I've had two particularly interesting encounters in the past week with people I, as a French, would characterize as authentic Southern folks...
I drove to Home Depot on Saturday to buy giant plastic containers for my clothes. Shirts, jeans, socks, and other pieces of underwear have been lying around my room for weeks, and something needed to be done about that. There's no way I could have brought anyone home with such a gargantuan mess. To my defence, I live on campus, and university's have always been particularly greedy when allocating furniture for housing. This translates into scarce resources to hide the mess.
To cut the long story short, I've walked into the store, picked up half a dozen ugly grey boxes, paid my due, and within minutes was back on the parking lot. Now given the size of the tiny trunk of my Mustang, one could certainly think I haven't thought the purchase through. And you'd be damn right. Like a fool, I'd look at my Stang and wonder how in hell I would get those pieces of sh** back to campus.
I'd just stand there like a retarded dude, startled by my colossal dumbness, alternatively looking at my trunk and at the containers. Now one could see from a distance that there was no way any one container would fit into the trunk, let alone six. But as we all know, human stupidity is infinite. So I picked up the containers, and tried hard to stuff them right in there. I squeezed and cursed, but the trunk wouldn't get any bigger.
After some time, an eldery lady came along. You know, the kind of woman you'd see in TV ads for cookies. She must have been in her sixties, with white hair, and a massive stature. She looked at me for a second, smiled brightly, and with a good-natured voice said: "Sweet Heart, I see you run into some trouble here. Let me give you a hand." And there she went, throwing her handbag to the ground, grabbing the (really heavy) containers, and trying to shove them into the car. She wouldn't manage it any better than I did, but mind you she'd give up. She eventually had a look at my messy trunk, and with an even brighter smile she'd say something like: "Now there's really a lot of liquor in there." I would blush like a teenager. Eventually, she'd wink and tell me it's alright, "it's college time, darlin', have fun."
She grabbed the boxes once more, walked over to the passenger door, pulled it open, and after some squeezing, managed to get them on the rear seats. I'd turn pale, afraid she'd tear open my beautiful leather seats. With some satisfaction, she gave me a "there you are sweet heart", grabbed her bag, and walked away. Her husband had been patiently waiting in their truck, watching the whole scene with not much of amusement. Minutes after she took off, I'd still stand there, amazed and thankful for her helping hand, wondering how many months I would have waited on that same parking lot somewhere in France before anyone would have asked me if I might need some help.
A few days earlier, I've been for an interview at a local mentoring program for kids. There was that really nice lady asking me tons of questions about my past and my motivations. And, at some point in time, she raised the question of religion. 'Yey, there it comes,' I thought. "I've got none, ma'am." Mind you that was the wrong answer. She gave me that look - that gran'ma-cookie look - sincerly concerned. But she didn't voice any concern.
I was intrigued, though, and asked her if something was wrong. "No, there's nothing wrong honey, it's okay." I wouldn't let loose, though.
"I am fearing for your soul, she finally said. You are a good kid, but no matter how much good you do, if you don't accept Christ in your heart, you will not go to heaven." And off she went for a twenty minute discourse about heaven and hell, about her church and all the lovely people there. She did very well believe all she was saying, and she was genuinely concerned for my soul. I admired that woman for all the length and trouble she went through just to "save" a stranger's soul - my imminent dimise.
I drove to Home Depot on Saturday to buy giant plastic containers for my clothes. Shirts, jeans, socks, and other pieces of underwear have been lying around my room for weeks, and something needed to be done about that. There's no way I could have brought anyone home with such a gargantuan mess. To my defence, I live on campus, and university's have always been particularly greedy when allocating furniture for housing. This translates into scarce resources to hide the mess.To cut the long story short, I've walked into the store, picked up half a dozen ugly grey boxes, paid my due, and within minutes was back on the parking lot. Now given the size of the tiny trunk of my Mustang, one could certainly think I haven't thought the purchase through. And you'd be damn right. Like a fool, I'd look at my Stang and wonder how in hell I would get those pieces of sh** back to campus.
I'd just stand there like a retarded dude, startled by my colossal dumbness, alternatively looking at my trunk and at the containers. Now one could see from a distance that there was no way any one container would fit into the trunk, let alone six. But as we all know, human stupidity is infinite. So I picked up the containers, and tried hard to stuff them right in there. I squeezed and cursed, but the trunk wouldn't get any bigger.
After some time, an eldery lady came along. You know, the kind of woman you'd see in TV ads for cookies. She must have been in her sixties, with white hair, and a massive stature. She looked at me for a second, smiled brightly, and with a good-natured voice said: "Sweet Heart, I see you run into some trouble here. Let me give you a hand." And there she went, throwing her handbag to the ground, grabbing the (really heavy) containers, and trying to shove them into the car. She wouldn't manage it any better than I did, but mind you she'd give up. She eventually had a look at my messy trunk, and with an even brighter smile she'd say something like: "Now there's really a lot of liquor in there." I would blush like a teenager. Eventually, she'd wink and tell me it's alright, "it's college time, darlin', have fun."
She grabbed the boxes once more, walked over to the passenger door, pulled it open, and after some squeezing, managed to get them on the rear seats. I'd turn pale, afraid she'd tear open my beautiful leather seats. With some satisfaction, she gave me a "there you are sweet heart", grabbed her bag, and walked away. Her husband had been patiently waiting in their truck, watching the whole scene with not much of amusement. Minutes after she took off, I'd still stand there, amazed and thankful for her helping hand, wondering how many months I would have waited on that same parking lot somewhere in France before anyone would have asked me if I might need some help.
A few days earlier, I've been for an interview at a local mentoring program for kids. There was that really nice lady asking me tons of questions about my past and my motivations. And, at some point in time, she raised the question of religion. 'Yey, there it comes,' I thought. "I've got none, ma'am." Mind you that was the wrong answer. She gave me that look - that gran'ma-cookie look - sincerly concerned. But she didn't voice any concern.
I was intrigued, though, and asked her if something was wrong. "No, there's nothing wrong honey, it's okay." I wouldn't let loose, though.
"I am fearing for your soul, she finally said. You are a good kid, but no matter how much good you do, if you don't accept Christ in your heart, you will not go to heaven." And off she went for a twenty minute discourse about heaven and hell, about her church and all the lovely people there. She did very well believe all she was saying, and she was genuinely concerned for my soul. I admired that woman for all the length and trouble she went through just to "save" a stranger's soul - my imminent dimise.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment