Dismissals

Twice a month I greet people at St. Luke’s Food Pantry. Anyone in need receives a big bag of fresh produce. Cars line up for blocks. A man, always alone in his car, told me of his estranged son, “When we are together we always end up yelling at each other.” I said, “Write your son a letter and send it to him. He can’t yell at a letter.” When I next saw the man in line at the Food Pantry, he told me that his son sent him a letter in reply … it was a good letter … a beginning.

No home, no job, and little money, Axel drove his old car where he shouldn’t have. He was given a ticket. Aggrieved, Axel fought the ticket. I implored him, “Pay the ticket and move on!” No dice. Legal bills piled up, days were wasted in the courthouse. Then a memory came to me of Latin class 60 years ago, Miss Hoyle telling of Pyrrhus invading Italy. Pyrrhus defeated the Romans but sustained terrible losses … this was a “pyrrhic victory.” Considering this as a possibility, Axel paid the fine. As for me, I was pleased that Latin finally came in handy.

Wending my way along the aisles of a big-box store for a few household items, I saw a woman with a little boy standing before a display of Kleenex. The boy obviously needed to wipe his nose and Mom was rooting through her purse. A man of action, I took a six-pack of Kleenex from the display, tore it open and handed a box of tissues to the woman. She thanked me. I went to checkout. The cashier looked at the torn Kleenex pack and asked, “What happened?” I said, “Cleanup on aisle six.” I paid and went. 

I was old enough for a two-wheeler, and to fetch mail from the mailbox, so surely I understood when my dad said, “Don’t swing on the low branch of that old peach tree.” First chance, I took hold of that branch and swung like Tarzan … a sharp crack … a broken branch. I sat by the broken branch and tried not to cry. My father came with a ball of twine and a black, tarry substance, lifted up the broken branch and went to work. I heard every word he did not say. The branch survived … and so did I.

I’d only known him since he came out of prison … he served three years for theft from vending machines. Now he’s in a rooming house with other men in the same fix … no job and no future, only a few food stamps to get by on. He told me, “I don’t recollect anything in my old life I’d go back to. I’m starting life over again. Every day, rain or shine, I go someplace nice, somewhere quiet where I can be alone and sit and think and just be … somewhere I can begin to believe that better days will come.”

At the diner, a wood table, plastic tablecloth, a few longtime friends. We ordered. Then, as we sometimes do, we spoke with honesty about prayer in our lives … the how and when of words spoken to God … or kept silently within. Some of us pray words we know, others pray words as they are given. One man said this: “My work is my prayer. Where there’s need, I roll up my sleeves … a few minutes, maybe a few hours. When the work is done, I ask God if I did right. I don’t always hear back … but sometimes I do.”

We lived in the West Indies. I was a boy of seven. Late one day, when we had no butter for our dinner, my father dispatched me to the village store. I asked the proprietor for butter. She looked at me doubtfully. They had no sticks of butter in a refrigerator, only a great drum of butter from Denmark. In dialect she said, “How will you carry away this butter?” I had brought nothing, no cup to carry butter. She dabbed a bit of butter onto a piece of paper. “Now go! You will come here tomorrow morning with cup!”

Nick told me about his adult daughter. She has disabilities and lives at home. “We’ve done all we can for her. We kept her safe and cared for her in every way. Now she’s an adult and needs to go out into the world.” Nick told me of workplaces they had considered for her, but she has no work skills. I thought about this. A light went on. “Your daughter has skills. You taught her to live, cope and get along. Find a place for her where she is the helper. She may well find her way by helping others.”

Christmas Morning, 67 years go, a sturdy wooden box under the tree, my name carefully lettered on it. In the box, exactly what I had asked Santa to bring: An American Flyer train, complete with magnificent locomotive, coal car, three Pullmans and a red caboose! My Dad helped me set it up that morning. For years after, that train carried freight and passengers around the oval track in my bedroom. I do not recall what happened to that train but I still have the solid and beautifully painted wooden box … now a repository of long-ago memories and small treasures. 

There was a time when you could mail an old typewriter to a prisoner. If his handwriting was less than stellar, he could still write a legible letter to a friend or loved one. Nowadays, typewriters are seldom used in the “free world.” The supply of these typewriters is largely depleted so fewer typewriters are available to prisoners … and word processors and computers are strictly forbidden. Prisoners have reverted to pen or pencil. A simple letter might take an afternoon to write … but in this way, each stroke of every letter of every word has some small something to say. 

I was looking for my car in a big parking lot. A light snowfall had turned every car white. I walked between parked cars when suddenly the car next to me began to move. I gave a yell and the driver hit the brakes. I might have glared at him but he waved and I waved back, no harm done. As he pulled forward, I saw the boy, maybe two years old, smiling and waving at me from his car seat. I waved in reply and gave a thumbs up. He returned my thumbs up and our day was made.

My son Charles asked for a banjo for his 13th birthday. His mother and I pretended not to hear. For his 14th birthday he still wanted a banjo, so we gave him a beginner’s banjo. It was a year before Charles could play anything that could pass for a tune and our expectations remained modest. Charles practiced often and in time became quite accomplished. He moved to Nashville where he makes his living with the banjo. Really, the story could not get any better … until this news: Charles Butler will perform at Carnegie Hall, New York City, February 18th, 2024.