One and Two

If we’d stopped the truck so that I could get out and take a photo of the two boys walking barefoot down their gravel road toward home, we’d evermore live in their memories as the creepy old couple who gave them a ride.

A little way on down the road, I did jump out. But only to take this photo to prove there’s only one ear on a stalk. (Told ya so.)

But back to the real story…

While Bill was having coffee on the deck last Saturday morning, two sweaty barefoot boys walked up from the puddle lake towards the house. They didn’t see Bill up on the Crow’s Nest, but he could hear them: “Let me do the talkin’,” said the smaller one with sandy-blond hair to the taller one. Sandy-hair carried an old rope.

It was really early, like 9:30, so I was still snoozing. But when I heard kids talking in my house, I got dressed real fast and went to find two stinky boys in my kitchen, gulping water and talking to Bill about their lost dog.

I cannot tell you how hard it was to not do this: Walk into the kitchen like a crone and cackle, “Well, who do we have here, dear? Staying for dinner, boys?”

But I quickly played that out. And the ending wasn’t happy.

Instead, I asked about their runaway dog. “He’s mine. He don’t leave my side, ‘cept for today,” said sandy-hair. “His name is Shama. I’m takin’ him with me to college.”

And what’s your name?

“William.”

Of course its was.

“And this is Jonah. He’s the funny one.” Really?

We offered them a ride home, as they’d walked a long way. They declined, even though I pointed out they weren’t wearing shoes.

“I don’t wear shoes, ‘cept to school.” William said. And off they went, calling for Shama.

Twenty minutes later, Bill and I headed out to the Amish farm to buy tomatoes. And there were William and Jonah, ooching and ouching up our gravel road. Yes, they’d appreciate a ride after all. And so we ferried them, with promises to tell Dave if we saw their dog. (“Dave knows me. I fish a lot.”) William was very polite and full of yessirs and yessums, and thanksomuches.

When they were out of the truck, my husband said, “Well, if that wasn’t Dennis the Menace!”

Nope. It was yet another 11-year-old Little Billy.