A Memorable Act of Kindness
It was summer 1974. I had just graduated from college and wanted a break before starting my career in human services. Two friends and I had an idea. Let’s hit the road and drive cross-country before we settle into permanent jobs. We’ll pool our funds, buy a used Volkswagen Bus, convert it into a camper, and go. The problem was that the country was in the midst of a fuel crisis — soaring prices and a reduction in supply, with many gas stations restricting the amount of fuel one could pump at any one time to five gallons or less. Given that situation, I suggested that we plan a trip to the British Isles or Europe. After careful thought and much debate, we decided to visit the Isles, leaving open the possibility of extending the trip to include Europe.
We left Boston’s Logan Airport on September 12 at 10:15 pm and arrived at 9:15 am in London, where we caught a connecting flight to Glasgow, our ultimate destination. The plane was what was referred to in those days as a “puddle jumper”. It had three propellers and about 24 seats, most of which were filled with schoolboys returning home from a “holiday” in England. Torrential rain and low visibility made for a treacherous ride with dips and tilts that had luggage compartments popping open and personal belongings littering the aisle. Finally, about an hour later, with one large “thump,” our plane touched down, and our white knuckled flight was over. We hailed a taxi, which took us to the Grand Central Hotel, one of Scotland’s finest, replete with several chandeliers in the hotel lobby. It would be the last hotel I slept in on the trip.
How do you choose the best memories to write about? Are they the ones you remember because of something dramatic that happened? Or maybe a conversation with someone so fascinating that it left you hanging on every word? This was by that measure quite ordinary. But to this day, it still brings a smile to my face and warmth to my heart.
I remember it was a Friday morning and I had stayed in a small youth hostel run by a middle-aged couple in the hills of Northern Wales. There were no other guests staying there. The rules were that no guests were allowed to remain in the hostel between the hours of 9:00 am to 5:00 pm to allow the couple some private time and time to do their errands. It was 8:30 am when I was informed that I had 30 minutes to gather up my pack and be on my way. But surely I thought to myself, with a thunderous rain falling outside, they might allow me to stay there at least until it let up a little. My pleading got me nowhere, so I braced myself for a very soggy walk toward Cardiff. After a while, I just gave in to the rain, lifting my face up to catch the drops on my tongue while my jeans plastered to my legs made the going even harder.
About two hours later, I became aware of two boys, perhaps 11-13 years old, coming up behind me. They were laughing and half walking and half running. They had no jackets or hats to protect them from the rain and the cold fall air, which felt even colder when the wind blew. As they passed by me with a cherry hello, it occurred to me that buried somewhere at the bottom of my backpack, in a plastic bag, was a plastic sheet that I sometimes used to lay my things out on. It was dry and, more importantly, would provide some protection for the boys from the driving rain. I called to them to stop, pulled it out of my pack, hoisted it above my head, and motioned them to get under what was now a moving canopy. They did, and for the next mile we walked. They did most of the talking.
When I got to one of the boys’ homes, he and his friend left and told me where to catch the bus into Cardiff. What happened next was totally unexpected. With his front door partially open, he called out to me and motioned for me to come inside. Once inside, his mother told me I could use their bathroom to dry off. While I was doing so, she prepared me a hot cup of tea and some fresh-baked biscuits. She told her son to watch for the Cardiff bus and took my wet jacket and laid it near their coal-fired kitchen stove. Their home was modest, much like the other attached row houses on the street. Long and narrow, it had three rooms on the first floor and three bedrooms on the second. Her husband worked in the mine, and they were ever conscious of the dangers imposed by earning a living that way. But they appeared happy. I told her a bit about the states, and she spoke of growing up in town. It seemed to me that she was content with no desire to embark on her own adventure. She insisted on giving me a token for the bus ride and was grateful to me for providing her son and his friend some measure of protection from the rain.
I couldn’t help thinking then and thinking now as I write this, how many of us would do what she did — invite a total stranger into our homes? My appearance was unkempt after a month on the road, as I hadn't bothered to shave or cut my hair. My belongings were soaked through, and my walking boots still carried the mud of the hills. It didn’t matter. She treated me like a king and stuffed my pockets with the remaining biscuits from the plate. After about twenty minutes, her son called out that the bus was coming. In truth, at that moment, I didn’t want to leave. I don’t remember her name, nor her son’s, but that feeling sitting there in the kitchen by the coal stove warmed me on many a cold, rainy night afterward. It was a simple act of kindness on an ordinary day that lifted my spirits and will forever remain.
