"Oh, Lydia!"

Last night I managed to rid myself of two things I no longer wanted: The old Montgomery Wards riding mower that I’d intended to fix in order to mow the elderly French couple’s lawn, and two video cameras from the VHS era—when people were happy with the idea of inserting the large videotapes into their camcorders to capture the family vacation, weddings, and so on. This was only a few years ago, actually. These two cameras have been sitting idle in the closet for a good many years, but they work fine. A young man—an aspiring filmmaker—drove all the way from the eastern shore to fetch them. At twenty-five dollars for the pair, he felt it was worth his while. The place he was coming from is some one hundred miles distant. He arrived right on time, said the online classified ads in this area yield few results, compared to back home in the northwestern part of the country. Practically everyone there uses the forum, he said. At the moment he is living with a relative in Maryland, biding his time until he can get something started with the filmmaking.

The other respondent to my online ad arrived shortly after the young man who bought the cameras. He happily paid me what I’d paid for the tractor, loaded it up, and was off to a town nearby to try to fix it for the new house he’d just moved into. It is rare for me to have people actually show up for these online ads; it seems they initially show a great deal of interest, want to know if the item is still available, then sign off—never to be heard from again. Last night was an anomaly. I’m glad it worked out.

This morning I ate at the diner out in Ellicott City. The waffle was excellent, but the sausage was not. The two links appeared to have some age on them, and a small bite revealed that they were not very fresh—had a tainted aftertaste, in fact. I sent them back, asked for bacon instead, and finished up my meal.

I went next to the hardware store, where I returned an item I’d bought for the other house. It was the cutoff valve for the water supply—the one located in the basement. I knew when I bought it that it was probably the wrong size, but wanted to see if it would work anyway. The return went smoothly, then I looked around the store for the meter-wrench I would need to turn off the water supply out at the street. I decided that, if I could just buy the tool, it would be a better use of my time than trying to fabricate one. I found the simple tools—in two lengths—sticking up from plastic tubes that held them in place. No identifying tag or sticker gave a clue as to what they were or how much they cost. I took them to the front, where the same pretty young girl who’d taken care of my exchange was working. There were quite a few young people there, actually, and they all seemed to be running the place—a good-sized hardware store that is part of a national chain. I tried to explain to her what the tools were, calling them “meter wrenches.” I suspected that I was not using the store’s terminology, so gave up after a while. The two of us—the pretty girl and I—took a walk back to the area where I’d found them. This little promenade was actually encouraged by another of the young people up at the checkout counter; another girl there thought I was better-qualified to show where I’d found the inexplicable tool, and for a short while was glad to have washed her hands of the affair. I was elated, even though it only entailed showing a young woman where I’d found the uninteresting tools. I located the display, noted that they came in two lengths, and then we set about trying to find something that would help identify them for the store’s computer and pricing system. She found a torn and ragged tag on the floor, partly under a display shelving unit. It said “street-tee.”
“That’s it!” I said, delighted that we’d located something relating to the simple tool. I thought we were quite the team, nosing about—detective-style—there in the hardware store. I fancied they could maybe make a tv show about the two of us: I would be the grizzled old veteran, engaged in some kind of sleuthing, and she would be the pretty, intelligent counterpart, showing me at every turn the error of my ways, discovering the clues that had been right under my very nose. It might need some fleshing out, actually—not sure how the hardware store, with its tools, building materials and so on will play to the general public. Then, a thought seized me. Wanting to prolong our time together there in the store, I had a notion of taking the young girl in my arms, of making her listen, to hear me out, to please let me take her away from this world of hardware, of mulch and garden supplies, irritated customers who can’t find the right gardening gloves because their hands are too sensitive to dirt. Motioning to the plumbing fixtures, the toilet parts, the pipes and faucets and—of course—the street tees, I would tell her I could show her so much more, could bring her into my world, where I often arise at ten o’clock, pad around in my stocking feet, pause to scratch myself in a listless way, then perhaps go back to bed. Then, suddenly taking a sharp detour into the Victorian era, my speech becoming flowery and literary:

“Oh, Lydia (her name tag said Lydia), please let me show you the happiness, the pleasures untold, that I am certain awaits us!” I might give her a little shake just for emphasis. “Seeing you here in these ignoble surroundings, working with steely things that surely must feel harsh against your smooth and gentle skin, must grate against your finer sensibilities—this pains me to know that a beautiful flower cannot thrive in the midst of darkness, of lowness, of the terrible things that you should never concern yourself with! Be ye not enticed by these hell-sent baubles of Satan, these fixtures, these dribblers of water, turnstiles of gases and malodorous things. Elevate thine senses above the conveyors of liquids, the endless tubes, rigid in their structure and purpose. Be ye yet acquainted with the lustrous things, the wholesome and fresh offerings from the out of doors, a romp in a summer garden, a day spent in the simple toil of picking berries, of milking a goat, of running like a newborn foal across endless meadows of green, towards a horizon unblemished by worry and the jarring geometry of galvanized pipes!”

Working myself up to a fevered pitch, a last-ditch appeal to the pretty young girl standing next to the street-tees, at the end of an aisle offering pipes, fittings, straps and other inelegant things, I would say:
“Let me transplant you! Let your beauty and mind flourish in a way not possible amongst these awful plumbing fixtures, these gasping faucets and spitters of mire and muck!”

“Okay,” she would say, responding in her simple, innocent way.

Then, giving word to her manager that she was leaving, turning in her name tag and store-issued apron, the two of us would depart to start our new life together. We would walk out, making our way past the brroms, the mops and buckets--the full-size cutout of Mr. Clean grinning insanely as he waves us good-bye.

I went to the front counter, paid for my purchase, and left the store. The checkout process actually turned into a comedy of errors, as Lydia rang up BOTH of the long-handled tools. I only needed one of them. This of course prolonged my time there, something that I was happy to accept as part of my life on this day.

Earlier in the day I drove over in the old truck to fetch the cement mixer. I put the ramps in place, put old scraps of smooth wood over them for a more viable surface to roll the creaking old machine up and into the truck, and got it in fairly easily. The wheels groaned and squeaked, practically crying out for some oil. I sprayed some of my heavy-duty penetrating lubricant on them when I got home and quieted them down some. The mixer came with a tarp, something I’m always glad to have. Can’t have too many tarps, that’s what I always say. I parked it in the driveway, where the now-departed Wards mower used to be, and covered it up. I’ll have to see how the machine does with a bag or two of cement in its big mixing bowl. More importantly, it remains to be seen how I’ll actually manage when I have the cement mixed up and ready to pour. Being no expert on the subject, the results may be interesting. I plan to do part of my driveway and all of the front walk for the other house with fresh, new concrete.