Wise Men and Other Stories (3 page)

The best meals don’t necessarily hinge on the food. Some meals are special because you earn them. In July 1987, after two days of strenuous hiking in the Sawtooth Mountains with my friend, John, I ended up at the Rember Ranch in Stanley, Idaho, where Betty Rember made a sourdough pancake dinner that I will never forget.

Some meals are special because of the company. In August 1974, I went camping with three buddies from my old neighborhood. We were only 18, but the way we talked about the “good old days,” you would have thought we were in our eighties. That weekend, we feasted on catfish filets, fresh-baked bread, and bean soup that had simmered for 24 hours—all courtesy of Tom Mudd’s grandfather, who packed a meal for us when he learned all we were taking was hot dogs and RC Cola.

But the best meal I ever had was in November 1983 in Genoa, Illinois. A group of friends and I drove from Galesburg to Rockford to see Eric Clapton in concert. Afterwards, it was too late to drive all the way home, so one of our party, Rick Foote, directed us to his grandparents’ house in Genoa.

It was a modest home even by Genoa standards, and we arrived unannounced well after midnight. But Rick’s grandparents welcomed us with open arms and made beds for each of us.

The next morning, my friends and I got up at dawn thinking we should leave before we wore out our welcome. But Rick’s grandmother beat us to the punch. The kitchen table was already set, and she served up bacon, eggs, pancakes, syrup, sausage, homemade biscuits, gravy, hash browns, toast, butter, jam, coffee, milk, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. It was a feast fit for kings, let alone bumbling college students.

It was obvious that Rick’s grandparents were not wealthy people, yet they held nothing back. It was only after we repeatedly insisted that we couldn’t eat another bite that Rick’s grandmother finally sat down to rest.

I’ve never forgotten that meal. I realized at the time that it was being prepared out of a grandmother’s unwavering love for her grandson. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time to share in it.

I think of that meal every year at Thanksgiving because I learned that the key ingredient to the best meals is not something you find in a cookbook or a recipe. No, the key ingredient comes from somewhere else. It comes from the heart of the person preparing the meal.

When the chef brings unwavering love to the table, every meal is a feast.

December 1977. Galesburg, Illinois. I wasn’t doing very well in college. The academic affairs committee suggested that I take some time off. At first I declined their offer, but they politely informed me that if I didn’t take some time off voluntarily, they would make the decision for me. All of a sudden, a little time off didn’t sound so bad. I soon found myself looking for a job at the Carl Sandburg Mall, out near the freeway bypass on the north edge of town.

The Carl Sandburg Mall. What would he say if he were alive today? (The fog comes/on little cat feet./It sits looking over the Carl Sandburg Mall/shudders in revulsion/and then moves on.)

I applied at nearly every store in the Carl Sandburg Mall before Jim Jurinak, the manager at the Shoe Inn, a division of the giant Shoe Corporation of America, called me in for an interview. “You could manage your own store if you catch on quick,” he told me. I told him I was interested—my career options were limited at the time—and he hired me on the spot.

Selling shoes is not the worst job in the world. Especially at Christmas. People are buying gifts. They pick out a style, tell you a size, and if you have it in stock, they buy it.

The unpleasant part was that the Shoe Corporation of America insisted that a certain percentage of each employee’s sales be in accessories—shoe polish, socks, purses, etc. Apparently, shoe companies make more money on polish and socks and purses than they do on shoes—which makes you wonder why they don’t dispense with the shoes altogether and just open up a sock and polish store.

Anyway, it turned out that I was not very good at selling polish and socks and purses. My career in shoe sales was soon in jeopardy. Eventually, Ted, the district sales manager from Peoria, came up to evaluate my performance for himself.

He visited on a busy Saturday morning. Jim Jurinak and Ted went out to a bench in the Carl Sandburg Mall to talk. Things got busy. I kept waiting for the two ace salesmen to come in and help, but they never left their bench. I ended up waiting on all the customers. Later, when Ted left and Jim Jurinak returned to the store, I asked him why they hadn’t come in to help me.

“We wanted to see how you would handle a rush,” said Jim Jurinak.

“How did I do?” I asked.

“Well,” said Jim, “some people just aren’t cut out for the shoe game.”

It can now be told that I never actually had any interest in the shoe game or in managing my own shoe store. But I couldn’t quite tell Jim Jurinak that back then. I wish I could have. It would have saved us both a lot of trouble. Instead, I expressed my heartfelt desire to succeed at shoe sales (at least until I could get back in school), and Jim Jurinak had pity: he agreed to teach me the intricacies of the shoe game.

I held that job for almost a year. During that time, I watched Jim Jurinak closely. I also learned the lingo: “Six pack of tube socks with those sneakers, Ma’am?” and “Need any mink oil today?” and “We have a lovely macramé purse to go with those sandals.” Along the way, I also shared Jim Jurinak’s humiliation every time he tried to demonstrate the proper way to sell accessories—only to be turned down.

I eventually went back to school, but I’ve often thought of opening a shoe store as a retreat for people who could use a lesson in humility. Imagine your favorite corrupt politician trudging back to the storeroom with a stack of shoe boxes after blowing another sale. Or a sharp-dressed televangelist groveling at your sweaty feet, praying for a pair of Odor Eaters. Or a self-indulgent pop star answering to the district manager for not selling enough suede cleaner. A lot of people would benefit from a little humility, and there’s nothing more humbling than trying to peddle mink oil at the Carl Sandburg Mall at Christmas.

My daughter’s day care center was to have a Christmas program the Friday afternoon before Christmas. All of the little kids, ages two through four, would gather on stage in the center’s gymnasium to sing Christmas carols for us proud parents.

In the weeks leading up to the program, my wife and I got a pretty good inkling of what songs were to be sung that day. Our daughter rehearsed constantly, and although she was sometimes off
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key and occasionally skewered the lyrics, she put us more in the holiday spirit than any Bing Crosby album could have.

My wife and I both made plans to attend the program that afternoon. We are fortunate in that we both work for employers who understand the importance of such events. We are also fortunate in that we live in a small town and could each be at the day care center ten minutes after leaving work.

Unfortunately, the afternoon of the program, a rather wet, icy snow was falling. It wasn’t too bad, but it was enough to turn my ten minute drive into twenty. By the time I finally got to the day care center, every parking space was taken. I parked a couple of blocks away and ran through the falling snow to the gymnasium.

Fortunately, my wife was already there and had saved a seat for me. A short while later, the kids came out. Their faces lit up with smiles as they looked around the gymnasium and saw their parents and grandparents.

Then they went into the program, which consisted of “Jingle Bells,” “Rudolph the Red
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Nosed Reindeer,” “Oh Christmas Tree” and “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” I took a few pictures during the program, but then I noticed that about a dozen other parents were taking photos and shooting video. I have nothing against video cameras or photographs, but we sometimes spend so much time and energy trying to capture the moment on film, that we forget to enjoy the moment itself. So after a while, I put my camera down and just listened to my daughter and the rest of the kids sing. Nothing compares to the singing voices of four
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year
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olds. It was a peaceful interlude to the hectic holiday season.

After the program, the kids marched off the same way they had entered—single file, one class room at a time—then we met back in their rooms for cookies and juice and a visit from Santa. It was quite a big time for the kids—and for the adults.

When all was done, my wife had to go back to work, so I took my daughter with me to go home. I also took my daughter’s bag full of “stuff”—her blanket, her teddy bear, and various holiday arts and crafts she had constructed in class throughout the holiday season. I had my hands full, but we bundled up for the hike to the car and headed out into what had now become a blinding snow storm. It was a long cold two blocks to the car, but we knew once we got there, we would be able to head straight for the warmth of home.

At least that was the plan—until we got to the car and discovered my keys were missing. I searched every pocket quickly and somewhat frantically (I was standing outside in a blowing, wet snow with a cold little girl at my side), but to no avail. Then I remembered that I had jogged the two blocks to the school. My keys must have fallen out of my coat pocket along the way.

So there we were in the blowing snow. We couldn’t get in the car because I had locked the doors. I could have walked home had I been by myself (the cold, wet snow and wind hitting my face would have been suitable penance for losing my keys), but this was no weather for a four-year-old. Besides, we would not have been able to get into the house once we got there—when I lost the car keys, I also lost the house keys.

I took a quick look in the immediate vicinity of the car hoping to find the keys on the ground, but no such luck. So I picked up my now whimpering daughter and hiked the two blocks back to the school, all the while watching the ground for keys. Unfortunately, in the hour since I had jogged from my car to the gym, about three inches of snow had fallen. No keys were to be found.

Back at the school, I searched my daughter’s classroom and looked around in the gym. Still no keys. They were outside, buried somewhere in the ever-deepening snow. There was nothing to do but to wait until my wife got off work and could come pick us up.

I made a call to my wife to let her know what had happened. It would take her a while to drive back across town in the snow storm, so my daughter and I went to sit by the front door to wait the twenty or thirty minutes it would probably take.

It has taken me a long time to get to this point, but it’s that little chunk of time—that twenty or thirty minutes—that I really wanted to tell you about.

You see, I had looked forward to my daughter’s Christmas program, hoping and expecting that it would be something special—and it was special—how could it not be? I know enough to realize that most things only happen once in a lifetime, and this would be the only time my four-year-old daughter would sing Christmas carols at a day care center with twenty other four-year-olds. But up to that point, it had been a little too rushed and a little too hectic—too many flash bulbs flashing and video cameras whirring. It wasn’t until I lost my keys and my day was forcibly brought to a screeching halt that I got this reprieve…this quiet moment in which I found myself sitting cross-legged on the floor by the front door of the school, spending a few moments with my daughter.

We talked about school and snow and Christmas, and when we were done talking, I got a bonus: my daughter gave me an encore performance of her Christmas program. If there is anything more beautiful than a choir of four-year-old voices, it’s a four-year-old singing a capella.

While we sat there, we also got to watch the comings and goings of various other people. I saw a number of parents coming to pick up their kids. These were parents who for one reason or another had not been able to come to the program that afternoon, and as each one passed by, I was reminded how fortunate I was to have been able to see the Christmas program.

As the kids filed out one
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by
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one with their parents, the day-care teachers also bundled up and prepared to venture out into the snow storm. I seldom said more than hello to anyone other than Miss Adele and Miss Kelly, the two women who took care of my daughter’s class. But even though I didn’t know any of the other teachers very well, not a single one passed without asking what was wrong. And upon hearing the saga of the lost keys, each teacher in turn offered us a ride home. I politely explained that my wife was on the way, and with that, each teacher wished us a merry Christmas, smiled, and headed out into the cold.

When my wife finally got there, my daughter and I got our coats on, grabbed all our stuff, and then ran out to the nice warm car. On the way home, we stopped and used my wife’s extra keys to get my car and drive it home.

Overall, we were slightly inconvenienced, but in retrospect, I feel the lost keys were a blessing. The gym full of preschoolers singing Christmas carols was special in and of itself, but I had the added pleasure of sitting alone with my daughter for half an hour... of listening to her sing Christmas carols while nice people came and went... of learning that so many people were willing to help us when we were stranded... and of doing all of this knowing that there was someone out there who cared enough about us to leave work on a moment’s notice to come and get us in a snow storm.