Thank you Mike G.

 

I really don't like people; but strangers are cool. I've had this experience multiple times in my life. Meeting and talking to strangers, mostly a truly great experience. Both our daughters have made fun of me striking conversations with cashiers and people waiting in line. It's one thing at times I take some sort of comfort in doing.

As I still ailed from spinal trauma causing leg trauma. In May 1995 I decided to run a ten mile race in Philadelphia. I knew my right leg would spasm; yet, I decided 'maybe it will change'. 

It'd been two years postoperative spinal fusion with hip graphing at that point, was still being felt. I kept encouraging my body to get 'the show on the road'. Yes, I was waiting for a miracle. Pain I can deal with, it's the malfunction of the leg that I couldn't or rather I refused to adjust to. 

For pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. Too, sometimes we can learn to 'suffer well'.

I'd had pain most of my life. I once had an Army Ranger ask, "How the hell did you ever get into the Marines?" I replied, "I was the Guinea Pig they always wanted." I paused as I'd giggled then added some other truths; one of them being that it was my desire to be a US Marine all my childhood. He looked at me dumbfounded. I remarked, "I enjoyed it for the most part."

So, here I was on a cool, damp, cloudy, musty day, first time on a Philadelphia subway. All the other competitors had gotten off. I was alone, shivering, soggy in my racing flats, wearing bun huggers, a racing singlet with a mylar blanket half wrapped around me. 

At this point my Raynaud's had kicked in, to boot. My left hand fingers turning blue as they'd ached, my right foot was going south with pins and needles type pains. And I still had an urge to get in a few more miles, as the right leg spasms subsided.

Soon, my stop arrived. As I exited the subway area, having no clue where I was. I smelled the air, which was unlike the New York City hot pretzel tasting air.

I remembered the street and park area where I'd parked my car, yet everything was unfamiliar to me. 

I walked a handful of steps to my right. There were a group of young men chatting it up, about eight of them. I knew they would know which direction I needed to go in. The street was moderately busy. It was a Saturday late morning. 

I said, "Excuse me, could you tell me where...is?"

One young handsome man of about age 28 looking me over cajoled, "Mmmm. Mmmm. Look at you." I knew what he meant. I was some sort of a sight. I nearly laughed. Instead, I smiled, "Yeah I ran the Broad Street Ten mile race." 

He replied, "Oh." The other young men smiled as they looked at me.

I continued, "So, I parked my car near this park. And well, I really don't know where it is now. Can you help me and tell me the way to that park?"

At this point, anyone else would not understand my willingness to ask strangers for directions in what bordered on an apparent seedy section of Philadelphia. Especially, a bunch of guys who'd towered over me, some cajoling me. I was in their neck of the woods. I knew not their culture. But, I knew human culture. Too, I knew kindness. I picked the alpha male of the group to ask for help. For he would play the hero. Because that's what he liked. Also, I sensed he was gregarious and himself a kind person. It was how he looked at me and how the men looked at him when he spoke.

I did sense I was taking a chance. Yet, at the same time I knew to trust him. For I always believed, we humans, most of us are born inherently good.

The young alpha man gave me the correct directions. I thanked him, smiled, nodded; then parted and found my car. Tossing the mylar blanket into my car with my racing flats. I then changed my shoes, threw on a jacket, and went for a slow two mile run to loosen my body up from shivering to be able to drive the over two hours back home.

Yesterday, I had to run a few errands. I truly did not want to be in any crowded place. I don't enjoy crowds all that much. Nowadays, I'll do anything to avoid a wedding or any massive crowd type event, I'd rather be writing, reading, researching or running alone. Life gives you the opportunity to change. I'm always doing that, yet privately. 

So, upon my last errand I knew I had to get back home to feed our geriatric pets and get my studies in for a graduate course I'm currently taking. I also wanted to not have an eight o'clock dinner, as to be able to go to bed early that night.

I went to a busy market, that I'd avoided mostly since I found the same franchise in a less crowded area nearly a half hour away. This other one is fifteen minutes away from my home and had two stores near it that I had to shop at, one for extra pet supplies sorely needed. 

With dread seeing the loaded parking lot, I found a parking space. Due to my lowered autoimmune system I donned a mask, grabbed my shopping bags, wiped the cart handles, which at the other places were not what I had to do. Those two other markets, were a breeze with no crowds. I focused on my list; however,  one thing I craved the taste of, was their oat milk vanilla bean ice cream.

I forged ahead with a shopping cart. I knew I had to be selective in food shopping; I've given myself budgets for the past few years. It's my Scottish cheapness or my Welch frugality among my 14 nationalities, of which I appear mostly Norwegian. Never mind the truth of scraping by in my childhood. 

After twenty minutes of shopping for the week. I arrived at cashier, Mike G.'s line. The young man was near my oldest's age. He stood near six feet tall, a tad lean, wearing glasses that silhouetted his dark brown hair. As he scanned, I packed, we chatted. For moments even in all the store's crowdedness there stood noone behind me. 

I found out he too liked the other store of the same chain he worked at. But he was working too many hours two years ago, fell asleep at the wheel working the morning shift and had a terrible car accident. Too, he lost his father just before that. 

I found out that he had lived near my home as a child and as his dad was dying he'd remained there with his mother. His mother moved south after the death of his father. So, he/Mike G. chose to stay in the area with where he'd gone to school and grown up in. 

Near the end of the conversation I revealed to him that my daughters too had lost their dad and were near his age at about the same time. I so wanted him to know he was not alone. He being a tad stunned, smiled in understanding. We smiled at each other and gave each other a fist pumped in comradery.---Jody-Lynn Reicher