Years ago. Frederick, Maryland.

The woman sat on the curb siding N. East Street. Right outside a dull-looking brick building.

My task: help transform that building into a luxurious venue. My son’s private school planned to hold a gala night of fundraising there.

Attendees would be dressed in their finest. Coiffed to perfection. Prepared to spend outlandish money on items and trips that weren’t worth the price they would bid.

But, it was a fundraiser and that came with the territory.

What wasn’t supposed to accompany the experience was a homeless woman parked on a curb by the front entrance.

We—the planning committee—had a red carpet look in mind.

The woman didn’t fit our vision, with tattered clothes, greasy hair, rawhide skin, and odd collection of garbage-dived stuffed animals attached to her coat.

Feeling both concerned about the evening and ashamed at wanting this woman to move, I talked with the committee. We didn’t have the heart to get the police involved. The principal of the school couldn’t be reached. Likewise with any members of the School Board or the owner of the building.

Thus, I was tagged to talk to the woman.

With gut wrenching and total awareness the average bid that night would probably feed the woman for half a year, I stepped outside to ask if I could help her move to a warmer location.

A tarnished silver necklace at her throat read “Mable.” When I introduced myself, she pronounced her name as May-Belle, emphasizing each syllable equally.

I plunked down on the concrete a few feet away. Gave her personal space. Made small talk. Asked her where she was from (Raleigh). Told her about a shelter a few blocks away. Described what was happening there that night. Explained how crowded the sidewalk would be.

Her eyes lit with excitement.

“For the young’ens?” she asked, delight lacing her words. Her Southern voice sounded altered by a pack-a-day habit.

“Yes, for the… young’ens,” I responded. A vestige of hope rose in my gut. Perhaps she understood without me having to voice our druthers. Maybe she’d move along on her own.

“I’ll be right friendly to ‘erryone,” she said, squashing my optimism. She flashed a yellow-toothed smile for extra reassurance.

Defeated, I was about to stand when my heart reminded me she might be hungry. The caterers hadn’t arrived yet.

I opened my purse and pulled out two McDonald’s coupons. I carried them for people like May-Belle. Fast-food restaurants were everywhere. Coupons would ensure they’d get food, rather than drugs or alcohol.

She thanked me and turned to gaze into that far-off place I’d seen other homeless people stare before.

I felt dismissed.

I moved on, hopeful. Perhaps May-Belle would get a kick out of seeing the attendees come and go. Perhaps participants would be influenced by her on their way in and more generously open their wallets.

You know, for the young’ens.

We finished decorating, hurried home to change, and returned.

May-Belle was still there.

It was indeed a gala event. Full of fun and laughter and spending. Lots of spending.

And, concern for May-Belle. Before the evening was through, we passed a brass bowl among our committee (because posh parties call for brass bowls, not hats, of course), to collect money for her.

When the evening wound down, I carried the bowl into the night and offered it to May-Belle.

She grabbed ahold of it. I thought she was reaching for the money. Instead, she fossicked in the left pocket of her patched jacket and pulled out a wad of money.

She added it to the bowl and pushed it back to me. “For the young’ens,” she said, following it with an obviously cigarette-influenced chuckle of joy.

At my startled look, she explained, “Folks was real friendly goin’ in.”

“But… but…” I stammered, sounding stupid, “they meant for you to have this.”

“Pfaw,” she mutterd and waved it away. “I got all I need. Use that,” she pointed at the bowl. “Teach ‘em young’ens to be kind. We’ll all be blessed then.”

I swallowed hard and went inside, her words etched on my heart.

“We’ll all be blessed then.”

Yes, we will, May-Belle.

Even all these years later and living in a new locale, and down a couple backroads, I’m still blessed by the memory of her words.