March 17, 2025

A Piece of Pie and Kindness

By: Michael Sinsigalli

                                                                                                                       

“An empty plate at the backdoor, waiting for a soul to pass by…”

            I have always known that my grandmother, Nana as we called her, was a special person.  She made us laugh, made penuche and sent it to us when we were away at summer camp, and let us explore our boundaries with loving, gentle correction along the way.  Food was always at the center of our gatherings whether it be a summer cookout or a Thanksgiving Feast.  There was always something delicious being offered, either from Grandpa’s Victory Garden or Nana’s stove.

My first recollection of Nana and Grandpa was at their house on Bridge Street in Warehouse Point, Connecticut, about two buildings down from the intersection of Main Street.  The house was either a duplex or a three-family. Two doors down from the house was Balf’s Confectionary that was a small candy shop with a soda fountain and a few odds and ends.  My Mom likes to tell the story of having a line of Army vehicles stop on the road in front of the house on their way to the Army Airfield in Windsor Locks at the start of the Second World War. Mom was a little girl playing in the front yard and the soldiers, anxious for a little taste of home, were asking her to run into the store to get some candy for them. Well, my mom, being a veteran of many trips to Balf’s to satisfy her own sweet tooth, knew that because of rationing, there was no candy to be had.  When Nana heard what was going on, she was able to make a quick fudge to give to the soldiers while they waited.  My Mom has no idea how she did it because rationing affected everyone at the time.  But that was Nana.  A hungry soul was a challenge which could not be ignored.

My Grandparents lived in that house in the years between the end of the Depression and the start of the Second World War.  The house was a few blocks east of the Connecticut River and the bridge to Windsor Locks and the train station.  It was also about a half mile from the railroad bridge were trains crossed the river on the way north to Springfield, Massachusetts, Brattleboro, Vermont and Canada. During that time, many men train hopped, riding trains without the benefit of a ticket, seeking jobs to feed themselves and perhaps send a little money home.  The folks riding the rails in this manner were broken called different, depending on their motivation.  Hobos, according to Mom, were the men who offered to work for food, shelter or some money.  They may sharpen knives, or plant a garden, maybe even paint a fence.  Gandy Dancers were the men who worked for the railroad repairing the tracks while the Bums, well they offered nothing in exchange for food or shelter.  When the trains stopped at the station, these hoppers would jump off and head to the town for something to eat or maybe a chance to sleep for the night in a shed or barn.  Some of the folks who lived in these towns were not too friendly to the train hoppers but the were many who would give the men some chore to do for something to eat. There was a certain standard that these men held themselves to.  For example, they would always approach from the back door, knowing that is where the kitchen is and where the housewives spent their time.  The hobos always wanted to do something for their food, if not in doing a chore or two, at least in telling a story of their travels.         

Nana, a young housewife at the time with two small children, had a soft spot in her heart for the hungry, maybe because of what she had seen of folks in the soup lines during the Great Depression.  Maybe because she had to wait in a soup line herself.  Whatever the motivation, she was not someone to see a person go hungry.  At the back door, she kept a small table with a plate, cup, and silverware.  Whenever one of the train hoppers came to the door, she would make something for them from whatever she had on hand.  But it would be fresh and hot. And the men would eat with the dignity of a chair, a table, a cup, a plate, silverware, and gentle conversation.

An empty plate at the back door, waiting for a soul to pass by,

My Grandma would invite them in to have some of her pie.

They would sit on her back stoop, and gobble that apple pie down,

And tell her stories of the road before they left the town.

Chorus:

A piece of pie and kindness was all she had to give,

To many traveling men looking for a place to live.

Most would offer work in pay for her modest fair,

Even those who offered none would still find full plates there.

Grandma would never turn away anyone who came to call.

Hobos, bums, or gandy dancers, she would feed them all.

A simple heartfelt thank you brought a smile her face,

 and the mark they left on her back door said here was a kind place.

Chorus

I often think of my grandma and the kindness in her heart,

And how she served others and lived to do her part.

In honor of her gentle soul I try to find a way

To carry on her mission each and every day.

Chorus

Copyright 2020 by Mike Sinsigalli