Osmosis

I recognized the woman walking up our driveway this morning. She has the ruddy cheeks of someone who might drink too much, but maybe it's something else. Understandably, the dogs were barking; we never have unexpected guests. I put Quinn down on her mat, and got to the door as the woman started up the porch steps. I held the dogs back with a knee and said hi.

"I didn't realize it turned into a goat path!"  She nodded to her truck, stuck in the snow just beyond our driveway. "I had some time to kill before I pick my nephews up at detention; I thought I'd just take a drive."

"Yeah, that's a snowmobile trail. You're stuck?"

"Ha! Definitely, it looked plowed but as soon as I passed your driveway I sunk right in."

"It's groomed. The groomer went by just last night; that's why it looks so flat."

Quinn. The dogs. New truck. I thought about it all and then thought of Richard. I always think of Richard; he's our closest neighbor who lives ¼ mile down the hill. He has a big truck, a ham radio, chickens, and a lifetime of experiences that are helping us through ours.

I first met Richard the day that Sam and Corey lit the hill on fire. It was early spring four years ago and we were still clearing the land. Sam was eager to burn some of the brush piles down. I came up to bring lunch and drove around the corner into a wall of thick smoke. Sam was running in and out of that cloud with his chainsaw in one hand, dragging small pines out with the other. Corey was at the bottom of the clearing digging a trench as fast as he could. Flames were racing across the leaf litter, seeking out the skinny trunks of evergreens, then lighting them like matchsticks. After the shock wore off, I got back in the car and sped toward the house at the bottom of the hill. I ran to the door and knocked. "Hi! I'm Kerry! Our hill is on fire. Can I use your phone?" Richard pointed to the phone and was out the back door. By the time I finished answering the 911 operator's questions ("No! It's not a small brush fire! It's a forest fire!"), Richard already had his rakes and shovels loaded in his truck. He was out the driveway ahead of me.

When it was all over, the volunteer firefighters packed back into their various cars to head out; the Fire Chief had warned them, "15 minutes to NASCAR!"  I went back to town to recover. Eventually, Sam and Richard had a beer or two and had a more civilized introduction. Richard suggested, with what we now know to be a characteristic subtlety, that Sam might want to drop a donation off at the Fire Department. Good advice that we wouldn't have thought of. Then he eased Sam's embarrassment by telling him the story of the time he and his brother-in-law lit a fire that made ours look puny.

Richard always has a story. And he always seems to be watching out his window for our next disaster. The morning after we raised our timberframe, in July of 2007, he walked up to check on it. It had been raining for two days and by the time he came up on his morning walk with his dogs, there were six inches of mud in the basement—wall to wall. He went home, got some hoses and rigged some sort of siphon drainage. When we came up later that day, we found the apparatus and knew the real mess had already been cleaned up. That summer as we were building, Richard would walk up after he finished work every day. Some days he'd grab a hammer and climb up on the roof to start pounding nails.

When winter came we really got intimate. We saw him a lot then. He pulled us out of ditches, talked us out of jams, helped us with an endless rotation of flat plow truck tires and who knows what else; I've long since lost track and this is only our fourth winter. Now and then we bring him beer. I've baked cookies, brought him homemade ice cream, said thank you a million times. It's not enough; we know it and I'm sure he does too, but he's always there, always comes running out the side door of his house, always ready with a tool or a flashlight or some ski poles on icy nights when we have to walk home in the dark.

Sometimes I try to be self-sufficient, just to spare him yet another bail out. Once I got my car stuck when Sam wasn't home and I thought about the "free roadside assistance" that I pay for with my car insurance. I was determined not to need Richard's help, or Sam's. I called for a tow truck. Well, the wrecker got stuck too, far below where my car was. Eventually, after a series of insane forward-and-back maneuvers, the wrecker was out of the way. One of the guys hiked up to my car with me and pushed the front end around so gravity could do the rest. Richard looked on nervously from his driveway, relieved, no doubt, when I didn't launch over the berm and straight into the side of his barn. Glad too that his dogs were safely inside, and probably wondering why the hell I didn't just ask him for a hand. Recently, when I was hiking up with Quinn strapped to my chest, he seemed more nervous than ever. I assured him I'd be fine, not because I felt fine, but because our debt to him is already so massive…and because I really do like to be self-sufficient.

So, this morning I thought of Richard when the ruddy-cheeked woman in the camouflage coat was standing on my porch. I actually called his house. He didn't answer, and I wouldn't blame him if he just didn't want to. Maybe he saw the unfamiliar red truck drive by and then not come back--sure sign that someone didn't know about the road. Maybe he had a long night making snow up at the ski resort, saw my number on his caller id and just didn't have the energy. I kind of wish any of these things might be true, but I doubt they are. I can't imagine he'd ever turn his back if he knew we needed help—in fact, I know he wouldn't. For that reason I was glad when he didn't answer.

I've seen this woman around town. I've noticed her because she drives a huge pickup. I used to drive a pick up too, but mine was small. Still, I felt like a badass in that truck and I've missed it ever since I cashed it in for my practical, fuel-efficient and way-less-sexy car. And as I thought about my old truck and that old feeling, I made my decision: I picked up the baby, stepped into my leopard skin platform shoes and went out the front door.

"My neighbor's not home, but we might still have a tow rope in our old Chevy."

"Isn't she going to get cold? She's really cute."

"She's used to my bad parenting," I explained, "she'll be fine."

I found the tow rope and said I'd be right back; I had to put Quinn in her carseat. The ruddy-cheeked woman asked if she could borrow my shovel and she headed back to her truck to dig out the wheels. I felt a kindred spirit in her few words, her independence, and I felt glad that I was home alone. Quinn and I backed the truck out of the drive and toward her truck. I hopped out and hooked the rope up on her end, laid it on the snow toward mine and got back in to pull a bit closer. When I looked back, she was there holding the loose end, motioning me back.

"I'm sorry about this," she said, once we were connected.

"Don't be." I smiled, glad for the chance to help, glad for the sunny day, glad Quinn was in the truck for the adventure too. "My husband will be jealous," I said.

"Oh yeah?"

"We just got this truck," I explained, "This is its first tow."

"Yeah, last night I had to pull my husband out of a ditch. He was plowing with his Jeep and he just went right in."

I got back in and pulled her onto solid ground with little effort. We each unhooked our end of the rope. "I recognize you from around town," I said. "Did you used to eat at Egan's?" I waitressed there and that's where I know most people from in the Valley.

"I ate there once. We had a gift certificate from my brother."

"I must've been there that night." I didn't tell her how I always noticed her in that big truck. And that I wondered about her ruddy cheeks.

I told her my name. "I'm Tony," she said. Of course you are, I thought as we shook hands. I got back into the truck to back down the driveway, and I thought, where are all the boys now? Where are they when you're getting the job done on your own? But, it doesn't matter; the moment was its own reward. And I hoped that somehow it all seeped into Quinn's subconscious. 

There will be many things she learns from us, I'm sure, but I hope among those things she learns to be the kind of woman who can walk up to someone's house, if she needs to, and ask for help. And I also hope she learns to be the kind of woman who looks around and says to someone else, "hang on, I'll give you a hand." I hope she grows up noticing the kindness of others, learning their tricks and wanting to live up to the examples they set.

Most of my challenges in life have been little ones and I've always had a lot of help when I've needed it. For that I owe the universe (and Richard) a lot of favors. And I'm doing my best to live up to the examples that have been set for me, and admittedly, trying to prove wrong anyone who's ever tried to convince me that there are limits in life. I want Quinn's world to be limitless.

I looked forward in time to see Tony's hand waving out the window as she drove away. I hope she has a good day. And I hope Richard is having a good day. And I'm really thankful that Sam found a way to get us this new-used truck. It starts up every time.