My First Lesson in Respect

(Continued from Thursday . . . )

For Thursday’s posting, Fishducky commented that as a “political activist” I probably spent time in jail. I didn’t. So I conclude that I chose the wrong words. I’ve never truly been an activist. I have actively followed my social conscience. In doing that, I’ve become involved, sometimes peripherally, sometimes right in the midst of turmoil, in several movements or happenings in our country.

            So please meander with me for the next few postings down the memory lane of my conscience. In the ‘60s we’ll visit Civil Rights; the ‘70s, Vietnam and unionization; the ‘80s, AIDS; the ‘90s, Animal Rights; the new century—Get Out the Vote. Most often during these decades, I, like millions of others, just quietly did what seemed necessary.

            Before we begin this journey, however, I want to share with you the story of how my mother encouraged my involvement in the work of humanity.

            From 1942 on, we lived in the country. During the ‘40s and early ‘50s, hobos often mounted the back stoop and knocked on the door. “Any work needing done, Mam?” they’d ask.

 My mother on her wedding day.

            Mom would direct the bewhiskered men—who came one by one throughout the years—to the chicken coop and barn, the lawn mower, the orchard where burnished yellow pears hung ripe for picking. As the men worked, she’d prepare a meal: Meat. Potatoes. Gravy. Chunks of cucumber and tomatoes. Green beans. Thick slices of bread slathered with butter. Yellow cake topped with caramelized coconut. Mugs of black coffee swirled with heavy, rich cream from our Guernsey.

            The work finished, the men returned to the back door. “All done, Mam,” they’d say. Mom stepped out into the yard to examine what they’d done. She’d comment on the evenness of the grass. The number of unblemished pears in the bushel baskets. The busy hens pecking away at the generous hand toss of seed. The horses drinking their water, fresh from the well.            

            Then she’d invite the men to sit on a turned-over bucket in the backyard. She’d serve them, all the while asking them for news of the world down the train tracks. What had they seen? Who had they met? What was being talked about in the boxcars and on the farms in Colorado and Kansas and beyond?

             What were their thoughts on the Iron Curtain? What did they think about the Marshall Plan? Had they served in the war? Where did they see action?

            She listened with real interest to their opinions. Their views. Their life story. Her ready smile and her instant respect brought forth from these men stories, I now think, they longed to tell. All of us want to share the story of our lives. It is in this sharing that we find meaning.

            I watched entranced as the men joshed with my mom. They used they hands, their fingernails underlined with grease, to gesture away and beyond to where they’d journeyed. All the while, they heartily sopped up the gravy with a second or even a third slice of bread.

            Sometimes they’d stop and sing Mom a song they’d heard. They’d ask if she’d heard it on the radio yet. Sometimes the two of them—the hobo who traveled the rails and Mom who stayed at home, taking care of her family—would sing a chorus or two together.

            Soon the men began nibbling at the cake. It was then Mom refilled their coffee cup and asked if they’d remove their wrinkled neckerchiefs. Willingly, they’d hand over the bright red squares for they knew her plan.

            Mom would disappear into the kitchen. When she returned, the neckerchief bulged with meat sandwiches, cake, and several pears. The ends of the cloth were tied so that the men could carry the bundle away with them. Mom encouraged each one who came to our home to come again. “May the road rise up to meet you,” she’d say as she shook their hands good-bye. They’d turn and walk down the rutted driveway to the road beyond. Afterward, Mom and I would sit on the stoop and talk about what had just happened.

            I learned from her that not everyone gave food to hobos. That the men had etched a code into the telephone pole at the bottom of the orchard. The code meant that in this house the woman fed anyone who came to her door. I learned that giving to others was a privilege.

            I learned that no one wants a handout. They want to work for what they get. So always it was important to give real work to these men. Mom encouraged me to listen to the men. They never came and asked for food. They always asked for work.

            I learned that these men were “down on their luck” as Mom said. She told me to listen to the pauses between their words. “They tell you a lot with what they don’t say,” she said. “You don’t know, Dolores, what hardship they’ve faced. What sadness. They’re bone weary.”

            I learned that song “can lift a weary soul,” as Mom said.

            I learned that the way a person looks or speaks doesn’t tell me much about him or her. Everyone has dreams and truths and sorrows. Everyone has opinions and fears and a story to tell.

            I learned that giving and receiving are two sides of a coin. Who is Giver? Who Receiver? In the most fruitful human exchanges both parties become both. In giving, I receive. In receiving, I give. Only then can human dignity be maintained. Only then can it flourish.

            All this I learned from my mother. If later in life I chose to give so as to receive and to receive in order to give, it is my mother who taught me the bounty of relationship and the strength of commitment to human bonding.                                                           

                                                                               (Continued on Tuesday . . . )

PS: Today the blog Wrote by Rote features a posting on Dulcy's book. If you read my blog regularly, you will know much of what I've shared there. But both the beginning and the ending will be new to you.

Sandwich photo from free digital photos.