The Urbanite and the Ruralite
 | You grow up the day you have your first real laugh at yourself. Ethel Barrymore |
It was a rough weekend. The old SOM, who thought he was in good shape for 62, was sore with aching muscles and occasional cramps. The night before they started: he jumped out of bed at 3 AM with an inner thigh cramp then danced around the bedroom, into the bathroom and down the hall emulating a sciamachy Indian war dance. She looked on in horror not sure whether his behavior represented a bad dream, somnambulism, or a physical problem like St. Vitas Dance.
For two days he dug, filled ditches and helped construct a greenhouse: 40ft by 20ft. As a thinker, he had no idea what he was doing but, as a doer, she knew how and was guiding him through the process. Actually, she didn’t need his help and the workload didn’t bother her at all. Doers are like that you know. She just wanted some companionship. He, on the other hand, needed to be the Man of La Mancha to a Dona Dulce. Most thinkers make good Don Quixotes.
Thinkers run the world while doers keep the world running. Doctors, lawyers, accountants and politicians are good examples of thinkers. Farmers, construction workers, engineers and many women are good examples of doers. Unfortunately, most thinkers are inept. Ninety five percent of them have never had an original thought except their mistakes. The world relies on the remaining 5 percent capable of original thought. In their defense though, thinkers remember the thoughts of others and by applying this trait make for a stable but boring society. Doers can think but rarely need to because their actions speak louder than words.
The three day weekend started slow enough. The thinker arrived at the airport, but the doer wasn’t there. The thinker thought the plane would arrive at 8:30 AM and told her to meet him then. He was wrong. The plane arrived at its properly designated time of 8:00 AM, but she arrived at the proper time. While waiting he thought. Nothing original, mind you, but negative thoughts: she had a wreck, she was in the hospital, she ran out of gas, or she had a flat. The thoughts continued with accelerated fervor until 8:30. Now thinkers don’t like to admit to thinking errors. How could he extricate his mistake? Easy, just blame her for having a thinking error. It’s his word against hers. However, he had e-mailed her the time and this was documented. He hoped the rest of the weekend went better than the start. This was their first physical meeting since the affair started on the internet three months ago and he needed to make an impression—any impression. She lived in a remote area and operated a nursery.
She used the road trip from the airport back to her home to outline the weekend: she promised relaxation in a refreshing atmosphere. Now a thinker thinks that means lounging about drinking coffee, reading a book and discussing important thinking concepts like brown stars, fission energy and the big bang theory. He obviously miscalculated as she, the doer, conceived “relaxation” as a different project and “refreshing atmosphere” as outdoors in the rain and snow.
That afternoon went fairly well. He graded his doer skills as a C-. They only filled a ditch behind the new greenhouse for the electricity and gas lines. He would have given himself a higher grade if only he hadn’t driven the ATV into the ditch and got it stuck. She only smiled, grabbed a shovel and manually filled the ditch. She loaded the shovel and swung it so that the load flew into the ditch in perfect sequence to fill it. He followed her lead but was not as efficient. How did she avoid all those rocks? His loads, when he could get around the rocks, were moist clay that had a high affinity for the steel shovel. His 180 degree swings did not displace the load into the ditch but rather forced a 360 degree arc with the load still attached. His loads kept returning to their origin. He rapidly fatigued as she succeeded to finish the task. That night he ached but did not cramp. As they readied for bed, she warned that the next day would be harder. Best if they got an early start.
He laughed out loud and feigned readiness but deep down he groaned. Could he keep up with a doer? Would his performance be scornful? Could he think his way out of the morrow and save face? Hopefully he would wake up with a stroke.
At dawn, an alarm sounded by a woodpecker foramenating the log purlin above the bedroom. More alarming, the doer jumped out of bed and grabbed a rifle. The thinker followed suit with brutum fulmen fear. His immediate thought as he erumped out of bed:
“Well, there goes the stroke ploy.”
It’s hard to say you’ve had a stroke when you move lightning fast.
The doer wasn’t after the thinker after all. She was after the woodpecker. Cold, he started a fire in the stove as she returned to the house.
“Well, I got him!”
“You killed the woodpecker?”
“Yeap.”
“Why?”
“He was pecking holes in my house!” she disgusted.
The thought of killing a bird while dressed in a night gown at dawn was alien to the thinker. He was shocked. A thinker would have solved the problem by selling the property and buying a steel house.
After a cold breakfast and lots of coffee they set off to the greenhouses. There were two. The new one was framed but needed a cover and the other one needed a new cover as the old one was superannuated. She explained how simple it would be to desquamate the old cover and apply the new. She rolled out the new one on the ground before the greenhouse and would apply it as the old one was being rolled off. That way, the underlying plants would not get cold shock. She ran a nursery and, even though it was winter, the plant stock had to grow in a warm environment. He always thought plants grew on their own; little did he know.
He pranced around the new cover as it lay on the ground knowingly, while not really knowing, what was happening. The doer was tying a rock on each corner by a rope.
“Here.” She said as she threw him a piece of rope.
“Tie this to a rock then to that corner with a half-hitch.”
“What’s a half-hitch?”
“A knot.”
“What kind of a knot?”
“Half a square knot.” She retorted.
Thinkers can’t think in halves of any knot. That’s probably why most of them are have-nots. She looked on incredulous when he couldn’t tie a half-hitch.
They measured the plastic sheet laid out in front of the greenhouse, then she advised him to climb the ladder at the front door, stand on the top step and unlatch the spring coils holding the front end of the old cover and start rolling it back over the top. The ladder wobbled precariously as he shouted in his mind: “Oh, Momma!”
With one hand he unsprung and rolled while anchored to the purlin with the other hand. One foot on the ladder and the other fulcrumed for balance provided the compleat portrait of incompetence. The thinker looked down. The doer looked up impatiently with a wide stance and both hands on her hips. For a moment, he thought of the woodpecker. Was his situation different? At least his steatopygia would protect vital organs if she shot at this angle.
The doer handed the middle of the sheet up. He grasped the edge and heaved it over his head onto the roof. He was now enshrouded in plastic.
“Off with the old and on with the new…” he sang as he inched the plastic over his body and the frame. He was wet and muddy from the effort. Did he look like a giant impotent condommed organ when viewed from afar? Having successfully planted the edge of the new plastic over the outer frame, he started climbing down as she commanded:
“Come and pull the corners down the sides of the house as I pull the center.”
Being wet and stiff from the cold, the thinker slipped then slid the last four feet to the ground; bumping his chin on each remaining step. A scene right out of a Roadrunner cartoon. He landed in a pool of water and wanted to cry. Fortunately the doer was busy and didn’t see him sitting in the water, legs still straddling the ladder, encased in the remaining plastic still on the ground. He fervently hoped there wasn’t one of those government satellites overhead recording all this.
“I need nurturing now!” he thought.
Self pity was interrupted by a loud voice coming from the inside of the greenhouse:
“Hurry, the wind is coming up!”
And it did. The sheet started to bellow like a giant parachute. The tied rocks, though, tethered the cover as the wind died down.
He jumped up as the bellowing started, but his celerity was really not initiated by the wind or the plea for help. He had a more pressing motive: puddle water was soaking his pants emulating childhood enuresis, only colder. He rushed from under the parachute sheet. About that time the gust peaked as he tripped over a corner rock. To the casual eye, it could have appeared that he was responding with succor to the plea for help. At least he hoped the action would be interpreted that way but in fact his help was only a faux-naif affected by entangling his foot in the rope as he tripped. The wind gust was dying out at the same time, so his actions, purposeful or not, made no real difference. As rapidly as he had fallen, he jumped up to execute a feigned physical paraf in true Inspector Clousseau style.
Spurred on by directions from the doer, he ran back and forth from side to side tugging at the corners of the new cover inching it over the frame as she pulled the center. At the same time the old cover was rolled ahead so that there was only a small gap between the two covers to protect the plants in the greenhouse. This forced aerobic exercise resulted in asthmatic breathing and diaphoresis despite the cold. Almost completed, the project ground to a halt because the old sheet reached the back end but could not be removed. A pinnacle stove pipe caused the obstruction. The stove pipe came out of the greenhouse back wall and went straight up about two feet above the roof. The sheet was now rolled to the diameter of a man’s waist and draped all the way across the top of the greenhouse. The only way to get it down was to roll it over the back side.
The doer’s solution: remove the stovepipe. The thinker’s solution: lift the roll over the stovepipe as it would be more work to remove the pipe. She shrugged her shoulders as he returned with the ladder. Placed sideways to the back wall, the near front and back legs were stable but the outer two legs were in mud. The ladder leaned out as he climbed so that he was two feet away from the stovepipe when at the top step. He reached over and hooked a leg around the pipe to stabilize the leaning ladder and pull it inward to the wall. He then had to lean further inward beyond the pipe; grab the roll of plastic with both hands and lift. At first, the roll wouldn’t budge. To gain more leverage, he inched his butt over the frame and was able to lift the roll over his head as the ladder moved; dangling his leg in the air. He was now balanced on the frame pipe like a tightrope walker except he was sitting with his only anchor the crack between his cheeks and a leg wrapped around a loosely fitted stove pipe.
“Oh Momma!” he thought as eyes downward revealed rows of flowers in the exposed greenhouse. This was not the time to smell the flowers! With urgency he pushed the plastic up with straining arms as the stovepipe-wrapped knee popped. The plastic roll arched over the stovepipe hat; missing it by a millimeter. Once over, the plastic was now affected by gravity and the downward trajectory made it hit the dangling leg resulting in pulling the torso up out of the greenhouse, over the frame pipe, just missing the stovepipe, releasing the tension on the popped knee then replanting the previously dangling foot precisely on the ladder forcing it back upright. The whole procedure took less than three seconds and looked like a choreographed movie scene backwards. From below or far away, the results could have looked planned and dexterous; when in fact nothing was planned and movements were purposeless flailing.
The doer looked up in amazement. Shaking because of the cold and wet, but mostly fear, the thinker descended to a pair of eyes full of incredulous admiration.
Score one for the thinker!
But, if it were to happen twice,
Remove the stovepipe would suffice.
Nothing like experience,
To be a doer by amend.
Wiser yet, never do again!
As if reading his thoughts, she proclaimed:
“Now let’s put the second sheet on.”
“Why?” he whined.
“A second sheet gives it insulation.”
“Makes sense.” was the feeble reply.
The process was repeated but this time there was no old sheet or need to confront the stovepipe. The second sheet laid perfectly over the first and this cover was anchored by reapplying the spring clips. Both thinker and doer were pleased.
About noon they broke for lunch. It was during this period that the cramps started, little ones at first involving the fingers and toes; contractions that curled the toes or prevented fingers from extending. These small ones were easily worked out just by moving the digits. Why do people get cramps and what are they? These thoughts occurred as he washed dishes after lunch.
Cramps are uncontrollable, sustained muscle contractions with no voluntary guidance. This can be due to metabolic imbalances such as low serum potassium, magnesium or calcium. Dehydration and fatigue are big factors. Medications can cause them. Poor circulation can contribute if the muscle is working at the time but cramps occur at night for no apparent reason in older people. The thinker denied the latter reason for his night cramps and postulated his own theory: muscles were smarter than the rest of the body and were communicating rebellion in the only way they could.
Somewhat refreshed, they returned to the workplace to attack the second, newer greenhouse that had never had a cover. The ends were covered with plastic from the old sheet then a new sheet was rolled out for the building’s body. About this time another doer showed up to the delight of the first doer but the dismay of the thinker:
“Great, now I’ll look twice as incompetent.” was his paralogistic thought.
Actually, two doers and one thinker isn’t a bad combination:
2D + 1T= 1D as T=0 when D=2, D becomes 0.5 in the presence of T
The second cover was completed in a mere three hours. About this time two more doers showed up. The thinker thought:
“Doer presence seems inversely proportional to the amount of work left to do.”
He was tired and no longer cared how incompetent he appeared. As it turned out though:
4D + 1T= 1T as 4D=0 when T=1
They all went off to inspect the accomplishments of the day. The thinker labored on alone making doors and a stovepipe exit. He started to cry when his constructed door didn’t fit the doorframe; wasn’t even close.
Late that night he crawled into bed totally spent emotionally and physically. Still cold and shivering, he wanted to suck his thumb as he curled into a fetal position.
“Oh well!” the doer cooed then enthused: “Tomorrow is another day!”
The thought was nauseating.
It was later that night that he jumped out of bed with the cramp as she looked on in amazement. This cramp was the “Mother” of all cramps: the big one. It was in the whole left adductor thigh muscle. The adductor muscle is one of the largest muscles in the body. Its purpose is to pull the leg in and back; with cooperation from the opposite adductor humans stay upright. If one goes out you fall to the opposite side. If both go out you can’t move. If one cramps, the pelvis is tilted toward it and the body compensates by tilting in the opposite direction; e.g. left adductor cramp, right shift. No sooner had the left cramp subsided than the right adductor started. Back and forth they went as he whined and moaned around the house.
The next morning the doer assigned the thinker to non-challenging tasks as the three other doers returned to help. They isolated him in one of the greenhouses while they worked in the other. Occasionally she would show up to make sure he was not destroying anything major. For the most part, he was left alone for his, and their, safety. He worked hard anticipating high noon which meant he would have to go home to his thinker’s town and she would drive him to the local airport fifty miles away. By noon he was so sore that movements were like the un-oiled tinman in the Wizard of Oz.
She deposited him at the terminal, waved good-bye and returned over the mountain to be with the other doers. Mournfully he watched her leave then turned into the terminal. This particular airport was small with only one airline service with three flights provided a day on a small commuter plane. The ticket counter that day however had a large queue. Odd, obviously something was wrong. As it turned out the midday flight was cancelled and passengers were being rescheduled. The thinker was booked on the last flight out that day; a four hour delay.
Already tired, aching, and hungry, he wallowed in self-pity as he sat on the terminal sidewalk and looked out over the valley where the town nestled. The airport was on a plateau but actually the town was depressed in a large canyon. On the opposite rim the freeway could be seen. Further away, mountains loomed with large tenebrous clouds weeping snow onto already whitened slopes. He hoped the clouds would not come this way until after his plane left. It was still winter in the high country, still the airport and town were sunlit and balmy with a susurrous wind ebbing though the canyon. The scene was bucolic. He soon forgot the fatigue and aching, but hunger persisted. The airport had a bar called “Elvis” which, by the name, did not inspire gastronomic appeal. The town was mostly closed on a Sunday afternoon, but the freeway stop four miles away on the other rim had a fairly nice restaurant. He sat out afoot down the hill through the town and up the other side. Hypoglycemia inhibited rational thought; going up and down twice was just plain stupid on fatigued muscles. That didn’t stop the hungry, non-thinking thinker with time to waste.
Sweating and exhausted, but full, he returned to the airport 20 minutes before the flight. He had just enough time to cool down before boarding the near full commuter plane. He barely got seated in the aisle seat when a rather corpulent lady stopped in the aisle and announced:
“Excuse me, I have the window seat.”
The thinker moved graciously into the aisle to allow her entrance while thinking:
“Oh great, this is really going to be crowded!”
And it was. The woman overflowed her seat by another one-half seat. It was all he could do to squeeze back into the seat without overflowing into the aisle. These were tense times; tense and aching times, times that were just right for cramps.
The flight attendant closed the door then went into the usual FFA mandated announcements as the plane taxied to the runway. Somewhere between: “… Your seat can be used as a floatation device…” and “…sit back and enjoy the flight…” it happened. The left adductor went into the “Granddaddy” of all “Mother” cramps. His torso was forced to the right as the left leg involuntarily extended into the aisle. The thrust buried his head into the corpulent lady’s décolletage. All he could think at the time was the line from the poem, Wreck of the Hesperus:
“Her bosoms white as the Hawthorne buds,
That op in the month of May.”
It wasn’t May and Hawthorne buds aren’t this big, but that’s what he thought about as the lady started to scream. They were white though.
The flight attendant gave him a basilisk look from her seat as the plane jumped into the air. The cramp subsided and normal posture returned as the lady, and others, looked at him as if he were lusus naturae. He tried to become diminutive by burying his head in the airline magazine. There was an interesting article about airline courtesy and etiquette when it happened again.
This time he tried to avoid the rightward shift and was successful to miss breasts but instead nuzzled the neck as his torso sunk into her adiposity. Jerking motions to avoid the intensity of the cramp completed the picture of a deranged, maniacal pervert. Authenticity was further confirmed by her persistent scream for help.
“Sir! I’m afraid I must reseat you!” the flight attendant inveighed as the cramp subsided. He was forcefully escorted to another aisle seat this time on the port side as he tried to explain. Female passengers cowered as he passed.
His new seat companion was a burly, muscular bearded man with a cap advertising a bar. As the seatbelt was fastened by the copilot, the burly man leaned over the armrest:
“See this here armrest?” as he tapped it with his stubby, hairy index finger.
“You cross over and you will be singing soprano the rest of the flight!”
His intent was further emphasized by spittle as he enunciated “soprano” and “flight”. Other eyes watched on with equal resolve.
Wouldn’t you know it? Now the right adductor started to cramp.
Post Script:
After the melee settled down, the thinker did convince them he suffered cramps and how he came to have them. Empathy was generated. At the end of the flight a sympathetic escort of passengers and crew helped him from the plane to the terminal. The wheelchair was pushed by the burly man who now affectionately called the thinker “Crampy Gramps.” The corpulent lady carried his bag.
Later that night, the thinker lay in his own bed happily reading the latest Scientific American magazine—so much for internet dating.
PEOPLE ARE MORE FUNNY THAN ANYBODY.
Dorothy Parker