"Thank you," an elderly woman in a wheelchair said to me today, as I was reaching for her dirty plate at the community Thanksgiving dinner.
I smiled and asked if she needed a refill on her coffee, as I tossed the styrofoam plate into the garbage can I was rolling around the noisy school cafeteria.
She nodded, tears filling her eyes, as her shaking hand held up her stryofoam cup to me.
I took the cup to the coffee urn and filled it, then carried it back to her, nodding at my oldest son as he passed, carrying an armfull of dirty plates to the garbage can.
As I reached past the woman to put her coffee near her pie plate, she reached up and grabbed my arm.
I looked down and saw she was crying.
She was sitting alone so I sat down next to her, nodding at my youngest son to come take the wet washrag from me so he could continue cleaning tables in my place. He walked back to where his brother was and the two began working together. As my oldest son stood up, you could clearly see the fire department emblem on his t-shirt.
The woman took a few sips of coffee then reached for me again, her blue eyes still sparkling with tears.
She had to be about 90 years old, I figured.
She'd come with her family, but they had all wandered off to visit with other people, leaving her alone at the table.
I smiled at her, and started to ask about her meal, but she waved her bony finger at me and shook her head, silencing me.
"I was watching your son, the one wearing the fire department shirt," she said. "He reminds me of my father. My father was on the fire department when it was started 125 years ago. He was about your son's age."
She looked toward my son again, and smiled a wistful smile.
I said nothing, letting her enjoy the memory she was having.
Finally, she turned back to me.
"By the time I came along, my daddy was fire chief," she said, as she began laughing. "Every holiday, he was gone with the fire department. Someone always seemed to set their house or barn on fire on the holidays. Mother learned to have dinner either really early or really late."
I laughed and said that hadn't changed over the years.
"The pager has gone off every holiday so far," I said. "Last year, it went off just as I was putting the turkey on the table. They jumped from their chairs and rushed out, yelling for us to save them some turkey as they went. The rest of the family just kept on with dinner without them. You've gotta do it like that."
"Oh, that's right, your husband and son are both firefighters," she said. "I read that in your column once."
I nodded.
"My husband was a fireman too," she said.
She looked around the room then turned back to me.
"Your whole family is here," she said. It wasn't a question; it was a statement. I said they were, then pointed them out, one by one.
"I know," she said, "I've been watching them. You have three sons, right? Just like me."
"Yep," I said. "Three boys."
She smiled and nodded, looking toward my sons again. By now, all three were working together, joking as they worked.
"They are good boys," she said. "Always smiling and joking with each other. And I notice how they all smile at you everytime they see you. They love you very much."
Her statement caught me off guard, and choked me up.
"I hope so," I said, smiling through my suddenly tearful eyes. "Because I'd walk barefoot through hell for them."
She smiled and patted my arm again.
"You are the wife and mother of a fireman, Sally," she said, her eyes boring right into mine, locking my gaze to hers. "If you are barefoot in hell, they'll go in and put out the flames and carry you back out. And they'll have the whole fire department behind them bringing in more hose and water."
Just then, I was called up front to help fill a delivery order to a senior living highrise.
After helping fill 25 take-out containers will all the fixings, I went back to help my sons, only to be flagged down again by the woman.
"I wanted to tell you thank you," she said again.
"You're welcome," I said, taking her hand and patting her shoulder. I started to pull away and she held me, and urged me to sit again.
I looked around, a bit concerned because the room was filling with people and my sons were starting to fall behind in keeping tables cleared.
"A few months ago, your son helped carry my dead grandson," she said.
I sat down.
"He had died while taking a bath and no one found the body for a week," she said. I nodded, remembering the call. It had been my son's first dead body.
Her eyes filled with tears up she held my hand between her two.
"One of the other fireman said that your son was the one who got into the tub behind my grandson, and actually lifted him out," she said. I nodded.
She looked to my son, who was carrying a plate of food and cup of coffee for someone walking with a cane.
"I was told he was very gentle and very respectful," she said. "I was told he said that he just kept saying to himself that he was holding some mother's son in his arms. And that he thought of how his mother would want her sons to be treated if it was them in there."
I felt my throat tighten and burn, and knew that I was precariously close to an SEE (Serious Emotional Event).
"Thank you," she said again. "It has given my family so much comfort to know that our dear boy was handled with tenderness and respect at the end."
I nodded, still unable to speak past the burning lump in my throat.
"My father would be so proud that a fireman from the fire department he helped start, carried his great-grandson out," she said. "So I just wanted to say thank-you for raising a son who does my father's fire department proud."
As I looked at my son, I thought, "I don't know that it was anything I did. It was always in him - his heroes heart. It's what makes him do it.
It's what makes ALL of the firefighters and First Responders do it. It's not for the praise or the kudos or the thanks.
But, even so, it's still nice to have someone say Thanks. Especially on Thanksgiving, right?
Happy Thanksgiving!