Fwd: Something to Think About

[Guest guest]

Received this from a friend:

> Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living.

> > When I arrived 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 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, " 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.

_________________________________________________________________

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[Guest guest]

Deborah: Thank you for sharing " something to think about " . What a

beautiful sentiment. I am going to print a copy. Winifred Card

Fwd: Something to Think About

>

> Received this from a friend:

>

> > Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living.

> > > When I arrived 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 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, " 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.

>

>

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[Guest guest]

Deborah,

Thank you for sharing this.

Belinda

>

> Received this from a friend:

>

> > Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living.

> > > When I arrived 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 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, " 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.

>

>

> _________________________________________________________________

> Join the world's largest e-mail service with MSN Hotmail.

> http://www.hotmail.com