Only Ron Martin

Ron has said, from time to time, that I shouldn't write about him so much in my blog. I told him to quit giving me so much good material . . .

On Friday night, about 10:30 p.m., I happened to notice that Ron wasn't in the living room anymore watching TV with me. I think I realized that he had gone outside, but I hadn't noticed the time exactly. I was pretty sure he hadn't been gone an hour or more (I really get engrossed in my TV watching, but I can't recall what it was that had my rapt attention . . . ). Anyway, a few seconds later I heard the telltale swishswishswish of a broom just outside the screened-in porch. I think to myself, "You have got to be kidding me." I say out loud, "Ron Martin, what are you doing?" "Sweeping," he says.

I just sat there dumbfounded for a minute or two. Remember, it's 10:30 AT NIGHT. Then I could tell that he had moved to the driveway. Swishswishswish . . . I got up, walked out to the screened-in-porch and called out to him "I don't know whether to call you Emmett or Idiot." He chuckled and said, "How about Idiot Emmett." Emmett, for those of you who don't know (which would be everyone except Kate and Tyler), Emmett was the slightly off-kilter old man who lived up the street from us at our old house who routinely washed the street for no apparent reason. And he had an Native American carved out of a tree that sported a yellow trash sack for a headband. And it had a circle of forest animals sitting at its feet. And about eight million other odd yard ornaments. Now, I'm not sure I ever actually saw Emmett sweeping in the dark, but it's totally something he'd do. And, it was the only name I could come up with that kind of rhymed with idiot.

I may give Ron a lot of grief, but I have to give him this . . . he is a master with a broom. It's really a sight to behold. Quick, short swishes and the dust/leaves/walnuts/whatever just flies. He gets it from his mom, who was also a broom dynamo. Today was the fourth anniversary of her death. It doesn't seem possible that it's been that long. I can still hear her raspy voice and see her feet scurrying along. So, here's to you, Betty. You gave me a good man.