Robin’s Good Deed: A True and Happy Story for Today

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This morning I went shopping at the Richfield Target, arriving early, imagining it wouldn’t be busy yet. Wrong. My primary mission was dog food, but the list expanded to include a bag of whole wheat flour. The flour section of the baking aisle contained a few bags of white flour. Period. An employee finished confirming with a customer that no yeast was available. I asked him about whole wheat flour. The response was a negative shake of his head. The poor man had to be weary from answering the same questions over and over while trying to keep the shelves stocked.

A woman and her adult daughter shared the aisle. In their cart lay two bags of white flour.

The woman spoke. “Excuse me. I know this’ll sound strange, but we just bought a bag of whole wheat flour at Cub because that’s all they had. It’s out in the car and you’re welcome to it.”

Those who know me will be surprised, but I found myself momentarily speechless.

Finally I said, “No, that’s okay, really, you’re so sweet.”

“Well, it’s up to you.”

Then I began to appreciate the kindness of the offer and the importance of accepting.

“Where are you parked?” I asked.

“We’re in the handicapped area. A black KIA SUV. We can watch for each other at the check out.”

I agreed.

After going through the self-check, I looked around for the woman and her daughter. Maybe they already left, I thought, and headed out of the store, but parked in a handicapped spot was the black SUV. After putting my groceries in the car, I circled around and parked nearby. In the meantime, I prepared something for the duo.

Five minutes later, the mother and daughter approached their vehicle and I jumped out of my car and gave them a friendly wave.

“Hi, I saw your vehicle and waited a bit,” I said,┬ápulling a card from my pocket.

The woman thought I was offering money, “No need to pay,” she said.

“Actually, I’m a writer and want to share the story of your kindness. This card has the web address of my blog. Check it out later today.”

As the daughter rummaged through the back of the SUV looking for the flour, the woman accepted the card. She reached her mittened hand toward my gloved hand and we shook.

“My name is Robin,” she said.

The daughter handed me a 5-pound bag of whole wheat flour and we parted ways.

Really, How Are You Doing?

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Fine.

Actually, not fine.* I write this on the second day of non-stop rain (flash flood warning!). Morning headlines informed us that the administration will finalize the rollback of clean water protections. Gun violence continues, including a murder-suicide a block from my home. Having chosen to leave my professional career to pursue a dream of actually completing a novel, I stand one disaster away from taking a deep dive into my modest retirement savings.  My ankle still hurts eleven weeks after a ligament-tearing incident. My normally dependable ability to sleep soundly has devolved into lying awake at 3 in the morning.

So how are you doing today? Are the problems in our society getting to you? How’s your personal life? How’s your health? Your work? You’re finances? Your mental  health?

During the long course of yet another sleepless night, this phrase came into my mind: To triumph over darkness, give light. Not get light. Give light.

After choosing an early retirement to pursue writing, I took a part-time job at my local Target in women’s apparel. It gets me out amongst people, provides a little extra cash, and ticks about 5 miles on the FitBit each time I work. Yesterday an older woman, let’s call her Bernice, came in shopping for some new clothes. She and a helper from her nursing home were trying to find a suitable pair of black pants.

“I haven’t been shopping for a year!” Bernice said. Her manner was anxious but open, her conversation a little confused but enthusiastic.

After helping her to explore various options in black pants, we found a pair that suited her needs–black, with stretchy fabric, durable, washable, and classy looking.

She pointed to my required-by-Target red shirt. “I sure would like to get a new red top. It’s my favorite color.”

The attendant looked worried. “Remember, Bernice, you have only $40.00 to spend. And you also want to get those cough drops.”

Earlier in the day a red top on the clearance rack caught my eye. “If you can wait a moment, I have an idea. No promises, but we might have just the thing.”

There it was. In her size. A loose-fitting red top with lace trim on the sleeves.

“What do you think of this?”

“It’s so beautiful!”

The attendant pulled out her calculator.  The pants, top, and cough drops came to just over $39.00.

Bernice looked up and held out her arms to me. I leaned down for a hug.

“I love you,” she said.

As of that moment, I was doing fine. Thanks, Bernice.

FYI, I am not depressed or despairing. Just speaking truth about life.

 

 

 

 

Steve’s Gift

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En route to a show at First Avenue in downtown Minneapolis, my friend Sergio and I decide to park halfway and then take a bus.

“Easier than parking downtown!” say I.

Then again, maybe not.

Waiting for our bus, we chat with a man named Steve. One leg artificial, the other wrapped in an Ace Bandage, Steve has the appearance of a too-young-for-VietNam vet. Friendly and talkative, he continues to engage with us on the trip downtown.

Getting off the bus on Nicollet and 7th, I manage to trip, ending up sprawled on the sidewalk. My friend helps me up and to a nearby bench, as my left ankle rapidly puffs to double its normal size.

Having gotten off at the same stop, Steve walks over.

“Wow, that looks bad. You need to head to the emergency room,” he says.

We had reached the same conclusion.

As we arrange for a Lyft driver, Steve unwinds the Ace bandage from his leg. Handing it to me he says, “Don’t worry, it’s clean. You need this more than I do.”

Rather than a concert at First Avenue, I spend the evening at the Abbott-Northwestern ER. My ungraceful fall results in ligament tears on both sides of the ankle, as well as in the ligament connecting tibia to fibula in the calf.

Twelve weeks recovery,” says the orthopedic doc.

But the residual glow of Steve’s open-hearted generosity continues to defeat the shadows of temporary discomfort and inconvenience.

May he receive a thousand times over the goodness he shared.