okieinexile
Well-Known Member
Please bring my husband home
By Bobby Neal Winters
I live in a small town where minding your own business is highly prized, but it’s not so easy to do, especially in an age where we use stickers on our cars as a means of expressing ourselves.
For instance, I was out mowing the lawn and I noticed there were two vehicles parked in the drive of the rent house next door. The previous tenant moved out taking her friendly dog with her, and I’ve been busy, so I didn’t take note of the new folks moving in.
I started mowing the lawn at the street and worked my way in. The vehicle parked nearer the street was a black pickup. In the back window perfectly centered written in the fraktur that the Germans used to use was the word “Sinner.”
I thought that was an interesting thing to advertise and briefly hypothesized the truck might belong to a religious man. I scanned the rest of the car for the fishes or crosses the usually accompany other public displays of piety, but there were none to be seen.
I continued mowing back and forth across the lawn, and by and by I came to the level of the second vehicle. It only took a glance to see in the back seat the paraphernalia of a small child including diapers, the safety seat, a cardboard book in the shape of a crayola.
I mowed another round and saw a yellow ribbon on the car door on the driver’s side. Getting closer, I squinted to read it. “Please bring my husband home” was what it said.
The next round on the way back I saw a man walking onto the front porch in his briefs. He was tall and lean. He had a tattoo on one shoulder like they all do nowadays. He had long hair and a beard.
It could be that I was jumping to conclusions, but I made my self a bet he’s the Sinner.
The next round I came back, and he had his pants on and had been joined by some company--well-groomed, female company. Even though I was minding my own business, the thought strayed across my mind that it was the lady with the husband. They were smoking and talking, and I began trying to mind my own business with renewed vigor.
Random thoughts ran across my mind: “Maybe they don’t make them get their hair cut in the army any more,” “Maybe they are brother and sister.”
Maybe Santa Claus will be coming by.
I ran out of gas and went to get some more. When I get back, the lady with the husband is gone and the Sinner has pulled his truck in farther from the street.
I gassed up my mower and finished mowing—minding my own business—because that is what we do in a small town.
(Bobby Winters is a professor of mathematics, writer, and speaker. You may contact him at bobby@okieinexile.com or visit his website at www.okieinexile.com.)
By Bobby Neal Winters
I live in a small town where minding your own business is highly prized, but it’s not so easy to do, especially in an age where we use stickers on our cars as a means of expressing ourselves.
For instance, I was out mowing the lawn and I noticed there were two vehicles parked in the drive of the rent house next door. The previous tenant moved out taking her friendly dog with her, and I’ve been busy, so I didn’t take note of the new folks moving in.
I started mowing the lawn at the street and worked my way in. The vehicle parked nearer the street was a black pickup. In the back window perfectly centered written in the fraktur that the Germans used to use was the word “Sinner.”
I thought that was an interesting thing to advertise and briefly hypothesized the truck might belong to a religious man. I scanned the rest of the car for the fishes or crosses the usually accompany other public displays of piety, but there were none to be seen.
I continued mowing back and forth across the lawn, and by and by I came to the level of the second vehicle. It only took a glance to see in the back seat the paraphernalia of a small child including diapers, the safety seat, a cardboard book in the shape of a crayola.
I mowed another round and saw a yellow ribbon on the car door on the driver’s side. Getting closer, I squinted to read it. “Please bring my husband home” was what it said.
The next round on the way back I saw a man walking onto the front porch in his briefs. He was tall and lean. He had a tattoo on one shoulder like they all do nowadays. He had long hair and a beard.
It could be that I was jumping to conclusions, but I made my self a bet he’s the Sinner.
The next round I came back, and he had his pants on and had been joined by some company--well-groomed, female company. Even though I was minding my own business, the thought strayed across my mind that it was the lady with the husband. They were smoking and talking, and I began trying to mind my own business with renewed vigor.
Random thoughts ran across my mind: “Maybe they don’t make them get their hair cut in the army any more,” “Maybe they are brother and sister.”
Maybe Santa Claus will be coming by.
I ran out of gas and went to get some more. When I get back, the lady with the husband is gone and the Sinner has pulled his truck in farther from the street.
I gassed up my mower and finished mowing—minding my own business—because that is what we do in a small town.
(Bobby Winters is a professor of mathematics, writer, and speaker. You may contact him at bobby@okieinexile.com or visit his website at www.okieinexile.com.)
