Compassionate Service

Throughout my childhood and teen years, I remember my mother helping people who were poor. It wasn’t because she was wealthy, it was because she understood what it was to be poor. This photo reminds me of the old men she helped. They lived on what we called Bachelor Avenue, a country road that had several one-room shanty bachelor homes. When Mama took baked goods to them, my brother and I accompanied her – this fellow is dressed the same as the men she helped, and the stove is also similar. Typically, there was a wood-framed key clock and maybe a faded print hanging on a smoke-darkened wall. Clothing was hung on pegs or nails above a quilt-covered cot. Cabins were lit by kerosene lamps, and typically a water bucket with ladle was on a corner of the stained kitchen table. The men all reused their dishes without washing them, just turned them upside down on the table to prevent the fouling of mice. Each cabin smelled of wood smoke and tobacco.

Following is a related excerpt from my mother’s biography, Nettles and Roses, A Story of Resilience and Redemption (available on Amazon ISBN 979-8-711962-90-8).

BACHELOR AVENUE NEAR the small town of Ladysmith, Wisconsin was a gravel road that cut through the woods and joined two main county roads. It was appropriately named because three old bachelors lived along this road, each in his own little one-room shack. Their names were Silas, Everett, and James. We first met Everett when he was hitchhiking to Ladysmith. Mama always picked up hitchhikers, especially if they looked poor, and Everett looked poor. His jacket was frayed, and he wore checkered wool logging pants. He smelled of wood smoke and dirty hair.

After Everett seated himself in the car, Mama asked, “What’s your name?” Everett didn’t reply. He just sat looking straight ahead.

“We are new to the area,” Mama continued. “We moved here last September. We love it. How long have you lived here?” Everett didn’t reply. He just sat looking straight ahead.

“Maybe he’s deaf,” I said softly.

“Can you hear me?” Mama asked loudly. “What’s your name?”

“Everett. Everett Palm,” he answered.

“We moved here last September. We love it. How long have you lived here?” Mama repeated loudly. Everett said nothing. It was apparent that he was a man of few words.

“Where do you want to be dropped off?” Mama asked loudly.

“The A&P Grocery,” Everett replied.

“That’s where we’re going. If you want, we can give you a ride home.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Everett replied softly with a slight nod of his head. When we left the store after buying groceries, Everett was waiting for us at the car.

“I’m glad you waited,” Mama greeted. On our drive back to Bachelor Avenue, Everett answered Mama’s questions with single-word responses or not at all, but when we stopped at his little home and he opened the car door, he looked at Mama and said, “Thank you for the ride. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” Mama replied.

Our first interactions with Silas and James were similar, but over time, all three came to value our friendship. Ted and I accompanied Mama when she stopped at their small shanty homes. At first, she dropped off oatmeal cookies. Then she gave them fliers describing the message of Jesus along with the cookies. She made certain each had a Bible. She also invited them to church, and occasionally one agreed to attend. I remember Silas walking to the car, carrying his Bible, with his hair slicked back and wearing a wrinkled grey suit coat.

Mama also befriended Virginia Barns. Virginia was a widow who had a small farm with ten cows, which she milked by hand. Having no car, she drove a tractor to town. She was tall and skinny with long grey hair that hung to the middle of her back. Her face was weathered and dramatic. She must have been beautiful when she was young. She typically wore a long coat and skirt and tall rubber farm boots. If the school bus happened to pass her driving to town on her tractor, some kid would murmur softly, “There’s the witch,” and everyone would stop talking and turn to stare at her. Her unpainted double-storied house was spooky too. The uncurtained windows looked out from the house like vacant eyes.

I don’t know how Mama made Virginia’s acquaintance, but she did, and occasionally when we drove to town, we stopped to visit. The inside of her house was as stark and grey as the outside, without rugs or comfortable furniture. Hanging in her kitchen were braided strings of onions and garlic, bundles of dill and herbs. Preserved jars of green beans, beets, and tomatoes added color to her bleak décor, but the most unusual feature was a tall undecorated Christmas tree, a balsam with wide-spreading branches, positioned between the kitchen and sitting room, still appearing fresh four months after Christmas.

“I really don’t like cutting an evergreen, but it wouldn’t be Christmas without one, so I try to extend its beauty as long as I can,” Virginia explained. I understood why Mama liked her; Mama was a collector of interesting people, and Virginia was certainly interesting. Their conversations focused mainly on religious topics. Ted and I would sit on straight-backed chairs listening as the two talked about eternal hellfire, a favorite topic because Virginia was a Catholic.

“I certainly wouldn’t want to have a child of mine suffer in purgatory or burn eternally in hell, and I’m merely a human being. God is the embodiment of love and compassion, and we are his children. Burning and torturing His own children just doesn’t make sense,” Mama would reason.

“Yes, that is sensible,” Virginia agreed. “But what if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not wrong. I can’t be wrong. If I’m wrong, then God is not perfect.” And so, the conversation would continue.

Mama also befriended Liz and Luther Breme. They had six children: Gladys was five, Pearl was four, Billy was three, Arthur and Dennis were two, and Matthew was ten months. The family was extremely poor, living in a long one-room shed without running water or electricity. The shed was set far back from the road in a low area among poplar trees and tag alders. Liz was a large Ojibwe woman who preferred living in the woods. Luther was a little man with a stubbly beard and unkempt light brown curly hair.

Again, I don’t know how Mama made their acquaintance, but she did. It is possible that she spotted them at the A&P Grocery and introduced herself. It is possible she said something like, “I can see your quiver is full. God has blessed you with beautiful children.” And the children were beautiful. Mama visited them in their home, taking Ted and me along only once. She sensed that Liz didn’t want two teens standing awkwardly in her shabby home. Of course, Mama talked with Liz and Luther about the love of Jesus, but her service with this family was to lift Liz’s spirit by gifting her curtains, rugs, and pretty dishes. When Mama baked, she made an extra loaf of bread or cookies to take to them. Mama was always at her happiest when helping a destitute family.

One day, Mr. Pederson from the Social Service Office came to our home. “Mrs. Towne,” he said, “Liz Breme is in the hospital with pneumonia. We were going to place her children with foster care, but she objected and asked to have you take them until she’s better. Would you be willing?”

“Of course,” Mama immediately replied. Then she added, “Just yesterday I found an old-fashioned baby cradle at a rummage sale. I felt the urge to buy it and did. Come look,” she said while leading him through the kitchen and into the dining room to show him the wooden cradle.

“How wonderful. Only a day after buying this, it will be blessed with a baby,” Mama beamed.

“I’ll let Mr. Breme know to bring the children,” Mr. Pederson said while walking to his car. That afternoon, Luther Breme brought his six children to our home, their clothes in a pillowcase, and left them in Mama’s care for two weeks.

Throughout her life, Mama cared for many individuals who were considered by most others as social burdens, and she became known for her compassionate service.