WHERE THAT CAME FROM IS ANYBODY’S GUESS
Published by Sarah Rebecca Kelly on Smashwords
Copyright © 2002 by Sarah Rebecca Kelly
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment and may be given away to other people who you think might enjoy Sarah Rebecca Kelly’s works.
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WHERE THAT CAME FROM IS ANYBODY’S GUESS
by
Sarah Rebecca Kelly
If it belongs to me I probably got it at a Yard Sale or some lofty thrift shop just as cheap. Even if I was not on a limited budget I would not change my coin purse buying habits--not at all. Long before I was put in charge of outfitting a church mission school full of homeless children, with a handwritten $20 Salvation Army Gift Certificate for each child; we pulled in off the street, I was a natural for such an assignment.
Especially when ever the children and I were accompanied by two other missionaries: Sister Patrice of the baby nursery; and a worthy Black chauffeur, devoted Bible teacher, and late night crying baby rocker, called Booker. Yes--that's what we called the pastor, no title, no Brother Booker, just plain Booker, like in Booker T. Washington. He also scrubbed and waxed floors.
During one of our shopping trips I spotted a pair of faded red tenny runners, that were soft, feather weight and fit my 'shoe hating' feet perfectly. Those good shoes were so comforatble, that I wore them on a twenty mile church cross walk; led by the late Brother Harold, who took his calling from none other than the well known Brother Author.
We were accompanied by a fairly large group of recovering drug addicts. As we sat down at a picnic table for lunch in a park, one of the girls asked, "Where did you get those shoes?"
I answered, "Why do you ask?"
"They came from the women’s prison."
I laughed, thinking, No matter what else that other woman had going against her, at least her shoes did not hurt her feet, and that was a blessing.
Early one morning, about 6 o'clock, I heard a knock on the front door of the Candle Lighter Homeless Shelter where I worked, as manager of the school; and, as Sister Sarah the cleaning lady. Most of our children came with at least one parent. So the 12 year old beggar, wearing a man's coat, that hung below his knees, standing on the porch, was among the many happenings that happened each passing day and night. I invited him in. Booker, our top official, appeared out of nowhere. He was looking curiously over my shoulder. Instantly, I knew our man really liked what he saw, and was already making plans for that kid.
We soon learned that Herbie (no last name to legally call his own) also held an impressive title. He was the gang leader of a pack of thievin' street rascals. No one had actually done a head count on the scattering, duckin' outta sight, a few here a few there, seldom bunched up, where they might draw too much attention, under aged, society dropouts. Young Herbie must have been the smartest one of them, because he carried a club, and knew how to sway opinions his way. We were more than impressed with the authoritative skills and the boss look in his flashing eyes, the kid used to explain their ways and means of survival.
They were being fed one meal a day at St. Mary's Soup Kitchen. Herbie went on to explain how that was handled. Since a hungry child must be accompanied by an adult before he was allowed inside the dining hall. These unfortunate discards hustled aggressively up and down the crowded sidewalk, until they found a homeless person who was willing to claim a family.
Just to prove his point he agreed to a ride in the van to show us one of their preferred hideouts, an abandoned fire hazard, with trash and straw (I can't imagine where the straw came from) was piled on the floor. Before daylight, in the shivering cold, at his command, the premises had been vacated for our inspection.
On the way back from this excursion, he convinced us, unless we wanted to do more harm than good, we could not sneak back after dark to rescue such distrustful hoodlums. Everything had to be their way. We were somewhat streetwise ourselves and knew better than to push him.
Shortly after this irregular interview, which the boy controlled, he dismissed himself, and left us speechless. We shook our heads at each other as though we couldn't quite believe what he had put us through. I hadn't even had a chance to take him on a good used school clothes buying spree yet. And nobody fully understood what exactly was his purpose? In his favor, Herbie had informed us that the Candle Lighter had an unusual, light handed reputation, that most cart pushers gave their 'the lesser of all evils' stamp of approval.
The next morning, I leaped out of bed, sent my husband, Jake, off to work, took care of our beloved pets, two small dogs, Patty Marie and Friendly Tail. I fed the neighborhood ally cat. He meowed, and I responded, "What else do you want? You're supposed to be aloof."
My house was as fussy and scrubbed clean as an old maid's chalet. At heart, I am a natural born picky, picky nit picker. Working with the homeless had forced me to take a second look at my more fortunate circumstances.
Then I raced eagerly out the door, jumped in my hatchback and sped away. Did I mention that I also washed and waxed my car while I was at the laundromat, before I made it to work. Was that amazing or what?
There waiting for me were several boxes of used school books, donated by one of the better off schools, to sort out for our classes; and, not to forget, there were windows to wash and shelves to dust. At the beginning of the school year, I had cleared out one of the larger closets and created a scene for a play store, for the younger students to learn about the business of exchange.
I also needed to help Sister Patrice clean up the baby nursery. As I was hurrying through the waiting room, with a roll of paper towels and a spray bottle, near the front office, once more I heard a knock on the door.
There stood Herbie, still wearing his long coat, holding a sickly looking baby in his arms; a pair of three year old twins, a little boy and a little girl; and, a small blind child who was sucking his thumb. All four of them needed their noses wiped.
Quickly, I accepted the infant, and lucky for me, our two Sister Sharons led the other neglected children toward the showers. Before the school bell rang, I had gently bathed the silent, bright eyed, unsmiling baby soothed his bottom with diaper rash ointment and fed him a warm bottle of formula. He fell asleep without a whimper. At three or four months old, he was conditioned to being cared for by strangers and that was sad….
Now that he was clean, dry and comfortable, he didn't look as sickly as his first appearance. I just wanted to fatten him up and get on with a search for him a complete layette of really nice baby clothes and receiving blankets, a few toys and a small suitcase to pack his things in.
He was only my baby for a little while, but more than anything, I wanted him to have the best that we could offer. It was sort of strange how quiet the nursery was, as I turned his care over to Sister Patrice. She was bathing a gurgling little girl, using one of the soft wash cloths she had snatched from a small stack out of my personal laundry basket, through the open window of my car. "I need these!" she declared, "for my babies!"
On the way toward the class room, I was told the mother to my baby was a drug addict. In our backstreet jungle there was no reason to question such common information. A beggar stopped me to give me his life savings, a frayed five dollar bill, to be spent on the baby. (I was completely unaware that I was being watched through the open drapes of the arcadia doors.) Now added to the $20 Salvation Army Gift Certificate, that made $25. Already my baby had more than most.
Within a few days, Herbie's visits inspired the Ugly Guy Contest. To Booker's obvious disappointment he did not qualify at all. He was simply too pleasant looking, with his special smile. Of course, the homeliest of the homely missionaries, stepped up eagerly, proud as peacocks, to be chosen. We needed several rough characters who looked the part of ragged bums, to loiter in the long lines at St. Mary's Soup Kitchen, to attract and gain the trust of Herbie's nefarious street children.
Brother John the Beloved, was not especially ugly; but his straggly beard concealed his nice teeth; and, the gentle sufferings of a man who had lost his family in a Mississippi flood. Only his sad eyes gave way to a soul who had nothing else to lose. It was clear, by his daily life, that he was sold out to Jesus; and, of course, children of all kinds loved him.
Brother Chuck was truly so ugly he was adorable. Besides that he was, as under a
broken down vehicle, in the grease and dirt, as grimy as could be. He was certainly a main attraction, with his loud laughter and big crooked teeth. Yes-- he was armed with all the charms of an English bull dog. He may have been considered quite a ladies' man-- or maybe the hoard of women followers needed a reliable mechanic?
Brother Bob, the dumpster diver, the shelter's electrician, and all around fixit man, was of the chosen because he just plain looked like a bum. He could appear right out of the men’s steaming hot water showers; freshly scrubbed, shaved and combed; still-- he did not clean up well. It didn't matter much because most of his free time was spent reading his well warn Bible to drunks and drug addicts he found, snoring like wart hogs, behind a dumpster. He had no visible source of income. Nevertheless, he made out okay, cashing in bags of soda pop cans. To take a tour of his garage/pad, he would show off his plunder. "See that? Dove it! See that? Dove it! See that? Dove it!"
There were others, but you get the idea--
For the most part and it didn't happen over night, we were rather successful. More, older than their years; delinquents, than anyone would have thought possible; had grown weary of the lowlife dangers, filth and starvation.
And eventually, Herbie admitted why he had approached the Candle Lighter in the first place. His mother was in prison. He wanted to go back east to live with his grandmother. So of course, after making the necessary contacts, we put him on a Greyhound Bus... and he promised never to forget his days in the Army... The Salvation Army....
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About the Author
Award winning author, Sarah Rebecca Kelly, was born between old fashioned Kansas and the toughest part of Texas, on the Panhandle of Oklahoma. Gabriel was Sarah’s first book. Look for her next book to be published, Persian Apples, which is a continuation of Gabriel.
Her specialty is ‘no tears’ animal stories. She now lives in Arizona with her adorable husband, Jake, along with a loveable bunch of “mutts” and the smartest cats ever collected in one place. Sara is known for her close relationship with Jesus and her children and many grandchildren revel in her special love.