I once visited a friend in New York City. We drove around the city, taking in the sights. It was a grand place and, though I wouldn’t want to live there, I am the richer for my brief stay.

    A most impressive thing happened the evening I slept at my friend’s apartment. His wife asked him to take out the garbage. He invited me to watch him. Having carried out trash myself, I wasn’t all that excited at the prospect, but went along for the sake of politeness.

    He took the trash to the end of his hallway, opened a little door, and dropped the trash in. There was a whooshing sound and the trash was gone, just like that. He explained how a vacuum system sucked up all the trash and carried it away. Remarkable.

    When I was growing up in Danville, our trash-removal system was not as flashy, but it was just as reliable. His name was Doc Foster, and for a dollar a week he pulled up at our curb in his pickup truck, climbed out, threw our trash in the back, and drove away. If we forgot to set our trash out, he’d drive back to our barn and get it himself. When he had a truck full he’d drive out to the town dump on Twin Bridges Road, unload, wet his finger, and put it in the air; if the wind wasn’t blowing toward town, he’d commence to burning.

    Doc Foster was black, the only black man in our town. He lived just south of the lumberyard across the railroad tracks all by himself. I hate to think his skin color dictated where he lived, though I suspect it did, and am to my core ashamed that the first thing we noticed about Doc was his color.

    In other ways, our town rose to splendid heights when it came to Doc. On his seventy-seventh birthday, we held a surprise party for him in the rotunda of the courthouse. That had never been done before, at least in my memory, and hasn’t been done since. Except when President Reagan came to town and we had a big celebration for him. Personally, I think Doc Foster did a whole lot more for Danville than any president ever did.

I think Doc Foster did a whole lot more for Danville than any president ever did.

    Back in the 1930’s during the Depression days, we had a teacher’s college in our town. Doc would often pass along a little extra tuition money to struggling students, and in this way helped supply our town with a fresh crop of teachers.

    In addition to hauling trash and being a friend to man, Doc made himself available for a whole host of tasks, from raking leaves to mowing lawns. His truck bristled with brooms and rakes of all sizes and shapes. When out-of-town visitors would compliment us on our town’s cleanliness, we would swell with pride as if we ourselves had swept up the trash the dogs had scattered. Doc did what all good people do — made the rest of us look better than we really were.

    Doc Foster died in the winter of ‘89. The day of the funeral it was snowing and not many people showed up to pay their respects. My father went and is to this very day saddened that more folks didn’t make their way through a little snow to honor a man who never let foul weather keep him from his appointed rounds. I prefer to remember how a town gathered in a courthouse rotunda and celebrated a man’s contribution while he was still alive to enjoy their praise.

    On the back wall at our meetinghouse hangs a banner listing the fruit of the Spirit — love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. (Galatians 5:22-23) When I try to think of what that looks like, my mind returns to a man who found dignity in hauling trash and sweeping gutters. What a gift his memory is to me.

    I didn’t tell this to my New York friend. What I told him was how remarkable his trash-collection system was and how lucky he was to have it. Though I knew the finer blessing was mine.

From the book Front Porch Tales, by Philip Gulley. © 1998 by Multnomah Pub., Used by permission.

Title: "Doc Foster"
Author: Philip Gulley
Publication Date: March 22, 2002

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