“He was one of them guys.” He looked at me to see if I understood. I did, and I willed him with my eyes to continue. “…one of them guys…you know, one of them guys you can’t get away from and you don’t want to.”

There was more, but he didn’t say, because he knew I knew. But probably also because I said, “keep talkin’, you’re soundin’ like a blog post.”

We all know “them guys”. They worked a job that required skill of their hands and strength of their back. They wear plaid shirts with snaps and the left pocket carries a small spiral notebook, a Bic pen, and a pack of Marlboro reds. Their dark denim jeans show a little wear in a spot or two, maybe a frayed hole from battery acid, maybe some stubborn grease streaks. The pockets bulge with keys, five dollars in change, a lighter, and a yeller three blade Case pocketknife. These men have arms that are tanned and sinewy, scratched and scarred from countless battles with brush, machinery, barbed wire, and their oldest son, who went through a biting phase. They wear a gimme cap from the feed and seed or tractor dealership without fail, not to cover up the grey but because they always had. They were naked without it. And their boots. No fancy doins there, either. Scuffed, muddy, worn, heavy, and brown. A low heel. No pointed toe. Boots that have traveled. Boots that had a long way to go. Probably Redwing brand, but maybe Justin, depending on their line of work and what work was waiting at home. These guys carried their paper check home to “momma”, who scrimped and saved and put meat on the table seven nights a week. She packed his dinner bucket with two sandwiches, a banana or apple or orange, a pack of crackers, maybe some chips. She made a pound cake or Bundt cake once a week and wore an apron from daylight till dark. Momma knew he chewed a little tobacco, but not in the house. And he knew she watched her stories every day and spent a good hour on the phone each afternoon before he got home talking to Margaret, if she didn’t come through the back gate for coffee. These women sold Avon and knew better than to ask for flowers on their birthday, but directed him on where to plant the rose bushes. These men scoffed around the other guys about keeping the missus happy, but you better believe they groveled when they had too many beers on Friday night.

You can find these men all around. Look for an American made truck in a basic color, sometimes with a dog in the bed. Look for them at the auto parts, the local hardware, the Co-op, and any backyard garage. They’ll be around Hardee’s early of the morning. They tell tales on each other: tales of the hunt, the fishing trip, the time they took the family to see the Grand Canyon, and when their best buddy in high school wrecked his motorcycle. They’re all retired, but they still have plenty to do, and an opinion on how you should be doin’ it. They don’t understand the fascination with cell phones or reality TV. They watch the weather and sometimes the news, until it makes them mad. They drink coffee way up into the day and know a little about everything. It’s hard to distinguish the truth from the lie, but you like the story and they’re not one to let a little fact get in the way of the tellin’. They’ve lived through the draft, and known several who didn’t. They pay cash, always. They don’t need to yell to get your attention, you were already listening. They’re the men at the bank that everybody knows, the one the tellers make coffee for. The ones that will linger and harmlessly flirt, saying nice things just to make them smile. One of them guys. If you don’t know any of them guys, I suggest you go get acquainted. They’re pretty handy. You’ll know them by their level gaze and unhurried manner. You best slow down and have a word. You’ll probably walk away a sight better than when you walked up.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy