Our Story ... Part 6

Over the next eighteen months, I would have the privilege and the great responsibility of introducing Martin to the customs, language, and styles of American life. We talked and laughed our way through too many “Ted Lasso” moments to count. But, our clash of cultures was never more pronounced than the weekend I took Martin home to Hindman, KY, to meet my parents.

There was no communication gap; it was a chasm. We arrived on Friday evening to find that Mom had outdone herself, as she always did, with supper on the table. After we had consumed very large portions of her homemade lasagna, she hovered over Martin, serving spoon in hand, and asked if he would like seconds. When he replied, “I’m fine, thanks,” she thought he said, “Fine, thanks.” Thwwwop … another heaping helping on his plate … which he proceeded to choke down because he didn’t want to be rude. Later, I overheard Mom whispering to my dad: “That boy’s starving.”

And, just before turning in for the night, Martin looked at me and asked: “So, what time should I knock you up in the morning?” WHAAAT?? The look on Mom’s face I simply couldn’t read. In her eyes I saw a tangle of bewilderment, astonishment, and accusation. “No!” I said. “He means ‘wake me up … wake me up in the morning.’” Ugh. I was stressed.

Saturday was a new day, yet I knew unusual things were bound to happen … like when Martin ventured onto the basketball court in our backyard to shoot some hoops. I found both my parents huddled together over the kitchen sink, peering out the small window at this boy who was heading basketballs into the goal with swift precision and impeccable accuracy. I think they were fascinated and oddly, impressed.

Later that afternoon, as both the weather and the mood began to warm, Dad, who was very proud of his vegetable garden, attempted to bond with Martin by asking him to go out into the cornfield and gather some corn-on-the-cob for dinner. Martin, eager to please, agreed and disappeared into the tall golden rows. As too much time passed and the sun began to set, we became increasingly worried about Martin. What is taking him so long? Where could he have gone? Then, in the distance, we could see him moving toward home, rustling through the dry shocks, carrying entire towering cornstalks over his shoulder. He had likely never set foot on a farm, and nobody told him to simply break the ears of corn off the stalks. But, covered in sweat and mosquito bites, he had completed the task. I think it was then that my parents fell in love with Martin.

Sunday morning, it was time to make the long drive back to school. Before leaving town, we stopped at a local gas station to fill up and check the tires, which were looking low.

As the attendant approached the car, Martin wound down the window and asked, “Excuse me, do you have air here?”

“Huh?” he said.

“Air. Do you have air here?” Martin repeated.

“Huuuhhh?”

Martin, again, louder: “Air. Do you have air for my tire?”

The attendant turned and walked away. He returned with a co-worker to whom Martin asked the same question. He, too, just looked at his mate and shrugged.

I was in the passenger seat and knew what was happening. I couldn’t contain my laughter, but I wanted to see it play out. So, I slinked down to the floor of the car and buried my face in my lap.

What the attendant was hearing was: “Do you have aaaa haaaa?” like Woody Woodpecker … aaa aaa aaa aaa aaa.

Finally, I heard Martin say in an exaggerated and elevated tone, “Do you have ARRR? ARR for my TARR?”

And, the attendant replied, “Oh! ARRR!! Yeah, we have ARRR! Right over HYARR!