By Patty Mooney

California, USA

It’s been many years since I have had to stand on the end of Pusheck Road in Bellwood, a suburb of Chicago, waiting for the school bus, and yet I remember one special day as though it were yesterday.

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It was the Spring of 1963, and I was attending second grade at St. Simeon’s Elementary School. Every morning my mom would pack up a bagged lunch for me, usually a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with an apple for dessert.

On this particular day when I reached the corner, I set my lunch down on the sidewalk in order to shift my school books to a more comfortable position in my arms (these were pre-backpack times!) By the time the school bus lurched to a halt before me, I had forgotten all about my lunch and stepped aboard, leaving my brown bag behind.

By the time I realized my lunch was missing, we were already pulling in to the school parking lot. I started to cry. The bus driver, whose name I have since forgotten, asked me, “What’s wrong?”

I spilled my story about having left my lunch back at the bus stop. He patted me on the shoulder and said, “Don’t you worry about a thing.” I wiped my tears with the back of my hand, and looked at him doubtfully. After all, what could he do? The school bell started to jangle and I hurried on to class.

I was involved in coloring in an outline of Lincoln’s head — bright green — when the school secretary arrived at the door of our classroom. She handed the teacher something in a small brown paper sack.

After the secretary departed, the teacher walked over to me carrying the sack. With a note of surprise, she said, “This is for you from the bus driver!” It was not the same bag my mother had sent me off to school with. It was just about time for lunch, and I could not wait to look inside.

To this day, I still remember the wonders that lay inside that special package: a deviled ham salad sandwich, an orange, and two chocolate chip cookies. At the time, I didn’t put two and two together, but later I realized the driver had given me his own lunch. He had seen the angst of a little girl in a plaid uniform, and reacted to save her. He had selflessly shared his affection for deviled ham! For 40 years I have been grateful for his kindness.

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by Jeff Simms

Barnegat, New Jersey, USA

It was a nippy Fall day — our favorite kind of weather. It was Saturday and we were going to have a great time. My divorced mother, two younger brothers and I were on our way to the park at the other end of the small Jersey town we lived in. We had our football and makeshift goal posts in the back of the station wagon and our teams already chosen: us against our mother. (Don’t worry, it was only touch football.)

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On the way we approached a small bar where an agitated crowd had formed outside. Suddenly there was a terrible tension in the air. “Uh, oh,” one of my brothers said. “Shhh,” my mother told him. I got an uneasy feeling in the gut of my stomach. I’d always had a certain uneasiness about crowds. Fear actually. When I was only about five, we were living in North Manhattan. I had witnessed a crowd yelling for a suicidal man atop an apartment building to jump. It left me with a bad impression of what decent, normal people are capable of when in the crowd mentality.

I wanted out of there and shouted to my mother to speed up. Instead, she slowed! She pulled to the curb on the opposite side of the street. We were a few dozen feet from six or seven people cheering on a drunken fight. It was definitely crowd mentality, all right — the same whether it was in a city or a small town.

To our horror our mother got out, locking us boys in. “Stay put, guys” she said. We didn’t unlock the car but we did open the windows about half way. To our astonishment our beautiful, petite mother defiantly walked through the ruckus, went up to the two brawlers and shouted to the one on top. “Get off him right now! You’ll kill him!”

It was as forceful as she had ever sounded. I’ll never forget her standing there with her hands on her hips (her “mad-as-hell” stance which we knew very well), seemingly oblivious to the others around her.

Two men in the crowd must have been humbled by her audacity because they broke rank from the rest and separated the two combatants. In the distance we heard a siren. Minutes later a police car pulled up and we got going again. The whole incident took no more than ten minutes, but it has been seared in my memory ever since.

From the back seat my youngest brother kept his arms lovingly around our mother’s neck as she drove, while my other brother and I just stared in utter amazement at her all the way to the park. I learned a great lesson that day from our petite mother. I learned that I really had nothing to fear from a crowd like that — as long as I never become a part of it.

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By L. Harding

California, USA

It was 1972. “The Summer of Love” was gone, hippies were a rare sight, but there were still large pockets of narrow minds, filled with distrust, in rural America. More than once we met with proof of that in our travels across “the heartland of America.” Our only home was our tent, our only “real furniture” the baby’s crib, all piled atop the TravelAll. My husband and I were down on our luck, moving from one temporary job to another.

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Driving through Nebraska, a wheel bearing started to squeal. With no traffic, no sign of humanity, and fingers crossed, I drove 20 miles before I finally saw an exit. Barely slowing down, I took the offramp and saw a gas station ahead. There were no lights on, but I turned in anyway; there might at least be a pay phone.

The owner was there, with his wife and kids. It was about 8:00 on a Saturday evening, and he was obviously homeward bound. But he walked up to my window and asked if he could help. I told him the problem, asked if there was a pay phone, and if we could use his station to do the repairs.

He said he wasn’t a mechanic, and had no tools. I assured him that, if I could only get the parts, I could do the repair work myself. “Well, if that’s all you need …”

It was unbelievable! My truck went into the service bay, and he went off to get the parts I needed. Being farm country, that meant the International Harvester service and parts department was open even at night. By the time he came back with the bearing, I had the wheel and old bearing off, despite having few tools to work with.

But there was a problem. Because it was harvest time, the IH dealer had sold the last race for the bearing, and a bearing without a race is worthless! My panic must have shown on my face, because he quickly told me that he knew another place to look for the race. He made a number of phone calls, then came to tell me the owner of the parts store would meet him there. All he needed was the race so they could be certain they were getting the right part. I quickly handed it to him, then went to work installing the bearing.

It was close to 11 p.m. before the race had been pressed into the wheel, and everything put back into working order. When I asked how much we owed, he refused to take even a penny more than the original $20 I’d given him for parts.

For a man who “had no tools,” he accomplished a lot that night: He called in favors from people all over town, played “go-fer” for hours, found the parts, gave me a safe place to work, and even fed us. He also managed to raise — tremendously — my opinion of the people who lived in Nebraska.

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By Glen Burnie

Maryland, USA

Friday, October 5th, 2001, was not shaping up to be a good day. My wife and I were already running late leaving for a trip to Pennsylvania, and she still had to stop at work for an errand. To compound our lateness, security at her office had drastically increased since September 11th, 2001. The guards wanted to search our vehicle and unpack our luggage. That would take quite some time and I objected wholeheartedly. We avoided the search by letting her walk through the gate while I sat in the car outside the facility.

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I was fuming, sweating, and constantly looking at my watch because we had a three-hour drive ahead of us. When my wife returned, I was not in the best of moods, and neither was she. We spent most of the following 20 minutes cursing security and similar activities. Not a great start to what was supposed to be a romantic weekend getaway.

Our route to Pennsylvania took us through the tunnels outside Baltimore, a route I’d taken many times. I usually stay in the left lane of the northbound tubes to avoid traffic at the tollbooth, and this time was no exception.

However, on exiting the tunnel, all the booth lanes on our side were either closed or only for “Easy-Pass”, an electronic automated toll system. Traffic for the other lanes was backed up almost to the tunnel exits. I managed to squeeze into the next lane to the right, and watched other less fortunate souls traveling much further up before being able to merge.

As we inched forward, I noticed one driver to my left. She had realized her situation too late to join the back of the line, and had to sit as car after car passed her. Finally I came by and motioned her in, not really thinking twice about it. By the time we approached the booth, I’d already forgotten about letting the other driver into the lane.

I rolled down my window and mechanically handed my dollar to the attendant — who refused it. She held up two dollars, and with a bit of amusement and possibly confusion, pointed to the now-retreating car which I had allowed into our lane. The attendant said, “She says ‘Thank you for letting us in’.” I sat there a moment, astonished, stammering, my routine broken. What a simple thing to do, and what an elegant way to thank someone.

It was such a small act, but at that moment it was exactly what was needed to lift our spirits. Instantly, my sour mood was over and I was happy for the first time that morning.

We tried to catch up to the other car to thank them, but heavy traffic made it impossible. My wife and I spent the rest of our drive in a much better frame of mind — all because of a single dollar bill.

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by Cindy Robison

Taos, New Mexico, USA

When I first saw him, I was horrified. Nothing prepared me for the sight of his badly damaged eye. Martha had first told me about Rusty awhile back. He was a neighborhood dog that was allowed to roam free and he often came to her home for treats. When she saw that his eye had been damaged, she mentioned it to his owners. Their response was that they did not believe in veterinarians and they were going to just “let his eye dry up and fall out on its own.” Rusty was a beautiful dog. He stood with his tail wagging, eager for attention, while frantically pawing at his mutilated eye. I knew that if he didn’t receive some kind of medical attention he would probably die.

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Soon after, weary of his owners’ neglect, Martha loaded Rusty into her car and took him to her vet. He prescribed antibiotics and said that surgery was necessary. Her vet offered to reduce the cost of surgery for his owners. Martha was further distressed when his owners refused treatment and expressed annoyance at her perceived interference. She faithfully began giving Rusty his daily antibiotics.

That’s when we decided to rescue Rusty. We knew we had grounds for Rusty being taken to the animal shelter because he was neglected and always running loose. I knew that if Martha and I took Rusty to the animal shelter on our own, there was a chance they wouldn’t take him. If an animal is brought in by Animal Control, the shelter has to take the animal, even if they are full.

To prevent any backlash from the owners towards Martha, I was the one who called Animal Control. Rusty arrived safely at the animal shelter. We paid for his eye surgery and neutering, and also circulated a poster with adoption information. Martha visited him often. She struggled with feelings of fear and guilt. What would become of Rusty if he didn’t get adopted? I reminded her that if she hadn’t intervened, he probably would have died.

He was adopted several weeks after being at the animal shelter. Martha didn’t find out who adopted him, but she was able to say one last tearful goodbye to him.

She called recently with more good news. She was at home when she heard a woman calling the name “Jack”. When she went to her door, there stood Rusty. She found the woman who was calling out and learned that Rusty was now One-Eyed Jack. His new owner was working construction on a nearby building and Rusty, or Jack, had gotten loose. Martha was elated that she had been able to see Rusty again and learn of his new life. We talked about how One-Eyed Jack, when returned to his old neighborhood, came to her and not his previous owners.

I think he came to say, “Thank you, Martha, for caring for me, for saving my life and for helping me to find a good home.”

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by Deborah Hayes

Idaho, USA

When you have kids, you want to make sure they learn about responsibility, looking out for others and doing the right thing — but you may never get the chance to see if your kids get the message.

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When you’re a single parent, working and raising kids alone, it can be even more daunting, since your time with your kids is sometimes so limited.

I am one of the lucky parents who got the chance to find out what my kids had learned. When my twin sons were in fifth grade, they were appointed Safety Patrol Officers, responsible for helping their fellow students cross safely at one of Spokane’s busiest intersections.

There was usually grumbling about having to get up early and be to school before the other kids arrived, but they were proud of their badges and the job they had been selected to do.

A few weeks into the school year, I was at school for open house, when the Safety Patrol Advisor took me aside, saying, “You must be so proud of Tim!” I agreed, of course, but asked why she would say so. She went on to tell me how earlier that morning, a car had run a red light at the intersection; as the driver tried to apply the brakes, they locked, and the car swerved and jumped the curb near where the children were beginning to cross.

Tim yelled for to the kids to get back, and then placed himself between his charges and the oncoming car. Fortunately, the driver was able to regain control of his car and managed to get back onto the street, seconds before he would have hit Tim! Thankfully, nobody was hurt. The kids there on the corner were pretty rattled, but impressed with their fellow student. For me, hearing the story, even secondhand, was terribly frightening, but I was so proud, I could hardly contain myself.

My son never mentioned it, but when I finally asked him about the events of that morning, he just shrugged it off, saying, “No big deal, Mom.”

I was happy to hear what he had done, and was pleasantly surprised to learn that he wasn’t making a big deal of it. He had simply done what he saw as his duty, and he had done it quietly. In my book, that describes perfectly what we expect of a hero.

I may sometimes become exasperated with teenage shenanigans and attitude, but when I remember the fifth grade, I no longer wonder if my kids got the message.

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by Brett Carver

Santa Rosa, California, USA

We all have seen the stereotypical portrayals of “the in-laws” in movies and on TV. We’re pretty much conditioned to believe that a couple’s relationship with their respective in-laws to be a constant source of stress and tension. While it may be true for some, I tend to believe it’s not general the rule. I have a great relationship with my wife’s parents. And while my mom died before we were married, my wife had a relationship with my dad that was worth more than pure gold.

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My dad was in a battle with prostrate cancer and, due to late detection, he was losing. He was spending a lot of time in and out of the hospital and nursing homes for recovery. At one point in the process my wife thought it would be a good idea if she went to visit him. I knew the effort involved and never asked her to do it; it was her own idea.

This was a big deal since it meant driving from our home in Santa Rosa, California, through the San Francisco Bay Area south to Monterey where my dad was. On a good traffic day, this was about a three-and-a-half-hour drive. It also meant traveling with our first son, who was a bit over one year old. In addition, she was also more than half way through her pregnancy with our second son. And with me constrained by work she had to make the drive by herself. And she did, spending several days with my dad. Next week, she did it again. And again, and again. Many weeks I’d come down for the weekend and we’d caravan home. This went on for weeks until her travels were restricted due to the pending birth.

A few weeks after the birth, she started up again. But now it was with a 1-year-old and a newborn. Week after week, down she’d go. He was getting worse so sometimes she’d stay straight through the weekend (with me visiting when I could) and into the next week. This went on for many weeks until one day I got a call that I needed to get down to Monterey as soon as I could. Her warning allowed me to be there for the last couple days of my dad’s life. He knew I was there and and we were both with him when he died.

That down-in-the-trenches demonstration of love and caring was worth more than I can ever express, and I’ve tried. I don’t think many people would go through what Lorre Anne did so that her father-in-law wouldn’t have to be alone during the last weeks of his life.

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by Angie Ledbetter

Baton Rouge, Louisanna, USA

Struggling to rear decent, loving children today is a big challenge. Many parents have given up on trying to instill “extra” niceties into their offspring. In a world that promotes greed, ruthlessness, self-preservation, egotism and selfishness, parents face an ever-increasing battle. We must try our hardest to create in our children a bastion of goodness.

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One way this can be accomplished is by meeting as a family once a day to discuss at least one nice thing each of you has done for someone that day. We’re not talking “life-saving heroic” here, just everyday acts of kindness. Still, you have days when you doubt that a single thing you are trying to teach your kids is having any effect. However, on a recent trip to a store with my 11-year-old daughter, I was in for a big surprise.

We parted ways at the front of the store, she off to do school supply shopping, and I to hunt down a ton of groceries. When I went to check out, all 15 cashiers were busy with at least two shoppers in each line. I couldn’t believe that I’d finished before Amanda and looked around for her. She got into another line and I watched her as she checked out. It’s a mother thing, observing your children to see how they handle themselves when they think their parents are nowhere around.

Her eyes followed an elderly gentleman walking back and forth. He wore tattered, mismatched clothes and shower slippers. She watched him stop in front of a row of cookies. He counted the change in his pocket and then reshelved the cookies.

I watched as she searched her purse for some money. My heart was fluttering as tears welled up in my eyes. My beautiful daughter waited until the man turned to walk away then walked up behind him and silently dropped the rolled up dollar bills on the floor. She tapped him on the shoulder and then bent to retrieve the money.

Both faces were smiling as Amanda skipped back to her place in line. I wiped my eyes and cleared my throat before I waved to get her attention. On the drive home, she said, “Mom, there was a homeless man in the store and he was hungry.” Well, did you give him some money or buy him something to eat? I quizzed her.

“I did give him some money, but I pretended like I found it on the floor so he wouldn’t be embarrassed. I told him that I thought the money was his, but he said it wasn’t. But I handed it to him anyway. He said, ‘bless you,’ and I do feel blessed, Mom.”

I’ll hold onto that little scene in my heart for many years to come and hope that I can make someone feel as proud of me as I felt of her that day. And one day when she has children of her own, I’ll retell the story to her.

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by Dave Thompson

Bainbridge Island, Washington, USA

Mr. Dalton was one of the “good” teachers, one who smiled because he was genuinely happy, who was passionate about teaching us a subject he clearly loved: plane geometry. I was one of the quiet kids, who, because socially inept, just didn’t say much. I neither got in much trouble nor got noticed. Today, I would be called a nerd. Somehow, plane geometry really clicked for me in his class.

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Toward the end of the year, Mr. Dalton wanted to check our knowledge of geometry, and gave us a 25 question, True-False, national standardized test. The test presented a problem, with a conclusion shown. If we could prove the result using our precious theorems, the answer was True, if it couldn’t be proved, it was False.

I ripped through 24 of the problems, but number 17 was a challenge! I knew intuitively that I could prove it, but it wasn’t obvious at all. I spent 30 minutes on that proof, covering my page with auxiliary lines, parallelograms, and congruencies, until the proof at last was there. Satisfied, I marked True and handed in the test. This was the hardest test our class had done.

When the results came back the next day, my score was a 96, with number 17 being marked wrong! When Mr. Dalton asked if there were any questions, for the first time my hand shot up. “The correct answer to number 17 is True!”

Instead of arguing that this was a national, standardized test, and what could I possibly know about the answer, Mr. Dalton did the most powerful thing I have ever seen a teacher do. Saying nothing, smiling encouragingly, he held out his chalk to me from the front of the room.

I went to the board for the first time, and over the course of that class, demonstrated my proof to the class. I used the whole board and three different colors of chalk. At the end, everyone agreed, with applause, no less, that the correct answer was True. Mr. Dalton (with that impish grin on his face) asked if anyone else had come up with that proof, and of course no one spoke up. He gave everyone credit for a right answer on number 17, and I ended up with a grade of 104.

That event happened 37 years ago. When I returned to my home town after many years, I looked Mr. Dalton up to thank him for allowing me to challenge his authority. Alzheimer’s had claimed his mind, but he still had that impish, happy grin.

From that day in his geometry class, I have had no problem speaking to a group, as long as I’m sure I’m right. His gift has served me well. So here’s to you, Mr. Dalton, and all the other teachers who empower students. Rest assured, your gifts continue to improve the lives of your students as long as they live.

(Editor’s Note: author Dave Thompson is the president of Educational Fontware, Inc. — http://www.EducationalFontware.com — a company that provides handwriting fonts to primary and special education teachers and parents.)

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by Caryl Vittorio-Burt

Naperville, Illinois, USA

On my way home from work one day in 1994, I stopped at the grocery store for a few items. I was in a hurry, as usual, but the express lane was very long. I went to another lane and was behind two customers. The woman checking out was a young mother and her little girl. As the clerk was scanning her items, the young lady was carefully counting her food stamps, obviously concerned whether she had enough or not. After the last item was scanned, the clerk told the young mother the total.

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The young mother’s expression turned to embarrassment as she realized she did not have enough money and food stamps. She was short around five dollars. She started scanning her items for things to put back, and nervously looking behind her, knowing she was holding up the line. Her purchases consisted of peanut butter, bread, breakfast cereal, oatmeal, milk, and the like. I was smiling and trying to look sympathetic — I had been in situations where I did not have enough money plenty of times myself. Finally, the young mother picked out a bottle of generic grape juice and a jar of generic peanut butter, gave them back to the clerk, and asked for a new total.

At that moment, the woman in front of me asked the clerk to wait a moment. She reached into her purse, took out a $5 bill and handed it to the clerk to pay what the young mother was short. When the clerk tried to give the woman the fifty cents change, she pointed to the little girl and told the clerk to give it to her. The little girl beamed and raced to the gum ball machine to spend her windfall. Naturally, the young mother was grateful and said so. The woman smiled and told her she was welcome.

I will never forget the look on that little girl’s face — not when shewas given the money for some bubble gum, but when she realized that a perfect stranger cared enough to see to it that she did not have to go without healthy juice and peanut butter that week. The way she looked at the Good Samaritan, you could tell that she learned something valuable that  day: that some people do care.

That woman taught me several things with that one little gesture. There are many opportunities right in front of us to help other people. While there are many myths about people on food stamps, I saw with my own eyes how they feed hungry children. It doesn’t take big, gallant gestures to help people. A few dollars to someone like me was something else entirely to that mother: it was the difference between healthy juice or tap water for her child to drink.

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