Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson here. Once again I was struggling to come up with a fresh topic and this time my husband, Sanford Emerson, came to the rescue with what follows. I should warn you—he’s been reading a lot of E. B. White lately!

The author in ski helmet

I went skiing the other day. Born and raised in Maine I’ve enjoyed the sport for over seventy years, give or take. In the morning when I was shuffling half-awake into the kitchen to fix myself a sandwich to take along, the Spanish Don who sits at the apex of the multinational conglomerate which supplies me with the alternating electrical current I use—along with some irreplaceable Arabian oil—to keep my toes from freezing to the floor of my bathroom, decided it would be amusing to reach out and shut down my lights just after dawn.

Standing in front of my electric coffee machine, the half light shining in through my kitchen window, I spoke ten or fifteen ancient Anglo-Saxon words concerning the probable marital status of said Spaniard’s parents. Having no doubt sensed my distress from across the wide ocean, he directed some poor shivering minion to restore my service, for which I was grudgingly grateful, even though it took about an hour. As a result, however, I was delayed in my departure for the slopes by the necessity of lighting off our backup wood stove and therefore unable to brew my customary thermos of Earl Grey, with which I usually regulate my hydration during the exertion of the considerable energy required to avoid collisions with fearless small children and large trees, both often found hanging around at ski resorts.

Arriving slopeside later than usual and after a few warm-up runs, I had worked up an appetite and retired to the lodge to eat my sandwich. Remembering that I would have to purchase some substitute beverage to accompany it, I clutched my slender senior citizen’s wallet and wandered into the cafeteria where I selected a pint container of healthy-looking Vitamin D3 fortified Maine milk and approached the cash register. Seated on a stool was a nice-looking woman who appeared be of an age with my grandniece—early twenties. She looked at me, nodded toward the milk and said something which I did not immediately understand. Looking closer I noticed a name tag pinned to her shirt and, peering at it, learned her name and the fact that she was from Argentina.

It is common knowledge that one of the major hurdles for the service industry these days is obtaining the services of essential workers—those who do the actual labor required to keep the wheels turning. Given the girl’s age and appearance I deduced that she was probably a student spending her southern hemisphere summer vacation filling a slot no local could be convinced to take. I did something similar at that age and thus felt sympathetic.

When I did not immediately open my wallet, she repeated what she had said more loudly and I realized that she was asking for $4.19 for the milk. As I fumbled for a five I greeted her by name and remarked that I had noticed where she was from. She nodded shyly without speaking. In retrospect I may have been wrong in assuming that she had not yet mastered much English but as I have no Spanish I smiled benevolently and asked her, speaking very slowly, if she was enjoying her time in America. She looked up at me with wide, glistening eyes, shook her head quickly and, looking, I suddenly realized, quite frightened, said very softly, “No.”

new cover for WELL, HELL

Sanford Emerson retired from law enforcement and took up Christmas tree farming, woodworking, and writing–sometimes all three at the same time. He is currently working on two novels set in the 1980s and is the author of Well, Hell: The Yarns of Constable Bobby Wing of Skedaddle Gore, Maine.