God Visits Home Depot
The presence of grace in a parking lot crash.
Conservatively speaking, there are at least a hundred errands that if not completed today will threaten life as I know it. And they have to be achieved by noon so one of my sons can drive to Long Island to spend Mother’s Day with his girlfriend’s family. This is all fine with me since my children were raised to believe every day is Mother’s Day. No one can argue with that.
Sanity whittles the list down to the irrefutable top five: the garden center to replenish the dead herbs; a human drugstore for allergy spray; the vet for the dog’s allergy pills; Salvation Army to drop off clothes that no longer fit; and finally Home Depot for a slew of supplies demanded to save the little house from falling down.
Off I go at 9:30. The garden center proves to be low on herbs and unexpectedly exorbitant. The drug store’s allergy medicine is locked in cases, and it takes a lot of toe-tapping time for someone to appear to open them up. The talkative vet demands to know why the 80-pound psycho dog has not been carried into her office lately. The Salvation Army is a quick miracle. This all leaves 40 minutes to drive to Home Depot and get home by noon. It’s only five miles but usually takes 20 minutes to drive, unless you go at 1 a.m.
Once there (now down to 13 minutes left), it’s round and round the parking lot until a tight space opens that will just about fit my small SUV. A large SUV begins to maneuver into the spot next to mine. I wait for the driver to emerge. Finally, the door slowly opens and out slides a heavy-set man in a bright pink polo shirt and dress pants. He tugs out a cane and then creeps along the side, holding onto the car’s roof. As soon as he reaches the back I turn the wheel to cut into the space, and that’s when he yells.
“STOP! STOP!”
I also hear the scape of metal on metal.
“Cut the wheel,” he says, circling with his finger which way to turn.
Somehow I’m heading right back to his car again straight toward his passenger door. He circles his whole hand now in the direction I was supposed to go and finally I’m in. I jump out with a whole lot of panic.
He points to the four scratches on his side bumper. I guess there’s a matching set on mine but they don’t matter. Many, many possible outcomes bolt up: money and raised insurance rates and a husband’s scowling a “Really, Pat?!” when I confess. Horribly, I think for too long an instant (but not unreasonable considering these last months) that a gun could be added to the mix. This even for a man whose countenance is as far from threatening as is possible in any universe.
I start to blather, “I’msosorryIdidn’tmeanhowmuchdoIoweyouohmygodI’msorry.”
The man holds up his hand.
“If this is the worst thing that happens to me today, I am blessed.”
I’m very good at admitting when I do something dumb. “Whatever you want me to do to fix your car is good.”
“If this is the worst thing that happens to me today, I am blessed,” he repeats and adds, “We’re done.”
“What?”
“We’re done,” he says and shines on me the most amused smile I’ve seen in a very long time.
The man shifts his weight more on his cane. “We’re living in a hard strange world with neighbors turning on neighbors and sons and daughters no longer talking to each other over foolish things. How can something like this be worse than that?”
There is no answer to this truth.
“Let me tell you something,” he continues. “My mother is 92 years old.”
“Oh how wonderful!”
He raised his hand to shut me up. “She’s 92 and we had a wonderful woman looking after her. Really one of the most kind souls, she became a part of the family. That’s how long she was with us. A couple of weeks ago she was driving on the Long Island Expressway and got hit dead on by a truck. Dead in an instant. Gone. We had to put my mother in a home until we figure out what to do.”
I give the usual terribly lame response, “I’m so sorry.”
“That was worse. This is nothing. But God must have had a plan for us to meet today, and that makes it a blessing.”
I left God at 18 when some strict condemnation from the pulpit smacked me out of the pew and through the church door. My dad ran after me and as I stood on the granite steps crying an explanation for why my heart couldn’t listen anymore, he told me he understood. Now that I am older than he was that Sunday, I suspect my dad might have relied on his deep faith that, as the years led me through the world’s harshness, I would once again find God’s guidance and comfort. It’s not his fault that my prayers have been very few with many miles between.
The man and I start walking toward the Home Depot door at a beat slower than the proverbial herd of turtles.
“My wife sent me here for a cake pan,” he says. “She’s going to try to make my mother’s pineapple upside-down cake for when we go over and see her tomorrow.”
“I don’t know if Home Depot carries cake pans.”
He stops to laugh. “My wife’s never wrong, so I better bring one back. No one’s ever tasted a better upside-down cake than my mother’s, and she’s already up a high mountain of frazzle.”
“If they don’t have it, there’s the Dollar Store around the corner,” I say.
“See, that’s why God meant us to meet.”
And there I realize that being with him has wiped away all my unnecessary, stupid, unimportant angst. What an unexpected rare joy, a leaning toward faith in humanity that all he wants from me is to be as happy at this day’s turn as he is.
“You made my day,” I say and think about hugging him but I don’t want to spoil the moment if he won’t like a very strange woman throwing herself at him.
“Now you made mine!” He says at the curb and hitches up his pants again. “Darn pants aren’t made for full-figure men. You go ahead. I’m slowing you down.”
“No you’re not.”
We continue into the store, through the kitchen design area to the back shelves. There, among faucets and sinks, is discovered a small section devoted to various cooking utensils.
The other people in the aisle probably don’t catch on to why the man in a pink polo shirt and the bedraggled woman beside him are gratefully laughing before a stack of cake pans.
And now…..America Eats! actually includes a recipe !
This is not my wonderful parking lot friend’s mother’s recipe but it’s a damn good one from the incomparable Sheila Ferguson’s Soul Food Classic Cuisine from the Deep South. Her’s is different from the standard recipe. It uses fresh cherries rather than marachino, adds almond extract, and substitutes sugar for confectioner’s sugar. Finally, Ferguson’s recipe calls for a tube pan but go ahead and use a cake pan. If you do, the one adjustment to make is to leave the pineapple slices whole because you’ll have more surface to cover.
Old-Fashioned Pineapple Upside-Down Cake
1 oz can pineapple slices in syrup 2 cups plus 4 tablespoons butter 2 cups brown sugar 4 fresh cherries, halved and pitted 2 cups confectioner's sugar 6 large eggs 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract 1/2 teaspoon pure almond extract 2 cups sifted all-pourpose flour
Preheat oven to 325 degrees.
Drain the pineapple and reserve the syrup.
Melt 4 tablespoons butter in a saucepan over low heat and pour it into the bottom of a 10" tube pan. Drop the brown sugar and 1 tablespoon pineapple syrup into the melted butter and stir until dissolved.
Cut the pineapple slices in half and arrange them attractively on the bottom of the cake pan. Place a half cherry in the center of each half pineapple slice.
Beat the remaining butter and confectioner's sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in the eggs one at a time. Add the vanilla and almond extract. Resift your flour and gradually add it to the creamed mixture.
When it's well blended, spread the batter over the pineapple and sugar mixture in the cake pan.
Bake in the oven for 1 hour and 20 minutes, or until a wooden toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Let your cake cool for 10 minutes, then invert it onto a serving plate and turn it out. Serve to your nearest and dearest!
Oh thank you. I'm not kidding the man truly continues to make a difference in my days. But someone just told me they're afraid if they meet me I'll turn them into a story. Maybe I should come with a warning sign!
Hello, I was revisiting Pie Every Day and googled you. So glad I did. Thank you!