During the great depression, homeless men often referred to as hobos, would gather by a camp fire to share stories, a brew and to  contribute a portion of food that might prove more enjoyable when shared in community.

I recall as a young child a "hobo" ringing our doorbell each year as he passed through our neighborhood. My mother would invite him in and cook him a large substantial breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast. 

At the time it was all a great mystery to me. I remember the day my mom invited him in and suddenly a large stream flowed down his dirty pant legs into a big pool of urine on the floor. Eyes wide and a curious observer, ready to be repulsed, I witnessed my Mother graciously invite this stranger in to be treated as the finest King.

As I rekindle this memory with a sense of resurrection of a sacred time deeply buried, yet unearthed through this act of writing, I am brought to tears by the beautiful wisdom my Mother shared through her actions on that particular sunlit morning. Not in words, or in an air of superiority or charity but rather through her humble hospitality and the utmost reverence for human dignity.