Lynda

Tear warning!

Lynda
----- Original Message -----

with all the hate in this world it's nice to know love still survives.....
>
> Something For Stevie
> By Dan Anderson
>
> I try not to be biased, but I had my doubts about hiring Stevie. His
> placement counselor assured me that he would be a good, reliable
> busboy. But I had never had a mentally handicapped employee and
> wasn't sure I wanted one. I wasn't sure how my customers would react
> to Stevie. He was short, a little dumpy, with the smooth facial
> features and thick tongued speech of Down syndrome. I wasn't worried
> about most of my trucker customers, because truckers don't generally
> care who buses tables as long as the meatloaf platter is good and the
> pies are homemade.
>
> The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me; the mouthy
> college kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs who secretly
> polish their silverware with their napkins for fear of catching some
> dreaded "truckstop germ;" the pairs of white shirted business men on
> expense accounts who think every truckstop waitress wants to be
> flirted with.
>
> I knew those people would be uncomfortable around Stevie, so I
> closely watched him for the first few weeks. I shouldn't have
> worried. After the first week, Stevie had my staff wrapped around
> his stubby little finger, and within a month my truck regulars had
> adopted him as their official truckstop mascot. After that I really
> didn't care what the rest of the customers thought of him. He was
> like a 21- year-old in blue jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh and eager
> to please, but fierce in his attention to his duties. Every salt and
> pepper shaker was exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or coffee
> spill was visible, when Stevie got done with the table. Our only
> problem was persuading him to wait to clean a table until after the
> customers were finished. He would hover in the background, shifting
> his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the dining room until
> a table was empty. Then he would scurry to the empty table and
> carefully bus the dishes and glasses onto the cart and meticulously
> wipe the table up with a practiced flourish of his rag.
>
> If he thought a customer was watching, his brow would pucker with
> added concentration. He took pride in doing his job exactly right,
> and you had to love how hard he tried to please each and every person
> he met.
>
> Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow who was
> disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer. They lived on their
> Social Security benefits in public housing two miles from the
> truckstop. Their social worker, who stopped to check on him every so
> often, admitted they had fallen between the cracks. Money was tight,
> and what I paid him was probably the difference between them being
> able to live together and Stevie being sent to a group home.
>
> That's why the restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last
> August, the first morning in three years that Stevie missed work. He
> was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new valve or something
> put in his heart. His social worker said that people with Down
> Syndrome often had heart problems at an early age, so this wasn't
> unexpected, and there was a good chance he would come through the
> surgery in good shape and be back at work in a few months.
>
> A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morning when
> word came that he was out of surgery, in
> recovery and doing fine. Frannie, my head waitress, let out a war
> hoop and did a little dance in the aisle when she heard the good
> news. Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, stared at
> the sight of the 50-year-old grandmother of four doing a victory
> shimmy beside his table. Frannie blushed, smoothed her apron and
> shot Belle Ringer a withering look.
>
> He grinned. "OK, Frannie, what was that all about?" he asked.
>
> "We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be okay."
>
> "I was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him. What
> was the surgery about?"
>
> Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other two drivers sitting
> at his booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed.
>
> "Yeah, I'm glad he is going to be OK," she said, "but I don't know
> how he and his mom are going to handle all the
> bills. From what I hear, they re barely getting by as it is."
>
> Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on
> the rest of her tables.
>
> Since I hadn't had time to round up a busboy to replace Stevie, and
> really didn't want to replace him, the girls were busing their own
> tables that day until we decided what to do. After the morning rush,
> Frannie walked into my office. She had a couple of paper napkins in
> her hand a funny look on her face.
>
> "What's up?" I asked.
>
> "I didn't get that table where Belle Ringer and his friends were
> sitting cleared off right after they left, and Pony
> Pete and Tony Tipper were sitting there when I got back to clean it
> off," she said, "this was folded and tucked under a coffee cup."
>
> She handed the napkin to me, and three $20 bills fell onto my desk
> when I opened it. On the outside, in big, bold letters, was printed,
> "Something For Stevie"
>
> "Pony Pete asked me what that was all about," she said, "so I told
> him about Stevie and his mom and everything, and Pete looked at Tony
> and Tony looked at Pete, and they ended up giving me this." She
> handed me another paper napkin that had "Something For Stevie"
> scrawled on it's outside. Two $50 bills were tucked within its folds.
>
> Frannie looked at me with wet, shiny eyes, shook her head and said
> simply, "Truckers!"
>
> That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first day
> Stevie is supposed to be back to work. His placement worker said
> he'd been counting the days until the doctor said he could work, and
> it didn't matter at all that it was a holiday. He called 10 times in
> the past week, making sure we knew he was coming, fearful that we had
> forgotten him or that his job was in jeopardy. I arranged to have
> his mother bring him to work, met them in the parking lot and invited
> them both in to celebrate his day back.
>
> Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop grinning as he pushed
> through the doors and headed for the back room where his apron and
> busing cart were waiting.
>
> "Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast," I said. I took him and his
> mother by their arms. "Work can wait for a few minutes. To
> celebrate your coming back, breakfast for you and your mother is on
> me."
>
> I led them toward a large corner booth at the rear of the room. I
> could feel and hear the rest of the staff following behind as we
> marched through the dining room. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw
> booth after booth of grinning truckers empty and join the procession.
>
> We stopped in front of the big table. Its surface was covered with
> coffee cups, saucers and dinner plates, all sitting slightly crooked
> on dozens of folded paper napkins.
>
> "First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess," I said.
> I tried to sound stern. Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother,
> then pulled out one of the napkins. It had "Something for Stevie"
> printed on the outside. As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto
> the table. Stevie stared at the money, then at all the napkins
> peeking from beneath the tableware, each with his name printed or
> scrawled on it.
>
> I turned to his mother. "There's more than $10,000 in cash and
> checks on that table, all from truckers and trucking companies that
> heard about your problems. Happy Thanksgiving!"
>
> Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody hollering and
> shouting, and there were a few tears, as well.
>
> But you know what's funny? While everybody else was busy shaking
> hands and hugging each other, Stevie, with a big, big smile on his
> face, was busy clearing all the cups and dishes from the table.
>
> Best worker I ever hired.
>
> ************************************************
> "Coming together is a beginning;
> keeping together is progress;
> working together is success." - Henry Ford, Sr.

Magdalena Hanson

What a WONDERFUL story. Thank you for sharing it!!
Magdalena
----- Original Message -----
From: "Lynda" <lurine@...>
To: <[email protected]>; <[email protected]>;
<[email protected]>; <[email protected]>;
<[email protected]>; "[email protected]"
<[email protected]>; <[email protected]>;
<mikjac@...>; "Nanette Schade" <json@...>; "Alex Bassignani"
<cowangels@...>
Sent: Wednesday, December 06, 2000 10:56 AM
Subject: [Unschooling-dotcom] Fw: Something For Stevie


> Tear warning!
>
> Lynda
> ----- Original Message -----
>
> with all the hate in this world it's nice to know love still survives.....
> >
> > Something For Stevie
> > By Dan Anderson
> >
> > I try not to be biased, but I had my doubts about hiring Stevie. His
> > placement counselor assured me that he would be a good, reliable
> > busboy. But I had never had a mentally handicapped employee and
> > wasn't sure I wanted one. I wasn't sure how my customers would react
> > to Stevie. He was short, a little dumpy, with the smooth facial
> > features and thick tongued speech of Down syndrome. I wasn't worried
> > about most of my trucker customers, because truckers don't generally
> > care who buses tables as long as the meatloaf platter is good and the
> > pies are homemade.
> >
> > The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me; the mouthy
> > college kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs who secretly
> > polish their silverware with their napkins for fear of catching some
> > dreaded "truckstop germ;" the pairs of white shirted business men on
> > expense accounts who think every truckstop waitress wants to be
> > flirted with.
> >
> > I knew those people would be uncomfortable around Stevie, so I
> > closely watched him for the first few weeks. I shouldn't have
> > worried. After the first week, Stevie had my staff wrapped around
> > his stubby little finger, and within a month my truck regulars had
> > adopted him as their official truckstop mascot. After that I really
> > didn't care what the rest of the customers thought of him. He was
> > like a 21- year-old in blue jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh and eager
> > to please, but fierce in his attention to his duties. Every salt and
> > pepper shaker was exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or coffee
> > spill was visible, when Stevie got done with the table. Our only
> > problem was persuading him to wait to clean a table until after the
> > customers were finished. He would hover in the background, shifting
> > his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the dining room until
> > a table was empty. Then he would scurry to the empty table and
> > carefully bus the dishes and glasses onto the cart and meticulously
> > wipe the table up with a practiced flourish of his rag.
> >
> > If he thought a customer was watching, his brow would pucker with
> > added concentration. He took pride in doing his job exactly right,
> > and you had to love how hard he tried to please each and every person
> > he met.
> >
> > Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow who was
> > disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer. They lived on their
> > Social Security benefits in public housing two miles from the
> > truckstop. Their social worker, who stopped to check on him every so
> > often, admitted they had fallen between the cracks. Money was tight,
> > and what I paid him was probably the difference between them being
> > able to live together and Stevie being sent to a group home.
> >
> > That's why the restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last
> > August, the first morning in three years that Stevie missed work. He
> > was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new valve or something
> > put in his heart. His social worker said that people with Down
> > Syndrome often had heart problems at an early age, so this wasn't
> > unexpected, and there was a good chance he would come through the
> > surgery in good shape and be back at work in a few months.
> >
> > A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morning when
> > word came that he was out of surgery, in
> > recovery and doing fine. Frannie, my head waitress, let out a war
> > hoop and did a little dance in the aisle when she heard the good
> > news. Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, stared at
> > the sight of the 50-year-old grandmother of four doing a victory
> > shimmy beside his table. Frannie blushed, smoothed her apron and
> > shot Belle Ringer a withering look.
> >
> > He grinned. "OK, Frannie, what was that all about?" he asked.
> >
> > "We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be okay."
> >
> > "I was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him. What
> > was the surgery about?"
> >
> > Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other two drivers sitting
> > at his booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed.
> >
> > "Yeah, I'm glad he is going to be OK," she said, "but I don't know
> > how he and his mom are going to handle all the
> > bills. From what I hear, they re barely getting by as it is."
> >
> > Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on
> > the rest of her tables.
> >
> > Since I hadn't had time to round up a busboy to replace Stevie, and
> > really didn't want to replace him, the girls were busing their own
> > tables that day until we decided what to do. After the morning rush,
> > Frannie walked into my office. She had a couple of paper napkins in
> > her hand a funny look on her face.
> >
> > "What's up?" I asked.
> >
> > "I didn't get that table where Belle Ringer and his friends were
> > sitting cleared off right after they left, and Pony
> > Pete and Tony Tipper were sitting there when I got back to clean it
> > off," she said, "this was folded and tucked under a coffee cup."
> >
> > She handed the napkin to me, and three $20 bills fell onto my desk
> > when I opened it. On the outside, in big, bold letters, was printed,
> > "Something For Stevie"
> >
> > "Pony Pete asked me what that was all about," she said, "so I told
> > him about Stevie and his mom and everything, and Pete looked at Tony
> > and Tony looked at Pete, and they ended up giving me this." She
> > handed me another paper napkin that had "Something For Stevie"
> > scrawled on it's outside. Two $50 bills were tucked within its folds.
> >
> > Frannie looked at me with wet, shiny eyes, shook her head and said
> > simply, "Truckers!"
> >
> > That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first day
> > Stevie is supposed to be back to work. His placement worker said
> > he'd been counting the days until the doctor said he could work, and
> > it didn't matter at all that it was a holiday. He called 10 times in
> > the past week, making sure we knew he was coming, fearful that we had
> > forgotten him or that his job was in jeopardy. I arranged to have
> > his mother bring him to work, met them in the parking lot and invited
> > them both in to celebrate his day back.
> >
> > Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop grinning as he pushed
> > through the doors and headed for the back room where his apron and
> > busing cart were waiting.
> >
> > "Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast," I said. I took him and his
> > mother by their arms. "Work can wait for a few minutes. To
> > celebrate your coming back, breakfast for you and your mother is on
> > me."
> >
> > I led them toward a large corner booth at the rear of the room. I
> > could feel and hear the rest of the staff following behind as we
> > marched through the dining room. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw
> > booth after booth of grinning truckers empty and join the procession.
> >
> > We stopped in front of the big table. Its surface was covered with
> > coffee cups, saucers and dinner plates, all sitting slightly crooked
> > on dozens of folded paper napkins.
> >
> > "First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess," I said.
> > I tried to sound stern. Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother,
> > then pulled out one of the napkins. It had "Something for Stevie"
> > printed on the outside. As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto
> > the table. Stevie stared at the money, then at all the napkins
> > peeking from beneath the tableware, each with his name printed or
> > scrawled on it.
> >
> > I turned to his mother. "There's more than $10,000 in cash and
> > checks on that table, all from truckers and trucking companies that
> > heard about your problems. Happy Thanksgiving!"
> >
> > Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody hollering and
> > shouting, and there were a few tears, as well.
> >
> > But you know what's funny? While everybody else was busy shaking
> > hands and hugging each other, Stevie, with a big, big smile on his
> > face, was busy clearing all the cups and dishes from the table.
> >
> > Best worker I ever hired.
> >
> > ************************************************
> > "Coming together is a beginning;
> > keeping together is progress;
> > working together is success." - Henry Ford, Sr.
>
>
>
>
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