Saturday, January 14, 2012

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.


46 comments:

  1. Dee, you brought some tears to my eyes and a tender feeling to my heart with this post. What a tribute to your mother and the lessons she taught you by her words and her example.

    I've heard of the kind generosity of folks, mainly women, to those hard on their luck, but, never one as personal and touching as yours here. I thank you for your reminisce.

    I've had a bit of a problem commenting on your last several posts and will try this a different way in hopes that you can finally hear from me, Dee.
    I'm eager to hear more of your ways of giving through your activism. Best wishes.

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    1. Dear Penny,
      I'm so happy you were able to comment today. I wonder what the problem is. I know Blogger has been adding some new items--like being able to reply here to your comment--but sometimes there does seem to be a mell of a mess!

      Peace.

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  2. Dear Dee,

    I loved this story about your mom. Sometimes, I've been a little mad at your mom, especially when she left you with the neighbors when you were little!

    Through this story, I learned so much more about the woman she was, and understood even better the woman you are. Thanks for linking the story about you and Hank, as somehow I missed that one before.

    Thank you for your recent comments on my last few posts, especially losing it! Your response is "right on" and I wish I could stop and think that way. Maybe in time, I will. Anyway, thank you for loving comments that feed my soul.

    Hugs to you

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    1. Dear Sandi,
      We do for one another what we can and my commenting on your blog is my way of saying just how special you are. Remember that. As the Fox said to the Little Prince about his rose, "She is unique in all the world."

      I took away the link as I decided to post that story on Tuesday to show just how Mom's teaching influenced me when I left the convent.

      Peace.

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  3. Dear Dee--It appears I was too quick in judging your mother from the posts you wrote about being left with your grandmother. I never knew about her wonderful soul.

    I don't think that going to jail because of your strong beliefs would be such a bad thing--sometimes it is necessary. Just look at Martin Luther King.

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    1. Dear Fishducky,
      I'm pleased that you've revised your impression of my mom. Of course, you knew only part of her story. Today you learned another part. As the months pass there will be more. It's the learning of the story that helps me let go of judging. Mom taught me that too.

      Peace.

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    2. I applaud this. An era forgotten by those of us who are older and unbelievable to the younger ones. You wrote "No one wants a hand out," then ..... . Now, I feel the younger generation suffers from entitlement and has been conditioned towards socialism.

      You described the transient so well. I recall the names ......hobo, tramp, bum. Isn't it strange how over the years, words take on a different meaning. Back then, the words had no particular bad significance. They just indicated a man without a job, riding the rails and looking for work. I recall a then popular song..... "Hallelujah I'm a bum."
      Your Mother was like my Grandmother, who always fed the bums too.
      I must have missed that part of your life where you were sent to live with the neighbors or your grandmother. It must have been the times. I, too, was left with my Grandmother who raised me until it was time for me to go to school. At one time, I resented my mother but then I grew older, I know she did it for me because my grandparents had a farm and that meant food. People took in neighbor's kids just so they could eat. No one can relate to that today.
      Those times would make a wonderful story/book. And you do it so well.
      Loving it, kiddo.

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    3. Dear Manzanita,
      I so value your comments because we lived through many of the same years. I know you're a few years older than I, but not enough to matter to our memories. And yes, you are so right--hobo, tramp, bum--we used all those words and all they meant was that someone was down on his luck. No judgment.

      Peace.

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  4. Wow! This is beautiful. Your mother sounds amazing. Fishducky took the words out of my mouth. I feel like I judged your mother too quickly as well.

    I LOVE this line: "Everyone has dreams and truths and sorrows. Everyone has opinions and fears and a story to tell."

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    1. Dear Elisa,
      I believe you live the truth of that line you liked so well.

      Peace.

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    2. The commenting format doesn't seem to allow for an entirely new comment, so... Too many good lines to re-state. I loved every one. Goosebumps galore and tears, too. What a beautiful person your mother was and what a wonderful writer and person her daughter is.

      My grandmother fed the hobos, too, their house was, also, marked. I don't know the details and all the principle players are gone...
      Thank you for presenting this as a possibility.

      I must add: the WV is "curist." i.e. healer?

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    3. Dear Teresa,
      Thank you for recognizing the beauty of my mother. I think back then many, many women fed those who came to their doors, weary from the road.

      Peace.

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  5. What a marvellous life lesson to have been given so early. My mother ran an unofficial women's shelter in our home, my father repaired talking books for people with sight deficiencies. Both of them taught that it is giving which creates a community.
    Now both my parents are dead. I do voluntary work with Lifeline as a telephone counsellor and offer peer support to others with MS. I give what I can to charities whose aim is to empower people. And I receive a great deal more than I give.
    Thank you for this post. I will be back on Tuesday.

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    1. Dear "Elephan'ts Child,"
      I so agree with you and your parents that giving creates community. They must have been inspiring parents. And now you inspire also. I like what you said about giving to charities that empower people. That's so important. That's the "teaching people to fish, rather than giving them a fish."

      Peace.

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  6. I remember hearing and reading about a code they carved onto fences or posts to tell who would help and who were dangerous, etc. The thing that was different back then was that the people who were out of work were also respectful. They came to your door and asked for work instead of just sneaking on your land and stealing from your garden or swiping a chicken. Sadly, I think that on the whole you could trust people more back then. Makes you wonder where along the line people lost their dignity and pride...that innate sense of right and wrong...the ability to treat everyone with respect. Has gotten me to milling...about how money and goods have become a person's value. Wonderful post, Dee!! Your mother was a gracious woman. You learned from the best. :)

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    1. Dear Rita,
      You may be right. That we live in a different time now. That many of us let money and "stuff" define us. And what do we do then? What is our story and meaning and mission now? How do we light the candles in the dark?

      Peace.

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    2. That's the stuff I think about all the time...but I'm still not sure. :)

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    3. "Makes you wonder where along the line people lost their dignity and pride...that innate sense of right and wrong...the ability to treat everyone with respect."

      I wonder this all the time too. We weren't perfect back then. All one has to do is think of any news story involving the Civil Rights Movement to remember just how imperfect. But the families I knew raised their children to be polite, to work hard, and to care about others as well as themselves.

      I don't see so much of that today, and it makes me sad.

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  7. I just visited the other blog. What a wonderful story Dulcy had to tell you. I began my activist status in London in the early 1060s when Bertrand Russel started for the Ban the Bomb movement, which is where the peace symbol originated, I believe, and later I demonstrated against apartheid in Trafalgar Square, where I was run down by a bobby on a horse, because I was hugging a Jamaican friend. I was just a little injured, but that really got me going on civil rights for all people. You are such a wonderful writer -- any more books coming. What happened to all those words you had to eliminate from Dulcy's Story? Sorry, but I just can't get enough from you.

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    1. Dear Inger,
      I think that you are the political activist. I'd so like to hear your stories of Trafalgar Square and protesting apartheid and banning the bomb. Would you think about blogging about that part of your life sometime?

      Peace.

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  8. Dee, your post about your Mon touched my heart. She certainly was a kind and caring person.
    Hugs,
    Pam

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    1. Dear Pam,
      Yes, to the day she died she was a gracious and giving woman. A blessing to all who knew her.

      Peace.

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  9. I am so moved by this story, Dee. What a remarkable woman your mother was, to not just perform an "act of charity" but to teach you how to value the human spirit in another person. Not that you needed another writing goal or assignment, but I feel there is a book in this story! I almost can't imagine a home where this would be accepted today...we are so suspicious, fearful, and condemning of those who can't take care of their own needs. You are an activist, I think...just a peaceful one. Debra

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    1. Dear Debra,
      If only I knew more about my mother's growing up years, I feel I could write a memoir of her. But those who lived through the Depression tended to be reticent about the past. Thank you for thinking of me as a peaceful activist. I like the term!

      Peace.

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  10. I also am privileged to learn of this part of your mother's story. I wasn't old enough to remember the pains of the Depression, being born in 1942 and only knowing what it was like to live on military bases as a child. But I had heard of people like her, and now I actually am communicating with her daughter, whom I count as a friend. :-)

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    1. Dear DJan,
      I count you as a friend also and today I hope to follow your directions in transferring digital photographs from camera to computer. I'll let you know what happens.

      Peace.

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  11. Dee, how lucky you were to have such a compassionate role model in your mother. I just took my students to work in a soup kitchen this week-see my blog post today-and know that if we can take away all the scariness of the unknown and get down to our stories, we can make progress in breaking down stereotypes and helping each other.

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    1. Dear Jennifer,
      I'm eager to read your posting today. Sorry to have been gone so long from the reading and commenting. Had a little health problem for a while. To take your students to a soup kitchen is an impressive way to start breaking down stereotypes. My first experience of one was when I was in the convent. It was probably the summer of 1965 when I accompanied another nun to Detroit where she was going to work for a weekend in the inner city soup kitchens. I just accompanied her and pitched in.

      Peace.

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  12. Dear Dee--I just posted my comment from Amazon on Wrote by Rote.

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    1. Dear Fran,
      That Amazon comment is an amazing one. Such a testament to Dulcy. Thank you again and again for your enthusiasm for her book.

      Peace.

      Delete
  13. That is a truly beautiful and moving story, Dee. Your mother must have been a remarkable and wonderful woman, putting her faith in God and in humanity into practice in such a loving and respectful way. Thank you for letting us meet her like this.

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    1. Dear Perpetua,

      I so like how you said this: "putting her faith in god and in humanity into practice." That's exactly what she did and her example guides me still.

      Peace.

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  15. I read Dulcy's story over at Arlee Bird's blog, and now I come here and read this wonderful recollection. What a terrific Mom you had! Great stories. Look forward to reading more. I'm following.

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    1. Dear Melissa,
      Thanks for stopping by. I'll visit your blog do discover what you write about. I'm doing an on-line memoir, so my stories tend to be in the past.

      Peace.

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  16. Thanks Dee for your visit and comment I have just read your last two post, wonderful reading and look forward to the next.
    This is a poem I wrote dedicated to Tabitha's vets

    Thank you and Goodbye.
    I would like to extend my thanks
    For all you've done for me.
    But I feel Oh so weary now,
    To my "Human Dad" I'm off to see.

    To a place where there is no sickness,
    A place where there is no pain.
    Yes! I think the time has come
    To see my "Human Dad" again.

    I know my "Mum " will be heartbroken.
    Perhaps you maybe too.
    But in a funny sort of way
    I thought the world of you.

    You've all been so kind to me.
    Have done you very best.
    Thank you and goodbye to you all,
    In my "Dad's" arms I'm going to rest.
    Tabitha.

    Copyright Yvonne Lewis 2008
    from the book Negative V. Positive.

    Yvonne.

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    1. Dear Yvonne,
      A find tribute to Tabitha. How blessed we are that the words are given to us to express our love and our grief.

      Peace.

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  17. Oh Dee again here we find a common ground. You already know my views on this subject and what I do. I believe people occasionally just need a second or even third chance. I'm once again proud to be in your followers.

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    1. Dear Melynda,
      I like to be on "common ground" with you. It's a privilege.

      Peace.

      Delete
  18. This is so beautiful. I love that despite her early mistakes, you found the value in your mother's teachings, absorbed her kindness and took it with you. I love seeing this other side of her, besides the one that abandoned you when you were young. Both are true. Neither more true than the other.

    "They never came and asked for food. They always asked for work." This line really moved me.

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  19. Well, I've been a political activist most of my life, but I've never been in jail. While I admire greatly those who put their lives and reputations on the line to do civil disobedience in the furtherance of justice, I have never had the courage to do that. Many activists choose not to do civil disobedience, but their activism is no less valuable. Every activist has a role in making change.

    Your mom sounds like a wonderful woman, with a courageous and generous heart. What dignity she afforded the men who came to her door! What a light she must have been in their lives. How fortunate she took the time, too, to help you understand what she did.

    Many blessings.

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  20. it's sad if a "hobo" came to our door today, most people would call the police. I don't like how the world has changed.




    Mimi Torchia Boothby Watercolors

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  21. I had to come and read about your mum and what she taught you about respect, she sounds like and awesome woman much like my nan.............my nan also would never turn a hungry person away she shared whatever little food she had. It is sad that now days we are no longer like that......

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  22. This one made me cry. If we all could only live this way.

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