Medicine Man comes calling...Let it Snow! Part II

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend on January 22nd, 2010.


Last week's column was about the stooped old man who cleared our driveway of snow. His accent made him difficult to understand. After his exertion in the cold, I invited him in to warm up with a cup of coffee, and my sons (aged 14, 11, and 4) and my 7-year-old daughter introduced themselves. (My husband and teenaged daughter were busy watching something on History Channel upstairs.) The old man's topic of conversation made me uneasy.

 He learned we were from India, and he mentioned he knew several Indians, one of whom had owned a business and suffered a violent end due to unpaid debt. Or, at least, that was what I could gather from his accent and garbled speech that made him sound like he was speaking with marbles in his mouth. 
 
He pointed his index finger right between his own eyebrows to simulate a pistol going off. I glanced at my four-year-old. Lord, let him not pick up and repeat this gesture. (I knew the kids were somewhat insulated; no one else could understand him well.) Repeating this gesture would be risky at school where his sweet, sweet, teacher had once asked that he refer to killer whales by the less violent term, “orca.”


Then, my teenaged daughter came down, introducing herself as I like the children to do. The moment she arrived, the man's face lit up. Way up.


He promised reduced-rate services. His voice rose and he drew his words out long, so everyone, unfortunately, could understand him. “How old you?” he inquired enthusiastically. She said “seventeen,” and his response was, “Dang! I thought you 21 or 25 or sumpin'.” He proceeded to make smacking sounds as if he had just consumed some delectable dessert. Even if my precious, flesh-and-blood had been 25, that would still make her about 40 years too young for him, I wanted to say.


He asked that I cool his coffee with a little half-and-half, which I hurriedly did. He himself could have used a little cooling off, I thought, as he continued to look my daughter up and down. She had been doing homework and college applications all day, and was thankfully shabbily dressed with no makeup and a sloppy ponytail. My daughter crossed her arms high over her ample bosom, in what she terms the “protective stance.”


“Tevy,” my high-pitched voice came from behind gritted teeth encased in a fake smile, “why don't you go get your FATHER?” I emphasized the father part, because that would take my too-delightful daughter out of view and replace the lovely sight of her with someone bigger, grouchier, and loaded with angry testosterone.


My daughter disappeared, and the man prepared to leave. (He had wanted me to cool his coffee so he could drink it and get out of our way.) He had suffered partial paralysis in 1991, he told us in the foyer, after being hit in the head with a baseball bat. I wonder whose daughter he had been checking out then, and why that lesson hadn't been enough the first time around.


He felt compelled to corroborate his story by showing his epilepsy medications. His good hand fished around inside his jacket, and he produced a water bottle to prove that he had to swallow his meds. Then he continued fumbling in his jacket before producing a bottle. Unfortunately, the last time he had taken his medications, he must have forgotten to close the container or perhaps he had used his bad hand, because right then, tiny pink and white capsules tumbled all over the floor and inside of his jacket. We immediately crated our little dog Betty Lou.


“Doan wan y'all thinkin' Ahm no drug attic nor nuthin'.” Yes. A pedophile on prescription drugs is so much more tolerable than a child molester who is also abusing drugs. By this time, my husband partially descended the stairs and was on the scene. I helped pick up the man's medications, and when he was unable to retrieve the capsules from inside his jacket, I was in the uncomfortable position of having to delicately pluck them off his person without touching his body. Remember that game called “Operation” where you had to remove bones with the forceps without touching the metal and making the buzzer go off? This man's buzzer had obviously already gone off quite enough.

 
I spied my daughter hiding in the darkened living room, and gave her a fierce eyeball. This was her cue to hold her position till the coast was clear. Once the man got back onto the porch with his shovel, he promised to return the next time it snowed.


My husband, who had only come down at the end of this meeting, just glared at me and went back upstairs in complete silence. The poor man knows that anything he says, can and will be published in a future column.


As I write, we are expecting 20 inches of snow in the worst storm in decades. I'm scared – and it's not of the snow.

Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!

published last year in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, 1/15/2010, as "The winter's first snow brings out a stranger - with a shovel"

The first time we had snow, our doorbell rang at dusk. A stooped man, who could easily have been my father, asked if we wanted our driveway cleared.


Just then, my 14-year-old son came to the door. It's wonderful to have sons, because even though they can eat up all the groceries, these individuals LOVE to do the tasks that I don't: cut the grass, dig holes, accompany their father to Home Depot or Radio Shack, and shovel the driveway. (It's wonderful to have daughters too.) I felt terrible about turning away this old man, but Snow Shoveler Son #1 had just reported for duty.


 “Well, Ahm jes sayin', theysa callin' furass – all this gonna fraze.” I like to pride myself on being able to follow people's accents, but this man's was difficult, even for me. Whether this was due to partial paralysis or because he was storing marbles in his mouth, I cannot say. My kids accuse me of developing a bogus “sympathy accent” whenever I speak to someone with an accent. They say this is patronizing, even if unintended. We all know this cannot possibly be true, because that portrays me in a bad light. (They're probably just jealous of my abilities.)



I told him we would definitely clear our driveway before dark, before the ice and before the freeze. I wished him best of luck going door to door, because of the many vacant houses in our neighborhood. “Well, Ah thankye, ma'am, anna Murry Christmas to ya, ma'am. Murry Christmas!” he said as he doddered off.

 Just stab me in the heart, will you? How can you let someone like that stumble away into the cold? I checked with my husband before dispatching my son to bring the man back. We “let” him do the job, but real generosity would probably have given him money, a nice, warm meal and asked nothing in return. Instead, my version of generosity stayed inside the warm house and put together a bag of granola bars and fruit while the old man set to work on our sidewalk and driveway.

 “Would you like something hot to drink - some coffee, perhaps?” I shouted out to him. (Shouting is my preferred method of communication; it is as effective indoors and out.) I dared not offer hot chocolate because we were out of milk, but not creamer. “Thadda be jes' fan – but no sugga, nor nuthin' – jes' straight black,” he said. How convenient for me. And then, worry clouded his face. “That coffee ain't comin' outta my money, now, is it?” I reassured him it would not, and began percolating the coffee.

 Then, I ran about the house looking for cash. I had about thirty cents in my purse. Hmmm. I was out of milk and out of cash. Perhaps I should be the one out there with a shovel. There were two reasons I desperately needed cash. You don't want to hand a check to someone who is desperately going door-to-door to work for cash. Second, all of our contact information is on our checks. I don't mind handing out coffee, cash, and cheer, but, and I'm ashamed to be like this, I don't necessarily want to advertise all of our contact information.



I located $ 2 in my husband's wallet, drained $ 8 from my 17-year-old daughter, and got a $ 5 offering from my 11-year-old son. There wasn't another dollar in the house. Thank God, literally, that I had scraped together $ 15, because that's exactly what the man had asked.



I asked the man if he'd like to come in for his coffee. How could I expect him to drink it on the porch? He came in and stood unsteadily on the mat, refusing my offer to sit on the sofa. He didn't want to put his muddy boots on the carpet. With his good hand, he removed the glove from his stiffened left hand, and he accepted the coffee. His hand kept quivering, and coffee sloshed. We both apologized profusely, and I had him come sit at our kitchen table, where everyone who was nearby (my three sons and 7-year-old daughter) introduced themselves.


“Y'all Panish 'o Mexgun?” he asked.

“No, we're not Spanish or Mexican - we're from India,” I said.


“Yep – Ah knows lotto Inyuns in Marshall. One gottumself kaled. Owed somebuddy money o' sumpin', and theysa 'jes put a 357 mangum upta his hade. Thenna pop!” He pointed his index finger to simulate a pistol going off, smack between his eyebrows. This made me a little nervous; it's not the usual light conversation people make, even if young children aren't present.



Then, my teenaged daughter politely came down to introduce herself. This grandfather could barely contain his enthusiasm. His whole countenance lit up. “Well, now – who this? Who this? You sho is boo-ful.” Then he looked at me, “Ma'am, yo' rate jes got cut. Thas right – yo rate jes got cut in heyuf.  Heyuf uv heyuf!”
 Stay tuned for part 2 next week.