We’ve
been plotting and planning and measuring for the new kitchen---just a tiny
affair downstairs, one little wall-counter maybe 8’, with a corner turn into 4’
with the stove off on another wall, big and independent, sitting there like a
huge squat frog with little round red handles to break the stern black of her
face.
I want solid white, sturdy cabinets, with a pale top, perhaps Corian, perhaps not, with pale pink walls and cabinet-insides. What I’d LOVE is one of those concrete counter-tops, pale gray and forever, with the faint marks of the maker’s touch. We haven’t arranged for anyone to do it yet, and the times make me long for dear old Truman Burke---man of all work, who “did for” everybody I knew of.
Daddy did all our building and re-modeling, as he was a master with wood and cabinetry, but Mr. Truman---he is a Paxton institution, and an artist of his own kind.
Truman Burke---that's a Mississippi name, a Southern name, a name for a solid citizen who IS who he is and does what he does and everyone thanks him for it.
“Cars actin’ up. Better call Truman.”
“Truman, would you take a look under there? She’s makin’ that zzzzzwhoo sound again.”
“How’s Marlee n’ em, Truman?”
“How much I owe you, Truman?”
A mainstay of this great nation, a real person who does what he does, raises up from his hunker over your carburetor, wipes his hands on an oily rag, leans into the window and asks about the family. And when the voice from under the hood says, “Try ‘er now,” you know you’re on your way, your day lightened and your way eased by that noblest of Americans---the small-town mechanic/carpenter/handyman/plumber who everybody relies on and everybody knows by name, though it’s not there on an oval over his heart. A man who cleans up nice and shakes your hand in church and will stop anywhere, anytime, to help a stranded motorist/puzzled map-reader/kid hunting his dog.
He’s a man with a calling, perhaps not from On High, but from the earth---the gravel of the first roads, the concrete and the asphalt and Firestone tires and Valvoline and Quaker State and maybe I got a part to fit that.
I want solid white, sturdy cabinets, with a pale top, perhaps Corian, perhaps not, with pale pink walls and cabinet-insides. What I’d LOVE is one of those concrete counter-tops, pale gray and forever, with the faint marks of the maker’s touch. We haven’t arranged for anyone to do it yet, and the times make me long for dear old Truman Burke---man of all work, who “did for” everybody I knew of.
Daddy did all our building and re-modeling, as he was a master with wood and cabinetry, but Mr. Truman---he is a Paxton institution, and an artist of his own kind.
Truman Burke---that's a Mississippi name, a Southern name, a name for a solid citizen who IS who he is and does what he does and everyone thanks him for it.
“Cars actin’ up. Better call Truman.”
“Truman, would you take a look under there? She’s makin’ that zzzzzwhoo sound again.”
“How’s Marlee n’ em, Truman?”
“How much I owe you, Truman?”
A mainstay of this great nation, a real person who does what he does, raises up from his hunker over your carburetor, wipes his hands on an oily rag, leans into the window and asks about the family. And when the voice from under the hood says, “Try ‘er now,” you know you’re on your way, your day lightened and your way eased by that noblest of Americans---the small-town mechanic/carpenter/handyman/plumber who everybody relies on and everybody knows by name, though it’s not there on an oval over his heart. A man who cleans up nice and shakes your hand in church and will stop anywhere, anytime, to help a stranded motorist/puzzled map-reader/kid hunting his dog.
He’s a man with a calling, perhaps not from On High, but from the earth---the gravel of the first roads, the concrete and the asphalt and Firestone tires and Valvoline and Quaker State and maybe I got a part to fit that.
Truman does his part to lift the flag and keep this country on the move. God
Bless all the Trumans---I hope you know one.
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