It took lo! these many years for me to figure myself out! Being born into and going up in poverty was not the cause of anything. It was just the catalyst that propelled me into being the person I am today. I recall the first nickel I ever made. I do not remember the man's name, but he lived in a ramshackle house on the corner of the street we walked up to get to "down town." He had his whole yard planted to potatoes. The rows were even and ditches clean for water to run down to irrigate his crop.
He was setting on his front porch and wearing the uniform of the day; overalls. I stopped to look at his potato crop. It was green and tiny white blossoms topped each plant. The porch was about 40 feet from where I stood.
"Whatcha' lookin' at little girl? "
"Just looking at your potatoes. They sure are pretty."
"Do you want a job?"
"Sure."
He then came down to where I stood and explained that "potato bugs" were decimating his crop. (Side note here: I am sure he did not use the word "decimating" because I am pretty sure neither he nor I would have used that word, but 70 odd years later it seems to fit.) He further went on to explain that he would give me a pint jar containing gasoline and I would go through and pick the bugs off and drop them in the jar. For each jar I filled he would give me a whole nickel. I ,of course, jumped right on that offer.
The sun was hot as I worked my way down the first row. The jar took a very long time to show any signs of ever getting full, but I persevered. I gave no thought of hurrying home because I could only see the reward of the big shiny nickel when the jar was full. I do not know how many potato bugs I picked that hot afternoon, nor is it important at this late date. What is important is that about the time I got the jar full my brother showed up. Momma had sent him to find me. He went with me to deliver the jar to the man. He was pleased and gave me my shiny nickel. I promised I would come the next day to finish the field.
But when I got home and showed my mother my new nickel, she frowned at me. "Do you know that old man is not well? His wife is an invalid. He has to take care of her. You march right back over there and give him his money back! You know better than taking his money."
Mother explained to me that we were put on this earth to help those less fortunate and we were not to do it for rewards except the one reward we would receive when our time on earth is done. And I did as I was told. The old man was dumbfounded when I gave him his nickel and explained that I would come back tomorrow and finish the job. He took me inside to meet his wife the next day. She lay almost comatose in a small bed and I do not think she even knew I was there. I finished the field and never saw the old man again. I assume he and his wife went to their reward because that is how life works.
The point to this is that any time I come across some one less fortunate then myself, I want to help them. I do not mean financially, but physically. I guess that is why I worked so tirelessly during the AIDS epidemic. That is why I labored for the homeless teenagers. Not sure they appreciated it, but I knew I was doing the right thing. Migrant workers hold a place in my heart. But times have changed and I am becoming one of the vulnerable. I was going to town up South Road and saw a young woman beside the road with a suitcase and bag containing clothes. I almost stopped, but I did not. I know she has a story, but I do not want to be a statistic.
I do very little charity work any more. What I do is in a controlled environment and when I finish, I walk away. My shelf in the closet is where I keep all my treasures and awards. No one really needs to know where I have been or what I have done. That is between me and God.
Dreams of being a missionary in Africa were scrapped for the reality of being a wife and mother in Western Kansas. Visions of opening a mission were traded for the reality sewing sweat bands for migrant workers. Woulda', coulda', shoulda'.
My life goes on.
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