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Driving JR by Ronnie Bray Welcome to 2TheHeart's Funny Friday, to start your weekend off with a chuckle!
This week's Funny Quotes:
"If the truth is out there, what's in here?" - Nick Humphries
"I used to be indecisive, now I'm not so sure." - W.C. Fields
"Whenever you read a good book, it's like the author is right there, in the room, talking to you, which is why I don't like to read good books." - Jack Handey
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NEW 2TheHeart logo items! Check out our store to see the new golf shirts, coasters and frosted glass mugs! www.cafepress.com/2theheart~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Driving JR"
by Ronnie Bray
My eyes first fell on JR Morgan as I drove from Tennessee State Highway 321 onto the road that eventually becomes Sixth Avenue in Lenoir City. He is a small, frail-looking, gentleman of plentiful years, hoary headed under his faded baseball cap, grey stubble-chinned, who walked with languorous gait, suitable to his years, carrying a furled black umbrella, several plastic shopping bags, their handles tied together with a bright red patterned kerchief to prevent injury to his fingers, and an easy if resigned face that marked his benevolent spirit.
It was apparent that unless he lived in the first few houses on the steep part at the beginning of Sixth Avenue, he must be some way from home and, burdened by his groceries, I wondered if he would make it home in comfort, or at all. By the time these thoughts had run through my head, I was well past him and the thoughts fell into that space reserved for unfulfilled acts of thoughtful kindness: a place full of good impulses that I have failed to act upon.
A week later, Gay and I were driving towards home when I spotted him again. This time he was a little further down McGee Boulevard, so I pulled into the mouth of the lane that leads to Lenoir City Middle School and played havoc with traffic wanting to exit that road until JR toddled alongside, when I rolled down the window and asked if he would like a lift home. He graciously but laconically accepted and I loaded him in the rear seat with his groceries safely by his side.
JR agreed to guide us to his home and turned us along Kingston Road then up Fifth Avenue by the Launderette and beyond there into terra incognito along a twisty and bendy route though some thickly wooded hills, then down into a looping valley road that skirted another hilltop before sweeping upwards to the crown of the next hill, where we entered a mobile home park, about three or four miles from the point we had picked up our passenger.
Although our new friend was not loquacious, he was not reticent to share information about himself. He was retired - we did not quite catch what from - and he enjoyed walking the four or five miles to the stores on the strip of the 321 because it kept him fit. "If everyone walked like me they would be a lot fitter," he declared, and I was bound to agree with him. He told us that he did not mind walking, and that he made the journey almost every day. We began to feel that we had deprived him of something fundamental to his idyllic rustic existence, and felt little twinges of guilt, as the affluent must feel when they endeavour to lift a impecunious but noble soul from his satisfactory way of life into something "better" which he cannot afford and could never maintain.
We dropped JR by the mailboxes in the park where he plonked his bags on the ground and unlocked his box, returning our waves as we drove out of the grounds and down the gradient, unpicking the strands of our convoluted excursion in reverse order, until we gained the lower reaches of Second Avenue and sight of home.
In spite of JR's walking health policy, we persuaded ourselves that we had done some good by extending a helping hand to a fellow being who was nearly, if not altogether, in need of assistance. We recognized that we would not be on hand every time he needed a lift, but knew in our heart of hearts that there would be times when we could make a difference in the life of this sweet and humble man.
Time passed, and the next few times we saw him we were headed in the opposite directions and so we could not impose our largesse upon him. That is, until a couple of weeks ago, when we saw him ahead of us down the road, minus his umbrella, an omission that we remarked upon for we had never seen him without this instrument before.
At our invitation, he tumbled carefully into the back of the car and sat his bags on the seat, as usual. Asked if he was going home, he mumbled something unclear about ".the laundrette.." I recalled that although Sixth Avenue was the most direct route to reach the twisty road that led to the road that led to the road that led to his trailer park, he had taken us up Fifth by the side of the launderette because, he said, " This way has fewer `Stop' signs". So, ndaunted by "Stop" signs, I wheeled the car up Sixth to take the more direct
route.
He called from the back of the car something emphatic about "... the laundrette..." and I told him I knew the way this way, but he repeated vigorous "...the laundrette..." so I asked him if he had left his laundry there. "No," he answered with almost exasperated urgency, "...the laundrette!..." and to please him and do his bidding, whatever it was, I turned along a connecting road, down Fifth and onto the forecourt of the laundrette, where, with apparent relief, he unloaded himself and his shopping and with a grunted farewell ambled into the Cimmerian gloom that was relieved only by the lights from the busy laundrette. For the remainder of our journey we discussed JR and whether it was our ancient friend and if he had changed address, become more forgetful, or if it was him at all and we had antiquenapped a complete stranger.
Our torment was resolved recently when we slipped into Food City to buy some groceries and found him full of bags sat on a bench just inside the entrance. At our approach, he rose and embraced us, talking animatedly and with such warmth that we knew we had the right one this time. There he was, as we remembered him, red neckerchief wrapped around the handles of his assemblage of flimsy containers, and the tell-tale JR umbrella sat atop the lot.
We told him that we would not be long, and would he like a lift home? He told us that he was not ready, so we arranged that if he was ready by the time we left, we would give him a lift up to his retreat. Passing through the supermarket, we caught the occasional glimpse of him doing indeterminate things near his purchases, but when we had paid for ours and were leaving, his bags were sat by the bench, but JR was nowhere to be seen.
We will see him again and enjoy his simple but cheerful wisdom. Seeing him at Food City resolved our bewilderment. It had been the wrong JR we had bundled into our car and tried to leave on a cheerless hilltop among strangers miles from his home on a night when the sky was not the only thing that was dark.
Ronnie Bray Copyright 8 November 2001
quill@prodigy.net
Ronnie is an Englishman - a Yorkshireman, to be precise - who emigrated to the USA almost two years ago to the home of his talented wife, Gay. He has had many stories published in 2TheHeart, including "Meadomsley Days," "Luke," "Noah," "Room With a View," "He Looks Demented," "White Robed Angel," "Last of the Summer Fruit," etc. Gay and Ronnie have recently returned after serving an Education mission for the Mormon Church in East Tennessee and are making plans to settle in the Banana Belt of North West Montana after a brief visit to England this spring to visit family, celebrate his mother's 87th birthday (read his, "Saying Goodbye to Ma"), and visiting some of his ex-wives, all of whom enjoy good terms with him. Besides writing, Ronnie enjoys a reputation as a balladeer with a find bass-baritone voice, and as a poet and artist, wit and raconteur. Ronnie would like to hear from old friends - especially those who still owe him money!
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The Letter Box:
Kathe Dear,
I love your story. It seemed like I was right there beside you and Ken in that colorful eatery. What I wouldn't give for a piece of that pie.
Your beautiful Montana has so many interesting little places to explore. Keep writing these great stories.
Love,
Your Sis...Pat
Yee haw, Kathe, you should be writing Westerns. What a breath of fresh air you are.
Love ya,
Margaret Drysdale
Dear Susan,
I was so sorry to hear that Funny Friday won't be running any more. I know that Yahoo has had a lot of problems - I read about it in every list I'm on! I hope you find a better service and can resume Funny Friday in the Fall. My all time favorite Funny Friday stories are your "Playing Possum" and "The Kitty Attack" - They still make me laugh! Good luck with the upcoming move and your amazing success as a writer - let us know where we can purchase your books!
Much love,
Sandy
Sooz,
I will miss funny fridays and I hope you can start sending them again this fall! I will personally research other list services and hope to find a good one for you! I wanted to tell Sue Henley how hilarious her last story and all her FF stories have been! I hope she writes more! I love her humor! Thanks for everything,
Karen
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www.2theheart.comMaking a difference, one story at a time!
Funny Friday archives: www.2theheart.com/funny_friday/Submit story: Editor@2theheart.com
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