THE HELPING HAND
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When I was 11, our family moved to a New Jersey town nestled along the Delaware River, less than a mile from where General George Washington crossed that icy river on Christmas night in 1776. Our Dutch Colonial home was situated on River Drive in Titusville, a village of approximately 500 people. My siblings and I enjoyed idyllic summers, waterskiing on the Delaware and playing Kick The Can with other “River Rats.”
Within a few years, Mom and next-door neighbor Jean Cumbler started a volunteer group to make dinners and run errands for families suffering tough times. That could mean cooking a pot roast dinner to feed a recent widow and her kids, or driving a dad with colon cancer to his oncologist, or making sure a houseful of kids speckled with chicken pox had comic diversions. So Mom, Jean and their friends would drop off baskets filled with evening meals or tootsie rolls and Hershey bars. They always tied a note to the basket which read, “Love from the Helping Hand.”
One day after school, Mom eyeballed me and said, “I’d like you to make dinner tonight for the Abbots. They’re having some problems.” Mind you, I barely knew how to scramble eggs. But I succinctly remember the meal I cooked: Kraft Dinner (that boxed macaroni with cheese that is still my go-to comfort food) and a meatloaf (using a recipe I learned to achieve my Girl Scout cooking badge). Before walking down the block to deliver the meal, I tied a note to the basket, “With love from the Helping Hand.”
I was reminded of this the other day after a late day walk with Mr. Wonderful. We’ve had a few bumps in the road here in the Wells woods, so Bob was using a jazzy-new walker. (We call it his Cadillac because it’s got a seat, arm rests and a saddlebag.) I injured my rotator cuff and shoulder muscles, so my arm was in a sling. Neighbor John Dunster was driving home from work when he spotted us. “What the heck?” he asked with a smile. “You two look like the walking wounded.”
By the time Mr. W. and I got home, my iPhone was beeping, indicating a text. It was from John’s wife Christine. “We are going to deliver dinner tomorrow night,” she wrote. I immediately texted back and said that was totally unnecessary. Dear Christine chose to ignore my words. True to her word, at 5:30 the next evening, she walked in carrying a basket filled with grilled chicken topped with arugula salad, roasted petite potatoes, whole wheat bread and a scrumptious strawberry rhubarb pie.
Christine’s kind generous gesture stirred memories of the Helping Hand, forcing me to question why I am so adamant about DOING EVERYTHING MYSELF and saying NO THANKS when people offer help. Over the past few months when we’ve been going through problematic health situations, friends have offered rides to doctor appointments, others dropped off boxes of strawberries and blueberries, still more left bouquets of flowers, chocolate chip cookies or warm banana bread at our front door. It’s absolutely wonderful but I’ve had difficulty accepting this thoughtful largesse.
For me, it’s always been easier, better and “more blessed to give than receive.” Partly because I’m an independent old cuss. Partly because I refuse to give in to the physical realities (arthritis! heart disease! etc!) of being 82 years old. But mainly because I don’t want to burden friends with our infirmities. Everyone has problems. Mr. W. and I are not alone.
But even in my eighth decade, I can still learn. And honestly, Christine’s lovely gesture reminded me that we all need — and should accept — a helping hand when it’s offered.
