Not Fitting In

Every car that drives by my house is a kind of test. Some wave and smile, some stare coldly. These days we're out in the yard for most of the daylight hours, raking or digging or chopping or mowing or resting. Don't know what the talk is, exactly, about the ORIENTALS from the city up on M. Road, but you can bet there's talk.

At the General Store, J. is friendly with R., the patriarch whose son and daughter-in-law and grandchildren are usually around working the register or preparing food. J. is good at that -- acting as if and putting people at ease. Me, I'm sensitive and thin-skinned, I notice how people stop chatting familiar-like when I walk in, especially the guys-with-guns. Roc's daughter-in-law V. is thin and pretty and a firm disciplinarian with her boys and bakes cookies for sale; I've tried to be friendly, but something doesn't quite click, and I think I probably come off like I'm trying too hard. I'm there for a transaction, after all, not to hang out, that much is clear.

I put my hope and faith in time. Hard edges smooth out, people become familiar, one interaction at a time. Maybe we're being watched suspiciously for now, but that's ok, we'll just keep doing what we're doing and hope one of these days they'll just keep on chatting, or that R. will call J. by name, or that we will feel like hanging out.