On my balmy morning walk I passed a gray-haired gentleman bending over one of many piles of shrub trimmings by the side of the road. It was the day after our neighborhood’s weekly trash pick-up.
“Someone’s been busy!” I tossed at him on my way by.
He straightened up and replied benignly, “Yeah, I guess we didn’t do it right. I had a young boy helping me and he just threw them out here without tying them up. They didn’t take it.”
Then he bent back over his pile, patiently knotting the string he’d tied around it.
“But we’ll get it right,” he said, good-naturedly.
In that very instant, the gray-haired man was transformed into my long-gone father. Who would have said exactly the same thing in the same way.