When I was 12 years old Deerfield was just a small rural community. Dixie Highway was our main north-south road, and our family home was the first house on the east side coming south from Boca Raton.
There was no such thing as a store-bought Christmas tree back then —at least not in Deerfield. So at age 12, a few days before Christmas, it became my job to go find a tree “in the woods” (i.e. in Boca Raton), cut it down and haul it on my wagon back to the house down Dixie Highway. I’d received my own hatchet for my birthday in October, so I was anxious to use it to cut down a tree. I hid my wagon in some bushes and searched the area just north of the bridge on the east side. While searching, I heard some voices down by the river. So I crept down to see what I could see. I saw three hobos sitting under the bridge talking. One was coughing badly and he looked really skinny. I felt sorry for them, especially the one coughing (because it was really cold and they didn’t have on jackets). But I knew better than to approach them, as they might be dangerous. They hadn’t seen me, so I headed back north by the highway looking for a Christmas tree. I finally found one that was shaped just right and about as big as I could put on my wagon. So I chopped the tree down, dragged it to the highway and put it on the wagon. Then I pulled the wagon with the tree back over the bridge, above the hobos, and to our house about 100 yards south of the bridge.
When I got the tree home, Mom congratulated me and we installed it in a special sand-filled bucket container with spreader legs that Dad had made for that purpose. We added a little water and started the decorating process. While we were decorating, I mentioned to Mother about the hobos I’d seen and how cold they looked and how one was coughing real bad. I knew that sometimes Mom had made sandwiches for hobos who knocked on the door. So after we finished the tree, she went into the kitchen and started making peanut butter sandwiches. She put them in one brown bag and then got another bag of old sweaters and jackets which Dad didn’t wear very often and one old blanket. She then told me to go back down to the bridge and drop the two bags down to the hobos without saying anything to them. Then I was to run back run back home quickly making sure they didn’t see where I went. With mission accomplished, I was proud to have done something to help those poor fellows.
I remember Mother and Dad talking about it that night and Dad saying that it happens every winter. When it gets cold up north, the vagrants, as he called them, come south looking for warm weather. They apparently don’t realize that it can get cold down here, too. So they end up unprepared when a cold spell hits.
The next day was a Saturday and I was watching Hop-Along Cassidy on TV when the police car pulled up front. The policeman, Mr. Lloyd Newman, came to the front door carrying the same brown bag I had dropped down to the hobos the previous evening. He said, “Mrs. Eller did you make some peanut butter sandwiches for some hobos by any chance?” Mother said “Yes, I did. David dropped them off to the hobos down by the bridge yesterday afternoon.” Officer Newman continued, “Well, we found a dead man, a hobo down under the bridge this morning, with a half of a eaten peanut butter sandwich in his hand. We just wanted to make sure he hadn’t been poisoned or anything like that. But if you made the sandwich then I know everything is alright. So…you have a Merry Christmas, you hear?” Mother responded “Thank you Lloyd. And Merry Christmas to you too!”
I share this true story as a reminder that we all need to be sensitive to the needy in our midst. Happy Hanukkah and Merry Christmas to all.
