THE HOBO and THE BOY: A true story of Resistance to Change
The scene takes place in my native Brussels, Belgium…I was a happy six-year-old living comfortably in an affluent environment…My mother would customarily bake breads and pastries every Friday for the following week...especially for the Sunday mid-day brunch, a joyful gathering usually attended by a virtual mob of relatives and friends.
As the addictive aroma permeated the neighborhood, Roland, a hobo who, dressed for the part (heavy army overcoat covering other layers, black wool gloves cut to show the tips of his fingers, a sailor's wool "beanie" pulled over his ears...), would invariably come around, asking for a chunk or two of warm, crisp fresh bead.
I’ll always remember that one particular Friday when my mother decided to surprise Roland by slicing his bread and loading each half with a generous layer of butter. Not just any butter, but Danish butter, which was soooo delicious !
In those pre-WWII days, dairy products from Denmark were expensive, premium treats. It was a fact that Danish cows, fed naturally that country’s lush green grasses, produced more and creamier milk, from which came the best of cheeses and especially the much in demand butter.
The latter had a unique, sweet, nutty flavor and an undescribably lovely fragrance. Which is why both my mother and I expected our adopted hobo to “jump for joy” when he would discover the special treat.
Roland never accepted my mother’s invitation to come inside the house and sit down to eat at the kitchen table. Instead, he preferred to plunk himself down on the cement steps leading to the rear of the house. In bad weather, he’d take refuge inside the overhang of the small porch by the back door.
This day, as I handed him his plate and squeezed in next to him, by the guardrail, I couldn’t wait to see the delight in his face, once he’d discover the thick layer of Danish butter on his favorite bread…
Which is why I became so puzzled when, instead, after separating the slices, Roland deliberately began sniffing the butter without any reaction. Then, he handed me the plate, asking me to hold it for him, and began fishing inside his three layers of overcoats.
Eventually, he produced a pocket knife…opened the long blade…grabbed one of the open slices and patiently started lifting chunks of butter and flipping them onto the ground… until there was none left on his bread.
He then thanked me and regained possession of the plate. This is when I finally saw that heavenly look in his eyes, coupled with a big grin of satisfaction as he smelled, then bit into and savored the bare warm bread.
This is also when I learned that it is impossible to force or impose change onto another person. Even if it is to improve their lot in life, or if it is "Good for them”…
In the case of Roland, it was a reversal of the old adage, and “another man’s gold was this one man’s garbage” must have been his.
I learned that you cannot change or do for another what they won’t or aren't interested in doing for themselves.
Which is why I like to wish you, my friends, to make this a great weekend!
Jacques
As the addictive aroma permeated the neighborhood, Roland, a hobo who, dressed for the part (heavy army overcoat covering other layers, black wool gloves cut to show the tips of his fingers, a sailor's wool "beanie" pulled over his ears...), would invariably come around, asking for a chunk or two of warm, crisp fresh bead.
I’ll always remember that one particular Friday when my mother decided to surprise Roland by slicing his bread and loading each half with a generous layer of butter. Not just any butter, but Danish butter, which was soooo delicious !
In those pre-WWII days, dairy products from Denmark were expensive, premium treats. It was a fact that Danish cows, fed naturally that country’s lush green grasses, produced more and creamier milk, from which came the best of cheeses and especially the much in demand butter.
The latter had a unique, sweet, nutty flavor and an undescribably lovely fragrance. Which is why both my mother and I expected our adopted hobo to “jump for joy” when he would discover the special treat.
Roland never accepted my mother’s invitation to come inside the house and sit down to eat at the kitchen table. Instead, he preferred to plunk himself down on the cement steps leading to the rear of the house. In bad weather, he’d take refuge inside the overhang of the small porch by the back door.
This day, as I handed him his plate and squeezed in next to him, by the guardrail, I couldn’t wait to see the delight in his face, once he’d discover the thick layer of Danish butter on his favorite bread…
Which is why I became so puzzled when, instead, after separating the slices, Roland deliberately began sniffing the butter without any reaction. Then, he handed me the plate, asking me to hold it for him, and began fishing inside his three layers of overcoats.
Eventually, he produced a pocket knife…opened the long blade…grabbed one of the open slices and patiently started lifting chunks of butter and flipping them onto the ground… until there was none left on his bread.
He then thanked me and regained possession of the plate. This is when I finally saw that heavenly look in his eyes, coupled with a big grin of satisfaction as he smelled, then bit into and savored the bare warm bread.
This is also when I learned that it is impossible to force or impose change onto another person. Even if it is to improve their lot in life, or if it is "Good for them”…
In the case of Roland, it was a reversal of the old adage, and “another man’s gold was this one man’s garbage” must have been his.
I learned that you cannot change or do for another what they won’t or aren't interested in doing for themselves.
Which is why I like to wish you, my friends, to make this a great weekend!
Jacques
posted by Jacques Girard, Ph.D. at 11:21 AM
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