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THE TEA DRINKER
It’s funny how you remember some people. Some strange little idiosyncrasy will lock the image of that person in your mind forever.
It was February of ’34, as I recall, when this strange little man came to our door. By then, we were well into the grips of the Great Depression with no end in sight. Hobos showing up at your door was such a common occurrence that it hardly interrupted your daily routine. With the colder weather, there were less of them on the road. I don’t know where they went when it turned cold like that. I fear many of them must have simply died.
I was married by then. In the country, the life cycle continued unabated. People still got married, set up housekeeping on their own, had children and struggled by as always. My husband was working in the woods that year so I was home alone with the baby when the knock came to the door. It was a feeble knock. I was working in the kitchen making bread, so I heard it.
When I opened the door there was this little bit of a man, no more that 5’6 standing there shivering in the cold.
"Could you spare a wee cup of hot tea?" he asked.
The tea pot always sat at the back of the stove with a brew on. "Come in out of the cold," I said. He looked underdressed for fall weather let alone the back end of February. The poor man had to be freezing.
He accepted my offer and as he entered the kitchen his eyes locked on the old wood stove radiating warmth throughout the room. He was oblivious to all else. The rising bread with its future promise went unnoticed. It was not yet time for food. He took a chair from the table and pulled it tight to the stove, devouring any bit of heat he could draw from it.
"Do you take milk or sweetener in your tea?" I asked. Sugar was scarce but we always had lots of honey.
"Fast and black is fine by me, lass."
He took the offered cup and drank it down in one single gulp.
"You couldn’t spare me another, only a little hotter?" he asked handing me back the cup.
The tea had been simmering just below the boiling point. I knew it was hot but I opened the stove, gave the logs a stir and set the pot on the hot spot for a few seconds. Almost immediately it came to a boil. I poured him another cup and watched aghast as he repeated the procedure. With the third cup, he wrapped his rough, red fingers around the cup and sucked the warmth into his hands. Even this boiling brew disappeared in three drinks.
"That feels better. Thank you ma’am. I sure appreciate that." His hands had stopped shaking but his body still trembled.
As I broke a couple of eggs into a frying pan and cut up a few large pieces of yesterday’s homemade bread, I took a closer look at the little fellow. His pant legs came up as he set down and I noticed he wore neither socks nor long underwear. In this part of the world, it wasn’t uncommon for some of the older folks to wear their long johns year round. His coat was threadbare and the lining looked as if it had settled into the bottom of the hem. His shirt was summer weight.
"What do you have under those clothes?" I asked.
Of course he looked at me with a surprised look. I ignored any wrong suggestion he may have taken from my question.
"Do you have any socks or underwear? You look frozen."
Understanding crossed his face. "Me socks died a natural death a few weeks back," he said. "I thought I’d give them a wee wash and, well, they just fell apart."
He was too embarrassed to mention his unmentionables but I knew they no longer existed as well. I put the food on the table and he reluctantly dragged his chair from the stove. I had rules about where people ate and where they didn’t.
"I might take a little honey in this cup," he said as I poured his fourth cup of tea. "Just a drop of milk but not enough to cool it down." This cup he sipped and savored like an ordinary parlor guest. With warmth came his dignity. While he ate I went and rounded up a pair of wool socks, an old sweater and a set of Stanfields. They weren’t new but they were clean. He would have to roll up the legs and sleeves. Extra warmth, I thought.
"Put these on before you leave," I ordered him.
He looked around to see where he could perform the changing act. There was a fearful look in his eye as if I might be after his emaciated body.
"Go in the wash room and change. I’ll guard the door." I smiled.
He returned the smile. "Thank ye, ma’am. May the Lord look down on ye."
He changed his clothes and headed back out into the cold winter weather. Four cups of boiling hot tea sloshing in his stomach. Of the hundreds of hobos who passed through over the years, he stands out in my memory as the drinker of boiling tea.