A Gift of the Heart – By Janie DeVos

                                                        

                                           Author's father, Don Sandell, Chicago, circa 1950
       

     My parents met in an unlikely place; flying at an altitude of 30,000 feet when my mother worked as a “stewardess” for Eastern Airlines, and my father was on a business trip for Pfizer. By the time the flight ended, they had a dinner date planned and were married less than a year later.  During their short courtship, Daddy made several trips from his hometown of Chicago, to Miami, to see Mama, including a road trip he took with a buddy to spend Christmas with her. 

In the early 1950’s, they didn’t have the super highways that they have today, so much of Daddy’s route took them down back roads through small town America.  In one of those small towns in Georgia, they decided to stop for a bite of supper at a diner but when they were ready to get back on the road, the car wouldn’t start.  Peering under the hood, they guessed it was the alternator, and as the two stood there considering their options, they quickly found out that even in the south, it got plenty cold in December, especially once the sun went down.  Turning up their collars to an insistent north wind, they rubbed their hands together as they discussed setting off on foot to find some help, or the nearest motel.  But, before they had even gotten as far as closing the hood, they heard a car pull up beside them, and, in the yellow glow of the street light, they could clearly make out the word “Sheriff” on the car’s side door.  

Slowly, the driver’s door swung open and a very large man stepped out, setting a Stetson-style hat on his head as he did so. 

“Evenin’!” he greeted, as he walked over to them, nonchalantly perusing the two city slickers and taking note of their Illinois license plate, as well.  “Looks like you boys are havin’ a little trouble—and a long way from home, too.  Where y'all headed?” 

“To Miami—from Chicago,” Daddy replied.  Though the sheriff’s tone was casual and friendly, the men knew he was trying to figure out exactly who these Yankees boys were and what their business might be in his jurisdiction.  

“He’s got a girl there,” my father’s friend added, (though unnecessarily so, Daddy thought).

“Well, we can’t make her wait too long,” the sheriff quipped.  “The boys at the garage’ll take care of your problem.  ‘Course they’re closed for the night, but we’ll git ‘er in first thing in the mornin’ and you’ll be back on the road in no time.”  With no other choice being offered, Daddy and his buddy mumbled something about that sounding good. 

“You boys got any place to stay tonight?” the sheriff asked, leaning back against his squad car.  “We used to have a motel but it’s closed up now, so, unless you got kin in town, you might be in a bit of a bind.”  

Daddy told him they’d just sleep in the car, but the sheriff told him that wouldn’t be necessary.  Then the sheriff asked if they’d eaten, and when they confirmed that they had, he opened the squad car’s backdoor, “Climb on in.  I got a place you can bunk for the night.  Ya can’t beat the price,” he smiled. 

My father and his buddy quickly assured the man that they’d be just fine for one night in the car, but the sheriff insisted.  So, figuring that there weren’t many things a city slicker from the North could do that were more stupid than to argue with the sheriff of a small southern town, the boys climbed into the back of the squad car. 

They drove for no more than a couple of minutes before pulling into a parking space in front of the sheriff’s office. “Hop on out there,” he said as he opened the door for the boys and then led the way up a short walkway into the office.  Flipping a switch on the wall, an overhead light illuminated an underwhelming office with the sheriff’s desk sitting front and center.  

“This a-way,” the sheriff said as he unlocked a door that was directly behind his desk. 

Into a mutely lit hall they stepped, but even in the low lighting, they could see a row of cells, two on each side, just ahead of them. 

“Your accommodations for the night,” the sheriff said, pulling open two of the cells’ doors.  Upon seeing the boys’ eyes widen, he quickly added, “Don’t worry.  I ain’t lockin’ ya in,” he laughed.  “I’ll leave the cells open and you’re welcome to take off anytime you like.  But ya might want to stick around ‘til breakfast.  We serve a pretty good one around here.” 

Assuring the sheriff they’d be around for it, he bid them a good night and left, leaving the men with nothing left to do than to choose a cell and settle in for the evening.  But, as Daddy sat down on the bunk, he looked over at the cell across from him and saw a man sitting on his bunk looking back at him. 

Caught off guard, Daddy said hello then explained they’d had car trouble.  “We’re guests of the county tonight, I guess,” he nervously laughed. 

“I’ve been a guest for a week now,” the man replied, the sarcasm unmistakable.  He walked up to his cell door and gripped the bars.  He looked to be in his mid-20's, with a boy-next-door look. “It ain’t too bad here, though,” he continued.  “I’ve been in worse.” 

My father asked the man where he was from and how long he’d have to be locked up, after all, it was Christmas, and the last place anyone wanted to be was in jail—with a locked cell door. 

The man told my father he was from Tennessee.  “They told me they’re movin’ me next week—up to a prison in the northern part of the state.” 

A state prison was a big jump from a small town jail, where most of those incarcerated were locked away for a night or two for public drunkenness, running moonshine, or disorderly behavior.  “Mind if I ask what you’re in for?” Daddy bravely inquired. 

Tennessee didn’t hesitate to answer. “First degree murder.  I got life.” 

“Sorry, buddy,” my father softly replied, caught somewhere between feeling some sympathy for the man and being unnerved.   

“Where y'all from and where ya headed?” the man asked. When Daddy told him, Tennessee wanted to know if they had ever seen the ocean before, which led to more questions; some of which my father asked, as well.  It was obvious the man ached for the outside world and to have a glimpse of it, even through another’s eyes, was a drink for a parched soul. 

My father talked to the man through most of the night, while his buddy slept soundly in the cell next to him.  They talked about where Tennessee’s family was, and the girl he had planned to marry before he got himself “into a fix”, and what kind of different jobs he had held.  They talked about which football teams they liked, and which baseball teams they thought were likely to win the World Series, and how they’d both served in the War (II), and what their duties had been.  

On through the night they talked, and, just for a short time, the man from Tennessee was able to forget the bars that held him, and the lives he had shattered, or the years ahead that would seem empty and endless.  For a little while, he didn’t have to feel the stigma that would forever be attached to him, or the tireless weight of people looking down on him for the rest of his days.  For just a small moment in time, the two men weren’t much different than pals sharing a beer and a conversation at a local joint. 

Soon enough, the sun shifted the shadows in the cells, heralding the beginning of a new day, and, true to his word, the sheriff had a wet-behind-the-ears deputy deliver an enormous southern-style breakfast for all three men, along with the good news that the car had been towed and was being worked on.  They could expect to be on the road within the hour. 

My father and his buddy gathered up the little they’d brought in with them and walked out of the cells, but before heading back through the door to the sheriff’s office, Daddy walked over to the cell holding the young man from Tennessee, and extended his hand through the bars. “Good luck to ya, buddy.  I wish things had gone differently for you.” 

“Me, too, mister,” he softly agreed.  “Me, too.”  Daddy turned to walk away but the man’s words stopped him. “I enjoyed talkin’ to ya.  It’s been a long time.” 

Over the years, my father never forgot the man who was left behind.  He’d seemed like a pretty decent guy, Daddy had said, but one who took a wrong turn somewhere along the way.  And though the men had certainly taken different roads in life, those roads had intersected one cold December night, in a tiny town in Georgia, and Christmas gifts had been exchanged.  Not the kind you hold in your hand, but the kind you hold in your heart.  Daddy received the gift of seeing how full of promise his future was through someone else’s eyes whose future was likely to be void of any color or compassion.  And for the lost soul from Tennessee, he’d been given the gift of time spent with a man who wasn’t there to judge him, or break him down any more than he already had been, but one, instead, who treated him with respect, and as his equal, making him feel for one short night like the man he once had been.