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The secret benefactor

s a chauffeur for several years in the early 1910s, my father saw his affluent
A
employer anonymously meet the needs of numerous people, aware they would
never be able to repay him.

One instance stands out in my memory of the many stories my father shared
with me. One day, my father drove his employer to another city for a business
meeting. On the outskirts of town, they stopped for a sandwich lunch.

While they ate, several boys rolling hoops passed by their “Tin Lizzie.” One of the boys limped.
Looking more closely, my father’s boss observed that the boy had a club -foot. He stepped out of the

car and caught up with the boy.

“Does that foot give you a lot of trouble?” the man asked the youngster.

“It slows down my running some,” the boy replied. “And I have to cut up my shoe to make it
comfortable. But I get along. Why’re you asking me these questions?”

“Well, I may be able to help get that foot fixed. Would you like that?”

“Sure,” he said. The youngster was happy but a little confused by the question.

The businessman wrote down the boy’s name and returned to the car. Meanwhile, the boys picked
up their hoops and continued down the street.

As my father’s employer got back in the car, he said, “Woody, the boy who limps... his name is
Jimmy. He’s eight years old. Find out where he lives and get his par ents’ names and address.” He
handed my father the boy’s name on a piece of paper. “Go visit his parents this after noon and do your
best to get their permission to let Jimmy have his foot operated on. We can do the paper work later.

I’ll take care of all the costs.”

They finished their sandwiches, and my father drove his employer on to the business appointment.

It didn’t take long to get Jimmy’s home address from a nearby drugstore. Most everyone there
knew the boy with the clubfoot.

The small house Jimmy and his family called home needed paint and repair. Looking around, my
father noticed tattered shirts and patched dresses hanging on the clothes-line attached to the side of the

house. A dis carded tire hanging from an old piece of rope on an oak tree served as a swing.

A woman in her mid-thirties responded to the knock on the rusty door. She looked tired, and her

furrowed features betrayed a life of hardship.

“Good afternoon,” my father greeted her. “Are you Jimmy’s mother?”