New trends in government funding are causing charities to rethink the way services are delivered. The idea is for the government to provide more resources to local organizations and let them decide how assistance should be provided.

That’s the way it was in the little town where I grew up: Neighbor helping neighbor, so to speak.

Of all the folks needing help in our little town, Duffy was probably one of the most needy. People were good about helping, though, and Duffy (not his real name) always got by one way or another.
There was the time, for example, when one of the local farmers passed away and a couple of the boys from town were given the job of finding a home for his last few possessions. Things like an old saddle, a corn sheller and a pair of cowboy boots.

One of the fellows looked at the cowboy boots and said, “I’ll bet Ol’ Duffy could use these. He never has a decent pair of shoes.”

The next time this man saw Duffy on the street he said, “Say, Duffy, we were going through Ralph’s stuff the other day and found a pretty good pair of cowboy boots. I thought you might be able to use them. What size do you wear?”

“Oh, seven to 11,” Duffy said.

That pretty much covered it, so Duffy got the boots.
Boots don’t last forever, though, and several years later the old fellow was back to stomping around in the most decrepit pair of footwear you would ever want to see. He was working at the tavern the same day Harlan (not his real name, either) was showing the boys his newfound wealth.

Harlan never had any money in the past, but he suddenly received an insurance settlement that he hadn’t had time to spend. He was waving a wad of bills that would choke a horse. Harlan had twenties, fifties and hundreds, all rolled up and bound together with a big rubber band. Every once in awhile, he would pull a fifty off the roll and order drinks for everybody in the place.

Just as Harlan was telling the boys what he planned to buy with all of his money, Duffy walked by in his tattered, old shoes. One was pretty much intact, but the sole on the other one had come loose in the front, and was flapping as he walked.

Duffy had to swing his foot forward with each step to avoid bending the sole underneath. This created an audible Whap. Duffy’s good shoe and his bad shoe worked together as he walked by Harlan’s table: Clomp, whap, clomp, whap, clomp, whap.

Harlan said, “Doggone it Duffy, I can’t stand to see a friend of mine flopping around in a pair of shoes like that.” Then, he pulled that big wad of bills out of his pocket and yanked off the rubber band.

“Here, Duffy,” he said. “Take this rubber band and see if you can’t do something about that sole.”

Readers with questions or comments for Roger Pond may write to him in care of this publication.