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Texas Chainsaw Massacre
Some seventeen years ago my wife and I moved to Georgetown, Texas, from
Cleveland, Ohio. We settled in with a minimum of culture shock, but just
as I was beginning to feel comfortable with my new home I had an
encounter with Leatherface.
Our house was located on a busy road that did not permit on-street
parking, and we had one narrow driveway for two cars. As a result, we
grew accustomed to parking one of our ancient, rusting cars in front of
the house that was catty-corner to us down a little side street. Since
we often saw cars of a similar vintage and condition in front of the
house, we rashly assumed the owners didn't mind.
One day, after we'd been in our new home about a month, an elderly woman
came to our house and angrily insisted that we move the car. I walked
across the street with her, saying something like, "If it bothered you,
why didn't you say something earlier?" Perhaps I sounded ruder than I
intended, regionally challenged as I was. Suddenly her son, a big
strapping lad, emerged cussing and red-faced from around the side of the
house, wielding a chainsaw that he had been about to use on the trees in
the yard and which he seemed to be redirecting at me. All of my
indie-film nightmares seemed to be coming true. I quickly jumped into my
car, drove it up my driveway, raced inside the house, and then refused
to go outside for the next twenty-four hours. It was my first contact
with Southern honor and the cult of good manners, and the incident
taught me a valuable lesson about the iron fist (or chainsaw) hidden in
the gloved hand. I have been excessively polite to elderly Texas ladies
ever since.
Mark Odintz
Austin, Texas
Published:
November 14,
2005
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