The woman across the street from us retired decades ago. Her youngest grandchildren are headed for high school. She doesn't hear well. She often doesn't see us as we pass during her early morning rose pruning and leaf collecting sessions. She doesn't drive anymore, but relies entirely on public transit. As a Brit, she was raised using public transit, so that's all and good, but sometimes it's just nice to have a lift, and when we have a chance, we pick her up and drop her wherever she needs to be. (It's never very far.)Today, we were almost at our final destination (farmers' market) when I spotted her in the bus stop. I knew she was headed only about 2 miles west, so I pulled up to the stop, rolled down the window and waved my hand ala Vanna White and said, "Your carriage awaits!"
What a great smile she gave me as she put away her change and climbed in. I confirmed her final destination, and headed west. We were a couple of blocks away from farmers' market when she asked where WE were headed. I thought about making something up, but I wasn't that quick. I told her.
"Oh! Well, thank you VERY much," she said.
The unexpected lift gave her time to run an extra errand near her final destination.
It took us an extra five minutes to give her a lift and return to our intended stop. As w e pulled in to farmers' market, I noted the bus still hadn't arrived.
So, it seemed ultra appropriate today when this poem popped up on my radar. (Thanks, Garrison Keillor!)
Somebody's Mother
The woman was old and ragged and gray
And bent with the chill of the Winter's day.
The street was wet with a recent snow
And the woman's feet were aged and slow.
She stood at the crossing and waited long,
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng
Of human beings who passed her by
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.
Down the street with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of 'school let out,'
Came the boys like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep.
Past the woman so old and gray
Hastened the children on their way.
Nor offered a helping hand to her—
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir
Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.
At last came one of the merry troop,
The gayest lad of all the group;
He paused beside her and whispered low,
"I'll help you cross, if you wish to go."
Her aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,
He guided the trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were firm and strong.
Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.
"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,
For all she's aged and poor and slow,
And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
To help my mother, you understand,
If ever she's poor and old and grey,
And her own dear boy is far away."
"Somebody's mother" bowed low her head
In her home that night, and the prayer she said
Was, "God be kind to the noble boy,
Who is somebody's son, and pride and joy!"
Photo courtesy nzbuu under Creative Commons License.
Share this post with:
Posts
