Wednesday, Jan. 26, 2005
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Wednesday, Jan. 26, 2005
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Whatta I owe you?
“Whatta I owe ya?” asked the old man, digging deep in the pocket of his faded overalls. “Not a thing, sir.” The gnarled hand with knotty fingers reemerged from the pocket with several coins. With the other battered, time-worn, age-spotted hand, he sorted through the change. “Lemme buy you a Co-Cola.” “No sir. I’m glad to do it.” I tossed him a wave of goodbye and dashed to my car. Our encounter happened in the most unromantic of places, the trash compactor. I had been tossing away my garbage when I noticed him pulling himself slowly and painfully from his old pick-up truck. His legs were bent awkwardly and he took tiny, difficult steps, holding on to the truck as he edged along slowly. I ran over and took his garbage, impressed that he had gone to the trouble to separate it for recycling. At first, he refused but then relented. Then, like most from his generation, he wanted to know “Whatta I owe you?” He wanted to buy me a “Co-Cola,” one of the nicest offers I’ve ever had. No doubt he is a veteran of the great world war that was the beginning of America made great by people like him. Men and women who worked hard and did not claim — never even dreamed of — any sense of entitlement. They hate favors. It’s hard to do good for them because they repay it over and over. No matter how you try, you can’t “out-good” them. One of my friends is a mechanic with an old-fashioned garage that smells of motor oil, axle grease and coffee that is often too old and too strong. He is a unique breed of man, the kind that is falling by the wayside, for he can fix anything mechanical as long as it doesn’t have a computer attached. Often, he repairs cars for this kind of men. “Whatta I owe ya?” They always ask, digging in their pockets at the same time. “I use to say, ‘Nothing,’” he explains. “But then they’d flat wear me out bringing in bags of turnip greens, scuppernongs and ears of corn. Now, I just charge a couple of dollars and that makes ‘em happy. They wanna know they’ve carried their own weight. It’s important, you know.” Yes, I know. I understand. I have quite a bit of them in me. The doorbell rang one night and I answered it to find my neighbor standing there in bare feet, shorts and a tee shirt. “I was wonderin’,” he began. “If you’d like me to come over and aerate your yard one day next week. It won’t take long. I’ll use the four-wheeler and just pull it over the yard.” It was generous and kind, much more than just the neighborly thing to do. A few days later, the good deed was done. I went outside to thank him and opened my mouth to ask, “Whatta I owe ya?” But he stopped my words by holding up his hand. “There’s no charge. I just wanted to help.” I didn’t have any turnip greens, scuppernongs or ears of corn. What I had was not near as good as that but he seemed thrilled, nonetheless, with the gift of fourth row game tickets for him and his family. But just as soon as I have a sack of turnip greens, I’m going to show up at his front door. Maybe, eventually, I’ll be able to “out-good” him.
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Copyright
2004-Fayette Publishing, Inc.
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Ronda Rich is the author of “What Southern Women Know (That Every Woman Should)” and “My Life In The Pits.” She lives in Gainesville, Ga.
