Twenty-Two years ago, the house that rests below us, sat empty. When a family from San Diego moved in, we were excited to welcome them to the neighborhood. It must have been fall; it must have been apple season, for I baked two apple pies and one was designated for the new family.
I like to look back and imagine that we were the new family. The doorbell rings, I open the door to a smiling middle-aged couple. In the woman's hands is an apple pie. I soon learn it's hot. Fresh from the oven. They say "Welcome," and explain that they live just above us, and they're looking forward to getting to know us.
I would have been grateful for the welcome, but my mouth would have been watering with hot-apple-pie-expectation. Tony might have even ran to the store for some vanilla ice cream.
I imagine that they had been hungry--that the kitchen boxes had yet to be unpacked, the fridge yet to be plugged in, and the cupboards still bare. I imagine that the past few days they'd lived off fast food and crackers. It must have been a mini-miracle for the doorbell to ring and find a hot, homemade, apple pie, made just for them.
We became friends with the family. We loved their children. We were invited to dinner at their home several times. Having lived in Russia and Germany, they had stories to tell. Jean was a English PHD and she taught me how to correctly pronounce Dostoevsky. Mike was an attorney and we loved his sometimes perilous journey. Just this year, Jean recently spoke at our lunch-time chautauqua on service.
One thing Mike never fails to do when he introduces me to one of his family members or friends.
"This is Pat," he says, "and when we first moved in, she brought us a hot, homemade, apple pie within days of our moving in."
I have never gotten so much positive reinforcement from a simple pie made twenty-two years ago. Twenty-two years and he's still grateful.
It's time to show up at his doorstep with another apple pie, for how long can a good deed last? It must be running out of traction soon.
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