Hi, Diary. GBH here.
I figured Mother must've been busy in the kitchen when she yelled, "Gordon, see who's at the front door."
"Yeah, okay," I yelled back. I was also busy, here in my bedroom, watching angry angelfish, (At least, they always look angry to me) happy, darting guppies, bright-colored neon tetras, a solemn maroon Siamese fighter that hovers mainly in one spot, a feisty pair of orange and black swordtails, and the bottom feeder, old Mr. Grumpy, (he doesn't like anybody) all tropical fish Mrs. Majewski, my piano teacher, had given to me.
When I made it to the parlor, I was surprised to see an old-timer, standing on the top stair outside the screen door. He needed a shave, his stubble pure white. On top of his head perched a brown, crumpled felt hat. If Dad saw it, he would've said, "That hat needs Shorty, the Greek midget, to perform his magic." Shorty cleans and blocks Dad's Stetson hats and has a lot of Greek newspapers in his little hole-in-a-wall shop. Shorty's newspapers' letters look funny.
Back to the old-timer. He wore a faded blue work shirt with open collar, most of it hidden by an equally crumply checkered double-breasted suit coat that hadn't seen a steam iron in ages. His un-pleated pleated trousers didn't match the suit coat at all. They were a much different color, and the legs had no creases whatsoever. Dad says that trousers' creases "should be sharp enough to cut a cheap steak." The belt holding up the old man's trousers sported a Roy Rogers and Trigger chrome buckle. Of course, he didn't wear a tie. At first, I figured he was one of Dad's farmer-patients, but he held on to a large, gray cloth sack with a load of stuff inside.
"Yes?" I said after I opened the door.
He removed his hat. "Hello, young man. Would either the master or the mistress of the house be interested in buying tramp art?"
"What did you say?"
"Tramp art, items like fine jewelry boxes or picture frames or what-nots. I have them for sale."
I turned to face the kitchen and yelled. "Mother, a man wants to talk to you."
"I don't need a vacuum cleaner. Tell him ours works just fine," she yelled back.
"He's not selling vacuum cleaners. He wants to talk to you."
She took off her glasses, blew on the lenses, put the glasses back on, and slowly examined the man from her spot in the kitchen. "That isn't our Fuller Brush salesman, is it?"
"Uh-uh."
"Can't you tell him I'm busy?".
I turned back to the man. "My mother's busy and my dad isn't home. He's at the office."
The man smiled, adding wrinkles to cheeks and the sides of both eyes. "What's your name, young man?"
"Gordon. I mean Gordy."
He smiled. "That's a nice name. Gordy, do you think you can talk to your mother and ask her if she's interested in buying—" He reached into his bag and pulled out something really neat looking. -–"this fine jewelry box I, myself, whittled?"
"That's keen." I left him and made my way to the kitchen. "Mother, he's selling tramp art."
"A what?" she asked as if she were deaf.
"Not so loud," I whispered. "He'll hear you. He's a tramp and wants to sell you a jewelry box he made. It's neat looking."
"Tramp art," said Mother, wiping her hands. "I'll go see."
I followed her. Mother opened the door. "Ohhh, that is beautiful. My number three son said you made it. Is that correct?"
"Yes, Ma'am, he is correct. I cannot deny it. I made it and other fine items I have with me in my bag." He handed the box to mother and added, "Whittled it myself with my jackknife."
Mother smiled. "It really is beautiful. You're a talented artist."
"Why, thank you, Ma'am. You not only can put jewelry in it, you could store keepsakes, as well. And, uh, mementos."
"Hmmmmm, how much are you asking?"
"Ten dollars, Ma'am. And it's cheap, at that, with all the work I put into it."
"That's awfully pricey." Mother handed the box to me. I agreed that it was neat looking. "It is pretty, though, isn't it?"
"Yeah," I said.
She turned to the tramp. "Would you take three and a half for it? I can afford that, but I can't afford a whole ten dollars."
The tramp shook his head. "I don't think so, Ma'am. I need the money to buy vittles. I haven't eaten in a day or so ago."
"Tell you what," said Mother. "I've got leftovers from last night's supper, meat loaf, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, and green beans. Do you think a warmed-up meal like that could satisfy you?"
"I believe so, Ma'am. That certainly sounds good to me."
"You sure you won't sell that box for three and a half dollars?"
"Tell you what, Ma'am, if you warm up those leftovers and if it's a satisfying meal as I think it should be, I'll sell you this fine jewelry box I whittled myself for five dollars. How does that sound to you?"
"It' still high, buh—"
"It's worth ten, at least, a manmade, fine jewelry box like this. Tramp art it is."
"Yes, you're right. It is a fine piece. Five dollars, you say?"
"Yes, Ma'am, plus a warmed-up meal of last night's leftovers."
"Then, it's a deal." Mother looked to me. "Follow me, Gordon." Which I did. Into the kitchen. Mother opened the Frigidaire door, took out a bottle of Hires root beer, and popped off the cap with a church key. "Take this to him and talk to him while I warm up his meal in the oven, will you?"
"Aw, Mom. I don't—"
"Do it, Gordon, or else he'll change his mind and go somewhere else."
"Aw, geez." I tramped out to the front porch, opened the front door again, stepped out, and gave the old man the bottle of pop.
He sat on a stair and I sat next to him. "Thank you, Gordy, for the pop, but I'll hold off and drink it with the meal. That way, I'll be able to eat more."
I was going to ask him how he knew my name but I remembered I had told him. Duh, sometimes, Gordy, you're as dumb as a rock. "You're welcome," I returned. "Do you carve lots of things?"
"I do." He reached into his cloth bag and pulled out a picture frame he must've whittled because it had the same layers of shiny wooden diamonds, triangles, and rectangles as the jewelry box.
After that, we had a long talk because it took a while for the oven to heat his meal of leftovers properly. But that's all I'm going to write this time, Diary. I'm tired. I'm going to go to sleep. So, this is GBH, signing off for now.
I figured Mother must've been busy in the kitchen when she yelled, "Gordon, see who's at the front door."
"Yeah, okay," I yelled back. I was also busy, here in my bedroom, watching angry angelfish, (At least, they always look angry to me) happy, darting guppies, bright-colored neon tetras, a solemn maroon Siamese fighter that hovers mainly in one spot, a feisty pair of orange and black swordtails, and the bottom feeder, old Mr. Grumpy, (he doesn't like anybody) all tropical fish Mrs. Majewski, my piano teacher, had given to me.
When I made it to the parlor, I was surprised to see an old-timer, standing on the top stair outside the screen door. He needed a shave, his stubble pure white. On top of his head perched a brown, crumpled felt hat. If Dad saw it, he would've said, "That hat needs Shorty, the Greek midget, to perform his magic." Shorty cleans and blocks Dad's Stetson hats and has a lot of Greek newspapers in his little hole-in-a-wall shop. Shorty's newspapers' letters look funny.
Back to the old-timer. He wore a faded blue work shirt with open collar, most of it hidden by an equally crumply checkered double-breasted suit coat that hadn't seen a steam iron in ages. His un-pleated pleated trousers didn't match the suit coat at all. They were a much different color, and the legs had no creases whatsoever. Dad says that trousers' creases "should be sharp enough to cut a cheap steak." The belt holding up the old man's trousers sported a Roy Rogers and Trigger chrome buckle. Of course, he didn't wear a tie. At first, I figured he was one of Dad's farmer-patients, but he held on to a large, gray cloth sack with a load of stuff inside.
"Yes?" I said after I opened the door.
He removed his hat. "Hello, young man. Would either the master or the mistress of the house be interested in buying tramp art?"
"What did you say?"
"Tramp art, items like fine jewelry boxes or picture frames or what-nots. I have them for sale."
I turned to face the kitchen and yelled. "Mother, a man wants to talk to you."
"I don't need a vacuum cleaner. Tell him ours works just fine," she yelled back.
"He's not selling vacuum cleaners. He wants to talk to you."
She took off her glasses, blew on the lenses, put the glasses back on, and slowly examined the man from her spot in the kitchen. "That isn't our Fuller Brush salesman, is it?"
"Uh-uh."
"Can't you tell him I'm busy?".
I turned back to the man. "My mother's busy and my dad isn't home. He's at the office."
The man smiled, adding wrinkles to cheeks and the sides of both eyes. "What's your name, young man?"
"Gordon. I mean Gordy."
He smiled. "That's a nice name. Gordy, do you think you can talk to your mother and ask her if she's interested in buying—" He reached into his bag and pulled out something really neat looking. -–"this fine jewelry box I, myself, whittled?"
"That's keen." I left him and made my way to the kitchen. "Mother, he's selling tramp art."
"A what?" she asked as if she were deaf.
"Not so loud," I whispered. "He'll hear you. He's a tramp and wants to sell you a jewelry box he made. It's neat looking."
"Tramp art," said Mother, wiping her hands. "I'll go see."
I followed her. Mother opened the door. "Ohhh, that is beautiful. My number three son said you made it. Is that correct?"
"Yes, Ma'am, he is correct. I cannot deny it. I made it and other fine items I have with me in my bag." He handed the box to mother and added, "Whittled it myself with my jackknife."
Mother smiled. "It really is beautiful. You're a talented artist."
"Why, thank you, Ma'am. You not only can put jewelry in it, you could store keepsakes, as well. And, uh, mementos."
"Hmmmmm, how much are you asking?"
"Ten dollars, Ma'am. And it's cheap, at that, with all the work I put into it."
"That's awfully pricey." Mother handed the box to me. I agreed that it was neat looking. "It is pretty, though, isn't it?"
"Yeah," I said.
She turned to the tramp. "Would you take three and a half for it? I can afford that, but I can't afford a whole ten dollars."
The tramp shook his head. "I don't think so, Ma'am. I need the money to buy vittles. I haven't eaten in a day or so ago."
"Tell you what," said Mother. "I've got leftovers from last night's supper, meat loaf, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, and green beans. Do you think a warmed-up meal like that could satisfy you?"
"I believe so, Ma'am. That certainly sounds good to me."
"You sure you won't sell that box for three and a half dollars?"
"Tell you what, Ma'am, if you warm up those leftovers and if it's a satisfying meal as I think it should be, I'll sell you this fine jewelry box I whittled myself for five dollars. How does that sound to you?"
"It' still high, buh—"
"It's worth ten, at least, a manmade, fine jewelry box like this. Tramp art it is."
"Yes, you're right. It is a fine piece. Five dollars, you say?"
"Yes, Ma'am, plus a warmed-up meal of last night's leftovers."
"Then, it's a deal." Mother looked to me. "Follow me, Gordon." Which I did. Into the kitchen. Mother opened the Frigidaire door, took out a bottle of Hires root beer, and popped off the cap with a church key. "Take this to him and talk to him while I warm up his meal in the oven, will you?"
"Aw, Mom. I don't—"
"Do it, Gordon, or else he'll change his mind and go somewhere else."
"Aw, geez." I tramped out to the front porch, opened the front door again, stepped out, and gave the old man the bottle of pop.
He sat on a stair and I sat next to him. "Thank you, Gordy, for the pop, but I'll hold off and drink it with the meal. That way, I'll be able to eat more."
I was going to ask him how he knew my name but I remembered I had told him. Duh, sometimes, Gordy, you're as dumb as a rock. "You're welcome," I returned. "Do you carve lots of things?"
"I do." He reached into his cloth bag and pulled out a picture frame he must've whittled because it had the same layers of shiny wooden diamonds, triangles, and rectangles as the jewelry box.
After that, we had a long talk because it took a while for the oven to heat his meal of leftovers properly. But that's all I'm going to write this time, Diary. I'm tired. I'm going to go to sleep. So, this is GBH, signing off for now.