Last night's tv news ended with a segment about quiet acts of kindness, and I wondered: what did I ever do?
A memory bubbled up. Nothing heroic, nobody rescued from a burning building, just a small thing.
We'd driven Joyce's elderly Aunt Edna up to the Burlington, Vermont, airport to catch a flight to Detroit, to visit her older sister, possibly for the last time.
As we watched Edna tottering around the crowded departure gate, the PA system blared: Edna's direct flight to Detroit had changed. Now she must fly to Philadelphia, then board a different airliner, at a different gate, for the trip's final leg, to Detroit.
Listening to that announcement, Edna looked bewildered, just as the line of passengers began inching ahead, to board. Joyce and I panicked. We imagined Aunt Edna tottering in Philadelphia's vast airport, alone and lost.
Desperate, I scanned the line—impatient business people, tapping cell phones, bored youths, pinch-faced people irked by the schedule change….
Did anyone look kindly? What about that middle-aged couple, patiently standing in line? Without thinking, I rushed up to them and blurted out: "Are you folks going to Detroit?"
I saw the man's face cloud with suspicion, and rightfully so. Warily, he nodded. Yes, they were going to Detroit.
"We need help," I said.
Their suspicion intensified.
Then I pointed to Joyce helping her elderly Aunt Edna shuffle forward in the line, already looking lost.
For me to accost strangers? To ask for a favor? Until that moment, unthinkable. But we were desperate.
I asked: will you watch her in Philadelphia? Point her in the right direction?
As they looked at the old woman, the couple's expressions softened. Of course they'd help, they said. Don't worry.
After Edna tottered through the boarding gate and was gone, though, I had misgivings.
Was my impulsive judgement correct? Were that old woman's guardians truly benign?
Another thing: Edna grew up in upstate New York's farming country. Had she ever spoken to a Black man and woman? Would she accept their help?
Later, when we called Edna's relatives in Detroit, we learned this—from the moment she arrived, Edna never stopped talking about the wonderful couple who helped her. Even after she got back home, for months, we heard her praising them.
As for her guardians? When they understood why I'd accosted them, their expressions softened, brightened. I'd chosen them out of that long line of passengers. I'd trusted them to look after Joyce's aged Aunt Edna. I believe that pleased them.
So, no rescue from a burning building. Just this little thing.
--Richard