He was short, a little dumpy with the smooth facial features and thick-tongued speech of Downs Syndrome.
I wasn't worried about most of my trucker customers because truckers don't generally care who buses tables as long
as the meatloaf platter is good and the pies are homemade.
The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me; the mouthy college kids traveling to school; the yuppie
snobs who secretly polish their silverware with their napkins for fear of catching some dreaded "truck stop germ"
the pairs of white-shirted business men on expense accounts who think every truck stop waitress wants to be flirted
with. I knew those people would be uncomfortable around Stevie so I closely watched him for the first few weeks.
I shouldn't have worried. After the first week, Stevie had my staff wrapped around his stubby little finger, and
within a month my truck regulars had adopted him as their official truck stop mascot.
After that, I really didn't care what the rest of the customers thought of him. He was like a 21-year-old in blue
jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh and eager to please, but fierce in his attention to his duties. Every salt and pepper
shaker was exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or coffee spill was visible when Stevie got done with the table.
Our only problem was persuading him to wait to clean a table until after the customers were finished. He would
hover in the background, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the dining room until a table was
empty. Then he would scurry to the empty table and carefully bus dishes and glasses onto his cart and meticulously
wipe the table up with a practiced flourish of his rag.
If he thought a customer was watching, his brow would pucker with added concentration. He took pride in doing his
job exactly right, and you had to love how hard he tried to please each and every person he met.
Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow who was disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer.
They lived on their Social Security benefits in public housing two miles from the truck stop. Their social worker, who
stopped to check on him every so often, admitted they had fallen between the cracks.
Money was tight, and what I paid him was probably the difference between them being able to live together and
Stevie being sent to a group home. That's why the restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last August, the first
morning in three years that Stevie missed work.
He was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new valve or something put in his heart. His social worker said that
people with Downs Syndrome often have heart problems at an early age so this wasn't unexpected, and there was a
good chance he would come through the surgery in good shape and be back at work in a few months.
A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morning when word came that he was out of surgery, in
recovery, and doing fine.
Frannie, the head waitress, let out a war whoop and did a little dance in the aisle when she heard the good news.
Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, stared at the sight of this 50-year-old grandmother of four doing
a victory shimmy beside his table.
Frannie blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle Ringer a withering look.
He grinned. "OK, Frannie, what was that all about?" he asked.
"We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be okay."
"I was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him. What was the surgery about?"
Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other two drivers sitting at his booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed:
"Yeah, I'm glad he is going to be OK," she said. "But I don't know how he and his Mom are going to handle all the
bills. From what I hear, they're barely getting by as it is."
Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on the rest of her tables. Since I hadn't had time
to round up a busboy to replace Stevie and really didn't want to replace him, the girls were busing their own tables
that day until we decided what to do.
After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my office. She had a couple of paper napkins in her hand and a funny
look on her face.
"What's up?" I asked.
"I didn't get that table where Belle Ringer and his friends were sitting cleared off after they left, and Pony Pete and
Tony Tipper were sitting there when I got back to clean it off," she said. "This was folded and tucked under a coffee
cup."
She handed the napkin to me, and three $20 bills fell onto my desk when I opened it. On the outside, in big, bold
letters, was printed "Something for Stevie".
"Pony Pete asked me what that was all about," she said, "so I told him about Stevie and his Mom and everything, and
Pete looked at Tony and Tony looked at Pete, and they ended up giving me this." She handed me another paper napkin
that had "Something For Stevie" scrawled on its outside. Two $50 bills were tucked within its folds. Frannie looked
at me with wet, shiny eyes, shook her head and said simply: "truckers."
That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first day Stevie is supposed to be back to work.
His placement worker said he's been counting the days until the doctor said he could work, and it didn't matter at all
that it was a holiday. He called 10 times in the past week, making sure we knew he was coming, fearful that we had
forgotten him or that his job was in jeopardy. I arranged to have his mother bring him to work. I then met them in
the parking lot and invited them both to celebrate his day back.
Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop grinning as he pushed through the doors and headed for the back room
where his apron and busing cart were waiting.
"Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast," I said. I took him and his mother by their arms. "Work can wait for a minute.
To celebrate you coming back, breakfast for you and your mother is on me!" I led them toward a large corner booth
at the rear of the room.
I could feel and hear the rest of the staff following behind as we marched through the dining room. Glancing over my
shoulder, I saw booth after booth of grinning truckers empty and join the procession. We stopped in front of the big
table. Its surface was covered with coffee cups, saucers and dinner plates, all sitting slightly crooked on dozens of
folded paper napkins. "First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess," I said. I tried to sound stern.
Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then pulled out one of the napkins. It had "Something for Stevie"
printed on the outside. As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table.
Stevie stared at the money, then at all the napkins peeking from beneath the tableware, each with his name printed or
scrawled on it. I turned to his mother. "There's more than $10,000 in cash and checks on that table, all from
truckers and trucking companies that heard about your problems. "Happy Thanksgiving,"
Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody hollering and shouting, and there were a few tears, as well.
But you know what's funny? While everybody else was busy shaking hands and hugging each other, Stevie, with a big,
big smile on his face, was busy clearing all the cups and dishes from the table.
Best worker I ever hired.
Plant a seed and watch it grow.
~Anon
If you shed a tear, hug yourself, because you are a compassionate person.
I wasn't worried about most of my trucker customers because truckers don't generally care who buses tables as long
as the meatloaf platter is good and the pies are homemade.
The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me; the mouthy college kids traveling to school; the yuppie
snobs who secretly polish their silverware with their napkins for fear of catching some dreaded "truck stop germ"
the pairs of white-shirted business men on expense accounts who think every truck stop waitress wants to be flirted
with. I knew those people would be uncomfortable around Stevie so I closely watched him for the first few weeks.
I shouldn't have worried. After the first week, Stevie had my staff wrapped around his stubby little finger, and
within a month my truck regulars had adopted him as their official truck stop mascot.
After that, I really didn't care what the rest of the customers thought of him. He was like a 21-year-old in blue
jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh and eager to please, but fierce in his attention to his duties. Every salt and pepper
shaker was exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or coffee spill was visible when Stevie got done with the table.
Our only problem was persuading him to wait to clean a table until after the customers were finished. He would
hover in the background, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the dining room until a table was
empty. Then he would scurry to the empty table and carefully bus dishes and glasses onto his cart and meticulously
wipe the table up with a practiced flourish of his rag.
If he thought a customer was watching, his brow would pucker with added concentration. He took pride in doing his
job exactly right, and you had to love how hard he tried to please each and every person he met.
Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow who was disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer.
They lived on their Social Security benefits in public housing two miles from the truck stop. Their social worker, who
stopped to check on him every so often, admitted they had fallen between the cracks.
Money was tight, and what I paid him was probably the difference between them being able to live together and
Stevie being sent to a group home. That's why the restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last August, the first
morning in three years that Stevie missed work.
He was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new valve or something put in his heart. His social worker said that
people with Downs Syndrome often have heart problems at an early age so this wasn't unexpected, and there was a
good chance he would come through the surgery in good shape and be back at work in a few months.
A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morning when word came that he was out of surgery, in
recovery, and doing fine.
Frannie, the head waitress, let out a war whoop and did a little dance in the aisle when she heard the good news.
Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, stared at the sight of this 50-year-old grandmother of four doing
a victory shimmy beside his table.
Frannie blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle Ringer a withering look.
He grinned. "OK, Frannie, what was that all about?" he asked.
"We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be okay."
"I was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him. What was the surgery about?"
Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other two drivers sitting at his booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed:
"Yeah, I'm glad he is going to be OK," she said. "But I don't know how he and his Mom are going to handle all the
bills. From what I hear, they're barely getting by as it is."
Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on the rest of her tables. Since I hadn't had time
to round up a busboy to replace Stevie and really didn't want to replace him, the girls were busing their own tables
that day until we decided what to do.
After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my office. She had a couple of paper napkins in her hand and a funny
look on her face.
"What's up?" I asked.
"I didn't get that table where Belle Ringer and his friends were sitting cleared off after they left, and Pony Pete and
Tony Tipper were sitting there when I got back to clean it off," she said. "This was folded and tucked under a coffee
cup."
She handed the napkin to me, and three $20 bills fell onto my desk when I opened it. On the outside, in big, bold
letters, was printed "Something for Stevie".
"Pony Pete asked me what that was all about," she said, "so I told him about Stevie and his Mom and everything, and
Pete looked at Tony and Tony looked at Pete, and they ended up giving me this." She handed me another paper napkin
that had "Something For Stevie" scrawled on its outside. Two $50 bills were tucked within its folds. Frannie looked
at me with wet, shiny eyes, shook her head and said simply: "truckers."
That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first day Stevie is supposed to be back to work.
His placement worker said he's been counting the days until the doctor said he could work, and it didn't matter at all
that it was a holiday. He called 10 times in the past week, making sure we knew he was coming, fearful that we had
forgotten him or that his job was in jeopardy. I arranged to have his mother bring him to work. I then met them in
the parking lot and invited them both to celebrate his day back.
Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop grinning as he pushed through the doors and headed for the back room
where his apron and busing cart were waiting.
"Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast," I said. I took him and his mother by their arms. "Work can wait for a minute.
To celebrate you coming back, breakfast for you and your mother is on me!" I led them toward a large corner booth
at the rear of the room.
I could feel and hear the rest of the staff following behind as we marched through the dining room. Glancing over my
shoulder, I saw booth after booth of grinning truckers empty and join the procession. We stopped in front of the big
table. Its surface was covered with coffee cups, saucers and dinner plates, all sitting slightly crooked on dozens of
folded paper napkins. "First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess," I said. I tried to sound stern.
Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then pulled out one of the napkins. It had "Something for Stevie"
printed on the outside. As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table.
Stevie stared at the money, then at all the napkins peeking from beneath the tableware, each with his name printed or
scrawled on it. I turned to his mother. "There's more than $10,000 in cash and checks on that table, all from
truckers and trucking companies that heard about your problems. "Happy Thanksgiving,"
Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody hollering and shouting, and there were a few tears, as well.
But you know what's funny? While everybody else was busy shaking hands and hugging each other, Stevie, with a big,
big smile on his face, was busy clearing all the cups and dishes from the table.
Best worker I ever hired.
Plant a seed and watch it grow.
~Anon
If you shed a tear, hug yourself, because you are a compassionate person.
______________________________________
a MorningStar Vignette
______________________________________
a MorningStar Vignette
______________________________________
Music: Love Divine
It's really a wonder that I haven't dropped all my ideals, because they
seem so absurd and impossible to carry out. Yet I keep them, because in
spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart.
~Anne Frank
No man is an Island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the
Continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe
is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy
friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I
am involved in Mankind; And therefore never send to know for whom the
bell tolls; It tolls for thee. ~John Donne
seem so absurd and impossible to carry out. Yet I keep them, because in
spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart.
~Anne Frank
No man is an Island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the
Continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe
is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy
friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I
am involved in Mankind; And therefore never send to know for whom the
bell tolls; It tolls for thee. ~John Donne
| DawnStar file graphic |
| There are none so blind as those who will not see; There are none so deaf as those who will not hear. ~Anon If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love (compassion), I am become like a sounding brass, or a clanging cymbal. ~1 Corinthians 3:1 |
Contributed by Carolyn Roberts
| A Love Story (for anyone with a good heart) |
If this doesn't light your fire . . . your wood is wet.
I try not to be biased, but I had my doubts about hiring Stevie. His placement counsellor assured me that
he would be a good, reliable busboy. But I had never had a mentally challenged employee before, and
wasn't sure I wanted one. I wasn't sure how my customers would react to Stevie.
I try not to be biased, but I had my doubts about hiring Stevie. His placement counsellor assured me that
he would be a good, reliable busboy. But I had never had a mentally challenged employee before, and
wasn't sure I wanted one. I wasn't sure how my customers would react to Stevie.
MorningStar for people
To submit comments, requests or materials,
contact me at outreach@dawncoveabbey.org
contact me at outreach@dawncoveabbey.org
For empowerment workshops, seminars and lectures, see: http://www.dawncoveabbey.org/healing-circle
__________________________________________________
MorningStar Inspiration from Dawn Cove Abbey
Article, haiku, humour and poem contributions are welcomed, and gratefully received
Layout & Design by DawnStar
__________________________________________________
MorningStar Inspiration from Dawn Cove Abbey
Article, haiku, humour and poem contributions are welcomed, and gratefully received
Layout & Design by DawnStar
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