The past few weeks have been traumatic for many of us, including those of you who foolishly rooted for the New York Yankees. (Sorry, not sorry.)
Nowadays, I have friends who have recently become clinically depressed and happy to share this condition with anyone who will listen, whether willingly or not. I recommend earplugs.
On the plus side for me, my daughter Curly Girl is about to give birth to a feisty little girl any day now. She’s clearly going to be rambunctious — the opposite of her chill brother —because she’s keeping her mother awake by kicking every minute and demanding to come out.
But, like me with every electronic device I own, she hasn’t quite figured out how it works.
Meanwhile, I decided that now is a good time to think positive. So that means recalling times that I was helped out by a total stranger, for no reason except basic human kindness. I’m sure this has also happened to you, but it’s easy to forget when you’re stressed about something else. I know some people keep a “gratitude journal,” and it sounds like a really good idea for people who aren’t lazy like me.
Here are a few things that come to mind:
While in college, I was driving back west from my parents’ ranch in Colorado across the lonely I-80 in Wyoming. Suddenly my old Toyota Corolla with the rust primer on the back started bucking weirdly. I didn’t want to stop in the middle of nowhere. I began driving slowly on the shoulder 10 or 20 miles an hour toward the nearest town, which wasn’t actually very near. Some sort of official Wyoming pickup truck, like fish and wildlife, pulled me over, and a guy in a uniform got out. He looked under my hood and then said he’d follow me to the next nearest town, to make sure I’d be safe. This took a long, long time, but he made sure I got to a mechanic, where I learned I needed a new fuel filter. And then the Good Samaritan drove me to a safe motel and drove off, waving away any thanks. Wherever you are, dude, I still remember and thank you.
Twelve years ago, I was in the hospital recovering from surgery for a benign brain tumor. Luckily, they hadn’t shaved my head, so I still had all my long hair. But it was pulling on the long surgical incision and hurt like the blazes, especially since they couldn’t give me any pain meds but Tylenol. One of the ICU nurses noticed that I was in pain and spent her entire break running around the hospital, looking for a scrunchy to get my hair off my neck. She found one, brought it back and … ah … blessed relief. Nurses are angels, basically.
My friends and I were driving back from a remote part of Baja California when my car suddenly died, in the middle of traffic in busy Ensenada, Mexico. No Auto Club to call there, sadly. But suddenly a guy who looked homeless jumped out and started diverting the traffic around us. And another guy pulled up beside me in the world’s largest pickup truck, pulled out his jumper cables and got my battery going, before driving off. That gave me enough juice to get to the auto store, where I bought a battery and the nice clerk installed it for me. We were on our way again in a jiffy. Whenever people talk about the terrors of Mexico, I remember that day.
In 1981, I had just moved to Southern California and flew back to visit my family in Utah. When I returned to LAX after midnight because the plane was three hours late, my friend didn’t show to pick me up and I had no money to get home. I didn’t know anyone I could call at midnight, and no credit cards either. I sat down in the baggage claim and started crying. The Southwest baggage attendant came over, asked what was wrong, and lent me $20 to taxi home, (the equivalent of $80 today.) I went back to the airport the next day and paid him back with gratitude.
I could probably keep on going for a few more pages, and I bet you could, too. If you email me your own anecdotes with your name and city you live in to mfisher@scng.com, they could make it into a future column, (though I’ll probably have to cut them for length.)
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