Pedaling fast, “stunt riding” on my English 3-speed, what a dork I was… Back to the days of bike riding all day and never venturing beyond the sound of my mothers whistle… I was maybe 9 or 10. I remember the hands of a man named John, a dear, sweet man, who lived on the block just south of me.
He owned a “Lawn-Boy” mower, you know the one. It has a front wheel set oddly back from the front of the machine, on only one side. His back yard was fenced in the standard 4 foot tall chain link and attached to a single car garage. The magic of lawn care was flowing from this garage like the “yellow brick road leading to the emerald city” or perhaps a faithful geyser in yellowstone. With all the mystical contraptions to be utilized for the sole purpose of detailed landscaping. He maintained the perfect lawn in North Minneapolis, at that time.
As I steered my bicycle into the storm drain, obviously within sight of this magical garage, I felt the thump, and it was done. The front wheel wedged into the straight slots that diagonally crossed the grate, gaps that seemed to be perfectly spaced, trapping the front tire. An evil plot of its maker to collect little adventurous boys’ front tires… The Storm grates sole purpose was to give a man a reason to help the little boy escape the evil peril.
As he strolled the short block to where I was stuck and helped me whenever I got my front wheel trapped… a sewer grate… I think he knew, no, I KNOW he knew it was a trick to gain attention.
My father came home one day to see me stuck. The first time it happened was actually an accident… dad whooped me hard that day and yelled at me… but the man with the lawn mower was kind, you could see patience and concern after he saw the rage my father had, a contrast so great, I had a longing to experience that kindness again, even if I needed to manipulate my world. I had no idea a man could be kind…
I admit, I did this on purpose a few times to get attention from this pillar of a man that guided my life. Kindness was real, it wasn’t just found in story books. ….
This man I knew only as John showed patience and concern over the many years of my childhood. I would hang out with him, watch him sharpen his mower blades, help him with little things like sweeping the sidewalk. His mower Blades seemed to always be dull and in need of a quick tune up and rebalancing. The magnificent lawn and a perfectly maintained mower were his only jobs. He had a wife, but I can no longer picture what her appearance was, I just remember she would appear from time to time dressed in her Sunday clothes on the way to church.
I remember the hands, big, strong, wrinkled and spotted. As he lumbered over to where I had again gotten my bicycle stuck, his arms extended and with no effort, removed the bike wheel as if it were as easy as taking a breath.
Today I went online to order supplies for a job and I was reminded of this man! I looked down at the keyboard setting on my desk and I saw John’s hands. This time they were attached to my arms. Although there are no kids with front wheels stuck in the storm sewer on the corner of 35th & Sheridan in north Minneapolis, I couldn’t understand why he left his hands behind and why in the world are they attached to my arms???
I may not have a small child in my neighborhood, I may not have a pristine yard with a spotlessly clean lawnmower that reads “LAWN-BOY” across the front… What I do have is the little boy’s memories and the old man’s hands. In some ways, these two people have again met and somehow defied the laws of space and time to see the need to help a struggling little boy…
I serve these “boys”, some older than me.. Sam’s Place, (SIGH) some of these guys have never seen a kind man with strong, wrinkled hands… they may have only felt the calloused back hand from fathers. A hand that steals. A hand that beats down another. Maybe they have only known the harsh words of a father screaming at them? Words of how worthless they are? Perhaps they have never known the kindness of a loving father (or a man named John)? Perhaps they reject the kindness of a man trying to help, because experience tells them nobody helps out of kindness but rather out of selfish gain???
Maybe they need help with the “bicycle and storm grate” of their youth?
These old man’s hands typing on the computer are not mine, they belong to the old man named John! Wrinkles and lines, spots and calluses. The years have handed me these hands and I hope to pass them on to the next man named… Well I don’t know his name, probably never will.
Hands passed down are now together and apart…
Yesterday I felt like I was only thirty, the day before it seemed like I was 20, and the day before that, I was a little boy looking at an old man’s hands… Now the old man’s hands are mine.
May God Bless you this day with the hands you need, C.
