Take Me Off the Wall
Dillon Christopher Stull, from McKinney, Texas! Congratulations to Dillon, who will be awarded a $5,000 scholarship! We have also selected the runner-up and third place essays, and will post those names and essays soon. Dillon's winning entry is below. 
Take Me Off the Wall
I’ve ended up in an ordinary brick house. Mrs. Johnson bought me at Goodwill. Deciding I would be a nice decorating touch to her kitchen, she threw me into her bag with a ceramic vase and a replacement showerhead. I was bought for three dollars and fifty two cents to be hung on the wall with her antique kitchen décor. However, I am useful for more than decoration. In fact, I have experienced countless adventures and witnessed spectacular transformations of the American people. Different paths have led me to this hook on the kitchen wall.
I was born in 1792 into our infant nation when a young Boston blacksmith molded me and took me to market. As he pulled my head from the sack, I saw a flag, striped with red and white, with a patch of blue flecked by white stars. I would come to learn its meaning.
That day, I was bought by an amiable lady from Connecticut. For almost twenty years, I served humbly at the residence of the Adamsons. Usually, Mrs. Adamson would use me to cook, stir, and serve her tasty lentil soup, but I did render myself a multi-purpose tool on several occasions: I swatted my fair share of flies, held open a few windows, and even caught some leeches in the creek when mom was gone. In 1808, Mrs. Adamson replaced me because she thought I was lost. In reality, little Todd had pretended that I was a pirate sword, stowing me under the “deck” of his “ship.” Two months later, Mrs. Adamson discovered me under Todd’s mattress and gifted me to her husband so that he could have a good ladle on board his ship for his next trading journeys.
In the year 1811, Mr. Adamson’s ship was captured by the British, who impressed him and his crewmates into the British Navy. After years of boat rides and merchant dealings, I found myself headed back to the United States on a cotton cargo ship. It had been twenty-two years since I had set handle on American soil.
The loud sailors created a racket as they removed the boat’s contents. I was loaded onto one of many large pallets and taken to market the following day. There, a lady named Ms. Carter bought me and took me to her home in South Carolina. Unlike Mrs. Adamson, she had no kids to steal me from the kitchen to use in their youthful mischief. I remained there for years, only occasionally rendered for guest dinners hosted by Ms. Carter. My encounters with new people were few until came the year 1847.
A soft, urgent knocking broke the night. Ms. Carter peeled open the door, but I could not perceive the whispers through the cabinet until she and a dark-skinned man hurried into the kitchen.
“Here now, take this. I just made it this evenin’. And here’s a nice warm coat for ya’. Stay warm now.”
“Why thank ya’ ma’am, ya’ must know that potata’ soup is my favorite. Thank ya’ so much. Gawd bless ya’ ma’am.”
“You are absolutely welcome sir. Best you be gettin’ on ya’ way now. Remember, stay well hid – You’ve got plenty of shadow fo’ now. Try to make it clear up to Anne’s barn by sunrise.”
“Thank ya’ Ms. Carta’ fo’ ya’ hospitality.”
Footsteps fell lightly on the wooden floor, coming close to me. Ms. Carter opened up the cabinet, pulled me out, and took me to the man.
“Take this here ladle fo’ your soup sir. You can make use of it as a spoon and bowl in one…. It might come in handy fo’ ya’ without takin’ up too much space.”
With that, the man nodded to Ms. Carter and took off into the darkness. He covered several miles by sunrise, safely reaching his next stop. For weeks, he traveled by night and hid by day. I helped feed him what little soup he had, and once I realized that he was a runaway slave heading north, I determined to serve him just as Ms. Carter had so graciously done.
One early morning, my owner arrived at another stopping point, stepping lightly into the house after shaking the dust off his body. He bowed his head and humbly mumbled, “Thank ya’ mam’.”
“Nice to meet you, sir. Ms. Laura Haviland. We can talk in a moment – for now, follow me.”
She guided him quickly outside, around the house, and into an abandoned barn.
“Stay here until nightfall. In the following room you will find some bread, a bucket full of water, and two others who arrived just last night.”
The man seemed excited that he would have others to keep him company on his lonely journey, thanked the lady once more, and disappeared into the barn with me, his small bag, and the “leftovers,” crumbs, from yesterday’s only meal.
Night fell and the time came for the man to travel to his next stop. He sincerely wished his companions, a woman and her child, goodbye. Noticing that the young toddler had been struggling to drink from the water bucket, he knelt down beside his mother and handed me to her. Nodding politely, he slipped out of the barn like a shadow along the wall. The woman delicately dipped my head into the bucket of cold water and drew enough to give her child a sip. For three days I served the woman, her son, and two other runaway slaves who had taken refuge with Ms. Haviland.
Over the next twenty years, I remained in that hidden Michigan barn room, serving water to those seeking refuge. The generosity of Ms. Haviland amazed me. She risked so much to shelter each runaway slave.
Years later, I managed to end up in Detroit. One of the cooks dipped my head into the hot, sweet-smelling bean soup. Pulled back out, I heard the din of a hundred voices at once. People filled the waiting room just as our soup filled the vat – all the way to the brim. The line wrapped around the outside of Capuchin Services Center. Lunch time came and the crowd poured in. I moved from the vat to a bowl, the vat, a bowl, the vat again, and another bowl. The hungry stomachs seemed never-ending.
The Depression had just hit. It hit hard. I helped the kitchen ladies to dish out another bowl of soup, two, three, four, even hundreds more. The ladies whistled, sang, and laughed as they prepared the food each day: it was not that they loved the job, but that they loved the people.
Not long after that, my days were filled with the tremendous cracking of gunfire and constant booming of missile shells. I had been contributed to the war effort in Europe. The soldiers rose early and turned in late, tirelessly serving their country on the battlefield. At the mess hall, I was amazed by the suffering that the men endured. I will never forget daily watching two men carry their friend in for meals, supporting him under each arm, his pant legs folded, pinned, and tucked into his belt. Shipments of envelopes seemed to be the hope of their hearts. Arriving, their contents were opened, read, and reread, kissed by a tear before being tucked into a shirt pocket. The victory in each heart was a victory for all.
The ringing of the battlefield ceased. Over the next several decades, I found myself in and out of thrift shops, kitchens, and garage sales. For the last four years, I have been hanging as an antique kitchen decoration.
Today, Christopher brought his friend Bryan into the house, hanging up their coats after shaking them free of snow. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson welcomed Bryan, who looked nervous and fidgeted in his threadbare sweatshirt. Bryan had a tough life: I could see it in his downtrodden face. Wanting to cheer him and warm him up, Christopher and Mr. Johnson went into the kitchen. Bryan meekly sat by the table and watched as they went to work.
Pots clanging, faucets humming, and knives chopping, the two set to work on what they called “Chicken Chili.” When Mr. Johnson said it was just right, Christopher searched a number of drawers looking for the regular kitchen ladle. Finally, wanting to get on with it he glanced up at the wall, grabbed me, and dunked me into the boiling pot. As Bryan took his first sip of soup, his eyes lit up. In those eyes I saw the thirsty slave, the hungry beggar, and the war-beaten soldier. They reminded me that freedom, happiness, and victory come by helping one person at a time.
Bryan stayed late that evening and left a different person. A smile graced his face and his laughter mingled with that of the Johnson family. For hours, Bryan sat at the table, sharing stories and listening to the tales of others. It does not take a Navy SEAL to make a bowl of soup, nor does it take a senator to welcome a friend into his home. Every person can serve his or her country by simply serving his neighbor, friend, or brother. Service is quite beautiful to witness. However, it is not meant for decoration, but for change. Take me off the wall.
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