Help for the Helper

[Guest guest]

Help for the Helper

by: Marlena , Chicken Soup for the Golden Soul

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At age eighteen, I left my home in Brooklyn, New York, and went off

to study history at Leeds University in Yorkshire, England. It was an

exciting but stressful time in my life, for while trying to adjust to

the novelty of unfamiliar surroundings, I was still learning to cope

with the all-too- familiar pain of my father's recent death -- an

event with which I had not yet come to terms.

While at the market one day, trying to decide which bunch of flowers

would best brighten up my comfortable but colorless student digs, I

spied an elderly gentleman having difficulty holding onto his walking

stick and his bag of apples. I rushed over and relieved him of the

apples, giving him time to regain his balance.

" Thanks, luv, " he said in that distinctive Yorkshire lilt I never

tire of hearing. " I'm quite all right now, not to worry, " he said,

smiling at me not only with his mouth but with a pair of dancing

bright blue eyes.

" May I walk with you? " I inquired. " Just to make sure those apples

don't become sauce prematurely. "

He laughed and said, " Now, you are a long way from home, lass. From

the States, are you? "

" Only from one of them. New York. I'll tell you all about it as we

walk. "

So began my friendship with Mr. Burns, a man whose smile and warmth

would very soon come to mean a great deal to me.

As we walked, Mr. Burns (whom I always addressed as such and never by

his first name) leaned heavily on his stick, a stout, gnarled affair

that resembled my notion of a biblical staff. When we arrived at his

house, I helped him set his parcels on the table and insisted on

lending a hand with the preparations for his " tea " -- that is, his

meal. I interpreted his weak protest as gratitude for the assistance.

After making his tea, I asked if it would be all right if I came back

and visited with him again. I thought I'd look in on him from time to

time, to see if he needed anything. With a wink and a smile he

replied, " I've never been one to turn down an offer from a good-

hearted lass. "

I came back the next day, at about the same time, so I could help out

once more with his evening meal. The great walking stick was a silent

reminder of his infirmity, and, though he never asked for help, he

didn't protest when it was given. That very evening we had our

first " heart to heart. " Mr. Burns asked about my studies, my plans,

and, mostly, about my family. I told him that my father had recently

died, but I didn't offer much else about the relationship I'd had

with him. In response, he gestured toward the two framed photographs

on the end table next to his chair. They were pictures of two

different women, one notably older than the other. But the

resemblance between the two was striking.

" That's , " he said, indicating the photograph of the older

woman. " She's been gone for six years. And that's our Alice. She was

a very fine nurse. Losing her was too much for my . "

I responded with the tears I hadn't been able to shed for my own

pain. I cried for . I cried for Alice. I cried for Mr. Burns. And

I cried for my father to whom I never had the chance to say good-bye.

I visited with Mr. Burns twice a week, always on the same days and at

the same time. Whenever I came, he was seated in his chair, his

walking stick propped up against the wall. Mr. Burns owned a small

black-and-white television set, but he evidently preferred his books

and phonograph records for entertainment. He always seemed especially

glad to see me. Although I told myself I was delighted to be useful,

I was happier still to have met someone to whom I could reveal those

thoughts and feelings that, until then, I'd hardly acknowledged to

myself.

While fixing the tea, our chats would begin. I told Mr. Burns how

terribly guilty I felt about not having been on speaking terms with

my father the two weeks prior to his death. I'd never had the chance

to ask my father's forgiveness. And he had never had the chance to

ask for mine.

Although Mr. Burns talked, he allowed me the lion's share. Mostly I

recall him listening. But how he listened! It wasn't just that he was

attentive to what I said. It was as if he were reading me, absorbing

all the information I provided, and adding details from his own

experience and imagination to create a truer understanding of my

words.

After about a month, I decided to pay my friend a visit on an " off

day. " I didn't bother to telephone as that type of formality did not

seem requisite in our relationship. Coming up to the house, I saw him

working in his garden, bending with ease and getting up with equal

facility. I was dumbfounded. Could this be the same man who used that

massive walking stick?

He suddenly looked in my direction. Evidently sensing my puzzlement

over his mobility, he waved me over, looking more than a bit

sheepish. I said nothing, but accepted his invitation to come inside.

" Well, luv. Allow me to make you a 'cuppa' this time. You look all

done in. "

" How? " I began. " I thought... "

" I know what you thought, luv. When you first saw me at the

market...well, I'd twisted my ankle a bit earlier in the day. Tripped

on a stone while doing a bit of gardening. Always been a clumsy

fool. "

" But...when were you able to...walk normally again? "

Somehow, his eyes managed to look merry and contrite at the same

time. " Ah, well, I guess that'll be the very next day after our first

meeting. "

" But why? " I asked, truly perplexed. Surely he couldn't have been

feigning helplessness to get me to make him his tea every now and

then.

" That second time you came 'round, luv, it was then I saw how unhappy

you were. Feeling lonely and sad about your dad and all. I thought,

well, the lass could use a bit of an old shoulder to lean on. But I

knew you were telling yourself you were visiting me for my sake and

not your own. Didn't think you'd come back if you knew I was fit. And

I knew you were in sore need of someone to talk to. Someone older,

older than your dad, even. And someone who knew how to listen. "

" And the stick? "

" Ah. A fine stick, that. I use it when I walk the moors. We must do

that together soon. "

So we did. And Mr. Burns, the man I'd set out to help, helped me.

He'd made a gift of his time, bestowing attention and kindness to a

young girl who needed both.