Blue Collar Wife Quotes

What first comes across our minds About the stocky Mexican Pushing a mower across the lawn At 7 a.m. on a Saturday As the roar of the cutter wakes us? Let me take a guess. Why do they have to come so damn early? What do we make of his flannel Shirt missing buttons at the cuffs, Threadbare at the shoulders, The grass stains around his knees, The dirt like roadmaps to nowhere, Between the wrinkles of his neck? Let me take a shot. Dirty Mexican. Would his appearance lead us to believe He is a border jumper or wetback Who hits the bar top with an empty shot glass For the twelfth time then goes home To kick his wife around like fallen grapefruit Lying on the ground? First, the stocky Mexican isn’t mowing the lawn At 7 a.m. on a Saturday. He doesn’t work weekends anymore ever since He lost one-third of his route To laborers willing to work for next to nothing. Second, he knows better than to kneel On the wet grass because, well, the knees Of his pants will become grass-stained And pants don’t grow on trees, even here, Close to Palm Springs. Instead, after 25 years of the same blue collar work, Two sons out and one going to college, Rather than jail, and a small but modest savings In case he loses the remaining two-thirds Of his work—no matter how small and reluctantly The checks come in the mail— My father the stocky gardener believes He firmly holds his life In both his hands like pruning shears, Chopping branches and blossoms, Never looking downward as they fall to his feet In pieces like the American dream.

Did you just spit on your hand before you patted down my hair?” he asked indignantly. “Oh, I did no such thing. Now be still. Of all the rude, impertinent accusations to make! Bend down lower. I will have you know that members of the aristocracy do not have ‘spit’ as you crudely refer to it, young man. We do not acknowledge saliva in any form. Straighten your collar. There, you look nearly presentable.” She grumbled in aggravation, “Do you even own a brush?” Grabbing his chin, she brusquely turned his face from side to side. “For heaven’s sake, Richard, what did you use to shave—a shovel?” “Leave now, Catherine, and I may spare your life.” There was a moment of quiet from behind the door. “Go, woman! I intend to begin ravishing my wife shortly; however, I will not even consider it before I see that little dwarflike body of yours waddling down this corridor! Away with you! Shoo!” “Oh, all right!” she finally capitulated. “By the way, mon chou, I should tell you that when you two finally get around to reconciling and retire upstairs, Amanda is occupying the large blue suite down the east corridor, not your usual bachelor room at the end of the west corridor.” She reached up to kiss his offered cheek then turned on her heels to leave. “You have finally earned an upgrade in accommodations, Richard. Well done, you.

Sorry, lass,” he said, with a half-smile. “I’m a marrit man.” He made to pass by, and she made a small incoherent sound, putting out a hand to stop him, but not quite daring to touch his sleeve. He stopped and looked at her more closely. “No, I meant it; I’ve a wife at home, and home’s not far,” he said, evidently wishing to be courteous. “But—” He stopped, close enough now to take in the grubbiness of her clothes, the hole in the sleeve of her coat and the tattered ends of her stock. “Och,” he said in a different tone, and reached for the small leather purse he wore tied at his waist. “Will ye be starved, then, lass? I’ve money, if you must eat.” She could scarcely breathe. His eyes were dark blue, soft with kindness. Her eyes fixed on the open collar of his shirt, where the curly hairs showed, bleached gold against his sunburnt skin. “Are you—you’re Jamie Fraser, aren’t you?” He glanced sharply at her face. “I am,” he said. The wariness had returned to his face; his eyes narrowed against the sun. He glanced quickly behind him, toward the tavern, but nothing stirred in the open doorway. He took a step closer to her. “Who asks?” he said softly. “Have you a message for me, lass?” She felt an absurd desire to laugh welling up in her throat. Did she have a message? “My name is Brianna,” she said. He frowned, uncertain, and something flickered in his eyes. He knew it! He’d heard the name and it meant something to him. She swallowed hard, feeling her cheeks blaze as though they’d been seared by a candle flame. “I’m your daughter,” she said, her voice sounding choked to her own ears. “Brianna.” He

I have been lusting after my wife’s son since the day I met him. Tall and thin, the boy has yet to grow into his long arms and legs. Jet black hair like his biological father, it falls just to below his collar. His eyes are so blue I could see myself in them if I allowed myself to get close enough. I haven’t done that. Yet.

Some years ago I took a copy of God’s “whoever” policy to California. I wanted to show it to my Uncle Billy. He’d been scheduled to visit my home, but bone cancer had thwarted his plans. My uncle reminded me much of my father: squared like a blast furnace, ruddy as a leather basketball. They shared the same West Texas roots, penchant for cigars, and blue-collar work ethic. But I wasn’t sure if they shared the same faith. So after several planes, two shuttles, and a rental-car road trip, I reached Uncle Billy’s house only to learn he was back in the hospital. No visitors. Maybe tomorrow. He felt better the next day. Good enough to come home. I went to see him. Cancer had taken its toll and his strength. The recliner entombed his body. He recognized me yet dozed as I chatted with his wife and friends. He scarcely opened his eyes. People came and went, and I began to wonder if I would have the chance to ask the question. Finally the guests stepped out onto the lawn and left me alone with my uncle. I slid my chair next to his, took his skintaut hand, and wasted no words. “Bill, are you ready to go to heaven?” His eyes, for the first time, popped open. Saucer wide. His head lifted. Doubt laced his response: “I think I am.” “Do you want to be sure?” “Oh yes.” Our brief talk ended with a prayer for grace. We both said “amen,” and I soon left. Uncle Billy died within days. Did he wake up in heaven? According to the parable of the eleventh-hour workers, he did.

I’m pouring salted peanuts into a heart-shaped crystal bowl (a contribution from Alicia, who brought it out of storage, along with her ice tongs) when John Ambrose McClaren walks into the room in a light blue Oxford shirt and navy sport coat, not dissimilar to Nelson’s! I nearly scream out loud. Clapping my hands to my mouth, I drop to the floor, behind the table. If he sees me, he might run off. I don’t know what he’s doing here, but this is my perfect chance to take him out. I crouch behind the table, running through options in my head. And then the piano music stops and I hear Stormy call out, “Lara Jean? Lara Jean, where are you? Come out from behind the table. I want to introduce you to someone.” Slowly, I rise to my feet. John McClaren is staring at me. “What are you doing here?” he asks me, tugging on his shirt collar like it’s choking him. “I volunteer here,” I say, still keeping a safe distance. Don’t want to spook him. Stormy claps her hands. “You two know each other?” John says, “We’re friends, Grandma. We used to live in the same neighborhood.” “Stormy’s your grandma?” My mind is blown. So John is her grandson she wanted to set me up with! Of all the nursing homes in all the towns in all the world! My grandson looks like a young Robert Redford. He does; he really does. “She’s my great-grandmother by marriage,” John says. Stormy’s eyes dart around the room. “Hush up! I don’t want people knowing you’re my great-anything.” John lowers his voice. “She was my great-grandpa’s second wife.” “My favorite of all my husbands,” Stormy says. “May he rest in peace, that old buzzard.