I am not a "country boy." I did grow up in Texas but, in truth, my life has always been lived inside the city limits. I love the outdoors. I enjoy "roughing it." However, all of those things I enjoy as optional. I suspect that my affection would wane if there were not a hot shower and various other creature comforts waiting for me upon my return.
I confess that rural living has always held some appeal. My wife and I enjoy watching the Food Network program The Pioneer Woman in part because of the idyllic farm life portrayed there: tons of kids, tons of cows, tons of land. It looks positively wonderful...at least on TV.
Delivering gifts to our Be A Santa To A Senior program recipients takes me to some similarly rural spots. Last year, I found myself driving to portions of Orange County that I was sure had yet to be seen by any cartographer. I suspected this because my trusty Garmin just kept repeating the phrase, "Recalculating, recalculating." One farmhouse in particular stood out to me in part because of its remote location and in part because of what I saw inside.
Each year people submit names of seniors to Home Instead Senior Care's Be A Santa To A Senior program who either don't have any family around or don't have the means to celebrate Christmas otherwise. These names are then placed on a tree along with gift suggestions or needs where members of the community can adopt a senior to whom to be a Santa. The gift ideas are for the most part very practical: a warm scarf, a shaving kit, a bathrobe or towel. A few of the gift suggestions are curiously specific. This gift was one of those.
The home belonged to an elderly couple in their early 90's. The front door of the farmhouse was obstructed by fallen tree limbs which had apparently been there for quite a while. The door to the kitchen had since become the main entrance which wasn't an issue as hardly anyone ever came to visit. I wrapped my knuckles on the door frame and announced myself loudly. This far into the country I am always a little paranoid of getting shot for being on the wrong front porch:). A faint voice called out to come inside. The kitchen scene into which I entered seemed to be something out of the early nineteen hundreds. There was a long kitchen table covered in all manner of shrapnel. Someone had dropped of groceries recently and they remained in their Food Lion bags on the table. It's difficult to put groceries away when it hurts to stand. In the center of this kitchen was a wood burning stove with a metal chimney haphazardly angled to poke out through the top of a window next to the sink. Despite their efforts to insure proper ventilation, a smoky haze hung throughout the room and permeated everything it touched. One lone pot of lukewarm water sat on the corner of the stove while both husband and wife waited in front of it warming themselves and willing the water to boil.
Their gift was a large, unwieldy thing. She chose to be the one to unwrap it as his hands ached from the arthritis which had become his constant companion. Their Santa had brought them an electric hotplate. Our conversation over the next few minutes showed me just how meaningful a gift this was. The wood burning kitchen stove constituted the only heating apparatus in the house. The vast majority of their days this time of year were spent huddled around its iron body drinking in the warmth that it provided. Many times, they would elect to sleep in their chairs in the kitchen rather than brave the cold in the other rooms of this drafty old farmhouse. In addition to the physical heat it provided them, it was also the only manner in which they had to heat food since their last hotplate gave out on them...in September. There was a smattering of other gifts. A gift card for a local pharmacy to help them afford medications and a couple toboggan caps were greatly appreciated. But no gift stood out as much as the gift of a warm meal.
Before I left that day, she insisted on writing out a thank you card. Without the leg strength to get to the mailbox and with no money for postage, this was the only way to make sure that we were "thanked good and proper." As I trudged back down the muddy driveway to my car, I was reminded of just how much I take for granted. While the smoky smell of their kitchen stove lingered on my coat for only a few days, my eyes were forever opened just a bit wider to a world around me of people in need: people we can help if we'd just take the time.
