The Refectory Manager

The refectory . . . A place to nourish the soul. A place to share the savory comestibles, the sweet confections, the salty condiments of the things that matter. A place to ruminate the cud of politics. A place to rant on the railings of religion. A place to arrange the flowers of sanguine beauty. A place to pause in the repose of shelter. Welcome, my friend. The Refectory Manager

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Location: College Place, Washington, United States

Friday, February 22, 2008

You can't tell just by lookin'

You simply can’t tell from lookin’.

But he did look like one of those knurled, Texas juniper trees that protrudes out of the side of a road-side cut bank. Weathered. Bent. Taught. Projecting upright.

The cattleman’s hat sunk low over his ears. Wrangler jeans and jacket. Cowboy boots. No spurs. No guns. No neckerchief. A little residue of odiferous cattle on his britches.

In some respects, he looked like a statue. Immobile. Fixated. Peering upward. Totally engrossed. Oblivious to his surroundings.

He was staring intently at the tag on a hanging motorized toy car for a 4 year old hot-rodder.

Wal-Mart had a couple dozen of these things suspended from a big rack. Lots of variety . . . from the cutsy to the cut-throat. And this one would not have been appreciated by most little girls.

But to watch him, you simply can’t tell from lookin’.

Why he could just as easily have been a graduate from Texas A & M with an advanced degree in some micro-agricultural discipline . . . or an itinerant farm-laborer, grade-school dropout.

You simply can’t tell from lookin’.

As I walked behind him, I glanced at the tag that he was intently staring at. The big black numbers slipped into the clear plastic pouch: $283 and some change. And a list of fine-print features.

Why he could just as easily pull out a debit card and buy the whole dang store - - inventory included . . . or he was agonizing over a decision that would cost more than a week’s take home wages.

You simply can’t tell from lookin’.

But my previous vantage point only gave me a profile view. I couldn’t see his face. Never did see his face. Other than the weathered cheek, shock of hair, tousled moustache.

But my imagination quickly filled in the lacuna.

The softness in his eyes. The soft spot in his heart.

The spectral image of a little boy . . . maybe a birthday.

The realization that a pony was not plausible.

The desire to validate a youngster’s worth with a symbol of upward success. Personal wheels.

But you simply can’t tell from lookin’.

I wondered if it was the big print, or the little print that he was reading. I wondered if he was reading. If he could read. English. Anything.

You simply can’t tell from lookin’.

I felt that I had intruded into a sanctuary. A holy place of intense meditation. I did not want to violate that space. That time. His space. His time.

I quickly moved on.

I wanted to turn around and observe some more . . . but somehow, resisted that urge.

And so I don’t know if a racy little battery-powered hot rod was extracted from that rack or not.

I didn’t look, so I couldn’t tell.

But there is got to be a little boy out there somewhere near Fort Worth, Texas, whether there is a pony or not, whether there is a hot-rod or not, that can look at a knurled old juniper tree in Texas with a cattleman’s hat, Wrangler get-up, and the essence of steer on his britches . . .

And for that little boy, he can tell just by lookin.’

The Refectory Manager