As it’s been documented here, like so many other Americans, my mood has been quite bleak as I navigate my brain through the final days of the 2024 election and all the fear-mongering bullshit that we’re subjected to on a daily basis1. But earlier this week, I had some small interactions that really helped me out in a big way.
On Monday, I was out blowing some leaves and got talking to my neighbor (one of the intelligent ones and a former Minnesotan) as he finished up his morning run. We briefly talked about the pain in the ass that leaf raking can be and the costs of having pros do it for you, something he is opting for this year in order to save time he could be spending with his young family. It was a few minutes of polite conversation, and that was it.
Fast forward a day or two later, and I’m walking in the woods in the early morning when my watch buzzes with a message from an unknown number. It was my neighbor texting me and telling me to feel free to rake some of my leaves into his yard to save some time, that the people he hired were coming in a few days, and they could haul them away.
I normally don’t respond to anyone but my son Brennan if I’m in the woods, but I found the gesture so kind that I wanted to reply. I, of course, couldn’t imagine taking him up on it, but I thanked him for the generous offer and jokingly said that a few just might end up there.
For some reason, that random act of unsolicited kindness from someone I’ve only spoken to a handful of times really boosted my spirits, and I could feel a tiny bit of the darkness exit my soul.
Five miles and a few hours later, I found myself back in the yard of the Cul De Sac Shack, tackling the leaves again with my patented slack-homeowner process:
- Lay a large tarp out and secure it from the wind with rocks.
- Attach the bag to the lawn mower.
- Raise the mower to its highest cut setting.
- Mow over the fallen leaves, fill the bag, empty it on the tarp, and repeat 7 or 8 times.
- Fold the tarp like a burrito, stuff it in Escape II, drive down the road to the recycling center, and repeat as often as needed.
Upon arriving at the R.C. for my first dump of leaves, I saw a cool old car from the 50s or 60s in the lot, with its owner, an older man in his 70s or so, unloading cardboard. I’m no car guy, but I like seeing old cars, especially ones that have a little bit of wear and tear and are still running. With that, I couldn’t help but admire this one as I drove by.
A few minutes later, the car pulled up near mine in the Yard Waste area, and the owner got out to dump some bagged leaves he had in the trunk. I couldn’t help but stare at the car, and I was sure the owner caught me.
Feeling like I just got staring at lady boobs and not wanting to look like a luring freak, I said, “I love your car; it’s so cool!”
I expected the man to be like every other mid-Michigan white dude over the age of 55 and be a total dick and angrily drop an unsolicited conspiracy theory on me, but his face totally lit up with a smile, and he excitedly said, “Do you want to see the engine??”
I replied, “You know, I really don’t know much about cars, but I know I like that one.”
“Oh, c’mon, you gotta see it, I had it rebuilt last year, and it’s a beauty.”
With that, I walked over; he popped the hood and showed me a pristine engine underneath.
He then happily told me about the car, “It’s a ’64. It’s hard to start, has no heat, no air conditioning, leaks everything, and I can really only drive it comfortably about 4 months a year, but it won’t die, so I keep it.”
I complimented him again, thanked him for showing me and giving me some history on the car, and then we parted ways.
Just as with the text from my neighbor, I drove home feeling just a little bit better about life these days.
I still don’t know what kind of car it was, but from some Googling, I think it was a 1964 Chevy Corvair. I also don’t know why two fairly innocuous conversations boosted my mood so much. I can only think that I went so deep into The Bell Jar that any kindhearted human interaction that I wasn’t paying for (therapists, not hookers) was going to help.
As much as I’m no fan of cleaning up leaves or autumn, I guess I owe them both for helping a brother out.
Later.