Post by elsie on Jan 11, 2006 10:54:47 GMT
i posted this in other places, i think its a fantastic story
THE CAB RIDE
> >
> > 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 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 rear-view 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 are 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.,
> >
> > You won't get any big surprise in 10 days if you send it to ten
> > people.
> >
> > But, you might help make the world a little kinder and more
> > compassionate by sending it on.
> >
> > Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we are here we might
>
> > as well dance . Every morning when I open my eyes, I tell myself that
> > it is special. Every day, every minute , every breath truly is a gift
> > from God
> >
> >
> >
THE CAB RIDE
> >
> > 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 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 rear-view 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 are 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.,
> >
> > You won't get any big surprise in 10 days if you send it to ten
> > people.
> >
> > But, you might help make the world a little kinder and more
> > compassionate by sending it on.
> >
> > Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we are here we might
>
> > as well dance . Every morning when I open my eyes, I tell myself that
> > it is special. Every day, every minute , every breath truly is a gift
> > from God
> >
> >
> >