April
26, 2021
Greetings
from the ache,
Not
twenty feet from where I sit writing to you there is a refrigerator filled with
food. It faces a pantry that is stocked
with every imaginable consumable, and a few I hadn’t imagined. This presence is reassuring in a way; I will
not go hungry, nor will I ever feel the fear of being hungry. But neither will I take my abundance for
granted.
In
one of the most influential times of my life I learned a respect for food. Not as a gourmand or chef, but as a
hobo.
Most mornings
I woke on the ground, a few feet from my bicycle. I would sit up, the grass damp from dew, and
pull things from my saddle bag. Grape Nuts,
sometimes dry from the box, other times soaked in water. I would boil water and make chickory or
instant coffee. Sometimes I’d make instant
oatmeal, only slightly more appealing than drywall putty. But some mornings, I would pack up my things
and ride into the next town and find a diner for breakfast.
I had planned
five dollars a day for my existence. The
money was mostly for food. I would buy a
loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter, a can of corned beef hash, canned tuna,
boxes of noodles. I made it last. And people would give me food, in fact that
was what made the budget possible.
Some days I
spent nothing. Some days I had to buy a
part for my bike, or a warm shirt, and then for days I would watch every penny. So eating in a restaurant was a luxurious
extravagance, and I made the most of it.
I would ride
into the town, often a crossroads between farmlands, and then find where the pickup
trucks gathered in the first minutes of the day. It would be called ‘Sweeties’ or ‘Don’s’ or named
after the town, or just called ‘Diner’.
Small towns
are as different as fingerprints, but they have things in common. In these little diners, especially as the day
started, there was a similar cast of characters. Farmers, local tradesmen, perhaps the
constable, all huddling around a meal, trading the news, laughing and gossiping.
In the
seventies, it was not unusual to see people packing around the country, but not
every place welcomed smelly, long haired bike bums. So, I did my best to be respectful, polite. People would be curious, so I made it easy
for them to be.
Sometimes
there was a waitress, who would become my ambassador to the rest of the patrons,
whispering my story to them as she refilled their coffee. Other times I sat at the counter and the guy cooking
would take my order. I looked for
whatever breakfast presented the greatest mass of food for the least
money. Lots of eggs and potatoes and big
slabs of toast, whatever I could fill up on that might carry me through the
day. And of course, the bottomless cup
of coffee.
I’ll also
confess I pilfered my share of salt and sugar packets, tubs of jelly, little
creamers, wads of napkins. I’m not really
ashamed of this now, but I don’t suggest it to my children.
In these small
spaces it was natural for people at the next table, or across the room, to ask
me things. Where are you headed? How far do you ride a day? What do you do when it rains? Where do you sleep? And if things went well, someone would offer
to pay for my meal.
I knew very
little of nutrition, only that I was burning a lot of calories every day, and
the machine needed to be fed. I was
hungry, and some days the space between towns surprised me, so from time to
time I ran out of food. Some nights,
sleeping under bridges, or in cornfields, I would go to sleep still feeling the
grumble of my empty stomach.
It’s the same
ache we have all felt at one time or another, but most of us can solve it
easily. In fact, just now I stood up and
walked into my kitchen and ate a muffin, answering the mildest mutter of
appetite. But there is something that
feels desperate and lonely in going to sleep hungry, a pang that I have not
forgotten.
Along my way I
was fed, literally, by the kindness of strangers. If I stopped at a farmhouse and asked
permission to sleep on their land, they invariably would feed me, and send me off
the next day with food. A stop at a produce
stand, and in exchange for stories of my travels, I would leave with apples or
a jar of preserves. People driving past
me would stop and give me things. I haven’t
forgotten these powerful acts of grace.
It has been over
four decades since those experiences and I still feel them as fresh as
now. Every time I sit down and order
breakfast at a diner, I feel this small rush of gratitude.
Two things
remain with me from this passage. First, that I will never take a full stomach
for granted. Second, I remember the
countless times that someone gave me food, or paid for my meal, maybe without
knowing what an enormous difference it made.
It is one of the simplest ways to help someone else ease an ache. I’m reminded this morning, knowing there are
people not far from any of us, whose day can be changed with only the smallest
sacrifice, of the gift I’ve been given.
I am going to
make my breakfast, a bowl of Grape Nuts.
That thread has stayed with me too.
Hope
this finds you sated,
David
Copyright
© 2021 David Smith
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