Help For The Helper
At age eighteen, I left my home in Brooklyn, New York, and went
off to
study history at Leeds University in Yorkshire, England. It was an
exciting
but stressful time in my life, for while trying to adjust to the
novelty of
unfamiliar surroundings, I was still learning to cope with the
all-too-familiar pain of my father's recent death -- an event with
which I
had not yet come to terms.
While at the market one day, trying to decide which bunch of
flowers
would best brighten up my comfortable but colorless student digs, I
spied an
elderly gentleman having difficulty holding onto his walking stick and
his
bag of apples. I rushed over and relieved him of the apples, giving him
time
to regain his balance.
"Thanks, luv," he said in that distinctive Yorkshire lilt I
never tire
of hearing. "I'm quite all right now, not to worry," he said, smiling
at me
not only with his mouth but with a pair of dancing bright blue eyes.
"May I walk with you?" I inquired. "Just to make sure those
apples
don't become sauce prematurely."
He laughed and said, "Now, you are a long way from home, lass.
From
the States, are you?"
"Only from one of them. New York. I'll tell you all about it
as we
walk."
So began my friendship with Mr. Burns, a man whose smile and
warmth
would very soon come to mean a great deal to me.
As we walked, Mr. Burns (whom I always addressed as such and
never by
his first name) leaned heavily on his stick, a stout, gnarled affair
that
resembled my notion of a biblical staff. When we arrived at his house,
I
helped him set his parcels on the table and insisted on lending a hand
with
the preparations for his "tea" -- that is, his meal. I interpreted his
weak
protest as gratitude for the assistance.
After making his tea, I asked if it would be all right if I came
back
and visited with him again. I thought I'd look in on him from time to
time,
to see if he needed anything. With a wink and a smile he replied,
"I've
never been one to turn down an offer from a good-hearted lass."
I came back the next day, at about the same time, so I could
help out
once more with his evening meal. The great walking stick was a silent
reminder of his infirmity, and, though he never asked for help, he
didn't
protest when it was given. That very evening we had our first "heart
to
heart." Mr. Burns asked about my studies, my plans, and, mostly, about
my
family. I told him that my father had recently died, but I didn't
offer much
else about the relationship I'd had with him. In response, he gestured
toward the two framed photographs on the end table next to his chair.
They
were pictures of two different women, one notably older than the other.
But
the resemblance between the two was striking.
"That's Mary," he said, indicating the photograph of the older
woman.
"She's been gone for six years. And that's our Alice. She was a very
fine
nurse. Losing her was too much for my Mary."
I responded with the tears I hadn't been able to shed for my own
pain.
I cried for Mary. I cried for Alice. I cried for Mr. Burns. And I
cried
for my father to whom I never had the chance to say good-bye.
I visited with Mr. Burns twice a week, always on the same days
and at
the same time. Whenever I came, he was seated in his chair, his
walking
stick propped up against the wall. Mr. Burns owned a small
black-and-white
television set, but he evidently preferred his books and phonograph
records
for entertainment. He always seemed especially glad to see me.
Although I
told myself I was delighted to be useful, I was happier still to have
met
someone to whom I could reveal those thoughts and feelings that, until
then,
I'd hardly acknowledged to myself.
While fixing the tea, our chats would begin. I told Mr. Burns
how
terribly guilty I felt about not having been on speaking terms with my
father
the two weeks prior to his death. I'd never had the chance to ask my
father's forgiveness. And he had never had the chance to ask for mine.
Although Mr. Burns talked, he allowed me the lion's share.
Mostly I
recall him listening. But how he listened! It wasn't just that he was
attentive to what I said. It was as if he were reading me, absorbing
all the
information I provided, and adding details from his own experience and
imagination to create a truer understanding of my words.
After about a month, I decided to pay my friend a visit on an
"off
day." I didn't bother to telephone as that type of formality did not
seem
requisite in our relationship.
Coming up to the house, I saw him working in his garden, bending
with
ease and getting up with equal facility. I was dumbfounded. Could
this be
the same man who used that massive walking stick?
He suddenly looked in my direction. Evidently sensing my
puzzlement
over his mobility, he waved me over, looking more than a bit sheepish.
I
said nothing, but accepted his invitation to come inside.
"Well, luv. Allow me to make you a 'cuppa' this time. You look all don
in."
"How?" I began "I thought..."
"I know what you thought, luv. When you first saw me at the
market...well, I'd twisted my ankle a bit earlier in the day. Tripped
on a
stone while doing a bit of gardening. Always been a clumsy fool."
"But...when were you able to...walk normally again?"
Somehow, his eyes managed to look merry and contrite at the same
time.
"Ah, well, I guess that'll be the very next day after our first
meeting."
"But why?" I asked, truly perplexed. Surely he couldn't have
been
feigning helplessness to get me to make him his tea every now and then.
"That second time you came 'round, luv, it was then I saw how
unhappy
you were. Feeling lonely and sad about your dad and all. I thought,
well,
the lass could use a bit of an old shoulder to lean on. But I knew you
were
telling yourself you were visiting me for my sake and not your own.
Didn't
think you'd come back if you knew I was fit. And I knew you were in
sore
need of someone to talk to. Someone older, older than your dad, even.
And
someone who knew how to listen."
"And the stick?"
"Ah. A fine stick, that. I use it when I walk the moors.
We must do that together soon."
So we did. And Mr. Burns, the man I'd set out to help, helped
me.
He'd made a gift of his time, bestowing attention and kindness to a
young
girl who needed both.
By Marlena Thompson
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