by Art Burton
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SOCKS OR FOOD?
"Goodness gracious, I hope they keep him warm," my father said as he watched the hobo running up the road, clutching a pair of mittens in one hand and woolen socks in the other.
"Dad, I’m so sorry. I only left the kitchen for a minute to get some food from the pantry. He doesn’t look very fast. I know I could catch him."
"Don’t be foolish, girl. What would you do if you did?"
"What would I do? I’d demand that he give the socks and mittens back, that’s what I’d do. I’d instruct him about the seventh commandment: ‘Thou shalt not steal.’"
My father shook his head. "I think you’ve scared me enough for one day, girl, without having you chase strange men up the road." Then a smile spread across his face. "A man can only hear his daughter scream like that once in his lifetime and still survive. I want you to know you scared the bejesus out of me. No wonder that old man is running so fast. He must think Satan himself is pursuing him."
I smiled back, my first smile in five minutes. At that time, the blackguard currently running up the road had been a guest in our kitchen. As per custom, I was rounding up some food in the pantry to feed the man. When I returned to the kitchen, he was gone along with a pair of my father’s mittens and socks. I had had the clothing in my hand when I heard the knock. I distinctly remembered dropping them on the table before answering the door.
Seeing them missing, I charged from the house at full speed. The hobo was just clearing the end of our long driveway. With all my lung power, I ordered him to stop. He ignored me and kept running, not even bothering to look back to see if anyone was pursuing him. My father, on the other hand, came charging from the barn like an angry Jesus after a sinner.
"What’s wrong," he called when he saw me standing alone in the driveway. He was gulping for breath.
"We’ve been robbed," I said.
Father gave me an incredulous look. What did we have worth stealing? was written all over his face. He was relieved that it was only mittens and socks and that I was all right.
"They’re your clothes," I said. "If you want to just let them walk away, that’s your decision. I’d go after them if they were mine." I followed the hobo’s progress as he kept running up the road. He must have been near exhaustion.
"No, I’m sure he needs them more than me. It can be cold out there when you have no home. I can always knit some more." Even during the Thirties, my father was a liberated man. He could knit socks and mittens with the best of them.
We watched the hobo disappear from sight. There would be no pursuit so we turned and went back into the kitchen. The bread and eggs sat on the table where I had thrown them. The eggs were still intact. I could be thankful for that much, at least.
I tried to explain the sequence of events to my father. It had started off as a routine visit from a hobo. Since the depression started, there had been a steady stream of them. They all wanted the same thing – food – and we were pleased to be able to help.
Life on the farm was pretty much the same during the depression as it had been before. City folks might have considered us poor, but you don’t miss what you’ve never had. Our small farm was pretty much self-sustaining. We raised enough food to feed the family, meat, vegetables and dairy, with some left over to share. We had a roof over our head which we kept warm with wood cut from our own wood lot. And finally, we enjoyed each other’s company. Food, shelter and companionship, what more was needed?
Considering how many strangers showed up during the run of a year, we were lucky to have only been robbed this once.
The need for warmer clothes must have been greater than the need for this guy to fill his stomach. If he had played his cards right, he could have had both. I guess that means he was not a thief. He was just an opportunist. We had placed temptation in his path and he had succumbed. I wasn’t going to share the guilt, however. Deep down, I still thought we should have gone after him. I wanted to give him that little lecture about respecting other people’s property.
"You’re wrong," my father said.
"What?"
"You’re wrong. Clear your mind of those thoughts."
"What thoughts?"
"You’re thinking we should have gone after the ’bo."
"Well, we should have."
"And if you caught him, and if his hands were red from the cold and he had no socks in his boots, then what?"
I shifted my feet and looked down. "I’d have let him keep them, I guess."
"So, you’re not mad that he took them. You’re mad that he deprived you of the chance to feel good about giving them to him. You wanted to feel superior."
"No. No. Not at all." I hesitated. "Well, maybe just a little. But he was wrong to steal them."
My father smiled. "True, he was wrong. Stealing is always wrong." He held my eyes in his and continued, "Just be certain that when you are giving these men something, you are not robbing them of something more important."
"Robbing them? How would I be robbing them?"
"Make sure you’re not stealing their dignity. Once they lose their dignity, they lose everything and we gain nothing of value in return."
Wow, what a profound statement from my father. My father.
I had experienced something unexpected and new. Not the lesson about giving to others, I probably didn’t completely learn that in this one session. I still thought I was right and we should have chased the old man. The exciting part was that my father could be so philosophical. This was a side of him I’d never seen before. I learned to look at him in a whole new light.
A pair of socks and mittens was a pretty cheap trade off for that revelation.
