I never ask a man what his business is, for it never interests me. What I ask him about are his thoughts and dreams.
~H. P. Lovecraft.
If you know me you know I like everybody, if you don’t know me, well, I like everybody. People are wonderful and I love being around them. As a clarification, I like them as individuals. Groups, gangs, organizations, cabals, assemblies, gatherings make people behave differently.
It’s impossible to pick a baseline number, there are too many variables. Seven would be too many in most circumstances, but there are times four is more than enough. This rule doesn’t apply to fairs, or festivals, or (one of my personal favorites) trips to the grocery store. Small, manageable interactions, preferably with strangers, people who have secrets, more to the point, people who don’t know my secrets, make me smile, feel complete.
In many odd ways, we find the most interesting people by accident. There was a man in Amish country. He had retired from the Air Force and had moved to the small town in northeastern Ohio and opened a store to cater to the tourists. Mostly, it seemed to have somebody to talk to. It was early in the Pandemic, and we were walking down the main business strip, in front of one closed shop after another. Nothing moved, everything for was quiet, and creepy.
A woman drove up in a horse and buggy, tied it to a post and went inside a small house, adding to the otherworldly feel. As we were wandering around, past the shuttered bakery, the silent café, the empty grocer, a car drove up and the window rolled down.
“Hey, you guys looking for something?” A man in a floral print shirt, with sparse, stringy gray hair, a wispy, ill-defined mustache and beard. He looked heavy, and smiled in a way that suggested a small, delightful touch of madness.
“Not really,” I said.
“We’re just walking to stretch our legs.” My wife added. She explained to him that we were from Columbus and had a remote cabin in the wooded hills outside of town. We had made the reservation months ago, and when the pandemic began, we decided, since it was so remote to go.
He drove beside us, for the next two blocks, telling us about his life in the military, and how he had moved to the small town for the comforts and ease of life. He talked about the Amish, he seemed to understand them, and seemed to hold them in high regard.
Finally, he parked, and asked us to come back when things were normal. Then he walked into his little shop, locked the door, and disappeared into the shadows. It was our kind of store, too, filled with colorful, curious totems. I’m not sure what he did all day, for so many days. We never went back, and I’ve always felt a little guilty about it.
We were staying at a state park. Small cabins grouped in odd formations, close enough to see the neighbors, far enough to feel comfortable. We had a blaze going in the fire pit and were getting ready to throw some steaks on the grill. Our neighbor came out of his cabin and jogged over to us. It wasn’t threatening or even disconcerting, except for the oddness of it.
“Would you have a Phillips head screwdriver I could borrow?” He asked. I’m not a handy person. I can’t fix things, when I try to drive a nail, it always bends or splits the wood. I don’t make a habit of carrying tools, why bother. I do have a multi-tool, it has pliers, both types of screw drivers, a pair of scissors, a knife, a file, a small wood saw, and a very functional, and well used bottle opener all folded into one small transportable package. I loaned that to him, he smiled, thanked me profusely and jogged back to his cabin. We have stayed at a lot of cabins and never needed a screwdriver, but he was obviously in such a pinch he would ask strangers.
My wife remembered a small set of screw drivers we bought a couple of years ago, for something, stashed safely away behind the seat in the pickup. I had forgotten all about them.
“Thanks, I really appreciate that.” He said when he returned the bottle opener. “When are you guys leaving?”
“We’re leaving tomorrow. Back to work on Tuesday, you know.”
“Oh, I’ll send my daughter and son-in-law into Macarthur to pick up one tomorrow.” He looked a little worried. Whatever he needed the screwdriver for was an ongoing concern. I still wondered what he was doing. The cabins are older but well maintained and anytime something needed fixed they were quick to respond.
“We have a set in the pickup. You can have one.” My wife offered, helpfully.
There were 5 screwdrivers in the plastic shell, and he picked out a short one with a thick handle.
“This one will do, perfectly.” He became animated, and enthusiastic, asking us where we were from, and telling us about himself. Then, suddenly, with a warm and happy expression of gratitude, he hurried back to his cabin.
We loaded up and left the next morning. It’s always sad to go back to our lives, the people we know, the people who know us. There is no mystery, nothing to wonder about, the same colors fading into the same shades of bland monotony. Sometimes we all need small escapes, a chance to see something different. It doesn’t have to be big, as far as I’m concerned it shouldn’t be. It’s the small things, just a few sentences with a stranger, and the world begins to smile.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
