It was 1961. We'd been in Los Angeles for two weeks, with my brother and his sweet family. On our way back home to Birmingham. But Dad and Mom loved to travel, and there was time, and they wanted me to see as much of our Country as possible. And so we went north from L.A. to Yosemite. Spent a day driving through, but then on our way using the little traveled eastward route through Nevada. I thought it was wild there were no speed limits on the highway, but Dad found it less than great that there were so few service stations. And Mom found it abominable that we couldn't find a place to stay overnight and had to resort to sleeping in the car. Finally into Arizona and onto Route 66, headed for the Grand Canyon. Drove north from Flagstaff. The Canyon was amazing! I got dizzy from looking at how far down the river was from Bright Angel Point. Leaving there, headed east, Dad wanted to see the way the Canyon looked at its beginning and so followed a little dirt road that headed the right direction but proved a bit difficult to navigate. Suddenly, out of nowhere, two tiny Native American children jumped from beneath a tree and stood in the path of our vehicle. Holding a hand lettered sign that said "Take our picture for $1." Dad stopped to let them approach, handed them $5, and asked if they needed a drink of water. They just smiled and without a word ran off down a dirt trail and disappeared out of sight. Dad commented he hoped maybe he'd given them enough money that they could afford to stay home and out of the heat for the rest of the day.
It was 1999. Jim had suffered an allergy episode and we were at a Wilmington pharmacy at midnight. I went in to get his prescription, and was approached by a youngish gentleman who asked in a very quiet voice if I could spare $2. Seemed his child was sick, he needed to buy Nyquil, but he was short the price. I handed him two ones. He went to the register and paid and was on his way. When I stepped to the register, the clerk said to me, "I guess you know you just got suckered, he wanted his high for the night, no kids at his house, just him and his habit." I looked at the clerk and said, "Oh, well, it's only $2." The clerk shook his head in disgust at my naivete and rang up my purchase.
It was 2016. I was in a grocery store in Red Oak. The lady in front of me stood in contemplation, holding a birthday cake in one hand, and a quart of milk in the other. She said to the cashier, "I guess I need to put the cake back. It's my daughter's birthday but I can't afford both milk and cake, and milk is more important." I spoke up, how much do you need? The clerk looked at me and said, she's $5 short. I handed her $5. And the lady in front of me burst into tears. Thanks, and more thanks, and God bless yous from her and she was out the door with both cake and milk. The cashier commented what a nice thing I'd done. I just nodded, because I knew I'd done it for me and not the lady with the cake.
If you've never been in need this post probably has no meaning for you. But if you've ever laid awake at night and wondered how you were going to stretch the next paycheck to afford gas and rent and groceries, then perhaps you know why I never hesitate to share what I have. It may not be more than once a year, but when the need arises, I pray I notice and act. It's the way I was raised. And the way I think it should be. But then, I'm selfish, and what I do isn't necessarily for someone else, it's for me. And the way I feel afterward. For a long time. Pressed down, shaken together, overflowing.
Monday, June 8, 2020
Tuesday, March 31, 2020
A 12-year-old Typhoid Mary
It was February. She was eleven years old and diagnosed with mononucleosis. Three months in bed - 24/7 including meals - allowed up only to attend to bodily functions. Each Friday her Teacher would take a week's worth of work to Dad, at his office, and he would bring it home. By Wednesday she would have finished it all. Friday morning Dad would take it to work and give it to Teacher in exchange for the next week's assignments. After the first month Dad suggested Teacher might consider adding work to the list, to help with Daughter's boredom, but instead of extra classwork, Teacher assigned books from the school library for Daughter to read and then write reports - 300 to 500 words. Three books added only an extra day of work, and the writing came naturally to her, so day four was taken care of, but Teacher soon decided her already crammed full schedule just didn't allow time for those reports, and so that little learning adventure ended at week three.
Enter to the scene the local Librarian. A woman who not only lived on their same street, but also was passionate about her job - she saw it as a calling! For the rest of Daughter's confinement, Librarian delivered a book a day, on her way home from work.
Daughter raised her reading level four grades in three months. In May, she was allowed to go to school for half a day, but had to go to bed immediately upon returning home. School let out for the summer. She was allowed to sit on the sofa in the den for a half day, to read more books, and then for an hour each day Mama taught her fractions, so she would be ahead of things when she finally went back to school. But the rest of the time she was in bed.
After six months she was allowed to return to "normal" life. But there was no normal for her. Kids at school stayed away from her, having been warned about contagion, and nothing could convince them she was not a threat. You think being accused of having cooties is bad? Try being a 12-year-old Typhoid Mary!
She learned to live with the isolation. And books continued to be her world. The hero Librarian would keep back newly arrived books, reserved with her name on them, and wait for the now-regular-as-clockwork-weekly-appearance in the old shaded building on the north side of 1st Avenue.
The bout with mono, otherwise known as "kissing disease" had another, much darker effect on her life - and her family - as ugly rumors spread about how she had contracted the disease. As a result, the family left their home Church.She went along with the explanation that the family needed to find a church closer to their house, one that didn't require an hour's travel each way. It was 20 years before Dad told her the real reason - the well-intentioned-but-less-than-well-informed pastor at the old church had made some ugly comments to Dad, and rather than continue in a congregation where his reputation was questioned, they left not only the church but the denomination.
It's a good thing social services didn't exist back then - Daughter would have wound up either a foster kid or living at the Mercy Home.
Six months into her isolation, Dad brought home a little iron lion. He'd gotten it in trade from one of his insurance clients who couldn't pay their policy premium that month. It sat on her nightstand, and she would talk to it during her hours of isolation. It didn't talk back, but she had an active imagination and nothing but time on her hands, so there were endless conversations in her head - especially after sundown when there were no lights allowed on in her room.
She had been eleven years old when Sissy married. Sonny was already married, and Eddie was away at boarding school. Nobody put it together that her symptoms occurred within weeks of the wedding. At the very church that accused Dad of not being a good man. Sadness was a way of life for him, but he didn't let it get him down. God and Dad and Mom and Daughter knew the truth - nobody else mattered.
Enter to the scene the local Librarian. A woman who not only lived on their same street, but also was passionate about her job - she saw it as a calling! For the rest of Daughter's confinement, Librarian delivered a book a day, on her way home from work.
Daughter raised her reading level four grades in three months. In May, she was allowed to go to school for half a day, but had to go to bed immediately upon returning home. School let out for the summer. She was allowed to sit on the sofa in the den for a half day, to read more books, and then for an hour each day Mama taught her fractions, so she would be ahead of things when she finally went back to school. But the rest of the time she was in bed.
After six months she was allowed to return to "normal" life. But there was no normal for her. Kids at school stayed away from her, having been warned about contagion, and nothing could convince them she was not a threat. You think being accused of having cooties is bad? Try being a 12-year-old Typhoid Mary!
She learned to live with the isolation. And books continued to be her world. The hero Librarian would keep back newly arrived books, reserved with her name on them, and wait for the now-regular-as-clockwork-weekly-appearance in the old shaded building on the north side of 1st Avenue.
The bout with mono, otherwise known as "kissing disease" had another, much darker effect on her life - and her family - as ugly rumors spread about how she had contracted the disease. As a result, the family left their home Church.She went along with the explanation that the family needed to find a church closer to their house, one that didn't require an hour's travel each way. It was 20 years before Dad told her the real reason - the well-intentioned-but-less-than-well-informed pastor at the old church had made some ugly comments to Dad, and rather than continue in a congregation where his reputation was questioned, they left not only the church but the denomination.
It's a good thing social services didn't exist back then - Daughter would have wound up either a foster kid or living at the Mercy Home.
Six months into her isolation, Dad brought home a little iron lion. He'd gotten it in trade from one of his insurance clients who couldn't pay their policy premium that month. It sat on her nightstand, and she would talk to it during her hours of isolation. It didn't talk back, but she had an active imagination and nothing but time on her hands, so there were endless conversations in her head - especially after sundown when there were no lights allowed on in her room.
She had been eleven years old when Sissy married. Sonny was already married, and Eddie was away at boarding school. Nobody put it together that her symptoms occurred within weeks of the wedding. At the very church that accused Dad of not being a good man. Sadness was a way of life for him, but he didn't let it get him down. God and Dad and Mom and Daughter knew the truth - nobody else mattered.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
