A LIKELY STORY: MILL'S KINDNESS: A HEARTFELT THANKS FROM ONE OF HER CHILDREN

"It is in the shelter of each other that the people live." -- Irish proverb

When I think of kindness, I can't help but think of Mill.

Mill is a little old lady who lives down on Mill Street. I'm sure some of you know her or at least know of her. Children call her Mill, partly because they can't pronounce her name and partly because she lives on Mill Street.

Mill is crippled and gets around by holding onto drawers, chairs and tables when she walks. She's much too proud to ever sit in a wheelchair or use crutches. In fact, she's often been a crutch for others much more able-bodied than her.

She still cooks her own meals and does her own laundry. She likes sitting outside on her porch when it's warm, even if she spends most of the time swatting away flies.

She has to send for her groceries and trust others to pay her bills for her, but it's been independence enough for her for over 20 years since her husband passed on.

Mill doesn't have to worry about her castle in heaven, she's been building it from here on Earth for most of her life. In addition to running a community center in Jackson many years back, she raised several abandoned children.

She didn't have much; she spent most of her Social Security check and the small veteran's check that her husband left her to put food in their bellies and clothes on their back.

Sometimes she raised children while parents tried to find work. Other times it was for longer periods of time. But when no one else cared, she did.

My brothers and I were there about seven years. She wasn't a relative of mine, and it still seems hard to explain how me and my brothers ended up there. I'm not even sure I understand it myself. I was only 5 years old when my parents got a divorce, and my brothers' and my weeklong visits to Mill's slowly turned to monthlong ones and then we were living there permenantly.

The house we lived in was old. Even during August's hottest days, it was cool and damp inside. I watched mice scurry across the kitchen floor and pieces of plaster fall from the ceiling.

At the time, living at Mill's was never good enough. I remember telling her I hated her when I was 10 and running away.

As children, I don't think my brothers or I ever appreciated what she had done for us. Instead, I think we blamed her for what our folks had done. We had little idea what sacrifices she was making. Instead, we felt sorry for ourselves.

When I was 12, my dad finally got rid of the dead-weight girlfriend of his and came and got us back. And instead of being bitter, Mill was glad for us. She never talked bad about our parents to us.

The whole time I was there was a difficult time. For years I didn't go and see her and still rarely do. It's still hard to think about that time in my life, I suppose.

That's what separates people like Mill from people like me. Kindness, I would think, is the difference between a person who is just a good guy and one who passionately cares about others above themselves.

Most of us aren't like Mill. I guess we fall somewhere in the middle. Kindness is sacrifice. And sometimes it's about returning kindness.

Mill, I'll be dropping by. No more excuses about my work and marriage keeping me away. You sacrificed so much for me that it's time I sacrificed something for you. Besides, how inexpensive is time?

So look for me. And by the way, in case I've never said it: Thanks.

Scott Moyers is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.