Both men have one thing in common Their desire for redemption. The first I’ll share with you is a man who I will call M. He was an African American who worked for me a while back and is among the three black guys in the photo from my earlier post from A Tale of Two Crosses, building the crosses. He was one of three black guys, one Polish Italian, a Mexican and one Cheesehead half German and half Swiss guy (that be me). For that moment, at least we were all just children of God working together to build something greater than ourselves.
M came from a poor Florida family who grew up on Merritt Island, Florida when it was virtually all orange groves and cattle farming. Most of the fruit was picked and packaged by Black folks from kids on up to Grandma and Grandpa. M’s father disappeared when M was a child. His stepfather was an abusive drunk and made M work the orchards taking his earnings and not feed the family and drink up the proceeds between beating him when he didn’t pick enough fruit. M never learned much in what little schooling he had but grew into a strong, handsome man. He, too, had issues with alcohol, and it destroyed the one marriage he had. After he started working for me, I would notice when we took a lunch break; he would pull out an old, well-used bible and read a bit before returning to work. Why he clung to this bible amidst this life of tragedy and sin always confounded me. Sometimes he lived homelessly and followed us from job to job, but he always had that bible in his knapsack. I never asked him how he got his faith. I just took it as it was and would pray with him once in a while. He really only excelled at one thing (which you can’t find anyone to do these days) final hand grading, slinging a sledgehammer, and carrying heavy stuff. Like the many Haitians I worked with (See the previous post on Haiti), he was ignorant and a little slow but clever and innovative when the time came. We taught him how to help finish concrete, and the other two black guys on the crew would continuously needle him and tell him how stupid he was. They were excellent concrete finishers who were called “Fat Kenny” and “Skinny Kenny” since that was one way to avoid confusion when summoning them by name. It was easier that way “Skinny” could be Tiger Woods’s Twin, and “Fat” was more like Fat Albert from Bill Cosby days. It really didn’t matter what your ethnicity was when you’ve got 10 yards of hot 4000psi mud getting ready to go off when Pat yells out “somebody get their ass over here with a mag and a trowel start finishing this stuff” (it didn’t matter what the color of the ass was at that point).
M never hardly ever had a chance in life and blew the ones he had mainly because of the carnal nature of his upbringing. But he always had that old bible, and because of that, he had my utmost respect. I’d find little projects he could handle on his own at the job sites as well as my 9-acre homesite building little things and putting the finishing touches on my home and job site projects. He would walk to the job sites and usually refused a ride. I helped him get a car and even gave him a company fuel card to put gas in it. I learned that misguided charity causes more harm than good. He then used the card to fill up hookers’ cars and other low lives to purchase booze, sex, and other things. When I got a bill for $1100 plus, I knew I had done a travesty to this man.
This story ends where it started, M just showed up, and then he disappeared. I never heard from or saw him again. I enjoyed our time together, and my University Alum butt worked right beside him until he just didn’t show one day. I never heard from him or saw him again. Maybe he’s somewhere in the woods reading that tattered old bible and still clinging to the hope of redemption. Well, M, you still have hope as long as you keep reading. My prayers are still with you, my old friend.
The tale of the other man comes in the next post.
Tales from Depression and Dealing with it. 