Decent guys

Celebrity isn’t everything. In fact, maybe it isn’t anything at all.

I’ve been thinking about the men in my life. Not the ones I’m related to and love, but the men who live in my neighborhood, who do work for me, who give me sensible advice about how to deal with household mechanical things, or how to use tools. The ones in the hardware store who patiently explain to me how to change an outlet. They enjoy solving a problem.

They are all modest men, who live lives that they would call ordinary. They are husbands and fathers, mostly, and they surely have their own troubles, some of which occasionally I hear about. But there is nothing about them that is common.

I think of Joe, my gardening soulmate, who runs a landscaping business. He doesn't want to mow lawns and plow snow, and his business takes a hit when he turns down this kind of work. He wants to be outside in the fresh air, digging in the earth and planting things, creating beauty, listening to podcasts about science and politics as he goes. He has a degree in horticulture, and I am always learning something from him. He knows the names of the spring ephemerals; he points out what native plants to nurture and what to pull; he knows the science of ecology and is thoughtful about protecting the bees, the wildlife, the water. When he doesn't know the answer to something, he goes to find out. I think he would describe himself as a shy man who doesn't talk much, but when he comes to work we can get distracted talking about pretty much everything from current events, to banana bikes, to education, to the best frozen custard stands, to the latest science about the communication of trees. I always try to be home when he comes, because I look forward to these conversations so much. He often works past sundown, finishing the job and leaving the property (momentarily) pristine. But when I sent him a bonus over the winter as a thank you for his incredibly hard work, he diffidently returned the check to me, saying he couldn't take it. His preferred bonus, he told me, was the quart of orange creamsicle frozen custard I brought back for him one hot summer day.

I think of Phil, my carpenter. He married his high school sweetheart, and has two young children. His parents were farmers, and then opened the hardware store down the street. Phil grew up working. He has a degree in mechanical engineering, and his work is pure artistry. The bookcases he designed and built for us have invisible channels for the wiring, air pockets to keep the lights from overheating, and meticulously adjusted hinges that close with an exquisite slowness. His creativity shows in every project, and there's nothing he's not interested in. For Phil, there's no such thing as an impossibility. And he is a man of integrity. Dissatisfied with a repair to our dock, he said he could not charge me to re-do the job. "I can't put my name on that," he said.

Phil adjusts the height of the Dave pedestal while Pat puts Phil’s safety glasses on.

I think of our garbage man, Steve, who warmly greets the dogs and me when he comes, and is extremely careful to watch for Auggie who has a terrible habit of running excitedly around cars and trucks as they come up the driveway. The first day he came, he introduced himself to me and we shook hands. We don’t always see one another, but when we do, he usually has time to stop for a chat. He explains his thinking if he hadn’t picked something up the week before—sometimes the clutter in our garage is confusingly garbage-y non-garbage. He has, over the years, confided in me about the terrible loss of his wife; the struggles of being a widower; about the loss of his beloved German Shepherd, for whom he had to find a better home because he was being left alone too much; about the time he lay on the icy sidewalk with a broken shoulder while car after car passed him by. He has reasons to be bitter, but I see no signs of it. He does an unpleasant job cheerfully and accepts life as it comes. Our little exchanges enhance my mood every time I see him, giving a novelist much to think about.

They are gentlemen in the best sense of the word. You know instinctively that they can be trusted with your things, your dogs, your self. You know that in an emergency they would be rocks. You know that they would take—and often have taken—risks to do the right the thing.

They are ordinary men, and what strikes me always is that there is nothing ordinary about them. They have interests that might not be obvious to someone who didn’t pay attention. But they do pay attention. They know what's going on. They observe. They analyze. They think about big things. They ponder mysteries. They care deeply about right and wrong.

People tend to assume that my books are intended for women, but many of my readers are men, and although I don’t consciously write for a particular audience, even I am sometimes surprised by the genuine appreciation I hear from my male readers. I think it's because the men who populate my books are like the men I know, and the portrayals strike a chord. These guys don't care about being famous—although I imagine they wouldn't mind having a little more money—but they are used to being underestimated. They are probably used to being brushed aside and invisible to the larger world. But they are the bedrock of their families, their communities, and the systems we depend on to keep us safe, healthy, and running on time.

They may be ordinary in the sense that they are not famous or wealthy. But in a world that overvalues red carpets, elite professions, and superficial celebrity, they are, in fact, extraordinary people: living rich, ordinary lives filled with beauty, creativity, decency, and mystery.

Maybe they are rich, after all.

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It is a hard time, I know, for all of us, and we have been carrying our grief, fear, and anger around in our hearts. It is difficult to look out and see the chaos around us. But we are not the only human beings in history who have lived through trying times, and although we are required to do what is right, adversity does not require us to live in abject misery. As my husband likes to say: We are not the crazy ones. It’s essential to remind ourselves of the good things in the world. Come and hang out with me, the dogs, and this stalwart little community of good people, none of whom are in the least bit crazy—or at least, only in a charming way. If you can’t afford a paid subscription, you can help by sharing and spreading the word. And you can always still read and comment.

Also: dog photos.

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Be of good cheer.

JFR

And now for your gratuitous dog photos:

Six month old baby Eli—with help from Scary Lisa—makes his first leaps from the pier.

After a busy day of swimming last weekend, Auggie keeps a wary eye out for ducks.