SEPTEMBER 4, 2026 – In tomorrow’s post, I’ll describe in spellbinding detail, the latest cabin-project that gave impetus to my reluctantly but fortunately executed trek into town yesterday. It was that short journey, however, that led to interactions providing material for this post.
We’ve all heard people say, “Things happen for a reason.” I’m not a subscriber to that cliché, particularly over the past 18 months of our era, since reason has been altogether absent. But I do believe in the phrase, “One thing leads to another.” Notice the absence of causation. One link’s attachment to the next in life’s chain of events isn’t necessarily inevitable. Often—in fact, usually—the “dots” on each page of our lives are just that: dots on a page. It’s up to us to connect them, but when we do, all sorts of interesting and rewarding images present themselves for our amusement and edification.
Yesterday’s trip to the L&M Fleet Supply Store was a case in point. After confirming online that the outlet carried in current inventory a 100-foot length of perforated flexible drain piping,[1] I drove into the store’s parking lot and parked my “wimpy car”[2] in a line-up of ENORMOUS pickup trucks, each seemingly higher and heavier than the next as I walked past them to the entrance. I’m neither a pick-up guy nor someone who frequents L&M.[3] In fact, this was my first ever visit to the store. Nevertheless, I am a “project guy,” and I’m fascinated by all the tools, materials, accessories with which tradespeople are eminently familiar. I’ve engaged in enough “git ‘er done” tasks and projects to have acquired a deep appreciation for work requiring the wheel and the lever in all their sundry forms and applications. Often I’ll browse through a Menard’s store simply fishing for ideas, and lo and behold, they often leap straight out of the water and into the net: “Oh, you mean there’s a tool for doing what I’ve been struggling to accomplish!” Or “Aha! Here’s a piece of hardware that will work perfectly for my jerry-rigged solution to [one project challenge or another]!”
In short, a “fleet” store is to me what Tremblay’s candy store in Hayward is to tourists. I could easily spend all day and a fortune inside a place such as L&M.
On this occasion, however, I knew what I wanted. The only question was where to find it. A store employee near the entrance knew exactly where and told me. En route, however, I ran into . . . oops . . . I’ll need to disclose a clue here regarding the nature (so to speak) of my current project . . . deer repellants. One leaped out in front of all the others: a long-lasting, “green” version that will withstand wind, rain, snow and storm; a whole package of devices that can be suspended from tree branches, each device effective for a sizable area. Just then, another store employee emerged from the next aisle. By her countenance I could tell two things: (a) she knew her stuff; and (b) she took no prisoners. I asked her what she knew about the product and its efficacy.
“Donno,” she said, but with additional commentary reflecting genuineness that affirmed my initial assessment. “Bottom line,” she added, “I know folks who say it works, and I know folks who say it doesn’t work.” That’s all I needed to hear and returned the package to the shelf. When I explained a few details of my cabin-project, she asked several intelligent questions. After a short exchange, she allowed that she “lives off the grid.” In fact, she said so three times over the next minute, without explaining how that figured in her response and advice regarding my stated objectives.
“Before I let you go,” I said, “where can I find plastic ties for snow-fencing?”
“I’ll show you,” she said. “Follow me.” Two aisles over she pointed me to a large display of choices. I thanked her for her time and efforts, and for that I was rewarded with a “you’re very welcome.”
After settling on size and color of ties, I continued—to the plumbing department. There I found an employee intently engaged in jotting down numbers on a paper form. To be fair, he was also entering information on a digital device. I asked him where I could find my desired drain piping. “Sure,” he said. He stepped to a chart on the aisle end-cap. Just then another employee came by. “He can help you,” said the first guy. What you’re looking for will be outside.
The second guy put his hand-held bar code reader up to the chart, then said, “Follow me.” He was a man in his 50s and was appropriately observant about my safety as we exited the back of the building in the midst of an enthusiastic forklift coming and going. “I don’t want you to get run over,” he said. In fact, I was more concerned about his own safety than I was about mine: I could move much faster than he could.
Out in the yard, we climbed a mild slope—“Can you handle the hill?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, wondering if he could. At the summit, as it were, we were rewarded. Consistent with the store’s website, six sets of the 100-foot drain pipe rested on a pallet. “The question is,” I said, “whether I can get that whole thing into my wimpy car.” Then and there I had to acknowledge to myself the utility of a HUGE pick-up truck.
“Well,” said the employee with an accommodating smile, “let’s find out. Why don’t you drive your car back to the receiving area.”
I explained that if the entire length of tubing wouldn’t fit, I could have it cut into sections, and if that didn’t solve the problem, I could make a couple of trips. I wasn’t terribly upset by this prospect but rather, relieved that I hadn’t followed through on my original plan to buy the same product at a Menard’s (for the same price after the so-called “rebate”) back home.
As I followed the employee back down the slope to the asphalt where stacks of assorted materials awaited pick-up. Given our slow pace, I had time to learn a few things about the guy who was going the extra 50 yards on my behalf. “So,” I said, “how long have you been working here?”
Thus began an interesting story, first in dribs and drabs, but as my questioning found its cadence, he opened up more and volunteered additional information about himself that certainly qualified himself as an interesting individual, at least in my experience in interacting with humanity.
He’d previously worked as a regional delivery driver for Walmart and done quite well. He had very complimentary things to say about the company and its compensation structure. Unfortunately, he explained, he’d committed what he thought was a very minor infraction when he drove over a small threshold in a garage. As if he were an airline pilot who’d been fired for having rolled the nose gear of his aircraft a foot past the “737-HERE” line at GATE D6, he was “let go” by people who ruled “by the book.”
To his credit, he expressed no ill-will toward his former employer of five years.
“What did you do for work before Walmart?” I asked.
“Building maintenance for a school down in the Twin Cities,” he said. “For years I was a custodian. I got my boiler certificate and did lots of other work. When this building has a problem, I say, ‘Hey! I can fix that!’ but they won’t let me. They have to hire it out.”
“What about you?” he continued. “What’s your line of work? Or are you retired?” Hmmm, I thought. Apart from my shorts, Columbia hoodie sporting a black-on-brown stylized American flag with rows of conifers in lieu of stripes,“Paris – Est. 1889” baseball cap and white-flecked beard, what made him think I was retired?
He was very interested in hearing about the practice of law and asked several questions revealing his curiosity about how things work.
In a sub-sub-case of “one thing leads to another,” I described a case I had (reported way back when on this blog site) wherein a judge asked one of us lawyers to describe off the record, the whole concept of “chain of title” in the context of real estate law. I volunteered and started by contrasting the history of real estate law in the United States against the source of all legally recognized land acquisition in the country: downright theft from the indigenous people. (This brought a wave of chuckles from the judge and the other four lawyers in the courtroom.) In response, the L&M employee chuckled too but added, “Not to get political or anything, but there are a lot of people in this country who don’t want to talk about how we treated the native population.”
With that we both got quite “political” and discovered that we were on exactly the same page. When I asked him what he predicted for November, he replied, “The Republican Party will implode.”
He then told me to follow him back into the store where he’d complete an order form, which I’d then use to pay and check out. I could then drive around to the supply lot, where someone would help me load the drain pipe—and cut it for me, if necessary. Back in the plumbing department, my new friend asked me if I happened to know anything about muscle cars. “I once owned a Mustang,” I said, if that counts.
“Ha!” he said. “I own a vintage Mach I. Let me show you a picture.” With that he pulled out his phone and showed me a photo of a gleaming, mint-condition and true as could be “muscle car.” “I paid 75 grand for it,” he said enthusiastically. That statement connected to another dot: how during his years at Walmart he’d bought up all the Walmart stock he could manage. After a stock split, he’d watched the per share price double. “I made off like a bandit,” he said. He then showed me photos of his vintage Camero, also in perfect condition.
Just then, another customer appeared seeking information. My muscle car friend immediately closed his iPhone album and greeted the customer. “Can I help you find something?” he asked cheerfully. I said a quick thanks for all his help and moved to the checkout area.
Outside, I next faced the challenge of coaxing a 100-foot length of coiled, 4-inch drain piping into my car. Jumping right to my aid was a young worker with a positive attitude and good sense of spatial relationships. He shared my optimism that together we could figure out how to finagle the world’s longest and laziest boa constrictor into the back of my car—once the back seats were flattened. It took some convincing, but together we tamed the beast.
When I thanked the young man for a job well done and greatly appreciated, he removed his glove and extended his hand. “My name’s Dakota,” he said.
“And mine’s Eric.” Before driving off, I told Dakota that I fully appreciated his effort and good cheer and that whatever he was getting paid, it wasn’t enough.
When the snake-tamer turned to other tasks, I glanced at the driver of an 18-wheeler backed up to a loading dock some 50 feet away. The trucker was waiting for his truck to be unloaded and had been watching us. “Did you wonder if we could do it?” I shouted.
He gave me a thumbs up. Another guy with a story, I thought, but when I started moving in the driver’s direction, Dakota’s co-worker in the supply lot asked me to move so that another delivery truck idling in the parking lot could get through.
As I drove back to the lake, I pondered what more I might’ve learned from all the L&M staff and the truck driver if time had permitted. Every single one of them had an interesting story, I knew. One needs only to ask the right questions.
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
[1] The reader will have to wait until tomorrow to learn its purpose in connection with my latest cabin-project—an adaptive purpose having nothing to do with water or drainage.
[2] What our neighbor called my vehicle when he fired up one of his tractors several winters ago to pull my Hyundai Sonata out of a snowbank.
[3] In fact, the last time I rode in an over-sized pick-up was over a decade ago when a developer-client of mine was giving me a tour of a tract of land he planned to develop. As we rocked and rolled over the off-road terrain, we approached a small berm that completely blocked our view of what lay on the other side.
“What’s on the other side?” I asked, fearing some kind of drop-off.
My client turned to me and laughed. “I guess we’re about to find out!” he said, as he gunned the truck. We survived.
On the drive back to the city, we wound up talking about his airplane.
“Have you ever had a close call?” I asked naively.
“Oh, all the time,” he said.
I felt lucky when 20 minutes later we arrived in front of my downtown office building.
