Mr. Harper came to check on me last night. I got home late again—well after dark. He had seen that I raised a few rafters (pictures forthcoming) on my sawmill shed and tried calling—I assume to tell me that he would come over with the tractor and help, and for me not to be lifting those rafters alone. He’s a daddy hen. When he didn’t get an answer, he immediately assumed I had hurt myself with the rafters and was laid up in bed… or worse.
There are a few things to note here: One, I have great neighbors. There are about five. They all keep an eye on me—the special needs kid. You don’t know they’re doing it until my truck doesn’t move for three days, or there’s no sound of tools being put to use. That’s when they drop in to check, “It was awful quiet around here. Thought maybe you was laid up or somethin’.” Anyway, I wanted to hug Mr. Harper, but they don’t go in for that kind of nonsense around here. When in Rome.
The other thing to note is that Mr. Harper assumed that since I wasn’t home and in my house at seven o’clock, I was somewhere else… hurt. This is direct evidence of the infrequency I leave my home. Which would be only when I need groceries, or now, unless Bret and I are working out. Basically, next to never.
John, the guy up at the church paint job, told me that I should become a hermit. His thinking being that it would bring me closer to nature and God. I laughed. Bret even laughed. I’m not starting another religious spiel, but it had quite the opposite affect concerning God.
Where am I going with this? Free-write. I don’t need a summary statement. But I need steam to forge ahead, and I am out of both it and time. But it gives me some subject matter for next time… the Hermit.
Until then… Love thy neighbor.