Walt brought me a folding chair because I looked like I was about to fall over. He set it up on the porch, and I sat there in the dark, watching strangers paint my mother’s house while he told me everything.
It all started eleven years ago. Walt’s motorcycle broke down on the country road, about a mile from here. He walked to the nearest house. My mother’s house.
“She was sitting on the front steps shelling peas,” Walt said. “I was wearing leather. Patches. A bandana. I probably looked like a troublemaker. Most people would have come in and locked themselves in.”
“What did she do?”
“She said, ‘You look great. Do you want some lemonade?'”
She gave him the lemonade. Then lunch. Finally, she drove him to the auto parts store in her station wagon, while he sat in the passenger seat, clutching a plate of leftover meatloaf she’d insisted he take.
“I came back the next day to fix the bike,” Walt said. “She fed me again. I noticed her porch steps were rotten. I fixed them. She said it wasn’t necessary. I told her she didn’t have to feed me either.”
It became a tradition. Walt returned the following Monday. He brought a friend. My mother fed them both. They fixed the gutters.
The following Monday, four bikers arrived. She cooked a roast. They raked the yard and repaired a hole in the garage roof.
After a few months, it became a habit. Every Monday. The group arrived at noon. My mother made lunch. Soup in the winter. Sandwiches in the summer. Always cake. Always plenty for everyone, no matter how many people were there.
