Instead of going home, I drove across town to theWestdale Community Resource Center, where Walterhadvolunteered for the final six years of his life. Theold brick building had once been a department store,butnow it housed a food pantry, a clothing closet, acommunity kitchen, and services for people strugglingwithrent, utility bills, and unemployment. Walterhad begun volunteering there after retiring from thepostalservice because he missed having somethinguseful to do. He delivered groceries to people whocouldn’teasily leave their homes, drove neighbors tomedical appointments, and repaired whatever neededfixing.He would return home tired and cheerful,with stories about the people he’d met and a faintsmell ofcoffee and cardboard clinging to his clothes.
After his death, I had struggled to visit the centerbecause it reminded me too sharply of him. ButthatSaturday, I couldn’t face returning to my emptyhouse with groceries for a Christmas dinner I wasnolonger attending. Clare, the center’s director,welcomed me and accepted the unopened pantryitemsand fresh fruit, though she explained thathealth regulations prevented the organization fromtakingthe refrigerated pie crusts and dairy products.I asked whether she needed help sorting donations,andsoon I was standing beside two college studentsand a retired dentist named Harold, separatingcannedvegetables, soup, beans, pasta, and peanutbutter. The work was simple, and the conversationaroundthe table made the afternoon easier to bear.
Later, while carrying boxes into a supply room, I noticedan old gray metal cabinet with a papersnowflaketaped to its door. Beneath the snowflake, someonehad written Walt’s Cabinet on a strip ofmasking tape.I recognized it immediately. Walter had spent twoafternoons repairing its stubborn hinge,returninghome with grease on his hands and declaring that thedoor would outlive him. Clare found mestanding infront of it and invited me into her office for coffee. Aphotograph of Walter hung behind her desk,showinghim carrying a folding table across the grass at asummer picnic, his head tipped back in laughter.
Seeing him there brought back memories of hisgenerosity, but also of the collection he’d spentnearlythirty years assembling. Walter loved hockey,particularly the old Cleveland Barons, and hadcollectedprograms, ticket stubs, photographs,signed pucks, pennants, and pieces of equipmentfrom flea marketsand estate sales. He organizedeverything meticulously in labeled binders and keptan inventory on ourcomputer. After his death, Iarranged for a specialist auction house in Columbusto evaluate and sellthe collection. The pieces wentto buyers across the country, and the final payment,after commissionsand expenses, totaled $31,000. I’dplaced the money in savings and left it untouched.
Adam knew about the sale. He and Renee hadbeen looking for a larger house with a yard forthe children,and when I told him how much thecollection had brought, he remarked that themoney would makea substantial down payment.I agreed that it would. He never asked me tocontribute it, and I neverpromised it to him.
During the summer, however, I had already spoken withClare about making a donation to Westdalein Walter’smemory. I had considered giving $5,000 or perhaps$10,000, but hadn’t settled on theamount. Sittingacross from her that December afternoon, I askedabout the center’s housing assistancefund. Clareexplained that twenty-two families were waiting forhelp, many facing eviction after fallingbehind on rent,while the fund had only about $4,000 remaining. Somehouseholds needed securitydeposits to move intosafer accommodation; others needed modest amountsof arrears paid so theycould remain where they lived.
I asked what the full $31,000 might accomplish.Clare cautioned me against making a major financialdecisionwhile upset, and I appreciated her concern.But the gift wouldn’t jeopardize my retirementincome,emergency savings, or mortgage-free home, and I hadbeen considering a contribution formonths. I thoughtof Walter repairing broken shelves and deliveringgroceries, doing useful work withoutasking whetheranyone noticed. Then I wrote a check for $31,000 tothe Westdale Community ResourceCenter, specifyingthat it should support housing assistance, winter meals,and related needs. In thememo line, I wrote For Walt.
Clare asked whether the center could acknowledge thegift publicly, including the amount. I agreed, thoughIknew Renee followed its social media page and mightsee the announcement. That knowledge gave meanuncomfortable flicker of satisfaction. I wasn’t proud ofit, but I couldn’t honestly deny that part of mewantedmy family to understand I had a life and choicesbeyond whatever arrangements they made for me.
Before leaving, I asked whether Westdale neededvolunteers for Christmas dinner. Clare opened herbatteredscheduling binder, found an empty linein the kitchen roster, and wrote down my name.
When Adam called that evening, he explained thatRenee’s mother had endured a difficult year andthefamily wanted to make the holiday easier forher. He said we’d celebrate with me the followingweekend.I told him he could have informed meearlier, wished him a good Christmas, and hung up.
Then I crossed Noon. Adam’s off the calendarand replaced it with Westdale. 10 a.m.
At 7:15 the following morning, someone beganpounding on my front door. I opened it with thesecuritychain fastened and found Adam standingon the porch in a fleece jacket and sweatpants, hishair disheveledand his phone held out in front ofhim. On the screen was Westdale’s announcementthanking JoanneKessler for a $31,000 donationin memory of Walter Kessler, described as one ofthe center’s mostbeloved volunteers. The postexplained that the gift would support emergencyhousing assistanceand winter meals for local families.
Adam looked stunned. He said Renee had foundthe announcement early that morning and wascryingbecause the money had been intended fortheir house purchase. I asked when I’d agreed togive itto them. He admitted I hadn’t, but insistedthey’d planned to discuss it with me after Christmas.Thetiming was painful. They had intended toask for a substantial financial contribution afterexcludingme from the holiday gathering, apparentlyassuming I would still be happy to provide it.
