It was a cold and damp wintry afternoon many
years ago. The space heater was ablaze
in the front room of our small, frame shotgun house. The room served not only as a living room but
also as a bedroom. With only two
bedrooms and seven occupants, sleeping accommodations were at a premium. So,
the living room served as the third bedroom.
The couch was also a bed. During
the day we sat upon it; at night we unfolded the bulky piece of furniture and
it became a bed for two of five siblings. At different times over the years,
the five siblings, two daughters and three sons, made that room their bedroom.
The insulation was poor and there
were many cracks in the paint and woodwork alongside the windows and
doors. In the winter, cold air easily
penetrated these numerous, narrow openings and mixed with the heat from the
open flame of the space heater. The
combination of cool, moist outdoor drafts and the warm dry air of the heater
produced condensation which streaked down the walls and windows in uneven lines
and patterns. We would say of the
streaks of condensation that the walls were “sweating.”
I was only seven or eight years old at
the time, but the memory of that day is still vivid in my mind. My mother was in the kitchen, smoking homemade
cigarettes she rolled herself with a small cigarette rolling device. She would
insert a small piece of cigarette paper into the top of the machine, pour
enough tobacco to ensure a good smoke and then she rolled the cigarette by
operating the lever on the machine. It was cheaper than buying a pack of
cigarettes. As usual, she was drinking
a cup of chicory laced coffee. It was a
Monday and the aroma of red beans simmering on the stove permeated the entire
house.
My father, a streetcar conductor, was
between shifts. He lay in bed
sleeping. Mom would wake him later and
he would freshen up, dress and return to the streetcar barn located on Willow and Dublin streets
in the Carrollton area of New Orleans for his second shift of the day.
I was in the living room as usual
playing with some of my toys. The
television was on but because dad was sleeping, the volume was low.
There was a knock on the front
door. There was little crime in New Orleans in the fifties
so it was not uncommon for the front door to be unlocked or to open the door
without first asking who was there. Besides, it was always someone we knew, a
neighbor or an acquaintance. Perhaps it was Mr. Schiro, the insurance agent who
personally collected insurance premiums weekly from his customers. Or the
person knocking could be the Community Coffee representative who delivered his product to
homes.
I opened the door only to find a
stranger standing outside. He was tall
and thin. His face was gaunt and the
speckled stubble on his cheeks and chin matched what hair showed from beneath a
soiled, beige baseball cap. His hands
were stuck in the pockets of an obviously old and weathered windbreaker. His elbows were drawn in and his shoulders
hunched upward in an attempt to better fend off the chilly breeze.
His eyes caught my attention. Dark brown, they were set deep in their protective
sockets and they seemed lifeless. They
spoke of misery and want and hinted of a lifetime of pain. He looked pathetic and ravaged.
"Is your mother in son?"
I didn't even bother to close the door nor did
I invite him in from the cold. I ran
quietly through the two bedrooms and into the kitchen. I was careful not to
wake my dad from his midday nap.
"Mom, there's a man at the door."
"Who is he and what does he want, Billy?"
I hadn’t asked so I couldn't tell her.
She followed me to the front
room. The door and the stranger were
exactly as I had left them. Mom studied
the stranger. I detected a slight frown
on her face but I didn't think it was one of anger. I stood by her side, clutching her dress.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
"Ma'am, I'm sorry to bother you, but I’m out of work. Been out of work for a long time. I'm broke and I'm hungry. Ain't had nothin'
to eat in a couple of days. Can you
spare some food?"
Mother hesitated, apparently eyeing
up the stranger in an effort to assess the truth. Suddenly, her countenance changed. I saw it in her eyes. A wave of pity and empathy enveloped her.
"Sure. My dinner's not
cooked yet but, I can make a sandwich for you if that's OK."
He bowed his head slightly, almost embarrassed
by his condition. He replied in a low voice, “I'd really appreciate that
ma'am."
She started toward the kitchen and then
stopped abruptly.
"Please, come in from the
cold. Have a seat but, please be
quiet. My husband's asleep."
The stranger nodded. He entered the house tentatively as if he
were entering forbidden territory.
"Billy, keep the man company."
I sat on the floor. The television was on but my eyes were on our
guest. He was poor and I felt sorry for
him. He didn't say a word. He only stared at the floor with his
plaintive eyes. He loosened his
shoulders somewhat as the warmth of the room quickly embraced him.
Within minutes mom returned with two
sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, an apple and a small container of milk.
"If you like," she said,
"you can eat in here."
He rose to his feet and took the
offering.
"No thank you ma'am. You've been kind enough and I'll just move
along. Thank you so much and may God
bless you."
He opened the door and slipped back
into the cold air. I stood behind the
eight-foot windows that stretched from the living room floor to just two feet
from the ceiling. Through the condensation that covered the thin pane of glass
I watched the stranger. He descended the
porch stairs, opened the gate and walked north on Green Street. Within moments, he was out of view.
I was saddened by this event. We were of modest means. Some might even have considered us poor, but
we always had food to eat and a roof over our heads. I had never known poverty nor witnessed it
before. Yet, here it had been, right in my living room. I didn't know quite how to respond.
I prayed. I asked God to help that poor stranger. I promised God that if he would make that man
a millionaire then I would become a priest.
All he had to do, I thought, would be to send Michael Anthony, The
Millionaire's executive secretary to the stranger. The Millionaire was a weekly television series during the
fifties. Each week, John Beresford
Tipton, a wealthy philanthropist would select a person in need, usually one who
was down in their luck. He would
dispatch Anthony who would present the recipient with a cashier’s check for one
million dollars. The millionaire changed
lives in a moment. That happened every
week on television. Why couldn’t it happen to the stranger who had entered my
life so briefly? Like most seven or
eight years old at the time, I didn't know that the popular television show was
simply fiction.
In the ensuing years, I would think
of that incident occasionally. I don't
know what ever happened to the stranger.
Did he get back on his feet? Did
he find work? Did he die alone and poor with no one to care for him? Did he become a millionaire? I hope the latter didn't happen because I'm
married now with three children. I don't
think God would want me as a priest.
As I've grown, my faith has grown
also. Somehow, in my heart I believe God
has taken care of the stranger, if not in this life then in the next.
I'm grateful to that tall, gaunt man
who entered my life one cold afternoon so many years ago. He allowed me to see a generous, sympathetic
side of my normally pugnacious and argumentative Irish mother. He gave me a
memory of her that I still hold dear today.
His brief visit and my mother's response also instilled in me a
sympathetic heart towards those in need.
On that day, over fifty years ago, a
stranger received a gift of two sandwiches, an apple, a container of milk and a
dose of compassion from my mother. Little did he know that I would receive an
even more precious, wonderful and enduring gift from him.
Thank you stranger.
© September 2016
William Charles
