A strange thing happened at the produce market today. Well, it’s not really a market. It’s a decrepit old home, run by what I now feel is a decrepit old man, sitting in an decrepit old garage, selling his wares. His wares being ‘maters, corn, ‘ok-ry, melons and only South Carolina peaches, thankyouverymuch, because you know, he explained, they ain’t a peach worth eatin’ in all of Georgia.
And we’re the Peach State. Go figure.
(small aside: there is truth in this statement. As my parents hail from the regions of Spartanburg and Greenville, SC, they know this fact, and have taught me thusly. The small City of Gaffney produces more, and more delicious peaches, alone, than all of Georgia. And damn, if for 3 days, they were all I could eat while vomiting up everything else in this first trimester. Don’t ask about the resulting poop.)
So I’m in his musty garage, picking out choice produce, when he says, you must be a student. Ahaaa, I think. Flattery will indeed, get you everywhere. Being 35, this felt good. But being that he is 87, I have to question his eyesight. Or his motivation. He must be having a slow ‘mater day.
Naaaaw, now, he says, when I tell him not only am I not a student, but I have 3 children of my own. I left out the one-on-the-way part. I dunno. Didn’t seem he was one with which to share. So whar you sent them youngins a’school? He questions. Oh, I don’t, I say smiling. Surely a man of his age and experience understands a good, moral, home education. Hell, there probably wasn’t even a school in all of this county when he was a boy. I homeschool.
Selecting a ripe melon, I await the accolades. And I hear wha’d you say you do to those chil-ren? You what-school them? I repeat myself. More clearly. While looking right at his rheumy eyes.
And he says, and I don’t paraphrase, THAT’S CHILD ABUSE!!! CHILD ABUSE I TELL YA!!!
I am, I must say, slightly taken aback. I start to say something. I don’t know what, but it doesn’t matter, because he is OFF. OFF I TELL YA!!!! OFF!!!!
Them kids these days! They need to be in the world, I tell ya! If they’s drugs, then they oughta larn to get along with drugs. Makes they own choices. Stand up. If they’s guns, same thing. You gonna cripple’em. Make’em pansies. Now, I’ll go along through age 6, but THAT’S IT. I tell ya, more than that, and they’s gonna be bonafide misfits. MISFITS. I know. I seen it. It’s bad. I tell ya, it’s BAD.
I thought he was done. I was wrong.
And you know what? (I did not, apparently) They wasn’t nuttin to read when I was a comin’ up. Nut-tin. No newspapers, no magazines. Nuttin but a boys magazine called GRIT. Ever hear a’ GRIT? (I had not) Ask yo’ folks, they know. They know GRIT. Nothing to read I tell ya. You know how many books was in all a’Bartow County when I was a boy? (I did not) Twelve hunderd. Twelve hunderd I tell ya. And I read’em all by the time I was 7. Had my name in all them cards. You probably don’t even know what I’m talking ’bout, all gone and computerified everthing and all. (I did, too) I signed my name in all twelve hunderd of those books. An’ schoolin’ only went through ‘leventh grade. But I got me an excellent ed-ja-cation. (I’m sure.)
I was stuck in ok-ry, and trying to pick some without worms. Or brown slimy parts.
But ya know the best book eva ta read? THE BIBLE. Yep. I read that book 10 times afore I was 7. (He was a busy reading, boy, I tell ya) Best book eva. An’ GREAT stories. Good lessons. (I couldn’t disagree there, but I did entertain for about a millisecond asking him what kind of schools he thought Jesus went to. I refrained.)
So I finished up, while he prattled on. Counted my produce, and declared my purchase worth $20.25. I had a twenty, and he insisted on throwing in the quarter, as opposed to my digging through my bag. I left with him shaking a finger at me GET THEM CHILREN IN PUBLIC SCHOOL, I TELL YA!!!
Right. I’m right on that, I TELL YA. Right on it.
