Bob and Norman and Me

I could never live down south. It’s not just because of the racism and book banning; it’s all the talking that I can’t handle. My partner and I visited our friend Greg and his family in North Carolina this spring, which is not even really south, but more like south-lite.

“There’s no such thing as a quick trip to the grocery store around here,” said Greg. He went on to explain that someone will randomly strike up a conversation with you in the cereal aisle and you’ll both be there until either the store closes or one of you passes out from dehydration. In the Northeast this is a phenomenon that we cannot abide. We are suspicious enough of our own family members let alone strangers waiting around with you to catch the bus:

Love this spring weather, right?

What’s your scam, pal? My cousin is a cop in Southie. Keep it up.

Also, the Northeast operates on a different space time continuum than the rest of the country. This is real. Time is both massively accelerated and in short supply. Thus we cook breakfast in our cars, driving to work, Slacking the R&D team while doing a Zoom with our therapist. Every minute is tagged and bagged. You think you have a few seconds to stop for people in a crosswalk? Take that nonsense to Toledo, fool.  

We’re not uncaring people; we’re just stand-offish. Don’t come at us right out of the gate with something about your Ma’s gambling addiction. Bury that lede. You can earn our empathy as long as its doled out in discrete segments like a tasting menu. Play the long game with New Englanders, respect our ridiculous social codes, and you will end up with compadres for life.

It was mid-summer of 2020 when I first noticed the man—burly, white-haired, probably in his 60s—on my morning walks. He was one of the only other people I encountered on a trail I had discovered not too far from my house. Those of us not driven into the arms of sourdough starters took to discovering or rediscovering trails, paths, safe routes to roam. I really preferred this trail to some of the others I had staked out for a few reasons. As I said, it was close to where I lived. It snaked along the shoreline of a nearby lake, which made for beautiful scenery and wildlife. Most importantly, it was pretty deserted. In those early pandemic months other places were rapidly overrun with runners and dog walkers and bikers and people who had forgotten there was an outside until just that moment. These were still the days of outdoor masking and face coverings. Everyone you passed looked like they were either coming from or going to a bank robbery. I did my part and masked-up, but I encountered so few people on this route that for most of the time I could walk without pulling on my face guard, flagrantly showing my chin to the world like it was 2019.  

On the occasions when I saw this man, also facially swaddled, we’d both nod and raise a hand in polite acknowledgement: “Hello fellow human.” The seasons slid into one another. My heavy, winter scarf replaced my face covering. Even with my wool hat pulled down, when I saw the man our eyes landed, heads nodded, gloved hands signaled the universal “hi, hello, you, too, are real.” Vaccines became available. Outdoor mask mandates grew relaxed. And one day words replaced our pantomime.

“Morning! Beautiful day to be out!” he said. I stopped, keeping my distance.

“Morning. Yeah, the weather has been great lately,” I replied.  

“It sure has.” There was a beat. “Take care,” he said. “Enjoy your day.”

I wished him the same and continued on my way. In and out. Very clean. Stranger, I thought, I like your style.

Happy trails. ©SheilaMoeschenPhotography

Our interactions went on this way for the next few months. We’d see one another and make a quick pit stop. We traded a few sentences, a bit of personal info, but nothing too familiar. I learned that he and his wife moved to the area from Colorado to live with one of their daughters. I learned there were grandkids and other children living in Oregon and Maine. I told him I was a writer and photographer and avid walker and New England native.

I came home and relayed some of these mini-visits to my partner.

“You don’t know this person. He could be sketchy.” I made a face.

“Really? The guy who just told me he spent the weekend at his grandson’s soccer game signing up people for a local social justice organization? If he’s the next Ted Bundy I’ll hog-tie myself to the radiator.”

“You don’t even know this guy’s name!”

“I don’t. And that’s exactly how I like it.” No names. In and out. Very clean.

The trail culminates at a public beach. Paved walkways make a loop around the long, wide green space next to the sand and beach facilities. One stretch of the path curves around a section of the lake where swimming is not allowed. Small trees and bushy shrubs create a green wall along the shoreline. As I was passing through this section one morning, I saw the man up ahead walking toward me. For the first time I saw there was a little brown dog on a leash trotted next to him. I waved. We stopped. Up close I could tell the dog was a French bulldog. It nosed around my sneakers. As we chatted I absentmindedly leaned down to stroke its soft, brown head, my hands taking on a life of their own to cradle his velvet football-sized belly made for palming. I stood up to leave.

“I’m Bob, by the way.”

“Sheila.” I gestured to the dog. “He or she is…?”

“That’s Norman.” Hearing his person, Norman’s head swiveled up at Bob.

Shit. We named names.

“Okay. See you next time!” said Bob. He gave Norman’s leash a gentle tug.

“Have a good one,” I said as they passed. Then I don’t know what possessed me, but I turned and yelled, “Byeeeeeeeee NORRR-mannnnnn!” just like I used to do when I was thirteen trying to embarrass some kid at recess that I, like, secretly, like liked. Norman turned and gave me a look, which either said “HOWDAREYOU?” or “S’up, girl.” Hard to say. Norman contains multitudes.

I was eager to give an update when I got home.

“I ran into my trail friend. His name is Bob.”

“Great.”

“And he had the cutest little French bulldog with him. NORRRR-mannnnn,” I said again in that weird sing-song voice. You could practically see the “I heart Norman” doodles in the margins of my social studies notebook. “So it’s Bob and Norman,” I repeated.

“Awesome. Bob and Norman. That will be something for the police to go on.”

I ignored his cynicism that, until about twenty minutes ago prior to sliding my hands around a belly of hair so silky and smooth it should be illegal, I shared, at least in part. So, yeah, maybe I enjoyed chatting with Bob. He was kind and interesting and easy to talk to. What about it? Did that make me a freak? I could find out about some rare genetic liver condition I have, casually mention it to Bob who, so charmed by our short interludes and my obvious connection with Norman (NORRRRRR-mannnn) feels compelled to give me a slice of his sweet, sweet filtration station. I’m not suggesting that potentially life-saving organ donation is the only reason to break a code and give people more than just the time of day, but if it factors into the mix-so be it.   

“Don’t be jealous,” I said. “It’s all very innocent, I swear.”

“Please. I don’t think you’re going to leave me for Bob.”

“Of course not! If I were going to leave you, it would be for Norman. Clearly.”

Later that fall I found out that Bob was going to have knee surgery. I happened to run into him and Norman on a Friday. I was headed to a different walking path that morning when I spontaneously decided to take the lake path instead. Bob’s surgery was scheduled for that Monday.

“Oh, wow,” I said as if he had told me he was moving to Canada later on that afternoon. “You seem really fit. I’m sure it will be a breeze.” He laughed.

“That’s nice of you to say. I hope so. A few months of PT, but I should be back out in no time.” I did the calendar math. Winter. Ice, snow, and this trail usually transformed into one giant luge anyway. I gave Norman an extra squeeze and wished Bob the best and a speedy recovery.

I kept my eyes peeled for Bob and Norman over the winter even though I suspected I wouldn’t run into them. Spring came and went. Still no sign of the pair. I gave updates at home that no one asked for.

“What if something terrible happened?”

“I doubt anything bad happened. Recovering from knee surgery is a big job.”

“But what if he didn’t make it?”

“From routine knee surgery in the twenty-first century?”

“You never know! I watch Grey’s Anatomy! ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN!” He had already left the room at the mention of Grey’s Anatomy. But what if I never saw them again and never knew? A story left unwritten mid-chapter, the show cancelled half way through season one.

Then came a warm sunny morning in mid-June. I was crossing the parking lot of the public beach. A couple of yards away or so ahead of me I saw a man of about Bob’s build; it was too hard to tell for sure. Then, I saw the leash and tethered to it was a chunky, oblong dark thing wobbling from smell to smell. I quickened my walking pace. They were both moving briskly. I broke into a jog, desperate to close the distance.

“Bob! Bob!” I called. He stopped and turned. Norman followed suit and, seeing me, began to trundle in my direction, his little sausage legs pumping. I bent down to say hello.

“How are you? How are things? How is your knee? Did everything go okay? I haven’t seen you!” I don’t know if I came across as shrill as I felt.  

Bob laughed.

“Hello! Nice to see you. Yes, yes, fine. Everything went fine. The knee is good. No problems.”

“I kept an eye out over the winter—”

“Well with the ice and snow, I took it a little easier and was going out later in the day when the temps were up. But now we’re back on schedule pretty much.”

“I missed you!” I blurted. That time I definitely heard myself. I blushed. “And Norman,” I added, ducking back down to give his scrumptious jowls a rake.   

He smiled. “We missed you, too.”

We chatted for just a minute more like no time had passed at all. Clean. In and out. Bob and Norman, and me.

---

Lens Zen!

Several months ago I wrote about a house I pass by on one of my morning walking routes. The small front yard contains garden beds growing more than just tomatoes and squash, but the stuff of waking terror in the form of creepy dollheads tucked into some of the beds. You can read more about it below:

So it was with great anticipation and some trepidation that I approached the house recently, now that summer and the growing season is in full swing. Fortunately, the plastic children of the damned have been scuttled in favor of more avant-garde, Surrealism-type garden totems:

There is quite a bit going on here, right? Maybe this was the poor bastard who died editing Cameron’s master-master-super-master-897 hour cut of Titanic. But mostly, I ask: What is with the pearls? It’s a mystery, Scoob! ©SheilaMoeschenPhotography

If you’re not looking at this making a “head of lettuce” pun, then we have nothing left to talk about. ©SheilaMoeschenPhotography

I think is one of those dancing Grateful Dead bears. One minute he was grooving along to Sugaree and then BOOM! twenty-eight years later he’s plotzed in a tomato patch. Let’s face it, this is kind of the Deadhead dream, right? ©SheilaMoeschenPhotography (Photobomb by Mickey Mouse)