Ben returned
home after World War II, facing a choice. He
could return to the cotton mill and work beside his father
like he’d done before the war, he could become a
telephone lineman like he’d learned in the army,
or he could venture out
and become a truck driver hauling yarn from the cotton
mills of North Carolina to the garment factories of New
York state. He chose the latter.
By
the early ’50s he had three young children and a
sickly wife to support. Financially,
trucking proved to be a good choice. He had a cute little
strut about him that said “I’m a man with
a plan. I’ve got work to do, places to go, and people
to serve.” By age 54, he was at
the prime of his career. Then one night, as quick and
unexpected as a shot in the dark, his
winter time struck: A massive heart attack.
Not only
did he lose his health and his trucking business, he lost
his identity, his self-esteem, and his pride.
The final blow was seeing no options other than accepting
government disability. It was a drab, sad, lonely time.
This man was my
father. As I didn’t
live near him, I didn’t know his daily habits or
the lives he touched. But
at his funeral, some twenty years later, I began seeing
a different side of the man. The rest of the story, as
Paul Harvey would say, is how one man chose to put his
disaster experience behind him and reach for life.
Money was
scarce, yes. But, this was a man with a plan and a garden
plot! Why, the way he went at it, you’d think he
was planning to feed the world. My
sister often joked “Pop, when you die, your tombstone
should read ‘Here lies the Real Mr. Del Monte.’”
When harvest time came, he’d load up his turquoise
pickup truck, offering his first vegetables to the preacher.
Next, he’d drive to Statesville’s Brian Center
Nursing Home, taking care of all the people that took
care of Mama on a daily basis. Then the canning started.
Case after case of recycled
mason jars were filled and stored in his spare bedroom.
At Christmas and on birthdays, I could count on my favorite,
a case of home-grown shelly green beans.
But what on earth was he doing with the rest? I
learned that although money was scarce, his desire to
give was not. When a family in his community hit hard
times or the church was feeding a bereaved family, you
could always count on Ben to be there with plenty.
You may
say, “Such a simple little story,” and I guess
so—unless you were the hungry family receiving the
food.
Visiting him brought
challenges. I’d want
to clean up, but he didn’t want me messing with
his stuff, especially the stacks and stacks of newspapers.
He’d put me off, saying he was saving them to recycle.
At his funeral, however, we learned the
rest of the story. The school secretary said,
“We’re really going to miss your dad. For
years he’s helped us buy a new computer for the
kids.” Knowing that money was scarce, I
was most interested, so I said, “Tell me more.”
I learned that Daddy was
the top contributor for the school’s newspaper recycling
program, which enabled them to purchase a new computer.
This man with a plan was not only saving
his newspapers, he was collecting
the whole neighborhood’s newspapers.
You may say, “Such
a silly little story,” and I guess so—unless
you were the kid or teacher in the early ’90s receiving
a computer.
He eagerly awaited
his favorite holiday, Valentine’s Day, to volunteer
his smile and his time, delivering flowers all over Alexander
and Iredell Counties. At the end of the day the
florist offered him the remnants—for which, of course,
he had a plan: one last special delivery to Mama and her
friends at Brian Center. You may again say, “Such
a silly little story,” and I guess so—unless
you’re the forgotten one in need of being remembered.
And last, after
his funeral a young man commented, “I’ll
miss Mr. Foy. He always helped me tidy up after church.
Odd, though,” he continued, “he’d stick
the discarded bulletins in his back pocket rather than
in the trash.” I could just visualize
his “man with a plan” strut as he headed for
his turquoise pickup. What the young man didn’t
know was that Daddy was headed for Brian Center. Every
Sunday afternoon, he’d roll Mama around the hall,
delivering those church bulletins to some that could not
see, could not hear, or perhaps, didn’t even know
they were in the world.
But they
knew Ben. They knew his touch, his smile, his voice. They
knew he cared. They knew Ben wasn’t delivering bulletins.
He
was delivering love.
I can still hear
Daddy encouraging us today, like he'd done a million and
one times before: “Honey,
the past is history. We can’t change it. All we’ve
got in this old world is today and each other and all
we’re called to do is the very best we can with
what we’ve got to do with. No more, no less: It’s
that simple.” And it was and it
is.
Daddy used recycles,
remnants, and discards.
How do you deliver hope, compassion, and love
in your community?
Ann Starrette