The Rural Voice, 1998-01, Page 38Occasionally I find myself in
situations that sound like they
are the products of a script
writer's fertile imagination. If
someone recounted these adventures
as factual to me, I would suggest they
get a job in Hollywood. But these
close encounters of an unusual kind
are the real thing – and they happen
more often than I like to admit.
Let me make one thing clear. I am
not the passive victim in these wacky
happenings. I seem to attract the
unusual — both people and
situations. When I regale friends with
these tales, they howl in disbelief.
I maintain that my forays into off-
the-wall situations occur because,
like Superman, I have a dual -identity.
Born and raised in the city, and a
teacher of teenagers, I pass easily as
an urbanite. Yet when the school bell
rings at 3:00 p.m. my persona
dissolves. Pointing my sporty red car
due south, I make tracks for my
beloved country home, my land, and
my cherished animals. I am proud to
call myself a rural woman. The
country is where I belong.
But it is this split lifestyle that has,
I fear, warped me. I have come to
know a dark side to my psyche, a
rashness, an impulsivity which,
lamentably, exerts itself most
unexpectedly. It was this side of the
personality which was busy that
Sunday when the phone rang .
I stopped my vacuuming to answer
it. A polite gentlemen speaking with
a marked accent of undetermined
origin queried:
"Hell -o -o -o, Mrs. Silcox. How are
you today?"
I immediately bristled. A
salesman.
"Fine, thank -you," I replied in my
most business -like manner.
Telephone advertising, like a
mosquito, begs for a shot of Raid.
"Well, Mrs. Silcox," his
melodious tones continued, "I am
selling fine vacuum cleaners that will'
meet all your household needs. I
would be happy to arrange a
demonstration for you."
"I knew it", I discussed with my
inner self. "This lady can detect a
salesman like a terrier sniffs a bone.
But on a Sunday? This is too much."
Turning on the frost, I declared.
"We just purchased a new one
yesterday, as a matter of fact, so your
34 THE RURAL VOICE
It started as
a practical
joke ... and it
got worse
demonstration won't be necessary."
As I cast a glance at my old, tired
warhorse of a machine, resting beside
me, sides heaving, I sincerely wished
my story was true. With righteous
indignation, I replaced the phone on
the receiver and returned to
exorcising dog hairs from the carpet.
A twinge of guilt crept into my
conscience. The image of a recent
immigrant, struggling to make ends
meet in a new and hostile land, eking
out a meagre income to feed his
hungry family by peddling appliances
planted itself firmly in my mind. My
kindly self denounced my feisty alter
ego:
"You were a bit curt," one scolded
the other.
This moment of regret was
immediately banished as the phone
rang again and I anticipated another
encounter with the pesky salesman.
"Hello," I barked into the
machine.
On the other end of the line, my
teenage daughter greeted me and
indicated that Dean, her boyfriend,
and one of my students, wished to
speak to me. As the phone was
passed over, the mellifluous voice of
the vacuum cleaner salesman wafted
over the air.
"Is Mrs. Silcox sure she wouldn't
like to buy a new vacuum cleaner?"
This was followed by gales of
laughter from the two teenagers.
After the whooping subsided, I
agreed it was a good joke, but vowed
to myself to get even with boyfriend,
Dean.
The next day, the phone rang, and
a mild-mannered male voice
identified himself as Mr. Schneider
from the local fuel company. He
inquired if he could send someone
over the check the faulty furnace.
"The fool, Dean is at it again," I
reflected. "Does this naive teenager
believe I will fall for his silly
i