlier towing a trailer load of fresh picked that day corn, all husks and silk and waiting for boiling water and butter. CL had talked to him, found out that it was extra from the market and said, hell, yes, we'd love some, thanks.
When I arrived at 6, there were pots of water steaming away on the stove. J, our organizational genius, and the nurse were pulling ears from the water, putting them on whatever would function as a platter and serving the farmer's gift from table to table.
We had real butter in the fridge, left over from something else, so it was perfect.
Unfortunately, corn on the cob wasn't an option for N.
The first thing I saw in the parking lot this week was N, walking slowly toward 'the church', his left hand held up at shoulder height, wrapped entirely in bright white bandages.
He'd been helping a friend do some construction and was in charge of the table saw. If you're squeamish, just skip to the next paragraph. He was making slats for part of the job and the first, the second, the third, the fourth all went just fine. But wood being wood, the fifth one decided it wanted to go in a different direction and, instead of the blade meeting the wood, it met his hand between the thumb and forefinger. He said it looked like hamburger and there's a chance he could still lose them both. But for now, he's up to his neck in pain meds and doing what he needs to do to take care of it with the help of a public health nurse who comes to visit.
Somebody helped him get his plate filled and to a seat, but corn just wasn't going to work.
The other news this week was that we've lost a friend. K's stepdad, the cranky Dutchman, passed away young and unexpectedly of a completely unforeseen heart attack.
I don't usually use names here, but his name was John. I liked John.
He was rough and gruff and, yeah, cranky.
I never actually saw him smile. His heart was all in his eyes. If he thought something was funny, his eyes would laugh. If he thought it was unfair, his eyes would flash anger. If he thought it was ridiculous or stupid, they'd beam disgust. Once in a while, one corner of his mouth would turn up and he'd shake his head and swear and you'd know he was busting a gut over something hilarious.
He'd sit at Dinner and talk about what his Mom used to cook. It seemed to be mostly meat, which he chalked up to being Dutch. Beef and pork. But he loved bread, too.
The closest I ever saw him to an actual smile was one night as everybody was making their way home. He bounced up to S. carrying something wrapped in a couple of paper towels. He said, look at this. Unwrapped it and showed her a whole 8 inch across dimpled, golden brown round loaf of soda bread, made by one of the women who'd brought the meal that night. She'd heard him admiring the bread, and made sure she set aside one loaf just for him and he looked completely thrilled.
One of S.'s kids is a little blonde tornado of a boy. He'd get into everything and everywhere he wasn't supposed to and John would just pick him up and hold him and not let him go until he thought the tornado would behave.
John knew the value of work, of family, of health. He'd had them all and lost them all, and knew what they were worth and how to be grateful when you had them.
He'd light a cigarette and hold it between this thumb and first two fingers and tell you in his gravelly voice, talking more out one side of his mouth than the other, what was wrong with the world.
He'd listen, but not necessarily agree.
He recognized a fool when he saw one.
He'd sit at the piano and play jazzy tunes and chords.
He walked quickly and talked fast. He wore black jeans or shorts and always boots with socks peeking out the top.
He'd work and work and do a good job and get tired and work some more.
He'd get hurt and refuse to go to Emerg until S. got us to gang up on him and make him go and then admit he'd been wrong about refusing to go and say it was a damn good thing he went.
He was hopeful, in spite of himself. And he was lovely.
I don't know where things stood between him and God. Hard to say sometimes. It's not always as simple as you'd like it to be.
And I wish he was still out there someplace.
r
Somebody had pulled into the parking lot earlier towing a trailer load of fresh picked that day corn, all husks and silk and waiting for boiling water and butter. CL had talked to him, found out that it was extra from the market and said, hell, yes, we'd love some, thanks.
When I arrived at 6, there were pots of water steaming away on the stove. J, our organizational genius, and the nurse were pulling ears from the water, putting them on whatever would function as a platter and serving the farmer's gift from table to table.
We had real butter in the fridge, left over from something else, so it was perfect.
Unfortunately, corn on the cob wasn't an option for N.
The first thing I saw in the parking lot this week was N, walking slowly toward 'the church', his left hand held up at shoulder height, wrapped entirely in bright white bandages.
He'd been helping a friend do some construction and was in charge of the table saw. If you're squeamish, just skip to the next paragraph. He was making slats for part of the job and the first, the second, the third, the fourth all went just fine. But wood being wood, the fifth one decided it wanted to go in a different direction and, instead of the blade meeting the wood, it met his hand between the thumb and forefinger. He said it looked like hamburger and there's a chance he could still lose them both. But for now, he's up to his neck in pain meds and doing what he needs to do to take care of it with the help of a public health nurse who comes to visit.
Somebody helped him get his plate filled and to a seat, but corn just wasn't going to work.
The other news this week was that we've lost a friend. K's stepdad, the cranky Dutchman, passed away young and unexpectedly of a completely unforeseen heart attack.
I don't usually use names here, but his name was John. I liked John.
He was rough and gruff and, yeah, cranky.
I never actually saw him smile. His heart was all in his eyes. If he thought something was funny, his eyes would laugh. If he thought it was unfair, his eyes would flash anger. If he thought it was ridiculous or stupid, they'd beam disgust. Once in a while, one corner of his mouth would turn up and he'd shake his head and swear and you'd know he was busting a gut over something hilarious.
He'd sit at Dinner and talk about what his Mom used to cook. It seemed to be mostly meat, which he chalked up to being Dutch. Beef and pork. But he loved bread, too.
The closest I ever saw him to an actual smile was one night as everybody was making their way home. He bounced up to S. carrying something wrapped in a couple of paper towels. He said, look at this. Unwrapped it and showed her a whole 8 inch across dimpled, golden brown round loaf of soda bread, made by one of the women who'd brought the meal that night. She'd heard him admiring the bread, and made sure she set aside one loaf just for him and he looked completely thrilled.
One of S.'s kids is a little blonde tornado of a boy. He'd get into everything and everywhere he wasn't supposed to and John would just pick him up and hold him and not let him go until he thought the tornado would behave.
John knew the value of work, of family, of health. He'd had them all and lost them all, and knew what they were worth and how to be grateful when you had them.
He'd light a cigarette and hold it between this thumb and first two fingers and tell you in his gravelly voice, talking more out one side of his mouth than the other, what was wrong with the world.
He'd listen, but not necessarily agree.
He recognized a fool when he saw one.
He'd sit at the piano and play jazzy tunes and chords.
He walked quickly and talked fast. He wore black jeans or shorts and always boots with socks peeking out the top.
He'd work and work and do a good job and get tired and work some more.
He'd get hurt and refuse to go to Emerg until S. got us to gang up on him and make him go and then admit he'd been wrong about refusing to go and say it was a damn good thing he went.
He was hopeful, in spite of himself. And he was lovely.
I don't know where things stood between him and God. Hard to say sometimes. It's not always as simple as you'd like it to be.
But he was a good man. A good dad, a good friend, a good worker, a good guy to have on your side.
And I wish he was still out there someplace.
r
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