Gifts come in all sorts of packages, including no package at all. The best gifts come when we least expect anything, or from someone we don't know. I think the greatest gifts we receive and can give are friendship, compassion and understanding.Today (Wednesday) was a day of such gifts for me, starting with the one when I awoke. (Another day, kid; try not to waste it, will you?) My habit each morning is to visit blogs while having breakfast. I don't always have time to leave comments, but I like to visit, to see what's new in other parts of the world.
When I visited Zhoen's place today, I listened to the song she had embedded, by singer Lesley (Sam) Phillips, titled "One Day Late." On first listen, you might think this is a lament, or a complaint, but I didn't take it that way. I took it to be a song of hope, perseverance and encouragement. As such, it came at the right time for me. I planned to write Z a short note when I got to work this morning, but was surprised to find she had already emailed me, with the lyrics of the song and more words of encouragement. Her gesture was completely unexpected, yet so like her.
Another gift, from the secretary of the historical society where I work, was a vaseful of cuttings from her herb garden. Martie is a
Master Gardener in our county, as well as co-chair of the committee that oversees the lawns and gardens of our two properties. She brought in clippings of sage, two kinds of rosemary and scented geraniums, thyme and marjoram. As the day wore on in the office, the heat in the room caused the plants to release their oils, creating a melange of delightful aromas that lifted my spirits every time I walked past them.Then there is Gustavus, Gus as his family and friends call him; my angel in a blue cap. I ran out of gas within sight of the gas station I was headed toward, and coasted to a stop near an auto and tire store,
parking close to a large eighteen-wheeler sitting nearby. I borrowed a gas can from the auto-tire shop next door and walked to the station. On the way back, my asthma kicked in and I was struggling to get back to the car. From out of nowhere, this young man was at my elbow, took the can and poured the gas into the Jimmy's tank. I thanked him for his kindness and said that his mother certainly had raised him right. He laughed and said that when he saw me with the gas can, he knew his grandmother would never forgive him if he didn't come help me.Gus is from Mobile, Alabama, near where an aunt of mine used to live. Until the BP oil spill, he was a shrimper. In fact he is known as 'Gus the Shrimp King.'
"From my boat to your throat," he said is his business slogan, advertising the freshness of his catch. Now he drives truck up and down the east coast. I think he'd rather be back on his boat, out in the Gulf, hauling in shrimps.
Gus's gift was not so much his assistance with the gas can (although I am grateful he came up when he did) as it was his chatting with me about the South, about what life is like there, about some of the places I remember well and miss. I've lived here in Pennsylvania for two thirds of my life, but my heart belongs to the South, probably buried there with my mother. I get homesick for that part of the country and for my family members who still live there, especially at this time of year. Gus, with his soft southern speech, his gentleman's mannerisms and his thoughtfulness, took away some of the homesickness, took me outside of my blues.
These are gifts you can't buy, for any amount of money. They will be treasured and forever remembered, brought out on cold, lonely nights to warm my heart and spirit again and again.
Thank you, Zhoen. Thank you, Martie. And thank you, Gus; safe journey home.
8 comments:
And another southerner created a line that best summarises your experiences: I am referring to Tennessee Williams and I'm not going to patronise you by writing out the line here. I'm sure you know it.
The detail about Gus's accent and what it does to you touched something in me. As you well know I left the North of England without any regrets way back in 1959 and my profile carries a facetious remark about renouncing my West Riding birthright. However my bank is purely on-line and has two call-centres one in Scotland and one in Leeds, only nine miles from where I was born. Because the bank is only on-line the people who take my calls have been trained (possibly chosen) for their easy sympathy over the phone. They even respond to my jokes and as you well know that can be a trial some people do not survive. So there is that moment when I, like you listening to Gus, find an accent bridging a gap that in my case has existed for over fifty years. And I find myself having to confess to myself that West Riding people aren't all that bad. Of course my situation - unlike yours - is both artificial and self-created even though the person at the other end of the line is truly pleasant and helpful.
Just saw a rather sad movie called The Conspirator (about the trial of the group who were involved in the Lincoln assassination, and in particular the case of Mary Surrat). The complexities of being a southerner in a country dominated by those from the north is constantly explored; your experience reminded me of this.
You lead a tough life, Crow, and most of us can do no more than offer distant comments. However, as I've aways said, you write well and it should be some help although only you can know for sure. Sorry I wasn't there to carry the can but it seems you were well served.
Another day, kid; try not to waste it, will you?
One of the best things anyone can say to themselves in the morning :)
The post is beautiful. I hope you keep getting blessings like these, good people and their kindness in your life.
And the post is also great as a reminder, given that most of what we see in the news is people behaving badly.
thanks for reminding me about all the shapes and forms that gifts have.lovely
More and more, I'm beginning to talk to strangers every chance I get because there are so many Gus's out there. We just don't know it until either we or they initiate a conversation. I'm so glad he came along for you, Martha.
Another gift we give each other is attention and understanding. Listening and sympathy without comment, or our opinions thinly disguised as 'advise'.
You seem to have these in ample quantity, and I'm sure you are a gift to your friends. It'd be a pleasure to know you in real life, I'm sure.
Happy holidays, Martha.
Mike
The best gifts are the stories we share, expanding our lives beyond our own hands.
"He laughed and said that when he saw me with the gas can, he knew his grandmother would never forgive him if he didn't come help me."
If his grandmother was anything like mine, it never occurred to him to do otherwise lest she be disappointed.
Thank you for sharing your life, my dear. You write so well, you think so deep, and you share what's real. May Psps God bring you good things in the coming year!
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