From the time that I was five until I reached eighteen, my parents owned a mom and pop grocery store in a small town in Southern Oklahoma. It was an aging, box-like structure that featured a large wooden awning supported by two metal poles. At the westernmost edge of the awning, sat two Skelly gasoline pumps that faced the street.
Five feet north of the entrance, next to an antique kerosene pump, my grandfather had built an old wooden hitching post. During the 1950’s many of our customers rode horses to town and secured their animals to the post while they shopped.
Most of the elderly citizens of our town were survivors of the Great Depression, and they often joked about being born “dirt poor.” They weren’t unhappy about their lot in life -- most believed there were more important things than money. "Besides," they would often say, they knew they were going to a better place when “the good Lord called them home.” In reality, there were very few jobs available in that part of the country for anyone of any age. The men who were lucky enough to find employment usually worked long, hard hours in the local oilfields laying pipeline.
It wasn’t unusual for poor people to ask my father for help. They were often broke, and on any given day it was difficult for them to feed their families. My parents were always quick to help, normally sending the customer home carrying four or five paper sacks filled with groceries. They never asked the person to discuss repayment ― never asked them to sign a bill because they knew most people were honest enough to repay the debt if they had the money: if not, then they knew they had done the right thing.
I still have fond memories of that store, but I carry one memory that will haunt me for the rest of my life. The poorest people I’ve ever encountered lived three blocks from our store. Both parents were mentally ill and they had left their young children to fend for themselves. The four kids lived like animals. I would often see them combing through the trash bin on the north side of our property, looking for fruit or vegetables. Their clothes were nothing more than rags and their skin was always caked with dirt. I was terribly moved by their plight, but I never found a way to help because they always ran away when I approached. Now that I’m older, I think of them occasionally, and I am filled with shame because I know I didn’t do enough to alleviate their misery.
My parents eventually sold the store and purchased a home and auto supply company. By that time, my career as a musician was going well, and I was on the road frequently, but I still visited my parents when I had the opportunity. On one occasion, my father asked me to tend the store while he ran to the local café to grab a bite to eat. It was in the early afternoon and the outside heat was intense, so there was little chance I would be overwhelmed by customers.
While sitting behind the counter watching the national news, an old man dressed in khaki pants and a plaid shirt walked in. I knew most of the locals, but this was a face I didn’t recognize. He purchased a can of motor oil and as he handed me his money, he asked, “Is your last name L…. by any chance?”
I nodded and said yes, still trying to place his face.
“Was your grandfather named Earnest?”
“Yes.”
He broke down and began to weep. He grasped one of my hands between both of his weathered hands and said, “I knew your grandfather many years ago. He was a good man.”
I waited silently while he struggled to control his emotions.
“During the depression I borrowed twenty dollars from Earnest. We were flat broke and we had to move to Fort Worth to find work. I promised him I would pay him back, but I never did. That has bothered me all my life.”
He pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his billfold. “Here. take this, he said.”
I held up my hands. “Sir, there’s no reason to pay me. My grandfather was a religious man, and knowing him, I'm sure he was happy he could help.”
He began to cry again. “I thought I would carry that memory with me to my grave. I felt there was no way to erase the terrible wrong I had caused. If you take this money, then it will help me -- at least I will know I made an effort to repay his kindness.”
I reluctantly accepted the bill, thinking I could pass it on to a needy person.
He shook my hand again, then turned around and left. He never told me his name, but I have never forgotten his honesty. It is unusual for anyone to carry a burden that long because of an error made early in life.
Today I read an article about Angela Prattis, a woman in Chester Township, Pennsylvania. She is often called the Lunch Lady because she provides free meals for needy children during the summer vacation months. On any given day, she feeds about 60 children.
The 41-year-old mother of three’s food program is funded by the state department of education and is administered by the archdiocese of Philadelphia, which drops off the lunches, NBC 10 reports.
The local government threatened this week to fine her $600 for each day she continues to feed hungry children out of her home. After intense pressure from people across the nation, they have rescinded the threat, but they still insist she must pay a $1,000 application fee for a variance.
“We’re talking about children,” Prattis told NBC 10. “Children. It’s unbelievable. They’ve never once said anything to me in reference to what to do to be in the right standing with the township.”
Bill Pisarek, the Chester Township business manager said, “Basically the property is in an R3 residential zone… We’re not here to go after her, to hurt her, to take money from her or to prevent her from feeding kids that need the food.”
Acting solicitor Murray Eckell told the Inquirer that the negative publicity Chester Township has received was unfair.
“Suppose a child gets hurt on her property,” Eckell remarked. “Will the family sue the township? What if somebody gets food poisoning?”
“What she is doing is commendable. The township isn’t against children getting free food. But if we don’t have laws, there’s chaos. It’s a difficult situation for the township to be in.”
Huffington Post
Angela Prattis is not a criminal. She is an ordinary citizen performing an extraordinary and humane service for her community. The negative publicity the town has received is well deserved.
“I’m not stopping. These kids are hungry. I’m not tearing down the community. I’m keeping the children out of harm’s way… Last Friday, I had 20 children walk to my house in the pouring rain for lunch, and at 2 pm they came back for a snack. Tell me this program is not needed.”
Huffington Post
If you would like to help Angela Prattis, please follow the link to the Huffington Post article.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/...