Back in the Great Depression,
James B. Stewart was lucky to
have a steady job. Born on a hardscrabble farm in western Arkansas, orphaned at
12, he knew what it meant to be hungry, and relied on the work ethic and
experience that came from a living earned tilling the land to make sure he
didn't miss many meals.
Necessary Tools |
Transplanted to the city, he found employment as a seed
vendor, a florist, and finally the floor manager for a wholesale grocery
warehouse. Stewart and his crew of laborers spent the day unloading produce
from railroad cars and farm wagons, and reloading them into delivery trucks
bound for grocery stores across the state. It was hard work, but it paid enough
to feed a man and his family. Barely.
During the noontime break, J.B. noticed that while some of
his men sat down and ate from lunch pails and lard tins, others busied
themselves with small diversions, or stood by the water cooler until the bell
rang calling them back to work. Stewart knew his men were all hard workers – no
one in those days could afford to sacrifice a paying job to sloth – and he knew
that every one of them had to be hungry by lunchtime. He also knew that some
among his crew needed every dime they earned to feed their families, and chose
to forego their noonday meal, if it meant their children had more to eat at
home.
Another thing Stewart knew: every day his company disposed
of hundreds of pounds of bruised, broken, spoiled and spoiling vegetables -
produce that could not be sent on to retail grocers.
One morning he ordered a few of his men to retrieve a large
steel drum from a nearby scrap pile. He directed them to scrub the drum
thoroughly, set it up on a solid brick footing out in the rail yard, and build
a fire of lumber scraps beneath. Into the drum went salvaged pieces of onion
and squash, wilted celery, broken bits of turnip, carrot, cabbage, and whatever
else could be safely diverted from the trash heap.
By noon the warehouse crew had fifty gallons of bubbling
vegetable stew to satisfy their appetites, a change that brought tears to the
men’s eyes, especially when they turned to thank their boss for such an
unexpected windfall.
“My men ate pretty well, I reckon,” Stewart said, decades
later. “Too much food going to waste there already, to allow good, hard-working
men to go hungry. Every now and then we might get a great big bone from the
butcher shop, and pitch that into the soup, too.”
Stewart kept up the practice for as long as he was in charge
of the warehouse, with the result that his crew grew stronger, worked harder,
and remained fiercely loyal to their boss, and their company. Several of those
men followed him throughout their working lives, moving with him as his
fortunes improved, and his career advanced from the private sector into a
senior administrative role in municipal goverment.
J.B. Stewart never pretended to be anything more than a
simple man of the earth, nor did he profess to practice anything more than
common sense, and a relentless application of the Golden Rule:
“Treat a man well and give him the tools he needs to work,
and that’s just what he’s liable to do.”
Nearly sixty years later, families of men who used to work
on Stewart’s grocery crew crowded the room at his funeral service. “Do you know
what his kindness meant to my daddy?” they would ask. “What his generosity
meant to our entire family?”
No, I didn't. There's no way that I could. Because of my grandfather's lifelong example of industry, resourcefulness, compassion and good humor, I never felt the pain of want that he knew growing up, or that his men knew long ago, working through hard times at the grocery warehouse.
I can hope, though, that some of the tools he had to offer somehow found their way into my own tool kit.
No, I didn't. There's no way that I could. Because of my grandfather's lifelong example of industry, resourcefulness, compassion and good humor, I never felt the pain of want that he knew growing up, or that his men knew long ago, working through hard times at the grocery warehouse.
I can hope, though, that some of the tools he had to offer somehow found their way into my own tool kit.
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