I moved to the kitchen sink to rinse out Henry's breakfast oatmeal bowl, and looked out the window above the sink. The workers were back.

Mom and Dad are putting in a sidewalk path into the back yard that runs from the gate by the garage all the way back to the fire pit, and loops back again. They decided it would be fun for their grandkids to have a 'road' to ride bikes/big-wheels/scooters etc. on when they are here. My parents are brilliant.

The workers are pouring cement, today. The whole house is keyed up in excitement - my kids keep wandering from the back window to look at the cement being poured into the trench of the path to the front window to look at the big, churning cement truck parked in front of our house. This is the best thing ever, and they love the workers (who have been incredibly sweet to them).

I must admit, I like it when the workers are here, too. There's usually three at a time, and they're entertaining for me as well; all sun-tanned, all fit and muscled beneath their baseball caps or shaggy hair, all dusty and grass-stained and working man.

One of them even left his shirt over the weekend. My mom and I lament that we didn't see him take it off.

(before you get all scandalized, you should know that this was a button-down overshirt. He still had a t-shirt on underneath. Nobody was getting nekkid.)

Now, at the sink, my eyes scanned the three workers to see if any of them might be the one who left his shirt over the weekend (we still needed to return it). I thought the one walking toward the house might be him.

I watched as he unknowingly approached me, trying to see if I could recognize his face. Which was when he laid one finger against one nostril, and with all the force of a lungful of air, blew his nose into the open air. My stomach churned as I watched the contents of his other nostril fling into the grass.

He then wiped his shirtsleeve across his nose.

I closed my eyes tight, willing the image to disappear - but it was too late. It's engrained in my horrified brain forever. Would I ever be able to let my kids play out on the defiled grass, again? Would a heavy summer rainstorm be my mind's salvation?

I decided he wasn't the guy who left his shirt.

Probably mostly because I no longer wanted to touch the shirt if it was.


William C. McCrery said...

Ha! I was all ready for this to be an emotional tear-jerker.

Janey - UtValleyFoodie said...

Eww, snot-rockets are so gross. Hilarious story!

Nae said...

He he, you sure can draw an intense mental picture with your words. :) As my daughter would say, "Ew, nasdy..."