Mrs. Broghammer (An Uninvited Guest 4)
I happened to run into Noman. There wasn’t much to talk about so I told him I had an uninvited guest. He was interested, around here “uninvited guests” was a good conversation subject.
When I described my guest he said, “Oh, that’s Mark. Everyone knows Mark. Burned out his brain with drugs. We went to school together.” Noman explained that he was not an “uninvited guest,” he was a local kid who had family here. His parents remodeled their garage into a special needs home for him. He wasn’t the vagrant sleeping in the woods I had imagined. I guess there is much of his brain that is still old Mark, like a hard drive that has lost the directory but still held the data. That explained why he looked clean and healthy, he actually had people who cared. It also explained those Adidas.
“Mark’s aunt, Mrs. Broghammer, used to own your farm until she died so it is not surprising he shows up there. We used to call her ‘old lady Hammer’ even though she was nice enough.”
I thought, “Yes, Broghammer. I had seen the name on the title insurance.”
In a way Roman and I were the uninvited guest in his life. I was overwhelmed with empathy for a kid who gambled and lost. I did plenty of experimentation in my youth and survived other than for the occasional need to put an eyeball over my head.
—
The next time I saw Mark was at the river. He was squatting on the water’s edge stacking small rocks as you might expect with a six year old. He softly sung to himself. I walked along the water and when I was in calling distance I shouted, “Good afternoon, Mark. Isn’t it a beautiful day?” He looked up and smiled while continuing to quietly sing. That was actual communication and it felt good.
—
I sometimes see Mark around the property. Roman installed a mailbox by the clothesline and we occasionally put things like apples or home-made cookies in it, raising the red flag so he knows to investigate. Mark added a ring of sticks around the base. One day I was taking a bowl of cherries to the mailbox and I noticed Mark was standing at the edge of the woods watching me. When I opened the box there was something in it. It was a can of stewed tomatoes. I heard Mark laugh as he ran into the woods. I had been pranked. Now I knew he understood humor, perhaps even sarcasm.
Though much smarter than a chicken, Mark is filling a void in our family that chickens had once satisfied. Roman and I accept that he belongs here and have added ourselves to the list of Mark’s people who care. I learned a lot from our chickens and I’m excited to learn from my newest teacher, the now invited guest.
I happened to run into Noman. There wasn’t much to talk about so I told him I had an uninvited guest. He was interested, around here “uninvited guests” was a good conversation subject.
When I described my guest he said, “Oh, that’s Mark. Everyone knows Mark. Burned out his brain with drugs. We went to school together.” Noman explained that he was not an “uninvited guest,” he was a local kid who had family here. His parents remodeled their garage into a special needs home for him. He wasn’t the vagrant sleeping in the woods I had imagined. I guess there is much of his brain that is still old Mark, like a hard drive that has lost the directory but still held the data. That explained why he looked clean and healthy, he actually had people who cared. It also explained those Adidas.
“Mark’s aunt, Mrs. Broghammer, used to own your farm until she died so it is not surprising he shows up there. We used to call her ‘old lady Hammer’ even though she was nice enough.”
I thought, “Yes, Broghammer. I had seen the name on the title insurance.”
In a way Roman and I were the uninvited guest in his life. I was overwhelmed with empathy for a kid who gambled and lost. I did plenty of experimentation in my youth and survived other than for the occasional need to put an eyeball over my head.
—
The next time I saw Mark was at the river. He was squatting on the water’s edge stacking small rocks as you might expect with a six year old. He softly sung to himself. I walked along the water and when I was in calling distance I shouted, “Good afternoon, Mark. Isn’t it a beautiful day?” He looked up and smiled while continuing to quietly sing. That was actual communication and it felt good.
—
I sometimes see Mark around the property. Roman installed a mailbox by the clothesline and we occasionally put things like apples or home-made cookies in it, raising the red flag so he knows to investigate. Mark added a ring of sticks around the base. One day I was taking a bowl of cherries to the mailbox and I noticed Mark was standing at the edge of the woods watching me. When I opened the box there was something in it. It was a can of stewed tomatoes. I heard Mark laugh as he ran into the woods. I had been pranked. Now I knew he understood humor, perhaps even sarcasm.
Though much smarter than a chicken, Mark is filling a void in our family that chickens had once satisfied. Roman and I accept that he belongs here and have added ourselves to the list of Mark’s people who care. I learned a lot from our chickens and I’m excited to learn from my newest teacher, the now invited guest.