Sent in by S. T. Koay.
Carl didn't talk much. He would always greet you with a big smile and a firm handshake. Even after living in our neighbourhood for over 50 years, no one could really say they knew him very well.
Before his retirement, he took the bus to work each morning. The sight of him walking alone down the street often worried us. He had a slight limp from a bullet would he got in WWII. Watching him, we worried that he might not make it through our changing uptown neighbourhood with its ever-increasing random violence, gangs and drug activity.
When Carl saw the flyer at our local church asking for volunteers to care for the gardens behind the minister's residence, he signed up.
He was well into his 87th year when the very thing we had always feared happened. He'd just finished his watering for the day when three gang members approached him. Ignoring their attempt to intimidate him, he simply asked "Would you like a drink from the hose?"
The tallest and toughest-looking of the guys said, "Yeah, sure." As Carl offered him the hose, the other two grabbed his arm and threw him down. As the hose snaked crazily over the ground, dousing everything in its way, they stole his retirement watch, wallet, and then fled.
Carl tried to get up, but he'd been thrown down on his bad leg. He lay there trying to gather himself as the minister ran up.
"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Carl just passed a hand over his brow and shook his head. "Just some punk kids. I hope they'll wise up some day." His wet clothes clung to his slight frame as he bent to pick up the hose. He re-adjusted the nozzle and continued to water the plants.
A few weeks later, the trio returned. Just as before, their threat was unchallenged. Carl again offered them a drink from his hose. This time, they didn't rob him. They wrenched the hose from his hand and drenched him from head to toe. Then they sauntered down the street, throwing catcalls and curses, and falling over one another at the hilarity of what they'd done. Carl watched them. Then he picked up his hose, and carried on with his watering.
The summer was quickly fading into fall. Carl was doing some tilling when he was startled by the sudden approach of someone behind him. He stumbled and fell into some evergreen branches. As he struggled to regain his footing, the tall leader of his tormentors reached down for him. Carl braced himself for the attack.
"Don't worry old man, I'm not going to hurt you this time," the young man said softly, as he offered his tattooed and scarred hand to Carl. He helped him up, then pulled a crumpled bag from his pocket.
"What's this?" Carl asked.
"It's your stuff back. Even the money in your wallet."
"I don't understand. Why would you help me now?"
The man seemed ill at ease. "I learned something from you. I ran with that gang and hurt people like you. We picked on you because you were old and we knew we could do it. But every time we came and did something to you, instead of yelling and fighting back, you tried to give us a drink. You didn't hate us. You kept showing us love."
He stopped for a second. "I couldn't sleep after we stole your stuff, so here it is back."
He paused again. "That bag's my way of saying thanks for straightening me out, I guess." With that, he walked off.
Carl looked at the bag in his hands and gingerly opened it. He took out his watch and strapped it on his wrist. He opened his wallet and checked for his wedding photo. He gazed for a moment at the young bride who still smiled back at him from all those years ago.
He died one cold day after Christmas that winter and many people attended his funeral. In particular, the minister noticed a tall young man, whom he didn't know, sitting quietly in a corner of the church. He spoke of Carl's garden as a lesson in life: "Do your best and make your garden as beautiful as you can."
The following spring, another flyer went up. It read: "Person needed to care for Carl's garden." One day, someone knocked on the minister's door. He opened it and saw a pair of scarred and tattooed hands holding the flyer. "I believe this is my job, if you'll have me," the young man said. "Yes, go take care of Carl's garden and honour him."
The man went to work and, over the next several years, he tended the flowers and vegetables just as Carl had done. In that time, he went to college, got married, and became a prominent member of the community. But he never forgot his promise to Carl's memory.
One day, he approached the new minister and said that he couldn't care for the garden any longer. "My wife had a baby boy last night, and she's bringing him home on Saturday."
"Well, congratulations!" said the minister, as he was handed the keys to the garden shed. "That's wonderful! What's the baby's name?"
"Carl."
Before his retirement, he took the bus to work each morning. The sight of him walking alone down the street often worried us. He had a slight limp from a bullet would he got in WWII. Watching him, we worried that he might not make it through our changing uptown neighbourhood with its ever-increasing random violence, gangs and drug activity.
When Carl saw the flyer at our local church asking for volunteers to care for the gardens behind the minister's residence, he signed up.
He was well into his 87th year when the very thing we had always feared happened. He'd just finished his watering for the day when three gang members approached him. Ignoring their attempt to intimidate him, he simply asked "Would you like a drink from the hose?"
The tallest and toughest-looking of the guys said, "Yeah, sure." As Carl offered him the hose, the other two grabbed his arm and threw him down. As the hose snaked crazily over the ground, dousing everything in its way, they stole his retirement watch, wallet, and then fled.
Carl tried to get up, but he'd been thrown down on his bad leg. He lay there trying to gather himself as the minister ran up.
"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Carl just passed a hand over his brow and shook his head. "Just some punk kids. I hope they'll wise up some day." His wet clothes clung to his slight frame as he bent to pick up the hose. He re-adjusted the nozzle and continued to water the plants.
A few weeks later, the trio returned. Just as before, their threat was unchallenged. Carl again offered them a drink from his hose. This time, they didn't rob him. They wrenched the hose from his hand and drenched him from head to toe. Then they sauntered down the street, throwing catcalls and curses, and falling over one another at the hilarity of what they'd done. Carl watched them. Then he picked up his hose, and carried on with his watering.
The summer was quickly fading into fall. Carl was doing some tilling when he was startled by the sudden approach of someone behind him. He stumbled and fell into some evergreen branches. As he struggled to regain his footing, the tall leader of his tormentors reached down for him. Carl braced himself for the attack.
"Don't worry old man, I'm not going to hurt you this time," the young man said softly, as he offered his tattooed and scarred hand to Carl. He helped him up, then pulled a crumpled bag from his pocket.
"What's this?" Carl asked.
"It's your stuff back. Even the money in your wallet."
"I don't understand. Why would you help me now?"
The man seemed ill at ease. "I learned something from you. I ran with that gang and hurt people like you. We picked on you because you were old and we knew we could do it. But every time we came and did something to you, instead of yelling and fighting back, you tried to give us a drink. You didn't hate us. You kept showing us love."
He stopped for a second. "I couldn't sleep after we stole your stuff, so here it is back."
He paused again. "That bag's my way of saying thanks for straightening me out, I guess." With that, he walked off.
Carl looked at the bag in his hands and gingerly opened it. He took out his watch and strapped it on his wrist. He opened his wallet and checked for his wedding photo. He gazed for a moment at the young bride who still smiled back at him from all those years ago.
He died one cold day after Christmas that winter and many people attended his funeral. In particular, the minister noticed a tall young man, whom he didn't know, sitting quietly in a corner of the church. He spoke of Carl's garden as a lesson in life: "Do your best and make your garden as beautiful as you can."
The following spring, another flyer went up. It read: "Person needed to care for Carl's garden." One day, someone knocked on the minister's door. He opened it and saw a pair of scarred and tattooed hands holding the flyer. "I believe this is my job, if you'll have me," the young man said. "Yes, go take care of Carl's garden and honour him."
The man went to work and, over the next several years, he tended the flowers and vegetables just as Carl had done. In that time, he went to college, got married, and became a prominent member of the community. But he never forgot his promise to Carl's memory.
One day, he approached the new minister and said that he couldn't care for the garden any longer. "My wife had a baby boy last night, and she's bringing him home on Saturday."
"Well, congratulations!" said the minister, as he was handed the keys to the garden shed. "That's wonderful! What's the baby's name?"
"Carl."
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