A GOOD DAY OUTSIDE OF FUNKSVILLE

SEPTEMBER 13, 2025 – My wife was in a funk today, mostly over the state of the country. She’d been in funksville—as many of us were—even before the shooting(s), but gun violence in America is a chronic condition for which an antidote eludes us.

I managed to escape funksville today, thanks to some random encounters that reminded me that far outnumbering the bad apples are lots of very good peaches.

Take for example, the assistant nurse and the physician for my routine exam at the clinic this morning; both cheerful, quick to laugh, knew their stuff, and gave me ample time and care. They set a positive tone for the rest of the day.

A while later our older son called to inform me that “two guys with a truck from the shop” would soon be on their way to pick up the Giant Easel I’d designed and built earlier this week for Cory (See 9/10 post). Forty-five minutes later, two young guys in a new white pick-up truck appeared at the end of our driveway, ready to take delivery of my “eighth grade shop class project.” They looked barely out of high school, but they presented as much older men. Self-assured and clean-cut, they introduced themselves by name and hearty handshakes. My wife and I were duly impressed. Without wasting a minute of their employer’s time, they had the Giant Easel resting securely in the bed of the pickup and closed the tailgate. I told them they were good emissaries for the business. They said “Thanks!” and smiled and waved as they turned down the alley. I called our son to inform him that the Giant Easel was on its way and made sure that the two guys received proper recognition for a job well done. Cory said he’d pass the good word along. In a small but memorable way, my faith in the future was bolstered.

By the time I’d finally loaded the car for my trip to the Red Cabin I was running late. While Beth flies off to Ireland tomorrow, I’m hosting a couple of friends participating in tomorrow’s Chequamegon 40 mountain bike race from downtown Hayward, WI to the site of the former Telemark lodge outside of Cable.

Before backing out of the driveway, I remembered to check the oil in my car engine, which vehicle is not long for my ownership because of the rate at which it burns oil. The lubricant needed to be replenished, so I drove straight to our neighborhood service station, which I’ve gotten to know all too well over the past year or so.

At the front desk I found Billy, the cheerful Hmong assistant manager who’d told me after a recent oil change that I should keep a close eye on the oil level. He was busy with another customer, and yet another customer, an older woman, was standing off to the side. After Billy finished with the first customer, he turned next to me, not the older woman.

“I need you to add some oil to my engine,” I said to Billy but then quickly apologized to the woman, saying, “I’m sorry, are you in line?” She wasn’t, she said, so I was off the hook as far as discourtesy was concerned.

Billy looked up the oil weight used for my recent oil change, then summoned a young mechanic, who stepped in from the adjoining bay. “Add some oil—5W30 synthetic—to Eric’s car,” Billy shouted. The mech disappeared back into the bay. “He wears ear buds and doesn’t hear when I talk in a normal voice,” said Billy. “Sometimes people think I’m mad when I do that,” he continued, smiling, “but I’m not. I’m just trying to be understood.” Billy laughed. He’s always cheerful in his interactions with people, and I’m grateful for his positive demeanor.

The mechanic went straight to work as requested. He was careful not to spill, and after adding two quarts, he checked and double-checked the oil level. He then pulled a cleaning rag from his pocket and wiped up excess oil from around the portal of the crankcase. I watched him pull a light from his pocket and clean off other parts of the engine top. Now there’s a guy who really cares about his work, I thought.

I ducked back into the reception room to pay, but had to wait, since Billy was attending to another customer. I turned to the older woman who remained standing where I’d first seen her. “Any progress?” I asked.

“They said it could be another hour before they get the new bulb delivered,” she said.

“Would you like a ride home?” I asked, partly in penance for having jumped ahead of her in line before.

“That would be great if you could,” she said. She’d phoned a daughter, who wasn’t available until later.

Billy waved me off. “I’m not going to charge you for that,” he said. “Just have a great weekend.”

The woman followed me out to the car, responding to my questions, “What’s your name?” and “Where do you live?” When she disclosed her name, I told her that that was an easy name to remember, since one of my dad’s cousins had had the same name, and she was just about the sweetest woman who ever lived. To the second question the woman said, “The Heritage at Lyngblomsten,” the nearby senior living facility where my mother-in-law had been a resident in her final years (ending at age 96).

On the short ride, I learned that my passenger was 86 and had lived in the neighborhood for 55 years before her husband died; that their house “had been right next door to the elementary school, which was great for us when our kids were growing up.”

In response to my question, “How many children do you have?” I learned that one had died. That’s all I was told about the tragedy, and of course, I didn’t pry beyond that disclosure, but it told me something crucial about this alert and pleasant woman—she’d suffered a great loss.

When I pulled up to the entrance to the Heritage and shifted into park, I told her to stay put, that I’d open the door for her. I jumped out of the car, swung around back and gently pulled the door, which she’d already opened a few inches. She thanked me; I told her it was nothing; she said, “I guess it’s what we are to do for one another”; and I said, “It’s the sort of thing that makes the world go around.” She agreed.

At a stop two hours later into my drive to the Red Cabin, I noticed two dollar-bills in a recess of my console. I’d recently cleaned out my car and knew there was no money on that console. For years I haven’t carried any cash. No one has sat in the front of my car since Beth and I drove to Hayward from the cabin last week, and she would never leave cash in my car. I was certain the money hadn’t been there when I’d left our driveway, when I’d alighted from the car at the service station or when I’d climbed back in upon departing it. The only explanation was that between the time I’d gotten out of my seat and walked around to the other side of the car to help my passenger out, she’d pulled the two bills from her wallet and placed them on the console.

Upon realizing this, I recalled all the positive encounters the day had brought; all the evidence of steady, reliable goodness among ordinary people in ordinary circumstances.

I would close out the day by sitting at the end of the dock admiring the starlit sky with my Red Cabin friends—an old friend who is as good a person as any can be, and his friend, now a new friend. With all the madness afoot in this world, I’m reassured knowing that the good among people far outweighs and outnumbers the bad.

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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson