| by Rosanne Morse 2-2008 Alachua, FL: Friday after Friday, just before 6, he rushes in the door, a raw-boned, forty-ish man. For about two years now he’s been quietly searching through our books, politely responding “no, mam” while declining assistance. Knowing when to leave someone alone, I retreat to my desk and fiddle as the clock moves towards closing time. He’s tall with a pale complexion and lots of freckles. I’ve never seen his hair as it’s under a broad brimmed straw cowboy hat. His clothes are torn jeans and dingy white T-shirts; he’s clean except for splashes of paint and perhaps a little sheen of sweat in the summer. Probably hasn’t seen a dentist, at least in a long, long time. A red-neck farmer if I ever saw one - but - he reads Carl Hiaasen - hmmmm - not your usual cowboy reading choice ... One dark, Fall evening he slowly dragged himself in. Quietly going to “his” section, I said “hey” and he said “hey”. Now if you know me, you know that after all these months, I couldn’ t leave it alone, so I asked if he was all right. He turned, he smiled, and then a tear fell. It seems his son was turning 18 and had just told his Dad how excited he was to be moving out of the house. Sounds, normal right? Most parents know that the day is coming when the kids will jump, fall, or fly out of the nest. We may have other plans and greater aspirations, but freedom is what is on their minds. This announcement was a punch to the gut of my cowboy. He loved his son. He adored his son. His son was his best friend. He remembered what his own home was like when he was growing up and he had promised himself to provide a better life for his son. Divorced when his son was three, he became - and remained - a single parent. The child’s mother was an addict who wanted nothing to do with her son. This man had devoted all of his energy and love to his son and now that cherished boy was leaving to try life on his own. Oh, and today I learned his name - John - John the carpenter. For a while I didn’t see John. Time went by, people came and went with their opinions, needs, and wants; lots of discussion naturally happens in a “real” bookstore. I find that readers are almost always also people who explore the “big questions”. I don’t remember who first said it, but here’s a thought that gives me hope: “A mind once expanded, never returns to its original size.” Anyway, back to John. The whole Carl Hiassen thing had intrigued me so I had been stockpiling Hiassen’s books and others I thought might interest my guy John. So, in he comes, whistling and cheerful as can be. Well, it seems his son’s first few forays into the big world didn’t work out all that well and Dad had been able to step in once or twice to save the day - superhero once again. John was just glad he had been asked. Now our ice had been broken. I learned about John’s violent father and verbally belittling alcoholic mother - who still didn’t have a good word to say about anyone. I heard about John’s move from Maine. Maine? Not Mississippi or Georgia, or any other stereotyped Southern state. Maine: New England lobstermen, hunters, hard working, tight-lipped serious people. The mission of Maine’s Bowdoin College is “to cultivate people who work for the common good in a world of flux” – just a bit different from “stomp them Bulldogs” and “Go Gators!” (Don’t get cranky now, I’m a Gator fan, got three Gator-educated folks right here in the ole homestead.) I digress. So, here’s the deal about John the carpenter. It seems that John has developed a mission in life. A serious mission. A mission to spread the word. It seems John has taken it upon himself to attend numerous churches, mostly Christian but a few odd-nondenominational ones as well. He attends services, he joins discussion groups; he is accepted. And then, when least expected, John launches into his fervent version of how to live in the world. Now remember, John is not your usual image of a minister, in fact, some people might find him downright unsavory. But, boy does this guy have a message. A good, solid, common sense message about being a decent, honorable parent, about setting healthy boundaries in relationships, about getting along in this world. He talks passionately about why he doesn’t agree with corporal punishment. He gently rants with zeal about how destructive psychological and emotional abuse is. He is fearless of critics. Quietly, he speaks from experience and thus with authority. He challenges peoples’ methods, not their beliefs. It appears John the carpenter is something of an everyman’s preacher, who preaches about behavior in the here and now, and leaves our souls and the hereafter to the theologians. John reaches people who wouldn’t pay attention to those of us in the “helping” professions. Most people don’t seem to expect much from John at first, but his sincerity is hard to ignore. We are left pondering, and maybe even bewildered, when he moves on to the next congregation. John has a mission and, like those before him, he preaches his ideas and methods with courage, compassion and simplicity. And, like those before him, he may never know the full impact of the gift he is giving; yet the fire in his soul goes on. |
| Why I Can’t Judge a Book By Its Cover |
| by Rosanne Morse 1-2008 Alachua, FL: As we pulled into the nursing home parking lot, it seemed everyone must have a visitor, the lot was full. Off in the distance my husband spotted an empty space. As we got closer we exchanged dubious glances - the space was too small. Of course, if we weren’t riding around in a gas-guzzling tank of a truck, we could fit. After much maneuvering we were parked but I noted it was a good thing I wasn’t going in because I wouldn’t’ be able to get out! Then, of course, we realized if I couldn’t get, out neither could the other driver get in. Saying, “I’ll be quick”, he left me the keys and we hoped no one would want to leave. Of course, as it always goes, about 10 minutes after my husband was gone, a rather tall, large young black man smilingly approached the parking lot. I watched and hoped he was going somewhere else. But, no, of course, he was heading right toward me. We looked at each other; he smiled. I, on the other hand, started to flail around. First, I remembered that I would have to get out of the truck to change seats to move it, but even if I could get out the alarm would go off. I tried to open the window but the keys were in my pocket not in the ignition, so that didn’t work. I meant to smile as I floundered, wildly pushing buttons, but my white Irish face just looked panicked - I know this for a fact. No, I didn’t look in the mirror. I just saw the look of sadness on the young man’ s face as he struggled to open his car door. Finally, I heard him laugh and saw him shake his head, thinking I’m sure, “just another pathetic white woman, scared of us big young black men.” I could hear it in my head just a clear as if he had shouted it out loud. He was gone in a minute and there was no way to redeem myself. I’ll never know if my moment of fluster deepened the racial divide or maybe, just maybe, only confirmed a young man’s suspicion that an aging woman should never be left alone in a big truck! |
| The Space Was too Small! |
| 2/08 - Why I Can't Judge a Book by Its Cover 1/08 - The Space Was Too Small |