Mini

It's funny how stories get changed through a few conversations. Here's an example: The other day my sister said to me, "That's so sad that there was a child rummaging through your trash." I was confused by what she said, but then I realized. Let me explain.

I dropped by our friend Lois' house on Sunday to drop off her canner that she had lent us a few years ago and gave her a loaf of bread that Lars made. I also gave her one of my fulled oven mitt. I stayed and had a glass of Bartlett's blueberry wine. Lovely. When I got home I saw a truck idling in front of my driveway. I indicated to turn into my driveway and the truck pulled away. It's not unusual to see trucks roaming the neighborhood since many of us have bought permits to put large items out for pickup. As I pulled in I was shocked to find a person of diminutive size removing the hardware off a door we put out. He had a wrench set with him, wore a baseball cap and a t-shirt and pinned up jeans. It was like something out of a Jim Jarmusch film. The truck circled around and the person climbed in, with the door lock and hinges in hand.

I spoke to my mom that night. I described the experience to her, and described him to my mom as "a little person, you know, someone short in stature." I was attempting to be PC, which obviously backfired. Maybe if I said he was a dwarf or midget, it would have been so much clearer. She spoke to my sister the next day and told her that I came home to find a child digging through a pile of boards and crap.