Doing It His Way

Dearest Rachel –

Not all of my trips across town are terribly interesting. Certainly this mornings wasn’t, unless you count the fact that I had to deliver some mail to the folks that share our address. I didn’t recognize the name on the envelope, and whoever sent it didn’t bother to specify whether South or North, so I will assume it belongs to the house north of Campbell, since it definitely wasn’t ours.

But the walk home was another matter entirely. I probably knocked off a little too early, as I got a call from Scott at church with a question about some information I’d sent him. It looks like I’m going to have to do a little digging tomorrow. At least it wasn’t something that had to be addressed right away, because I was not about to turn around and go back. That’s the disadvantage of walking; you really don’t have the option of turning around without costing yourself a significant amount of time. And what with needed to get cleaned up and off to tonight’s Bible study, time isn’t necessarily in abundant supply.

But at least I have time to walk home, and see the odd sights that might cross my path. Sights like this:

That’s right, just outside the parking lot of the local supermarket (which I had decided not to stop at, since I didn’t want to walk half the distance home carrying some thing that wasn’t urgent) was a fellow playing a forlorn and mournful rendition of Sinatra’s “My Way.”

Well, I couldn’t just stand there watching and filming without asking what was going on. It’s got to be one of the weirdest places to be busking that I can think of. So I crossed the street to ask him about it.

It turns out that he’s recently here from Hungary, along with his father (Who I could just barely hear playing somewhere on the other side of the parking lot once he start playing to talk to me). Evidently, there is not much call for musicians in Hungary right now, so the two of them have decided to come to the States to see what they could manage.

He asked how things were going here, with regard to the pandemic. I warned him that he picked the wrong state to come to, if he wanted freedom. Problem is, if he and his father want to make money by busking, he needs to go where the people are, and all the big cities are blue, so… yeah.

I peeled off a few singles for my part, and wished him well. I’ve given more to people for less. It wasn’t until I was another mile away that I realized I should’ve recommended he and his dad perform by the railroad station. That would be the place to get tips from the commuters. While the parking lot at the supermarket was quite full, as it always is, a shopper would have to go out of their way to go over to him or his dad and tip him.

Then again, I went out of my way; maybe I’m not the only one. Far be it from me to question their choice of location. They are, after all, doing it their way.

A little further down the road – in the middle of the road – outside an auto repair shop, another one of those things you don’t see every day. Apparently they also take deliveries for sale:

I couldn’t help but yell a warning to the guys atop the truck to watch their step. That is not something you would ever find me doing.

I will say that when you walk through the residential areas of the village, you’re reminded just how recently Halloween was. At various spots along the sidewalk, You can find all manner of discarded wrappers here and there – to say nothing of the occasional discarded piece of candy (not that I would bother eating that Starburst I nearly stepped on him, regardless of the fact that he was completely and properly wrapped).

On the other hand, you don’t expect to find a discarded doll along the way.

And yet, here it is.
All I could think to do with it was to put it on the car in the nearest driveway, in the hopes that it might belong to whoever lived there.

So, these are the sorts of things you sometimes see as you walk from one end of the village to the other. I won’t necessarily offer regrets that you can’t see any of this, because as unusual as they are, they’re also still rather mundane in their own way. But I send these images to you, and you can take them for whatever you think they’re worth.

Talk to you later, honey. Love you.

Published by randy@letters-to-rachel.memorial

I am Rachel's husband. Was. I'm still trying to deal with it. I probably always will be.

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