Ed

Ed

Ed appeared at the back of our home one cold November morning in 1938.  He was a hobo riding the rails; had seen our house from a train while it slowed down to enter the rail yards in town.  Or maybe our place had been 'marked' by fellow hobos as a likely place of welcome.  Since it was cold, Mother invited him into the kitchen and while she prepared eggs, bacon, biscuits, and lots of black coffee, she and my uncle Paul heard his story.  They agreed to offer Ed room and board if he would help clean up the two side yards, do carpentry work, and cut and stack wood.  (Because our family had grown to include Mama and Papa, George F. and Paul, we had recently moved into an eight bedroom farmhouse in the country and needed help).  Ed was quietly grateful, a graceful attitude that he constantly held.

Not much for talking, he was happy to eat  his meals after everyone left for work in the morning, and after our dinner at night, preferring to be alone.  I remember his breakfasts mainly because I had never seen such a small person consume such large amounts of food!  Twelve pancakes were normal, or twelve French toasts, which suited Mother fine as they were economical for her to prepare.  After breakfast he would sit and read the newspaper, is left hand shading his eyes, whose eyeglass lenses made his dark eyes appear outrageously large for his face. 

Without his hat, his head was pale white with wisps of grey hair plastered in uneven stripes across his scalp.  His large, calloused hands seemed too rough to handle the newspaper, but to my surprise he could flip through the pages without even licking his fingers, which I could never do!

I remember that he was a small man, rather stooped; he was alert, clean, and very shy, anxious to get work done.  And work he did, fast and organized with no wasted motions.  He chopped and stacked wood for the fire place and put it within

easy reach of the back door; he cleared two side yards of a huge greenhouse, a dilapidated fence, and many years' worth of accumulated debris.  He was a good carpenter, building bookcases, repairing porches, installing a ramp for my grandmother.  As one of his many construction jobs, and at Mother's request, he secretly made me a baby carriage for my ninth Christmas (I believed in Santa Claus until I was 10!).  Out of an apple box, wheels made of plywood, dowel for handle, and all painted bright and shiny white and blue - it was my pride and joy!

And, he was able to enjoy my reaction on Christmas  morning as he joined us in opening presents, reveling in his new socks and work clothes, especially enjoying the sumptuous breakfast Mother made that day.

My 80-year old grandfather had suffered a stroke that year and was bedridden.  It fell to Paul and Ed to move him about, bathe him and see to his daily needs.  Ed and Papa became friends, speaking brokenly and quietly, usually when no one else was around.  As irascible as Papa would become, Ed was calmly patient and helpful, often after others had become frustrated and couldn't reach out to him. One morning Mother came out of Papa's bedroom to announce that Papa had gently passed on.  Ed quietly left the kitchen, went to his room, packed his meagre belongings, and left.  Mother happened to glance out the window, commenting that Ed was walking toward town with his bundle.  We  thought he would be back, and engrossed in funeral plans for Papa, we didn't notice until much later that he hadn't.  We waited for awhile, but he never reappeared.