My grandpa once hired a man named Gilbert. I think he honestly felt sorry for the guy, I mean he was a little slow and needed a job. My grandpa was only doing the fellow a favour.
My first day meeting Gilbert with his trucker hat forward, his oversized boots, and his plaid shirt, were characteristics that screamed country bumpkin or "dirt squirrel."
Gilbert also had a lisp.
Not a lispy lisp, its was more of a whistle sound.
I asked my mom about it later and she said that back in the day Gilbert used to cut down trees for a lumber business. A branch got caught in his mouth, punctured a hole in the roof of his mouth and created the soft whistle sound heard between every word Gilbert spoke.
Gilbert was different.
I mean right away he was a dirt squirrel.
But he couldn't even be pegged as that.
He lived in the middle of the woods. With his country bumpkin stereotype you'd expect this. Though I remember watching him fly up the dirt road at my grandpa's farm road to greet us, his hands clenching the shiny red four wheeler with something in his lap. At first I didn't know what to think. Had Gilbert brought us a rabbit he had hunted back in the forest, was he all smiles because he was proud of his kill?
"This here is Sparky," Gilbert announced beaming, "She's a Pomeranian Poodle."
My grandpa just fired Gilbert.
Apparently Gilbert wasn't doing his job at the farm. Basically he screwed up a job that couldn't be screwed up by too many.
Grandpa: Gilbert you can live on my farm and I will PAY you, just don't let people into the farm much to fish.
Gilbert did the opposite of course.
I know it's strange but I sort of miss Gilbert. He was different and I like different. But, I will never forget him and Sparky. They're just the kind you never forget.
