"Just A Pinch 'Tween Your Cheek And Gums!"

An old sketch...

Good Monday Morning, y'all.

Earlier last week, my next door neighbor bought a fifteen foot culvert pipe to replace an old ceramic one that had collapsed underneath her driveway.

The next morning, two rather pot bellied, chaw chewing, surveyors showed up with their tripod and measuring tools and one yellow backhoe.

Since they tore up a part of my lawn with their toy, I felt a need to snoop around and ask questions. It kinda went something like this:

"Hi there. Wassup?'

Backhoe driver, with a spit of chaw, asks, "You know the woman who lives here?"

"Not well, but I do know her. Why?"

"The woman, (spit!) ordered this culvert about a month ago and we're here to see that it gets put in, now that she's paid for it!"

I explained about as much as I thought they needed to know in order to get on with the project.

"Who are you?" the hard hatted surveyor holding a measuring pole asked.

I introduced myself and ask the driver if he has any plans to straighten out the ditch from my driveway to Ann's driveway.

"And, if you are gonna pull out the pine tree stump that has everything a mess between the two driveways!" It really makes it hard to maintain!"

"Hell, the driver said. You ain't maintain this (spit!) area here in years. Don't tell me that!"

"Okay?" I replied.

I calmly corrected him and pointed out how hard it is to get my lawn tractor in there without getting stuck even when the area is pretty dry. Everything there has to be weed whacked.

"Well, (spit!) Mr. Ben, we'll see what we can do. You retired or something? Got the day off? What?"

"Why don't you go on back inside and watch your Fox... and (spit!) Friends, said the surveyor guy still holding the pole!

"I'm an artist, man. I'll probably never retire," I replied to the driver.

"Sheet, you ain't no artist". Paint in the French Quarter?"

"No, man. I've never painted in the French Quarter and I don't watch Fox News!"

"Really?"

"Seriously?"

My momma was an artist. She painted landscapes and portraits... and (spit!) dawgs!" he said with a bit of melancholy.

"She don't do that anymore. She's getting old, I guess. She used to give her paintings away to friends and relatives!"

"I don't give my art away. I make a living that way" I said, rather pointedly.

"Is you mother still with us here on earth... How old was she?" I continued.

"Nah, he said. She's (spit!) still alive. Lives in Madisonville... She's seventy!"

I almost gagged on that statement because these two guys looked like every bit of sixty years old or older. I didn't tell them my age because I'm not sure how they would've handled it.

Well, after we talked about my accent which he thought was not from Gentilly, his mother, her art, Madisonville in the olden days, and my moving back from Los Angeles, he moseyed on over to the backhoe, climbed up in the cab and started her up.

"That machine looks brand new. It still has a plastic covering on the seat. Is it yours?" I asked.

"Well, it's mine to take care of, but it belongs to the Parish!"

As he started back up the engine, I yelled out, "Look, you guys show up again tomorrow to finish up and I'll do you a sketch of your machine!"

"You ain't (spit!) gotta do that, sir. I was just (spit!) messing 'wit cha!"

"Well, we'll see about all of that, I said. It's gotta be fun because I don't do deadlines anymore!"

I had no intention of proving my abilities to these guys especially since I knew I already had a backhoe drawn. I sketched a whole series of construction equipment years ago when I rode my bike to numerous construction sites around North Factory Road and the Folsom countryside.

I would've given the sketch to him if he had shown up the next day, but he didn't.

First cup...