In Depression time, as Thanksgiving week began, Jocko Smith was 300 miles from home, working for peanuts. Two months before, he left his wife and two daughters in Chicago and took a job, the first real work he'd had in two years. It was a nice feeling to work again, to have a little control of his own destiny. Jocko hated to be idle. It led him to horrible thoughts about his own worth. Work, however menial, was the only tonic. It was then that he felt release.
Jocko wasn't his real name. In fact, he'd forgotten how he got the nickname over time. He was plain old Daniel when he went into the army. After a year in France at the end of the Big War, he came back to the States as Jocko. He picked it up and never put it down again. The only person in the world who called him Daniel was his wife, Maria. They met after the war and married in 1920. The two were true love birds. They made life sing for each other. It took a while, with many fits and starts, but they managed to have the two children. Jocko thought them to be the most lovely beings in the world. He hated every moment away from them.
By age 34, he knew he'd never be rich. In fact, his eighth grade education wouldn't get him much better work than he had right now, laying ties before the track men came through with the rails. It was backbreaking work, seven days a week and eleven hours a day, but the kind he was used to. Jocko knew he'd face a lifetime of that kind of work from the moment he took his first job.
Still, if ever a man embodied Murphy's Law, it was Jocko Smith. Everything that could go wrong did. The job was supposed to be in Joliet. If nothing else, he could have been home for weekends. Instead, the company sent him most of the way to St. Louis. On top of that, he had no steady address. Laying track isn't a stationary job. His three women wrote every day, but he saw their letters once a week if he was lucky. When the mail packet came, he tried to be disciplined about it - one letter a day to prolong the good feeling - but it never worked.
Back at home, his wife Maria was struggling to keep things afloat. She'd been working some until his job came through. With Jocko gone, however, she needed to be at home with the girls. He sent money regularly, but it wasn't quite enough. Jenny, the six year old, was sick. The doctor was treating her at no charge, but he was worried. A bad cold had turned into a chronic condition. He feared it was developing into something worse. Beth, a pretty girl of nine, was a worrywart. She was always asking her mother to let her get a job. She wanted to help. The neighbors did as much as they could, but they had problems of their own.
At the beginning of Thanksgiving week, Jocko told his foreman that he was going home for the holiday. "When will you leave?" the foreman asked. "Wednesday morning, "Jocko replied. "Don't bother coming back, then. We'll have you replaced by Wednesday noon." The foreman wasn't being heartless, only practical. If the track wasn't done in a month, the crew wouldn't make it home for Christmas.
Jocko used a few pennies to send a wire. "Coming home. Bringing turkey. Love you." It was all he could afford. He didn't even sign it. He knew they'd know it was him. The turkey was a parting gift from the railroad. They weren't cruel. They knew the living conditions their workers were forced to face.
As the bird was a parting gift, so was the train ride home. It was three in the morning when the train roared into Union Station. Jocko spent the last hour with his nose pressed to the window, searching for the first glimpse of the city. When he saw the buildings looming out of the prairie, he sat back and smiled. He'd make it in time for Thanksgiving dinner.
When Maria got the cable, she cried with joy. She spent the day getting ready for the special meal. Miraculously, Jenny's health improved the minute she heard the news. She wasn't well by any stretch of the imagination, but the fearsome rasping was gone from her breath. The doctor examined her and pronounced her lungs clear. Beth told all her friends about the turkey. They'd be the only ones on the block with a real Thanksgiving feast. Far from being jealous, the other children were thrilled for her. They knew how much it meant.
On the long walk home from the station, Jocko noticed the homeless, hungry people all around, their numbers seemed to grow by the hour. There was no help for these people - not from government, not from charity. They had to make do as they could. Jocko bundled himself deeper into his coat and said a silent prayer for them. His lonely walk continued through the dark hours. Bag in one hand, turkey in the other, he was headed home.
Three miles into his walk - halfway home - Jocko passed through what had been an industrial district. The factories had been closed and shuttered when the economy collapsed. Between the buildings, there were now fifteen or twenty shanties. The poorest of the poor lived there. Their shacks were made from scraps of wood and tin. People lived by the warmth of fires they couldn't safely bring inside. At the occasional fire, an old man or woman sat. They were desperately seeking warmth. He said a prayer for them as he passed.
A thought intruded on his prayer. It was a Gospel story, the one about the sheep and the goats. "Why now?" he asked himself. "Why am I thinking about doing something for the least of my brothers?" Still, he couldn't shake the story, and one line in particular: "When I was hungry, you gave me to eat.' It rang through his head and echoed in his brain. He stopped at one of the fires.
The old woman there said, "That's a beautiful bird. Your family will have a wonderful meal." Jocko said, "It should be very good. It will be a great Thanksgiving." Then, before he thought about what his question meant, he asked, "What could you do with this turkey here?" The woman answered his question simply. "Well, I'd make a pot of soup, a huge pot. Everyone here would get enough for today and tomorrow." Jocko grimaced. He knew what his response would be. When he got up to leave, he took his bag. The woman called out, "You left your bird," but he pretended not to hear.
After a little more wandering, it was nearly dawn. He woke the butcher and bought what he could afford - a duck, and a scrawny one at that. He sucked up his courage and went into his house. Maria met him with a kiss and a long embrace. Jenny and Beth jumped into his arms. They kissed and hugged him until he finally begged for a chance to breathe. They talked a bit about their adventures in the past two months. It was such a joy to be together again. When everything finally settled, Beth noticed the bird. "That's not a turkey," she said. "I know," Jocko replied, "but we'll make do on love."
Happy Thanksgiving!
Fr. Phil Cyscon
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