SMALL THINGS

By Randy Randall

I remember a quotation of Mother Teresa’s in which she said, “In this life we cannot do great things. We can only do small things with great love.” When I recall this saying I’m reminded of my grandfather and of a few other wonderful people I have known. They were nondescript people of no particular genius or celebrity and were not exceptional in the public sense. They were quiet people who just went about living their lives here in Maine and doing little things, which, it turns out, made a difference. Only at their funerals did we come to realize the scope of their influence when friends would stand up and ask the rest of us “Who will show the flags? Who will bake the communion bread? Who’ll pick up the trash on the sidewalks?”

Here, then, are stories about three people whom I’ve been privileged to know and who seemed to have unconsciously lived out part of their days with the kind of simple love that Mother Teresa had in mind.

Clara Jacobs was an elderly lady even when we first met her. She had lived her whole life as a single woman and had earned her living by cooking and baby-sitting for a well-to-do family from away who summered on Mere Point. Now those years were past, and retired Clara lived in genteel poverty in a tiny apartment just off Main Street. Old age and acute arthritis had forced Clara into a wheelchair, but she did not let that slow her down. A cheerier soul you never met. We came to know her when we volunteered with others in our church to take our turn driving Clara to Sunday services. I will always remember what it was like to wheel Clara down the aisle of that ancient wooden church and to stop at nearly every pew so friends could hug and kiss and gossip with “her majesty.” How Clara loved the attention. She sat every Sunday in the very same spot, and when she had arrived and all the welcomes and good wishes had been exchanged, the minister knew that he could begin the service. Not only did Clara radiate love and goodwill despite her pain and infirmities, but also she gave of her talent. She baked the communion bread.

Month after month, Clara would wheel about her tiny apartment busily mixing, kneading, rising, and baking the loaves for our sacrament. When we arrived to pick her up, we discovered how she had arranged a special low table on wheels that allowed her to knead the bread while she was still seated in her wheelchair. She wielded a pair of long tongs, reaching down all the ingredients from her kitchen counter and high cupboards. The church historian could probably tell us how many years Clara had baked the bread to go with the wine, but I will never forget the Sunday when our minister had to announce that Clara could no longer carry out this act of love. The sadness at the announcement settled over the congregation, and we all knew a milestone had been passed. Clara’s failing health had forced her to give up the gift that had uniquely been hers to give for so many years. Unfortunately, only personal friends and older church members knew that this tiny old woman faithfully baked the communion bread month after month, year after year. New church members were unaware of Clara’s contribution. Clara passed away some years ago, but I cherish the memories of getting to know her, of driving her to church, and of partaking in the communion which she had helped prepare.

My grandfather was a Maine character if there ever was one. He ate his dinner at noontime and sprinkled his speech with various versions of “ayah” and “dear” just like any old Mainer. Grandfather dressed in the style of an old cod fisherman and often was asked to pose for tourists’ cameras. We have a copy of one memorable photo a visitor sent back to us that shows Gramps arrayed in his So’wester oil skins after a day’s fishing at Pine Point. Mother always said Grandfather was generous to a fault. More than that, even as an old man, he found time to take a young boy fishing, hunting, and canoeing, and for that I will always be grateful.

I have a faded article cut from a long ago issue of the Journal Tribune. Perhaps it goes as far back as when the paper was the Biddeford and Saco Journal. No matter. It’s a human-interest piece with a picture of Grandfather standing on the sidewalk in front of his old home. He’s carrying a walking stick with a sharp nail affixed to the end and a bucket with a rope handle. Each evening after his supper, Grandfather’s habit was to walk up and down the nearby sidewalks and collect the trash tossed out by uncouth tourists or sloppy kids. But Grandfather’s walk was far more than just picking up trash. It was a chance to inspect the neighborhood, to check on friend’s houses and cars, to see who was safely at home as they should be, and who might have gone off for the weekend and left their door ajar or the trash can still at the end of the driveway.

In the article the writer describes how Grandfather used his cane to stab the pieces of paper, candy wrappers, and cigarette butts and transferred them all to his pail. Even a crushed aluminum soda can was no match for Gramp’s formidable walking stick. And so he plodded along the sidewalks in the early evening, pausing to speak with old friends, giving directions to tourists who hailed him as someone who might know where the lighthouse was, and exchanging news with neighbors who were rocking on their front porch or watering their flowers. Such a small act: to stroll out and police the neighborhood sidewalks only because it was something that should be done, and he could do it. As long as there was no snow or ice, Gramps could be found almost every afternoon or evening faithfully patrolling his neighborhood. The newspaper writer held Gramps up as an example of unselfish public service, but that may be making too much out of a simple thing. More likely it was just his small way of giving back and making his part of the world a little cleaner place to live in.

Bob Corliss was a ship’s captain. He had gone to sea in the merchant service during WW II and had the dubious distinction of having survived three separate torpedo attacks and the subsequent sinking of three Liberty Ships. Long after the war Bob went to sea again on supertankers, but eventually he came home to stay with his family in Ocean Park. Old Bob was another one of those generous souls who always seemed to find time for friends and for kids. He built houses and did carpentry, and when we kids needed to have a board sawed off for our scooter or wanted a motor for a go-cart, Bob would come to our aid. He, too, was a bit of a character and was easy to recognize, banging around town in his old pickup, running errands for friends and the summer people. But Bob’s real love was for flags.

He admired the myriad colorful historical flags of nations and of states. Maybe it all harkened back to his years at sea when flags were vital to ship communications, or maybe it was just a world rover’s way of keeping track of all the far away ports he had sailed into.

In front of his home in Ocean Park Bob put up his flagpole. Not just any pole though, but an honest to goodness mast with yardarms and halyards, and he began to fly his flags, carefully observing all the protocols and etiquette attendant to flag displays and flag usage. Eventually Bob’s friends caught on to his little obsession and began to bring him more and more flags. People would send him flags from their various journeys around the world, so many that eventually the carpenter had to fashion a flag locker in his shop, not unlike those aboard ship, to house his extensive collection. But even so, it wasn’t just the correct display of flags that endeared Bob to so many people but the way he included their children in his hobby. Even today you can fairly easily find adults summering at Ocean Park who remember following Old Bob out to his flagpole with all the other kids to help retire the colors. Like the famous Pied Piper, children would gather around the carpenter’s shop at dusk and then march with Bob out onto the green where, with ceremony and enthusiasm, he would tell them about the various flags and show how to retrieve and properly fold Old Glory. I wonder if any of the children listening to and helping Bob all those years ago might have been inspired to go to sea or learn geography or join the armed services all because of this old Mainer who loved his flags and loved his country and loved to share it all with the children of Ocean Park.

The wonderful thing about Clara, Grandfather, and Old Bob is that there are many of their type with us still. We just don’t know them, just as so few people would have known about Clara’s bread or Bob’s flags or Gramp’s cleanup. These things aren’t advertised much nor are they especially newsworthy. These folks wouldn’t have cared to be brought into the spotlight for doing something that just made them happy and was a routine part of their life. But these little acts of kindness and generosity go on every day in our towns and neighborhoods. I like to think maybe we’re more apt to discover such stories in Maine, but I know that’s not true either. In the movie The Muppets Take Manhattan one of the Muppets says something like “peoples is peoples.” I love the simplicity of that phrase, which seems to me as just another way of saying people are basically good, and each day many of them perform small acts with great love, and we just don’t know.   

 

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