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Bud Grossmann’s
Words of the Week
for the Week of
May 13, 2007
Published as Family History
in a Gramma Letter dated May 13, 1997.
© 1997 by Bud Grossmann.
All Rights Reserved.
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David, His Dad, & Mirrors, 1986
© 1986 by Bud Grossmann
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A FAMILIAR RESEMBLANCE
Tuesday, May 13, 1997
Dear Gramma,
Someday—I’m sure of it—I am going to be arrested for a crime committed by someone else. I don’t look forward to my night in jail, but it won’t be so bad so long as I can prove my alibi and get the charges dropped before the case goes to trial.
The problem, you see, is that I evidently look exactly like a lot of other guys. So far, they have all turned out to be nice guys, but one of these days, I know, I’ll be in big trouble because I have such a common face.
My good friend Flemming has known me, going on twenty years. He has perfect eyesight, but he phoned recently to scold, “Bud, why didn’t you wave back, today?”
“Flemming, what are you talking about?”
“On Bishop Street,” he insisted. “Why didn’t you wave when I drove by in the Jeep? I tooted and waved at you, but you looked straight at me and kept on walking.”
“Flemming,” I said, “I wasn’t downtown today.”
“Ha!” he scoffed. “If it wasn’t you, then it had to be your twin!”
This sort of thing occurs disconcertingly often. Of course, it’s not usually friends mistaking someone else for me, but strangers misidentifying me as someone else. Now, speaking of disconcerting ... one evening last week, right after a choir concert at my church, I was stuffing my face at the refreshments table. In quick succession, two different people greeted me, and both were disappointed when they found out they had the wrong man. The first was a little old lady who shook my hand (the hand without the two brownies in it) and said, “What a beautiful, beautiful performance! You are truly a gifted director!”
“Well, thank you, ma’am,” I replied. Then I pointed to another white-guy-with-a-beard (one wearing similar wirerim eyeglasses, but a man with considerably less hair on top of his head) and suggested, “You might want to go say the same thing to Mr. Conover. He actually did all the work.”
The lady continued to grip my hand as she squinted at the choirmaster and then squinted again at me. “Oh, my!” she said. “He’s so tall! I thought that was you up front, standing on a box!”
Moments later, a fellow slapped me on the back and said, “Bruce! Did you ever finish your doctoral dissertation?” I knew who he meant—Bruce Larson, a white-guy-without-a-beard—but it wasn’t easy convincing this friendly fellow. “Are you sure you aren’t an anthropologist?” he asked skeptically.
Well, don’t get me going, Granny. I have plenty of these tales, but I’ll tell you just one more. I was pushing a shopping cart in a supermarket when I had to pause behind a woman bending over a low shelf and blocking the aisle. She rose and dumped an armload of grocery items in with mine. Without even glancing at me, she turned back to the shelf for another armload. I spoke up. “Excuse me,” I said, “but ... I think I’m feeling ... um ... just a little bit rushed in our relationship.”
The woman looked blankly at my grin, then down at her items in my cart before she lifted her eyes to me again. Her mouth fell open in shock. “Oh!” she said. “I’m so sorry! I ... I thought ... I thought you were my daughter!”
“Well,” I chuckled, “When you tell your daughter about this, I hope she feels as flattered as I!”
♦
If, dear Grandmother, you didn’t much care for this letter, I hope you’ll blame a certain writer who just happens to look a lot like me.
Love,
Buddy
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