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One cold night, a stranger came calling...just in time
By AUDREY YEAGER
of TheColumnists.com
In 1930, December came
puffing and blowing, dumping immense skies full of snow over
Puget Sound. Numbing Arctic winds finger-painted the scene with
silvery strokes and on one particular snow-still morning a Western
Washington farming community went about its business. At 10:30
a.m. a mournful, drawn-out whistle led a swaying freight train
out of the deep forest to halt at the wooden water tower where
it would spend an hour-and-a-half taking on a fresh supply.
The trains carried men from one ocean to the other, then back
again--men who had taken to the open road for one reason or another.
Some were good men, some maybe not so good, but a large number
were husbands and fathers striving to come through for the families
waiting at home. Finding even the bare requirements of food on
a daily basis was a challenge. Every day hundreds of down-at-the-heels
men approached hundreds of back doors across the country hoping
for wood to chop or ditches to dig in exchange for a meal.
Women bore their own kind of burden: Months taken up with trying
to fill children with scanty rations and imagination.
Little old Mrs. Moore had no such worries. The modest farm produced
plenty for the two of them. She and her husband, Knapp, had raised
their one child long ago and soon would be celebrating their
60th wedding anniversary. She put another stick of wood in the
cook stove, checked on the baking bread in the oven and eased
down into the waiting rocking chair.
As the train gave a long, steamy "Sheeeeeesh," a lone
man jumped from one of the middle boxcars, pulled his tattered
overcoat close around his neck and took off at a slow and cumbersome
run across the field.
Nearby, Mrs. Moore had heard the whistle. She roused herself,
put on a pot of coffee and began to slice potatoes and ham into
a frying pan. He would be hurrying along now, one of the fellows
who "rode the rails" in these hard times. There was
never more than one man at a time looking for a hand out at the
Moore farm on the daily runs. This seemed to be the procedure
amongst the travelers. Farmers in other areas reported the same
routine. The elderly lady continued to work at the stove and
decided she would have her visitor cut some wood.
When the box in the woodshed was full of newly chopped kindling,
he took an armload and walked to the back porch. After dumping
the wood into a container near the back door, he shook the snow
from his worn coat, slapped his hat against his leg and entered
the country kitchen. He looked to be about 35 years old. His
face was craggy and thin, almost to the point of gauntness, with
cheeks reddened by too many winter rides in icy boxcars.
She chatted of this and that, placing dishes and utensils on
the table while pointing him to the wash basin and a hanging
towel.
He didn't talk much, spending his energy on the food in front
of him, but nodded or mumbled politely when he felt a response
of some kind was required. His hostess, seated at last with her
own cup of coffee, thought she saw him send a fleeting glance
of longing toward the tiny decorated fir tree in the dim parlor.
But, if so, it was quickly suppressed. Then, as he was finishing
up the last scraps of the meal, she watched as his eyes wandered
to the back door window. There was a large card there, suspended
by a string and facing the outside.
"I know," she said, though he hadn't asked. "We
can't see it from in here. I just never got it turned around.
It's what the angels told the shepherds, 'Peace on earth, good
will to men.'"
Her gray head turned toward the message. "Seems to me we
humans get that backwards today. We keep wanting the peace, and
all the things that go with it, without giving the good will
first."
The sojourner put down the checkered napkin and asked without
much interest, "What is good will, anyway?"
Almona Moore massaged one arthritic hand with the other, thinking
carefully about her answer.
"Well, it's wanting to be helpful," she said. "It's
looking for, being aware of--no, it's looking for opportunities
to be giving, even when it isn't so easy. It's a willingness,
an attitude. Yes, that's it. It's an attitude of kindness."
The young man answered, "Hmm."
Suddenly Mrs. Moore spotted a sack on the chair by the door.
She rose as quickly as her 78-year-old body would allow, put
her hand to her cheek and keened, "Oh, dear! My poor husband
has forgotten his lunch!" She glanced at the clock on the
shelf. It showed 11:45. There was still time, if... Her visitor
saw the clock also.
"You see," the woman continued, flustered and frowning,
"My husband had a chance to make a little money today repairing
a neighbor's fence, but he's not even completely over being sick
and he just can't go without this meal. What in the world can
I do?"
The faded blue eyes looked straight at the man sitting at her
table.
"Well, how far away is this neighbor?"
"A mile or so down the road," was the hopeful answer,
as she pointed in the opposite direction from the halted train.
Rising to shrug into his coat, the man replied, "Sure do
thank you for the food, Ma'am, but I can't do that. Gotta get
that train. I'd have to walk clean into Tacoma otherwise."
The lady sat back down, holding tightly to the sack, and sighed,
"Yes. Well, goodbye then."
A gust of frigid air came in as the man went out. "So long,
Ma'am. Sorry."
He walked 10 paces in the crunchy snow and stopped. Slowly, by
small jerks, he turned his head and looked over his shoulder.
He could see that sign as if it had a built-in light. That one
word sure seemed brighter than the rest? "GOODWILL."
He couldn't figure how he missed seeing that on his way in.
He growled,"Shoot!" as if somebody was giving him an
argument, and kicked at a mound of snow. Finally, he turned reluctantly
all the way around and began to retrace his steps.
The door opened before he knocked and Mrs. Moore handed him two
sacks. "Straight down this road, Son. McGreggor's place.
You can't miss it. Biggest barn you ever saw. Oh, yes, and that
large bag is for you. I wrapped up the rest of that ham shank,
some bread and a few winter apples for later.
The fellow shook his head and took the bags. "How did you
know I'd go?"
"Just thought I saw a lot of good will in you, Young man."
"Yeah, and I'll regret it when I find myself shiverin' in
somebody's haystack tonight."
"No," she said, firmly, "You won't."
He surely did shiver that night, but there was a warm spot somewhere
near the area of his heart that kept regret from getting in at
all.
© 2000 by Audrey Yeager. The illustration is © 2000
by Jim Hummel.
ABOUT
THIS STORY:
Much
of this story really happened, although I have presumed to fill
in a few details and changed one or two of the circumstances.
The Moores--Almona and Knapp--were true pioneers, homesteading
their land in the late 1800's. They had a son born on the property,
then a grandson, and finally a great granddaughter. (That's me.)
I knew and loved them well. My grandmother fed scores of wandering
men during the depression years and had some interesting stories
to tell about it. They were married for 65 years when she died.
He followed some time later at the age of 92. --Audrey Yeager
You
can comment on this column or contact Audrey Yeager by sending
an email to: talkback@thecolumnists.com
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