Amy Frykholm

I know that I have been neglectful of this poor notebook, and I frequently question whether I have what it takes to be a blogger. This form isn't that well suited to someone who does most of her writing on graph paper sitting next to the wood stove. 

This week I am remembering Don the Dishwasher. My lifelong passion for soup kitchens started in a back alley in Sioux Falls, South Dakota where, at the age of twelve, I served hot apple cider to people waiting in line to eat. Afterwards I told my father that I didn't think I needed to keep going to school. I had figured out the meaning of life.

Apparently, Don felt the same way. He  came to the back door of The Banquet and held up his two hands. "Can you put these to work?" he asked. Someone put him at the dishwasher, and he ruled that corner from that day forward.  He was a steady, quiet man. He would come in the back door, hang his quilted plaid shirt on a hook, tie his stringy hair, thinning on top, into a pony tail, and work until the last pan had been put away and the stainless steel gleamed. He was unfailingly polite to everyone who set their tray in the window, thank you or no thank you. 

Later he told us that the night he had come to the back door, he had made a deal with himself. If we gave him something to do, he would live another day. If not, he would go home and kill himself. I never saw that darkness in him. To me, he was a serious hand at the dishwasher, a man of unfailing gentleness and integrity. As far as I know, he is still washing dishes at the Banquet though the location has changed and the number of trays he processes has doubled. If you go, and if you see him, please say hello.