Dressing Up

Geri is a small, ninety-five-year-old African American. She lives down the hill from me. She has a narrow-roofed porch where she sits when the weather isn't too awful.

The porch sits behind two tall cedars so I have to peek around in order to see if she’s out. Sometimes I’ll see her in her brown, plastic chair. Always she greets me with her genuine smile.

Once in awhile I see her kids and grandkids bringing her groceries or coming to visit. This summer was the first time I saw her with her great-grandson (who is four). 

She told me his name is Jesse. She has him help her pull weeds or he’s on her shaded porch playing with toys. He hums or chatters while she sits in her chair listening to him. 

“He makes me laugh,” she told me.

One day, a few weeks ago, as I passed by, I saw her in her chair so I stopped to say hi and let her know how glad I was to see her outside even though it was getting cooler. She told me she loves to be outside in the mornings, especially. 

I reminded her of a poem she recited to me a couple of years ago and how pleased I was she would share it with me.

She asked if I’d like to hear another one. “Of course!” I told her.

She put one hand on her porch railing, and leaned her body against one of the columns, as I eagerly looked up from the sidewalk.

She had my full attention with her performance and kept eye-contact with me the whole time. To me it was like she shared a part of herself as she recited. No passion or sincerity spared. Her front porch the stage. 

She recited this poem by Sam W. Foss (1858-1911)  

The House By the Side of the Road

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn in the peace of their self-content;

There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart, in a fellow-less firmament;

There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths where highways never ran;

But let me live by the side of the road and be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road, where the race of men go by -

The men who are good and the men who are bad, as good and as bad as I.

I would not sit in the scorner's seat, or hurl the cynic's ban;

Let me live in a house by the side of the road and be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road, by the side of the highway of life,

the men who press with the ardor of hope, the men who are faint with the strife.

But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears- both part of an infinite plan;

Let me live in my house by the side of the road and be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead and mountains of wearisome height;

that the road passes on through the long afternoon and stretches away to the night.

But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice, and weep with the strangers that moan,

Nor live in my house by the side of the road like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road where the race of men go by -

They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,  Wise, foolish - so am I. 

Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat or hurl the cynic's ban?

Let me live in my house by the side of the road and be a friend to man.

With tears in my eyes I put my hand on my heart and thanked her. No cookies exchanged, no mug of coffee. Her spontaneity and generosity overwhelmed me. I don’t know how she knew I would value the exchange.

When I told her I was impressed that she remembered the whole poem she said, “I didn’t have what some of the other girls I was friends with had to wear, as I was growing up. My mother always told me that dressing up here is the most important kind of dressing up”, she said, as she pointed to her head.

I smiled and said, “Your mom was very smart.”

Soon after I found a book at a resale shop with “The House By the Side of the Road”. I left it on her doorknob with a note thanking her again for her gift, knowing she’d find it there.

I found this on YouTube of a young woman rapping this poem and thought I'd share:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gU_47RYvXgU