There are many sterling traits that set the Yankee
Curmudgeon character apart from others and give me pleasure to count my own
among the ranks, but helpfulness, alas, is not one of them.
Example: Not long ago, I went into a certain, sterile big-box
hardware store that shall remain nameless, with the goal of buying paint. For
the purposes of anonymity, lets just call the minions hired to prowl the aisles
of this vast and soulless cavern The Orange Aprons. No, not for any particular
reason, but good question! Glad you're paying attention. Anyway, after milling cluelessly in front of the
overwhelming array of color options for upwards of forty minutes, lost in the
thrall of indecision, I finally settled on a color and a finish. (The OA’s had
long ago scattered to the winds the minute they sniffed uncertainty on
me.) So I grabbed off their shelf a gallon of base
paint that promised me eggshell finish, and drifted over to the
‘paint center’ counter. And waited.
And waited.
And.
Waited.
I tried to flag down an OA whom I caught unpacking boxes in
the middle of the paint aisle. He first tried the old “if I don’t look at you
then maybe you won’t be able to see me” routine before sighing in defeat and
with the look of a doomed man, asked if he could help me. No doubt because of
his manned post in the middle of the paint department, I mistakenly thought he
could. Was he able to mix some paint for me please? Or, in the event that he wasn’t, could he perhaps summon for
me somebody who could? Nope. He wasn’t and he couldn’t. Awfully sorry, but he
was in the middle of stocking, and his radio wasn’t working. But if I waited
“just a few more minutes”, Linda would be returning from break. She could help
me, he said, with oily reassurance.
Five minutes.
Ten minutes.
Finally, a pinch faced fireplug of a woman sidled up to the
paint counter and in the same tone she might have employed if she had just
found out I clubbed baby seals in my spare time, asked if she could help me.
I slid the gallon I had selected across the counter, along
with the paint chip I had decided upon.
Can I get some paint mixed please?
Not with that paint, you can’t.
Silence.
Um, what?
She blinked.
I blinked back. Sorry?
She jabbed a finger at the label. That’s the wrong paint.
Oh.
I waited for her to elaborate, to expand upon this observation
but evidently counsel had decided to rest.
Silence.
Um–– …Could you show me where the right paint is then?
Sigh.
And as she unwedged herself from the sliver of an opening
the paint counter afforded and led me back down the aisle she had only just minutes
before passed, she offered this nugget for me: You should have asked for help if
you were confused.
More recently, Gina and I have been trying in our own
bumbling way, to solicit help from our neighbors. I always say that we live on
a lake but a more accurate description is to say that we live across the road
from a lake. It is a small road, granted, but just the same it means that we
are maddingly close to water without being able to reach it. All the land that
touches the lake around us is privately owned. This is a fairly new
development. Mostly because until recently, we thought we lived right down the
road from a public access way, and for four or five years, we have been
treating said access as such. It was the perfect
place to launch our kayaks when we wanted to paddle around the water and enjoy,
say, a spate of beautiful spring weather when sounds of mirth and merriment
from all those enjoying the cool waters might waft up from the shores and ring
in our ears where we sat in our backyard, sweating and stewing in humid misery.
Unfortunately, due to a little investigative research, begun purely in an effort to vindicate our righteous indignation that some crotchety lout had erringly
plastered “private property” signs all over what was in fact a public access,
we discovered that those private property signs were, to our astonishment,
plastered all over private property.
Whoops.
Okay, that’s okay, we told ourselves. We would forget this access and move on
to plan B.
Plan B was brilliant. It couldn’t fail. Because had a secret
weapon:
Chocolate chip cookies.
The hardest part was summoning the courage to knock on a
neighbor’s door. We had done a thorough investigation of the lakeside
properties and had carefully chosen this neighbor because it was convenient,
but also because we assessed the layout and decided their property bounds
afforded the maximum convenience for everyone and also the minimum disturbance.
These neighbors have a long (relatively) and winding driveway that curves
around towards the house exactly as a small embankment slopes down towards the
lake. It provided a perfect path for us to wheel our kayaks down to the lake
while the distance and ample foliage between our route and their house would
ensure that our presence would not disturb their privacy at all. The path we
marked out led to a small swampy cove. It was out of the way. The cove,
frankly, looked lonely and unloved.
I wrote a letter introducing ourselves and asking if we
might be able to work out an agreement where they might grant us access to the
cove to launch our kayaks and we in return would give them chocolate chip
cookies and also our lasting gratitude. In addition to reverent hero status. I revised the
letter three times. Gina bustled in the kitchen getting a plateful of cookies
made. At last, we were ready to put the plan into action.
Armed with smiles and a plate of cookies, we embarked on our
journey across the street and down our neighbor’s driveway.
Our neighbor was youngish. Forties maybe. Pleasant, in a socially awkward way. He nodded as
we babbled. He listened to our pleas. In my enthusiasm, I thrust my
letter at him and Gina flung the cookie platter into his hands. He was
startled, but he took them both. He said our request seemed reasonable. He’d
just have to ask permission of course.
Of course!
He looked worried, like he couldn’t figure out how to both
ask for permission and also continue his duties as our host. Fulfilling one
mission meant abandoning the other.
He looked relieved when we told him he could get back to us,
that he didn’t have to do it now.
Of course! We told him our emails and numbers were in the
letter. The cookies were his too, regardless of his decision.
Of course!
He thanked us, and we thanked him, and then we returned
home. I immediately headed to the bathroom to scrounge for asprin.
That night he emailed us back.
Naturally, he said, he was sorry that it wasn’t going to work out. His
reasons were squirrelly and vague and I couldn’t quite follow what he meant. We
were crestfallen. We’d been hoping that all our effort would help us secure a
place where we could wheel our kayaks down to the water. We were hoping it
could be his cove. It wasn’t going to be. That was his prerogative, of course.
Of course.
The cookies, he made sure to tell us, were delicious.
We still haven’t found a place to put our kayaks in. At
least not a place that doesn’t involve a severely off road commute through the
woods or strapping them to the car and driving down to the public boat
launch. We haven’t summoned up our
courage or our efforts to deploy plan B upon another neighbor. Partly because
we're feeling cowardly, but mostly because the weather’s turned cold again and so the
pressing incentive to secure ourselves a boat launch has mysteriously faded.
Then, just the other day, we were playing out in our garden,
and watched the kids from across the street try to sell water. Yep, straight
up, plain old tap water out of a plastic jug. Their grandmother who lives with
them and was more or less overseeing the operations, wandered over to our yard
to talk. She said they couldn’t find the jug of country time powder in their
house, but clearly, these enterprising kids were undeterred and felt if they
couldn’t sell lemonade, then they could at least help their neighbors stay
hydrated.
But soon, a minor crisis arose when they discovered they
were running low on plastic cups. Potential loss of sales swam before their
eyes. I could see it in their expressions. Not that anybody had driven by in
the last hour, but still. They sent the youngest on an emergency supply run,
but after several minutes, he came back empty handed. Their grandmother
promised she would help scrounge more up when she was done talking with us. It was however, apparent to all that she was in no danger of flagging any time
soon. Then she happened to peer
around the corner of our house and she spotted our kayaks. And that’s when
found out from her that there might exist a lakeside benefactor not three doors
down from us. Our neighbor knows this first hand because she launches her
rowing scull from this woman’s property. She suggested we try asking her. Gina
and I looked at each other.
When our conversation ended, Gina thanked our neighbor and
then went into the house to get one of our plastic tumblers and a dollar. The
kids practically went limp with relief when she showed up with her own vessel.
They gave her extra water as a token of their appreciation. She told them to
keep the extra change, as a token of hers.
She wandered back into our yard and in silence, we ruminated on our tip. I could feel courage and hope start to trickle through my veins once more. I looked over at her and saw her purse her lips, deep in thought. She was staring off, towards the direction where our potential benefactor lived.
How’s the water, I asked
Delicious, she said. A dollar very well spent, I think. Here, have some.
I did, and so it was.
We haven't gone over to plead our case with the woman, not yet. It's cold and raining right now and we haven't had time to make more cookies, but the delicious hope of possibility blooms once more. And I am considering amending my blanket statement about New Englanders. Some exceptions apply.
