Mrs. O
By Jesse Jost
I hated it when I started crying! My eyes would get all red and my cheeks would get puffy, or I should say puffier. At twelve, I had yet to have my growth spurt, and was a chubby, white blob with black hair. This was before I blossomed into a tall, muscular, and extremely good-looking adult. Actually, I am 22 and still waiting for these changes to take place. While I have grown a little since then, I still have a “reader’s build”; but, I can honestly say I did it without steroids!
That day I had more justification than usual for my eyes tearing up. Mrs. O had come over to our place to unload one of her patented tirades. Mrs. O was an elderly widow who lived a couple blocks from our place. My Dad was chairman of a community program that included senior assistance. This program would hire teenagers, ages fourteen and older, to help those who were “in the sunset years” with whatever yard work they needed done. Mrs. O was an especially tough case. Several boys had tried to help, but because she was so peculiar about how everything had to be done, it wouldn’t be long before she complained and the boys were reassigned.
When the list of available boys had been scorched by Mrs. O’s “less than pleasant” demeanor, Dad took drastic measures. He sent his chubby little lamb to this lioness! I was too young to qualify for the program (and make the astonishing wage of $7.50 an hour!), so Dad asked Mrs. O if it would be okay for me to work for her for $3 an hour. She complied and I timidly went over there to help her. After hearing how terrible and irresponsible the other boys were, I carefully mowed her lawn.
I don’t remember, but I must have done something she didn’t approve of. The next week she came storming over to our house and began to seethe venom. She went on about how Dad had lied about my age just to get me some work. (My Dad was an Evangelical Pastor at the time; I can assure you he did not lie!). Dad explained the situation again, but this time more slowly. He asked if she wanted to give me another chance. (He didn’t ask me if I wanted to venture back into the dragon’s lair and expose my self to more emotional trauma!).
I dried my eyes, swallowed my ego, and waddled back over there. I paid close attention and very meticulously followed her every instruction. The cord for the lawn mower had to be wrapped a certain way and the finished coil had to be a certain diameter. The lawn had to be mowed in a particular pattern and things had to be done in just the right order. I had to side-step across the lawn so the only footprints were in the track left by the lawn mower wheels. The wheelbarrow also was confined to following the path of the mower. Leaving a wheelbarrow track to disfigure the pattern in the yard was one of the more odious offences!
Over time, a friendship formed. I grew less afraid of her and she found less to complain about. I began to look forward to working for her. She would give me extra pocket change on top of my $3 an hour wage and would leave a greatly appreciated cold pop on the back yard steps. One sweltering summer day, I was especially parched and eagerly awaited the sight of the red and white can as I zigzagged back and forth with the mower. Finally she put a can out and left. To my consternation, she did leave a red and white can, but it wasn’t Coke. I’d like to say I wasn’t the first PK with a hang-over, but I can’t. I left the unopened beer there and quickly finished the job.
As I learned more about Mrs. O, I began to see her through different eyes. As a daughter of the pioneers, she had weathered some difficult storms and had some fascinating stories to tell. I realized beneath her gruff outer surface, was a beautiful lady with a generous soul. We became close friends. She began to treat me better than I deserved and I treasured every compliment she gave me. Before I left one afternoon, she told me how much she appreciated my work and said, “I will never forget you.”
A couple of years later, Mrs. O developed Alzheimer’s disease. She was moved to a nursing home in another small town. To our great joy and excitement, Mrs. O received Christ as her Lord and Savior shortly before she finally tasted complete delight as she joined her Creator. Her family asked me to play my violin at her funeral and told me how much our friendship meant to Mrs. Ondrik.
It is with fond memories that I look back on the years that I was given with Mrs. O. God used her to shape my formative years and to me teach valuable life lessons about diligence, about respecting other’s quirks, and that underneath a person’s tough exterior is a precious soul made in God’s image that is desperate for love.
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