It all started with a white ceramic piggy bank in the shape of a baseball – filled with masses of pennies – that my five-year-old grandson wanted to lug back to Connecticut.
Of course, I said “Yes.”
In the confusion of packing up a five-year-old, a two-year-old and an infant, the piggy bank was forgotten by Levi’s parents.
I vowed to bring it with me the next time I visited them.
Of course, being illogical, I never reckoned with the fact of the sheer bulk of the bank and its weight.
The only suitcase I trusted to haul this irreplaceable wonder was my carry-on computer bag. After tugging mightily on the zipper in the middle compartment, it barely closed around the bulky bank.
The first hurdle was getting through airport security. My bag was flagged, unzipped and searched. The rubber seal on the bank’s bottom was pried loose from the body of the bank by a stern security guard, who softened considerably after I told him my long tale of why I was schlepping this bulky bank in the shape of a baseball to begin with.
The next hurdle came when I had to lift my computer case above my seat into the overhead compartment. I looked around for a nice man to help me, but none were in sight.
My eyes locked with a young woman sitting two rows back and I smiled at her as I struggled. Sensing my battle, she immediately jumped up and as I held the overhead compartment door down, she slid my bag in. I thanked her profusely. She smiled broadly and sat back down.
The flight was uneventful. Upon landing, everyone got up quickly to stand in the exit row. I noticed my helper, who had already stood up and was by that time a few rows ahead of me in the aisle. I waved goodbye. To my astonishment, she wound her way back to me, pulled down the overhead bin door and lifted my bag out and onto the floor. And then she swiftly resumed her place a few rows in front of me.
So taken with her kind actions, I was determined to thank her in some way for her consideration. As luck would have it, she was animatedly conversing in Spanish with a gate attendant when I alighted.
Immediately I rushed up to her and began explaining that I noticed she was wearing a jean jacket and I sell jean jackets with appliques and if she would give me her name and address, I’d like to send her one – as a token of my appreciation.
She looked at me blankly.
It was then I realized she spoke no English.
The bilingual airport attendant came to our rescue – facilitating a connection. Minutes later, the young woman’s sister had texted me in English – not only her temporary address and full name, but the following:
“My sister just came to the United States from the Dominican Republic two weeks ago and is trying out different places to live to see what she likes. She wants to experience snow and we keep telling her, ‘You’re crazy – nothing beats Florida living,’ but she will have to figure that out on her own.”
Here’s my point: this young woman may not have figured out WHERE to live, but she has certainly figured out HOW to live – with kindness.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor