“When I drove in, I immediately saw the mower on his tractor, and parked accordingly: not on the lawn, not in my usual spot. I never want to make anyone’s job more difficult. We’d met for the first time, in the apple orchard, last year. I’d listened, when he said, the lower limbs made it hard to mow. He was right, and I did some pruning. Today, I’d just settled myself onto some hot, patio stones, to edge a bed of vinca, when he pulled up and turned off his mower. “Hey!” he called, in a friendly voice. “Hey!” I yelled back, and stopped what I was doing. “It’s a little too hot,” he continued, and I nodded vigorously, unsure that he was close enough to hear my voice. Our theater was a swimming pool, topped off by a heavy duty tarp, until the owners returned, from their winter in France. “Hey, ah ...” he continued, with the awkwardness of two people tasked to talk business, who might rather just be catching up on each other’s lives. “Uh, I noticed there’s a big puddle over back of the shed, uh ... and the hose ... the water is running. I thought you might have left it on for some reason?”. I thought about it, trying to picture a faucet, that my crew might have left on. Actually, we’d been filling our watering cans in the pond. So, no, we hadn’t even discovered this spigot. “No,” I said. “I’ll shut it off though,” I suggested, “so you can stay on the mower”. This was kind of a dumb statement, but it’s all that came to mind. Oddly, “all that comes to mind” can alternately be brilliant, or completely lame. You can’t second guess which one it will be. I’m sure I’m equally known for being absolutely the most awkward communicator in person, or the most truly slick, articulate, and entertaining, depending on the day. I don’t like this about myself. But whether or not I like it, the world is going to have to graciously absorb my erratic behavior. I’m not the only one like this. And again, this is both heartening, and deeply, humorously, disturbing. For example, picture two workers, heading home after a long, hot day in the field, where they’ve been subject to all the possible natural predators, including thistles, nettles, road fabric, deer flies, ticks, invasive species, rocks and rain. Now is the time to relax, perhaps sip a beverage, and reflect upon the nuances of a brutally, steamy, unbearable day. While one keeps her eyes on the road, the other waxes poetic. “We are so lucky, to be able to do what we do! OMG, what ... I have a tick on me” she says, sitting up straighter, on the passenger side. From my position on the driver’s side, I see her, as if in slow motion, pull the tick from her hairline, and hold it between her index finger, and thumb, as if to examine an alpine plant, or microscopic plasma. She seems to wish to show it off, and to get me to look at it, as I am trying to drive. I scream silently so as not to alarm, telling her to get it outside the vehicle, as fast as might be humanly possible. This all goes on, inaudibly. We are both very polite people. We do not want to upset anyone or anything, under any circumstances. But now, as she wiggles her pinched fingers to give me a better view, I can almost feel in the depth of my soul, how this will not go well. As expected, the tick drops from her fingers, to join and be lost in the jungle of the ample foot room, of our GMC pickup. Miles later, in the zen silence that only invisible predators can create, we name him. “We have to name him!”, I say. And so, we discuss names for the next half hour, rejecting most. Finally, she finds it. “Peter Parker!” she exclaims. And I can almost understand the insane, free association that has led her to this outcome. “Peter Parker,’ I repeat, turning the name over, and over, on my tongue. For indeed, this tiny insect related to the spider family, will live on in infamy. The next day climbing up her leg on the way to another job, all our fears and happiness related to just outcomes, seem to merge. She catches him, and I slow. She rolls down the window, laughing an almost maniacal cackle. Peter had been released back into the wild, just like a rehabilitated bear cub. The circle of life, continues on, only slightly adjusted, to spare us one unnecessary indignity.”
