October 31, 2016-- Midcoast: Cultural Profiling

It was the morning after the third debate and the diner was buzzing with political talk.

Buzzing so much that my new hearing aids were overwhelmed so I resumed an old habit--pretending to hear and understand and thus doing a lot of nodding and smiling. Most of it inappropriate and of a non sequitur sort.

Before I tuned out I picked up that, as usual at the diner, opinion was split pretty much down the middle with half the folks liking how Hillary turned to her own advantage Trump's jibe, "She's a nasty woman," while the other half agreed that she is in fact nasty.

Concentrating on my French toast, I enjoyed the sounds of passionate talk I could not fully make out. I thought I need to ask my audiologist to make an adjustment he had indicated was just for this kind of situation--being able to hear someone across the table in an otherwise noisy restaurant.

I was sitting by the window and to distract myself turned to enjoy the rush of falling leaves when a mud-splashed SUV pulled up and out of it tumbled two very large couples. It was the first truly chilly morning and I was surprised to see that one of the men was not only wearing shorts--not uncommon among Mainers who when the seasons change dress for the previous one as if the best way to get through the summer heat or, more commonly, the icy winter is to assert mind over matter--not only was he wearing shorts but a t-shirt and sandals without socks. Everything, including a full-brimmed hat, totally emblazoned with camouflage. I realized that the hunting season was to begin in just a few days and it looked as if he couldn't wait.

From their outfits and deportment it appeared that all three of his companions would be happily joining him while stalking moose in the North Woods.

Oh god, I noticed as they stepped in, the only empty table was pressed close to ours which meant they would be sitting right next to us.

They were Second Amendment people for sure as well as, I was certain, Trump supporters. Even if I couldn't hear every word that I was sure was about to be broadcast by them, after the debate, where I suspected Trump did himself some good, I wasn't into listening to snarky political boasting.

So I took up the pace, indicating to Rona that I was wanting to leave as soon as we finished our breakfast.

"Humans are the only species . . ." I heard from the hunter with the bare feet, ". . . who do so." I couldn't hear much more and thus had no context in which to fit this. I thought he was also sounding like a Fundamentalist and was talking about the uniqueness of human religion. I could take a pass on that too.

"I never thought of that," one of the women said. I assumed not his wife who I suspected from him had heard it all and then some.

"It's true," he said.

Then the other man puffed up in a red flannel shirt with Larry-King size black suspenders said something I thought about the "natural world." Creationists to boot, I thought.

By then things in the diner had settled down to a murmur and my new hearing aids took over and I was able to hear pretty much everything they said.

"It is fascinating to think about," the first hunter said, "How humans are the only animals--and we are animals," he said with a wink, "how in the animal kingdom we are the only species to produce more young than we need for survival."

"If true," his companion said, "Why is that significant?"

"It means that we pose a danger to the global ecosystem. We are the only animals who overpopulate. And I don't have to tell you of all people what the implications are."

Rona, who was listening in to another conversation, one about how Trump will surely lose after the Billy Bush hot-mike tape gets more widely aired, was stirring in her seat, having finished her food and signaling to me she was about to ask for the check.

"No hurry," I said, confusing her.

"I thought you were eager to leave," she whispered, glancing quickly at the hunters.

"No rush," I said, wanting to hear more about what else was unique to humans.

"What do you think," one of the neighboring women asked, noticing I was eavesdropping.

Caught in the act, I stammered, "Oh, well . . . not that much." I slipped back into my familiar non-sequitur mode.

"About what John said about the human species?"

"Oh, I suppose that's interesting. But, you know, I never thought about that. I mean, it could be that . . ."

She smiled. "John's a naturalist. A journalist. Writes a column that's picked up in lots of papers around the country. Show him your card, John."

I thought he must write for Hunters World or even Guns & Ammo.

He fished one out of his bulging wallet and handed it over. Below his name was "Environmental Storyteller."

"That's a new one to me," I said, beginning to feel upset with myself for what I had imagined him to be.

I looked again at his card and read so Rona could hear. By then she had tuned into our conversation--"Continual wanderer of the planet, observing in perpetual wonder."

As I read this the other man, "T.W," slid his card to me. It identified him as president of Silver Creek Media, through which he told me with a twinkle he published--pointing to how his work was described on the card--"words and stuff."

And with that, as quickly as they had arrived, the four of them stood up simultaneously and headed to their car.

So there Rona and I remained, thinking about how I had mischaracterized them. I said, confessing, "You know of course about racial profiling. How police and others periodically are accused of stopping African Americans because of their race or young Middle Eastern men who without evidence are thought to be potential terrorists."

"You didn't do that," Rona said, "They look more American--whatever that means--than you. So it wasn't racial."

"True," I said, "But I think I did something similarly upsetting--I culturally profiled them, as with racial profiling, on the basis of their appearance."

"You did in fact do that," Rona said.

"Which means I have more work to do on my consciousness."

"That's one of the things I love about being here," Rona said, "How often we get surprised like this. It's really a challenging place to live."

"Wouldn't want it any other way."

October 6, 2014--Midcoast: L.L. Bean's Gun Shop (Part 1)

Willy asked, "Have you given any more thought to getting yourself a weapon?"

Exasperated because we had been down this path before, I said, "I'm not thinking weapon but a 22 rifle or gun, if you prefer." He looked at me skeptically.

"In fact, we're going to Freeport on Wednesday, to L.L Bean. Rona wants to look for new gardening clogs and I could use a couple of belts. And, I thought, while there--"

"All the way there for belts? What kind of belts are these? Must be something verrrry special." He was making fun of me again as he has an occasional inclination to do.

But I was happy to not be talking about guns. "Well, I bought a belt on line--this one--I like the braided ones. And it was made in England. Plus, they're on sale." I slid out of my seat to show him. "Nice, no?"

"To me a belt's a belt." In fact, he wears suspenders. "And while there? That's what you said, didn't you--'while there'? What's that about?" He was smily slyly.

"I thought I'd look at their rifles," I lowered my eyes, "22s. For targets and--"

"And get after Rona's famous groundhog."

"Also there's a deer munching on her phlox so--"

"So you're thinking of shooting the deer with a 22?" He guffawed. "They wouldn't even feel it. If you want to--"

"I don't want to kill it. Just make it unpleasant so he'll think twice about coming back."

"Make it unpleasant," he was mocking me, "This I'd have to see."

Ben winked at Willy.

*  *  *

It was gray and drizzly Wednesday morning and so we headed first to Brunswick for a guilty-pleasure tray of Frosty's donuts and then on to Freeport.

After downing half a dozen we drove the remaining ten miles to L.L. Bean and happened to park right by the entrance closest to the gun shop. Truly, it was the only open parking space.

"Tomorrow's your birthday," once inside Rona said, holding me by my arms so she could get close and look directly in my eyes, "So take all the time you want," I knew what she was referring to, "I'll be up in the shoe department and when I'm done I'll sit and wait for you. Even if it takes you an hour or more. We're not in any hurry." She kissed me and disappeared between the racks where camouflaged outfits were displayed.

Alone, I wondered if I should get something camouflaged too. A cap at least. Maybe with a 22 of my own I might want to do some walking in the woods and so, to be less visible, I should . . .

But I checked myself and decided first-things-first and drifted obliquely toward the gun displays so as not to make it seem I was doing so intentionally. I was pretending to myself that it would be by accident that I found myself among the shotguns and other firearms.

I was surprised to see that most all the guns were displayed on open racks, barrel end up, and that customers were comfortable, on their own, without the assistance of salesmen, rooting among them and occasionally removing one from the rack and hoisting it to their shoulders, sighting and aiming at imaginary targets in the shop--a stuffed deer head, the L.L. Bean sign, a rack of ammunition. Careful, though, not to point the guns toward customers even though they were secured by what appeared to be locks on the triggers.

The rifles were arranged by size, by caliber--22s, 30-30s, 30-40s, shotguns. I made my way quickly from the larger caliber ones to the rack of 22s. They looked like real guns, not souped-up BB guns, and I felt confident I would be able to handle them. Not just in the gun shop but out by our house and perhaps even in the woods.

I looked at the price tags on a few but was nervous about the thought of picking one up much less trying out how it felt tucked in against my right shoulder. Would it seem alien? Even unexpectantly comfortable? But I did think they were expensive. At least $300 with some approaching $1,000, and that they all appeared in prefect shape but used. Looking around I didn't see any new ones behind the service counter. I'll have to find out about this. Just from curiosity of course, because I was quickly coming to feel that even something as minimalist as a 22 wasn't for me. I'm not really a gun person, I said to myself. Not even a 22-person.

With this realization, seemingly out of nowhere, I was swept with a wave of palpitations strong enough for me to fear I might be about to pass out. To steady myself I held onto the checkout counter, wedged between stacks of ammo. This whole gun business, I thought, is too much for me. Belts and gardening clogs are what I can handle.

I reluctantly admitted I was not man enough for this. That I was too old to even have gun-owner fantasies. I needed to get out of there, look at the belts or, better, seek Rona's comfort in the women's shoe department.

"You look terrible," she said, sounding alarmed when she spotted me weaving unsteadily toward her. She was walking about testing a pair of clogs. "Are you OK? Did something happen?"

"I'm fine," I lied. My heart was still racing. "Keep shopping. I'll sit right here," I collapsed in a chair, "Those look nice." I wanted to avoid talking about what had happened and how I was feeling.

She moved quickly to sit by me and put her arms around my shoulders. "I can tell that something happened in the gun shop that you don't want to talk about."

"After more than 30 years together I can't get away with anything," I said and took a deep breath to stifle my surging emotions.

"Tell me, love."

"I don't know what happened. I wanted to look around and even checked out a few guns. 22s. But began to feel faint when I thought about taking one from the rack."

"You can just do that? On your own? Pick up a gun?"

"I was surprised too," I panted, "Even kids were doing that. They seemed so comfortable. I, on the other hand--" I couldn't complete my thought.

"That's OK. I know this is a complicated thing for you and--"

"I had no idea how complicated. The worst of it," I confessed, "is feeling I'm getting too old and . . ."

"I know it's almost your birthday but--"

"But, that's how I feel. And not being comfortable with even a puny 22, well that didn't make me feel too good either, or intrepid. In fact, the opposite." I was nearly in tears.

Rona pulled me to her, gently stroking my back. "Did anyone offer to help?"

"Not really," I said, now composed. "There were salesmen there but they didn't seem interested in helping me or anyone for that matter."

"I suppose since most of the people who shop there are familiar with guns and--"

"The other customers sure felt like that. I guess I was feeling embarrassed that I didn't know the difference between a bolt-action rifle and a--"

"I'm impressed that you know about bolt-action, whatever that is," Rona smiled and kissed me on the cheek, trying to restore my pride.

"To tell you the truth I'm not sure what that is. What it means."

"But I am concerned about this feeling-old business." Rona was attempting to calm me, to make what had happened seem normal. Nothing all that much to worry about.

"I'm really disappointed in myself," I said. "You know, in spite of what Willy and Ben think I'm really only thinking about it. Buying one. I'm not a gun person but--"

"But still you'd like to be able to handle yourself better, for example, in the gun shop."

"Exactly! What's the big deal? I mean--"

"Well, it is a big deal if you're experiencing it that way.

"If you're willing to come with me--if that isn't too babyish a thing to ask--I'd like to try again. Maybe I could handle it better and--"

"Even though I'd be with you, you'd feel better about yourself?"

"Something like that." I smiled. My heart rate was pretty  much back to normal.

(End of Part 1)

September 25, 2014--Willy, Ben, and Me: Ruger SR-762

"Ben told me you're in the market for a 22."

"Not exactly. But I am thinking about it."

"Glad to hear," Willy said with a  broad grin, "To be a real Mainer a man needs to be armed."

"Not armed," I said, "But, you know, for target practice and Rona has a few groundhogs tearing up her perennial bed that I'd like to scare off."

"Scare or shoot?" Ben asked.

"Maybe give 'em a jolt," I said, "I'm not sure I'm into killing them."

"There's no other way," Willy insisted. "They don't scare."

"I suppose we could try to trap them," I thought.

"What's your problem? Jolt 'em, scare 'em, trap 'em, kill 'em. It's all about the same thing."

"I'm not so sure I agree. Though since I'll never get to be a good shot if I try to just wing 'em I'll probably miss or if I do hit 'em I'm as likely to kill 'em as anything."

We went back and forth about this one morning over coffee and then a few days later Willy gave me one of his magazines, "Just to look through" he said. "Don't show this to your New York friends," he whispered, "But this may help you think about what weapon to buy."

He slid an issue of American Rifleman surreptitiously to me across the banquette we shared. As if to hide the transfer from the other diners.

"Not a weapon," I cringed, "A rifle. A 22. You know, not much more than a BB gun. But thanks for this. Though from the cover it looks like it does feature weapons."

There was a closeup picture of something menacing-looking called Heavy Metal--Ruger's Sr-762 replete with a dozen or so bullets scattered about that looked as if they could pierce armor. "Not exactly what the Fourth Amendment is about," I said under my breath while flipping through the pages.

"There he goes again," Ben said with an gesture of exasperation. "If the Founders were writing the Constitution today they'd include semi-automatic and automatic weapons."

There was that "weapons" word again. "I'm not so sure," I said. Wasn't that constitutional provision so the new United States could have a 'well-regulated militia'? Since at the time there wasn't a standing army and so--"

"And so," Willy said, as if to complete my thought, "if necessary men would be called up and they'd have a weapon of their own to bring along with them. To fight the English and Indians and who knows who else."

"But now?" I asked, "We have a standing army, God knows, and a navy and air force and marines. When you join up, they supply the weapons. Guns, tanks, ammunition, everything. You don't show up with your own Rugger SR-762, whatever that is."

"The Ruger's not for that," Willy said, again with his voice lowered.

"What's it for, then?"

We usually avoid discussions of this kind, but I wasn't that morning in the mood for that. I was upset with what was written about and, more, advertised for sale in the American Rifleman, especially after I noticed it's a publication of the NRA, the National Rifle Association.

"Let me read what your magazine has to say about this weapon." I was unusually worked up. For the most part I try to remain calm and rational when having discussions about controversial subjects with Willy and Ben, looking for areas of common ground. For, among other reasons, because I like them. But the Ruger SR-762 was testing my restraint.

I read to them--

Breathe in, breathe out. Squeeze, squeeze, squee (sic)--bang! I rode the recoil back onto the target just in time to catch the contrail from my bullet making a steep right curve toward it and then vanishing, leaving only a gray splatter on the red steel gong. The target was hidden halfway up the face of the opposing hill, across a ravine and 10 to 15 degrees below my position. After what seemed like minutes, the distinct "thud" sound reached my ears, confirming what I had already witnessed: a first round hit at 800 yds.

"So?" Willy wondered.

"So, tell me what this is about--shooting across ravines at targets 800 yards away. That doesn't sound like hunting to me."

"What does it sound like?" Ben asked, sounding genuinely curious about what I had to say.

"It sounds like combat. Maybe even sniping."

Willy and Ben exchanged a glance then lowered their eyes to avoid mine. They remained unusually quiet.

"Look," I said, feeling awkward, "It's good writing. Really good. I'll give you that. But this is not about target practice or hunting or sportsmanship. As I said, it sounds like what the military trains its recruits to do. And take a look at the picture of the Ruger." I held the magazine up to them. "I'm for sure no expert but it looks more like an AK 47 to me than a hunting or target rifle."

"You're not right about that," Willy said. "An AK 47 has--" I cut him off.

"Well, in your magazine," I underscored the your again, "there are ads for AK 47s. Here. Take a look at both weapons. There is a strong resemblance between the two."

Ben had taken the magazine from me. He was thumbing through it, leaving Willy on his own to deal with cantankerous me.

"If you want to fit in here, or for that matter in most of America, you have to get comfortable with sportsmen and hunters and--"

"I'm quite comfortable with all that," I said to Willy, "My problem is not with them but with these high-powered weapons in the hands of dangerous people. That has nothing to do with hunting and clomping around in the woods."

"Look at this," Ben said, reentering the fray, but smiling.

"What's that?" I was happy to change the subject. I had said my piece.

"An ad for a 22. The sort of rifle you're looking to buy."

"I'm not looking to buy one; I'm thinking about it."

"It's made by Ruger too," Ben said. He passed the magazine back to me.

"Does it have a wooden stock?" I asked. "If I get one--and remember I'm only thinking about it--it has to have a wood stock. I don't want a weapon, I mean a rifle with a cheesy plastic one."

"That one does," Willy joined in. Now he had the magazine and folded it back to the page with the 22 ad. Tussling was over. He was again being helpful.

He read to me--

50 YEARS LATER and the Ruger 10/22 is still "the ultimate in logical design." 

"It's a commemorative issue," Willy added, again turning the magazine to me. "A limited addition. I know you're only thinking, but if you decide to get one, I recommend this one to you." He winked at me. "And it's perfect for getting after Rona's groundhogs."

Ruger SR-762

August 22, 2014--Best of Behind: A Jew in Vermont

This was originally posted on October 3, 2007. Since then, my friend has made a significant adjustment. He pines less for Manhattan and takes pride in growing tomatoes--

To come to Vermont for a visit in the autumn to witness the leaves changing or in summer to get away from the heat of the city is a non-sectarian event. But to leave your roots behind in that city in order to live there permanently is decidedly something else.

My Jewish friend (who to protect him from himself will here be referred to as “he”) who moved up here eight years ago, put his condition this way as we sat in a vast meadow, having arrived at it after following an abandoned logging trail; sprawling on the cut hay grass and looking out over the broad Connecticut River Valley toward the White Mountains of New Hampshire—I cannot recall a more transporting vista or feeling more at one with nature—he said: “Every day, and I mean every day, I think about what I need to do to get back to New York City.”

His wife, also Jewish, made a remarkable adjustment to their new life. Actually, a remarkable transformation. Really, a remarkable metamorphosis. She owns horses and cows and sheep and chickens and slaughters and butchers the latter to feed the family. She takes care of and rides the horses to the hounds (truely) and for hunting. Last year she had a moose license from the county and this year is allowed to “take” one doe. She seems to know everyone and all about every aspect of their lives—even of the usually stoical Vermonters. Jewishness does not appear to have been a problem for her.

He on the other hand knows nearly no one, can’t distinguish the front end of the horse from the rear (and doesn’t care to learn); has allergies to virtually all of Vermont’s wildflowers (which proves beyond DNA evidence that he is Jewish); and even the sight of anything that contains cheddar cheese makes him instantly nauseous.

There are, I suspect, other Jews in Vermont. For example, there is something that looks very much like a Jewish Center in Woodstock. But you would never know this from him. Though he holds a Hanukkah party every December and invites to it everyone who he knows or suspects might be Jewish (don’t ask how he makes that determination), even stretching his definition of what makes one Jewish, at its most attended there were no more than ten people who showed up—and, to drive home his predicament, I understand he invited potential members of the Tribe from every part of the state.

The few friends he has made (he calls them “acquaintances”) are worried about him. Even the non-Jews. Those are, truthfully, more concerned than worried—concerned being the gentile way to be worried. So, concerned or worried, they have through the years made many suggestions and offered encouragement about things he might do that they feel he would enjoy and that might make him become more of a Vermonter. Like get into serious recycling or heating his home with wood fires or organic gardening or throwing pots. Or even developing an interest in nature. Some, more radically, thought he might like skeet shooting or gourmet cooking. To them he said, “But I'm from New York. Guns are illegal and I always ate out."

And, he insisted, after getting into source separation where he divided his clear glass bottles from his green glass bottles and his coated paper from his newsprint, and so on, everything they suggested and urged made him think about illness, dying, and, what else, death.

“A Jew after all,” he would insist, “is a Jew.” Though no one within 50 miles of where he lives understood any of this, they did respect his right to think that way. Vermont, after all, prides itself on its openness to all manner of views and differences. It was the first state in the union, for example, to legalize same-sex unions. Do you need to know anything more?

“When I made a vegetable garden,” he moaned, “I was surprisingly good at it. In Brooklyn, where I grew up, there was hardly any dirt to stick a seed into much less a backyard that wasn’t made of cement. So what would I know about gardening? Organic no less. But when it came time to harvest my crop, every time I pulled a radish or carrot from the ground it felt like I was committing a violation against the Commandment ‘Thou shall not kill.’ I could almost hear them crying in pain.”

 I nodded in understanding. “And even worse was when I bought two of the latest high-tech wood stoves and tried to heat our house that way. To be environmentally responsible. I did well at that too, but when I had to clean the grate all I could think about was how all those mighty logs were reduced to a mere handful of ashes. ‘Dust to dust,’ as the sages said. It took me weeks to recover from the depression.” Again, I nodded.

“And then I threw pots, even though I never could figure out how what I was doing had anything to do with throwing.” This sounds promising, I thought. “But I had my problems with that too. Metaphysical problems.” I had no idea where this was headed. “Because whenever I placed one of my vases or bowls into the kiln they came out shattered. I turned them into shards. Just like the Zohar says. You know, that ancient book of Jewish mystical lore. How Cabbalists believe that the world was once a perfect vessel that became shattered, with the shards scattered everywhere. And that we Jews have a responsibility, Tikkun, to regather those shards as our contribution to healing the world. So there I was in the pottery shed making more shards all the while thinking I’m not carrying out my responsibilities. In fact I’m making an even bigger mess of the world!”

To this I had nothing to say and so he continued, “But what was worst was trying to become interested in nature. You’re up here now to see the autumn leaves. Fine. You think they’re a majestic and beautiful sight. And you are right. Before we moved here, when we would come for a visit that’s what I also felt. But now, when Nature puts on this display, all I can think about, again, is dying and death. This is the dying season. Call me crazy,” and I was beginning to, “but that’s the way I look at things in Nature. Yes, things bloom and are beautiful but very soon they start the withering and dying.”

I decided not to talk about dormancy and regeneration and the promise of spring. After all, I was headed back to New York in a day and a half to my restaurants and cable TV, so I tried a different tack--“But maybe this is a good thing. I mean maybe what you are observing in Nature is to put you in touch with elemental things and thereby inspire you to make every moment count.” I only half-believed this, but I was trying my best to be a good friend.

“And tell me what will I be doing with all those moments that I’ll be counting?” He swept the horizon dismissively with his hand.

For this I didn’t have a ready answer and said to him, in part to change the subject, “Look at those clouds over the mountains. Aren’t they magnificent?”

“Clouds. Smouds. To tell you the truth, right now I could go for a nice pastrami sandwich.”

Amen, to that, I thought.

July 7, 2014--Midcoast: Free Air

The only place in the area, or, these days, maybe anywhere, where you can get air for your car tires without paying for it is in New Harbor at Hanna's gas station and general store.

They don't have one of those machines that you have to feed with quarters to get five minutes of metered compressed air. Five minutes being barely enough time to get to all four tires, check their pressure, and then inflate them to the manufacturer's suggested specs.

Actually, that's not enough time unless you have someone with you to assist in the process. Otherwise, you'd better have another 75 cents ready.

So Rona and I approach tire checks, where you have to pay for air, as a team.

We pull up to the hose wrapped around one of those compressors or lying in a pool of spilled oil and Rona, pit-crew style, races around the car taking off all four valve caps. I follow right behind with my pressure tester and if any tire has below 35 pounds of pressure she leaves the cap off indicating it needs air.

We then get the pump going by inserting three quarters and I hurry to complete my part of the team's work--pumping in a few bursts of air (usually too much), letting the excess out (again usually too much), hoping to get it all done before the air pump kicks off.

Half the time I do fine and half the time I don't, which causes more than a little tension between us since, at this time in my life, Rona has taken to suggesting that we switch roles--I would remove the caps and she would do the tire topping-off. But, you know how it is--about this there's a genetic man-woman thing. OK, it's cultural. And so we do the best we can to maintain harmony and I try to ignore the grumbling in the background.

Generally all four tires need air. Driving the kind of broken roads that are common here--including right up to our house--causes air to leak out so invariably tire pressures range from 30 to 32 pounds per square inch. Low enough to lead to uneven tire wear and lower miles per gallon. Both to be avoided.

So we're willing to shell out the 75 cents if we can't get to Hanna's.

But Hanna's is our go-to place when in the area.

Free Air the sign above the hose says that dangles casually from the side of Hanna's general store where you can also get basic groceries, cold and hot drinks, fishing tackle, and even guns and ammo.

I can go there on my own as I did yesterday to check out the tire situation without having to race from tire to tire; or, if we go together, I can take care of the tires while Rona roams around inside, maybe buying a bottle of water or checking out who's buying ammo this time of year, months before hunting season. I've suggested that while doing that she doesn't do too much staring.

"'Bout the only thing that's still free these days," the other day said a grizzled man of about 80 as I was stooped beside the right front tire, trying to get the pressure to exactly 35 pounds.

In truth, I'd prefer Rona didn't know that working at ground level for me has become a bit of a problem--the getting up part--so I just grunted in reply, wanting to get done quickly and move on the the right rear, just where it seemed he had settled in.

"Nice of 'em Hannas to let you get it for free. Like I've been sayin' for more years than I'd like to count, the next thing you know they'll tax the air we breathe. Taxin' everything else. So why not air? We gotta pay for water. It used to be free. They sell it in bottles inside." He waved contemptuously toward the store, "Costs 'bout as much as a Coke. But it's just plain water. And if you get town water they make you pay for that too. They get it for free so I don't see chargin' us for it."

By then, still not saying anything, I was working on the right rear tire. Its pressure had dipped to 31 and after the first pulse of air I pumped in it shot up to 37. I let some out and it plunged back down to 33. Then up to 36, which I felt was close enough. So, holding onto the car, I struggled to get up and moved around it to the left rear.  He followed me, shuffling on his one good leg.

I can't move around much better than him, I muttered to myself. And he's a lot older than me. I was not having a good time and wanted to shake him off by pretending to ignore him.

"Tell you the truth I don't have much good to say 'bout most everything these days. You see things any different?" He was trying to draw me in, but, not wanting to, I continued to stare at my pressure gauge.

"Now they want to take our freedom away. What-id we fight all 'em wars for?" He was no longer waiting for a response. He was on a roll. "Lost my kid brother in Nam and then a nephew three years ago in I-raq. That they have money for. Git it from them Chinese 'cause we've 'bout run out. Next thing you know we'll be fightin' 'em again. Like I say, we shoulda finished 'em off in Korea when we had the chance. That was my war. My unit was sent all the way up by that Yalu River. In a winter worse than the one we had here last winter. Froze half my toes of and saw six a my buddies shot up. I still have handful of Chinese shell casing in my chest. Like my son says, if I ever was to try to get on an airplane I'd set off all sorts of sirens. They'd think I'm one of them terrorists. Maybe I'll do that one day, just for the heck of it, to remind everyone what we boys in the service went through. Sheeeet."

He liked that and laughed to himself.

By then Rona was back outside and had walked over toward him. She had overheard his story. "Sorry to learn about your brother and nephew. But," she said with understandable hesitation, "in my view we shouldn't have been involved in either of those wars. What a . . ."

I cleared my throat loud enough for her to hear as a signal that this was not a good place to go.

"Can't say I disagree with that ma'am. We got 'nouh problems right here in the U. S. of A.--even in this town--not to be stickin' our noses into other people's business. Never did them or us no good."

"I'm inclined that way myself," Rona nodded. "We should take care of our own and . . ."

"Sometimes," he said, "takin' care of our own means we gotta fight for what we believe in."

"I'm OK with that but only when we really do have to fight and have tried everything else we could to solve our problems without fighting. I'm no pacifist but . . ."

"Sounds then like maybe we're on the same wavelength."

He laughed toothlessly, looking down at me. "How's that fella of yours doing with his tires?"

"I'm just about done," I said still crouching at the left front. I try to get the exact pressure in the front two. For safety's sake. But I'm having trouble with this one. I can't get it to 35."

"Good thing," he said, "they still got free air here. So you can take all the time you want." He continued laughing while he turned and limped toward the store.

"I'm gonna get me some water," he said over his shoulder, "There's a cooler in the back where they don't charge nothin' for it."