By Judith Fitzgerald
"So," asks Butch a couple years ago when I first relocate to my fourth and final moving-upper shack in this neck of the world, "whattya do for a living?"
"Well," I stall, shuffling the shavings in the lumberyard with my duck boots at the foot of my graveldirt driveway while deciding how to best answer this question as our tiny hamlet's thumb-sore newbie designate (knowing full well, after living in the Near North a dozen years, first impressions last beyond forever, no matter how hard you try to change them). I wasn't about to make the mistake I'd made 15 years ago. Nope. I didn't commit social suicide, at least not right away.
"Well, you know, I write . . . How ya doin'? Tom the Owner says you're Butch? Welp, Butch, mind if I check out your leftover freebies? Need some strappin' scraps; need to reinforce the basement steps. Any shortie one-by-twofers? Spruce, even? I'm Judith. I'm the person . . . "
" . . . who lives in the apple-pie lady's old house up there. Knew that. Pleased, Judy. Never thought anyone would take that place off her hands. Who'd wanna live next door to a lumberyard? My name's really Francis, eh? House in pretty good shape? The husband built it before he died of cancer. Guess they were divorced by then, though . . ."
"Yeah, met her twice. Me. It's a dream come true. I wanted to live next to a lumberyard. Do my own reno-work, right? But, um, it's Judith, okay? No offence. Judy reminds me of a time I'd rather forget."
I rummage in the barrel and pick through the overflow under the trailer. "Hrm . . . Think a couple of good pieces will do it. Already got some number-eight wood screws; the house needs work, eh? Taught myself to do it all; only thing I can't do? The roof. Oh, the furnace, too. I can't fix those myself."
"What kind of writer, Judith?" He kicks around the same shavings with his steel-toes and adjusts his shades, ostensibly to hear me better when I answer, most likely.
"Well, a pretty good one, I think. I've won a couple of awards and stuff. For my writing, I mean, not fixin' up houses. I make a living at it, sort of, I guess, enough of the time, usually. The steps are nine inches deep, right? You got any scraps about that size floating around here?"
"You writ anything I'd know, Judith?"
Butch pulls out his pack of roll-his-owns and lights one, thoughtfully scratching his beard before returning his smokes to his fleece-lined vest pocket. I fish around in my work apron for my own store-boughts and join him. It's a ritual. An ice-breaker, I guess. He tells me I'd save a bundle if I bought them out at the rez; but, I nix that noise by telling him the weakest cigs out there kill my throat. He gallantly does the Zippo flippo; I flash a grateful grin while silently sending up a Hail-Flippin'-Thank-You-Silent-Flippin'-Mary genuflection.
"Um, you ever hear of Marshall McLuhan, Francis? I wrote a book about him."
"No, no, it's Butch." He removes his sunglasses from atop his shaggy head and hastily scopes the yard to ensure no one's in earshot. "Nope. Can't say's I have. Anybody else? You know that chicken soup for the soul guy? He lives that-a-way a couple miles. Makes good bucks; or, so I've heard."
"Nope. Don't know the guy. Never read the book, either. Just got some chicken soup on sale at the IGA . . . Anyway, I've written a couple dozen or so books . . ."
". . . published books? With real publishers? That's a lot of books. Wait a minute: You publish 'em yourself, right?"
"No, no, Butch. I don't publish them. Yeah, they're real books. Real to me, anyway. They're mostly poetry, though; and, I don't think you'd know any of the titles even if I listed 'em. Hey, this is good fine pine! It'll do, too. Better. I've got a circular saw in the shop. Mind if I take it off your hands?"
"Help yourself. Anything here's free for the taking. No cash, all carry, 'specially for spring chickens like yourself," he chuckles.
I have to laugh. (Or else.) First rule of survival: Laugh at the jokes, even if they ain't funny. Butch? He's my age, Freedom 55. Now, we get along famously, mostly because we're both on the wagon. When I first met him, he'd been riding it for two years. I think that most impressed him, me telling him I'd quit drinking 9 June 1982. We talked about AA. He still goes. I never did, don't and won't (despite the fact he occasionally suggests I get outta the house more often). But, that's another story.
I used the cordless driver and socked them screws in right record time, perfectly level, clean on the slightly sanded square. Did a fine job, if I do say so myself. Butch agreed, months later when he relented and decided it might be okay for him to venture into the not-quite-loved apple-pie lady's house for a cuppa. First time he'd seen the inside of it. Said I'd aced the stair supports. Well, actually, he literally said:
"Yeah, you did alright. Still holdin', ain't they?"
So? What's all this got to do with poetry?
Everything and zippo. Another day; another D-I-Y. (Or else.)
