““And just so you know, we add a 3% surcharge on credit card transactions” she said, while gracefully maneuvering the plastic card, much as a waitress might deftly slide a plate from beneath a diner’s mouth, mid-bite. I nodded; not my first rodeo, I thought. I appreciate politeness, but fake deference, I can do without. It makes me feel old. Like the first time a cashier called me Madam. Way better, to be called Hun. That kind of server will be back to refill your coffee, twice as much as you need her to. I’m all for it. I admire that kind of service. It makes me feel like I’m in my grandmother’s kitchen, having Italian food forced on me, kindly. Not pushy, just attentive, and blatantly happy to see my chair pushed in to the counter, my little six year old legs swinging, spoon at the ready and grateful, expectant. I don’t give over that kind of vulnerability, easily, outside of an ethic environment where’s it’s rude not too. In the stone yard, I play it cool & easy. “Yes, a half a yard of clean, 3/4 bluestone”, I say. “I have a truck”. And evidently, she has a Bobcat. She hands me the receipt, picks up the keys, and heads out the door. I follow. I love the ritual. Pulling my truck into place, with an eye for her turning ratio, opening a window, pulling the brake on, getting out to watch. It might take her a minute, to get the right bucket on the machine. These early morning moments, ring with a beautiful sense of autonomy, those that come to folks who run their own businesses. I’ll never forget my minutes spent leaning on my bumper, surveying gravel pits, greening hills and the mist; the bins of mulch, river stone, pea stone, and topsoil. There are pallets of stone here from all over the state: huge, jagged fragments that arrest one’s desire for something. Maybe its about permanence, or lack thereof. Maybe its the joy, that there is such an industry, that revels in such a pure, earth product. She’s an ace with the bucket. I stand apart from the truck, and try not to dote, or seem critical. I feel good, just standing in the yard. I feel lucky, even blessed. To have come this far, from a hopeless situation, well a couple of them, and to have landed here. I will always have a solid day’s work in front of me. I will always, know what I’m doing. I will want to do more, and be excited about it, even if the people around me are not (yet). I feel confident in my ability to help others thrive. I developed a lot of crazy habits in isolation, but I don’t regret having stumbled onto an amazing behavior analyst, who spends his life uncovering psychopaths. This helped me understand how it is not a level playing field. It made me realize that I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time, barking up a weird tree. Call it karma, call it programming. But once I understood that I could let go of wanting to be heard, or accepted, or loved, or really understood. I could fulfill my own resume, as I’ve always been driven by a clear mission. It’s totally enough to have bonded with a small circle of valued friends, to have nurtured animals, brought up children in a righteous manner, and wept real tears. Written a few songs. Or any variation on that theme. What a beautiful, humble world, some of us live in. We did it the hard way. And that was our college. Now, as we tend to things, our hands remember what we’ve planted, without having to remember. It’s an automatic kindness, we can’t ever stop now. It’s so strong, and so sure of itself, we don’t have to run things anymore. We just show up for work. The younger generation is going to have many new, other-worldly attributes, but you can bet that they will be building, on the foundation, of this.”
