Somebody bought my husband’s car. Until yesterday, was not at all sure who it was. When running, I never get a good fix on faces or types of cars. It is almost as if “seeing” is voluntary. If not called to attention, my visual interest pulls back into a panorama. Some type of old “boomer” navel gazing, or the opposite.
It was somebody on my running route; my husband had a little white convertible parked at the end of our road. Pulling off our long drive last week, a big dark truck and two people familiar to me came in and stopped to speak. They wanted to look at the car. They drove on back.
Now here the story gets strange. You must know that there are at least dozens of southern accents. For a newcomer, like Glenn, and like my reaction when first migrating here, conversation can be difficult. After a social event, you can come away exhausted. Concentration on what words are actually being said can be mind blowing. You make listening errors. Some things you just never understand. Idioms are odd—-around here people “carry” others everywhere. I see an adult son with his mother in his arms, carrying her bodily around the Piggly Wiggly. This is not what they mean, but you have to get used to this.
The pair looked at the car, and bought it. Hooray. Glenn thought he understood that the farmer who bought the car was getting married. That he was working on enlarging his house. We thought it was sweet as the man is advanced in age. Seemed more normal then that he was buying a sexy little convertible! Second wind, you know.
The man with the farmer in his truck lives on our road. His name is Jake. He works both for the farmer and the fish man who lives further down the road.
Two days later I see the farmer’s son on my running route. Always see him. My running road splits his farm in half. I stop.
I see you are adding a new chicken building.
TWO, he said. Lots of work.
So your Daddy is getting married again!
He is buying Glenn’s car and is getting married. You knew?
I’m doing all this work for someone else?
You don’t know about this?
No answer. I try to back peddle as women do, try to undo what I understood. OK, I am confused then. It must be someone else. Who else around here could I be confusing with your Daddy? But he is not doing the generous reaction to my squirming.
The next day, I am not on the road. But yesterday, my run was normal. Except that when the farmer’s son stopped to speak to me, he had a shotgun and a box of bullets in his front seat. Had been “carrying” them for two days. He referred to them, and showed me.
Did you find out who is buying your car?
No, he was supposed to come and take it on Monday or Tuesday, but he didn’t show up.
The farmer’s son says that Jake is back at the chicken house right now, and he will ask him.
He speeds off, I continue running, worrying about southern accents. He is back in a flash. Jake is amazed that the deed is public. How did you know that your Daddy bought that car?
I know everything, says the farmer’s son to Jake.
Best we can figure is that the fish man is getting married. He remodeled his house last summer, and that might have been what Jake was referring to.