By Dani Gruber, special to Mountain Valley News
A few years ago, I was happily minding my own business when I heard a knock at my door. There stood Juan, an unemployed Mexican man looking to remedy that situation. Though he was a legal immigrant, he was not fluent in English yet, so he relied on charades depicting employment and one word, “Work?” I hemmed and hawed and scuffed the frozen welcome mat at my doorstep with the toe of my shoe.
After some thinking, I remembered that my daughter needed about 100 bales of hay moved. I was deliberately putting that chore off for no apparent reason except that each bale weighs about 100 pounds each - and somewhere in the bible (the farm edition) it says not to do stuff like that, else you will be breaking other commandments like, “Thou shalt not curse thy family members.”
The bales of hay were located at my parents' place across the road, so off we went in Juan's truck and mine to their place where much to my horror, mom and dad were not home. This is important because it left me unable to leave the place, and without leaving, I could not conveniently avoid helping Juan load that hay and haul it around to the other side of the barn.
Juan was taking off his coat and getting comfortable hoisting these bales up and over his head onto that truck when we saw a little mouse dart out from one of the bales up toward the front of his truck near the engine. From there, I lost track of where it went. I did note that the fat old barn cat laying on a nearby hay bale should be fired and stop receiving unemployment benefits including cat chow and table scraps until he shows a more earnest attempt at the security detail.
Juan started the truck but it sounded quite peculiar. “Pop, grind, grind, grind.” The truck barely made the short trip into the barn where it died. Not to worry, we unloaded the hay, and then Juan began diagnosing the problem under the hood. It is important to add that he was using strings of words that I had never heard in Spanish 101.
Of course, I suppose he was saying all sorts of glowing things about how much help I had been lifting all those bales of hay off the truck, so I didn't want to interrupt him. My husband, who has loaded hay with me before, disputes this theory, likening my imagination to Walt Disney, who he said “pays good money for fantasies like mine.”
I remind him that Walt would pay me more and my job would consist of standing around singing while seven dwarfs loaded the hay, and when they were done, I would get kissed by a handsome prince who was tickled I awoke from a long nap. Hmm, now there's a farm girl fantasy. Now that I think about it, this might explain how I found myself stuck loading hay with a stranger who does not speak my language, but I digress.
After pulling on several wires and shaking several metal pieces inside the engine, Juan pulled out what must have been an important part of the truck - because when he did, the truck went completely silent. He called the part a “Rank,” which I could not translate and did not recognize – but in looking at it, I noticed it had nails in it.
Now my husband assures me that Ford does not use nails in their engines and that such a discovery is simply another of the many reasons not to let an amateur fix your car, especially if the amateur has been drinking. But I like the nail theory and think it should be used liberally everywhere. “Come here, Ken.”
Anyway, Juan looked at me and said, "That mouse up in truck broke," followed by, "Truck here for night no problem?" To which I nodded and he jumped in my truck and waited expectantly holding the part he'd taken out. I took him home and figured a night's sleep would not be a bad remedy to this nightmare.
A couple hours later, Mom is calling saying something about three men in two cars – all stuck in her driveway - and she's none too happy about it and wishes I would do something since apparently none of them speak English.
I recognize this as unfortunate as charades is hard enough with one person. Uneven teams make it even more challenging, and if beer is involved, well, I concede.
Ultimately, I did the reasonable thing and unplugged my phone. I guess I'd better head over to mom's to see how many more cars she has stuck in her driveway by now. Funny thing—Walt Disney's princesses never have to actually lift bales of hay, or fix engines, or push other people's vehicles out of slick driveways. I wonder if that is a coincidence, or an oversight, or if I am doing it all wrong.
