Community

Quiet gifts: the joy of kindness arrived quietly in an antique car at dusk a few days before Christmas Eve as I watched unknowingly. The bringer of that quiet gift drove first to my daughter, Polly’s house, then backed up and turned into my driveway. Then, after parking, the door of the antique car opened, and the tall, slim man rose from the car. He leaned over into the passenger seat, lifted a container, smiled and said a cheerful, “Hi, Mary Jo.”

“Hi, John. How are you and Mary this holiday season?” I asked.

“We are just fine, thank you. And this is why I’m here.” He held out a small, white oval metal basket that said in green letters, “Farm Fresh Christmas Trees.” How beautiful, I thought to myself as I held my hands out and John placed the basket in my open palms. “I can put the live Norfolk Island pine tree my sister sent for the holiday season in here.

If it were possible, John’s smile broadened. “Well, that’s why I came over – to bring you something from your Batesville friends.”

The brief backstory is that he’s known as Mayor John in our small Batesville community. Now in retirement, he and Mary ardently dedicate their abundant energy to the betterment of our small hamlet. I think of it as their call to the joy of kindness.

We chatted briefly a bit more on this evening and as he walked to his car, I hugged John as I wished him and Mary wonderful holidays. 

Next, he opened the door of one of his antique collection of cars, smiled, and hopped back in. Subsequently, I watched as his tail lights grew smaller in the driveway.

When the lights disappeared I walked into my cottage, feeling awed by the power of this kindness from people in my small community. I have lived in what I have named “Creatrix Cottage” for nearly four years now. Avid reader and writer that I am, they might see me as a solitudinarian.

My thoughts slipped back to the winter of 1968 as I looked into the basket. To Long Island, NY, where my sons, Keith – 2 and Chip – 4, and I lived alone. My husband, their father had disappeared one day with no warning. His family would not reveal his whereabouts. I had no income, no job, and a pitiful savings account that was fast disappearing. Christmas would be bleak for us that year.

* * * * * * * *

I would write in my memoir fifty years later: 

“One late December afternoon [in 1968], I left my sons with my sister, Bonnie, and borrowed my mother’s car for a trip to a doctor’s appointment. Two hours later I returned home with the boys. As I opened our always-unlocked back door, I immediately saw evidence that someone had entered our home during our absence. I whisked my sons into the living room, took off their winter jackets and easily engaged them with toys. Then I returned to the kitchen and stared at Keith’s feeding table. When we’d left, the Formica surface had been clear. Now two large boxes sat atop it. With unsteady hands, I looked into one box. It held two fresh roasting chickens, a bag of stuffing, fresh celery, two onions, and a can of cranberry sauce and peas. A Christmas meal….

The second box held gifts: two red and yellow plastic dump trucks and two Matchbox cars. As I stared at these gifts, tears streamed down my cheeks, not as much for the tangible gifts from unknown strangers as for the knowledge that somewhere in my community, from which I felt so isolated, were people aware of my lonely plight, people who cared and reached out to us. The joy of their kindness cut through my brave exterior to the fear, loneliness and worry I lived with daily. How I would care for my sons as they deserved…?

Later … as they slept, I pondered further. If I hadn’t had the doctor’s appointment, would I have met my giver so I could say the ‘thank you’ I ached to give? Perhaps, yet, on the other hand, I found the anonymity powerful. I’d learned that we must do our good deeds in secret and not speak of them, and as time stood still for a moment, I grasped the richer, deeper meaning of gifts. Along with that, a slow and quiet change that I would not understand for a few more years shifted inside me. Subsequently I would realize that the priceless gift of human kindness and caring we’d received that evening had planted a seed within me that would forever be a fundamental part of the woman I was becoming.”

* * * * * * * *   

My thoughts return to the present moment with a full heart and I open the card. Two playful cats are cuddling with a teddy bear and give me a chuckle. Inside, the card is signed: Merry Christmas from your friends in Batesville. 

After that, I touch the numerous gifts which include, first, an adorable gnome. Next is a super delicious assortment of wonderful chocolate Christmas candy and candy canes. Bells and beads follow. With happy surprise, I lift a new ball point pen (how did they know the brand of my favorite pen? And that blue ink is my favorite color? In addition, the treasure of a jar of apple butter handmade on Batesville’s community Apple Butter Day. And lastly, two tree ornaments and other delightful goodies.

Meanwhile, my thoughts slide back to the food and gifts of that cold night in 1968.… I realize that, above all, my heart is filled with the same sacred feelings on this night as on that night long ago. As with us all, there have been some small bumps and other opposing larger ones during my family’s journey. Indeed, a few still crop up every now and again, but in hindsight those bumps have given me growth and wisdom. Now, today, close to 83 years old, I have learned, from the long-ago prophets’ guidance, the ways of living life well. First, open my door to the events of each day without fear. And second, Greet each moment with an open heart. Then, do the very best I can to help whoever or whatever arrives. 

A long time ago, Ram Dass told us: “We are all just walking each other home.”  

And so, I conclude with a warm thank you, my friends in Batesville. Most of all, please know how much the joy of the kindness that Mayor John’s recent journey up the long driveway brought to me was one of the beautiful treasures of living in a small town.

Love, Mary Jo