Carl

[Surfergirl]

Carl was a
quiet man. He didn't talk much. He
would always greet
you with a big smile
and a firm handshake.

Even after
living in our neighborhood for over 50
years, no one
could really say they
knew him very well.

Before his
retirement, he took the bus to work each
morning. The
lone sight of him
walking down the street often worried us.

He had a slight
limp from a bullet wound received in
WWII.
Watching him,
we worried that although he had survived
WWII, he may
not make it through
our changing uptown neighborhood with its
ever-increasing random violence,
gangs, and drug activity.

When he saw the
flyer at our local church asking for
volunteers for
caring for the gardens
behind the minister's residence, he
responded in his
characteristically
unassuming manner. Without fanfare, he
just signed up.

He was well
into his 87th year when the very thing we
had always
feared finally
happened.

He was just
finishing his watering for the day when
three gang
members approached him.
Ignoring their attempt to intimidate him,
he simply
asked, "Would you like
a drink from the hose?"

The tallest and
toughest-looking of the three said,
"Yeah, sure," with
a malevolent little smile.

As Carl offered
the hose to him, the other two grabbed
Carl's arm,
throwing him down. As
the hose snaked crazily over the ground,
dousing
everything in its way,
Carl's assailants stole his
retirement watch and his
wallet, and then fled.

Carl tried to
get himself up, but he had been thrown
down on his bad
leg. He lay there
trying to gather himself as the minister
came running
to help him.

Although the
minister had witnessed the attack from
his window, he
couldn't get there
fast enough to stop it.

"Carl, are you
okay? Are you hurt?" the minister
kept asking as he
helped Carl to his feet.

Carl just
passed a hand over his brow and sighed,
shaking his
head. "Just some punk
kids. I hope they'll wise-up
someday."

His wet clothes
clung to his slight frame as he bent to
pick up the
hose. He adjusted the
nozzle again and started to water.

Confused and a
little concerned, the minister asked,
"Carl, what are
you doing?" "I've
got to finish my watering. It's been
very dry lately,"
came the calm reply.

Satisfying
himself that Carl really was all right,
the minister
could only marvel.
Carl was a man from a different time and
place.

A few weeks
later the three returned. Just as before
their threat
was unchallenged.
Carl again offered them a drink from his
hose.

This time they
didn't rob him. They wrenched the
hose from his hand
and drenched him head
to foot in the icy water.

When they had
finished their humiliation of him, they
sauntered off
down the street,
throwing catcalls and curses, falling
over one another
laughing at the
hilarity of what they had just done.

Carl just
watched them. Then he turned toward the
warmth giving
sun, picked up his
hose, and went on with his watering.

The summer was
quickly fading into fall Carl was doing
some tilling
when he was startled
by the sudden approach of someone behind
him. He
stumbled and fell into
some evergreen branches.

As he struggled
to regain his footing, he turned to see
the tall leader
of his summer
tormentors reaching down for him. He
braced himself for
the expected attack.

"Don't worry
old man, I'm not gonna hurt you this
time."

The young man
spoke softly, still offering the tattooed
and scarred
hand to Carl. As he
helped Carl get up, the man pulled a
crumpled bag from
his pocket and
handed it to Carl.

"What's this?"
Carl asked. "It's your
stuff," the man explained. "It's
your stuff back.
Even the money in your wallet."
"I don't understand,"
Carl said. "Why
would you help me now?"

The man shifted
his feet, seeming embarrassed and ill at
ease. "I
learned something from
you," he said. "I ran with that
gang and hurt people
like you we picked
you because you were old and we knew we
could do it But
every time we came
and did something to you, instead of
yelling and
fighting back, you tried
to give us a drink. You didn't hate
us for hating you.
You kept showing
love against our hate."

He stopped for
a moment. "I couldn't sleep
after we stole your stuff,
so here it is back."

He paused for
another awkward moment, not knowing what
more there was
to say. "That
bag's my way of saying thanks for
straightening me out,
I guess." And with
that, he walked off down the street.

Carl looked
down at the sack in his hands and
gingerly opened it.
He took out his
retirement watch and put it back on his
wrist. Opening
his wallet, he
checked for his wedding photo. He gazed
for a moment at
the young bride
that still smiled back at him from all
those years ago.

He died one
cold day after Christmas that winter.
Many people
attended his funeral in
spite of the weather.

In particular
the minister noticed a tall young man
that he didn't
know sitting quietly
in a distant corner of the church.

The minister
spoke of Carl's garden as a lesson in
life.

In a voice made
thick with unshed tears, he said,
"Do your best and
make your garden as
beautiful as you can. We will never
forget Carl and his
garden."

The following
spring another flyer went up. It read:
"Person needed
to care for Carl's garden."

The flyer went
unnoticed by the busy parishioners until
one day when a
knock was heard at
the minister's office door.

Opening the
door, the minister saw a pair of scarred
and tattooed
hands holding the
flyer. "I believe this is my job, if
you'll have me,"
the young man said.

The minister
recognized him as the same young man who
had returned
the stolen watch and
wallet to Carl.

He knew that
Carl's kindness had turned this
man's life around. As
the minister handed
him the keys to the garden shed, he said,
"Yes, go take
care of Carl's
garden and honor him."

The man went to
work and, over the next several years, he
tended the
flowers and
vegetables just as Carl had done.

During that
time, he went to college, got married,
and became a
prominent member of
the community. But he never forgot his
promise to
Carl's memory and kept
the garden as beautiful as he thought
Carl would have
kept it.

One day he
approached the new minister and told him
that he
couldn't care for the
garden any longer. He explained with a
shy and happy
smile, "My wife just
had a baby boy last night, and she's
bringing him home
on Saturday."

"Well,
congratulations!" said the minister,
as he was handed
the garden shed
keys. "That's wonderful!
What's the baby's name?"

"Carl," he replied.

[Robja]

Great read. Very moving story. Nice change of pace from all the political crap.

[La Gringa]

that's a really nice story, Surfergirl.... thank you

[Robja]

that's a really nice story, Surfergirl.... thank you

Wipe your tears La Gringa

[La Gringa]

Wipe your tears La Gringa

you can make fun of me.... but it's refreshing to hear something positive on this board these days...

[Robja]

you can make fun of me.... but it's refreshing to hear something positive on this board these days...

Not making fun. I had to quit reading halfway thru to regain composure. I am beginning to think it is an age thing.

[JSV]

I feel your pain Robja but I don't think it's the age thing at all!

[John Rogers]

Great story

[giantfan]

Nice story,

Thanks

[fountain17]

Thanks surfer girl!