What Really Mattered

Trapline

Let me tell you a story (don’t worry, it’s short). Back when we were building this place, so maybe 15 years ago or even a little more, we knew a fellow named Bob. We didn’t know him very well, hardly a’tal, really. He stocked shelves and handled produce at the natural foods store where we shopped, and Penny worked on a vegetable farm that sold to the natural foods store where Bob stocked shelves and handled produce and where we shopped. So we knew him by name, but first name only. We knew him enough that he knew we were building a house.

One day, out of the blue, Bob asked if we needed any money. I mean, not as a gift, but as a loan, which in-and-of-itself was a gift, since we had essentially no credit. Plus, we were broke. I don’t think Bob was wealthy (though maybe he was), but he lived a simple life and had managed to put away a sizeable next egg from his job stocking shelves and handling produce and he wasn’t doing anything with it and thought maybe we could use it. We could. So Bob loaned us, I think, $6000. Interest free. Handshake deal. Actually, probably not even a handshake. We still didn’t even know his last name. Or at least, I didn’t. Maybe Penny did. There was no specific repayment schedule. We’d get it back to him when we had it.

We bought windows with the money, and the windows went in the formerly gaping holes in the walls of our half-built house and we were able to move in by that winter. We repaid Bob, of course. I don’t think it took us very long. A year, maybe two. We despise debt and anytime we’ve had it, we’ve worked real hard to not have it. I have no idea where Bob is now. He worked at the natural foods store for a few more years, then sort of disappeared. Maybe by then he’d saved enough money to go live the life he always wanted to live. Or maybe he just moved on.

Why am I thinking about Bob? Partly because I’m sick of thinking about heavy shit like kids and media and technology and parenting and all that jazz. Friggin’ A. Somebody shut me up already. And partly because on some level, maybe all that stuff really doesn’t matter so much. I mean, like Miss Mama suggests, it’s probably best if you don’t smoke meth in front of your kids. It’s probably best to remember that on some level, you’re screwing up your kids and that despite it all, they’ll be just fine. I mean, lord knows my folks screwed me up good and proper and look how I turned… oh, wait. Never mind.

I guess what I’m saying is that there’s all this stuff we, as parents and people, do all day, every day, thinking it matters so damn much. But honestly, I don’t remember any of the little stuff my parents did or didn’t do. Sorry, but it’s true. Instead, what I remember is a guy whose last name I never knew trusting me enough to loan me $6000 so I could buy windows for my house before winter. Before Bob, I didn’t even know people did things like that. Now I do.

And the loan, that was real nice, it made a big difference in our lives at the time.

But the act of the loan, the knowledge of it, the simple trust: That’s what really mattered.