WHAT REALLY COUNTS

The most recent of the workmen who have come to save me was the “Smilin’ Lineman” who came with his amazing bucket truck to trim back the tree that was entangling three wires: the telephone, the cable TV, and the electricity.  I don’t need the cable TV — it’s left from previous people — but power blinks turned off my computer and made lights flicker.  High winds were expected but I hadn’t been paying attention to how high the trees had grown, but I was right to call the “Mom” who responds to emergencies.  

The awkward part is that when the lineman got the call he was almost through with his shift and nearly home in Choteau when he had to turn around and come back.  I called it in right after lunch, but it took a while to get through the passalongs.

“Smilin’ Lineman”, as is his affectionate nickname, has nearly reached retirement so he’s a little older than the infrastructure contractors who’ve been here since the roofer discovered the vents for gas were decayed beyond safety.  The tree had no relationship to that — just happened at the same time.  For many years no one besides me had been in this house except the UPS man who brings the catfood.  (Except yesterday it was Fed Ex with a woman driver — they must work together somehow.)  Now I hear their voices as they do their jobs under the floor.

The lineman was from the High Line and old enough to remember Bob Scriver so we swapped stories a bit.  He told about an English teacher he had long ago who assigned them to write a poem.  He was proud of his, but she gave him a D minus.  He checked with a buddy who got a D plus.  Then he showed the poem to his mom, a nurse.  

She said, “This is a perfectly good poem!”  and went to the teacher.  

The teacher said blithely, “Oh, I just gave all the boys D’s.  I don’t like boys.”  She didn’t stay long after that.  This nonsense is deep in our culture.

The other workmen have been a bit younger and when I meet them they begin to mention their mothers, who would be about my age, in order to get a bead on how to relate.  It works out well though I’m nobody’s mother unless you count cats.

I have been impressed with these men.  I remarked to several that their jobs require major strength and math plotting, so were probably not suitable for women.  The youngest man bristled a bit.  He and his partner had just lifted a 400 pound water heater through a hole in the floor but he said,  “I’ve known a few women who could do it.”  

“Smilin’” said he was a “Choteau boy,” so I responded that I was a “Browning girl,” and that’s why I wanted to spend my old age here on the East Slope.  We named a lot of people but there was not much overlap.  He taught me what he was doing while he did it, because that’s the way men here do.  I’d never seen the inside of an electricity meter before.  Luckily, I knew where most things in this house were.  The Sixties taught me a lot while I was helping with the studio and foundry, but some of these things hadn’t been invented yet.

Todd Ahern and Marvin Johnson from Ahern Electric were yesterday’s water heater team and Todd called this morning to make sure all was well.  These are the kind of men that should have been running the country instead of the Loophole Lawyers who infest the government on behalf of international crime.  But these men are busy with real problems — overwhelmed really — keeping we ordinary people sheltered, warm, and rolling safely.  

I also salute the women working from a base to keep track of where people are and what they are doing.  The work is often dangerous and the demand is so high that they can’t go slow.  Dispatchers are part of the team.  Both Northwestern Energy men, gas and electricity, responded competently and on time, even when it was aggravating.

My effort to go for the “meta” and “primal”  — which is the reason for my solitude of reading and writing — means that I never know what’s happening in a practical sense because I don’t read the daily paper or listen to the local radio and TV.  Some of it, filtered through young journalists and old editors, is unreliable anyway.  It’s the tradesmen who know the truth and caucus about it.

Yesterday I saw the sheriff’s truck with the Longhorn emblem on the side stopped in the street with neighbors, contractors, standing talking through the window.  Stan was there — he’s the man who went past my house, saw I was working on the yard and basically restored the whole front yard to decency.  He used to be a canal-rider — you might remember the post — and maintains the “Little Libraries” at Folklore Coffee and the campground.

So I just joined them.  For some men this would be uncomfortable because they would have to stop cussing, but these men never use curses.  They have very strong rules about behavior, like doing one’s best, keeping one’s word, paying one’s bills.  If they were not like this, they would soon be out of business in a small town where reputations count more than advertising.  They are trained people, some of them with four-year degrees and many years of experience.  

Years ago a fuel truck missed the turn by the library and tipped over.  Corky was watching from the motel across the street and ran over to help the driver.  The door was jammed so he grabbed the top of the window glass — it was slightly open — and simply broke it out.  The driver had been stunned.  Deputies soon arrived and it became clear that potential for an explosion could wipe out the town.  The firefighters responded and people were sent door to door to evacuate us to the campground by the lake.  People took their pets along.

By the end of the day everything was sorted and restored — no damage except to the truck — but I was impressed by the quick thinking, the inclusion and resourcefulness, and willingness of people to take action.  If this had been nationally present in the beginning of the pandemic, today would be different.

We delegate too much to unknown others.  We question and balk and ignore.  Newcomers aren’t willing to be volunteer firemen or EMT responders or election workers.  Their cry is “that’s what we pay others to do.”  They don’t know that communities are co-ops because we are all in this together.  The better we are as individuals the better for all of us.  It’s not a matter of gender, it’s basic morality.

The illegal chicken next door is announcing her daily egg. Continuing high wind is tearing at everything but not affecting my electrical supply, thanks to the Smilin’ Lineman.  The three kittens I called “the Buttons” just came stampeding in from getting windblown.  Inky, Fuzzy, and Spotty are ready for lunch.  Don’t panic.  Some things never change.