I was five years old.
He had no income, a mortgage, and a wife desperately trying to keep food on the table.
One winter morning, Dad opened the front door and discovered a box on the porch.
Inside were potatoes, beans, flour, canned vegetables, and a ham.
A handwritten note said only:
From your neighbors. Pass it on.
Another box arrived the following Friday.
And another the Friday after that.
The deliveries continued until Dad found work.
He never learned who had helped them.
But Mom believed the Swensons, the former owners of Brent’s property, had been responsible.
That spring, she made Dad promise something.
They would never allow another struggling neighbor to go hungry if they could help.
So she expanded the garden.
Every Saturday, she invited families to harvest whatever they needed.
Every Friday before sunrise, she delivered produce to people too elderly, disabled, or embarrassed to visit.
