11:32 p.m. | 2004-02-24 Respect. So many people, young and old want respect � on demand, even � nowadays. That�s odd to me. I always thought that was something you earned, yet didn�t seek. That�s the distinguishing factor, actually, between respect and money. Earning money doesn�t make you respectful. And, being respectful doesn�t earn you money. Two different things there. That it is. So, gather round because I�m gonna tell a story. A real life one. If you don�t want to hear it, gather up your marbles right now � and I do mean, RIGHT NOW � and go home. Don�t even fake it either cause I�ll kick your ass. Or, whatever. See, too much TV. Anyway, when I was in my teens, my parents made friends. I did too. But, I�ll clarify that by telling you that we moved shortly (heh) before I became a teenager. NewState, NewTown, NewSchool, NewFriends, NewFun, NewGrievances, oh and hey, NewHormones. (Just to let you know, �new hormones� are NOT going to be featured in this entry � or perhaps, ever � but I was just setting the stage, so to speak.) It was awkward, sometimes. What, with your parents all like �look who we�re friends with� your next teacher, the parents of your new friend� and whatnot. Small towns. What can you do? Needless to say, I met quite a few adults and my parents met quite a few teenagers. Hell, my father taught at my high school and, at one point, my mother worked at the local diner� I�m guessing they knew more teenagers than I did. And, some of them were impressive. Quite impressive. In different ways. It�s the matter of the different degrees of Hell when you�re in high school. My parents� friends? A different story there. �Impressive� is an understatement. I remember the first time that we went to the antique store. As far as our family goes, we�re antique freaks, so that wasn�t a surprise. However, my parents struck up a conversation with one of the dealers who also made jewelry as a side business. Love at first sight, for MyDad and I, since he mostly did silver and turquoise pieces. He had a showcase and we were transfixed by the craftsmanship and, well, by him. Him being �Dutch�. Dutch was (and maybe still is) a short, slender man. But very strong. And, quite peaceful and quiet. And, of course, I thought he was old. I have no idea how old he was/is, but he seemed older than my parents at the time. Being a teenager, that was older than dirt itself, of course. My father, at some point, commissioned Dutch to make a belt buckle. Dutch agreed. It took some time, of course, as it was all hand-done. Hence, the friendship between Dutch and my parents grew and soon, Dutch was a regular fixture at family functions. It was a friendship that I enjoyed. Dutch had a great sense of humor, was very wise and had a gentle kind of strength about him. My parents respected him a great deal, and so did I. When the piece was finished, I went with MyDad to pick it up. It turned out better than MyDad expected. And, it was a great piece. However, being a teenager � who had no need for a customized belt buckle � I lost interest rather quickly. Until Dutch, in all his excitement, forgot about his arm and rolled up his sleeve. Trust me, I noticed that. Right off the bat. I�d seen Dutch a thousand times and he never, ever rolled up his sleeves. At all. Even more shocking was the fact that his shirtsleeve was hiding a tattoo. Lest you forget, I�m on the other side of the hill. This was back in the day when you only had tattoos if you�d been in prison or the military. And, in either case, the tat was on the upper arm. No, this was different. This was a tat on the inside of Dutch�s lower arm. Just some numbers done very, very poorly. I noticed and I stared. For Christ�s sake, it was a TATOO. Back when tats were very bad things to have. Of course, Dutch noticed that I was staring and immediately closed up his sleeve. I excused myself and ran off to a different section of the store. Ashamed that I had shamed him. I never mentioned it to anyone until I was in my twenties. Living in a different town. I asked MyDad and he told me that Dutch had been in a concentration camp and the tattoo was his prison number. Then, I understood about the sleeves. And, every time I go back to ThatTown and ThatStore, I ask after him. He�s not there anymore but they recognize the name. I keep hoping he�ll be there the next time. I learned a lot of things from Dutch. Most importantly, I learned about quiet strength and respect. your thoughts? seed flower