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Maryann
Posted on Friday, September 01, 2000 - 10:57 pm:   Edit PostDelete PostPrint Post   Move Post (Moderator/Admin Only)

Hi Guys,

For you that don't know me, you may not understand that I'm sitting in what "I" think is a very humorous situation.

For you that know me.......I had a very stressfull situation earlier today and that is most likely the reason for me to be squirming, rubbing and scratching my self with the worst case of hives I've ever seen!!!!:=(( I have a bottle of clear calamine completely covering me!!;-)) There is no part of me NOT covered with giant patches of hives and all I can do is laugh at it:):):)

My itchy finger just found this little story and my itchy brain figured Y'all might enjoy this one too?:+)

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Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. It was a cowboy's life, a life for someone who wanted no boss. What I didn't realize was that it was also a ministry. Because I drove the night shift, my cab became a moving confessional.
Passengers climbed in, sat behind me in total anonymity, and told me about their lives. I encountered people whose lives amazed me, ennobled me, made me laugh and weep. But none touched me more than a woman I picked up late one
August night.

I was responding to a call from a small brick fourplex in a quiet part of town. I
assumed I was being sent to pick up some partyers, or someone who had just had a fight with a lover, or a worker heading to an early shift at some factory for the industrial part of town. When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under such circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many
impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the
door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.

So 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 80s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s 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 treated. "Oh, you're such a good boy," she said.

When we got in the cab, she gave me an
address, then asked, "Can 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 rearview mirror. Her eyes were glistening. "I don't have any family
left," she continued. "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 neighbourhood 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, 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 the 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.

From "Make me an instrument of your peace"

Kent Nerburn

:):):).................Maryann
Sherry2
Posted on Saturday, September 02, 2000 - 9:11 am:   Edit PostDelete PostPrint Post   Move Post (Moderator/Admin Only)

Awesome story, Maryann. Thanks for taking the time to share it, despite the itchies :)
Maryann
Posted on Saturday, September 02, 2000 - 10:04 am:   Edit PostDelete PostPrint Post   Move Post (Moderator/Admin Only)

Hi Sherry,

Still on the funny side (barely;-), my hives came back with vengence this morning after easing up in the night! They are even on my hands and between my toes and I'm headed for the doc to see if there is a shot for this!

:):):).....Maryann

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