17 January 2004
42
R. Linda:
I had been asked to house-sit me friend's home while they went to the Caribbean on a mini holiday. I had realised that the driveway was half the size of a football field and uphill all the way. I knew snow was predicted and was told not to worry they had a man who ploughed. They also sighed and mumbled something about having to reseed the lawn every spring because the guy could never seem to find the drive.
Well, I went to the general store in the village common to get some supplies and as I was waiting in line, I saw these blue reflectors on slim poles. I thought to meself, what a good idea to buy some and line the drive so the plough guy will not plough the lawn asunder. Thinking meself very smart indeed, I grabbed 30 of the reflectors and went me merry way.
I had just time to unpack some of me groceries when I saw the first fat flakes of snow drifting about out the big bay window in the kitchen. I went to the shed, found a hammer and grabbed the reflectors out of the backseat of me car, and I took meself down the drive pounding in a reflector here and another on the other side all the way down to the street.
As I neared the bottom of the drive, I spied an older couple walking their dog. They stopped and watched me pound the last of the reflectors in. Me, being the friendly sort I am, waved and shouted a hello in their direction. They in turn smiled and shouted, "Are ya a skiah?"
I was dumbstruck. A skier did they mean? What did skiing have to do with anything then I thought, oh, the snow! I walked to where they stood looking up at me handiwork.
"No, I don't ski, but be fine weather for it soon, I be sure."
They said nothing as we looked up the gentle slope, the reflectors lining both sides of the long drive, shimmering in the chill breeze, snow falling harder.
"Looks like a slalom course to me," said the woman.
"Ay-yuh," responded her hubby.
"Oh," I said realising what they meant, "no, I put the reflectors there for the snowplough driver."
I was looking at the drive but could feel both sets of eyes on me. I turned and looked at them to see pressed lips and smiling eyes as if they shared a joke and I was it.
"What?" I asked innocently.
"You'll see," the man said and they turned waving to me as they walked on.
I was perplexed, but soon forgot it all.
Later that day I was looking out of the bay window in the kitchen as the snow piled up. I thought there had to be at least five inches of the white stuff. I had the fire going and was sipping a hot cup of tea. Me thoughts on childhood snowball fights and such as that when suddenly this loud bang shook me thoughts and me tea sloshed over the sides a wee bit. I leaned into the window to better see outside.
There poised at the end of the drive was a huge truck with a big plough at the ready. The bang must have been the plough hitting the ground as the driver prepared to clear the snowy drive. I could hear from where I was standing the roar of the engine as he rived the thing and then with a suddenness, he slammed the truck into gear and roared up the drive, snow and oh my God in heaven, me blue reflectors flying in the air.
"You crazy swamp yankee!" I shouted spilling me tea down the front of me, mindless of the hot liquid.
Every blue reflector I had put up to indicate where the driveway ended and the lawn began was ploughed asunder by the massive truck's oversized wheels. I squinted me eyes through the kitchen window and could see some of them strewn in the paddock area twenty feet away.
"Why you . . ." I mumbled watching him grinning as he manoeuvred the big truck like it was part of him. I shook me fist at him and he turned the truck, laughing at me. He set the plough up to clear near the garage and with glee gunned the truck and wham, there went the last blue reflector.
"STOP!" I yelled.
He turned the truck back and I could see that cunning grin as he got ready for a final sweep of snow from the turnabout. His head went back as he roared with laughter, backing the truck over one of the fallen reflectors. He gunned the truck one last time down the driveway and like a bat out of hell, he was gone before that last shattered blue bit of plastic hit the ground.
I stood at the window frozen in disbelief that he would run the blue reflectors into the ground on purpose, with me standing where I could see him do it. It took a long time for me to settle down and stop mumbling to meself. Me tea (what was left of it) was cold, me shirt cooly damp and stained with it, me dander was up and THAT was hot.
There was nothing I could do about it. Nothing.
When me friends returned I told them what had happened.
"We should have told you Crazy Frank is our plough guy," said friend Donnie, "There isn't anyone else to plough but him."
"Crazy? Crazy Frank?" I stuttered, thinking how interesting it was that someone would have the word crazy in front of their name.
"Well, yeah," me friend hesitated, "he did the drive a few times last year and he dug up the entire right side of the drive. We had a drive the size of a four-lane highway. I made the mistake of leaving him a note the first year about tearing up my asphalt. He hasn't done that again, he tears up the lawn instead. Yeah, don't know his last name, just know he lives in the boggy area on Spring Road and everyone calls him Crazy Frank."
I had rung up the plough service and had got a tape-recorded message that should have warned me right then and there to hang up. It went something like this:
"Hey, ya got Frank here! I'm not around, probably down the oval havin' a beer. Leave it and I'll get back when I get back, IF I get back but don't expect me to call ya 'cause I won't." Followed by demented laughter.
This said in that New England twang that is so hard on the ear. It was with some trepidation that I left me message, asking him to me ring me back or at the very least replace the 30 blue reflectors he had destroyed.
I did get a message back on the machine. It was laughter (that demented laughter that I recognised at once) and then a click. What I had done was give him winter target practice, or as I have come to refer to it: Wanton massacre of the blue reflectors.
Gabe
Copyright © 2004 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
I had been asked to house-sit me friend's home while they went to the Caribbean on a mini holiday. I had realised that the driveway was half the size of a football field and uphill all the way. I knew snow was predicted and was told not to worry they had a man who ploughed. They also sighed and mumbled something about having to reseed the lawn every spring because the guy could never seem to find the drive.
Well, I went to the general store in the village common to get some supplies and as I was waiting in line, I saw these blue reflectors on slim poles. I thought to meself, what a good idea to buy some and line the drive so the plough guy will not plough the lawn asunder. Thinking meself very smart indeed, I grabbed 30 of the reflectors and went me merry way.
I had just time to unpack some of me groceries when I saw the first fat flakes of snow drifting about out the big bay window in the kitchen. I went to the shed, found a hammer and grabbed the reflectors out of the backseat of me car, and I took meself down the drive pounding in a reflector here and another on the other side all the way down to the street.
As I neared the bottom of the drive, I spied an older couple walking their dog. They stopped and watched me pound the last of the reflectors in. Me, being the friendly sort I am, waved and shouted a hello in their direction. They in turn smiled and shouted, "Are ya a skiah?"
I was dumbstruck. A skier did they mean? What did skiing have to do with anything then I thought, oh, the snow! I walked to where they stood looking up at me handiwork.
"No, I don't ski, but be fine weather for it soon, I be sure."
They said nothing as we looked up the gentle slope, the reflectors lining both sides of the long drive, shimmering in the chill breeze, snow falling harder.
"Looks like a slalom course to me," said the woman.
"Ay-yuh," responded her hubby.
"Oh," I said realising what they meant, "no, I put the reflectors there for the snowplough driver."
I was looking at the drive but could feel both sets of eyes on me. I turned and looked at them to see pressed lips and smiling eyes as if they shared a joke and I was it.
"What?" I asked innocently.
"You'll see," the man said and they turned waving to me as they walked on.
I was perplexed, but soon forgot it all.
Later that day I was looking out of the bay window in the kitchen as the snow piled up. I thought there had to be at least five inches of the white stuff. I had the fire going and was sipping a hot cup of tea. Me thoughts on childhood snowball fights and such as that when suddenly this loud bang shook me thoughts and me tea sloshed over the sides a wee bit. I leaned into the window to better see outside.
There poised at the end of the drive was a huge truck with a big plough at the ready. The bang must have been the plough hitting the ground as the driver prepared to clear the snowy drive. I could hear from where I was standing the roar of the engine as he rived the thing and then with a suddenness, he slammed the truck into gear and roared up the drive, snow and oh my God in heaven, me blue reflectors flying in the air.
"You crazy swamp yankee!" I shouted spilling me tea down the front of me, mindless of the hot liquid.
Every blue reflector I had put up to indicate where the driveway ended and the lawn began was ploughed asunder by the massive truck's oversized wheels. I squinted me eyes through the kitchen window and could see some of them strewn in the paddock area twenty feet away.
"Why you . . ." I mumbled watching him grinning as he manoeuvred the big truck like it was part of him. I shook me fist at him and he turned the truck, laughing at me. He set the plough up to clear near the garage and with glee gunned the truck and wham, there went the last blue reflector.
"STOP!" I yelled.
He turned the truck back and I could see that cunning grin as he got ready for a final sweep of snow from the turnabout. His head went back as he roared with laughter, backing the truck over one of the fallen reflectors. He gunned the truck one last time down the driveway and like a bat out of hell, he was gone before that last shattered blue bit of plastic hit the ground.
I stood at the window frozen in disbelief that he would run the blue reflectors into the ground on purpose, with me standing where I could see him do it. It took a long time for me to settle down and stop mumbling to meself. Me tea (what was left of it) was cold, me shirt cooly damp and stained with it, me dander was up and THAT was hot.
There was nothing I could do about it. Nothing.
When me friends returned I told them what had happened.
"We should have told you Crazy Frank is our plough guy," said friend Donnie, "There isn't anyone else to plough but him."
"Crazy? Crazy Frank?" I stuttered, thinking how interesting it was that someone would have the word crazy in front of their name.
"Well, yeah," me friend hesitated, "he did the drive a few times last year and he dug up the entire right side of the drive. We had a drive the size of a four-lane highway. I made the mistake of leaving him a note the first year about tearing up my asphalt. He hasn't done that again, he tears up the lawn instead. Yeah, don't know his last name, just know he lives in the boggy area on Spring Road and everyone calls him Crazy Frank."
I had rung up the plough service and had got a tape-recorded message that should have warned me right then and there to hang up. It went something like this:
"Hey, ya got Frank here! I'm not around, probably down the oval havin' a beer. Leave it and I'll get back when I get back, IF I get back but don't expect me to call ya 'cause I won't." Followed by demented laughter.
This said in that New England twang that is so hard on the ear. It was with some trepidation that I left me message, asking him to me ring me back or at the very least replace the 30 blue reflectors he had destroyed.
I did get a message back on the machine. It was laughter (that demented laughter that I recognised at once) and then a click. What I had done was give him winter target practice, or as I have come to refer to it: Wanton massacre of the blue reflectors.
Gabe
Copyright © 2004 All rights reserved
