Just beautiful, Steve. Absolutely beautiful.
Thanks for all your great contributions. I save so many of them. Blesings, Sherri On 12/7/07, steve doyle <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> wrote: > THE CAB RIDE > > > Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living, and holidays were big working > days for a cab driver. It was very early on Christmas Eve When I arrived for > a fare at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a > ground floor window. Under these 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 taxi's 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 80's 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, "Could 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 neighborhood 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 that 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. > PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT 'YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID, ~BUT THEY > WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL > > Merry Christmas > > > --~--~---------~--~----~------------~-------~--~----~ Access the Recipes And More list archives at: http://www.mail-archive.com/recipesandmore%40googlegroups.com/ Visit the group home page at: http://groups.google.com/group/RecipesAndMore -~----------~----~----~----~------~----~------~--~---
