As soon as I got to work, we were sent to Tazewell Pike to replace a broken pole. FYI: Tazewell Pike at 8:45 Monday morning is comparable to... Daytona Speedway with grumpy drivers. Nevertheless, off I go. We set up our work area and blah, blah, blah, work talk, work talk, more blah.
My partner, David, was up in the bucket so I was standing in this driveway near the pole. I glanced toward the house and saw the homeowner, whose yard this broken pole was in, walking down toward me. Great, here comes my daily tongue-lashing for blocking a driveway/muddying up someone's ditchline/gumming up traffic/not having the phones repaired fast enough. You'd be amazed how belligerent people get sometimes, and just because we are easy targets.
So the guy approaches me and I remove my hardhat and safety glasses (out of courtesy), put on my best public relations smile and await the tsunami of obscenities and hatred that typically comes my way.
He says, " 'ello, chap! Might I trouble you with a query?"
I snicker inside my head, not sure if he's messing with me or if I'm having an Alzheimer's moment.
So, to avoid seeming like a smart aleck but hoping to break the tension, I reply, "Query away, my good man!"
The guy lost it. He nearly busted a gut laughing.
"I wasn't expecting that!"
"Well, I didn't expect to be called "chap" in northeast Knoxville." And we shared a good laugh or two and he eventually reveals why he came down his driveway in thirty degree weather to talk to me. Turns out he was just curious about where he could place his new mailbox post in relation to our new telephone pole. His mailbox was wiped out by the same car.
He said, "I don't know all your regulations because I'm not from here."
"No kidding." And we laughed some more.
"I just moved here from England and your community ordinances and the like are very odd. By the way, what do you call those here?"
"You mean the pole? The telephone pole?"
"We call them telegraph poles over there." Interesting.
"What part of England?" I'm sure it must have sounded like Ainglund to him.
"I was born in Cheshire, it's near Manchester. Then I moved to London and then here to America."
He said all of this in the most pleasant English accent I've ever heard. He looked the part, too -- very clean-cut, Tom Hanks hairstyle. His voice was sort of in between baritone and tenor and his eyebrows lifted when he emphasized a syllable. I never got his name, but it should have been Neville. Or Pip.
We talked on and I told him I have researched my family history to England, the township of Headley-Hampshire, and have thought about visiting there just out of curiosity. Believe it or not, he actually knew the place.
"It's quite lovely there. It's in the south. You simply must visit. You should plan on at least two weeks, though. London is so filled with things to do that you will have to drag yourself out of there. Here, let me recommend a hotel; near Tower Bridge, I believe it's called the Tower Hotel. Very nice, four-star but affordable. And take the trains when you can. It's the most fascinating way to see everything. There's a depot near that hotel."
I couldn't resist. The opportunity presented itself so I just couldn't stop myself.
"Platform 9 3/4?"
He horse-laughed. He said J.K. Rowling has done more to advance the English culture than "any resident of Buckingham Palace." He then shook my hand (in a very awkwardly English way), and bid me farewell.
It just proves how random life can be sometimes.
