Last night I spent an hour making two cd's for a neighbor of my father...he's been the farm manager as long as I can remember, and I've been saying good morning to him, and not much else, for years...he and his crew drive around the farm picking up trash every day, reliable as Old Faithful. As someone who is fanatic about litter, I've always marveled at them picking up someone else's trash day in and day out. About ten years ago I got a message that Mr. Young would like me to stop by the shop. Not having a clue what he wanted, I felt a twinge of anxiety about this summons, not unlike being beckoned to the Headmasters office unaware of any transgression. It didn't help that Mr. Young never had a lot to say when we passed on the road. He was never rude or short, just taciturn in that old school way. When I arrived in the shop, he and his crew was there milling around. I said morning to Mr. Young, and he turned to an oil can with some envelopes and litter sitting on top, asked me what beer I liked to drink. Not exactly sure what he was getting at, I hesitantly replied Yuengling, kinda stammering. He asked me if I knew anything about what was on the oil can. I saw an envelope with my name on it, and immediately knew I was surrounded by men who picked up trash in the course of their days work and I was a culprit in their eyes. Along with the envelope and litter was a couple of Coors light bottles, and I remembered the day before stopping along a road that borders the farm they work on, where they would naturally pick up and trash. I confessed to having my lunch on the side of the road the day before, having opened my door to let some air in and put my feet up for a short nap after I realized my letter must have blown out while sleeping...I told Mr. Young I was quite old enough to drink at home, I don't drink during the day anyway, and look I told him, as I pulled out two cigarrette butt's from my back pocket that I smoked that morning, I don't like litter, I never do, I don't even chuck my butt's out! I'm sure Mr. Young was a poker player, because his expression never changed. He didn't argue with my thoughts, but he didn't verbally accept my explanation either. I apologized for the letter he picked up, told him I was sorry, and when he didn't offer to continue the conversation, I bolted out the door like a scared suitor meeting his dates Dad for the first time. Never once did Mr. Young ever bring it up with me again, but for years it burned me to consider he thought less of me for being one of those punk ass kids who have no regard for the farm he looked after, a neighbor worse still. I was raised to respect my elders, and with very few exceptions I've managed to remain one who does, but I swear I could see disappointment in his eyes that morning. I apologized, and I meant it, but for years I've wondered if there was something I could say to finally put it to rest. Ever since, Mr. Young has been the same old good neighbor, always says good morning, waves or whatever the situation calls for. The last couple of years he'll even stop his truck if I'm riding one of my horses for a brief chat. About the weather, the season, something short and quick. Not long ago I heard his wife had passed away some months ago, and enough time had come and gone I felt awkward expressing my sympathy. But I've kept thinking it would be nice to share something with him, convey my long held torment about how he might view me after picking up my envelope with the beer bottles and litter, tell him I was sorry about losing his wife, and express my gratitude for his life of service to the most beautifully maintained farm in Chester County. Despite having known this man all my life, I didn't know squat about him, except he has a skeet range behind his house. I'd only ever seen him in his truck or on some farm equipment, and since holding a gun for me inspires the heeby jeebies, I couldn't imagine what gift I could give him. Well, last night I was on itunes trying to find some new music, and it hit me; make the man a cd! Of course I had no clue what, if any, musical inclinations he had, so it was a little like driving at night with the headlights off, but I persevered. And now I have to deliver the two I made. Gonna go back to that shop, like a man damnit, and share my thoughts. Of course, I hope like hell the rest of the crew ain't there. But isn't speaking the truth supposed to come easy?!?! Why yes, it is, but there is a reluctance in me still. Where does it come from? I learned in Landmark the courage we need and sometimes find hard to summon is the result of a childhood fear, the attached feelings which come with being naked in front of another. Figuratively speaking naturally. I don't think Mr. Young would care a great deal for me walking in wearing my birthday suit. But the impulse to protect our precious little heart is so strong, isn't it? Amazing how our defense mechanisms as we grow older do nothing but guarantee wounding the precious little heart in the act of covering it up...
I hope Mr. Young is there tomorrow. And I hope I don't find myself stammering in front of him.