around the jeep. As we did so, the little group continued to grow. Someone produced a tiny screwdriver, inserted it into the keyhole, and managed to move the lock, but not quite enough to open it. Of course, after that, everyone had to try his hand with the screwdriver.
Finally, good old common sense and ingenuity shuffled up. “I believe I have just the item to open that lock,” the oldest resident on the block proclaimed. His gnarled, arthritic hands rested on the doorframe as he studied my dilemma. We all went silent and looked at the diminutive speaker. He winked at me. “I’ll be right back.”
Watching him amble down the sidewalk, I worried about all the time I had lost. He lived halfway down the block. The remaining old-timers stood along the curb chatting. It appeared that I was back in that slow-motion nightmare again, and there wasn’t much I could do about the situation but let it play itself out.
When the man finally returned, he walked doubled over under the weight of the tool he carried. It turned out to be the largest magnet I had ever seen. It must have weighed seven or eight pounds. “Got it down at the foundry where I used to work,” he explained, struggling to hoist it up to the door. For a moment I worried he might drop it. I could imagine explaining to my boss how a gigantic magnet happened to smash through my window.
It kept sticking to the metal door, but with a couple of us lifting, we managed to slide it up the outside of the window. As if by magic, and to a chorus of cheers, the magnet disengaged the small metal latch right through the glass of the window. When I finally drove away, the guys were still hanging out at the curb, reminiscing about lifetimes of experiences. While I’m sure that the story of using a magnet to get into the mailman’s jeep would rate low on their all-time list of creative problem solving, it sure had impressed me.
OF COURSE, I’VE ALSO encountered seniors who are not so impressive, who show the darker aspects of the life-long racism they have held. A few years ago a severe storm on the Fourth of July blew down tens of thousands of acres of forest in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness in northern Minnesota. My wife and I own a cabin nearby, and several patrons asked about damage to our property. Other than half a dozen trees knocked down, we weathered the storm just fine. After the blow-down, the big concern has been the dead trees drying into fuel for a potentially massive forest fire. An older man on my route offered a solution.
“I tell you what they ought to do,” Stan commented one morning as we stood on his front stoop.
“What’s that?” I asked.
He leaned in confidentially, and said, “They should send a bunch of them Jews up there. They’d figure out a way to make lumber out of all those trees, and probably make a bunch of money off it, too.” He stepped back and cackled at what he considered a clever wisecrack.
Swallowing my anger, and with all the nonchalance I could muster, I replied, “Gee, Stan, I’ll have to tell my wife about that. She’s Jewish, too, you know, so maybe she could get in on some of that action.”
Stan’s eyes went big and round as he stammered, “Well, you know what I mean.”
“Sure, Stan, I know just what you mean. Here’s your mail.”
I walked off, leaving him to think about it. After that, even though I still talk to him nearly every day, that particular subject has never come up again.
WHEN I RETURNED FROM a vacation a few years ago, I had more trouble with an elderly patron. He had greeted the African-American letter carrier substituting on my route with racial slurs and told him to stay out of his yard.
I was furious. When I arrived at the man’s house I rang the bell and banged on the front door. I had a pretty good hunch he was home, but he refused to come to the door. Unable to vent my anger, I bundled up his mail and took it with me. Day after day for a week I rang the doorbell, then
Finally, good old common sense and ingenuity shuffled up. “I believe I have just the item to open that lock,” the oldest resident on the block proclaimed. His gnarled, arthritic hands rested on the doorframe as he studied my dilemma. We all went silent and looked at the diminutive speaker. He winked at me. “I’ll be right back.”
Watching him amble down the sidewalk, I worried about all the time I had lost. He lived halfway down the block. The remaining old-timers stood along the curb chatting. It appeared that I was back in that slow-motion nightmare again, and there wasn’t much I could do about the situation but let it play itself out.
When the man finally returned, he walked doubled over under the weight of the tool he carried. It turned out to be the largest magnet I had ever seen. It must have weighed seven or eight pounds. “Got it down at the foundry where I used to work,” he explained, struggling to hoist it up to the door. For a moment I worried he might drop it. I could imagine explaining to my boss how a gigantic magnet happened to smash through my window.
It kept sticking to the metal door, but with a couple of us lifting, we managed to slide it up the outside of the window. As if by magic, and to a chorus of cheers, the magnet disengaged the small metal latch right through the glass of the window. When I finally drove away, the guys were still hanging out at the curb, reminiscing about lifetimes of experiences. While I’m sure that the story of using a magnet to get into the mailman’s jeep would rate low on their all-time list of creative problem solving, it sure had impressed me.
OF COURSE, I’VE ALSO encountered seniors who are not so impressive, who show the darker aspects of the life-long racism they have held. A few years ago a severe storm on the Fourth of July blew down tens of thousands of acres of forest in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness in northern Minnesota. My wife and I own a cabin nearby, and several patrons asked about damage to our property. Other than half a dozen trees knocked down, we weathered the storm just fine. After the blow-down, the big concern has been the dead trees drying into fuel for a potentially massive forest fire. An older man on my route offered a solution.
“I tell you what they ought to do,” Stan commented one morning as we stood on his front stoop.
“What’s that?” I asked.
He leaned in confidentially, and said, “They should send a bunch of them Jews up there. They’d figure out a way to make lumber out of all those trees, and probably make a bunch of money off it, too.” He stepped back and cackled at what he considered a clever wisecrack.
Swallowing my anger, and with all the nonchalance I could muster, I replied, “Gee, Stan, I’ll have to tell my wife about that. She’s Jewish, too, you know, so maybe she could get in on some of that action.”
Stan’s eyes went big and round as he stammered, “Well, you know what I mean.”
“Sure, Stan, I know just what you mean. Here’s your mail.”
I walked off, leaving him to think about it. After that, even though I still talk to him nearly every day, that particular subject has never come up again.
WHEN I RETURNED FROM a vacation a few years ago, I had more trouble with an elderly patron. He had greeted the African-American letter carrier substituting on my route with racial slurs and told him to stay out of his yard.
I was furious. When I arrived at the man’s house I rang the bell and banged on the front door. I had a pretty good hunch he was home, but he refused to come to the door. Unable to vent my anger, I bundled up his mail and took it with me. Day after day for a week I rang the doorbell, then
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