Brown Bananas

 

 “I can’t believe the grocery store throws out good bananas,” he complains in his raspy voice. “I know your kids like ‘em and if you cut off the brown parts, they taste just as good as fresh ones.”

He had completed his morning rounds, including the dumpster check behind the grocery store, and had arrived at my door. I wiped my hands on a towel, fixed my “glad to see you, Raymond, but I’m very busy smile” on my face and thanked him.

Nobody knew exactly how Raymond came to be in our community. One morning, the Methodist minister found him on the porch of the Sunday School building with his overcoat spread out into a makeshift bed and his razor plugged into the outside electrical outlet.

Raymond kept a mental calendar of which church or civic organization was having a meal, and he never missed a wedding, whether invited or not. At potluck events, he brought what food he could find and he was always given the leftovers.

He became part of that Methodist church family. He attended worship and Sunday School every week, was eventually elected to the administrative board and rehearsed with the choir on Wednesdays. He volunteered in Bible School where he emptied trash, ran errands, carried tables, and enjoyed the refreshments. Every Mother’s Day, he sang “How Great Thou Art” accompanied by George Beverly Shea on a worn and scratchy taped version of the hymn. He always began by dedicating the song to his mother, and always ended in tears.

It would be glamorizing Raymond to say that everyone loved him. Poor hygiene resulted in offensive odor, he was often argumentative about his beliefs and opinions, he had no sense of personal space and sometimes he took advantage of people who were trying to help him. He wasn’t an easy man to love.

But we did care for him, as we cared for our children. He was reprimanded when he didn’t behave in appropriate ways, was reminded to bathe, and was given advice that was never taken. Everyone knew to save him the sports page from Sunday newspapers and he was the regular recipient of shoes, clothing and food.

And Raymond cared for us as best he could. When the stores threw out seasonal candy, he scooped it out of trash bins and shared it with anyone brave enough to eat it. He attended all the funerals in our community. He sat in the park with his brown paper bag of chess pieces and played anyone who would sit with him. And he delivered brown bananas to families with young children.

The day of his funeral the Methodist church was filled as persons of all ages and walks of life gathered to remember a man we had taken into our family-for better or worse.

Years have passed, filled with births and deaths, joys and concerns. In the rush of living, I sometimes forget the lessons of patience, compassion and acceptance we learned while Raymond was with us. Then I see brown bananas, and I remember.