A Few Good Men

Several months back, during a stretch of 20 degrees below zero temperatures, we enjoyed vehicle troubles.  Not simply strange sounds, but a choking, jerking death that rendered us immovable at an intersection.  It ended up being something called the pump-hose-gasket-register-charge-thingy.  It cost a lot to fix.  Anyway.  John was driving, practicing his standard transmission skills, and I was practicing my try not to use the Lord's Name in vain skills when the untimely demise occurred.  And men stopped to help.

Rough men with greasy coats, hat hair, and cigarette smells.  Also with concerned eyes and laughing jokes as a handful of them pushed our old car to a safer spot.  Want me to have a look under the hood?  Need a jump?  Got someone coming?  Take care.

Then there was last week : struggling through the icy McDonald's parking lot with Addie bumping in her car seat carrier and the three little boys orbiting around me.  I may have been wearing cute, impractical shoes.  My brain synapses were firing,  I'm a rockstar ; I'm a rockstar ; I'm a rockstar.  We finally stepped onto the sidewalk where I saw an amused-looking, 20-something man awaiting our arrival, holding open the two doors.  Oh, thank you so much, I tried not to overly gush, hurry boys, he's got the doors for us!   The man smiled as they tumbled by, revealing a complete lack of front teeth.  He was, like our vehicle angels, also dressed in dirty work clothes.  Take care.

And yesterday.  Yesterday found us deja-vuing :  bumping baby carrier, swirling small boys, icy parking lot.  I did wear practical clogs, though.  We were heading into a hall to collect Clare and John when a strapping, handsome teenaged boy overtook us with his long strides.  He marched up the stairs, entered the building directly ahead of us -- and let the door slam with nary a backward glance.  I could see his hip, brand name jacket tag ; his hip, brand name boots ; and his hip, perfect hair.  Boyfriend material.  Probably college-bound.  Jerk.

I do not care what my boys have  (degree, job, teeth) ; I do care what they are  (good, smiling gentlemen).  I do care that my girls marry good men, regardless of the kind of cars or clothes or jobs they have.

(But I do hope they keep all their teeth.)


Smiling,
Allison

P.S. ~ For clarity.  I am not labelling all men.  Just the shock of our own happenings.  Amen!