The Cedar Post

We pulled into the lot and parked the car. As we started to walk to the restaurant, I turned to look back at the car.

Trudy, I said.

She stopped and looked at me.

My log.

She looked at the cedar post strapped to the top of the car.

It was part of some trimming that her brother had done at her mother's house long ago. And only now, more than a year after the cutting, had we finally gone down there with the car-top carrier. So only now was I able to strap it to the top of the car to bring it home.

Trudy looked back at me.

I'm worried about my log, I said to her.

You mean, she started slowly, that it's not safe?

Yes, I said. Someone might take it.

She looked at me and then at the log again.

But I was joking, and I smiled. With a look of relief, she rolled her eyes and said, I was trying to find some gentle way to tell you that no one would want your log, which of course was the truth.

So we went inside and sat down at a booth in the corner where, as it turned out, we could see the car in the parking lot with the cedar post strapped to the top.

We watched the hubbub around the restaurant for a while, and then we ordered our food. And then Trudy poked me in the side and whispered to me.

David, look! That man next to our car is pointing to your cedar post and talking to his wife.

She wasn't joking. It was true. He was doing just that.

Undoubtedly he was a man of good taste.

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