Remember the old proverb? “Charity begins at home.’’
Its original intent was simple — be good to your family, then extend similar kindnesses to the world.
That’s why wordsmiths at the proverb-making factory came up with “no good deed goes unpunished.’’ You can get into a lot of trouble simply by helping people.
It was a punishing week.
TRAILERGATE
I was recruited by my friends, Donna and Shawn Ritchie, to help to deliver beds for Sleep In Heavenly Peace-Rochester. That’s our volunteer organization that builds and installs beds for the most vulnerable children in our community. It’s no small organization. The Ritchies annually organize about 10 builds, and have delivered almost 1,600 beds in six years, lifting children off floors, couches and sometimes piles of laundry.
We had just begun our Saturday delivery route, with the Ritchies towing the SHP trailer, when we turned onto the expressway. Within a mile, my passenger noticed sparks flying from beneath the trailer’s wheels. That’s when Shawn pulled over and we followed with hazard lights flashing.
The hitch had uncoupled. The trailer, carrying hundreds of pounds of mattresses, bedding, pillows, headboards, siderails and slats, was held up only by a safety chain. The hitch was disengaged. While traffic whizzed past, the four of us lifted the trailer tongue, jacked it up, and re-attached it.
“That could have been a disaster!’’ Shawn admitted, breathing a little easier. He had visions of the chain snapping, the trailer digging into the asphalt then flipping, bed parts littering three lanes, and vehicles dodging everything.
He quickly figured out the source of the problem and blamed himself. Three hours before we rendezvoused in his driveway, Shawn had spotted a young man, miles from home, pushing his e-bike down the street. His battery had died. Knowing it would need hours to recharge, Shawn offered the guy a ride, disconnecting the SHP trailer and popping on his bike carrier.
When Shawn reattached the trailer, a task he’d done hundreds of times, he set the safety pin, but it wasn’t completely in the socket. That’s why it slipped out on the expressway. If only he hadn’t been so charitable.
MOWERGATE
The next day was going to be payback time for my neighbors, the Ramoses. A few weeks earlier, when the serpentine belt snapped on my riding mower and I had to leave for the weekend, Felipe had graciously mowed my lawn. No desperate plea from me. Simply kindness on his part. My former neighbor Murray referred to these acts as “mitzvahs,’’ a Hebrew term for doing a good deed.
A couple of hundred bucks later, with mower fixed and Felipe now away, it was time to return the favor. Call me Flounder. I screwed up. I trusted myself.
The Ramoses have a mulching mower. Oftentimes, you can’t tell that Felipe has mowed. There are no clumps, no lines of dead grass. However, my mower simply cuts. If I let the grass grow too long, the Code of the Suburbs means I should rake the clippings.
After my third pass through the Ramoses’ front yard, I discovered my error. I unwittingly left the mower on the wrong setting. Too low. I couldn’t quit now. I continued to chug along, leaving grass everywhere. Their lawn had the makings of a hayfield. I had two options – borrow my cousin’s hay baler or rake it myself. Before I could make that decision, my mower broke again. This time it was the front left tie rod. No steering.
Facing several uncut rows, I hauled out the pushmower. Next my editor of 41 years, Mary, picked up a rake and started gathering the mounds of cut crass and I joined her. The perspiration rivaled the clippings. Fixing the Reflecting Pool seemed easier.
For my final faux pas, I filled a 96-gallon tote full of grass clippings, then spied the logo on the side of the bin. It named the company whose garbage service we had just dropped. That meant emptying all the clippings into lawn bags for the new provider. Aaaaarrrrgggh.
THE EPILOGUE
The sun was calling it quits for the day. Exhausted, I decided to do the same. It was time to relax and watch my beloved Cleveland Guardians.
That’s when the phone rang. Katie was calling. The charging cord for her iPad had broken. Because she doesn’t drive, I would have to pick up one at the store and drive it to her house. With my luck, I’d run out of gas or get in an accident.
The proverb makers will tell you – “everything happens in threes.’’
Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/
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