As most of you know my friend Colleen is a writer and I am a fan of her work. And here is another piece of her work that touched my heart.
The times, they never are a’changin’
November 25, 2020
a column by Colleen O’Brien
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way….”
Is this a tale of now? It sounds so familiar.
But no, these are the opening words of the 1859 novel, A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens. Writers have been using this paragraph ever since, as the introduction to their columns and essays, their poems and short stories. The most often quoted lines are – “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
The book is the tale of the French Revolution (1789-1799) and covers hardship, hunger, protests in the streets because of bad government, warfare to right that government, a man released from prison after 18 years….
Hard times. Now, in 2020; then, 121 years ago. And hard times across much of the globe every year in between.
It’s the way of the world. Some – many – people hungry, sick, imprisoned, persecuted, warring, separated from family, alone.
Similar tales live in every culture, over millennia, all of them sharing with us how awful we are.
And then there are the tales that refute our inhumanity, stories that give us hope about ourselves. We tell them to survive, to hang in there, to avoid cynicism, to be grateful and give thanks for what we have.
So, I am grateful that I’m alive, that I’m still riding my bike, that my family is well, and so far, my friends. I have a place to live, food and a story to tell that is one of those heartwarming ones to pass around the Thanksgiving table each year.
This year I write it for publication because there will be no one at my table to share it with. This is not a whine, just a fact; many of us will dine alone, maybe on Zoom? Perhaps Facetime or regular phone call? Or reading a book as we gnaw on the turkey leg. It’s not the end of the world, and it’s not sad unless I make it so.
This family tale that was the lore of my husband’s family for decades came out of the hard times of the Great Depression — hard times, indeed.
My husband’s grandfather, Jim Sayre, who lived in Churdan with his wife Lil and, by then, their four or five children, was a house painter. Winter was a dead time for that sort of work, and Grampa Sayre picked up odd jobs to buy what was needed to supplement the home-canned vegetables and root cellar produce that Gramma Sayre put by during the summer and fall.
On one of those Thanksgiving mornings of the bad years of the 1930s, Gramma told Grampa that for Thanksgiving dinner she’d be fixing cooked carrots, mashed potatoes, pickled beets, and homemade biscuits and white gravy. There was no meat, but she’d be making an apple pie.
When Grampa would tell the story, he’d shake his head, “I just had to go outside. I felt lousy.” He said he was wondering how he could be such a poor provider, knowing he couldn’t do much about it.
He roamed the yard, straightening a couple of fence posts, raking leaves into a pile for a bonfire later, wishing he had a dime to his name.
When up drove his wealthy neighbor in his new automobile. “Jim!” he shouted from the car. “I got a deal for you!”
Grampa Sayre walked over to the driver’s window where the friend had his hand out, palm up. “I got three shells here, Jim. You’re the best shot in the county, and I need a turkey for dinner this afternoon. If you can, get me one. Any shells left over, they’re yours.” He dumped the three shells into Jim Sayre’s palm and drove off.
Grampa closed his other hand over the rifle shells for a moment, then slipped them in the pocket of his overalls. He headed for the cellar door, leaped down the steps, and grabbed his shotgun off the sidewall. He wiped it down with his handkerchief, opened it, checked it, placed a shell in a chamber, and sprang up the steps, trotted across the yard and into the field.
Within the hour, Grampa Sayre was at the back door of his rich neighbor, bird in hand. “Here ya go, a fat one,” he said. “Enjoy your dinner.”
He headed off, the neighbor yelling after him, “What about you?”
Grampa bent over by the yard gate and picked up something, turned around, and grinned at his friend, a bird in each hand.
