We started giving Mrs. Hottenstein a Sunday ride to Eastwood Baptist.

Miss H’s long years as a Kentucky-mountain school teacher had formed her. A few months in, she broached a topic weighing on her mind. Peering through steel-rimmed lenses, her words were direct, “Jerry, I want you to do something.”

At 90 years and counting, Mrs. H’s spunk had not waned. The spindly but keenly-postured schoolmarm was dead serious.

“I need you and Ann to bring me details of your earnings, along with your overall monthly budget. I need to know your living expenses, tuition and other school-related fees—whatever counts as routine costs.” The retired lecturer wasn’t finished. Long stretches navigating Kentucky hill classrooms had clearly forged an aura of authority. She leveled her vision.

“Jerry, the truth is you are spending far too much time working a job down at that paper. You need to give more hours doing what you came to this place to do. To give yourself to the class time required, to your assignments, exam preparations and the like.” The aged voice shifted tone for the first time in her monologue, a softer tenor.

“I want to help. I will do my part to cut your hours at that downtown newspaper. You can arrange with them to work a lighter schedule. I’m sure they’ll work with you.” She knew no such thing but that was beside the point. “I will help make up the difference.”

Our car slowed. “Ah, here we are. Thank you once again for your kindness, giving me the ride.”

I walked her up three steps and onto her porch, my hand lightly at her elbow. She stepped inside and turned, facing me. From beyond the screen it was obvious her eyes had resurrected that piercing gaze.

“Remember now. Next week. Have it ready.” Crisp. Firm.

I responded in a tone akin to a youngster’s voice of earlier times, “Yes, ma’am, I’ll do that. I promise.”

Mrs. Hottenstein’s generosity achieved the thing for which she’d hoped, freeing me more time for my college work. And the extra hours away from the teletype keys meant added time with my nurse-student wife.

The added margin also freed me to drive northward for a gathering to which I felt curiously drawn.

NOTE: Speaker-Writer Jerry Lout grew up in Okmulgee County. A graduate of Preston High School, he completed media training at OSUIT in Okmulgee prior to his San Antonio college years. He and his wife served 20 years as missionaries in Africa, afterwards directing a Tulsa University campus ministry. Twice visited by polio, Jerry authored “Living With A Limp.” His “Giants in the Rough” memoir highlights the Africa years. Both works are available on Amazon.com and his website, www.jerrylout.com, features his blog entries. Jerry welcomes inquiries and comments via email at: jerrylout@gmail.com.

©2019 Jerry Lout