Based on a true story
It was fifty years ago, on a hot summer day, in the deep south. We lived on a
dirt road, on a sand lot. We were, what was known as "dirt poor".
I had been playing outside all morning in the sand. Suddenly, I heard a sharp
clanking sound behind me and looking over my shoulder, my eyes were drawn to a
strange sight! Across the dirt road were two rows of men, dressed in black and
white, striped, baggy uniforms. Their faces were covered with dust and sweat.
They looked so weary, and they were chained together with huge, black, iron
chains. Hanging from the end of each chained row was a big, black, iron ball.
They were, as polite people said in those days, a "Chain Gang," guarded by two,
heavily armed guards.
I stared at the prisoners as they settled uncomfortably down in the dirt, under
the shade of some straggly trees. One of the guards walked towards me. Nodding
as he passed, he went up to our front door and knocked. My mother appeared at
the door, and I heard the guard ask if he could have permission to get water
from the pump, in the backyard, so that "his men" could "have a drink".
My mother agreed, but I saw a look of concern on her face, as she called me
inside. I stared through the window as each prisoner was unchained from the line
to hobble over to the pump and drink his fill from a small tin cup while a guard
watched vigilantly.
It wasn’t long before they were all chained back up again, with prisoners and
guards retreating into the shade, away from an unrelenting sun. I heard my
mother call me into the kitchen, and I entered, to see her bustling around with
tins of tuna fish, mayonnaise, our last loaf of bread, and two, big, pitchers of
lemonade. In what seemed "a blink of an eye", she had made a tray of sandwiches
using all the tuna we were to have had for that night’s supper.
My mother was smiling as she handed me one of the pitchers of lemonade,
cautioning me to carry it "carefully" and to "not spill a drop." Then, lifting
the tray in one hand and holding a pitcher in her other hand, she marched me to
the door, deftly opening it with her foot, and trotted me across the street. She
approached the guards, flashing them with a brilliant smile. "We had some
leftovers from lunch," she said, "and I was wondering if we could share with you
and your men." She smiled at each of the men, searching their dark eyes with her
own eyes of "robin’s egg blue." Everyone started to their feet. "Oh no!" She
said. "Stay where you are! I’ll just serve you!" Calling me to her side, she
went from guard to guard, then from prisoner to prisoner — filling each tin cup
with lemonade, and giving each man a sandwich.
It was very quiet, except for a "thank you, ma’am," and the clanking of the
chains. Very soon we were at the end of the line, my mother’s eyes softly
scanning each face. The last prisoner was a big man, his dark skin pouring with
sweat, and streaked with dust. Suddenly, his face broke into a wonderful smile,
as he looked up into my mother’s eyes, and he said, "Ma’am, I’ve wondered all my
life if I’d ever see an angel, and now I have! Thank you!" Again, my mother’s
smile took in the whole group. "You’re all welcome!" She said. "God bless you."
Then we walked across to the house, with empty tray and pitchers, and back
inside. Soon, the men moved on, and I never saw them again.
The only explanation my mother ever gave me, for that strange and wonderful day,
was that I "remember, always, to entertain strangers, for by doing so, you may
entertain angels, without knowing."
Then, with a mysterious smile, she went about the rest of the day. I don’t
remember exactly what we ate for supper that night. I just know it was served by
an angel.
Jaye Lewis is an award winning writer and poet, who celebrates life from a
unique perspective. Although Jaye grew up in poverty, she has been truly blessed
with an understanding that "enough is often better than a feast." Jaye’s stories
celebrate the positive in life, and often, the miraculous. Jaye Lewis can be
emailed at jlewis@smyth.net
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