Some men have a den in their home, while
others just growl all over the house.

—Author Unknown
_________________

It kept pushing in on my mind back about a year ago. As I’d done for the previous, oh, four years or so, I tried to push it back. Ignore the thought. But it kept lurking there, on the fringes. And I finally just gave in and accepted the fact. OK, something would have to be done. I had no idea where to turn, but somehow, something or someone had better show up. It was time to get my house cleaned.

I live in an old house. Two story, brick. The upstairs is a separate apartment that has sat empty now for going on almost two years. I’ve had such vile luck with tenants that when the last guy left (he was the best of the lot, quiet, and always paid the rent on time), I decided not to actively solicit another one. I’d be silent and let the Lord bring somebody to me. Well, the Lord’s been pretty silent, too, about the matter. So the upstairs remains empty. In the meantime, I’ve gotten used to not having someone clumping about right above my head. It’s peaceful, that’s what it is. But that rent money sure would be nice. You can’t have it both ways, is what I’ve decided. And I’ll keep it this way until a better way shows up.

So I live downstairs, and I like my house. Sure, it’s old. Built sometime during the first Great Depression, near as I can tell from the deed. When all that crap hit the fan back in 2007, people told me. “Why don’t you get out of that house? It’s got tons of bad vibes. Bad memories. Just bad stuff overall. Sell it, and start over in a new place.” And I said no. I won’t be pushed out of my home. I won’t. I like it here. Maybe I was just exhausted. I don’t know. Anyway, I stayed. And, in one of the most amicable, attorney-free separations in history when it came to the actual divorce proceedings, I had the place appraised in 2009. Refinanced it, and bought out Ellen’s half. And now it’s my home, in my name. I like it here.

I’m probably about like 95% of guys out there who live alone, when it comes to keeping my living space clean. I don’t worry about it much. I mean, how many guys get down on their hands and knees and scrub the floor? None that I know of. And it’s not like it’s filthy dirty or anything, anyway. I vacuum, sweep the floors, chase down and capture all visible dust bunnies. Keep the sink halfway presentable, and so forth. Even scrub the bathroom, now and then. The place isn’t dirty, it’s just cluttered.

And it’s not like the rooms are a wreck, either. I pile stuff up right where it lands, mostly. And by stuff, I mean odds and ends of just about anything. Hiking gear. Shoes and boots. Jackets and hoodies. Ropes, backpacks, a decent assortment of knives, ammo, shooting gear, flashlights, camo duct tape, boxes of supplies, guy stuff. And the living room, where I write, it’s pretty much a man cave. Sheathed fantasy swords hang from two pillars. It’s comfortable, with loose stacks of books strewn haphazardly about. On the couch and on the floor and on my desk. Books of every type and flavor, plus a case or two of the one I wrote. And a couple of copies of every edition.

But I know where everything is when I need it. That’s the big thing, the important thing. It’s pretty much a lackadaisical system, but it works for me. I’ve always figured, it’s my house. When it comes right down to it, who else’s business is it, anyway? Yeah. No one’s.

But, because of the clutter, I’ve been shy almost to the point of paranoia about letting just anyone walk into my home. Only a few trusted people have unlimited access. My brother Steve pops in sometimes when he’s passing by anyway, to watch whatever game’s on. My close friend Paul Zook, too, wanders in randomly. As does my ex-brother-in-law, Paul Yutzy, when he’s passing through. None of them have ever so much as blinked an eye at the way the place looked. Which is why they’re always welcome. For most others, it’s simply not worth the energy of trying to make up excuses. So I don’t, by not letting them in.

And it’s not like the offers haven’t been made, to clean my house. Mostly from my Amish friends. “Oh, come now,” the women said soothingly. “It can’t be that bad. Let us come over and clean it for you. We’ll be happy to do that.” It’s a trick, I told them. You just want to come in and snoop. And go talk about what you saw. I’m on to your plot. Nope. Thanks, but nope. I’m good. I’ll get someone in to clean eventually. Some person that doesn’t know me, and won’t care how the house looks. Don’t you all fret about it. And no, I’m not paranoid or anything. And they looked very crestfallen, each time. In time, though, they gave up and quit nagging me.

Sadly, a cleaning lady will not just show up on her own. And the years passed, and my house had not been deep-cleaned since Ellen left, back in 2007. Then, late last year, I grumbled about it all at work. To no one in particular. Just talking. Surely there has to be someone out there, some nice Amish or Plain Mennonite girl, that I could hire to clean my house. And my coworker, Dave Hurst, heard me grumbling and spoke up. His wife, Ruth, had hired a Plain Mennonite girl to help around the house. Katie was her name, Dave said. She just got married. She works really hard for ten bucks an hour.

That sounded too good to be real. I nibbled at the bait. Ask your wife to ask Katie, I told Dave. I’ll pay her whatever she asks. See if it could work out. And a few days later, Dave told me, beaming. Katie had agreed. She would come and clean. Three hours at a stretch. And since she was a horse and buggy Mennonite and had no transportation, Ruth would drop her off and pick her up on Tuesday. And I was excited. This was what I was talking about. Some nice girl who didn’t know me from Adam. Who would just come in, do her job, and go on about her way.

And so it was that a few days later, I drove home over lunch to meet Ruth and Katie at my house. She was a beautiful young lady with a lovely smile, in patterned flowery dress and plain white head covering. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll scrub the kitchen floor by hand. Clean the counters and the sink and the bathroom. What all else did you have in mind?” And I showed her about my small house. This and this. Dust these things, if you get time. And I told her sternly. Whatever you see here stays with you. Don’t go talking about it. She smiled demurely. Of course she wouldn’t. I asked her then. How much do you want? How much an hour, to clean?

And she almost couldn’t face me. Dave had told me she worked for $10 an hour, which is nothing. Still, she piped up bravely. “Would $15 an hour be too much?” It was probably more than she’d ever asked for, from anyone else. I laughed. Of course it’s not too much, I said. I’ll gladly pay that. She smiled, relieved. I showed her where everything was, my cleaning supplies and such. And then I headed back to work.

That night, after the gym, I eagerly headed home. What would it be like, a clean house? I unlocked the door and stepped in. Lemon scent overwhelmed the place. The scent of clean. I walked through the kitchen, gaping. Everything was spotless. The floor, mainly. Scrubbed thoroughly by hand. But the sink, too, the counter and the kitchen cabinets. All of it glistened with clean. Clean, clean, clean. It was a beautiful, beautiful thing. I just stood there and drank it all in. Heck, with a place like this, I could invite company if I were of a mind to. With head held high.

That first day we met at the house was the only time I ever saw Katie. We talked, now and then, when she called me with a question as she was cleaning. She came every three or four weeks, right along, always on a Tuesday. I left her check on the kitchen table, for three hours’ worth of work. Once, my cell phone rang when she was cleaning. How much would I charge her for a copy of my book? One of those copies just strewn about the house? Take it, I told her. You can have it. “Oh, are you sure?” she asked. “I’ll pay you for it.” Nope, I said. Take it. Gotta keep the maid happy. She laughed and thanked me.

And it was a beautiful thing, over the winter, right into spring. Leave a check on the kitchen table on a Tuesday morning once a month, and the house is magically clean that night. I loved walking in after she’d been there, knowing I’d smell that clean lemon scent. It was just a beautiful thing.

And it was all too beautiful to last, of course. Sometime early last summer, Katie quit coming. She and her husband were expecting their first child. She just didn’t have the time or energy to clean my house anymore. I understood, of course. But still, it was a sad day for me, when I heard that. It was the perfect setup. And now, poof, it was just gone.

And I settled back in to the way it was, before Katie ever showed up. All through the summer. Sure, I swept and vacuumed, and kept the place half decent. But the clutter, which Katie had pushed back, encroached again. All through the house. Stuff just stacked and piled haphazardly here and there. I was comfortable with it, as before. Still shy, though, of letting just anyone in. And I kept thinking, this time I can’t wait four years, to find another cleaner. I’ve got to get someone in, sometime soon. But nothing will happen until you make it happen.

The summer passed. And the fall. The kitchen floor was getting, well, in need of a good scrubbing. I grumbled at work. This time, my coworker Dave had no suggestions. A while back, he beamed and told me Katie had her baby. A little girl. Born healthy. She and her husband are doing well, moving right along. Still, she won’t clean anymore, for extra money. She can’t, now that the baby’s here. I was glad for her, for them. Still, that doesn’t do anything for my kitchen floor.

And it all seemed destined for another long stretch of frustration. This time, though, I didn’t sit around and wait as long. This time, I asked my Amish neighbors, the ones just down the road. Do they know of anyone who cleans houses? I had in mind they might guide me to some Amish spinster who does this sort of thing for a living. But no. They smiled. Yes, they knew of someone. A lady, just down the road from my house. An English lady, well, a Mennonite. But an English Mennonite. She cleans. Go see her. And I drove straight from my Amish friends’ house to the English Mennonite lady’s home. A farm. How in the world does a woman who lives on a farm have time to clean houses? I wondered.

The English Mennonite lady, Anne, met me at the door. Looked at me suspiciously. Uh, I was told you clean houses, I stammered. “Who told you that?” She asked. The Millers, just around the corner there, I said, trying to look as lost and helpless as possible. Their kids mow my lawn. I had a Plain Mennonite lady cleaning my house earlier this year, but she quit because she just had her first baby. I’m your neighbor, half a mile away. And Anne seemed open to the idea. “I don’t have time for any new jobs,” she said. “But you are so close, I just might have to take it. I’ll probably cost more than your last cleaner did, though.” Yes, yes, I know that, I said. That’s fine. Here’s my cell number. Call me and stop by to check it out. I’m totally flexible. She smiled and promised she would.

She didn’t call. Not that first week. Or the second. The third week, after I’d given up, my cell phone rang one day. Unknown number. I answered. It was Anne. She wanted to stop by one evening and check out my house. It’s great to hear from you, I said. I’d almost given up. We settled on a date and time.

And she came, the other Saturday evening. I showed her about the house. It’s important to me that you keep my privacy, I said. What you see here stays here. She smiled and politely told me that’s her policy for all her cleaning jobs. “I can de-clutter your house,” she said helpfully as we were winding down. Declutter. Is that even a word? Do it all you want, decluttering in the kitchen, I answered. Don’t worry about the storage room, there. And don’t worry about the living room. That’s where I write. I don’t mind clutter. I just want the place to be clean, clutter or no clutter. “OK,” she said. “I’ll text you when I can make it over. It’ll be before Christmas.”

A little more than a week later, on a Monday morning, I left my front door unlocked. Anne would come that morning, so I figured it was safe. On the kitchen table, I left a check. And a house key, for her to keep. And a signed copy of my book. Might as well get that out of the way, before she sees all those copies strewn about and thinks to ask how much I want for one. Gotta keep the maid happy. Preemptively, I figured.

That night, when I got home and walked into the house, the blasting smell of clean greeted me. Fresh. Scented. Lemony. All was as it should be. Everything was spotless and shining. The floor was scrubbed. The kitchen sink sparkled. The bathroom gleamed. And the kitchen was about half decluttered. More of that will come, I think. Decluttering. And I’m totally cool with that. I think we’re good, here.
***************************************
And it’s almost Christmas again. I’m usually a Bah Humbug kind of guy, but this year I actually feel some strange odd little prickings inside. Must be the Christmas spirit. I never get carried away much, with gift giving and all. Expect none and give few, that’s my motto. And I’m pretty content with that.

Every season, though, I think back fleetingly to those days in Bloomfield, the first few years we lived there. How it was, after I turned 16, and started running with the small youth group. Bloomfield was just a baby of a settlement back then, with around two dozen families, give or take a few either way. All that would change in the next few years as the community grew, but those first few years were special, well, just because they are.

I remember the biting cold on a moonlit December evening after the chores were done, how sometimes we struggled through deep snow up the steep hill off to the west side of the lane between our home and Joseph’s house, dragging our sleds. And how we rode them down the hill at high speed, how we howled and whooped and hollered. And got up to do it all over again. And again. I remember how still and bright and cold the land was. Silent, except for our voices. And how we walked, exhausted and exhilarated, toward the glowing windows of the warm house, where Mom was bustling in the kitchen over the hot stove, fixing supper.

Those first winters in Bloomfield were bitterly, bitterly cold. And the youth, with all the exuberance that only youth can know, went caroling every Christmas around the community. The steel-rimmed buggy wheels squealing through the packed snow, we’d clatter from one house to the next. Stand outside the front door in a tight little huddled group, and sing. Christmas carols. All about the community we trundled, stopping at most Amish places and even some English ones. And I remember that close feeling of belonging, the sheer joy of just being out and about with good friends. We sang and sang, our breaths steaming in the frigid air, and sang some more. Always wrapping up with We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

And sometimes we were invited into the homes for steaming hot chocolate and fresh baked cookies. We ate and drank and chattered and laughed and then walked back out into the cold and headed to the next place. Until we reached the last house, and sang there. Then took off through the cold white winter night to our warm homes and beds.

It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything like that. And I wonder if I could sing like that again, standing outside in the bitter cold of a December night. If such a thing, such innocent joy, would even be possible. I don’t know. It’s tough to recapture the essence of such things, once you let them go. That’s just how it is. In the meantime, though, I can let the memories speak my heart.

Merry Christmas to all my readers.

***********************************
Postnote: A few words about the unspeakably senseless tragedy in Newtown, CT, today. I’m not a parent, and in such moments as these, I’m glad sometimes I’m not. It’s simply incomprehensible to see and absorb the aftermath of such evil. There will be intense mourning for a long, long time, for those families that lost a little child. We can only mourn with them from a distance.

From my perspective, from my world view, a host of observations come to mind about cause and effect, about the desperate wickedness that lurks inside the human heart. But right now, I think, it’s probably wise not to say a whole lot more. Soon enough there will be a time to speak. At this moment, I want to respect in silence those who grieve a loss I cannot fathom.

What things are these, what shells and curios of outworn
custom, what relics here of old, forgotten time?

—Thomas Wolfe
_______________

It was such a small thing when it happened that I didn’t think about it much at the time. No reason to, really. But later, I analyzed the incident a bit. And one thing led to another, in my head. And when that happens, you never know where you’ll end up.

I get those messages now and then. Through Facebook, or my email address, which is posted on this blog. Hey. What would it take, to get a signed copy of your book? Would you consider that, sending me one if I paid for it? And I always respond. Of course. I always have copies on hand. Send twenty bucks to my work address, and I’ll get you a signed copy. Made out to you, or to anyone you say.

And so it is that once in a while, every couple of weeks or so, I slip by the local post office in Christiana, and walk in with a few signed books to mail. I always take one of those nice little padded envelopes from the rack there, that they offer for sale. I slip the book in, and seal the little adhesive flap. Slap on the mailing sticker I prepared back at the office. And walla, it’s ready. With book-rate postage, the whole thing costs four bucks and change.

A few weeks back, I walked in one day with a couple of books to mail. The postmaster lady is used to seeing me. She always smiles in welcome. She got so curious about seeing me mail so many books that she asked about it a few months ago. Then she bought a copy for herself and read it. Claimed she really enjoyed it. So we have a nice little friendship. That day, though, she wasn’t around. Some young guy, a part timer, waited on me. I did the usual. Grabbed two padded envelopes from the wall, stuck in my books, sealed them, and passed them over the counter to him. Book rate, I said. He jabbed at his computer screen, and printed out my postage stickers. Then gave me the total. Four bucks and change. For both books. Something was wrong.

That’s not enough, I said. He looked at me strangely. “It’s the price of the postage,” he answered. I almost turned and left. But then it hit me. The envelopes, I said. You forgot to charge me for those. “Oh, you got those here?” he asked. Well, yes. I always do. He quickly scanned the envelopes, and I handed him the money. He thanked me for telling him. Not a problem, I said.

And it wasn’t a big deal at all, in my mind. That’s just what you do, when a mistake like that comes at you. You make it right, that’s what I was always taught. There is no agonizing, there are no questions about whether or not it’s the right thing to do. It always is the right thing.

But that wasn’t what struck me, when I thought about it later. What struck me was, what if it’s you on the other side of that equation? What if someone actually tries to rip you off? Comes at you with that intent from the get-go? What then? How do you handle that?

And I thought back to years ago, of how it was when my father was running his metal sales business back home in Bloomfield.

The summer before we moved there, Dad built a brand new dairy barn. Laid it out with all kinds of newfangled but untested ideas, almost all of which eventually proved entirely worthless. But that’s a bunny trail. He had to order the metal roofing and siding for the barn from the only local supplier. Bloomfield Lumber. And they delivered a quality product. Sure, it took some time, because they had to order everything in. And their prices were right up there.

After we moved and were settling in, Dad had other building projects. He wasn’t particularly satisfied with the product, mostly the prices, of Bloomfield Lumber’s offerings. He still bought from them, those first few years. But something stirred, in his mind.

Why not find metal roofing and siding at a better price? And he made some calls, found a dealer in Missouri. A guy who would ship it in for a lot cheaper. And Dad put the word out, in the community. I got good metal prices. Order from me. I’ll save you money. I don’t think he mentioned the grade or quality of the metal. Metal roofing was metal roofing.

It was never planned, this business. And that’s the beauty of it. It just sprouted on its own, because Dad saw a need and provided for it. During those first few years, in the late 1970s, he got a load together every month or two. It was seconds metal, if I remember right. You couldn’t order a specific color, necessarily, even. It was mostly white or off-white. But the price was so low, compared to Bloomfield Lumber’s, that it didn’t matter. It was metal, it would cover your buildings, and it was cheap. During those first few years, the loads were delivered from somewhere in southern Missouri on a battered old single axle white International flatbed truck. Russell Krause, the one-armed driver, usually arrived during the night and slept slumped in his truck. And he usually ate breakfast with us. The boys, my brothers and me, went out after breakfast and unloaded the metal sheets by hand. The whole load, stacks and stacks. Hundreds and hundreds of sheets.

Russell Krause was a pure southern Missouri hillbilly, probably in his mid-50s or so, wizened and stooped and one-armed. He was the only person who was ever allowed to smoke inside our home, near as I can recall. And that’s because he didn’t ask, he just lit up. Filterless Camels. Mom always just smiled and gave him a Mason jar lid for an ashtray. He sat at the breakfast table, devouring Mom’s delicious food, and told large tales of the things he had seen and done. And it always got a little uncomfortable for him after we finished eating. Because that’s when Dad would take up his Bible and read a passage or two. And then we would all kneel for the morning prayer. Except Russell. He never knelt. Just leaned over, on his chair, like he was kneeling. It was a natural reaction for him, I guess, in an unfamiliar setting. Just bending over. But we saw it, that he didn’t kneel. And we judged him for it. We figured he was probably not a Christian. Maybe even a wicked man, seeing that he smoked and all.

It was all a bit of a ramshackle affair, but Dad’s metal business grew steadily over the next few years. Actually, it was just plain primitive. The whole setup. We piled the metal in stacks on the south side of our new machinery shed. Outside, in the weather, which is a huge no-no. And during the summers, great weeds sprouted among the stacks, sometimes almost overwhelming them. We built a rack inside the shed, to hold a small selection of trim.

When a customer arrived, we boys took care of him, most often. He would tell us what he wanted, and we’d find the closest thing we had to that. We’d hand load the metal, then write out a bill of sale on a little white and yellow pad. White to the customer. Yellow for the record. Those were heady days, when wads of cash flowed in and out of our pockets. Some small bits of it stayed there, now and then, as Dad’s bookkeeping was also very primitive. He wouldn’t miss a $20 bill now and then, we figured. We were right. He was so disorganized that he rarely caught on. But he sold a lot of product, because his prices were low, way lower than those at surrounding English lumber yards. And you couldn’t beat his hours. Any time during daylight hours, six days a week. No Sunday sales. That was just assumed. And they came, locals from all around, and many non-locals from out of state, to buy at discount prices from Wagler Metals.

Dad advertised, and his metal business grew and grew. By the time I left for good in the late 1980s, it was his main source of income. Long before that, he had switched suppliers. Russell Krause no longer came up from southern Missouri in his old rattletrap International. Instead, Graber Post Buildings from Daviess County now delivered Dad’s inventory by the tractor-trailer load. And about then, my brother Joseph bought a share of the business and took over the day to day operations. I’m not sure of the exact timeline of some of these events, but it’s not important. They built a brand new but somewhat ramshackle building halfway out the drive to keep their metal in. And people flocked in from miles around and bought. Wagler Metals was a flourishing business in Bloomfield.

And 99.9% of those people who came and bought were honest customers who paid with honest money. Dad took cash and checks. The checks were almost always good. Once in a while, though, some hoodlum would pass off a bad check that bounced. Sometimes, that was not done on purpose. And when that happened, the customer made good. But from a few, those bad checks were planned. Those few refused to make good. They figured Dad was Amish, and he wouldn’t do anything about it. For such a trivial thing, they sold out their good name. Which they had probably done long before, so it wasn’t that big a deal to them anymore, I think.

Dad’s position on such matters was pretty much what the official Amish position has always been. You don’t get the law involved. You don’t sue, or hire a collection agency to go after your unpaid bills. In most places, I think that’s still their position. And as far a I know, Dad never once got the law involved in any way, to fight for his rights. He didn’t believe in calling the cops for any reason. And he never did.

But in today’s fast paced business world, I know that’s really tough to do sometimes. Especially when a large sum is involved. It’s tough, to just stand by and let a wrong go, when it might take down your business.

But they never did go after the bad guys, neither Dad nor Joseph. And once, when I was home visiting for Christmas, Joseph told me the classic tale of how it all comes down, when one sets out to rip off an Amish business.

It all happened one fine afternoon when a dilapidated old pickup rattled into the long drive of the old home farm out north of West Grove. A redneck coming to buy some metal roofing. Joseph told me his name, which I don’t remember and wouldn’t write here if I did. But the guy came from up north of Drakesville somewhere.

He was loud and jolly, Joseph told me. And he needed a couple of different lengths of metal. For the sake of this tale, we’ll say ten footers and twelve footers. So Joseph showed him what he had and the redneck bought a stack of each length. Twenty or thirty sheets of each. They loaded the metal on his now-sagging pickup, and the guy pulled out his checkbook. “You’ll take a check, won’t you?” he asked. Joseph said he would.

The guy paid and left. Disappeared over the steep hill to the north, heading back to Drakesville. Joseph returned to what he was doing. But then, about twenty minutes later, he looked out toward the road. And behold, the dilapidated old sagging pickup was staggering back into the drive. The redneck pulled up to the yard and braked. Stepped out, smiling sheepishly.

“You know what, Joe?” He said loudly. “I just got to thinking. I’m going to hold back on that one part of the roof, for now. I really don’t need all these ten foot sheets I bought. Would it be too much trouble to unload them and put them back in stock?”

Joseph probably sensed something was wrong. But he couldn’t put his finger on it. Sure, he’d take the metal back. “Sure, we’ll unload it,” he said. “I’ll give your check back. You can just write me another.”

The man was a fine actor. Or maybe Joseph was just easily fooled. I don’t know. We all want to believe in the best in people. And the Amish are especially susceptible to frauds, seems like. Because they trust people easily, in everyday life. It’s just how they were taught. The redneck made a great exaggerated expression of dismay.

“Ah, man, Joe,” he exclaimed regretfully. “That was my last check, the one I gave you. Any way you could just write a check back to me, for the difference?” And so the trap was set. And Joseph, bless his heart, walked right on in. Completely unassuming. Sure. Sure, he’d do that. And that’s what happened. They unloaded the ten footers, all twenty or thirty of them. And Joseph handed the redneck a check for them.

You don’t have to think too hard to figure out what happened next. The redneck from up north of Drakesville, that man’s check was bad. Worthless. Not only did he get all his twelve foot metal for free, he also got a good chunk of cash from Wagler Metals when he cashed Joseph’s check. Which was exactly what he set out to do when he came for the twelve footers he actually needed. Which is exactly the kind of scheme he and generations of his thieving blood had pulled off countless times before, I’m pretty sure.

I gaped at Joseph as he finished his tale. Told with all the relish and detail and vocal inflections any respectable Wagler would come up with. What? Are you insane? I hollered. (We talk to each other like that, it’s all good.) You still have the guy’s check in your hand, and you won’t go after him? All you have to do is give it to the cops. It’s a crime, what he did. Here. Give it to me. I’ll take it in to them right now. Come on. You can’t just let him get away with outright theft like that.

“Nope, nope,” Joseph grinned nervously, as he tends to do. “No. That’s not what we do. Yeah, a man stopped by the other day. He runs a collection business. He wanted all my bad checks. He’d go collect the debts, take his percentage, and give me the rest. But I told him no.”

And I could only sputter in frustration at my brother. There it was, an easy solution. Give someone else the right to collect your debts, and you’re not directly involved. But still, he wouldn’t even do that. I would, I told him. That redneck needs to be stopped. He’s just going to keep on doing it, until someone does stop him. It’s justice. Do it. And my brother had a comeback even for that.

“No, he’s known now, in the community,” he said. “People know his name is bad, they know now who he is. That his word can’t be trusted. Sure, it’s hard. Of course it is. I want that money I’m owed. But I won’t go after it. A higher power will deal with that man. I don’t need to concern myself about it, however much I want to.”

I stood there, still shaking my head in disbelief. And I still told him in no uncertain terms what I thought he should do. You bet I did. Go after the guy. Make him pay. It’s the only sensible thing to do. Surely you can see that. But I’ve thought about it now and then, in the years that have passed. Thought about my brother’s obstinance. It didn’t make a lot of sense to me. Still doesn’t, not from where I am. But it doesn’t have to. He knew where he stood. And that’s all that matters, in the end. It was his business. Not mine.

But still, I figure it is my business, to think about it. And I keep thinking, who made the best choices? The redneck from up north of Drakesville, a guy with a thieving heart, a guy who started out his day plotting to steal, in a way that would be known? And did just that, to get what he wanted. Because that’s how he lived. Or a guy like my brother Joseph, who somehow found the internal fortitude, the strength to actually follow through with what he claimed to believe? To let it go, even when someone did something bad like that to him. To turn the other cheek, even when it was hard to do. Even when it was especially hard to do, because of the way he’d been taken across.

And I’m thinking, who would you choose to be, if you had only those two choices? Sure, to outsiders looking in, there are plenty of other options. But that’s beside the point. Because in this little tale, the details can’t be changed. They are what they are. Two flawed people made conscious decisions to do what they did, all the way through the story. Who made the best choices?

And I’m thinking, it’s pretty strange, looking back. How some of that stuff you walked away from makes a little more sense now than it used to.