Thanks!

This is a story based on real facts. The names of the characters have NOT been changed to protect their identity for reasons you'll soon see.

March 28th, 2009

I was "told" to say "Thanks" this morning.


You might say the story started last night. But then again, does it really have a starting point or an ending point? It's a story about a young native Dominican in a red shirt and hat and black pants, but it really doesn't start with him, nor does it end with him. He said "Thanks".

Last night, Lanelle fixed a wonderful supper of fresh blue marlin, seasoned with fresh chopped garlic and fresh squeezed lime juice. Along side was steamed rice and this wonderful cooked cabbage seasoned with the "skillet leftovers" of lunch's fried chicken. Delicious. Except in the opinion of a pair of boys aged 6 and 3. Nevertheless, they made a showing by eating enough to avoid starvation. Afterward, Lanelle began washing the dishes as I sat down to read them a book. It dawned on me that they (we) had forgotten something. That something was "Thanks for supper, Mom". A little something that can set us as a group apart into a family. A little something that can set humanity forth from the organic muck created by an seemingly endless cycle of birth and death.

Speaking of birth, this young native Dominican was born in a little wooden shack with a tin roof about 30 years ago. I don't know that to be factual, but it's the best estimate I deduce from his surroundings and appearance. He said "Thanks"; that is a fact.

A young native Dominican saying "Thanks" to John Beyer for getting up on those cold October mornings in northwest Iowa to go start the ol' Case International combine to harvest the last 40 acres of corn. Apprehensive that he'll be unable to finish before the gathering clouds bring an early snow. Corn that he won't need to feed his hogs; left over to "feed the world" as the political pundits like to say. It really fed the "Thanks".

A young native Dominican saying "Thanks" to Scott Tyler for for placing that order to the feed mill in western Arkansas. Ordering feed made from corn that had arrived by rail from northwest Iowa. You see, Scott has chickens. Lots of chickens, like maybe half a million chickens, maybe more, maybe less. But more than he can eat.

It was certainly by chance I met this young native Dominican. I had left the apartment about 7:30 AM to go fill the car up with gas then go on to campus to study as my Saturday mornings usually go. I had finished filling the car at Texaco, paid for the EC$9 per gallon gas, and was casually driving along the coast enjoying the waves splashing ashore in the early morning sunshine. I turned the corner and the car moaned as it began the climb up the hill away from the ocean. That's when I first saw him.

Thanks to Brian Henderson and Damon Birkhofer for hitching their shiny John Deere's up to the 50 foot long air seeders. There is a lot of uncertainty for farmers out in western Nebraska. Who knows if the last rain they got in May will be enough to sprout the crop sown in September. You see, these guys farm a lot of ground. Between them, they probably farm more area than the whole area of Dominica. Well probably not, but you get the point. The thing is, it's all wheat; more wheat than they can possibly eat.

He was walking away from me. From the back, he was indistinguishable from most others we commonly see walking. Quietly going about their daily routines, most not aware of a world beyond the shores of Dominica that wasn't brought to them by television. Hearing my car, he turned to face me, putting his arm out.

A few weeks ago, construction workers finished a new restaurant between main campus and annex where first semester classes are held. It sits up a small hill from one of Dominica's 365 rivers, close enough that when you're sitting on the front veranda, you can hear the water babbling over the rocks in the river. It is the second restaurant here on the island that gives us the "taste of home". It is built in true Dominican style; concrete cinder blocks then coated with a thin layer of masonry to give a smooth finish. As being true to company colors, this one was painted red and black.

"Thanks", Mom for teaching me my colors, Charlene Cantrel for teaching me the alphabet, and Julie Brookshire for passing out a little blue card in 5th grade, all of which ended up making a difference today. I bet most of my 5th grade classmates and Ms. Brookshire have forgotten the blue card. Fortunately, I haven't, but if I had, I would have missed the "Thanks".

Putting an arm out is "Dominican" for "would you give me a ride?". From the front, he was indistinguishable from many others as well. I've been taught not to give rides to strangers from early on, but things operate a little differently here. I've often been picked up by strangers, even without putting my arm out, so I felt motivated to do the same. A quick assessment of his red and black uniform, general appearance, time of day, and a million other factors that can fly through your mind led me to believe he just wanted a ride to work at the red and black restaurant with the KFC on the front. I turned on my left blinker, pulled off the road, unlocked the door and let him in. "Hi, you going to work?" I asked. He hissed. Literally. Then he put up a fist, but that is a Dominican handshake to offer to bump fists. So I bumped his fist with mine and again asked "Are you going to KFC?" Again, he hissed and this time pointed down the road. So away we drove. In silence.

About a half a mile down the road, we arrived at KFC. Now what? I pulled off on the assumption I'd judged his character and appearance correctly. Again he hissed and pointed. This is where the little blue card comes in. You see, this time he pointed at his right ear. Born into conditions some 30 years ago that certainly put him at a disadvantage in his world: Poor people, lack of education and health care for his condition, playground taunts, missed job opportunities and any number of other things that could have left him bitter. But slowly he made a fist, putting his thumb between his first and middle fingers: "T", next, thumb parallel to fisted ring and little finger with index and middle finger extended: "H", and onward: "A", "N", "K", "S". The little blue card that had rudimentary pictures of the American Sign Language, not a class assignment, but interesting to a curious 5th grader. Our paths may never cross for more than that short, silent, half mile ride, but he said "Thanks". Another bump of fists, and he slipped into the morning sunshine and another day of work cooking a corn fed, flour coated chicken, leaving me with a "Thanks" heard round the world.

I don't have the email addresses of any of the real characters in this true story. If you do, please forward it to them.

Thanks, Lyndle