Joined
·
9,980 Posts
> The Cab Ride
>
>
>
> I arrived at the address and honked the horn.
>
> after waiting a few minutes I walked to the
>
> door and knocked.. 'Just a minute', answered a
>
> frail, elderly voice. I could hear something
>
> being dragged across the floor.
>
>
>
>
>
> After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in
>
> her 90's stood before me. She was wearing a
>
> print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned
>
> on it, like somebody out of a 1940's
>
> movie.
>
>
>
>
>
> By her side was a small nylon
>
> suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had
>
> lived in it for years. All the furniture was
>
> covered with sheets.
>
>
>
>
>
> There were no
>
> clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils
>
> on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard
>
> box filled with photos and
>
> glassware.
>
>
>
>
>
> 'Would you carry my bag
>
> out to the car?' she said. I took the suitcase
>
> to the cab, then returned to assist the
>
> woman.
>
>
>
>
>
> She took my arm and we walked
>
> slowly toward the curb.
>
>
>
>
>
> She kept
>
> thanking me for my kindness. 'It's nothing', I
>
> told her.. 'I just try to treat my passengers
>
> the way I would want my mother to be
>
> treated.'
>
>
>
>
>
> 'Oh, you're such a good
>
> boy, she said. When we got in the cab, she gave
>
> me an address and then asked, 'Could you drive
>
> through downtown?'
>
>
>
>
>
> 'It's not the
>
> shortest way,' I answered
>
> quickly..
>
>
>
>
>
> 'Oh, I don't mind,' she
>
> said. 'I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a
>
> hospice.
>
>
>
>
>
> I looked in the rear-view
>
> mirror. Her eyes were glistening. 'I don't have
>
> any family left,' she continued in a soft
>
> voice.. 'The doctor says I don't have very
>
> long.' I quietly reached over and shut off the
>
> meter.
>
>
>
>
>
> 'What route would you like me
>
> to take?' I asked.
>
>
>
>
>
> For the next two
>
> hours, we drove through the city. She showed me
>
> the building where she had once worked as an
>
> elevator operator.
>
>
>
>
>
> We drove through the
>
> neighborhood where she and her husband had lived
>
> when they were newlyweds She had me pull up in
>
> front of a furniture warehouse that had once
>
> been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a
>
> girl.
>
>
>
>
>
> Sometimes she'd ask me to slow
>
> in front of a particular building or corner and
>
> would sit staring into the darkness, saying
>
> nothing.
>
>
>
>
>
> As the first hint of sun was
>
> creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, 'I'm
>
> tired. Let's go now'.
>
>
>
>
>
> We drove in
>
> silence to the address she had given me. It was
>
> a low building, like a small convalescent home,
>
> with a driveway that passed under a
>
> portico.
>
>
>
>
>
> Two orderlies came out to
>
> the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were
>
> solicitous and intent, watching her every move.
>
> They must have been expecting her.
>
>
>
>
>
> I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to
>
> the door. The woman was already seated in a
>
> wheelchair.
>
>
>
>
>
> 'How much do I owe you?'
>
> She asked, reaching into her
>
> purse.
>
>
>
>
>
> 'Nothing,' I
>
> said
>
>
>
>
>
> 'You have to make a living,' she
>
> answered.
>
>
>
>
>
> 'There are other
>
> passengers,' I responded.
>
>
>
>
>
> Almost
>
> without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She
>
> held onto me tightly.
>
>
>
>
>
> 'You gave an
>
> old woman a little moment of joy,' she
>
> said.
>
> 'Thank you.'
>
>
>
>
>
> I squeezed her
>
> hand, and then walked into the dim morning
>
> light.. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound
>
> of the closing of a life..
>
>
>
>
>
> I didn't
>
> pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove
>
> aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that
>
> day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had
>
> gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient
>
> to end his shift?
>
> What
>
> if I had refused to take the run, or had honked
>
> once, then driven away?
>
>
>
>
>
> On a quick
>
> review, I don't think that I have done anything
>
> more important in my life.
>
>
>
>
>
> We're
>
> conditioned to think that our lives revolve
>
> around great moments.
>
>
>
>
>
> But great
>
> moments often catch us unaware-beautifully
>
> wrapped in what others may consider a small
>
> one.
>
>
>
>
>
> PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY
>
> WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID ~BUT~THEY WILL
>
> ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM
>
> FEEL.
>
>
>
>
>
> you might help make the world a little kinder
>
> and more compassionate.
>
> It reminds us that often it is the random acts of
>
> kindness that most benefit all of
>
> us.
>
> Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we
>
> are here we might as well dance.
>
>
>>
> Thank you
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> Life
>
> may not be the party we hoped for, but while we
>
> are here we might as well dance.
>
>
>
> I arrived at the address and honked the horn.
>
> after waiting a few minutes I walked to the
>
> door and knocked.. 'Just a minute', answered a
>
> frail, elderly voice. I could hear something
>
> being dragged across the floor.
>
>
>
>
>
> After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in
>
> her 90's stood before me. She was wearing a
>
> print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned
>
> on it, like somebody out of a 1940's
>
> movie.
>
>
>
>
>
> By her side was a small nylon
>
> suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had
>
> lived in it for years. All the furniture was
>
> covered with sheets.
>
>
>
>
>
> There were no
>
> clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils
>
> on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard
>
> box filled with photos and
>
> glassware.
>
>
>
>
>
> 'Would you carry my bag
>
> out to the car?' she said. I took the suitcase
>
> to the cab, then returned to assist the
>
> woman.
>
>
>
>
>
> She took my arm and we walked
>
> slowly toward the curb.
>
>
>
>
>
> She kept
>
> thanking me for my kindness. 'It's nothing', I
>
> told her.. 'I just try to treat my passengers
>
> the way I would want my mother to be
>
> treated.'
>
>
>
>
>
> 'Oh, you're such a good
>
> boy, she said. When we got in the cab, she gave
>
> me an address and then asked, 'Could you drive
>
> through downtown?'
>
>
>
>
>
> 'It's not the
>
> shortest way,' I answered
>
> quickly..
>
>
>
>
>
> 'Oh, I don't mind,' she
>
> said. 'I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a
>
> hospice.
>
>
>
>
>
> I looked in the rear-view
>
> mirror. Her eyes were glistening. 'I don't have
>
> any family left,' she continued in a soft
>
> voice.. 'The doctor says I don't have very
>
> long.' I quietly reached over and shut off the
>
> meter.
>
>
>
>
>
> 'What route would you like me
>
> to take?' I asked.
>
>
>
>
>
> For the next two
>
> hours, we drove through the city. She showed me
>
> the building where she had once worked as an
>
> elevator operator.
>
>
>
>
>
> We drove through the
>
> neighborhood where she and her husband had lived
>
> when they were newlyweds She had me pull up in
>
> front of a furniture warehouse that had once
>
> been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a
>
> girl.
>
>
>
>
>
> Sometimes she'd ask me to slow
>
> in front of a particular building or corner and
>
> would sit staring into the darkness, saying
>
> nothing.
>
>
>
>
>
> As the first hint of sun was
>
> creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, 'I'm
>
> tired. Let's go now'.
>
>
>
>
>
> We drove in
>
> silence to the address she had given me. It was
>
> a low building, like a small convalescent home,
>
> with a driveway that passed under a
>
> portico.
>
>
>
>
>
> Two orderlies came out to
>
> the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were
>
> solicitous and intent, watching her every move.
>
> They must have been expecting her.
>
>
>
>
>
> I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to
>
> the door. The woman was already seated in a
>
> wheelchair.
>
>
>
>
>
> 'How much do I owe you?'
>
> She asked, reaching into her
>
> purse.
>
>
>
>
>
> 'Nothing,' I
>
> said
>
>
>
>
>
> 'You have to make a living,' she
>
> answered.
>
>
>
>
>
> 'There are other
>
> passengers,' I responded.
>
>
>
>
>
> Almost
>
> without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She
>
> held onto me tightly.
>
>
>
>
>
> 'You gave an
>
> old woman a little moment of joy,' she
>
> said.
>
> 'Thank you.'
>
>
>
>
>
> I squeezed her
>
> hand, and then walked into the dim morning
>
> light.. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound
>
> of the closing of a life..
>
>
>
>
>
> I didn't
>
> pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove
>
> aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that
>
> day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had
>
> gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient
>
> to end his shift?
>
> What
>
> if I had refused to take the run, or had honked
>
> once, then driven away?
>
>
>
>
>
> On a quick
>
> review, I don't think that I have done anything
>
> more important in my life.
>
>
>
>
>
> We're
>
> conditioned to think that our lives revolve
>
> around great moments.
>
>
>
>
>
> But great
>
> moments often catch us unaware-beautifully
>
> wrapped in what others may consider a small
>
> one.
>
>
>
>
>
> PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY
>
> WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID ~BUT~THEY WILL
>
> ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM
>
> FEEL.
>
>
>
>
>
> you might help make the world a little kinder
>
> and more compassionate.
>
> It reminds us that often it is the random acts of
>
> kindness that most benefit all of
>
> us.
>
> Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we
>
> are here we might as well dance.
>
>
>>
> Thank you
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> Life
>
> may not be the party we hoped for, but while we
>
> are here we might as well dance.
