Scott Charles Adams' Blog

I’m a Right-of-Way Agent, now. That means I talk to strangers about tree-trimming rights for new conductors, or new poles on their property, or new anchor guys on their property, or new transformers on their property. I think I managed to find the only Electrical Engineering job that requires talking to dozens of strangers every day. When I tell most EEs about my job, they grimace like I’ve got their wrist in a judo-hold — because the purpose of getting a job in EE is to never speak to anyone again.

Me … I like people. I’m comfortable with strangers. I sold cars. I worked in a call center. This is right in my wheelhouse. And when someone asks me, “What is three-phase power?” I can explain it to them in as excruciating detail as they like. Because EE.

It has been said that Pennsylvania is Philadelphia on one end, Pittsburgh on the other, and Kentucky in the middle. This is true … and for the most part, my job takes me into Pennsyl-tucky. That means coal country and farmland. And it means Trump signs. So I know going-in that politics, as a topic, is absolutely off the table.

Today, I found myself sitting across from an 85 year old woman. I’ve done my due diligence. I already know that she’s signed over three parcels of farmland to her son and his wife as part of a living estate, and that her son’s wife has way too many vowels in her name. Like, way too many. I don’t know where she’s from, but apparently in that country consonants cost money.

“I don’t understand why you need my signature,” she tells me as we sit at her kitchen table. “I’ve already signed the farm over to my sons.”

I’m confused. Did she give one of her sons an ordinary name, and then go all Bohemian for the second one? Did this sweet little Dutch lady adopt a child from Africa, and now both of her sons share a mailing address?

“I’m confused,” I said. Which was accurate. “Based on my research, I thought you’d signed the farm over to your son and his wife.”

“They’re married,” she explained. “That’s my son and his husband.”

Which is when I realized that a really sweet moment had passed me by, and I’d missed it. She’d referred to her son and his husband as “her sons.” Without qualifying. Without awkwardly stammering an explanation. To this farmer’s widow living in Pennsyl-tucky, they were simply her sons.

Suffice to say, there was no Trump sign on this house.

Oh … and the too-many-vowels thing? Turns out he’s Hawaiian.

I’ll be meeting them soon, to get their signatures.

I’ll bet they’re totally hot.