Three Good People

I have been meaning to post about two of these people, and then yesterday another man was added to my list, so I better write before I forget.

First, the young waitress at Mary B's restaurant a couple weeks ago caught our attention. She had such a happy nature, serving us easily and smoothly, but it was her service to another diner that nearly brought me to tears. This man was in a wheelchair, and it wasn't just any wheelchair. It had a headrest decked out with cautionary colors of orange and yellow, and flashing lights. The electric chair supported several tote bags hanging from its frame, and it was clear that this guy travels around a good bit in his chair.

It was also obvious that he was a regular at Mary B's. His table seemed to be almost set up specifically for his needs. And the young waitress knew him well, calling him by name, coming by to check on him, help his with his food, holding his cup while he drank, all while carrying on an easy conversation. When it was time for him to leave, she reached into one of his bags and took out his pills, helping him to take them, then reached in again and got his travel mug which she filled up with water for him. She wiped a spill from his clothes, and said a cheerful, "See you tomorrow, Jim" as he left.

I have had good, even great, servers in the past, but never have I seen anyone treat a customer with such care and respect. When I complimented her, she simply said, "Oh, he comes in all the time, and he always asks for me. I like him."

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Last week I had an appointment with another physical therapist, to see if there were any other options for dealing with my painful knee. The consultation was basically fruitless, as she only wanted to focus on getting more bend and not on solutions to the ongoing nerve pain. But she put me on the recumbent bike for 10 minutes so I made some use of the time, at least. While I was pedaling away, a man in his eary 30's got on the treadmill beside me. He started out very slowly and stiffly, carefullymanipulating his prosthetic leg, which was attached at mid-thigh--so he had lost his knee, lower leg, ankle and foot. Wow. 

As we worked we got to talking, and I asked if he'd had a motorcycle wreck, as it seemed like everyone I have ever met who is missing a limb has wrecked a bike. "Dirt bike," he replied. He told me that they tried to save his leg for three months, and the agony, effect of painkillers, and constant blood clots made him beg to just have the leg cut off. Again, wow. "I'm too young to be an invalid," he said, "so I have to get this thing working good. I have a life to get back to." I left there thinking that my painful knee seemed a small thing compared to this man. 

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The third thing happened yesterday at Aldi's. A woman came up to each aisle, asking if anyone had found any money. She had dropped it in the store and was frantically searching everywhere. As it happened, on the other end of the store, a man was asking people if they had lost any money. Needless to say, the lady got her money back. When I told the man what a good guy he was, he just said, "It wasn't mine. I didn't work for it, and who knows, it might have been all she had." What a great example he set for the boy who was with him. And really, a great example for everyone in the store.

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I'll add one more small story, which sure made things easier for us. We were loading some pavers, heavy squares of concrete, to put along the edge of our sidewalk. We needed 40 of them and it was raining. A young man called out, "Do you need any help?" Now I am never one to turn down help from strong young men, so immediately said "Yes." He rounded up a couple other workers and a forklift, and in no time had those 40 stones loaded in our truck. He didn't have to do that, but we sure appreciated it. 

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

The Waver

He was always there, sitting on his porch and waving at every car that passed.

His house wasn't much, a small one-story place with a cobbled addition that was beginning to sag. The roof on the house was rusty and the place needed paint. He kept his yard moved though; it was just a little patch because his house was so close to the road, and the hill dropped off steeply behind. The outbuildings long ago gave up the battle to encroaching vines and were buried in green graves.

We drove by his place every now and then, on our way to the Ohio side of the river. We looked for him automatically, as one does at a familiar fixture, a landmark along a path. He wore a cloth ball cap and gray work clothes, adding a lined denim jacket in cooler weather. Only in winter would the waver be absent but we waved anyway, certain that he was watching from a window, snug inside his home.

One bright sunny day he wasn't there. The porch looked odd, as if one of its supports had suddenly disappeared. His chair was still there, its wooden slat-bottom showing the wear of years. But the waver was nowhere in sight.

He never returned. Heavy winter snows collapsed the porch. someone strung a high tensile electric fence across the front of the yard and the briars and vines crept into the grass. Windows broke, probably by vandals. The addition lost siding. Vines crawled up to the roof.

Who was he? I suppose I will never know his name, and I don't need to. Where did he go? I will never know that either. But I think of him whenever I pass his former home, remember his hand raising to one and all, creating a bright spot in the day with his simple greeting.

Raising my hand to you, my friends, as you pass by today.

Tourists after the Telling: Day 7

The last storytelling performance of my week was at Mt. Storm Public Library, in the high country of West Virginia. Here I am using my raccoon puppet to tell one of my favorite stories. Although this library is very rural and remote, there were 32 parents and children in attendance.

Granddaughters Kate, Cassidy and Allison were with me for the trip home, and we took time to visit the birthplace of Abraham Lincoln's mother, Nancy Hanks. The site is not along a major route--it's several miles back on Pennyroil Road off of Rt 50. And though it's not been maintained, and there is little on-site information, it made me think about the difficulties of living there in frontier times. The location is lovely, but remote.


Another side trip on the way home--a stop at Blackwater Falls State Park. The girls had never seen the falls, and we were only a few miles away, so after a great lunch at the Purple Fiddle in Thomas we made a quick stop at the falls. (The Purple Fiddle is a neat place--eclectic, comfortable, funky and lively. Definitely worth a stop, just for the great food and atmosphere).

The water level was down but as usual the falls were stunning.

Then we were in the home stretch, but one more side trip lured us off the
track. I had told the story of Burnt House at Cacapon Resort the night before, and when the girls realized we were passing so close to that community, they begged to see it. There's not a lot to see--a few houses along the road, and a church that may have been the one from which people saw the inn on fire. It's a compelling story, and kept my granddaughters speculating about its possiblities for much of the remaining two hours of our drive.

A True West Virginian: Fred Noble

While we were at the John Henry Memorial, a pickup truck pulled in and stopped. I noticed the man inside was on his mobile phone, and figured that like many places in West Virginia, this might be a spot where people could get reception--often you will see people pulled off the road on top of a hill, talking on a cell phone and you know that it must be the only place with service for miles around.

But when he finished his call, this gentleman rolled down his window and asked if we knew how to get down to the tunnel entrance. (As we were talking to him, another truck pulled in. Seemed the second driver noted my sister's out-of-state tags and stopped to give her a brochure and tell her about John Henry Days!)

West Virginians are never shy about talking to strangers. Mr. Noble gave us directions down to the entrances to the two tunnels--the Big Bend and the Great Bend railroad tunnels are side by side. We talked about the old caboose at the monument site, and he asked where we were from. I told him that I was a storyteller, and he assured me he could tell a few lies himself--and I believe he just might!

Mr. Noble is a retired federal prison guard (we weren't far from Alderson Federal Prison, made famous by Martha Stewart's stay). His family has been in that part of West Virginia since the 1700's. He said one of his ancestors from that time period was buried in Summer's County, and that his "scribe" was buried beside him. According to Mr. Noble, a scribe was akin to an accountant in those days.

Meeting people like Mr. Noble is one of the greatest pleasures I enjoy when traveling in West Virginia. At 84 years old, he runs a fairly large campground on the Greenbrier River, drives himself around quite competently, is involved in several civic organizations, and seems as healthy as a man half his age. His interest in people and his surroundings will probably keep him going for many more years. He's no slacker when it comes to technology either--cell phone noted, and he sent me an email last night. This is a man who isn't afraid of change.

If you're ever in the Talcott area, look him up. He's full of stories, and he might talk you into taking a camp site too!

The Abandoned Leg Brace and 500 Used Chickens in an Econoline Van

It leaned on the brick wall by the door of the coffee shop, its velcro bands spread wide as if some mighty muscle has burst its hold and gone on alone. Who did the brace belong to? and why did they leave it behind? Had a miracle occurred on that very spot? The questions and possibilities have chased each other around my mind all day. At 6:00pm, it was gone.

The anomaly of that brace reminded me of another brain teaser that happened a few years back. I needed some new chickens--mine were ready for the retirement home. An ad in the paper prompted me to action. The man on the other end of the line explained, "I've got chickens. A lot of chickens. They're used, though.

"You see, my buddy decided to go into the chicken business. He ordered 15,000 baby chicks. He didn't think about where he would house them or how much it would cost to feed them or where he would sell the eggs.

"He raised those chicks and he had eggs everywhere. First he kept the hens in a small building, but he couldn't sell all the eggs and he couldn't afford the feed. So he turned them loose. Well, coyotes got a lot of them. Others died for lack of feed, whatever. I told him I'd try to sell them. There were only 5000 by then. I've sold a lot and there's about 500 left.

"So here's what I'll do. I'll bring them to town in my gray Ford Econoline van. You'll know it's me by the side of the road. And you can pick out as many as you want."

I was fascinated. An Econoline van filled with 500 chickens flying loose? Would they be coming out the windows? Would he have a chicken sitting on his head? Would we open the doors, grab a chicken, slam the doors and then do it again to catch another one?

I couldn't wait to meet him. We drove to town and sure enough, there was the gray-primer van by the side of the road, and a wild-haired young man in a ball cap waving his arm out the window. Why weren't chickens flying out too?

I was disappointed. All the chickens were in cages, not flying free in the back of the van. Still, it was a sight as they clucked and squawked and stared at us with beady eyes. We picked out 20, paid for them and headed home. The young man continued on to Charleston with his ladies. I never saw him or his chickens again. But I thank him every time I remember that telephone call. You can't get better mental stimulation than that.

Auction!

Another annual Jackson County, West Virginia event: The Ravenswood FFA Farm and Equipment Auction. It's an event not to be missed if you are into farming, antiques, curiosities, and people-watching.

We had some specific things to be on the lookout for: chains for son Aaron's Massey Ferguson tractor (we got Derek's chains at last year's auction), metal nesting boxes for my chickens (mine I've had for 35 years, and they're in bad shape), a finish mower for our MF tractor, and then whatever oddities and necessities attracted us.

The day dawned rainy, not good for an outdoor auction, but if you go to these events you know to prepare for whatever comes--that is, if you're a diehard fan like those who showed up Saturday. We wore old shoes, wore layers, and carried hats andumbrellas. Good thing, because when the rain cleared off it got sunny and unseasonably warm.

First up was to locate what we were interested in. We'd driven out the evening before and made notes of what we wanted to bid on--there were three finish mowers in doubtful condition, several sets of tractor chains, nesting boxes (yes!), chicken waterers, and then the other things that I am drawn to without fail--old farm tools and equipment like horsedrawn plows and mowers, a bicycle grinder, a grain cradle, wagon wheels, shoes lasts, a wooden hay rake, antique hand tools, old kitchen tools and glassware. Then useful stuff like a shredder/grinder, lime spreader, utility trailers, and on and on and on.

We spent the entire day there, because the tractor chains, of course, were the next to last lot of the day. In the meantime we bid and lost on many items--the mowers (too high for their condition), the utility trailers (too high for the repairs needed), the wood hay rake (I quit listening when the bidding reached $50), the shredder/grinder (a good one, but more than I wanted to spend), the bicycle grinder (a really unique and old item, but beyond my pocketbook) and many others.

What we ended up with filled the back of the truck--the nest boxes, waterers, lime spreader, old dishes, shoe last, grain cradle, metal gas cans, backpack garden sprayer, garden rakes, masonry ruler, antique sled, 2 trash cans in new condition, and the tractor chains. Those chains were worth the wait, worth over $100 but we got them for $20. The buy of the day, certainly.

It was fun to watch people, too. The teenagers from the FFA worked hard and got good and dirty. Many of them had mud up to their knees. Adults didn't fair much better--Jackson County is renowned for its mud and we experienced some of its finest yesterday. Trucks got stuck and were pushed out or pulled out. Little kids ran back and forth through puddles to ensure they were mud-covered by the end of the day. But no one seemed to mind--here mud is a sure sign of spring, and good deep mud means good deep soil that grows fine crops.

Another thought struck me as I watched bidding on a box of miscellaneous tools and hardware--how often has this stuff been at this auction? I could just see it being carted home to be put in the buyer's barn, then a couple years later out it comes again, to be sold to someone else! And a further thought--how many of us had boxes and bins of exactly the same stuff at home, and yet here we were rummaging through these, wondering what certain things were used for, remembering a time we used a wrench like that one, thinking about whether or not we needed another box of wood screws. Such packrats we can be!

Some memories of the day:

• The sea of blue--jeans were like a uniform in this crowd, jeans and overalls, denim jackets and shirts on bodies of every age, size and sex.
• The old men, gathered in groups here and there, commenting on prices and items, joking with me as I carried the grain cradle to the truck ("Let's see you use that thing!" Yeah right. Those days are past for me.).
• The very young auctioneer, who when faced with an odd piece of antique gearing, simply said "We got us here some....airplane parts..." That got our attention! I still have no idea what the thing was used for, but it was intriguing and someone bought it.
• The man who bought the portable adult potty chair--plenty of kidding about that!--he just grinned, took off its pink cloth slipcover, and used it as a seat for the rest of the auction.
• The boy who bought the set of golf clubs, and the one who bought the feed pans. Serious and adult in their bidding, it was obvious to the rest of us that those who bid against them stopped so that the boys got what they wanted.
• The old man who bid against me on the hen nests. He wanted them as badly as I did, and hung right in there. It made me feel bad in a way, but for the past two years I've been outbid on these things and this year I was determined to get them--my hens need them too! I hope his chickens make out alright without them.

We were tired by the end of the day, and hungry. Muddy as we were, we decided to stop for dinner in town at our favorite Mexican reataurant (heck it's the ONLY Mexican restaurant in town!). Another nice thing about living in a rural area is that it's okay to "come as you are" at most businesses, and while I would not ordinarily trot in there like we were last night, we just didn't care. We called a good friend who came and joined us, and after a good dinner and good conversation, we felt human again. Then finally home to unload the day's buying, and finding places for all of it.

I think there is something special about using an old tool that's belonged to someone else, carrying on a tradition in a new place, honoring the work of those before us, perhaps. Or perhaps it's because each item has a story to go with it that makes it more appealing to me. I will think about the hands that held the garden rake when I use it, and about the woman who used the glass pouring bowl in her kitchen. That's why I like auctions--it's a day full of stories from the past lives of people who lived and farmed before us.