By Prem Gongaju
I
The Walmart—the store where the firm, infirm and the ones in-between go for the stuff of their needs.
Neither firm nor infirm, I stand with the multitude of in-between firm and infirm humanity, who fared well in the dustup of the yesternight.
We queued up at the pharmacy of the Waly-world for the silver bullets to fend off the sly intruder.
There were three souls before us. A 30-ish lady in front of us jerked her finger to the back of the line, which yanked me the heck out of my reverie; and I soon got hold of the situation. There was an African-American gentleman behind us. His head was at the mercy of gravity while standing on crutches, perhaps asking the 30-ish lady if he could cut in line.
Her jerking finger meant she wasn’t going to listen to the gentleman’s request, who wore a clean get-up, with new looking sneaker-shoes. All could see he was in pain.
I stepped back and gestured the gentleman on crutches to step in in front of us. But my wife softly reminded me of the ones behind me. Sorry me, I looked behind to parley my cause, but at that very instant, the lady behind me went over to the African-American gentleman and asked if she could tie his shoe laces. Indeed his shoelaces were untied.
I was gobsmacked by the unfolding scene, which, in my mind, hearkened back to the second of the most important commandments: Love Thy Neighbor. Not in the Pharisaic polemic but in the poetry of passion.
The elder lady meticulously went about tying up the shoelaces of the gentleman on crutches. Her head, adorned with silver hair sprinkled with a pinch of black pepper, appeared to me like the halo proffered by an unseen hand.
Her work of love finished; she returned to her place in line.
Something in me went heliotropic. I turned around to see the face smeared with the hue of humility. And I introduced myself to her.
“I am Margaret Huggins,” she said with a hint of smile.
(Methought there is much I could learn from Ms. Margaret.)
I gave her my address and invited her for tea. She accepted graciously and wrote down my home address.
Since Ms. Margaret’s act was one of the rarest of the rare occurrences at Walmart, I asked her if she would permit me to mention her name in print.
While she paused, I felt her hand tracing my face through osmosis.
So I stated my small connection writing for the Natchitoches Parish Journal.
And she gave me her approval.
II
I was finishing my lunch a few days ago, and I heard the buzzing of the doorbell. It was a neighbor of mine.
“If you let me plug my saw into outlet, I could cut them long branches out there,” he offered.
To which I replied, “Of course you may.”
He explained. “You know the city workers won’t lug them long ones.”
Being unfamiliar with the business of homesteading, I said I didn’t know. “But, Sir, who are you?”
“Herbie De Lacerda.”
We shook hands. His was the hand of a working man.
He fished the red ream of wire from the back of his truck. I showed him the outlet.
Mr. Herbie finished cutting the unwieldy branches piled up at the roadside into manageable lengths. We made a neat pile of them. Actually, the good Samaritan did the lifting of the heavy pieces. Unlike me, Mr. Herbie was versed in the primer of Mother Nature.
He wound the red wire back in the spool and put them up with the chainsaw.
I welcomed him with a glass of apple juice in my living room.
Mr. Herbie lives three houses up the road from my house. He said he always helps the people of the neighborhood with whatever he can. And he offered his help whenever I need it for the upkeep of the place in the future.
I was overwhelmed by the generous heart of my long lost friend, who also happened to be my neighbor.
And I blurted out, “You’re my heaven-sent neighbor, Mr. Herbie.”
“Well . . .”
“Indeed you are.”
We talked mostly about our lives. The ups and downs. In an odd sort of way, Mr. Herbie reminded me of the film Fiddler on the Roof. A man of fate and fortitude, victim and victor of the existential vicissitude, Mr. Herbie uttered not a word of complaint. Nor the envy of his fellow man.
At one point, he left to fetch The Talimali Band of Apalache by Dayna Bowker Lee. It told of the strife and staying power of Mr. Herbie’s ancestors, including the native Americans. Besides, he brought a group picture of his mother and other members of his family. I was moved, and I felt honored by my neighbor’s sharing of the pictures and the papers containing the footprints of his forebears.
He asked me where I was from. Nepal, I repeated Nepal, a strip-of-sizzling-bacon-like country sandwiched between two humongous countries—India and China. No need to feel bad, I told him, for not many people know Nepal.
But I am glad, I told Mr. Herbie before he left, that I know you. You are my neighbor who lives by the second most important commandment.
