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A number of years ago several people mistook me for a local attorney. On one occasion I was in a grocery store when the attorney’s aunt saw me and addressed me as her nephew. On other occasions I was mistaken for a certain Hollywood star. Unfortunately, both of these men were several years older than me.
“My name is Stan Means.” (“Hello, Stan Means,” says my imaginary crowd as I stand before them to make my declaration.) “I am a Scrooge!” (The crowd applauds at my honesty.) Okay, I guess I need to take this a bit further. I grew up in a rather poor working class town. My dad was a public school teacher making about the same money as an entry-level factory worker.
Last week I was sitting with an older gentleman under the shade of his front porch roof. He is not in the best of health and has been retired for twenty years. I had trimmed some of the low hanging branches from a large oak tree in his front yard. The utility company had severely trimmed the street side of the tree. The older gentleman now saw the tree as mangled and better off cut down.
I first met him one Christmas many years ago and had just started dating his niece. His siblings and their mates were in the kitchen, and I was sitting in the living room. I remember him standing in the door way between the kitchen and the living room looking at me and saying, “He looks just like a….” His siblings all agreed that I had some resemblance to their family.
I had some work related business to take care of in my old hometown and thought it would be a good chance to pick up Granddaddy along the way. He had sold the farm and had moved into town after my grandmother died, and I had yet to see his new home. I drove eight hours northwest to pick him up and then another five to six hours north to my parent's house.
