ITEMS OF NOTE, OR NOT

ITEMS OF NOTE –OR NOT

Item the first:
I believe that I have told you earlier about Carl, the “homeless” black guy, who thinks (probably with accuracy) the he owns the franchise on me.  While I was visiting my daughter in South Carolina a few months ago, Carl disappeared.  One day he was coming by every couple of days looking for cars to wash, lawn to mow, weeds to pull, and if nothing else works, “a favor” (which means enough money for a meal or--), the next day he was gone.  He left some remembrances in the form of bicycle parts he had scrounged, and an old lawnmower he was repairing, so, though moving his “stuff” out of view I still remembered his existence.  I even missed him a little when I was trying to talk number two son into mowing the lawn, or trying to find an excuse not to do it myself.

The first of last week, he showed up, energetic as ever, looking for something to do, or a “favor” .   I asked him where he had been, and he answered me in his own particular patois of ebonics, gullah, and slurred syllables.  (He has a language of his own, that reminds me of my youth when I used to speak to my mother in “Jazz”.  It was just intelligible enough so that if anything went wrong, I could say “But Mom, I told you all about it, remember when----“) and I still don’t have a clue.  I thought that they had probably violated his parole and sent him back to jail, but he wasn’t gone long enough for that.

Anyway, he mowed the lawn, moved his trashy bicycle parts out to the place where the city will pick them up, raked a bunch of leaves, and got away with twenty bucks.  The next day he came to knock on the door to tell me PROUDLY, that he had a job.  He is going to work at the chicken factory (Claxton Poultry) down in Claxton, about twenty five miles away.  He actually had tears in his eyes he was so proud, and I had tears in mine, I was just about as proud as he was.

Now comes the kicker.  He needs more work today because he has to buy gas for the old man who is going to “carry” him to work and back, and he won’t get paid till the twentieth so he needs a little food money- - - you know the drill.   With one thing and another he is almost up to a hundred bucks now, and I have come to the conclusion that I can’t afford to have him have a job.   I am also running out of stuff for him to do.  He is coming in tomorrow (his day off) to work off four hours of work for which I have already paid him, and I know, in my heart, he is desperately going to want something else to do so that he can make another ten bucks, and on and on and on.

He is becoming like my Pride of feral cats.  A year or so ago, I was troubled with squirrels eating all the pecans off my pecan tree.  An old tomcat came around, so I gave him a little bowl of kittie kibble each evening, and he took serious care of the squirrels.  Soon he brought a friend to dinner and now I have eleven cats, including three of the cutest little kittens, who feed in my yard.  I saw one of them yesterday lying in the sun watching   a squirrel climb the pecan tree.  Mind you these are totally wild cats.  Most of them won’t allow me to touch them, but if dinner is late they will yowl to remind me.  (The three kittens are actually domesticated to the degree that they will climb in my lap—a mixed blessing since I am allergic to cats.)
Any way, now I have Carl, and if he shows up with a friend (particularly a lady friend) they are both dead meat.   (I am thinking similarly of the cats, but I am such a softy.)

Item the second.
I heard an interview on TV this morning that in Las Cruces, New Mexico, someone is holding the whole city for ransom.  The bad guy (or guys, or girls, or both) have sent a couple of letters to the newspapers and to the Police force stating that unless  a certain ransom (no word from the cops how much, etc.) is paid, the baddies are going to start shooting  (sniper attacks) random members of the community.  The cops are taking this very seriously (as indeed they should) and have even brought in the FBI.

The potential disaster makes my mind boggle.  People in New Mexico carry their own guns (They are as bad at having a rifle rack in the back window of the pickup as are Georgians—my current residence).  Generally I think this is a good thing, keeping down crime rates (who is going to try to rob you if you will shoot him in return).   But the thought of a lot of gun carrying folks walking around nervous because other gun carrying folks have threatened to randomly shoot the citizens make me nervous as heck.  It sounds a lot like Baghdad on the Rio Grande.  (I suspect that Las Cruces isn’t right on the Rio Grande, but it sounded right).  I’m also  pretty sure I wouldn’t like to be an illegal wandering around  the city taking his boss’s gun to the gun shop or something.