“Greek Orzo, Lemon, and Chicken Soup” was on the menu tonight. I had everything I needed except for chicken, which is important when you’re making chicken soup. Karsch’s Village Market is just a hop, skip, and a jump from the four-acre wood and the closest place to score a Rotisserie Chicken. In the hierarchy of human inventions, I would place Rotisserie Chicken only behind the wheel, moveable type, baseball, and Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony on the list of greatest ever inventions. Okay, technically baseball and Beethoven’s 9th are not inventions, but it’s my list and I can put anything in there I want.
I wound my way through the Windsor School complex (shortcut) and made a left onto Highway 61-67. For decades that highway was the main route running north and south through Missouri following the Mississippi River before Interstate 55 was built.
I hadn’t gone far when I passed a man walking on the shoulder of the road on my right heading north. That someone was walking along the old highway was not unusual or unexpected, but his man was unexpected by any standard. He was a man of color and in the first week of August he wore a black knit cap with an open top from which erupted a volcano of dreadlocks. Across his back was a bedroll and no less than eight to ten plastic grocery bags tied together in a cluster that somehow defied gravity.
I continued to the market on my Rotisserie Chicken quest.
It didn’t take me long to nap the chicken along with 3 or 4 impulse purchases. Heading home, I passed the man again; he was making substantial progress. I turned into the Windsor School parking lot for my shortcut then stopped the car. I rarely carry any cash these days and I tend to ignore panhandlers, not that I’m unfeeling (at least I tell myself that), but when someone holds up a cardboard sign at a highway interchange that reads … “Homeless vet, Hungry, Wife has cancer, Dog is sick.” I’m skeptical, and I rarely carry cash. But this man was not panhandling, and I had a ten-dollar bill.
I pulled the bill from my wallet and tucked it into one of the cupholders by the center console, made a U-turn and headed back to the man. He was now in front of the Imperial Animal Hospital. The shoulder of the road was wide at this stretch. I pulled alongside and rolled down the passenger side window, holding the folded ten-dollar bill between my index and middle fingers. “Maybe you can use this?” I asked.
He flashed a grin in the middle of a perfectly shaped mustache and beard that ended in a sharp point 3 or 4 inches below his chin. “Thank you,” he said, “but I’m on a spiritual journey and can’t accept money from anyone.”
This was not the response that I expected. I paused for a moment then said, “But it’s also a blessing to give.”
“It tis, it tis,” he replied with a thick Jamaican accent, “but if I accepted money from you, I would have to take it from everyone.”
I wasn’t sure I understood the logic, but there was no point in debating.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
I told him. He was in control of the conversation at this point.
“Can I pray with you?” he asked.
I’m a firm believer that you can never have too many prayers coming your way. I nodded in the affirmative.
He addressed the Creator, praying for my safety, protection, guidance, and wisdom. He prayed for my family and for their safety, protection, guidance, and wisdom. He prayed for 2 or 3 minutes. When he finally stopped, we both said, “Amen,” we fist-bumped, and he was on his way.
I checked my rearview mirror carefully before beginning my U-turn onto Highway 61-67. The last thing I wanted to happen was for someone to pray at length for my safety and protection, only to pull into the path of an oncoming car.
Thirty seconds later, I thought of all the questions I should have asked.
He knew my name, but I didn’t know his. What was his destination? How did he come to be walking along Highway 61-67 in Jefferson County Missouri of all places? Where will he sleep? He refused my money, but would he have broken bread with me? I would have been glad to sit on the curb and share a drumstick with him. Sadly, these were all questions that will remain unanswered.
Mimsy greets me enthusiastically at the door, she too is a fan of Rotisserie Chicken.
The last addition to the soup is a couple shakes of hot sauce. It sounds counter intuitive for chicken soup, but it doesn’t make it hot or spicy, but adds just a bit of umami or savory taste. Life, like soup, can be bland at times, but there are opportunities to add flavor to your day. It often comes with chance encounters with fellow travelers, the bagger at the grocery store wearing a t-shirt from your favorite vacation destination and a thirty second sharing of memories is exchanged. The guy with the tricked-out pickup who pulls next to you as you’re pumping gas, you sincerely compliment his truck, he beams and thanks you. And if you’re very blessed, you will have a man on a spiritual journey pray for you.
Poppy
The Four-Acre Wood 