Since you bring up moms, I am going to bring up one of my favorites stories about my late mom. Before I came to grad school, my mom flew out to where I lived in Virginia to help me finish packing and drive the rental truck up to Michigan. I was trying to work as much as possible before the abject poverty of graduate study, so I walked to work and left her to sort things out. She took a load of clothes to the laundromat for me, but when she returned to my car in the parking lot there, the battery was dead.
This was before the days of cell phones, and here she was in a strange town, with our only mutual form of transportation broken down miles from my house or my work. And this being my mom, she did not want to call me at work to tell me about it, especially when there wasn’t much I could do.
Well, some young men apparently noticed she was in a fix and asked what they could do to help. I don’t recall if they were also washing clothes, or were shopping at the next-door grocery store, or what, but they helped my mom locate a phone and call AAA. Then they insisted on waiting with her for the truck to arrive, which apparently took some time.
I heard this whole story later when I got home from work to my mom, clean clothes, and a car with a brand-new battery. It turned out my mom had a great time hanging out with those guys (at some point someone ran in and got a six-pack at the grocery store, and they spent their time tipping back a few in the parking lot, talking about my mom’s trip, and my plans, etc.) I don’t know who those guys were, but god love 'em.
I don’t know what’s cutest here: her generosity with the money, her solicitude for your general well being (you aren’t going to use it on drugs, are you?) or the notion that she thought you could get any significant amount of drugs for $0.75.
On July 13, 1984 I was 17 years old and in labor with Hallgirl1, living in Oklahoma. ExHallhusband and I had a tiny car, that when it decided to work, would jerk and wheeze, and the airconditioning had never worked as long as we’d owned it. On our way to the hospital, in our unairconditioned car, in July, in Oklahoma (the temp was around 101, not including the heat index), we went over a railroad track, and unknown to us at the time, knocked a hole in the oil pan. Half way to the hospital, the engine froze up, the car died, and we coasted off the highway, into a Texaco gas station.
ExHallhusband ran into the gas station (while I sat in the car, sweating and attempting to concentrate on my breathing) and attempted to find a way to the hospital. I looked up, and across the parking lot came ExHallhusband and a very large black man–he must have been around 6 foot 2 and weighed at least 250-300 lbs. of solid muscle. The man stopped at his car, parked at the fuel pump, then brought it over to ours. It was a shiny Cadillac with cool, cool, cool air conditioning.
I sat in the front seat, with ExHallhuband in the back, when the gentleman drove us to the hospital, all the while telling us about when his wife has been in labor. He dropped us off at the hospital doors, wishing us good luck, and giving us an early congratulations on our new baby. In the mad rush of things, we never thought to get his name, but I will never, ever forget his actions.
Mr. Neville and I went on a ghost tour in Prague. (For those who don’t know what a ghost tour is, it’s a walking tour in which the guide tells ghost stories that supposedly happened at that location) We were getting near the end of our tour when we saw a man fall down on the cobblestone street. Various people who had been on the tour got napkins to stop the bleeding from where he’d hit his head on the pavement and held him so he could sit up, the tour guide called an ambulance with her cell phone, and we stayed with him until the ambulance got there. I really hope that, if something like that happened to me in a country where I speak little or none of the language, someone would do the same for me.
My sister saved a stranger’s life one time. She was walking across campus and saw a girl who seemed to be in distress. She was searching through her purse, and seemed to be panicking. Some people were trying to help, but she couldn’t talk. At this point my sister realized what was happening. “Do you have asthma?” she asked. The girl nodded. “Do you have an inhaler?” my sister asked. The girl shook her head no. By this time her breathing was extremely labored. My sister instructed someone in the crowd to call an ambulance and tell them a girl was having an asthma attack. She then offered the girl her own inhaler. By this point it was so bad that the girl was too weak to use the inhaler herself. So my sister administered the inhaler, and calmed and talked to the girl until the ambulance came.
One time I was walking through Berkeley on the way home. A woman stopped me. She was a black woman dressed up, like for a party. She was crying. She told me that her abusive husband was beating her in the car so she jumped out of the car and ran. But she had no purse and nowhere to go. The local shelters were all full. Someone had found her a spot for the night at a women’s shelter in Fremont, if she could get there. So I walked her to the BART station, bought her a ticket to Fremont and gave her bus fare to get to the shelter. In Berkeley, you get used to all kinds of scams, and maybe I fell for one that night. But I thought, if this was me, what would I do?
Yay, a chance to tell my “Hippie” story.
It was summer 1966, and my mother and I were on a Greyhound bus, headed for New Mexico, to catch the Super Chief for a visit with relatives in Northern California.
I was six, and it was my nap time, and I was not happy. My mom tried to calm me down, but no dice.
The hippie lay down on the bus floor, let me stretch out on the bus seat, and covered me up with his poncho. I will never forget that, and I wish I could meet him and say thanks in person.
I love the idea of doing this for someone for Christmas. I tried to figure it out, went to the wish list link, figured out how to search for someone’s wish list… and got stuck. Do you have to choose a last name and enter APO as the address? I went through all the surnames names in two generations of mine and Mr. Armadillo’s family trees and of all the names searched only struck on one person with my mother’s maiden name and an APO address. Does that mean he’s necessarily a soldier stationed overseas? Any way to find out without contacting him first? I’d sort of like to do it out of the blue as a nice surprise.
When I was pregnant with my littlest, I was hospitalized for 2 months. I had more help from strangers than my family even thought about offering. In fact, my family did diddly squat.
This one nurse went to my house on a Saturday morning, made pancakes for the kids, gave them a bath, let my husband have some extra sleep…bless her, it was exactly what we needed, and what I could not do for my own family. I still get teary-eyed when I remember it.
The most memorable helps I’ve ever had from strangers came when I was hospitalised, and they were nurses both times.
The second time (which was actually the first time) was after my first child was born, and I was on day 3 after an unexpected cesarean, struggling to breastfeed, with a baby who was probably still half-drugged from the meds I’d had, and would not nurse. A nurse came in, and found me in absolute desperate unhappiness, crying in my bed, with a crying baby who would not nurse. She took the baby away to the nursery, sat with me on the bed, and held and rocked me for I don’t know how long, telling me that things were fine, that every woman feels that way on day 3, and I would be able to feed my own baby, and I’d be okay.
If you know an L&D nurse, hug 'em good. They touch some of the most vulnerable women out there, and can touch them for life with the simplest gestures.
One day last summer (2005), my supervisor and I went for a ride in his SUV to the store. We drove through a huge industrial park, off the main road and with little or no through traffic. Then it started to rain. First it came down in buckets, then barrels, then water towers-worth. It was raining so hard you couldn’t see across the road, so he thought it would be a good idea to pull off for awhile until it let up. Except we got stuck and could go in neither direction. He got out in the downpour to see if he could find anything to put under the tires for traction. Nothing worked. We’d been there for about 20 minutes, when a vehicle drove by, and stopped. It was a guy with a heavy-duty truck…and a chain! He got out and attached the chain to his truck and to the SUV, and pulled us out of the mud and back onto the road. He wouldn’t accept any money for helping, he just got drenched and helped us out and went on his way. Five minutes later, it stopped raining. In the place we had come from, it hadn’t rained at all.
In winter '87-'88, after a horrible ice storm, my boss called and asked if I could come in to work, because just about the entire night shift had called off of work due to the road conditions.
On the way, coming down a hill to a T intersection, I was unable to stop and slid into the field on the other side. I got bogged down in the mud and was stuck. Two trucks stopped a few minutes later. One guy had his 12 year old son get behind the wheel of my car and he, this other guy and I pushed the car back onto the road. They refused to take anything for helping me out during a nasty situation. Very cool
Last year in July I got two job interviews in Paris. Neither worked but hey, I got to see Paris! Twice! In a month!
Next time I’m even going inside the Louvre ( me)
Both times I took the train. The cabins are for 4 people, segregated by gender unless you get a “family” cabin. On the second trip up, I shared the cabin with a 2nd-generation 15yo Algerian who’d been visiting her relatives in Spain and was absolutely revolutionized by the differences (is that a word? I mean she couldn’t believe it and intended to campaign with her Mom to do certain things the way her relatives in Spain did), a Frenchwoman who’d been backpacking around Spain and an Argentinian who was backpacking around Europe. The French woman called a friend of hers who lived in a tiny apartment smack in the middle of Paris (literally one room, the bathroom was shared with other apartments, the apartments used to be servants’ quarters and the building was XVIII century) and arranged for the Argentinian to stay there.
My whole family has what we call “local police syndrome”. We get asked for directions the whole time. What’s worse, we’ve been known to be able to give correct directions within minutes of arriving in a new place (I gave someone directions to Rockefeller Center from Madison Square Garden ten yards south of the Garden’s door, with my huge backpack prominently saying “hi, I’m from out of town”).
A few years back, my then-15yo brother arrived home after his due hour and grinned “I’ve got a helluva excuse” before Pa could launch into a rant. As him and his best friend were walking home, they met a young couple who asked them for directions to hotels. Their car had stopped in the highway; turns out the gas indicator was broken, so they were just out of gas but by then it was so late they’d decided to stop. Bro and his friend walked them to a hotel nearby that’s cheap and nice and has good food 24-7; on the way they saw signs for the cathedral and the couple asked about it (we’re famous for our artichokes and asparagus, but nobody expects the electronics factories or the XIII century cathedral). Bro and his friend told them what’s “visiteable” in town and in other villages nearby, other places to eat… so, they get to the hotel and yes, they have room. When they said they were on their honemoon the receptionist congratulated them and said “hmm… I imagine champagne isn’t really what you want this late, let me take the breakfast off your price instead.” The newlyweds looked at each other, grinned and said “fuck San Sebastián” and spent their honeymoon in our town instead And my brother’s friend (whose father and uncles are truckers and his grandfather used to grumble about “these newfangled things” and how mules were so much nicer) hooked them up with his family’s mechanic, so they didn’t need to wait to be back home to get the gas needle fixed.
I spent one summer homeless on the streets of Manhattan. My strategy was to find enough change to get a cup of coffee at a diner, use their bathroom to wash up, get my coffee, and take leftover food off the plates and dash to the door. Someone seeing me do this bought a breakfast special, two sandwiches and a cup of coffee and handled them to me outside.
These kinds of transactions happen to me frequently, going both ways. I’m a real believer in the value of our interconnectedness.
When I was a new mom of twins out and about with our mondo stroller, I was often approached by lovely people who remarked that they’d raised twins themselves. They’d share a story and some reassurance. It meant a great deal to me. One man hopped out of his van at the post office with this huge smile and shouted at us across the parking lot “There goes a very proud, and very tired, mama!” That made my day.
I try to give as well - once when I was doing portraits, it was clear to me that the child I was drawing was in some kind of pain. After a gentle question or two, I learned that she and her family were getting ready to move out of state, to a city that I’d visited. I was able to share some of what I knew about the place and it seemed to relax her a bit. Some of her tension disappeared. Her father, who’d been watching, was stunned and tipped me double my sale price!
My Mom’s really good at it - one of her favorite encounters involved sharing a long “limo” (i.e., your flight’s been cancelled, here’s a car) ride with a troubled teenager who was going from one home where no one loved her, to another home where she didn’t feel welcome. By the end of the hours-long journey, this girl and my Mom were both up front near the driver, and both adults had brought some healing and strength into the young lady’s life.
Ooh, forgot about this one from a couple of months ago. My Aunt and I had just finished an errand & were cruising down the highway, kids asleep in the back, when we saw a car, about 4 cars ahead, swerve and skid, smoke and dust, more skidding. By the time everyone stopped, it was a 4-car accident, and we were the one stopped at the rear of it, hazard lights flashing to alert everyone. I call 911 about 4 times before anyone replies.
So there’s one car with an elderly couple, man bleeding, they’re wandering around the edge of the highway (busy busy busy, rush hour traffice) - my Aunt gets out to help them. There’s a youngish guy, he’s fine. A pregnant lady, she’s pissed as hell, standing there talking on phone - she’s fine. And the big SUV we’re next to looks fine as well, the hood’s bent but her airbags didn’t even go off. She’s on the cell phone, probably calling for help, right?
Long story short, she’s the one who CAUSED the accident. Because she’d blacked out. Because someone had just told her, on the phone, that her sister had been murdered. I wound up holding her while she told me her story, threw up and passed in and out of consciousness. She was dressed for work, wearing scrubs and a nametag, so I could call her by name; I tried to clean her up a little & gave her some of the water we had. She was the one the one they took out on a stretcher, poor thing.
Don’t EVER give someone bad news while they’re driving. Sheesh.
I had almost forgotten about this! I was 17, and my mother and I were returning to Georgia after visiting relatives in Florida. We came up on the scene of a recent accident - an 18 wheeler had blown by an old boat of a car towing an Airstream trailer and blown it off the road. The car was upside down and the trailer was ripped open - it looked like a can of instant biscuits, with all of their possessions all over the ground.
I had just completed my Red Cross Advanced Lifesaver training, and insisted that Mom stop to see if there was anything I could do - there were no emergency response vehicles there yet. The car had been occupied by a elderly couple. The lady was on the ground, and the first car to stop (we were the second) was a nurse - she had the lady in control and had used some clothing to brace her neck. She asked me to see if I could get the man to sit or lie down - he was wandering around in shock. I got him to sit down and wrapped him in an afghan I found on the ground, just trying to soothe him and telling him his wife was ok, she was talking, they were just keeping her still in case she was hurt where it didn’t show. He finally calmed down enough to tell me he had been looking for their poodle that had been in the car with them. I corraled a couple of kids who were running around and asked them to look for the dog, which they did.
Ambulance finally arrives, and the nurse had to browbeat the attendants into using a backboard and collar - they were going to put her on a soft stretcher. :rolleyes: They then came down with a collapsable stretcher for the man, but didn’t know how to open it! I had to show them!
Just after the ambulance left, the kids came back with the poodle, who was absolutely scared to death. One of the State Patrol officers took charge of it, and we went on our way. My mom told me that when the State Patrol arrived, one of the officers came up to her car and told her to “move along”. She said she would, if he would get her daughter to return to the car. He asked which gawlker was her daughter, and she pointed me out. He replied “No, ma’am, thank you - please wait a bit. She seems to be the only one down there who knows what she’s doing!”
Last Christmas we took the kids to Busch Gardens in Tampa for three days. The kids had decided to buy me and their father souveniers, Ivygirl was buying something for her father and Ivyboy was buying something for me.
After a roller coaster ride, Ivygirl frantically realized she’d lost $80. She was in tears because she wouldn’t have enough to buy her father a gift. Ivyboy said maybe it fell out by a kiosk where they’d purchased drinks, and they tore off through the park to check.
Now, Ivyboy and Ivygirl are in their teens, so they were off doing roller coasters while Ivylad and I toured the zoos and the shops and fed the lorries (little birds so used to getting fed they’d come fly onto your finger to sip out of the little nectar cups). The kids had a cell phone and would check in with us every hour or so and we’d tell them when to meet us for lunch.
We didn’t have high hopes for my daughter finding her money, and sure enough, she called us on the cell phone, distraught. Then all of a sudden, I hear this over the phone,
“What? What are you doing? I can’t take this!”
Turns out while Ivyboy and Ivygirl were asking at the kiosk if anyone had turned in $80 cash, then turning away, upset, a little girl had run up to my daughter with a $50 bill. Ivygirl tried to give it back, but her father came running up, saying “We overheard what happened, and we don’t want your vacation ruined.”
Many many thanks from the kids, and Ivygirl got to buy her Daddy his gift.
Once, when I was really down and had been going through a particularly rough time, I was walking home from work and it started to rain. I was so sad and discouraged already, and I had no umbrella, so I just continued to trudge slowly homeward.
Out of nowhere, an older gentleman walked up next to me and put his umbrella over me, getting himself wet. This man was a complete stranger; I’d never seen him before in my life. I thanked him and told him I was walking slow and he didn’t need to slow down and get soaked through for me, but that I was very grateful for his offer. He just smiled and walked me to my gate, then went on his way.
The rest of that rainy day was full of sunshine for me.
I’ve done a few things here and there for people who needed help, but I think one of the nicest things about kindness for strangers is doing something and never telling anyone you did. In my heart, I believe that I ought to be doing kind things for strangers whenever I can. I owe it to the world, since I’ve been so lucky in so many ways. Telling anyone about something I did would be kind of like bragging, and would make it seem…lessened, somehow. You dig?
me)
And my brother’s friend (whose father and uncles are truckers and his grandfather used to grumble about “these newfangled things” and how mules were so much nicer) hooked them up with his family’s mechanic, so they didn’t need to wait to be back home to get the gas needle fixed.