David's Black Crocs, Act Two

        
    Except for a few times when David donned Army boots to do business at Hanscom Air Force Base in Bedford, he wore his beloved black Crocs constantly, taking them off only to go to bed. I informally rated the nurses and technicians at Cox outpatient for how careful they were in not unintentionally kicking the Crocs under the exam table.

            They were made of flexible matte-black resin and had removable fleece lining for cold weather. David never made a formal will, but he had definite plans for his Crocs. He wanted to donate them to someone in a muddy area of Africa.

            On October 4^th, I received the following email from our friend, Diane, who took the Crocs to Accra, Ghana, sent me the following email:

Dear Mary & Jim,

I hope there have been some moments of joy woven into the fabric of grief and sorrow that would surely be part of this day. Yet, David's birth is surely to be celebrated, and I have been celebrating David.  I will share with you the story of David's crocs, by beginning with an admission that when I saw the crocs I realized I may have jumped too quickly to have recommended the week before that we give them to my dear friend Charles. Charles feet would not fill those shoes. Yet I knew I would find the right person. Or the right person would find me.  

As I went about my business and I carried those shoes in my great big Ghana bag each day.  On October 1: no tall men. On October 2: no tall men. October 3--same story. You can imagine that all along I'm checking in with David now and again. Who do you want me to give these shoes to? Please nudge the right person in my direction and please let it be on October 4. I had made a promise that I intended to keep.

On October 4, I was with a person I was meeting for the first time. Greg, a USAID consultant from Colorado, who was very tall and would have fit in those shoes nicely. He travels all over Africa evaluating USAID agriculture projects. Mali was his next stop. Could it be Greg? I thought about it as we worked together. But, no.....he's not an African. It just wasn't right. At one point we needed a taxi and Greg hailed a driver. A tall, and I mean very tall, rather handsome young man emerged from the driver's seat to open the back door for me. But a taxi driver? What was his story? We chatted. Tetteh (Tay-Tay) was his name. He was the son of a farmer, living in Accra to earn more money for his family. He goes to the farm for planting and tending and harvesting. Of course! Farmers slog around in a lot of soupy earth during the rainy season. This man needs these crocs.

Greg looked on in awe as I pulled two very large shoes out of my bag and began to tell them both the story of the crocs. And David's story. Rather formally, I offered Tetteh David's gift, and asked him to wear the shoes David no longer needed them, in David's honor. I showed Greg and Tetteh David's picture, with his birth date noted, and asked Tetteh to read about David and to think about David as he wore his crocs.

This young man was very touched, Mary. Jim, I could see in his smile a sense of both awe and delight.  I was honored to be there. Surely, he will be a more thoughtful, appreciative person as he learns about David and accepts his gift. I imagine there will be an evening back at the farm, when he wears the crocs home and tells his family about David.

Much love,

Diane