Tonight Bill and I went to Cracker Barrel together before he met some buddies to go to the Pacer basketball game. There was a wood fire burning in the big fireplace, which made the place smell like our farm kitchen.
After we ordered, we were catching up on each other’s day when a big man came over to our table. We didn’t know him but found out he had farmed in our county all his life, and his family was the third generation to live in the same house and farm the same land. Retired now, he just wanted to thank us for the music he had listened to most of his life. He said he had originally farmed 1500 acres, most of which by now had been sold off to corporate agriculture. Smart, wise, and personable, he told us his family’s story and how our songs had intersected with his life.
Our chicken dinners came. While we ate we noticed a man with his father at the next table. The sun was setting and was at the place where it shone straight into the older man’s eyes. The son immediately got up, and I heard him say, “Here, dad, trade places with me. My eyes can take the brightness better than yours,” as he switched chairs with his father. Their food arrived, and they paused in their pleasant conversation; the son took his father’s hand across the table, and they bowed their heads and prayed a blessing over their food.
Behind Bill was a couple that looked to be in their late 70s. Still beautiful, the woman had well-groomed grey hair, and the man engaged her in a conversation about pictures she was showing him on her cell phone; I’m guessing grandkids.
I watched as another couple came in and settled at the table to our left. The gentleman was pushing his wife in a portable wheel chair. As the waitress took their order, I noticed that the woman held the menu in her right hand while her left hand rested in her lap. When their meals came, the husband quietly got up and went around to her side of the table and began cutting her food in manageable pieces; I knew, then, that she only had use of one hand.
Our little waitress was about college age and was working so hard to make sure we had everything we needed, while she juggled the service of four or five other tables.
Three long-term marriages, a middle-aged man enjoying his father, a husband caring for his sweetheart after so many years, a young woman who shows up for work and is full of joy doing it.... These are stories that don’t make the ratings-driven 24/7 news shows. It isn’t likely that they show up in the political poles. These folks probably don’t have election signs in their yards or bumper-sticker banners on their cars.
They are not naïve, uneducated, or susceptible to campaigns to cultivate the swing vote. They don’t look to empty platitudes to solve their problems, take care of their aged, or escape responsibility for caring for the less fortunate across the street or down the road. They read, think, love their families, and seek out enriching relationships in their neighborhoods, their churches, and their families. They care about the hungry and the disenfranchised and show up for organizations that try to address these issues.
Like you, there are days when I think the world is going to hell in a handbag, and then my sweet husband takes me out for fried chicken at the Cracker Barrel down the road, and I come home knowing that there are still strong fibers in the fabric of faith and commitment in this country. The roots of goodness are deeper than the news would have us believe, and real people are still making a real difference in real places—like Indiana.
