Being a member of a flock means that you look out for the other members of your flock.
Last night was my night to bring dinner over to a friend of mine who is having some medical issues. Glad to do it. I consider helping out like this a little bit of payback for all the *many* times that my friends have come to my assistance over the years.
My girls helped and we assembled a dinner of shells and beef, bread, and a salad.
Marc’s been at a conference all week, so I left my kids home to start our own dinner while I drove the next town over to deliver this dinner. Having some solitary time would help me conceptualize a work problem that was going to need a creative solution. My thoughts were on that problem as I made my way to my destination.
I haven’t been to my friend’s house too often, usually we meet at outside events, but I knew she had a short driveway and a door on the side of her light colored house. Pretty hard to miss.
When I walked up to that door, there displayed was a large yellow post-it reading “Please use the front door.” Gee, my friend must really not be feeling well; she doesn’t want to get up to answer any doors.
Determined to at least make dinner easier for her, I quietly entered her house through the front door, walked back to the kitchen and started to neatly set up the dinner on her kitchen counter. I had also included a dozen of our eggs which I placed in a prominent spot. When it was all set up, my plan was to leave as quietly as I had arrived. No need for my friend to get up, she’ll find the food when she’s ready.
But then I heard her slowly coming down the stairs.
“Hello?” she called out in a feeble voice.
Wow, strong medicine can really take a toll on a person, I thought. I walked toward the stairs to greet my friend and to offer any assistance.
On the stairs stood an elderly woman.
“Who are you?” I politely asked.
“Who are you?’ She asked with a little more authority than I had.
One second. Two seconds.
Oh. My. God. It finally clicked why things seemed and even smelled a little different than in my friend’s house. I had briefly wondered about all that red carpeting.
“You’re not my friend, are you?” I stammered. “I’m in the wrong house aren’t I?”
Yup. I had walked into a complete stranger’s house and set up dinner on her kitchen counter.
I started apologizing. “Oh, I’m so very sorry, I’m so sorry. Look,” I pointed to the food in a desperate effort to not have her husband grab a gun in order to shoot this obvious home invader. “The eggs come from our flock, this one is from our bantam,” I babbled on pointing to a small rose one. “I was delivering a dinner,” I continued as I pointed to the spread on the counter, hopefully proving that thievery and rape were the furthest thing on my mind.
“Well isnt’ that nice, but we’re all set for dinner,” she politely replied.
When I told her who I was coming to visit, she knew the family. It turned out that my friend lives in a near identical house two houses down.
I gathered up the meal components, still apologizing for the terrible fright.
“Not a problem,” she said, “This is a nice thing, thank you for taking dinner to them.” And then I heard her say to her husband as I was leaving through the very same door I had entered, “I guess it’s time to take that note down.”
Wendy Thomas writes about the lessons learned while raising children and chickens in New Hampshire. Contact her at Wendy@SimpleThrift.com
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