Through the Eyes of a Child

by Neal Lemery

published 2/1/2023 in the Tillamook County Pioneer

“Through the eyes of a child you will see the world as it should be.” –Anonymous

In recent days, I’ve experienced the simple joys of being around several kids who have been fully engaged in simply enjoying life, with simplicity and without condition.

I visited some friends and thought I should bring a present to their two year old. While buying a bouquet of flowers for the parents, I spied a stuffed puppy, its cuddliness capturing my heart and appealing to my desire to bring some joy into the world. The day’s news had been the typical fare for our times, and matched the grayness of the January sky.

I wondered if I was really buying the stuffed animal for the child, or for the child inside of me.

We adults had a good visit, discussing the day’s news as well as our reasons to be optimistic about the unfolding of the new year. Yet, our attention was pleasantly diverted to the antics of their child, whose giggles and smiles filled their home with the simple joy of the toy, and our collective sounds of what we thought a barking puppy might sound like. The child’s laughter was perhaps all about the joy with the toy, but more likely in response to the funny antics of the adults, obviously inept at being accurate puppy talkers.

We adults should practice our animal noises more often, and laugh more, too. We need to take some daily lessons with children, who seem to effortlessly find simply joys in the simple pleasures of life, in the sharing of laughter and funny noises, cuddly stuffed puppies and shiny toy cars.

This morning, while sipping my coffee at the neighborhood coffee shop, I was being serious, trying to concentrate on writing something meaningful in response to today’s deluge of politics, mass shootings, and other ugliness. Again, a child reminded me of the simple joys if one just pays attention to an opportunity.

A toddler squealed with delight, as he repeatedly tossed a toy car on the linoleum, making a noisy clattering. A few times, the toy bounced off my shoes, and I’d slide it back to him. He’d catch it a few times, but mostly, he’d toss it and it skittered along the floor to the delight of the child. I found myself chuckling, joined by others watching the fun.

His parents spoke to me, worried that his antics were bothering me. Yet the simple joy in his eyes and his squeals of laughter brightened the morning. I decided I needed more of childish joy in my day, rather than perusing the day’s news and commentary. Perhaps the real news of the day is that life is fun and there can be instantaneous joy in ordinary things.

These few sweet and precious moments, freely given to me by the youngest generation, was a gentle, yet persistent reminder that life is both precious and beautiful, that we need to pause and be less serious and find laughter in the simplest of things. We need to share those moments with everyone, needing to be kids as much as possible. We should play with our toys and make new friends.

2/1/2023

Guerrilla Gratitude: Bringing Light Into Our World

by Neal Lemery

(Published in the Tillamook County Pioneer, 9/12/2022)

Any act, any kind word, is capable of making a change for the better in our world. Each of us has so many opportunities to make it a better place. A few kind words at the grocery store or post office, a simple act of kindness to help someone along in their day, maybe a cheery note or a phone call. It can all make a difference.

I was in a hurry last week as I came into my favorite coffee shop, intent on getting to work on what I thought was an important project, one that couldn’t wait.

I pulled open the coffee shop door, focused on ordering my coffee. I nearly ran over a woman holding two cups of coffee and looking stressed. I looked behind her, seeing her frail mother, struggling with her cane and trying to keep up with her daughter.

It was time to pause and show a little kindness. I pulled the door fully open and held it for them, letting the woman with the two hands of coffees navigate outside, as she offered her arm to her mother. They shuffled out the door, both of them thanking me, and breaking into smiles. I muttered “no problem,” and smiled back.

It was time for me to take a breath, admire the beauty of the fall day; time for some gratitude. The world had given me an opportunity to be kind, make people happy and take care of the community.

The opportunities continued. A couple had followed me in, seemingly in a hurry to get their coffee and resume their journey. I stepped back, letting them have first place in the queue for the barista. The man gave me a funny look, like I was doing something strange, out of the ordinary.

“No problem,” I said. “I’m taking it easy today.” I repeated the smiles I’d received from the mother and daughter, and felt my day brighten.

He just nodded, likely not knowing how to respond. There was a lesson or two there. At least, a lesson for me, taking time to let things unfold, to be part of an accommodation in someone’s day, making things go easier. But, I got my reward: a nod, perhaps a sense of someone being kind and gracious to them, maybe some reflection on what the day was about.

I’d assumed they were on vacation, which is hopefully a time for some rest, a pause from the routine of daily life, and simply enjoying a sunny fall day in a beautiful place, topped off with some great coffee. The least I could do for them was to be kind.

My coffee shop punch card was filled by my usual order, and I gave it to the barista, asking them to use it to treat the next person who would come through the door. I’ve been reading a book about “guerrilla gardening”, where you surreptitiously add beauty to public space. Perhaps this is “guerrilla gratitude”. We can all be rebels with a cause.

When I checked in at a hospital last week for some lab work, a very kind man gently and efficiently guided me through the process, even walking me over to the lab and then guided me to my next appointment. He was extraordinary. Yet for him, it seemed just an ordinary day, just doing his job. He made my wife and me laugh and feel at ease, as he went about his work. His saintliness was just what I needed, calming my anxiety and frenzy.

Other employees were also extraordinarily kind and helpful, bringing to me an atmosphere of gentleness, welcoming, and professionalism. You could tell they loved their work and were proud of their competence, knowing they were saving lives. It was nice to see that a large organization doing important work appreciated great customer service.

“If you light a lamp for someone else, it will also brighten your path,” said Buddha. We need to be a society of lamplighters, and not keep our compassion and kindness hidden away. It is the treasure we need to share.

Life, real life, a good life, is really about kindness and accommodation and patience. Life is paying it forward, diffusing the crisis of the moment, and quietly getting things done and put in order. The cost is really non-existent. A little time, perhaps a few more minutes spent with someone, some kind words, a few deep breaths, and exuding calmness and service to others. We get that back, at least tenfold, in our lives.

I keep re-experiencing those lessons, and the need to be patient and kind, both on the giving and the receiving parts of life. Such wisdom bears repeating, along with a whole lot of doing, part of “guerrilla gratitude”.

9/12/2022

Quotes That I Have Recently Discovered That Speak to Me

–Neal Lemery

“A single act of kindness throws out roots in all directions, and the roots spring up and make new trees.”

–Amelia Earhart

“You are not your mistakes. They are what you did, not who you are.”

–Lisa Lieberman Wang

“Be the person who breaks the cycle. If you were judged, choose understanding. If you were rejected, choose acceptance. If you were shamed, choose compassion. Be the person you needed when you were hurting, not the person who hurt you. Vow to be better than what broke you, to heal instead of becoming bitter so you can act from your heart, not your pain.”

–Bright Vibes

“For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down for the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.”

–Mary Oliver

“Learn to be silent. Let your quiet mind listen and absorb.”

–Pythagorus

“To be kind is more important than to be right. Many times what people need is not a brilliant mind that speaks but a special heart that listens.”

–Amazing (Facebook post 8/22)

“Yesterday I was clever, so I wanted to change the world. Today I am wise, so I am changing myself.”

–Rumi

“Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.”

–Tolstoy

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”

–Margaret Mead

“The world as we have created it is a process of our thinking. It cannot be changed without changing our thinking.”

–Albert Einstein

“Those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything.”

–George Bernard Shaw

“Change will not come if we wait for another person. We are the ones we’ve been waiting for. We are the change that we seek.”

–Barack Obama

“The world we see today is the world we’ll see tomorrow if we fail to do something now to change the things we don’t like about it.”

–Mayor Deah

‘If you are willing to look at another person’s behavior as a reflection of the stater o relationship with themselves rather than a statement about your value as a person, then you will, over a period of time, cease to react at all.”

–Yogi Bhajan

“A child not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.”

–African proverb

“But to rescue a soul is as close as anyone comes to God. Think of Noah lifting a small black bird from its nest. Think of Joseph raising a son that wasn’t his.”

—The Same City, Terrance Hayes

“I look at fatherhood not as biology, but as an emotional and spiritual mission.” –Neal Lemery

8/9/2022

The Old Hay Fork

By Neal Lemery

(published in the Tillamook County Pioneer, 2/6/2022)

It was always in the barn, by the loose hay that Grandpa had tossed down from the hay mow, the bales breaking open, one by one, on the old wood floor. Grandpa forked the loose hay into each cow’s feeding trough. The hay dust smelled sweet, filled with the warmth of the summer days when we brought the hay up from the fields.

I knew there was a story about the hay fork, but the telling of that tale was a long time coming.

Back then, before milking parlors, each cow had its own stanchion, where they came in the mornings and the afternoons, getting their hay, a scoop of grain, and a small dollop of molasses. He took turns with the cows, putting on his two electric milking machines, with the milk then cooled by an elaborate milk cooler using water from the spring. The milk ended up in a number of steel milk cans, destined for the creamery a few miles down the road.

Grandpa made sure every cow had some hay, using the fork to move through the barn. He checked on every cow, calling them by name, rubbing their ears as he fed them the hay.

We loaded up the cans in the morning, after the milking, and a big breakfast back at the house, and headed off to the creamery. Grandpa didn’t talk much, but he held his own at the creamery, greeting all the other farmers, catching up on their news, talk about the weather and the price of milk. Everyone there were good friends, and there was no shortage of chatter and a few jokes.

The cows, the way that he milked and ran the farm, even the barn is gone now, after all these years. Not long after I headed off the college, they sold the farm and moved into town. Old age had crept up on him, and he wasn’t able to take care of his cows. The old ways of farming weren’t paying the bills anymore. A young man bought the farm, grateful for Grandpa’s advice and being able to take over managing the herd, changing the farm with the times.

Grandma and Grandpa moved into town, settling into a little apartment. We all helped them move, but the apartment only could hold a few items of furniture, including Grandma’s antique writing desk and glass-fronted case for all the family treasures. Grandma made sure that the desk was the first thing that was moved. All of Grandpa’s tools stayed behind.

On the last trip, Grandpa showed up at the pickup I was driving. The old hay fork was in his hands.

“I want you to have this,” he said. “Remember the farm, the good times we had, the cows.”

A tear rolled down his cheek, and I couldn’t find any words to say thanks. I gave him a big hug, and he got in the passenger seat. On the drive into town, we didn’t say much.

We normally didn’t. He wasn’t a man of words, and what can you say when a man is leaving his lifelong career, his whole way of life.

I asked him about the hay fork, how long he’d had it, how did he get it. He looked away, seeming to check out the farms along the way, looking at their cows, and the state of the pastures.

Finally, he started to tell me about a good friend of his, an old Swiss farmer. He had made the fork from the small forge and iron shop he had on his farm. He’d had a good piece of oak that he had pared down, to make the perfect handle, and the right snug fit of the handle of the iron, joining the oak to the iron, inserting a small rivet through the iron handle, into the wood. Everything about the fork was sturdy, functional, precise.

The farmer had given Grandpa the fork, refusing to take money for it, telling Grandpa it was a gift, a thank you for his friendship and advice over the years.

It was the perfect hay fork, just three tines, and somewhat small. Just the right size to grab the right amount of hay for each cow as they came into the barn for milking.

Once a year, Grandpa put a coating of linseed oil on the handle, letting it soak in. He’d oil the fork, too, making sure it wouldn’t get rusty. He always took good care of his tools, spending some time every week checking his equipment, making sure everything was in top condition.

It seemed he was always teaching me whenever I’d go to the farm for a visit, and a day or two of helping out. I’m not sure how much help I was, but he always had some chores for me. There was always a lesson. Good times, that old farmer and me.

He’d been in the war. It was the war three wars before the war that was going on when I was growing up. No one talked much about Grandpa’s war, especially Grandpa. I’d wondered about that, but no one in the family seemed to know.

He’d shown up after that war was over, looking for work, and Grandma’s dad hired him on to help out. He and Grandma fell in love, and they came to take over the farm after Great-granddad died.

I was the youngest grandson, so he and I had the farm all to ourselves when I showed up to visit. I was a curious sort, so one day I asked him about the war, and how he came to be here, so far from his childhood home, and his family’s farm. To my surprise, he started to talk, just one story that first time. But, as I kept showing up, he’d talk more, but only when we were alone, working in the barn, or out in the pasture, mending fence or driving the cows in for milking, or when we’d drive into town to deliver the milk.

The stories were sad, and brave, stories that never were told at school or in the history books I’d read. I thought he was a hero, one of the bravest men I knew, but he didn’t think so. It was just his life, just the way things were. Those times were in the past, happened a long time ago, and no one would be interested in them.

I’d wondered why he was always so nice to the neighbors, and the young farmers just getting started, sometimes lending them a tool, or taking his tractor over to their place, and working their land for a day; all without getting paid. He’d get upset if someone offered to pay him for the work, or the use of a tool, or his tractor. He’d just respond that he was a neighbor, and that’s what neighbors do.

I didn’t write down his stories, and I didn’t share them with the rest of the family. I knew Grandpa was a private, humble person, who didn’t want to brag, or even let on what he’d experienced, and what he knew about people, and wars, and the evils of being selfish and prideful.

I still have that fork. It stands in a place of honor with my other garden tools. I’m not a farmer, and I don’t have any hay to feed to any cows, but I still use my fork. I have enough land to care for that I have a burn pile, brush and prunings that pile up that need to get burned once in a while. I bring out my fork, and use it to stack the brush and rearrange all the debris once the fire gets started.

Grandpa did that too, using the fork on his burn piles, putting things in order, taking care, keeping his farm neat and tidy.

Every year, I still find a rag and some linseed oil, and take care of my tools, making sure Grandpa’s fork is first in line. I feel him next to me at those times, looking after me, checking my work, ready to offer me a hand on my shoulder, or a laugh at a shared joke. His gentle, neighborly ways seem part of my life now, lessons taught well and learned deeply. His gifts go deep with me, far-reaching, lifelong. This week, I started a fire on my burn pile. I picked up his fork, tending my fire, taking care of the land, being the grandson. I remembered him and all that he taught me about kindness, neighbors, and life. I’ve tried to carry all that on, to the next generation, to teach others what Grandpa taught me on his farm.

1/30/2022

A Small Act of Kindness

— Neal Lemery

“Carry out a random act of kindness, with no expectation of reward, safe in the knowledge that one day, someone will do the same for you.” — Princess Diana

The day often offers so many opportunities to be kind, with only a few moments, a few kind words, a charitable act. The occasion offers such potential to ease someone’s burdens, to be a messenger of joy and compassion, to be simply human with each other.

I find myself getting caught up in my to do list, my errands. I become caught up into the American behaviors of rushing through the day, being abrupt, and not engaging with others on a human level. Yes, I can check off my list, and feel a sense of accomplishment, but I often leave my humanity and the humanity of others often neglected, pushed aside by feeling obsessed with getting my work done.

The other day, I was part of a simple business transaction, paying a craftsman for his labor. He was meticulous, professional, and took pride in his work, which I realized was heartfelt and respectable. I took time to thank him, and handed him a check, with a generous tip. My wife asked him about his young son, asking to see a photo. For the next few minutes, we all oohed and awed over the cuteness of the photos and a sweet video that expressed his contagious laugh, the two-year old being exuberant about life and the simple joys in life that a two-year old can so easily spontaneously express. The interaction became a celebration of life and parenthood, and the joys that a small child can bring to the world.

I was thankful that my wife and the craftsman were patient with me, and took the time to pause and celebrate the joys of parenthood. I was again reminded that life is sweet and simply joys need to be shared and enjoyed.

The barista at the coffee shop drive-through always shares her kindness and cheer with me. Her demeanor and courtesy may be a part of her job description, but her good works she shares with her customers are also part of her character, part of her work to enhance the community, and brighten the lives of her customers. Each of us can do that work as we live our lives and interact with others.

The simple acts of kindness, seemingly insignificant at the time, are often the most cherished moments that others experience. The value of what we do in a spur of the moment, without much thought to taking a moment to be kind, can be enormous and widely influential.

Kindness is a two-way street. We often don’t realize that we need to experience a little kindness from others, as well as being the recipient. Our burdens can be heavier than we realize, that we are sometimes lonelier or more needy than we know. While it is “more blessed to give than receive”, and that mindset makes for a better community, we also need to replenish our own “well” of goodness, charity, and kindness. And, in receiving the kindnesses of others, we allow them to find a place to share their love. Allowing others to give to us is also a gift of love. In the sharing lies the fruit of kindnesses.

5/31/2021

Acting with Kindness, at the end of 2020

By Neal Lemery

(published in the Tillamook County (Oregon) Pioneer 12/27/2020_

“A tree is known by its fruits; a man by his deeds. A good deed is never lost; he who sows courtesy reaps friendship, and he who plants kindness gathers love.” – St. Basil (329-379 AD)

As the old calendar comes off the wall and the fresh, unmarked calendar of 2021 takes its place, I marvel at all the events written on the old calendar. Most of them are crossed off. This year was the year of the Great Postponement, the year of cancellations and re-dos, of reforming events and projects, to fit the times of contagion, “personal distancing” and self care. And, for most of us, a time of “society care”.

2020 was the year we didn’t plan and we didn’t want. The comfortable, predicable and expected simply didn’t happen, and we had to adjust. The old and familiar changed, and we have had to change with the times, whether we wanted to or not. The inner child, the inner toddler in me wasn’t a happy camper, and my tantrums often played out where others could see what a naughty kid I could be. I’m not alone in all that acting out.

Like most of us, I’ve discovered the satisfaction of having the time to focus inward, to take on and complete home projects, to savor experiences with myself and the people I live with, and to reshape our experiences in the greater community. I’ve grown in many ways, and learned to appreciate the simple pleasures of a safe meeting with friends, a collective effort made possible by technology, and some peace and quiet in nature.

While there have always been angry, selfish outbursts of social rage that are often based upon fear, ignorance, and anxiety, this year that ugliness has been fueled by a collective access to social media, and the often unpenalized human trait to act out and rage in public. This year agitators have thrown the proverbial gasoline on the coals of unrest, frustration and the impotence of not being in charge of our lives. Society is changing, and the change is being forced upon us by the pandemic and the resulting economic and social events. We’ve been asked to adapt and to be tolerant, but that doesn’t mean we like it, or can adapt willingly or with the best interests of the community in our heart.

In all this, there is a renaissance in personal and community kindnesses. Cordiality, compassion and community caretaking have taken on a new importance. Now, I cherish the chat with the barista as I drive through for a cuppa, or have a properly distanced lunch with a friend. Zoom meetings have become a staple of community gatherings. I’ve acquired new skills and have been able to be part of rich conversations from people from around the country. In many ways, we’ve been able to accomplish a lot in virtual gatherings. We are more efficient and more organized, while protecting our health and coping with the absence of “presence” and side conversations.

We are more gentle in our conversations, more apt to express our appreciation, and extend courtesies and patience. Sending thoughtful messages and showing respect for others have enjoyed a new vibrancy. Meeting for coffee seems like a spiritual celebration.

Personal encounters have become special, deserving of my full attention and a mutual exchange of good wishes and small acts of courtesy. Life has slowed down, and I no longer feel compelled to rush through the day’s errands and transactions. I have found that I have time to be kind.

Despite the nastiness of political rhetoric, headlines and the seemingly unending social media posts, we have become kinder. We have realized that kindness matters. The pandemic and the “Great Pause” have given us some mental space to appreciate and celebrate the small things that make life sweeter.

Often, practicing kindness doesn’t get our attention, but it is the undercurrent, the “fuel” of our society. We are all hurting, we are all adjusting, and we all cherish those small, sweet moments where one person does nice things for someone else. This isn’t glamorous, nor does it gather much attention. But, it is the fresh spring breeze that comes at the end of a cold winter, and we are all part of it, the “Great Kindness”. A simple act, kindness, yet so powerful it changes the world.

“What you do makes a difference, and you have to decide what kind of difference you want to make.” — Jane Goodall

Remembering Grandpa Henry

November 11, 2018

World War I, the “Great War”, the “War to End All Wars”, ended one hundred years ago today.

That day, my grandfather was a prisoner of war in a Russian prison camp. He was drafted into the German Army and sent to the eastern front, a foot soldier in a war where nerve gas, machine guns, and tanks dominated the battlefields, causing horrific casualties.

Word of the end of the war likely reached the prison camp a week, maybe three weeks later, at the beginning of the harsh winter in what is now eastern Poland. The Russian guards just opened the gates and walked away, forcing the emaciated, sick German prisoners of war to fend for themselves.

My grandfather spoke little of that experience, and only a few times told of taking boots off of dead soldiers, stuffing moss and newspapers into them, and making his way west, back to his home in northern Germany. There was no food on the journey, except for frozen potatoes he could find in snow-covered fields.

I never knew how long that journey took him, or how many of his companions on that journey survived. But, cold weather bothered him. He always made sure he had warm boots and thick socks on when he went to the barn and milked his cows on winter mornings.

Being a curious child, I would ask him a few questions about the war, but he would only say it was “bad, bad times”, and grow silent. He was a quiet, contemplative man anyway, and would rarely share his feelings.

I’d ask my mom about Grandpa and the war, and she would say that he never talked about the war. She had never heard his story about the boots and the frozen potatoes.

We all called him Grandpa Henry, but one day, as we were working alone in the barn, he told me that his first name was really Ausmus. His middle name was Heinrich, the German version of Henry. He was the thirteenth child of dairy farmers, and when he returned from the war, hard times had come to Germany, and there was no work for him on the farm. There was no work anywhere.

He decided to emigrate to America. Somehow, he ended up working on my grandmother’s farm as a hired hand. Once, he told me about being on a ship crossing the Atlantic and he got very seasick, and it was a very long trip. But, again, no details, just a long period of silence after his few, soft words.

I was learning not to pry or ask questions, and I noticed he would tear up when he would tell me his stories.

He was my grandma’s second husband, and took on the role of stepfather for my mom when she was nine. He was the only grandfather I knew.

Years later, I did some research and found his naturalization papers on file. He got his citizenship in the mid 1930s, so he must have had his green card or the 1920s version of that, for at least fifteen years. My grandmother and my mom sponsored him for citizenship.

One time, I asked my mom if Grandpa had any photos or papers about his life in Germany and his family there.

“No,” she said. “Not anymore.”

There was a lot of anti-German sentiment in the US during World War I, and afterwards, too. People stopped using the common names for cottage cheese, and even sauerkraut became “liberty cabbage”, as German culture was in such disfavor. Even street names and the names of towns were changed, to put an end to German influence.

That is probably the reason Grandpa wasn’t called “Ausmus” or even “Heinrich”, but the Americanized “Henry”.

Grandma was afraid of Grandpa’s German roots and feared people would hate him and our family because of his heritage. So, she burned all of his photos and papers, hoping to put an end to that connection.

At holidays dinners, my mom would put on a feast, and she always made something special for Grandpa, something German. He’d have a big smile on his face when she put the dish on the table, and say how grateful he was for her kindness and thoughtfulness.

When I was a teenager, an Indonesian family moved onto a farm a few farms away from my grandparents. They were the first non-European farmers in the entire community, and their presence fired up a lot of racist sentiment. The racists around were the grandchildren of immigrants, yet no one seemed to see the irony in their behavior.

Grandpa was the first to welcome them to the community, helping them set up their barn, and even giving them five or six heifers to supplement their herd. He’d take his tractor down the road to help them out, and he made sure they had enough hay to get them through the first winter.

He even took the farmer down to the creamery and got him signed up to deliver their milk, and get on the roles of the creamery to get a monthly milk check. It was a complicated process, but Grandpa made sure that everything was set up so his friend could sell his milk at the best price.

He never talked about that, or expected any thanks or appreciation. It was just something he did, quietly. It was just something he’d do, for anyone deserving of some help and friendship.

The family became close friends of my grandparents and prosperous farmers in their own right, citizens, and respected members of the community.

My times with Grandpa in the barn and helping him at haying time were special times, passing all too quickly. I was eager to grow up, and move away to college, and I took those quiet times with him for granted.

In the last years of his life, I’d look in on him, taking care of him at times, running errands, and making sure he was comfortable. I’d take care of his feet, cutting his nails, and putting on lotion. He had arthritis, and his feet bothered him a lot.

When I worked on his feet, I could tell that his pain wasn’t just from arthritis or old age, but that, many years earlier, some bones had been broken and hadn’t healed right.

When I asked him about it, he told me, “It was the war, the Russians.”

He didn’t say anything more, and I didn’t pry. The look in his eyes told me so much.

Now that he’s gone, I’d wished that we had talked a lot more. His life as a soldier was quite an amazing story, yet none of us will really know that tale.

I learned so much from him, in those long times of silence, in the tears welling up, but not usually shed.

Soldiers don’t share much of what they experienced on the battlefield, or in how they had to deal with the insanity, bloodshed and death. In their silence lies the tales that we should never forget.

–Neal Lemery

A Little Soup and Cornbread

My community has had a hard week. Nearly a foot of rain, 70 mph winds, and many roads, schools, and businesses closed, people flooded out. Farms have been flooded and lives have been disrupted. And, the storms have kept on coming, with each new day bringing new challenges.

We are resilient folks, in the habit of doing kind things for our neighbors, helping out, offering support, food, a place to stay, and thousands of other small acts of charity and kindness.

Yesterday, I was enjoying lunch in a local café with my wife, taking a break from our errands on a day when the roads were opening up, and the shelves in the stores were getting restocked. The mail had gotten through the high water and landslides on the highway.

We were talking about being grateful to wake up in a warm house, with electricity, running water, and no water coming through the door, and how we like living in a place where people care about each other.

A man rushed into the café, with a container of homemade soup and some cornbread in a plastic bag.

“This is for the man that lives in the woods. He comes by here most every day,” he said. “I want to make sure he gets this.”

“When you see him, give him this,” he said. “Please”.

He was on his way out of town, now that the roads were opening up, but he didn’t want to forget about the homeless man who lived out in the woods, in this very wet and windy week.

“I’ve been worried about him,” he said.

The waitress nodded, and mentioned she hadn’t seen him lately. Before she could try to tell him that she probably couldn’t accept the task, health laws and such, he flew out the door, thanking her again for helping out a homeless guy.

She filled up my coffee cup again, a few tears in her eyes.

“That man in the woods, he comes by here once in a while,” she said. “But I haven’t seen him this week. I’ve been worried, too.”

“Hopefully, he’s made it to the warming center in town,” she said. “But, the water’s been high and covered the highway. Such nasty weather.”

I sipped my warm coffee, and finished my burger, with new thoughts of appreciation for the simple comforts in life, and watched the rain hit the window, as another heavy shower moved in.

I don’t know the man, and I haven’t seen him around. But I think about him now, and what it must be like, living out there in the woods, in a week when the rivers are over their banks, and the winds howl through the trees.

We know those woods, and go there for walks, looking for birds and old trees, spring flowers and berries later on in summer. I hadn’t thought that people lived there, though, especially not now, when the ground is soaking wet, or even flooded, and the winter storms blow through. I shivered, squirming inside my nice dry shoes, trying to imagine what last night might have been like, sleeping out there, in the dark and the rain.

In a few weeks, it will be Christmas, when we’ll hear that story again, about a homeless couple and how they found refuge in a barn, and a place to give birth to their beautiful child. How a stranger had let them use his barn, and gave them food.

The waitress put the soup and cornbread in the cooler. The café fell silent then, everyone watching her, everyone thinking about what we’d just seen, thinking about being homeless and hungry on a day like today, the meaning of Christmas, and angels in our midst.

—Neal Lemery 12/12/2015

Random Acts of Kindness

It’s Random Act of Kindness and Pay It Forward Day today! I stopped at the DQ drive through, and the waitress sweetly told me my ice cream cone had been paid for by the guy ahead of me. So, I handed my money over, to pay for the treats ordered by the folks behind me.
What a change in outlook for the day. It was much needed as I was coming back from the funeral of a good, charitable, and kindly friend, Mike Dooney. His spirit lives on.