Doing good is its own reward, I've heard. It's true; helping others gives one a certain satisfaction, a feeling that something has been done to make the world a little better. Yet there can be other rewards...
I had found myself in need of some of that sense of self-worth in my college days. Life in the dorm seemed so insular, so out of touch with what was going on in the world. So, at the suggestion of a friend, I volunteered for the local meals on wheels program. It was no great sacrifice, carrying lunch to one lonely, elderly person a couple times a week, visiting for an hour, and going back to my routine, but it made me feel better about myself and about the world.
Today, it was Mrs. Curtiss. I always enjoyed taking a meal to her; some of those I visited were bitter, or unhappy, or sometimes just downright unstable. This lady, however, remained outgoing, voluble, and "sharp as a tack." I climbed the four concrete steps to her sagging front porch and knocked--the bell had been out of order as long as I had been going there.
I could see her approach through the screen door. Those were still the days when a woman alone could leave her doors unlocked, even in a fairly rough neighborhood like hers. I knew there were those around who kept an eye out for her. It was a bit surprising to find her wearing a long bathrobe; she had always dressed when I came before. Immediately, I wondered if something was wrong.
"Come in, boy," she called to me, "you know you don't hafta stand outside." I carried her meal in and placed it on the formica table in the kitchen.
"How are you today, ma'am? Do you have an appetite?"
"'Pends on what you brought me, Ted," she replied, sniffing the air. "Sure smells good."
"Fish," I told her, unpacking the food. "I know you like fried fish. Better dig in while it's still hot."
"Blessin' first." She bowed her head and said a short prayer. "Now let's see...slaw...mashed potatoes...those cooks down at the center do not know how to make decent mashed potatoes." She sighed dramatically. Mrs. Curtiss was a well-cured ham. "But I'll make do."
I sat down in the steel-framed chair opposite her. Its upholstery was patched with duct tape. My doing-I always carried a roll for surfboard repairs. "Two packs of sugar in your tea?"
"Yes. Thank you, boy." She peered at me over her reading glasses; her dark eyes were as bright as a child's. Reaching out, she gave my hand a squeeze. "I appreciate your visits no end."
"Oh, I'm glad to come, Mrs. Curtiss."
"Why don't you just call me Sister Jo, like everyone else?"
Well, why not? A college-age white boy might feel a little strange calling this elderly lady "sister," but I figured I'd get used to it. "Sister Jo it is, " I agreed with a smile. "The last women I called sister were the nuns at St. Catherine Elementary."
