Plant a Row for the Hungry

By Jeff Lowenfels

It was a cold night in Washington, D.C., and I was heading back to the hotel when a man approached me. He asked if I would give him some money so he could get something to eat. I'd read the signs: "Don't give money to panhandlers." So I shook my head and kept walking.

I wasn't prepared for a reply, but with resignation, he said, "I really am homeless and I really am hungry! You can come with me and watch me eat!" But I kept on walking.

The incident bothered me for the rest of the week. I had money in my pocket and it wouldn't have killed me to hand over a buck or two even if he had been lying. On a frigid, cold night, no less, I assumed the worst of a fellow human being.

Flying back to Anchorage, I couldn't help thinking of him. I tried to rationalize my failure to help by assuming government agencies, churches and charities were there to feed him. Besides, you're not supposed to give money to panhandlers.

Somewhere over Seattle, I started to write my weekly garden column for The Anchorage Daily News. Out of the blue, I came up with an idea. Bean's Cafe, the soup kitchen in Anchorage, feeds hundreds of hungry Alaskans every day. Why not try to get all my readers to plant one row in their gardens dedicated to Bean's? Dedicate a row and take it down to Bean's. Clean and simple.

We didn't keep records back then, but the idea began to take off. Folks would fax me or call when they took something in. Those who only grew flowers donated them. Food for the spirit. And salve for my conscience.

In 1995, the Garden Writers Association of America held their annual convention in Anchorage and after learning of Anchorage's program, Plant a Row for Bean's became Plant a Row For The Hungry. The original idea was to have every member of the Garden Writers Association of America write or talk about planting a row for the hungry sometime during the month of April.

As more and more people started working with the Plant a Row concept, new variations cropped up, if you will pardon the pun. Many companies gave free seed to customers and displayed the logo, which also appeared in national gardening publications.

Row markers with the Plant a Row logo were distributed to gardeners to set apart their "Row for the Hungry."

Garden editor Joan Jackson, backed by The San Jose Mercury News and California's nearly year-round growing season, raised more than 30,000 pounds of fruits and vegetables her first year, and showed GWAA how the program could really work. Texas fruit farms donated food to their local food bank after being inspired by Plant a Row. Today the program continues to thrive and grow.

I am stunned that millions of Americans are threatened by hunger. If every gardener in America - and we're seventy million strong - plants one row for the hungry, we can make quite a dent in the number of neighbors who don't have enough to eat. Maybe then I will stop feeling guilty about abandoning a hungry man I could have helped.

Beyond Expectations

By Milt Garrett

It seems a car dealership in my hometown of Albuquerque was selling, on average, six to eight new cars a day, six days a week. I was also told that 72 percent of this dealership's first-time visitors returned for a second visit. (At that time, the average for all dealerships in Albuquerque for second-time visitors was 8 percent.) I was curious and intrigued. How does a car dealership get 72 percent of its first-time visitors to return? And how can they sell six to eight cars a day in a slumping car market? When I walked into Saturn of Albuquerque that Friday four years ago, the staff there didn't know me from Adam; yet they shared with me their pricing policy, the profit margin on every model, and staff income. They even opened their training manuals for my review and invited me back on Saturday if I wanted more information (an invitation I heartily accepted). I learned that this dealership (like all Saturn dealerships) has a "no-dicker sticker" policy; that is, the price on the window is the price you pay for the car. Period. You can't even negotiate for a free set of floor mats. Saturn abides by its premise of selling high-quality automobiles for a reasonable price. Furthermore, Saturn sales consultants (their term for customer-contact people) aren't paid a commission - they're salaried. This means when you walk onto the showroom floor you're not bombarded with what I refer to as "beyond eager"

sales people. I expanded my research to other dealerships in Albuquerque. It turned out that Ford Escorts, LTDs and Thunderbirds, as well as the Mercury Marquis, were also sold as "no-dicker sticker" cars. As Bruce Sutherland at Richardson Ford said, "We were losing our market to Saturn because of their pricing and salary policies." He also said, "If we all did what Saturn was doing, we'd not only make a decent living, but we'd also enjoy a better reputation." On Sunday, the day after my second visit to the Saturn store (their term, not mine), my wife, Jane, and I were walking as we frequently do. On this particular June morning, Jane gently slipped her hand in mine and said tenderly, "I don't know if you remember, but today's my fifth anniversary of being cancer-free." She was diagnosed with breast cancer five years ago and had undergonesurgery. I was stunned, partially because I was embarrassed that I had forgotten, and, partially, because...well, it seems we spend all of our time earning a living and never stop to live our earnings. I mean, isn't this what it's really all about? I didn't know what to do with Jane's information. I spoke to her tenderly. All day. I took her to lunch. I bought the lunch. It was a nice, intimate day. The next day, Monday, Jane went off to work teaching school. Still beside myself not knowing what to do to mark this special occasion, I did the most impetuous thing I've ever done in my life: I bought a new Saturn. I bought every accessory they produce in Springhill, Tennessee, to hang on that car. There wasn't an accessory made that I didn't buy. I didn't pick the color and I didn't pick the model, but I paid cash and told them I'd bring Jane in on Wednesday at 4:30 to make those two decisions. I told them why I was buying the car, and that it was my secret and they were not to reveal anything to her. Tuesday morning, it dawned on me that Jane always wanted a white car. I called our sales consultant at Saturn, and I asked him if he had anything white in the store. He said he had one left but he couldn't guarantee it'd still be available Wednesday at 4:30 because they were selling so fast. I said I'd take my chances and asked him to put it in the showroom. Wednesday came and went. Unexpectedly, someone in our family was admitted to the hospital. So, it wasn't until 9:30 Saturday morning when, after telling Jane the biggest lie to get her out of the house, we finally made our way to the Saturn store. I quickly turned into the parking lot and Jane angrily asked, "What are you doing? You promised me we'd get home right away." I said, "I'm sorry, I forgot I have to pick up something here for my Kiwanis speech next week." Jane had never been in a Saturn store. When we went through the front door, the Lord took control of her feet and her mouth. She saw that little white Saturn coupe all the way across the showroom floor. She quickly passed a multi-colored sea of automobiles, sat in the little white Saturn and said, "Oh, what a pretty little car. Can I have a new car?" I said, "No. Not until Charlie graduates from college." Our son, Charlie, was attending the University of New South Wales in Sydney, Australia (we call that "out of state" tuition). She said, "I'm sick and tired of driving that old Dodge, I want a new car." I said, "I promise, just three more semesters and he'll be out." Next, Jane walked around to the front of the car. As she looked it over, she let out the most blood-curdling, shrill scream I'd ever heard in 29 years of marriage. Now, before I tell you why Jane screamed, let me tell you what our sales consultant had done. He had ordered a large, professionally engraved sign (white letters on blue) and affixed the Saturn company logo on it. The sign stood alone on the hood of the little white Saturn coupe. It said "Congratulations, Jane. This car is yours. Five years cancer-free. Let's celebrate life. From Milt, Billy and Team Saturn" Every employee at Saturn of Albuquerque had endorsed the back of that sign. Jane saw it, screamed, collapsed in my arms and bawled her eyes out. I didn't

know what to do. I was in tears. I took out my invoice from the previous Monday, unfolded it and, pointing to the white coupe, said, "No, honey, this car isn't yours. I bought you this one." I tapped the invoice with my index finger. Jane said, "No, I want this one right here." Charlie, who was home from college and with us, said, "No, Mom. Dad bought you anything you want in Springhill, Tennessee or anything on the lot here." Jane said, "You don't understand, I want this one." While this conversation was going on, I looked around and discovered that there was no one in the store. Our sales consultant had arranged it so that we could share the moment alone. The mechanics, the clerical staff, the front-desk receptionist, management and all sales consultants had left the store for the sanctity of our event. Even so, it's impossible to have a lot of privacy when so many people are standing outside the showroom windows looking in. When Jane screamed and collapsed in my arms, I saw everybody outside applaud and begin to cry. Every new customer that came to the store in those minutes was not allowed to enter; instead, the staff took them aside and explained what was happening. Jane never drove the car until she took it through the showroom door that day to drive it home. Over the years, I've told this story in the United States, Australia and Indonesia as an example of legendary service. A woman in my audience in San Francisco from Anchorage, Alaska, heard the story; she called Saturn of Albuquerque long distance and bought a new car. It's like Ken Blanchard says, "It's only the stories told about us that differentiate us in the market place."

Just One Wish

By Margaret E. Mack

Fox River gave life to the country town of Colby Point, for the road and the river ran alongside one another. Colby Point was really the name of a road that crept between the hills and valleys of McHenry, Illinois. Homes were scattered here and there - mostly summer homes and retirement homes. At the very end of the road three houses all faced one another. Three sisters - all single, all seniors - lived in one of the homes. Across the way their widowed first cousin lived in a yellow house. Next to her lived their brother, Bill, and his wife Cleo.

Cleo had multiple sclerosis, so the pair had moved to Colby Point seeking a quiet, relaxed life. Little did they know when they relocated to this serene area that they would end up rearing their granddaughter, Margie. Before long, the once quiet neighborhood became active with the sounds of a child.

Margie always looked forward to the arrival of Christmas, and this year was no different as winter began to settle like a warm blanket around Colby Point. Everyone was in a flurry, for at the church Margie and her family attended, the congregation was preparing to share their Christmas wishes with each other. Since Cleo couldn't make it to church, and Bill didn't like to leave her alone for too long, he was in the habit of dropping Margie off at church early on Sunday mornings; the aunts would bring her home.

As Margie sat in church that morning, she rehearsed in her mind over and over what she would say. She wasn't afraid, for she knew what an important wish this was. The service seemed to drag on and on. Finally the pastor uttered the words Margie had been anticipating all morning, "This is a special time of year when everyone around the world celebrates peace and goodwill toward our fellow man. This year, here at St. John's, we want to hear your Christmas wishes. We cannot fill everyone's wish, but we would like to try and fill a few. As I call your name, please come forward and tell us about your Christmas wish."

One after another, the church members shared their wishes, large and small. Margie was the last and the youngest to speak. As she looked out at the congregation, she spoke confidently, "I would like for my grandma to have church. She cannot walk, and she and my grandpa have to stay at home. They miss coming so much. So that is what I wish for. And please don't tell them, for it needs to be a surprise."

Riding home with her aunts, Margie could tell they were speaking in low tones about her wish. She hoped that they would keep her secret. As the next Sunday came around, Margie was getting ready for church when Grandma asked, "Why are you so fidgety? You haven't sat still all morning."

"I just know that something wonderful is going to happen today!"

"Of course it will," said her grandma with a chuckle. "It's almost Christmas, you know."

Grandpa was getting on his coat when he happened to look out the front window. He saw some cars coming down the dirt road one after another. Now at this time of year there wasn't too much traffic, so this was really amazing. Margie pushed her grandma to the window so that she could see all the cars. Pretty soon the cars were parked all up and down the road as far as a person could see.

Grandpa looked at Grandma, and they both looked at Margie. Grandpa asked, "Just what did you wish for, Margie?"

"I wished that you and Grandma could have church. And I just knew that it would come true. Look! There's the pastor, and everyone from church is coming up the walk."

The congregation arrived with coffee and cookies and cups and gifts. They sang Christmas carols and listened to the pastor speak on giving to others the gifts that God gives. Later that night, Margie slipped out the back door and walked outside to look up at the stars. "Thank you," she whispered, "thank you for giving me my wish."

That was just one of the many wishes granted for Margie as she grew up. Her childhood overflowed with the love of her grandparents, four great aunts, and many wise, caring neighbors. Margie was truly a blessed little girl.

I should know - I was that little girl.
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