It was Thanksgiving weekend, a typical 75 degrees and I was sitting on the front porch in my pajamas watching a very little Riley and Aidan ride their bikes in the driveway. A man in his early 60s got out of his car and stopped at the edge of our driveway. He explained that he had grown up in the house. Could he come up and speak to me?
Against type, I said sure. He was polite, well dressed and groomed.
We spoke for probably 30 minutes. He knew everything about the house, including the location of strange knots in the dining room wood paneling that I came to find out were the result of him and his brother shooting each other in the house with BB guns. Side note; we have extensively remodeled and the 1950’s wood paneling is thankfully gone.
I also learned and confirmed later that he had held a top spot at one of our country’s security agencies. I decline to mention which one because I don’t want to disappear in case he ever reads this story.
Dave was home so I invited him inside to look around. He was excited to walk around and regale us with stories of his childhood. He also answered the mystery of why our entire backyard had been poured with concrete; his parents moved from Minnesota and they refused to believe that grass would be able to grow year round.
As he was leaving, he commented on our majestic orange tree, recalling the juicy sweetness and the miraculous annual abundance of the fruit. I told him to wait a second, ran inside, grabbed a grocery bag and filled it high for him. When I handed him the bag, he had tears in his eyes. He was going to see his mom who was in a home. He was sure this would bring her tremendous joy.
I told him to stop by anytime. I never saw him again.
Last week a letter came hand-addressed to the man in old people’s scribble. Generally I relish throwing out mail addressed to previous owners who should have notified their annuity issuers of their new address 20 years ago. But this was different. For starters, I liked this guy. Also, we had never received anything for him or his family confirming my belief that they were responsible individuals that took care of their shit.
So I scoured the googler and I was able to figure out his current employer but there wasn’t an email for him. I puzzled out what I thought it would be only to have my email bounce. In a last ditch effort, I asked Dave to check Linked In and see if he could track him down and get an address. Success! Sort of.
Dave and the man have been corresponding all morning and we do have an address to forward the letter to. But the man had a request.
Can he sprinkle his dead mother’s ashes under my orange tree. Record screeches.
For those of you immediately horrified, thank you. For those of you who are sentimental assholes let me paint a picture.
I do not not want to be eating the nutrients of a decrepit old woman when my oranges bloom next fall.
I do not wish to invite a poltergeist into my home.
I do not want to spar with an angry spector as to who is the rightful mistress of this manor.
I’m fairly certain that the return gift for a bag of oranges is not your dead mother.
I look forward to clearing my name after my impending investigation for some trumped up international conspiracy charges and perhaps an IRS audit.