The thru-hiker is interrupting us.  There is no other way to put it.  Matt, Erin and I are on the hidden patio that overlooks Panther Creek behind the Honor Store at the cafe, enjoying the shade and the cool breeze that rises off the water.  We’re reviewing what we know so far about Bob’s diagnosis, all the unknowns we’re facing in terms of treatment, how to work together as Matt, Erin and their kids re-adjust to life in the United States and Matt’s new job, how to balance Erin’s job in Ireland with our anticipated needs here at the farm and cafe.  

We look up, and the gentleman is standing beside our chairs, knobby knees poking out of khaki hiking shorts.  

I can’t decide if he’s rude or vulnerable, walking in on a private conversation like that.  He’s taking a risk, for certain.

“I just come off the trail,” he gestures to the section of the Long Path that crosses through West Fulton.  “I come down from Northville.  I was looking for a place to eat, and I found a carpenter.  He said your cafe was only open Saturdays, but that you had an honor store.”

“Sure thing,” I told him.  “Go on in and check it out.  Let me know if you need any help.”

He pounced on the word help.  “Actually, is there any way someone could just make me a cup of coffee?  It’s just that…well, there’s nothing around.  I mean, I thought the Adirondacks were sparse.  This place is incredible!  I mean, there’s nothing around except a few houses! There’s no place I can go.”

I smile.  “You need to go see Bob.  He’s working in the cafe.  We’re closed today, but he’ll do anything for a thru-hiker,” I tell him. “He’ll definitely make you a pot of coffee.”

He walks into the cafe and Matt, Erin and I finish up.  When I go back inside, the thru-hiker’s poles are propped outside our door, and his pack is leaning up against table one.  He’s settled in with a pot of French press, his maps spread out on table four.  He and Bob are deep in conversation about trail conditions, improvements, and new sections.  Next thing I know, Bob comes in to tell me he’s leaving.  

“He needs to get to town for supplies,” Bob says.  And with that, Bob’s to-do list goes on the back burner.  A thru hiker needs help.  After more than twenty years married to this former Maine Guide and Appalachian Trail caretaker, I know better than to argue.  Bob never denies a request for help from a thru-hiker.

I watch them go, and I look at the pack the thru-hiker has left behind while they take their drive.  A person can’t walk from Northville, NY all the way down to the Washington Bridge and carry everything they’ll need.  They’ll run out of provisions.  

And they can’t step off the trail and be guaranteed to find a grocery store, either.  

A thru-hiker has to ask for help.  They have to find people who are going about their lives, interrupt them, intrude on their world, and throw themselves at their mercy.  If a thru-hiker cannot fathom approaching strangers and asking for their kindness, they need to plan a shorter trip.  This experience of vulnerability is as much a part of the adventure as making camp, seeing the vistas and staying on the trail. 

I ponder this as I think through what has become a constant preoccupation of my mind these days: treatment options for Bob’s radiation.  Either he will be driving two hours every day for two months of radiation upstate, and dealing with the fatigue and side effects; or he will be relocating to New York City for five weeks of proton therapy.  With one option, I have my husband around, but unable to be of much assistance running our home and business.  With the other, the time is shorter and the side effects less likely; but he is completely gone, and our family must travel back and forth in order to be together.

With either plan, I’m going to need help — Help with driving, with operating the cafe, with covering chores, with caring for household pets, with keeping up with maintenance on the cafe building and vacation rentals, with receiving and fulfilling orders….with dishes and laundry and cooking. 

Really, this isn’t anything new.  I have a history of getting in over my head and needing help.

And then help arrives in the form of open hearts and willing hands.

And then I don’t know what to do with it.  

I remember my friend Nancy dropping by when my kids were little and I was overwhelmed with farming and homeschooling and parenting responsibilities even then.  

“How can I help?” She asked. 

“You can’t,” I told her.  “Yes, I need help.  But I’m so disorganized, I don’t know how to make use of it.”  And so I sent her away.

I remember starting the cafe (which, by the way, is a very stupid thing to do if you’ve never worked in food service before), and I’d never worked out the flow of how to take and fulfill customers’ orders (Order pads?  Never thought of that.  Table numbers? Never thought of that, either).  Ula and her friend Katharine, both eight years old at the time, felt so bad for me, they decided to help by running around and giving everyone straws.  Then Saoirse, who was 11, decided to “help,” and ran out to confiscate their fistfuls of straws, which led to a big ol’ hair-pulling sister fight right there in the front of the house.  Meanwhile, I ran back and forth like a chicken with its head cut off, trying to hold orders in my head, prepare them all by myself (Bob was gone to the farmers market those days), and then remember everything for check-out. 

Those were the early days.  Eventually, once I had to keep the cafe going, step to the helm as the CEO of the farm, get mom and dad through three major surgeries in 18 months and still keep up with homeschooling and the cafe, I was forced to learn a little bit more about help.  And now, as I’m getting ready to need a lot of it in order to keep my family and business together with whatever we face in the coming months, this thru-hiker reminds me that I need to reflect on my lessons from the past before I move forward.

So here, mainly for the benefit of myself, and perhaps for the benefit of the rest of you, are the three lessons I’ve gleaned over the past few decades about getting help.

1. Sometimes you ask for help, and sometimes you hire it.  Either way, make a choice.  Don’t let it be thrust upon you.  I learned from my eight-year-old straw-bearing “helpers” that if I didn’t ask for help, I’d be stuck with chaotic good intentions.  And that only made for more trouble.  Planning for his radiation treatments, the memory of the straw scene has played over and over again for Bob and me.  Rather than accepting free help to run our business in the short-term, we decided it was time to bring on more paid help that would give us stamina over the long-term, and better equip Sap Bush Cafe to outlive us.  
2. Don’t be afraid of NO.  It took me nearly five decades to learn how to say no when people asked me for more than I was able to give.  During that time, I agreed to do a lot of things that left me bitter and resentful.  And as a result, I did a lot of things poorly.  When I finally learned to say no, I came to realize that, by turning down a request that I couldn’t realistically handle, I was getting out of the way so that someone else could do the job better.  That works the other way around, too.  When the wishes Bob and I ask for cannot immediately be fulfilled by the first person we ask, it often means there’s a better solution we haven’t considered.  And hearing a few “no’s” helps us to clarify what we truly need until we can find a workable solution, or the right person for the job.  But often, the only way to get to that point is to endure a few rejections along the way.  And finally….
3. Receiving help doesn’t make us beggars.  We’ve had so much help come our way already this year – people helped us rebuild after our Honor Store was shot up.  People helped us pull together a memorial service when we lost our customer, Tom Edmunds.  When Bob and I faced our cancer diagnosis, Mom and Dad loaned us their Prius so that we could afford to do all the driving to appointments.  When people heard we might need to relocate to New York City, they came through with offers of bedrooms and apartments.  My girlfriends have come forward with home cooked meals, shoulders to cry on, and steady streams of text messages reminding me that they’re thinking of us.  Readers and listeners have gifted us with stories of their own experiences, sharing wisdom, research and words of encouragement.  Matt and Erin have set up house across the street and are making plans with their employers to be available to keep us going.   And through all of this, I don’t feel like a beggar.  Rather, I feel incredibly rich, with endless abundance available to us in the ways we need it most.  Receiving help has underscored just how wealthy our family really is.

And for all this, I’m so grateful.  Maybe it would be nice to have enough money in our bank accounts to take on this cancer adventure and never have to stop and ask for help.  But like the thru-hiker, we really can only carry so much on our backs before we have to step off the trail and seek provisions.  And if we want to take the journey, then one of the most amazing parts of the experience is the help that lets us carry way more than we ever thought possible.  

We are rapidly approaching the close of the THIRD season of The Hearth of Sap Bush Hollow podcast.  Once home schooling resumes in September, the podcast stops and I recharge over the fall and winter.  And all of that — the podcast and the recharging —   happens with the support of my patrons on Patreon.  And this week I’d like to send a shout out to my patrons Liz Walker & Lisa Foche.  Thank you, folks!  I couldn’t do it without you! 

Psst: long time patrons: If you’ve been supporting the podcast on Patreon for a while, please make sure your credit cards are up to date.  A number of your cards have expired and need to be re-entered.

 If you’re a new listener and  you’ve enjoyed this season, you can help make sure it comes back next year for as little as $1/month by hopping over to Patreon and looking up Shannon Hayes.  Or, if it’s easier, you can also donate to support the podcast by sending a check to Shannon Hayes, ℅ Sap Bush Hollow Farm, 832 W. Fulton Rd, West Fulton, NY  12194.