I just got off the phone with my mom, who’s happily putting a puzzle together while the furnace repairman works in the next room.
When the repairman arrived this morning, she noticed that it wasn’t the guy who normally comes to work on the furnace, so she went outside, greeted him, and introduced herself.
“Oh, I know who you are,” he said. It turns out that he was from Carsonville, the local cluster of homes small enough to not really be a town though it has its own little “hotel” (i.e., bar) and, I think, an ambulance.
He continued, “I know Gram and Pap Cutman.”
Now, by “Pap,” he meant my mom’s grandfather, not my grandfather, who was also a Pap Cutman. They’ve both, however, been deceased for decades.
But what makes the story even better is that not only did he know Pap Cutman, but this repairman’s grandmother used to date my mom’s grandfather.
I kid you not.
When my mom told me this on the phone, she concluded her story by proclaiming, “Now that’s community!”
Yes, Momma. I think you’re right.