by Ed Eudy

Auburn, Washington, USA

In 1997 my family decided to go see my sister-in-law on Independence Day in Tonasket, Washington, a five-hour drive from our home in Seattle. Much of the last part of the trip is through endless miles of apple orchards. We hit the road at around 8:00 in the evening.

About an hour after leaving the last large town, we got a flat tire. No problem, I thought — we had checked the spare before we left and it was fully inflated and never used. So we got out the flashlights, the spare tire, jack and lug wrench. My nephew volunteered to change the flat but after getting the old tire off, he turned around and said that the spare wouldn’t go on.

I looked closer and noticed the lugs didn’t match the hole pattern in the rim of the tire. That’s when I saw the spare said “Chrysler Motors”. Our car was a Pontiac. We had bought the car used from a friend.

Surrounded by apple trees on a small two lane highway, it was 35 miles back to the nearest town. It was also 35 miles ahead to the next town and late into the night on a holiday eve.

I decided to have the family stay with the car along with my nephew while I hitchhiked to the next town. There I stood, beside the car, with the family hiding in the orchard so as not to scare off any potential ride. After what seemed like an hour, a pickup stopped and said I could have a ride. I told him about the family staying with the car. He insisted they come too, so we all crowded into the back of the truck and away we went.

We arrived in Brewster at around midnight and the only place open was a gas station/fast food restaurant. After hearing of our dilemma the cook offered the kids pizzas and said he knew the owner of the only tire store in town. He called and found the man was away for the holiday. But the young man that answered the phone worked for him. He said he could help since he had the key to the store, and he ran right over and picked me up. I left my family at the restaurant while he and I drove the 35 miles back to the car with a new tire and rim.

He insisted on changing the tire himself and then refused when I offered him proper compensation, saying the old rim would be enough payment. At last I managed to shove twenty dollars into his shirt pocket. He waited for me to start the car and followed me back to Brewster, making sure I would be OK.

We were only three hours late arriving at my sister-in-law’s house. The immense generosity of those total strangers, and how they all went out of their way to help my family, was the highlight of a truly great weekend.

by Pam Jacobs

Omaha, Nebraska, USA

It was a blustery cold January day in 1978 and college basketball season was in full swing. My manager at work had acquired four tickets to the evening’s game, planning to take his wife, a friend visiting from out of town, and me. Since the game didn’t start until late in the evening, I accepted a friend’s invitation to take in the 5:15 showing of “Star Wars”. After the movie she drove me to the sports complex, where I met my manager and the others.

We enjoyed the game despite the home team’s loss and were busily chatting away as we walked down the ramps to exit the building. It wasn’t until after we parted that I realized my car was not at the sports complex, and I had neglected to ask them for a ride. “No matter,” I thought, since my car was still parked at the office, just across campus, less than a mile away. A ten-minute walk.

As I left the building, I realized that since I had walked down the ramps with my friends, I had ended up going out a different door than I came in. I wasn’t sure of my directions, but I was confident that by walking around the building, I would find the north side. So I began walking.

When I turned the first corner, I was nearly knocked over by an icy gale that went right through my coat. Although I knew better, I had left the house that morning wearing a spring coat because it looked better with my outfit than my heavy winter garb. I had no hat, no scarf, no mittens or gloves, no pockets to warm my hands, and the wind chill was lethal that night. I turned up the collar on my coat, drew my hands up into my sleeves as best as I could, and trudged on.

I don’t remember much more except that my fingers, toes, and ears were starting to go numb, and the rest of me was beyond shivering. I couldn’t get back inside the building. I walked by a lot of cars that night, and at a desperate point I heard, “You look awfully cold. Do you need a ride somewhere?” I turned and looked at the stranger who had rolled his window down to address me. The car contained two young men, and although I was apprehensive about getting into the car with them, I didn’t know what else I could do.

They drove me to my car and waited to see that it started for me. By then my extremities were tingling and burning as they were warming. I made it home with no permanent damage. Those two young gentlemen most assuredly saved me from serious frostbite, and quite possibly saved my life. For the most part, I suppose that giving someone a ride doesn’t seem like such a big deal. But for me that night, it was everything.

by Guy Slater

Tennessee, USA

My wife and I moved to the Cumberland Plateau of Tennessee in November of 2005, from a large metropolitan area to a very rural area. While moving we had the help of our adult daughter and our 2-year-old granddaughter.

During the hectic days of moving into our new home, we ate out in the local community a lot. One evening we decided to have dinner at “Cindy’s Catfish Kitchen.”

Cindy’s is a buffet style restaurant, all you can eat. It had been a long day of moving boxes and furniture, and tomorrow would see us on the long drive back to our former home for another load, a thousand mile long trip. We were all tired, and our granddaughter was cranky to top it all off. But the buffet was great, and we ended our meal feeling rested and relaxed.

When I went to pay our bill, card in hand, the waitress cashier told me that Cindy’s didn’t have the ability to take either credit or debit cards. Being from the “big city,” using a credit or debit card was the norm. Oops!

I had no cash in my pocket, but about 10 miles back down the road I’d seen a bank with an ATM. I told the lady that I would leave my family there and return in a few minutes to pay for our meals.

“Oh, y’all don’t have to do that,” she told me. “You just come back some time and pay us then.”

WHAT!? These people had never seen me before, did not know if I would ever return, yet they trusted me to return to pay for three adult meals? This is not something that I had ever encountered in the big city, that’s for sure.

We have lived here for almost six years, and every single week I see other acts of trust like this happening. It may be a “country” thing, or just plain Southern hospitality.

Whatever it is, I certainly like it, and I pass on this kindness every chance I get.

by Diane Romberger

Jacksonville, Florida, USA

Last year my husband and I were forced off the interstate at 65 mph in another state by a truck. The truck did not stop and, as we headed down an embankment, the car began to spin and ended up smashed into a stand of trees.

Our 16-year-old dog, Puppy, was with us on our trip because she was having early kidney problems, was on a special diet, and we didn’t want to leave her home with the house sitter. She was thrown from the front seat to the rear seat shelf and sustained several broken ribs and many other internal injuries. While my husband and I were being extricated from the mangled car, the Emergency Medical Service rescue people called for a veterinarian, who came to the accident site to take Puppy for treatment. My husband was unconscious. He was taken from the car after the roof was removed, and was helicoptered to a trauma center. I was transported to a nearby hospital where I was treated for broken ribs, a broken pelvis, embedded glass, and multiple cuts and bruises.

While I was in the emergency room, an EMS man came to my bedside to report on my husband’s flight and arrival at the other medical center, and to tell me that Puppy was with the vet. I explained that she had been ill, was in early renal failure, and was eating low sodium baby food and drinking bottled water. After several hours I was reunited in my hospital room with my husband whose injuries, thankfully, were less serious than originally thought. We both spent the evening in the hospital and the next day our daughter came to take my husband home; I remained in the hospital for three more days.

Puppy, however, died the next evening. About a month later when we received the bill from the vet, we called to thank her for Puppy’s care and the concern she showed our daughter when she stopped in to see Puppy and, later, when she made the arrangements for Puppy’s cremation. The vet told us that, unknown to us at the time, the kind EMS man had come by her hospital with baby food and bottled water for Puppy and told her my story of Puppy’s illness. She also told us that Puppy had other visitors: a man who lived near the accident site and saw Puppy being taken away, and a lady who had stopped at the accident and comforted me through the broken window while my husband was unconscious before the rescue crew arrived.

My husband and I say that we must have had angels around our car because we’re here today; we also know that, although she’s not with us anymore, Puppy had her own “special angels” that day, too — caring people who wanted to make the last few hours of an old dog’s life as comfortable as they could when her owners were unable to be there with her.

by Alain Fontaine

Ile de France, France

17 years ago, I was a young man with an open mind and a goal: to go to Asia, first to Taiwan and learn Chinese, then to Japan and learn Japanese. I figured that already knowing French and English, I would be on top of the world.

I first went to Taiwan and started to learn Chinese, but soon my plan went astray: I met a Taiwanese girl. It wasn’t exactly love at first sight, but after a few weeks, I did start to like her very much. She was beautiful, lively and outgoing, the opposite of me, who at that time was in fact shy and a bit bland.

We dated for a couple of months, but she got tired of me tagging along with her and her friends, some of whom must have asked what she was doing with a guy so different from herself. One day she called to say that it was better for us not to go out together for awhile. I can’t say the news shattered me. I just went back to my student life at the Taipei International House with the other fellows who lived there and that was OK.

Then four or five months later, she called again. She wondered if I would like to go bowling with her and a friend. This time, it was a  totally new start for us. Maybe I had changed in those few months, maybe being able to speak much better Chinese I had better ways to communicate with her.

We started a stable relationship, eventually got married and are now the proud parents of three wonderful children. I never really wondered why she had called me again to ask me out after dropping me. In fact, I found out only a few years after we got married.

The reason behind the call was my mother-in-law to be. She asked her daughter: “What happened to that nice, quiet young Frenchman? You know, if you want to pick a foreigner to go out with, he is a good pick.”

You see, when my mother-in-law was young, she fell in love with somebody different. She was Taiwanese, he a Mainland Chinese who had arrived in Taiwan from China with the Kuomingtang retreating army. At that time, over forty years ago, Mainlanders were often despised by the Taiwanese, for many reasons. So when my mother-in-law decided to marry a Mainlander she had difficulty convincing her family to accept her choice. She luckily had the support of one of her elder brothers, who managed to convince her parents.

Later she promised herself that she would never go against her daughters’ choices when it became their time to get married. Too often, parents don’t remember that they were once young people needing freedom to find their own way. My mother-in-law did remember, and honored this daughter’s tendency to marry a foreigner. I adore her every day for that, and will use her example as my children grow.

by Terry Ann Fielding

Brandon,  Mississippi, USA

When I was about 12, my father decided that I needed something constructive to occupy my day; something that wasn’t devoted just to me. At that age I was kind of selfish and felt that the world meant being with girlfriends, dreaming about guys, eating and sleeping. He had other ideas: I was signed up to be a Junior Volunteer at Children’s Hospital in New Orleans.

The hospital was for any child that needed specialized care. It didn’t matter if they were poor, rich, black or white. All had severe health problems, and many would not even live to be my age. Most were very sick, in wheelchairs, missing limbs, blind, and some deaf. Some were there temporarily, until they were well enough to go home, and some were there so long you had to wonder if they ever would leave.

The hospital wasn’t a dreary place. It was painted in bright colors, and always had cheerful volunteer workers and a staff that filled the need of surrogate family during their stay. I was assigned the job of playing with the kids. Sounds easy, but it was a challenge to figure out games that you could play as a group, or something to do one-on-one when a child needed special attention.

One sticks out above the rest even after all these years. She taught me to be thankful for all the great things I had, but sometimes took for granted — parents, regular schooling, clothes, food and, above all, good health. She never asked for much, and was always happy, smiling, and chattering a mile a minute. She was only about four years old, and seemed to have adapted rather well to her disability.

One day she wanted to paint a picture with watercolors. Easy enough, except she didn’t have any arms. I felt sick that I was encountering a problem I couldn’t solve. That is when I learned how to accept what you have and how to use it to the best of your ability. Yes, she did paint her picture. To this day I can close my eyes and see her painting with a brush taped between her toes. No, the picture wasn’t perfect, but to me it was a Picasso: a simple flower in yellow and green. That child brought me into the real world and taught me many valuable tools for life. It led me to a life of giving whenever I could. I worked at the hospital for two years and it was my honor to share that little girl’s life and grow from it. She gave more to me than I could have ever given to her. I don’t know whatever became of her, whether she eventually went home, or even lived. I have often wondered if she was one of the lucky ones to survive. Not knowing, I have chosen to visualize her as a teacher, or a wonderful mother to a houseful of noisy children, teaching all around her to shine.

by Eric Storm

California, USA

In 1998 our first child suffered through months of colic. Every night from 6 p.m. until 4 a.m. we took turns sitting up with our daughter as she cried and wailed. Though neither of us got any real sleep, I at least was able to escape to work. My wife stayed home.

Just as it looked like things were improving slightly I was faced with a four-day business trip. My understanding boss tried to get me excused, but her boss made it clear I must go or face being fired. Two days into the trip things went VERY wrong at home.

My wife, Deb, took Amelia in for a pediatric visit. Our doctor had no children and little experience with colic. During the exam, my still exhausted wife was trying to explain our ordeal and commented, “I’m starting to understand why some parents snap.”

The doctor excused herself. Deb picked our baby up from the exam table, and Amelia let loose with a big bowel movement. Left alone, Deb tried to

clean the baby, herself, and the room as best she could.

A few minutes later the Doctor returned. Standing in the doorway, she informed my wife that she had called Child Protective Services (CPS) and they were sending someone over to take her to their offices to interview. My wife was floored but the doctor wouldn’t discuss the issue.

When she asked if she could go to the bathroom to finish cleaning up, the doctor said, “The police will be called if you leave this exam room.”

That was too much for Deb. She bundled up Amelia and pushed past the Doctor. She said, “I know where the CPS office is. I’m not waiting two hours for transport, I’m going there myself,” and left.

As she walked into the CPS office she must have looked a complete fright: upset, crying, covered in baby poop with a wailing baby in her arms.

She was hurried into an interview room and a nurse sat down with her. Deb recounted her story. At the end, the Nurse asked, “So you’ve got a colicky baby, your husband’s out of town, and your doctor doesn’t understand?” “Yes,” my wife answered. “You’re normal, sweetie,” was the nurse’s reply.

The understanding Nurse had also faced similar challenges with one of her kids. She told my wife how hard it had been for her, and how horrible it had felt at the time. My wife felt a great weight lift. Here was someone who validated her feelings and understood her.

A year later, my best friend had her first child and went through the same struggles with colic. We sat down and told these new parents our story: that we’d felt the same feelings of anger, pain and fear, and that we understood their problems. Hearing they were normal helped them to persevere, too. We were privileged to pass on the gift the nurse had given my wife.

by Amanda Brophy (age 12)

Byron, Minnesota, USA

My Dad is an engineer. To me, that means he loves to solve problems. It also means that he is always encouraging me and my two sisters to think. It’s like he looks at every situation in life either as a puzzle to be solved, or one that has already been solved.

One of the things that really gives Dad a big sense of accomplishment is when he figures out “The Win-Win situation”. This means more than just a compromise. It means finding a solution to a problem, where you and the other people involved really feel happy about the result. It’s not easy coming up with them at the time, but the answers look obvious once we find them.

Stray shopping carts is one of Dad’s win-win-wins! Whenever we go to a shopping plaza or a grocery store, he tries to park near the “strays”. Then we each take one, and wheel it in to the store. When we’re walking in a parking lot, the shopping cart makes it almost impossible for a moving car to not see us. (And the loud noise they make going across the rough pavement reminds the drivers to look, too!) That’s important for us kids, because we aren’t as visible as adults, and it keeps us safe from moving cars that might not see us. It’s also good for the people driving near us, because they don’t worry so much about where the wondering kids are, and whether they’re going to dart into harm’s way. It also makes it easier to park, because these strays usually take up a parking space. The third “win”: store workers have less work to do, gathering up the strays. Dad says this keeps costs down, and that’s really important for the store and the shoppers.

The more I think about it, there are other wins that Dad hasn’t told us about. Dad wins, because he doesn’t worry so much that someone might back out and hit us, or even him. He’s tall, but sometimes drivers can’t see everything that’s behind the car.

When we first started bringing in the strays, it was pretty embarrassing. That was a big “LOSE”, as far as I could see. I never saw  anyone else do it, and I usually had other things on my mind. Now it’s just something we do. Dad says that little choices like this make our world a better place, one act at a time. I think he’s right.

by Linda Gavitt

Connecticut, USA

In January 1999 planning for my daughter’s wedding began with a phone call telling me she and John would marry in March — leaving little time to plan! Fortunately Lauren wanted a small wedding with 20-30 close friends and relatives. She was in Orlando, Florida, John was stationed in Kentucky, and I was in Connecticut. Her finance’s family generously offered their help to plan everything, and their Tampa area home for the reception.

I obtained vacation time to attend, but I was my 84-year-old mother’s primary caregiver. She had many health issues, and lived in a house near mine. I worried about leaving her alone for 11 or 12 days.

I searched for people to check up on Mom or stay with her, but she was uncooperative and didn’t want a stranger in her home. While I understood that, it left me with a major problem.

I tried to put that aside as I helped with wedding plans as much as possible by phone. We didn’t invite my family members to the wedding because of the short notice and the distant location.

As the date for Lauren’s wedding approached, I arranged for care for my cats, bought my airline ticket, arranged a rental car and bought a dress — but still had no solution to the problem of my mother being alone.

One evening my sister Joan, who lived in South Carolina, called to say she would come to the wedding. She wanted Lauren to have family members present at this significant event in her life. I was surprised and a little worried about adding more people, but gave her the details about dates, and locations. In addition, we’d had problems with finding a hotel because the men’s college basketball playoffs were in town at the same time.

Joan said she’d start making arrangements to fly or drive to Florida. We began talking about Mom, and I broke down and cried because I was so worried about her staying alone. Joan kept saying Mom would be OK, but I wasn’t convinced, because this trip was so long.

But we said goodnight and left it at that.

About three days later Joan called to say she had a better idea. She would go to our mother’s house and stay with her while I was at Lauren’s wedding. Of course I cried with surprise and delight. She would arrive two days after I left Connecticut, and leave two days before I returned. Thus my mother would only be alone for a total of four days, and in just two-day increments.

I went to Lauren’s wedding with a free mind and heart, and enjoyed the days I spent with her in Florida. For that very important day in my and my daughter’s life, I will never forget the gift of peace of mind my sister gave me.

by Charles Horner

Texas, USA

In the mid 1980s, I was enrolled in a travel agency school for entrepreneurs who wanted to operate their own travel agency. We got valuable information on the geography of the world. And we were trained on educating our clients to deal with idiosyncrasies and cultural habits of other cultures around the world. Some of the information gleaned from those classes has stuck with me to this day, especially on how to treat other people… no matter what they look like.

This period of time was also when many people in the United States dressed shabbily as a form of rebellion, not from necessity. One of our instructors, “Barbara”, owned a travel agency. She related the story of three scraggly-looking kids who’d come in one day. As was the custom in this part of one of the more affluent areas of Dallas, if you didn’t look like you belonged, you were shunned. Or the police were called to remove you from the premises without consideration as to why you were there in the first place.

One of Barbara’s travel agents turned up her nose at the unkempt kids, ready to call the police and have them removed. The employee dismissed them as bothersome troublemakers, unworthy of her valuable time.

Barbara, however, greeted them kindly, inquired as to their travel plans and suggested different travel options. They spent over two hours going over different ideas. Even though they looked like they didn’t have a dime between them, she gave them every courtesy, as if they were the most important customers that had walked into her agency that month.

They wound up booking (literally) around the world itineraries with lavish accommodations. As she booked their flights, hotels, cruises, and excursions, the surnames they gave didn’t sound familiar to her. But she went through all the motions, as if they were real travel customers planning a lengthy vacation.

When it got down to how the trip would be paid for, the oldest produced an exclusive American Express card. Barbara recognized the name on the card as belonging to one of the wealthiest families in Dallas. She quizzed them as to the different name on the card. They explained that they used their mother’s family name so they could travel safely, and not be targets for terrorists or kidnappers. A quick phone call confirmed their story.

After all transactions were completed and confirmed, they thanked her and said that hers was the fifth agency they’d visited that week, and because she didn’t treat them like they looked, she got their business. She made over $25,000 in commissions on their bookings alone.

One lesson Barbara imparted to us that day in class was that prejudice isn’t just about race and gender. She said: “No matter how somebody is dressed, or how unkempt they look, everyone deserves respect and kindness. Don’t treat anybody poorly — they just might pay for your new car.”