A Neighbor Named Patience

I brought in a couple loads of clean fill to level out the lane behind the shop. Nothing fancy. Just sandy grain to smooth out the frost heaves before they got worse.

Next morning, Patience was standing in his socks on his back porch. He said his yard was a swamp and his tulips were in shock. I told him the fill was free. He didn't seem to care about the free part.

I fired up the generator to mix a little mud. The kind of job a working man does when he understands what needs doing. Patience said the shudder rattled the hinges on his door. He stood there like he'd never been this sore.

I left the concrete truck idling to keep her warm. She's old and cranky in a Thunder Bay snowstorm. Patience said the rumble shook the windows and the floor. He filed a little grievance he'd never filed before.

Then I cut a little concrete with the diamond blade. The dust drifted over where his garden was laid. Patience said his petunias were choking in the cloud. He read me the by-law number, said it loud.

I told him I was sorry if the wind had done him wrong. But the fill was free and the truck was mine and the job's been going too long. He said, "I'm just a patient man," with a vein about to pop. I said, "I know, Patience," and went back to my shop.

So if you see a fella on Cumberland Street with a clipboard and a scowl and a grudge in his feet, don't take it personal. Patience doesn't like it, and he's been like that all along.