I came home the other day and my hubby was not home. His car was here, so I figured he had gone for a walk.

He didn’t come home and didn’t come home, so I was concerned he was collapsed on a sidewalk somewhere.

He has never collapsed on a sidewalk before, but when you reach a certain age, and have an active imagination, the possibilities are endless.

I called his cell. He answered. “Where are you?” I asked.

“I went for a walk.”

“You’ve been gone a long time. I was worried.”

“Did you see that big, downed tree when you came home?”

“You mean the huge maple that fell from the front yard of the corner house, covered their entire yard and most of the street? Yes, I saw it.”

“That’s where I am now.”

“Why?”

“I’m watching to see what will happen. Six Department of Public Works trucks have pulled up. Six trucks and at least eight workers! Can you believe it would take that many trucks and workers to clear the street?”

“Call Elon Musk,” I say.

The husband doesn’t hear me because he’s focused on the excessive manpower and still narrating unfolding events.

I hung up. Worried sick one minute, not interested the next. Oh, the fickle human heart.

He texted a few pictures to me, our adult children, and their spouses, of the downed tree from different angles and other people standing around surveying the scene.

It is sometimes difficult to realize that the things that may interest us may not be of interest to others.

Our son sent a link that night to the Italian word, “Umarell.”

Umarell: men of retirement age who spend their time watching construction sites, especially roadworks, stereotypically with hands clasped behind their backs and offering unwanted advice to the workers.

My husband doesn’t clasp his hands behind his back, but he qualifies. He may be an umarell extraordinaire. He isn’t just a construction umarell, he is often an umarell to my gardening projects. And painting projects. Many evenings he is an umarell in the kitchen.

Our daughter-in-law says her dad is an umarell, as well. When the county installed new culverts in their rural area, he walked to the construction site with his dog every day saying he was going to give them their instructions. He was soon on a first name basis with the crew.

A few years ago, San Lazzaro di Savena in northern Italy, a town in which a lot of older men are apparently fond of standing around watching construction projects, began awarding an annual “Umarell Prize.”

I’d like to know where to send my nominations.

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