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| Help for the Helper |
At age eighteen, I left my home in Brooklyn, New York, and
went off to study history at Leeds University in Yorkshire,
England. It was an exciting but stressful time in my life,
for while trying to adjust to the novelty of unfamiliar
surroundings, I was still learning to cope with the all too
familiar pain of my father's recent death -- an event with
which I had not yet come to terms.
While at the market one day, trying to decide which bunch
of flowers would best brighten up my comfortable but
colorless student digs, I spied an elderly gentleman having
difficulty holding onto his walking stick and his bag of
apples. I rushed over and relieved him of the apples, giving
him time to regain his balance.
"Thanks, luv," he said in that distinctive Yorkshire lilt I
never tire of hearing. "I'm quite all right now, not to
worry," he said, smiling at me not only with his mouth but
with a pair of dancing bright blue eyes.
"May I walk with you?" I inquired. "Just to make sure those
apples don't become sauce prematurely."
He laughed and said, "Now, you are a long way from home,
lass. From the States, are you?"
"Only from one of them. New York. I'll tell you all about
it as we walk."
So began my friendship with Mr. Burns, a man whose smile
and warmth would very soon come to mean a great deal to me.
As we walked, Mr. Burns (whom I always addressed as such and
never by his first name) leaned heavily on his stick, a
stout, gnarled affair that resembled my notion of a biblical
staff. When we arrived at his house, I helped him set his
parcels on the table and insisted on lending a hand with the
preparations for his "tea" -- that is, his meal. I
interpreted his weak protest as gratitude for the assistance.
After making his tea, I asked if it would be all right if I
came back and visited with him again. I thought I'd look in
on him from time to time, to see if he needed anything. With
a wink and a smile he replied, "I've never been one to turn
down an offer from a good-hearted lass."
I came back the next day, at about the same time, so I
could help out once more with his evening meal. The great
walking stick was a silent reminder of his infirmity, and,
though he never asked for help, he didn't protest when it
was given. That very evening we had our first "heart to
heart." Mr. Burns asked about my studies, my plans, and,
mostly, about my family. I told him that my father had
recently died, but I didn't offer much else about the
relationship I'd had with him. In response, he gestured
toward the two framed photographs on the end table next to
his chair. They were pictures of two different women, one
notably older than the other. But the resemblance between
the two was striking.
"That's Mary," he said, indicating the photograph of the
older woman. "She's been gone for six years. And that's our
Alice. She was a very fine nurse. Losing her was too much
for my Mary."
I responded with the tears I hadn't been able to shed for
my own pain. I cried for Mary. I cried for Alice. I cried
for Mr. Burns. And I cried for my father to whom I never
had the chance to say good-bye.
I visited with Mr. Burns twice a week, always on the same
days and at the same time. Whenever I came, he was seated
in his chair, his walking stick propped up against the wall.
Mr. Burns owned a small black-and-white television set, but
he evidently preferred his books and phonograph records for
entertainment. He always seemed especially glad to see me.
Although I told myself I was delighted to be useful, I was
happier still to have met someone to whom I could reveal
those thoughts and feelings that, until then, I'd hardly
acknowledged to myself.
While fixing the tea, our chats would begin. I told Mr.
Burns how terribly guilty I felt about not having been on
speaking terms with my father the two weeks prior to his
death. I'd never had the chance to ask my father's
forgiveness. And he had never had the chance to ask for
mine.
Although Mr. Burns talked, he allowed me the lion's share.
Mostly I recall him listening. But how he listened! It
wasn't just that he was attentive to what I said. It was
as if he were reading me, absorbing all the information I
provided, and adding details from his own experience and
imagination to create a truer understanding of my words.
After about a month, I decided to pay my friend a visit
on an "off day." I didn't bother to telephone as that type
of formality did not seem requisite in our relationship.
Coming up to the house, I saw him working in his garden,
bending with ease and getting up with equal facility. I
was dumbfounded. Could this be the same man who used that
massive walking stick?
He suddenly looked in my direction. Evidently sensing my
puzzlement over his mobility, he waved me over, looking
more than a bit sheepish. I said nothing, but accepted his
invitation to come inside.
"Well, luv. Allow me to make you a 'cuppa' this time. You
look all done in."
"How?" I began. "I thought..."
"I know what you thought, luv. When you first saw me at
the market...well, I'd twisted my ankle a bit earlier in
the day. Tripped on a stone while doing a bit of gardening.
Always been a clumsy fool."
"But...when were you able to...walk normally again?"
Somehow, his eyes managed to look merry and contrite at the
same time. "Ah, well, I guess that'll be the very next day
after our first meeting."
"But why?" I asked, truly perplexed. Surely he couldn't
have been feigning helplessness to get me to make him his
tea every now and then.
"That second time you came 'round, luv, it was then I saw
how unhappy you were. Feeling lonely and sad about your dad
and all. I thought, well, the lass could use a bit of an old
shoulder to lean on. But I knew you were telling yourself
you were visiting me for my sake and not your own. Didn't
think you'd come back if you knew I was fit. And I knew you
were in sore need of someone to talk to. Someone older, older
than your dad, even. And someone who knew how to listen."
"And the stick?"
"Ah. A fine stick, that. I use it when I walk the moors.
We must do that together soon."
So we did. And Mr. Burns, the man I'd set out to help,
helped me. He'd made a gift of his time, bestowing attention
and kindness to a young girl who needed both.
-- Marlena Thompson |
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