The Art of Asking

Every day I walk my wife to her place of work. I carry her backpack, which is often pretty ponderous, and we just enjoy each other's company as we go. It's a good time to talk. And we really do talk about anything. Post-war German literature. The oil crash. Stellar evolution. The comparative advantages of the mountain- and the hammered dulcimer. There's nothing like stretching your legs, tromping through the crispy snow, and stretching your mind, all in in the presence of someone whose company you prize. 

Our route these days takes us across a street that's part of the Lincoln highway, then past the grounds of the old hospital, and a school for nursing, where the students come and go, looking young and idealistic. Just past the nursing school (only five minutes now from our destination), at the end of a street that's only one block long, stands a modest white house. Out back of this house is a substantial yard, populated with a number of young hardwoods—oaks, hickory, a few maples. And on the north side of the garage, very much in view of passers-by, stands a substantial pile of unsplit wood. Season after season, the logs have sat there aging to a dark shade of grey. When, I wondered would we ever see the woodpile shrink? Or anyone outside getting down to work with an ax, splitting the logs to usable firewood?

Well one morning, just a few days ago, standing in the driveway of that white house, was a rental van, and three or four younger men were carrying boxes and lamps out of the house and into the vehicle, so obviously someone was moving. Later that day, when I returned to pick my wife up again, the men were still working. For a moment I hesitated, out there on the sidewalk. "Should I?" I asked myself. "Yes you should," I answered. So I went into the garage, and I asked about the wood. If they weren't planning on taking the wood with them, I said, I'd sure be interested in taking it off their hands.

The young men seemed receptive to my request, but they referred me to the owner, who was just then coming out. He was a bearded gentleman in a brown knitted cap, and with a well-rounded but inwardly robust physique. A sort of lumberjack on vacation. A hard nut with softer caramel coating. His eyes were his most arresting feature. They were of a depth and a tangibility of soul that's difficult to come by these days. They sized me up without making me look down. They also recognized me.

“You used to live here on this street didn't you?” he asked.

I did a bit of a double take. “Wow, you have a memory,” I said. “That was something like ten years ago now. And only for a year or two.” Grateful for even this small connection between us, and hoping I could take advantage of it, I repeated my request, mentioning that I had a wood stove at home, and that I would be grateful for the extra fuel, that is, if he wasn't planning on taking it with him.

“Well, I was going to take the wood,” he said. “But you know, there's also some wood where I'm going to. So go ahead. Enjoy.”

I communicated my thanks, and then was off. Happy especially with his imperative: “Enjoy.” 

And in fact I already have acted on that task of enjoyment. Using two plastic sleds yesterday, I dragged the logs over the snow from the wood pile to the car. Back home, I unloaded each trunk-load and stacked it, then swung the ax for awhile, splitting several of the larger logs for the evening's fire: all hard work of course, but certainly enjoyable. And the warmth of the stove at the end of the day capped these enjoyments. A plentiful harvest of heat.

But what I want to say about this little incident is that it illustrates the employment of a useful skill, which has only recently become an exercised part of me, and which I want to commend to others. It's a skill that in my opinion is becoming more and more useful and necessary as we move into more and more uncertain times. And that's the art of asking. Asking for advice. Asking for help. For a favor, or, as in this case, for a free gift: 

“Say I'm just wondering if you folks were planning on taking that wood with you. Because if you're not, I could sure use it at my place.” 

Just a few words. But words that took some trouble to speak. You see, it's actually a pretty multifaceted skill, making requests. It involves seeing the opportunity in the first place, and judging the opportune time to seize it. It requires overpowering your pride and setting aside your supposed independence in favor of a different way of looking at the matter. Often too, it requires introducing yourself to people you don't know, and who you wouldn't otherwise mix with. It requires meeting someone's eye. It requires the articulation of humble-tasting words and phrases: “Could I..? Would you happen to..?  Is it possible...?"

But of course the art of asking, especially when practiced consistently over time, has its indisputable benefits. Yesterday it netted me nearly a half a cord of wood, absolutely free: which at Sunnyside, in the dead of winter, works out to a good three or four week's worth of fuel, and quite possibly $200 knocked off of the winter utility bill. 

As coda too, I want to say too just how pleasant it was to have the owner of that house recognize me, as having lived on his street at one time. I did not remember him, but his memory connected us, and left me just a little warmer on the inside the whole day. 

HB

(Next Post Monday, January 26)