Gratitude is a currency that we can mint for ourselves, and spend without fear of bankruptcy.
~Fred De Witt Van Amburgh
Aunt Marian, my mother’s sister, asked Mom and me to stop by; she had something for us. When we arrived, she led the way to her kitchen, where she handed Mom and me each a cellophane bag tied with a twist-tie. The bag was crammed to the top with fresh, gorgeous pecan halves. We took turns thanking her for this delicious gift, one we would have welcomed any time, but particularly now. It was the Christmas baking season, and I knew that Mom and I would use those plump pecans in at least one of our Christmas cookie recipes.
Curious about the generous quantity in each bag, I asked, “Where did the pecans come from?”
I’d known from childhood that Aunt Marian had married Sam after his first wife passed away from a heart ailment, and that he had a young son and daughter who needed a loving mother, while he needed a loving wife.
I’d also known that Sam’s Italian immigrant parents reared their family in St. Louis. Sam moved his first wife and young family to our small Illinois town, and right away set himself up in the food business.
Sam had made a very comfortable living for his first wife, and then his second wife. He and Marian grew their family to four with the addition of their two sons.
I knew that Sam’s work centered on connecting with vegetable, fruit, nut, and poultry farmers to buy truckloads of their foods and arrange for delivery to our community. Of major importance before sealing any deal was to have pre-sold the shipments to area grocery-store owners. Essentially, Sam acted as the middleman between the farm producer and the grocery store. Throughout his working life, he had always worked out of a basement office in their comfortable home.
Sam’s business success later inspired two of his three sons and my two brothers to follow him into the world of food.
What I hadn’t known before was the story my aunt was about to tell us about the pecans Mom and I held in our hands. The story warmed my heart, then and now.
It was a wintry December night in the mid-1950s. Marian and Sam had finished their evening meal not long before the front doorbell rang. Sam had been awaiting the arrival of a shipment of Georgia pecans for a good part of that day.
He walked to the door and opened it to a black man, who stood shivering in his lightweight jacket.
“Mr. Sam,” the man began, “I got your load of pecans here.”
“It’s too late now to deliver them to the store,” Sam told him. “We’ll deliver them first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Know where I can go find me a room for the night?” the man asked. He looked worn out from his long haul to central Illinois from Georgia.
Sam scratched his balding head. “Hmmm, that’s going to be a problem. No place in town will rent to you,” he replied.
“I’ll just sleep in my truck then,” the man said, about to head for his half-ton truck parked on the street in front of Sam’s house.
“Hey, just a minute! It’s too cold for you to sleep in your truck. Come inside,” he said, and opened the door wide so the man could step into the warm home.
They stood in the small vestibule as Sam called out, “Marian! Set a place at the table. Let’s feed this man. He’s hungry!”
The man took a step back. “No, no, that’s all right, Mr. Sam. I’ll get me somethin’ to eat somewhere.”
“Nonsense. No, you won’t. We have plenty of good food right here. And when you’ve eaten, we have a nice place for you to sleep.”
Marian set a place at their dining table and called the man to come and eat the hearty meal she had laid out for him.
While the man ate, Marian scuttled downstairs to make up the day bed with fresh linens in the living area opposite Sam’s office, and to place fresh towels in the bathroom for their visitor.
Later, Sam showed the man where he would sleep. “Make yourself comfortable and get a good night’s sleep. Marian put fresh towels in the bathroom for you,” he told the weary visitor. “We’ll leave around 7:00 in the morning to deliver the pecans.”
The next day, the men left for the downtown grocery store, Sam in his car, his houseguest-driver in his truck.
When the man returned to Georgia, he told his boss, the plantation owner, what had happened.
The following December, and every December for decades to come, the boss sent twenty-five pounds of shelled Georgia pecans to Marian and Sam as a thank-you for kindly looking after a cold and tired man who had no hope of finding food or a bed in a town that, at the time, was prejudiced against men and women of color.
Sam was no stranger to discrimination. A local country club had blackballed his application for membership because of his Italian heritage. Sam’s eldest son, an Eagle Scout, made it his mission to end that lopsided practice, and the next time Sam applied for membership, he and his family were admitted to the club. That standout act of discrimination stung Sam’s heart, but it didn’t stop him from joining his church choir or the barbershop singing group he so loved. Nor did his Italian heritage keep him from volunteering with the local Boy Scout Council. Throughout the years, he helped the Scouts make their special events a success. He encountered no discrimination in his church or the other groups.
Without fanfare, Sam helped raise up others who felt the sword of prejudice. Obviously, the plantation owner didn’t believe in prejudice, either. No one will ever know how many others showing kindness to his employees were thanked with gifts of Georgia pecans. Clearly, Marian and Sam had turned a color-blind eye to the man standing on their doorstep. They only saw a fellow human being in need, and they wanted to help him.
When Aunt Marian’s storytelling ended, Mom and I stood quietly for a time, pecan bags still in hand. I looked down at my bag, replaying the scene my aunt had just unfolded to us. Uncle Sam was gone by that time, yet the pecans kept coming, despite Marian writing to the plantation owner about the sad news.
Those yearly gifts from a grateful Georgia businessman were a reminder of the night Marian and Sam had welcomed a tired and hungry visitor into their home.
~Natalie M. Rotunda
