One chilly day last week, I tried to start our 12-year-old car which has survived an encounter with a deer, a big hole in a construction zone, a tree, a left turn barrier and sudden meeting with another vehicle. It’s the one Penny uses on her photo forays to various lakes, rivers and nature sites in the area.
Alas, the battery was dead, and invoking the name of the deity with words that should not be heard, I jumped into our other car, a sleek four-year-old model which we will pay off in only six-plus years. It is a cozy nest that can warm me at the push of a button, warn me with a beep and remind me with a ding-ding.
As I was leaving our house, a tall 60-ish year-old man wearing a yellow crossing guard vest sidled up to the car door. I pushed a button and my window rolled down.
“Do you remember me,” he asked. “I used to mow your front yard.”
I remembered. Most of all I recalled the well-worn mower and how, despite its age, it did what it was designed to do, which is the most you can say for any machine. He deserved what I agreed to pay him. It was commerce the way it was supposed to be.
“Can you help me, please,” he said. “My car was broken into and my wallet with my money was taken. Can you take me to a gas station. I need to get gas for the car.”
I can almost hear your response now.
STOP! IT’S A SCAM! DON’T BE A FOOL!
Instead, I asked “do you have a gas can?”
“I will get one,” he said.
I followed him as walked to an adjoining street. He signaled me…
