Don Schmidt

This morning I saw the two old people. I have been looking for them to reappear. I have seen them for three years, emerge from the strangest places. Once, I actually ran into them coming out of a thick undergrowth of thorns. So vicious, I would never have entered. But there they were, with their trash bags. I started noticing them the summer I lost, (quit), my job, and this notice was taken by the weird hats that they were wearing...sun hats, tied down with what looked like dish towels. From that day forward, I was looking for the daily combination of tied scarfs, baseball hats, brimmed straw, and ear muffs.
It took me awhile to figure out where they lived, and what they were doing. Their house is on the main drag through the reservoir. It is perfectly attended to. And their gardens, which line the highway, are colorful and expansive in design. They don't do a couple of zinnias.

This morning, they had on sweatshirts, with hoods. And of course, their trash bags are recycled from the local grocery store. I recognized the bag. They have taken to the roads and ditches again. I am sure they are excited to find what does not belong there, and take care of removing it.

My neighbor behind me is seventy some years old. He is severely crippled due to an early childhood meningitis. He dropped out of school at seven, and his father threw him out of the house at twelve. He found a job washing dishes at the local Greyhound bus depot, and lived in the basement of a fume filled building. He went on with the people who had the lunch counter, to work in a carnival that they owned. He worked for the Dollingers for forty years and returned to the neighborhood and the family house when they sold their carnival to the city. He is taking care of his 92 year old mother. Yesterday, he wanted to go to K-Mart. I hate K-Mart, but agreed to take him. He has trouble walking, so he quickly grabbed a cart to steady himself. He talks very little. I would say he is a sparse communicator. He went immediately to the baby furniture section. I was completely mystified. After showing some frustration and going around and around several times in the high chairs and playpens, he picked up a box. "Lets go," he said, "I'm done."
He purchased a bed bumper. It is a guard secured by the mattress, to keep a child from falling out of the bed.

In the van, I said, "So what's the deal?"

"I can't have my mother falling out of bed."

The end. No other comments.

He has joined my list.

When Don Schmidt added his name to my name, I could not ascertain how I felt or what my reaction was. I did not feel childish. I didn't feel reduced. I didn't feel silly. I could not do 'the Linda thing' and jump to an immediate ascertation. I was touched in the place where analysis is difficult. Don Schmidt went on my list.

When I saw the two old people with their trash bags, the same thing happened.

When I looked at Del, sitting in my van, with his box on his knees, the same thing happened.

Something happened. But I am having difficulty articulating what it is.

But I have my list.