A Slob By Any Other Name

“You’re a slob!”

“Why do you always criticize me dad?”

He picked up a shirt that I had thrown on the floor and a pair of sweaty running socks and threw them onto the sheet-less mattress.

“You throw your crap all over the place. You never make your bed. Look” he said, pointing at the foot of the bed, “your sheets have come off the mattress and you couldn’t care less.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “So what! It’s my room. I should be able to do with my room as I please!”

“But, it’s my house and I expect you to take proper care of my property.”

I saw my dad’s next target. Before he could mention the running shoes, I nudged them under the bed, using my left foot as a tool.

“You’re twenty-five years old and you have no respect for my property.” 

“Dad, don’t go off the edge. It won’t take me but a few minutes for me to straighten my room.”

He stared at me. I could tell he was upset. No, make that angry. That wasn’t too uncommon.  I was used to seeing him react like this because of my slothful ways. There were few things that angered my father. He could handle a driver cutting him off in traffic or an inept cashier at the local McDonald’s.  He did not become upset when the newspaper delivery person skipped our house on occasion. But, as soon as the first sock hit my floor, he became apoplectic.

“A few minutes, my ass! Once you pick up all the crap on the floor and on the furniture, you will find foreign substances that need to be removed.”

“Foreign substances? What are you talking about?”

“Dirt,” he yelled, “and dust!”

My mother usually vacuumed and dusted the furniture. However, nearly four weeks earlier, she and dad informed me that she would no longer be responsible for those chores that, in dad’s words, “a twenty-five year old should do.”  I had not yet done either.

“I’ll vacuum and I’ll dust if that will make you happy!”

“Don’t get smart with me! If you don’t want to do your part around this house, then I suggest you move out.”

Wow. He was really angry now. I didn’t want to move out of my parents’ home.  Sure, I graduated from the University of Alabama Birmingham with a Bachelor of Arts degree and a major in English. And, even though I make $750 a week, my monthly wages would quickly be depleted if I had to rent an apartment. Besides, how would I be able to afford those things that bring me comfort, such as my iPod and iPhone?  How could I regularly upgrade my computer? Let’s face it, personal computers are much like automobiles. Once you take them from the store, they begin to depreciate and lose value. Within twelve months, if not sooner, a newer, faster and better computer is on the market. A young person who depends so heavily on computing devices wouldn’t think of using the same desktop or laptop for more than a year, eighteen months top.  Speaking of laptops, I’ve had my current one for eleven months and now have my eye on the newest Mac model.

I need my money for things other than silly rent. I might live with my parents for 5 – 6 more years. Of course, I have not yet told them of my probable plans. But, that shouldn’t surprise them at all. The McKinney’s, our next door neighbor, have been landlords for two adult children, the oldest of whom is thirty-five years old. Hah! I still have at least ten more years to go!

My grandmother often chides me about being single.

“You’re getting old, Lawrence. Why don’t you find a girl and marry her? Your grandfather and I were nineteen when we married. You shouldn’t wait much longer, especially if you want children.”

Children were the least of my concerns. I can’t imagine little ones crawling all around getting into my personal items. Can you imagine the damage a toddler can do to an iPhone? Or a laptop?  I would be horrified if I were to find milk or pee on my keyboard!

“Grandma, I’m not that old! Many of my friends aren’t married. Besides, I can’t afford a wife and family yet.”

“You can’t afford a wife because you spend too much of your money on all that crap you buy.”

Wow, for my grandmother to counter with such language meant she was angry. For all my life I had been her pet and I don’t remember her even being upset with me.

“You’re too damned spoiled,” she continued. “And sometimes I think you care about no one but yourself.”

Yikes, that hurt coming from her.

“Grandma, my personal electronic devices are important to me. In today’s world, that’s how people connect. We text, we twitter and we email throughout the day.”

“Why the heck don’t you pick up the phone and call some of your friends instead of tweeting, twixting or whatever the hell you call it.”

I could see I wasn’t going to change her mind nor was I going to convince her of the demands and needs of a modern man to stay connected with friends and networks. I tried to change the subject.

“Grandma, are you staying for dinner?”

“Don’t think you can change the subject like that. And another thing, if you want to eventually marry you ought to start looking for a better job!”

This just wasn’t my day. First my dad nagged me and then his mother jumped all over me. They worked in precision like a WWF tag team. My dad threw me against the ropes and grandma pounded me with a folding chair. Soon mom would enter the ring and pin me to the floor. I was losing this match.

Now that my livid family had left the room I decided to try to see my room and myself as they saw me. Whenever I looked in the mirror I saw an average man.  I didn’t consider myself handsome, ugly or homely. Just like my friend Justin was just Justin, I was just me, Larry Langley. I stood five foot ten. My hair was brown and quite thick and my eyes complemented my hair. I didn’t wear designer clothes or shoes. In fact, I’m not sure I would know where to look for them. I either rely upon my mother to buy my clothes, which she had done with much certitude for most of my twenty-five years, or I simply buy jeans, shorts and shirts from Wal-Mart. I wear clothes not to be stylish but to avoid prison.

My room doesn’t look as bad to me as it obviously looks to my parents and my grandmother. The three working computers don’t take up that much space. Neither do the spare hard drives, fans and other parts that I keep in my room to repair not just my computers but those of friends and family members. Hah! They don’t complain about my room when I fix their computers!

So, a few hand tools are on the carpet. Big deal. It’s not like the screwdriver is stuck into the carpet. And the five empty plastic water bottles that lay around aren’t much of an issue. I can pick them up anytime, can’t I? I have over two hundred DVDs and I have only one room in this large house. Where else can I store them other than on top of my chest of drawers, in my bookcase, on top of my dresser and even on the floor. I know the ones on the floor have been there for about two months, maybe five. But, I’m culling them to see which ones I want to get rid of. Mom said I haven’t culled any in at least a month but how would she know? Oh, I see they are covered with a thick layer of dust. That might be a clue. Perhaps if I dust once in a while, she might think otherwise.  

Dad keeps complaining about the pile of paper that has accumulated on my desk, file cabinet and dresser. He wants to know when I intend to throw most of it away. Dad! That’s my mail. I can’t just throw it away without going through it, can I? You say it’s been there for how many months? Gosh, I guess I should begin to see what’s in these stacks of mail. I wonder if my cell phone bill got mixed up with this stuff. I received a notice that my bill has not been paid. I called the company and told them that I didn’t receive a bill. But who knows, maybe it’s here somewhere in one of these stacks.

I never was much of a basketball player. The school coach told me I wasn’t quite tall enough. I didn’t believe him.  Frankly, I don’t think my shooting and ball handling skills impressed him. But, I’ve been practicing! That’s why, in addition to the empty water bottles, there are dirty clothes on the floor. I’m trying to improve my skills! I currently make about 30% of my shots and, I’m proud to say that’s up from 23% last month. Dad once asked me why I didn’t attempt any slam dunks instead of three point shots. He also asked if I’ve ever attempted an offensive rebound. I tried to explain that just about anyone can slam dunk if the basket is only four feet off the floor. What fun would that be? But, to tell the truth, I didn’t have a good answer for not attempting any rebounds. I could only assure him that eventually I would place the dirty clothes into the basket.

I have been thinking of getting my own apartment. I wouldn’t have to listen to my parents’ constant nagging and I could live as I want, not that I’m not doing pretty much that now. But, the most reasonably priced one bedroom costs nearly $1000 per month! My take home pay is only $2500 or so. That would leave me so little to enjoy the things in life that bring me joy. I only pay my parents $200 per month. Mom says that doesn’t nearly cover room and board. She claims that if she included her services, which she compares to those of a maid, then I should be paying over $1200 per month. Yeah, right!

I don’t believe for one minute that she works that hard on my behalf. Like I said, I only have one room in this large house.

Now that I’ve tried to look at my room as they do, I honestly can’t see what they complain about. I think I keep my room pretty neat.

   

© W. J. Charles July 2015

Passion Unused

In one his famous poems, Dylan Thomas wrote “The force that through the green fuse drives the flower.”  Like most poets, Thomas was a master at choosing the right words to convey complex emotions. I have always viewed the Thomas’ use of force in the above verse as synonymous with passion.   A natural passion drives the flower. It has no choice but to do so since the force has been ordained by nature to do just that. In the natural world, the force or passion that controls the seasons, the flowers, the shrubs, the oceans and streams cannot do anything but that for which it has been divinely created. During times of drought or other natural phenomenon, nature’s passion might be temporarily disabled or ineffective but it eventually returns or it evolves with the elements.  Nature is very efficient and does not allow her forces to go unused for too long.

On the other hand, man’s passion is not as regulated as nature’s.  Man’s passion is primarily emotional and he can choose to act upon it or he can choose to ignore it.  When one acts upon and follows his passion, the usual result is happiness and joy and some level of success in whatever endeavor he’s engaged.  Too often, though, people do not follow their passions. Instead, they surrender to their more immediate needs or to others’ expectations.  They pursue careers for expedience rather than for addressing their true needs and desires. They remain too long in jobs which may not particularly satisfy them but which keep them and their families clothed and fed. There is really nothing wrong with taking a path such as this. However, the price so many people pay for doing so is the suppression of their creativity.  Most highly successful people who are also happy decided at some point to pursue their passion.  Something done with passion is usually something done right.

Passion unused dwindles. It evaporates. It leads to regrets and to “what could have been.” How many men and women, in their later years, have lamented the life paths they chose and wondered how their lives would have been had they only pursued their dreams?    Like the battered prize fighter portrayed by Marlon Brando in the classic, “On the Waterfront”, they cry out “I coulda been a champion!”  How many people have cried out, “I could have been a doctor,” or “ I could have been a pilot,” or “I could have been a writer.”  The list is endless. So many coulda, woulda, shoulda’s. So many dreams wasted. So much passion unused.

Fortunately, humans have been blessed with significant mental faculties. We can think rationally. We can make decisions daily. We can, regardless of our station in life. This holds true for young and old alike. It doesn’t matter if a person has failed to act in accord with his passions every day of his life. Today, he can choose differently. He can choose to act on his passion. 

If today, just 5 percent of us acted on our passions, we would change ourselves and we just might be able to change the world.

Wouldn’t that be a grand thing!

As Christmas Approaches

No other season captures me more than Christmas.  My love for this time of the year has nothing to do with receiving gifts. I truly enjoy the spirit of Christmas – the sense of giving. I also enjoy the other aspects such as the music, decorations and the attitudes of most people. I listen to Christmas songs and I sing along which helps me get into a joyous mood.

Yet, there is also an aspect of Christmas which is saddening. So many people have so little and yet ask for practically nothing. I read an article in the Birmingham News several days ago that dealt with the many letters addressed to Santa that are received by the US Post Office.  Many of the letters are enough to bring a grown man to tears. More than one child wrote that he or she wanted nothing. Instead, if Santa could just bring their father back from Iraq then that would be enough. Others forsook their own desires for those of their mothers or siblings. One child wrote that he could get by with no gifts this year but he asked Santa to treat his sister kindly.

Stories like these remind me that Christmas discriminates. It discriminates unintentionally. And it’s not Jesus’ fault. In fact, I’m not sure he would approve of the way so many people and so many nations celebrate his birth. Rather than celebrate this holiday in a humble manner, more consistent with the way Jesus came into this world, we have commercialized the season to an incredible degree.  Through advertising and other means, we have made it clear that Christmas just isn’t Christmas unless one receives the latest X-Box, doll, toy, etc.  That in itself is not too bad. Many people can afford such niceties. Unfortunately, many, if not more, cannot. So, a disparity results between the haves and the have-nots.  How can we face those children and those adults for whom December 25 will be just another disappointment?  Sure, we help by giving freely via angel trees and other charitable means. But, despite our best efforts, so many people fall through the cracks.

I do not need anything for Christmas. If someone insists on giving me something, then fine. A book will do nicely or perhaps some golf balls. The most important thing I desire for Christmas is a sense of Jesus’ love for my fellow man.

Links To The Past

“Y’all golfers?”

It seemed such an odd but innocuous question and, I certainly hadn’t expected it. I and my four golf buddies had just finished eating a great country breakfast at Big Daddy’s Café in Fayetteville, a small town in central Alabama. The small café was somewhat busy. I suspect that since it was nearly 9:00 AM that the normal breakfast crowd had already eaten and were now on their way to work. A few regulars remained, drinking coffee and finishing off a serving of eggs, ham and biscuits.  They were easy to spot. Some wore overalls or jeans and tee shirts of varying shades. One even wore camouflaged trousers, which seemed appropriate considering the location.  On the other hand, the five of us were dressed sharply.  We were attired in neatly ironed Dockers, Izod or Adidas shorts. Our knit shirts bore various brand names and logos. Our caps were Titleist, Callaway and Taylor Made and two bore the name of the now defunct Heatherwood Country Club. We stood out in direct contrast with Big Daddy’s regular customers.

I turned to the patron who asked the question. He was a black man and appeared to be middle aged, perhaps a bit older. A weathered hat adorned his head. His face was unusually smooth and appeared none the worse for what I guessed was a lifetime of labor outdoors. He grinned beguilingly, as if he were hiding a secret.

“Yes, we’re golfers.”

“Y’all going to play at FarmLinks?”

Was this a trick question? FarmLinks Golf Club was minutes down the road from the cafe and was the only golf course within 20 – 30 miles of Fayetteville. Where else would we play?

“Yes, we’re going to play FarmLinks,” I responded, and then added, “I’ve never played the course but I’ve heard a lot of good things about it.”

I wasn’t sure my words were of any importance to the man. He seemed more concerned with what might be on his mind rather than mine.  I really thought he could not care less about golf. He just didn’t appear to be a golfer. Nor did he seem the type that was interested in the sport.

He grinned even wider. “I was born and raised on the land where the seventh tee is.”

“Really?”  I feigned interest and I wasn’t sure why that bit of trivia might be important to me but I didn’t want to appear rude and ignore him.

“When you’re up on that tee and getting ready to hit your ball, think about that.” He paused, taking another sip of coffee from the Styrofoam cup he held in his weathered right hand.   “Just think about it,” he commanded.

I nodded and studied his face for a moment longer. My eyes locked on his. I realized that I was indeed being rude by staring at him. I abruptly averted my gaze.

“I sure will.” I wished him a good day and walked away.

Within minutes we entered the impressive gate to FarmLinks. I was excited to finally have the opportunity to play the course. I had heard so much about this course located in an area which cannot, in any way, be described as a golf hotbed. FarmLinks is a research golf facility and attracts golf course superintendents from around the world to study some of the golf industry’s most advanced resources and technologies. The facility also attracts golfers from all over with the unusual offer to play unlimited golf for a daily fee. I had heard of the fairways with different types of grass on each and I’ve been regaled with numerous stories of how well the staff treats its guests.  Today, thanks to the Southeastern Seniors Golf Association, I would finally play the venue.

After paying the tournament entry fee at the SSGA registration table, I went to the practice range. Like many senior golfers, I need several minutes, if not more, to warm up before playing. I hit perhaps thirty balls with different clubs and then spent ten minutes on the practice green. Before proceeding to the first tee, I stopped at the practice bunker to hit a few sand shots.

I felt good, if not a bit nervous on the first tee. I was playing in a threesome with two men whom I had met just that morning. They were exceptionally nice and were the type of golfers I wouldn’t mind playing with in the future. But, as is the case whenever I play in a tournament and especially when playing with strangers, I had the first tee jitters. My shoulders tightened a bit as did my hands and legs, a sure sign that my nerves were in control of my body. This was an indicator that I would slice or hook my first drive. Somehow, despite my nervousness I hit a decent drive.  Although my drive was shorter than Wally’s or Rusty’s, it came to rest in the middle of the fairway.

Seniors often play at a leisurely place.  Since I was riding alone in the golf cart, I allowed my mind to absorb the experience and the spectacular views. A golf course can be quiet and peaceful and FarmLinks was no exception. I took advantage of the pace of play and made the decision to simply enjoy the moment and the scenery.

The course starts in a valley. The fairways are generously wide and forgiving. In fact, it takes quite a slice or hook for one’s ball to find trouble. The greens are fast and most are contoured which makes for challenging putts. If you stay below the hole, generally the putt is easier. If your ball comes to rest above the hole then the speed and contours of the greens can exact a toll on one’s scores.

The highlight of the front nine is the par 3 fifth hole. From the fourth green to the fifth tee box, the elevation rises 170’. The tee box on the fifth hole offers a panoramic view of the distant hills and the valley below. The green is the largest on the course but it certainly doesn’t look so large from the tee box. The scene is postcard quality. Many golfers, including myself, capture the beauty of the hole by taking photographs from the tee box. I was grateful that my cell phone has a camera option.

It took nearly two hours to complete the first six holes, but I was content just soaking up the experience of FarmLinks.  We pulled up to the seventh tee and after waiting for the group ahead to clear the fairway, I teed my Callaway ball and stood behind it. I selected a target and tried to visualize the shot I wanted to hit. With the shot firmly visualized in my mind, I addressed the ball.

“Just think about it.” 

The intrusive thought and voice from within seemed real. I was startled. It was as if the gentleman from Big Daddy’s was standing behind me, nudging me and demanding that I do as he said.

I backed away from the ball. Slowly, I scanned the area, taking in the scenery. The bright lush green fairway stood in contrast with the one foot tall fescue borders that beckon wayward tee shots.  The fairway bunkers, with meticulously raked sand seemed ornamental rather than penal. I could see the green over three hundred yards in the distance, much too far for me to drive.  I tried to imagine what the land looked like 30, 40 or 50 years ago, long before a golf course had even been considered. Had it been farmland or had it been a southern pine forest? I’m sure that whatever it had been, it was beautiful. I don’t know if the land that now serves as the 7^th hole had been tilled for crops or was simply dense foliage. It probably didn’t matter except to the family that claimed it as their own.  Now, the land had been transformed from its natural state to perhaps an even more pristine state that still honored its humble past. For a moment, I could sense the man as a child running around, playing with siblings and friends and enjoying this modest parcel of land for everything it was worth. Now, I had the opportunity to share, in some way, what he had known and what he obviously had revered.  I felt privileged and blessed.

I returned to the task at hand. Once again I selected a target. My focus became sharper as I saw, in my mind, the shot I would hit. Addressing the ball, my limbs became relaxed. I waggled the driver twice and again glanced at the target.

I now knew what the black man in Big Daddy’s Café wanted me to know. He was as much a part of the golf course as were the fairways and greens. He was proud of his family’s stewardship and he was sure that the new stewards would take pride in their contributions to the land.  Change can honor the past.

“Thank you,” I whispered quietly.  “Thank you.”



© June 2009
William J. Charles

Sacrament of Reconciliation

Catholics believe in the sacrament of reconciliation whereby a person confesses his sins to a priest and, through the priest, receives absolution for his sins from Jesus Christ. According to church teachings, the priest represents Christ and thus has been anointed to grant forgiveness on behalf of Jesus. Most Catholics profess a belief in the sacrament of reconciliation. However, based upon the relatively few Catholics who participate in this sacrament, many do not really believe in it, or are too intimidated to confess to a priest. Like our protestant brothers and sisters, many Catholics confess their sins directly to God and believe their sins are forgiven. I wish it were that easy. It is, after all, somewhat inconvenient not to say humbling, to take the time to go to confession, considering, confession is available in most Catholic churches for only a short time each Saturday or Sunday before mass.

Many people do not believe priests have the authority to absolve one of his or her sins. They argue that only God can forgive sins. That sounds much like the Pharisees in the New Testament who questioned Jesus when he forgave sins. “How can man forgive sins. Only God can,” they claimed. Too often, critics of the Catholic sacrament of confession don’t consider John 20, versus 21 – 23, in which Jesus anoints the apostles with the Holy Spirit and commands them to go forth and do as he did. Further, he tells them that “Whose ever sins you forgive are forgiven and whose ever sins you hold bound are held bound.” I don’t know what other explanation there is for these versus other than that Jesus gave man, via the apostle and their successors, the authority to forgive sins.

A CEO is the top authority for a company or corporation. He is accountable for the success or failure of a business. However, few, if any CEOs, assume responsibility for establishing every work rule, job description, specific performance levels for their employees. Nor do they evaluate each employee’s performance. Most of these responsibilities are delegated to those who report to the CEO through the chain of command. A supervisor or foreman will generally be accountable for his employees’ performance. A manager will be responsible for the supervisors, and so on up the line. This is analogous to Jesus delegating the sacrament of reconciliation, along with ministering the other sacraments, to the cardinals, bishops and priests. Jesus, the CEO of His church, has established a line of succession and accountability through the clergy to do the things He did and more. It’s as simple as that.

Employees are usually rewarded for doing a good job. Similarly, Catholics who take advantage of confession are rewarded with forgiveness, absolution and peace of mind, heart and soul.

 © January 2017

William Charles
 

Rehearse Life Roles Each Day

Each of us has several roles in our lives. Some are mothers, wives, employees. Others are fathers, sons, husbands. Most are also friends to another or many. Some are runners, golfers, quilters and writers. Some roles require similar skills and talents. Many roles demand different skills and talents and varying degrees of dedication and passion.

We usually excel in those roles for which we are very passionate. Passion drives us to be the best father and best husband. Sometimes, though, being passionate about an endeavor doesn’t necessarily equate to excellent outcomes. I am passionate about golf. One can argue that I’m addicted to the game. However, passion aside, I’m not a very skilled golfer. Likewise, I was once a devoted runner. I never won any running awards, but I certainly gave my best whenever I ran a race.

The thought occurred to me that life is but a play, a theatrical production. Each person is an actor in her own lifelong play. If we are actors, why don’t we prepare as actors do? Why don’t we audition and rehearse every day for our daily roles or roles we wish to pursue? I seldom play a round of golf without at least a minimum level of practice which usually includes hitting a full bucket of balls and 10 – 15 minutes practicing putting. Keep in mind that my practice sessions do not always equate to low scores, but at least I manage to minimize my errant shots during the round.

If I rehearse before a round of golf, why don’t I do likewise in my other, more important roles of husband, father, grandfather, friend, writer, etc.?  Why don’t I take time each day to audition and rehearse my role as spouse? I could easily take a few moments to reflect on what I hope to accomplish each day in each role. I can engage in self dialogue that would support my goal to be the best husband. I can also create new dialogue and in doing so, I can possibly create a new self.
One could argue that most successful people dialogue with themselves each day in a positive way. Athletes certainly practice positive self talk. By doing so, they condition themselves for success. An actor rehearses his lines countless times, often in front of a mirror, before auditioning for a part in a movie or play.  Why don’t we do the same?

I’m in my late sixties. I realize that I’m on the far side of life’s mountain. However, I’m still breathing. My heart still pumps and my lungs continue to function. As long as I’m alive, I will continue to strive for self improvement.I realize that as I continue to age, my physical capabilities will gradually dwindle. Yet, I can strive for excellence appropriate for my physical condition and age.  Why should I settle for less than my best?

I plan to change my dialogue. My goal is to rehearse each day for my different roles. No one else will assume those responsibilities. Nor can they. After all, I am the author and playwright of my life.

© December 2016

William Charles

A Stranger's Gift

                     

 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