Dining in '13

“Behold, I set before you this day a blessing and a curse”

-Deuteronomy

***

I live in a rural area that is devoid of good restaurants. Heck, it's pretty much devoid of even mediocre eateries. That is until my husband and I found our way to the best restaurant in the world.

Imagine, if you will, finding a place with a commitment to using only fresh, locally-grown, in-season produce and locally raised, free-range chicken, lamb, pork and beef. And finding it practically right under your nose.

Now, imagine a head chef with an innate sense of what tastes good, one with culinary skills honed by years of experience, someone who's worked with the finest of teachers.

Add to that a menu that changes daily. Let's say that you have a taste for Vietnamese spring rolls with dipping sauce. This place will present a light and tasty version, chock full of shrimp that is cooked to perfection, artfully wrapped alongside crisp complimentary fresh vegetables in precisely prepared rice paper, and served with both a hoisin/peanut sauce and a more traditional sauce with flavors of fish sauce, lime, chilies, garlic and an ever-so-slight hint of sweetness.

Now let's imagine you have a taste for a fine Mexican mole, served over a delicately poached boneless chicken breast. This place will not compromise authenticity with any shortcuts. You will be served a mole that has been labored over, with love I'm certain, as the deep, clean flavor of four different peppers inter-marries with nuts, seeds, rich chocolate, raisins, tomatoes, tomatillos, sweet onions, garlic, bread and spices that include cinnamon, allspice, coriander and cloves.

Or, a grilled pork chop infused with 14 herbs and spices and whimsically served on a stick.

Or, tender Asian dumplings filled with juicy pork, served with a soy-based dipping sauce with hints of sweet apricot and dark sesame oil. 

Or, a grilled lamb chop cooked just shy of medium, so that it's garlic and dill infused juices can be mopped up with freshly baked sourdough bread that has been lightly brushed with the finest extra virgin olive oil. Or other skillfully executed Middle Eastern dishes revered for their delicate balance of almost unperceptive aspects of tart, savory and sweet.

The list goes on and on. All broths used in cooking are homemade. All bread is home baked on the premises. Yogurt used in cooking is cultured on site. And desserts? They are not to be missed!

Even the drinks are fresh. Margaritas are made only with the juice from freshly-squeezed limes and then hand shaken with the finest top-shelf tequila and Grand Marnier. If you wish your martini served with olives hand-stuffed with pickled jalapeños, you need only ask.

The music that can be heard, softly, in the background has been chosen to compliment the meal. If you are being served a dish of freshly homemade Italian pasta, topped with a sauce featuring freshly ground Italian sausage, you may hear Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin. If you are feasting on Cuban dishes such as Boliche Mechado or Arroz con Pollo, you might hear Cachao, Buena Vista Social Club or maybe even Cab Calloway.

The building itself, occupies a slightly odd location, in a space that once held a Christmas tree farm and was razed and replaced by what now could pass for a country home. This isn't an architect's design of a reclaimed country space, it is something a bit more askew, yet something that is able to transcend its limits with it's simplicity and homeyness. 

The dining room may seem at first to be small, only seating eight to twelve, but you will never feel tight or cramped. The decor may seem eclectic and almost willfully un-chic, but it is spotlessly clean, as if your white glove sister had been expected. The chairs may look slouchy, but are extremely comfortable. The room overlooks the 5th hole of a golf course also built on former farm acreage. 

Depending on your luck, you may get the overly chit-chatty and generally food-uninformed server, but he's a fun guy and always happy to check with the chef for answers to any of your food-related questions or to refresh your drink with a smile. It's one of those places that truly is dinner as theater, or characters welcome, if you know what I mean.

The food is creative, authentic and precise. And when the food is served, I guarantee there will be plenty of it, and then some.

I can tell you now, there is a minimum three-month waiting list. If you haven't already reserved months in advance, you can show up early that day, give your name and cell phone number, and hope they'll take pity on you by, by seating you later that day.

The customers tend to be a few years older than customers found at your average urban spot filled with the A-list movers and shakers. But the lighting is softer, the rooms more homey, the tables more welcoming (and as likely to be set either with a myriad of modern flatware or a deceased grandmother's precious silver, depending on the chef's whim.)

***

Enjoy my photos as I look back on a year of my own meals, made with my own hands and in my own basic, tiny, yet fully functional kitchen, for my husband, my family and my friends.

Dude, It's Christmas!

I have this roommate and we have the same name, Francis. When we have friends over they yell “Hey, Frank,” or “Frankie” and one of us will answer. We hear a lot of, “Not you, the other Frank.” When it’s just the two of us, I’ll say, “Hey Frank,” and he’ll mumble “Yeah? What?” because he’s usually watching television and he’s bugged that I’m interrupting him.

Frank and I are both part-time waiters in a local pub and we’re both college students. Frank is studying history in hopes of being a high school teacher and coach. I’m a nursing student, in my final year, which consists mostly of clinical rotations.

On the first day of our “community clinical” the professor asked each of us to tell the class our name and to state why we sought a bachelor of science degree in nursing. I’m the only guy in this clinical group. When it was my turn I said in my best James Earl Jones voice, “My name is Frank and I just want to jump out of helicopters and save people’s lives.”

When I was a kid I was on the small side. Not very tall and too thin for my liking. But, I was fairly athletic. To prove I was good enough to make the team, whether a school football team or just a pick-up baseball game I always made sure to run the fastest, throw the most accurately, or hit the hardest. I was named for my grandfather. And even thought I loved Gramps, I always hated being named Francis.

As a kid I wanted to, alternately, be a fireman, pilot or doctor. Then in college it hit me: Wait! I can be all three. Well, kind of...

Unlike my roomie, Frank, I’m just above average as a student, so probably couldn’t make medical school. I’m the kind that has to work hard at it, while Frank barely cracks a book and aces every class. I decided that I didn’t really want to be a pilot anymore. But, I do know I’d like to make a difference. So, I took the firefighter test and got my lottery number. I can start as an ems, while I work as a hospital critical care nurse until I have enough experience at both to get a job as a flight nurse.

Frank watches a lot of those shows like American Pickers, Storage Wars and Pawn Stars. So, whenever I try to get rid of anything, like when we have duplicates of something he’ll say, “Dude, do you know what that’s worth? You could sell that.”

“Yeah, but I don’t need it and maybe someone could use it...”

“Yeah well, just keep your mitts offa my stuff.”

We’ve been roomies for a couple of years now and sometimes we get on each others nerves. I like to get things done. Frank is more laid back. I think he’s a slob. He says I'm "fastidious." And there's the fact that he’s managed to accumulate a ton of stuff in just a couple of years. But, basically, Frank is a decent guy.

In my nursing community clinical we go out to make free, weekly home health visits to interested people in the neighborhood near the university. Mostly they are poor elderly people living independently. We take their blood pressure, check their pulse, make sure they understand their meds, and give them general suggestions on improving their health and safety. Suggestions like eating right, taking meds as prescribed, securing rugs so they can maneuver safely, not plugging too many extension cords into one of those multi-plug outlets and such. I’ve been assigned to visit this old guy, Charlie. Charlie is 79 years old and lives alone in a studio apartment in a housing development. I’m shocked to learn that he has no living immediate family.

Charlie takes prescribed medications for his diabetes, blood pressure, cholesterol, an anti-coagulant, and an anti-depressant. I teach him to fill one of those huge pill-minder boxes. I make him a chart for his refrigerator that will help him to remember the times each day to take his meds. I secure a mechanical pencil to the chart, so when he opens the refrigerator it will bang the door and remind him to check his log. If he doesn’t comply he could miss necessary doses or overdose.

When my half semester with him was coming to an end, I wrote copious notes for the next nursing student assigned to Charlie. Then, I asked him if there was anything else he needed. “No, not right now, I’m pretty good, thanks to your help, Frank.” Then, “Um, well, uh...” he hesitates.

“What is it, buddy? You can ask me.”

“Well, you don’t happen to know anyone who has an old air conditioner they don’t need? I have a few dollars set aside. It gets so hot here on the top floor in the summer. I have a fan, but it doesn’t really help much come summertime. In the winter, we get good heat, but in the summer it seems like all the heat rises to my floor. But, no, that’s too much to ask...” he voice drifts off.

“Let me see what I can do, Charlie. I’ll let you know.”

Yesterday I asked Frank if he could help me move my air-conditioner from the storage locker downstairs to a apartment in the neighborhood.

“Dude, it’s Christmas!!”

“Well, not exactly, Frank. It’s only the 22nd. So, technically it’s Christmas Eve-eve-eve.”

“I don’t have time,” he tells me. “I haven’t even bought my sister a gift yet. Besides, why are you selling your air conditioner in the middle of winter? You could sell it in the summer for primo price on Craig’s List.”

“I’m not selling it, I’m giving it to one of my community nursing patients.”

“Oh, jeez,” he shakes his head.

“Frank, listen, Charlie really needs it and I can always buy a new one when I start working full-time next summer.”

“Where exactly does this “Charlie” live?”

“You know that building on the southwest corner of Newgard and Pratt?”

“What!? Are you nuts? You don’t mean that section 8 building? Do you know the crime that goes on there? The cops have that blue light camera on that corner for a reason.”

“Uh, yeah, Frank, I’m aware. I’m only in the building every week.” I hesitate, then, “Please, Frank. Will you do me a solid? Like you said, ‘Dude, it’s Christmas.’”

“Like you said, Dude, “‘It’s only the 22nd, so technically it’s Christmas Eve-eve-eve.’”

I keep at him and he finally relents. I make arrangements with Charlie to move the air conditioner in today, on the eve of Christmas Eve. Once I got Frank on board, he didn’t complain too much. Even when it turned out that we had to tromp through a few inches of new snow and the building elevator was out and we had to carry it up four flights. I’d brought some insulation and tape and shims and stuff along so we could set it up for Charlie. I knew that, come summertime, when I’d be gone Charlie might have a hard time finding someone to help him install it. Frank was a big help with the install. He spent some time talking with Charlie and he had a chance to see how some of our “independent” seniors really live, their meager provisions, their cramped quarters, and even though living in a large city, their virtual isolation.

We tested out the air conditioner before we left. I think Frank saw the grateful sheen in Charlie’s eye as he thanked us both, shook our hands and wished us a happy holiday.

When we got home, I started to pack for a trip to my folks’ home for the holiday. Frank said, “Hey, first can you come down to the storage locker with me?”

“What for?”

“I want to see what other stuff I have that Charlie can use.”

I stood there, mouth agape, I’m sure, when Frank laughed, “Dude, it’s Christmas!”

Like I said, Frank is a decent guy.

Too Many Damned Geese!

I so enjoyed my streaming, don’t-lift-the-pencil-style of writing exercise this week that I’m doing it again. Here it is, just as it comes from my brain. Unfiltered, unplugged, who cares what people think...

***

“Have you ever seen such a sight? They take up practically every square inch... The filthy, noisy... Honk! Honk! Honk!” I stop my thought process abruptly. Those words, “take up practically every square inch..., filthy..., noisy...” Where have I heard those words?

For two days straight, wave after wave of Canada geese have been passing over our little community.  One day they are flying north, the next day south, sometimes east or west. I’m talking about thousands upon thousands of birds, with seemingly no direction. So, that it kind of gives you the creeps, like the seagulls, sparrows and crows in Alfred Hitchcock’s movie, The Birds. There are just too many of one kind in one space.

***

Before retirement, I’d made it my sworn duty to treat each person I worked with with the exact same level of courtesy and respect, from the president of the organization to the entry-level mail distributor. Because I am a benevolent soul who sees  the face of God in everyone I meet? I wish that were true, but it’s actually a more selfish reason. It’s because you never know when you’ll need help, and if you’ve treated someone with the dignity each being should be accorded, you will more likely be treated in kind. My interpretation of the golden rule.

Down the long hall from my office, was the university’s “facilities” department’s office. So central was this department to my job that, to this day, I have dreams, and even the occasional nightmare, involving it.

It was a crowded little office with about eight employees from the director of facilities, (who, when he was around, which didn’t seem to be often, always wore a velour sweatsuit - but that’s another story) to the entry-level person who took the telephone and email requests for a “work order.”

The “work order”- what can I say? Nothing, and I mean absolutely no piece of work was performed at the university without a proper work order. It didn’t matter if I wanted a light bulb changed or I needed a banquet set up for a visit from the Cardinal, it all began with the all-holy “work order.”

Since they were just down the hall, instead of phoning, I often strolled down and placed my requests in person, with a bit of schmooze thrown in for good measure. Lars (not his real name), was the request taker. He was a young, gay black man.

Over the years, I came to know Lars and his story, because that’s what happens when you are courteous to people, they begin to trust you and thus open up to you. Lars had the misfortune of being born to an ultra-conservative, ultra-religious family of wealth. For his brothers this was a blessing. They became lawyers and CEOs, as they perfectly fit the mold of his parents’ expectations. For, Lars, in his words, “was born unhappy with my gender assignment.” In his family’s religion being gay was strictly forbidden. They had even sent him for a month to one of those gay-deprogramming centers, where he told me the “counselors” nearly convinced him that there was “something wrong” with him.

When the deprogamming failed, Lars took a job at the university where he could take part-time classes which would hopefully result in his being accepted at law school. His last hope to one day reclaim his parents’ love and respect.

The week of my summer birthday Lars and Bryant, a young black man from the mailroom, offered to take me to lunch in thanks for my kindness to them. Bryant was a quiet, reflective young man from the inner-city. As I recall he wrote poetry in his spare time. The university had a generous tuition reimbursement program for its employees and you’d have been hard pressed to find a fellow employee who wasn’t working on a degree of some kind, from undergraduate to PhD. Bryant was working toward his Master’s.

I don’t remember where we went for lunch, but I do remember driving by a large plot of Chicago Park District lakefront property. It was a hot summer day and the park was filled with people. And that is where I heard those words...

“Will you look at that? I am so sick of the damned Mexicans. They take up every square inch of park space! And their loud blaring music. Filthy garbage left everywhere...,” says Lars.

“I swear I’m going to stay away from you, Lars.” Bryant replies after a moment of quiet introspection. “You get me thinking like you. How am I, a black man, going to think negatively about any race? I know better, but when I’m around you, I’ll be damned, I start thinking like you.” Lars throws his head back and laughs, "You know I'm kidding, right?" We all sit quietly with our thoughts.

***

I look up the topic of the explosive growth of the canada goose population on the Cornell Lab of Ornithology website. They address it with this comment:

...we support humane efforts to reduce the overpopulation of resident Canada Geese...Not all communities may choose to reduce goose populations. But conflicts will only continue to grow if measures are not taken to curb the runaway growth of these birds.

I’m one of those souls who thinks diversity is healthy, something that is good for all living things. Too many of one kind in any given area gives me the creeps. But, I’d be opposed to taking measures to force a change. Who knows, maybe one day if the human population explodes, the powers that be will decide to start “humanely” curbing humans. It’d be just my luck they’d begin by eliminating  all gray-haired grannies

Dasani

When I was much younger I had a good friend who studied art, with hopes of making a career in it. When that didn't work out, she became a nurse. But, when she was studying art, she would tell me of an exercise they did at art school to foster creativity. They were to make a complete drawing or sketch without lifting their pencil from the paper. I watched her do it. It was not unlike, I thought, stream of consciousness writing. You planned nothing, just went with your gut, let it flow.

***

I am a woman born without a jewelry gene. I have no attraction to gold, silver or diamonds. Yet, this week I found myself at a jewelry party...  At this point my story could go a couple of ways. I'm going to choose one and follow it and you will see how my circuitous mind works, when I don't pick the pencil up from the paper. I found myself this week, at a jewelry party, sitting across from a fascinating woman discussing the art of playing contract bridge. We concurred that once you master the "language" of the bidding, the challenge lies in the play of the hand. If you have won the bid, you must instantly, in your head, figure out how to take each trick, how to get rid of your "losers" and how to navigate successfully to each suit between the dummy hand and your hand. One misstep and you'll find yourself unable to obtain tricks that, by all rights, should be yours. Here is a partial list of people I follow on Twitter, in the order they come to my mind: Bill Clinton, Pope Francis, Lewis Black, Stephen Colbert, Steve Martin, Steve Dahl, Dr. Michio Kaku, Neil deGrasse Tyson, Kathleen Madigan and a young man, who lives in Chicago  that I've never met. From his Twitter homepage I know that he is in a rock band and is a "social media guy for @TeachForAmerica." Someone I follow retweeted him, I liked what the young man had to say and added him to my list. To protect the innocent I will call this guy, that I do not know, "Shoe." The older I get the less I am able to tolerate any news to do with children suffering. I happened to read a Chicago Tribune article a few years back about an abuse case. That night I could not sleep for the sorrow that weighed on me, so that it was difficult to breath. I could not sleep for visions I could not banish from my head. So, I chose to protect myself by refusing to read such articles. A co-worker who hailed from New York had the New York Times delivered to her Chicago home. She'd occasionally bring her paper to the office. I'd devour it. When we retired and moved to the country, I decided to treat myself to a digital subscription to the New York Times. It costs me $20 per month. It is the best newspaper in the world. Period. If any newspaper wishes to survive the transition from actual wood pulp to digital, they should consider modeling themselves after the NYTimes.On occasion the NYTimes does a series, like their recent "Invisible Child - Girl in the Shadows: Dasani's Homeless Life." I took one look at the headline and said to myself, "No, don't do it! Do not read this story. You know how you get!" A couple of days later a tweet comes in from my unknown pal, Shoe. It says, "a stunning, heartbreaking 5-pt series about one of NYC's 22,000 homeless children." Like I said, I don't know Shoe from Adam, but from his tweets I've come to trust him.It's as if I can hear Shoe whispering all day, "Come on, if I can read it, you can read it." I pull up the initial article and begin the series. It is among the best writing one can find in a newspaper and it is what I've come to expect from the New York Times. I am immediately spellbound. It reads like literature. Here are the 1st couple of paragraphs:

She wakes to the sound of breathing. The smaller children lie tangled beside her, their chests rising and falling under winter coats and wool blankets. A few feet away, their mother and father sleep near the mop bucket they use as a toilet. Two other children share a mattress by the rotting wall where the mice live, opposite the baby, whose crib is warmed by a hair dryer perched on a milk crate.

Slipping out from her covers, the oldest girl sits at the window. On mornings like this, she can see all the way across Brooklyn to the Empire State Building, the first New York skyscraper to reach 100 floors. Her gaze always stops at that iconic temple of stone, its tip pointed celestially, its facade lit with promise.

“It makes me feel like there’s something going on out there,” says the 11-year-old girl,...

Who writes like this? A genius, that's who. The reporter, Andrea Elliot, deserves a Pulitzer. It's strange because when I read "Life of Pi" by Yann Martel, I thought, "Why can't this be true. I know it's fiction, but I so want it to be true!" When I read Elliot's story of Dasani, I wanted it to be fiction. Why? Why? Why does this have to be true? It's as though Andrea Elliot has taken my head in her hands and turned it toward New York, to Dasani in particular. She has forced me to look at the homeless situation and it’s impact on innocent children. “Look! Can you see? This is how it is. This is how it really is. Right now. Here. In the present. Look. Look at this child.” And with the haunting story, comes beautiful photographs and video clips. You see Dasani trying to recite "Phenomenal Women" and her brother, Papa, trying to explain his thoughts on life in a shelter, and all the while other kids jump in front of them, yelling, doing every in their power to distract the two. And you know that this is a synopsis of their lives. There is so much in their lives purposely distracting them as they try in vain to stay focused. Her reporting takes me through a range of feelings. I feel some pain, some joy, some sorrow, some anger, but always hope. Because of this child, Dasani, there is always a ray of hope. If you don't cheer for this kid, I'm sorry to say it, but you are, like Spock, emotionally compromised. I was born without a jewelry gene, but that's okay. I'd rather spend $240 a year for my New York Times subscription and allow them to bring a breathtaking panorama of the world, good or bad, like it or not, to adorn my life every single day.

***
Note: I was a registered online NYTimes reader for years before purchasing my digital subscription. Back then one was permitted 20 "free" articles per month. I used to burn through those in one week. I think, they now allow 10 "free" articles per month now. Read Dasani's story if you get a chance.

The Bank Job

We'd discussed it and decided that it was really a “two-person job.” I would be the driver. It would be his job to enter the bank, to actually be the one to speak to the teller, to hold the packet of monies. The bank was located on a busy intersection in downtown Chicago. Parking was at a premium, if... if you could even find an open parking spot. Our plan was for me to drop him off and then drive around the block, repeatedly if necessary, until I saw him emerge...

***

As we started out he turned to me and said, "Ranell, do you mind if I say a prayer for our safe travel?"

"Not at all. In fact, that would be nice, Brother B."

"Holy Mother, I beseech you to intercede on our behalf and to ask the Lord to bless this journey, which Ranell and I undertake… " The rest of the prayer is vague, it might have included a mention of the current weather, or a need for the two of us to be "returned safe and unharmed." I do remember it ended with "through Christ, our Lord. Amen."

***

I once worked for a religious order of men within a major Roman Catholic university. As part of their formation, they took a vow of poverty. Thus, all of their salaries were dutifully delivered, to be used for the “greater good.” Once a week Brother B and I took these monies downtown to deposit in the bank.

***

Did you ever meet a person you knew to be such a morally sound person that they actually possessed a palpable aura about them? When you are physically near them you know that you are in the presence of a special human being, because it emanates from their pores..., or something. Sometimes these people are religious, sometimes not, sometimes these people are famous, sometimes not. They are, however, people who are comfortable in their own skin, possessing no facades, having no pretenses, always aware of their own failings, yet ever humble about their nobility or their many accomplishments.

Brother B was such a person. He gave selflessly and humbly and he commanded an uncommon grace. No job was below his dignity. Besides assisting me with bank deposits, he would daily set up an ironing board and proceed to meticulously press the altar cloths he had carefully hand-laundered. Each year he gathered and burned the palms, so there would be sufficient ash for his brethren to dispense at the beginning of Lent. Pretty much any job his religious fellowship didn’t take a “shine to” Brother B would do happily, kind of like the "cheerful giver" mentioned in Corinthians.

Yet, it was difficult for Brother B to accept accolades.

I’m not saying he was perfect. He had a flaw, or two. Some people said he talked too much. “He rambles on.” Father R used to say, “Never ask Brother B the time, because he’ll give you the history of the watch.”

Or, take a co-worker in the treasurer’s office, who had little use for his precise “statement of financial position accounting.” Brother B would walk in the office, chewing a pencil and scratching the top of his head, “You know, Irene, I’ve been looking at the nine cent discrepancy I mentioned to you this morning, and I still can’t put my finger on where...”

At this moment Irene’s blood pressure would have risen to the point that she could no longer be responsible for her bubbling reaction. “I told you hours ago, that I am happy to be within nine cents of a balance! What do you not get?” She would then whip out her handbag and scrabble for a dime, which she would throw at him, shrieking, “Here's your nine cents! Keep the change, Brother B!”

***

You get to know a person when you spend time weekly chatting during an hour-and-a-half round trip commute.

Brother B had come from an aristocratic family of considerable southern wealth. He’d been schooled at an academy and a university that were considered among the nation’s finest. From a financial standpoint, he’d wanted for nothing in his youth. As an adult he had jointly owned a Kentucky thoroughbred horse farm and was “financially sound.” Yet, he'd felt “unfulfilled.” He decided he’d rather do something to promote social justice and to combat poverty. So he walked away from his money. He took vows of poverty, obedience, and chastity. His community interpreted this as a call to serve in Africa. He spent years there before his order missioned his return to the U.S.

***

Once, he showed me his high school yearbook. He had played football. He had attended his prom. I asked him what were some of the favorite experiences of his days before his awareness of his “true” vocation.

“I used to enjoy dancing.”

He told me that he’d tried his hand at dating.

“So, the dating thing didn’t work out for you?”

“Wailll, Ranell,” he began in his lovely southern drawl, “The ones I fancied just didn’t seem to fancy me. And the ones that fancied me? Well, I guess I just didn’t fancy them.”

I laughed aloud, “Well, Brother B, that pretty much covers most of the world’s love story.”

When it was determined that he was becoming too frail, sometime near his 80th birthday, his superior announced that Brother B would be moving to the retirement home for priests that the order had built in Michigan. The magnificent facility was designed to be a panacea for the multitude of aging religious, but instead it stood like an inanimate pariah. Nearly every priest or brother I knew went there only with great protest, virtually kicking and screaming each and every step of the way. Sometimes wheedled or coaxed with promises of a return, upon their rehab or convalesce, they acquiesced. I’d only known one man who made it back.

But, not Brother B, he accepted his new assignment with graceful obedience.

There was always a farewell party for departing community members. It was the day after Brother B’s party that sticks in my mind. Word of the hour that the car taking Brother B to Michigan had passed among the community and staff. A co-worker and I walked  to the lower-level door we knew that he’d take on his way out. To our amazement there were already twenty or so people waiting in the hall, more were on their way.

"What’s going on?" Brother B asked as he stepped off the elevator and took sight of throng of people lining both sides of the hall.

"We're here to wish you well," said one of the beaming scholastics.

"Because..., because, we love you and..., and..., and will miss you," blubbered Jen, a dining hall waitress, between sobs.

He paused to say a few words to each person, addressing them by name and shaking their hands.

When he came to me, he said, "Ranell, thank you for taking time from your busy work schedule to come and say goodbye to me. Please, give Fred my regards. And blessings upon your children,…" and then he named each of them. Then finally, with a squeeze of my hand, "Please, keep me in your prayer," he moved on to the next person.

A tear rolled down my cheek. I knew that it would be a long time, if ever, before I’d have the fortune to meet such a holy man again.

***

The passing of Nelson Mandela reminds me that the world is occasionally blessed with inspiring beings, like Brother B. It would “behoove” (a word Brother B oft used) us to use them them as guideposts, like moral compasses.

***

One was an obedient follower, and one was a leader. Both were servants, nonetheless. How fortunate I was to know one of these two.

Snap Decisions

I liked Jon from the moment he walked in my office. He was tall, maybe right around 6 feet tall, I’d guess. And he was on the lean side. Tall and lanky, like a seedling that hadn’t gotten enough sun and grew spindly constantly reaching out for its light.

Universities have a reputation for using students as a cheap labor alternative. Jon had answered an ad I posted seeking a student to assist in our treasurer's office. He had transferred to the university from a small local college, where he'd studied computer science. Prior to that he'd done a stint in the armed forces reserves. And before that, he’d graduated from a rural, small town high school.

If and when I needed a permanent employee, the university’s HR department took care of all of the preliminary interviewing, background and education checks. They would then send the top candidates for me to make a final choice. But, when hiring currently registered students, it was up to me to determine their merit.

Back then, I liked to think I was a good reader of people, that I could quickly assess the best candidates. To me, Jon appeared to be an intelligent, mature young man.

He caught onto the job quickly. When uncertain, he asked questions. And it's not easy to handle a full academic load and manage a part-time job. Yet, Jon seemed to be handling it well… or so I thought.

***

It was a couple of weeks into the semester break, the day of the university's annual holiday luncheon for staff, and any residual faculty who hadn't flown the coop the minute grades were posted. Student workers didn't actually receive an invitation to the celebration, but I always made sure to bring any students in my employ along with me. Staff would work the morning, and around 11 a.m. head over to the banquet, which ended at 2 p.m.  Everyone attending would be paid as if they’d worked the full day.

Jon was always prompt and so he showed up for work the morning of the luncheon as usual, albeit looking a bit peaked. "Are you feeling okay, Jon?" I asked.

"I'm fine, now. I didn't sleep well last night."

I kept my eye on him. There was something about his glassy-eyed look that told me it wasn't from being sick. Suddenly it hit me, "Holy Jesus, he's high!" I saw my coworker's raised eyebrows and oblique glance as I grabbed Jon and guided him into my office and shut the door.

“Okay, Jon, what is up? And please, be honest with me.”

"Like I said, I didn't sleep last night..." began his story about a mixup with a roommate and "long story short," Jon was now temporarily homeless. He was on a roommate-waiting-list at the university, but wouldn't have a place until the start of the new academic year - another 3 weeks away! So, he'd been sleeping in the library, taking showers in the university’s fitness center, eating cans of tuna, and hanging out either at the library or at Standees a local 24-hour restaurant adjacent to the "el." Standees had free coffee refills and more importantly never asked questions of its "iffy" clientele.

Chicago winters can be brutal, so one night when Jon ran into an old girlfriend he took her up on her offer of a place to crash for the night. "I've got some weed," she offered over a can of beer. And later some kind of a stimulant or a sedative, or maybe it was both. He said that between his armed forces stint and his college he'd gotten “high” occasionally with friends. But, he had tried to put that behind him. He looked me in the eye and said, "It's not the life I want."

I asked about his parents, or any family who could assist. His parents were divorced, his mother lived out-of-state with his 16 year old sister who had down's syndrome. And his father? "He has his own life and problems. Look, I don’t want to bother my parents. I prefer to handle this on my own."

Holy smokes! What had I gotten myself into? A treasurer’s office that handled cash, was hardly the spot for a kid delving in drugs. I had to make a gut decision. Is he telling me the truth? I think only seconds into his story, I'd already made up my mind. I took him to the dining room and had him get some food in his system. While he ate, I went straight to my office and picked up the telephone.

***

I made a reservation at one of the dorm rooms set aside for visitors to the university, temporary but clean and basic shelter.

After he'd eaten, I explained that the university had an ombudsperson. "It's completely confidential. Would you be willing to talk to him? Perhaps he could offer suggestions."

"Yes."

The ombudsperson got Jon bumped up into an emergency status for rooming. That took care of his housing situation...

Then I hoped and maybe I prayed, I don't remember.

We all enjoyed our holiday luncheon which began a four day weekend. I enjoyed my time off with my family and loved ones, pausing occasionally to wonder how Jon was doing. But, having "slept on it" I remained sure I'd done the right thing.

***

Monday morning, after his early class, he promptly arrived for work, looking again like the sharp young man I'd hired only months ago. He and I never talked about that particular incident again.

Instead we'd talk about work-related stuff, or about our families. It was always with interest he'd listen to tales of my daughter who had travelled through Europe after her graduation and was now living and teaching in Asia and occasionally visiting other nearby foreign countries.

I invited him to attend one of the university basketball games that my husband and I enjoyed as season ticket holders. And darned if he didn't show up, looking a bit forlorn in that huge raucous gym packed to rafters with students and fans from both teams. There he ran into a female friend with whom he'd gone to high school. She was a cheerleader and she urged him to try out for the squad. He did and made the team.

This isn't about me or the others who supported Jon at the time, but about Jon, himself. He was the one who made each choice along the way. Upon graduation he set out, with a backpack, to see the world. Upon return he took a job and continued to travel whenever his work schedule permitted. Last time I checked he had visited 60 or more countries in five or six continents.

And you never knew where he'd turn up. One Saturday my husband and I made our usual bet against each other and chose our "picks" for the Kentucky Derby. And who was in Kentucky at the Derby at that very moment? Jon and a female companion he was "courting" (his word) at the time.

That was a few years back. Every now and then we'd share a few words or photos via email or Facebook. He's filled out a bit and no longer looks like a lanky seedling. Jon got tired of waiting for the sun to shine upon him, so he reached out, grabbed the sun and pulled it in closer.

As it happens, the student became the teacher. I remember his response when someone questioned whether he'd watched the latest, red-hot, primetime television show. "No, I don't watch much television. It's really such a waste of time…" 

My gut instinct told me then: Jon is surely right about that.

***

I don't know if he reads my blog, but "Jon" is not his real name. Jon, if you read this, you know this is your story. And I never said this to you in person, but I will now:  "It's a privilege to know you. You are a source of inspiration to me."