Appalachian American

I was in line at a traffic light recently, waiting impatiently for it to turn green, when the police cruiser in front of me rear-ended the truck in front of him.  Apparently he was impatient as well.  I wondered how the driver of the truck would react to a police officer being the cause of the accident.  Both men got out of their vehicles, glanced at whatever damage there may have been, exchanged some words, and got back behind their respective wheels.

We waited on the light to change and each drove off on our merry way.

What is it with people?  I was approaching the door to my local tanning salon today (now that the weather is warming, it’s time to commence baking myself) when a lady from a nearby car rushed passed me – at a near jog – and hurried into the shop.  When I entered a few seconds later she had already signed her name onto the waiting list. 

I wanted to tell her that I was early for my scheduled appointment and, being the gentleman I am, I probably would’ve held the door open for her and allowed her to sign in first anyway.   Since she made such a production of entering before me, though, I decided against it.

All her effort was wasted regardless.  We were using two different types of tanning bed. 

As I left, she was at the counter fussing with the clerk over her remaining visits.  Speedy Gonzales swore she had eight, but the clerk proclaimed that she only had one left.  I smiled.

I was behind a charming older married couple in line at my local Kroger this morning.  It was a slow process, as the store was understaffed.  The checkout lady looked rather frazzled, being called this way and that by other store employees.  The husband began bagging his own groceries and putting them into the cart, which warranted a “Thank you” from the checker.

“That’s how we met,” said the wife, cheerfully.  The man, then a Foodland employee, had bagged her groceries one afternoon .  “We’ve been together 33 years now!”

Perhaps I’ll stop going to the supermarket in sweats and a baseball cap.  You never know where you may find your soulmate.

My friend Todd operates this blog about his daily attempts to perform acts of kindness toward others.  I’ve decided I don’t do enough of that myself. 

The other evening I was pulling into the McDonald’s drive-thru when another car approached from the opposite direction at the same time.  I thought of Todd’s blog and decided to be generous.  I slowed and let the car proceed into the line ahead of me.  As it passed, I noticed the elderly couple occupying it and sighed, assuming prematurely that I had just added several minutes onto my wait.  I couldn’t help it; I needed to be home to watch Dancing with the Stars, in hopes that my favorite Go-Go, Belinda Carlisle, wouldn’t have to suffer the shame of being eliminated first despite being a pretty boring dancer.

I was right about the elderly couple.  They took forever.  Small steps, though; at least I was kind when I let them in line and could take comfort in that knowledge.  Thanks Todd.  Poor Belinda’s evening was far less satisfying.

There’s a man near my place of employment who walks regularly along the side of the road balancing a cinderblock on top of his head.  He doesn’t use his hands, either, just pure balance.  Occasionally he’ll put a towel underneath the block and, on days I assume he feels like a change of pace or is maybe just thirsty, a bottle of Gatorade on top.  As someone who travels that road frequently, I must admit to being apprehensive about how close to the traffic he walks.  One twist of the ankle and I could have a block through my window.   

You’re probably asking yourself why he does this.  So am I.

It never fails.  I always end up in the slowest checkout line at the grocery store.  Yesterday I stopped by Wal-Mart for a few things and headed to the express checkout line (20 items or less, mind you).  One lady was ahead of me, piling her items – of which there were considerably more than 20 – onto the tiny counter.  I sighed.  Only one other express lane was open and it was about four customers deep.  Why doesn’t my local store have self-checkouts?

My patience grew thinner and thinner until finally all her items had been scanned.  I unloaded my few things from the basket, at which point the lane next to me opened up and the guy behind me eased right over there.  He was out the door before my first item was in the bag.  I would’ve screamed had the young cashier-in-training and her elderly trainer not made me smile. 

Lately I’ve been in the mood to listen to The Beatles.  When I couldn’t find any music to download online, I decided to do something I haven’t done in almost a year: buy a CD.  When the young checker saw my disc, she proudly proclaimed that she’s never heard of The Beatles!  That’s her claim to fame among her circle of friends, she said.  (I wanted to say, “Well, by this point you have had this conversation more than once and have obviously heard of them; perhaps now you should say you’ve never listened to their music?”)  The trainer chimed in with a story about her family’s Vegas vacation and her grandchildren not recognizing Lucille Ball at a wax museum.  The whole thing made me smile, as I don’t think I would’ve had any interesting banter at that other lane that opened up. That lady looked grumpy.

However, the whole incident was bittersweet.  What is wrong with young people today that they don’t know The Beatles or Lucille Ball?!  I hadn’t been so saddened over the state of our nation’s youth than when I had to explain to one person too many who Cloris Leachman was during last season’s Dancing with the Stars!

My apartment building has one of those nifty intercom systems like Jerry Seinfeld had.  In my almost two years of living here, there have been instances when someone has buzzed my apartment without meaning to.  It’s especially jarring when it happens in the middle of the night.  Unless I’m expecting a visitor or package delivery, I typically ignore any buzzes I happen to get.

Luckily not everyone is so discriminate.  I arrived home last night to discover that someone’s key had broken off in the door to the building and no one had propped it open or alerted maintenance to fix the problem.  I was locked out.  I called my landlady (despite it being a Sunday evening) and alerted her of the situation.  Not overly concerned, she suggested I buzz someone to let me in.  (That was my intention in the first place, but I at least thought she should be aware.)

The question them became whom to buzz.  I don’t necessarily know any of my neighbors well.  There’s the married couple on the second floor – the husband leaves for work the same time as me, the wife arrives home the same time as me; the guy across the hall whose mother used to work at my organization; a recent addition to the building named Peter whom I met on the stairs one day; or the jogger I referenced in my last post, among others. 

My hope was that whomever I buzzed would at least take the time to see who was buzzing them, which I probably wouldn’t have done myself.  I was going to buzz Peter since he’s the only one I know by name, but his car wasn’t in the lot.  Instead I chose the guy across the hall and pressed the little button to his unit.  Expecting to hear something like “Yeah?” or “Hello?” to which I would respond with my reason for buzzing, instead I simply heard the little click that lets you know the door has been unlocked.  No questions asked!

I knocked on his door when I got upstairs, explained what happened, and thanked him for letting me in.  I went to my own apartment thankful that not everyone has the same attitude as I do.

Oh, and I propped the door open so Peter wouldn’t have the same problem when he came home.

A man who lives in my building jogs around the neighborhood each morning.  One day I was backing out of the parking lot when he jogged up to his car, which I’d apparently been parked beside, and began inspecting the side of it as though I’d hit it.  My former roommate, with me at the time, suggested I apologize to the man, who appeared to us to be rather angry.  Being positive that I hadn’t touched his car at all, I shrugged it off and left.  I recall that incident each time I see the gentleman jogging down the hill or stretching in a corner of the parking lot, which is often several times a week.

Last week, a coworker joked that a celebrity lives in my neighborhood.   Confused, I asked for clarification.  Apparently a former NBA player assisted in the donation of an item to the upcoming KCHA silent auction I discussed in my last post.  I looked at the information she had about the donor.  It’s my neighbor. 

Small world.

I recently ended what had been nearly a yearlong boycott of a gas station/convenience store in my neighborhood.  I’d gone into the store with a small stack of winning scratch-off lottery tickets that I’d gotten at the Kanawha/Charleston Humane Association’s Fur Ball silent auction.  The clerk was very friendly – and extremely chatty – as she scanned in the tickets several feet away from me.  When she totaled my winnings, a $10 ticket was missing.  She looked around behind the counter and found nothing, suggesting that I had perhaps dropped it or misplaced it.  Having not counted the tickets before entering the store myself, I assumed she was correct; I could’ve misplaced it.  I left the store, ten dollars shy of my expected prize.

I never found the missing ticket.  I purposefully avoided that store, having convinced myself that the clerk kept my ticket for herself, until recently when a coffee craving lured me into the parking lot before I could stop myself.  She wasn’t there.  I had an extra buck so I bought a scratch-off ticket and won $2. 

Maybe I’ll keep doing that.  Perhaps I’ll get my money back after all.

Me and my grandfather, Christmas 2008

A tidbit about loving thy neighbor.  My grandfather died recently, and I traveled home to be with the family for almost a week.  For four straight days we were inundated with friends, relatives, and home-cooked food.  My aunt made potato salad; our next door neighbor made a rum cake and two chocolate cakes; another neighbor brought chicken and macaroni salad; yet another neighbor brought chicken casserole and macaroni & cheese; another brought chicken tenders and more macaroni salad; the church sent up a virtual smorgasbord of food (including, you guessed it, chicken); the hospital where my mother works sent ham, turkey, and all the fixings; a nearby restaurant sent over pizzas, hot wings, and soda.  That isn’t even everything. 

A somber occasion, yes, but a shining example of the compassion that exists in a small town.

While on the subject, my grandfather, a proud veteran of World War II, received a military burial service at his funeral.  It was truly one of the most moving things I’ve ever seen.