Brother Can You Spare A Dime?

Mother Teresa said, "If you can't feed a hundred people, then just feed one." My husband is generous. Really, really, generous. Last week his benevolent self shone like the first stars in the evening sky. Sunday, a beat-up white van drove into our cul-de-sac and parked in front of our house. Two men stepped out and approached my husband who was eyeing them from the front lawn. The men wore baggy blue jeans with large holes, T-shirts that hung loose and longish unkempt hair. The gentleman who spoke wore a hard-hat with a picture of the American flag on the side. After a few words between the three, they toured our yard while the man with the hat kept pointing upwards toward one of our trees. I resumed reading my book, lounging on the sofa, hoping they would leave soon so I could take my book outside on the deck, and hang with the birds under the glorious blue sky. Soon, I heard a chain saw revving. Peering out, I gasped as the scene unfolded outside my window. These bedraggled men were preparing to cut my tree. "What are those guys doing?" I asked my husband as he walked through the front door. He did not appear to notice my dismay. "Oh, come look," he said, and motioned me toward the deck in the back yard. He proceeded to describe how the bushes and trees were going to be groomed. I swiveled my head towards the men."They are going to do this?" Doubt coated my tongue. And I mentally counted the cost, the dent in our bank account. "He said he's an arborist." My husband gestured toward one of the gentleman, the one who seemed to be in charge, the man with the hat. I walked back into the house, closing my mouth tight, lest I say anything that might be used in court. A few minutes later my husband offered them some water. I extended narrowed eyes and a suspicious mind. Then, my husband, always the Good Samaritan left to pick up some friends from the airport. I was alone. With my barking, panting dog, Frazier. And strangers outside my house who just might be casing the place. Eventually, the good voice inside prompted me to step back outside. I greeted the gentleman, the arborist in charge who smiled wide, revealing a missing front tooth. When he extended his hand over the fence I left my own hands awkwardly dangling by my side, stiff with preconception, intolerance. It was then I saw the teen-age boy. Relief flooded my veins. Frazier, continued barking his do-not-come-near-this door bark, as I did my best to keep him inside, the better to protect his domain.  After an hour or so, they left to retrieve their truck that they used to haul debris. When they returned I saw an old faded blue Chevy pick-up parked at the curb. My grandfather drove one just like it in 1962. They resumed their work, chatting and teasing each other about spider-webs. A few of our neighbors surveyed their handi-work while I continued texting my daughter my irrational doubts and fears. The boss knocked on our front door and informed me of their imminent departure. I tried with all my muscle to keep my ferocious dog behind the locked screen door but Frazier won. He bolted out the door, down the driveway and raced to the truck which by now overflowed with yard debris kissing the pavement. I swallowed my anxiety and called him back, however, he was occupied licking hands, wagging his tail, fine fur flying in the summer air. The boy and men laughed easily, appearing to enjoy my dog's company. It was then I realized my huge mistake. Immediately, casting off the previous doubts and judgements like an uncomfortable pair of shoes, I engaged the three in conversation, discovering yet another family in need during this economic crisis. Yes, I ended up shaking the gentleman's hand. More importantly, I have a left-behind token of that day. A hard-hat sits on my front porch and it talks to me. Every time I pass by it whispers, saying you too can be generous, loving, tolerant. You too can feed just one.