Sun Wind and Rain Blog

When the truck whipped around into the Bicentennial Park parking lot and headed in my direction my curiosity piqued. I was finishing off the last remnants of my lunch, topping off a peanut butter, honey and banana wrap with a few handfuls of granola. Nothing special, just enjoying the green and the trees of an area park while on break as I am prone to do.

It was September 11, the seventh anniversary of the terrorist attacks on the Two Towers, The Pentagon and the American way of life. Thoughts of the all “big things” in the world were jostling for position in my mind. So many were affixed with negative connotations:
– The increasingly ugly tug of war between Republicans and Democrats as the presidential race heats up.
– The ongoing wars on terror in Iraq and Afghanistan.
– The pervasive fear and closed-mindedness running rampant in our society as home loans and financial institutions fail, jobs are lost and the cost of a trip to the grocery store cuts deep.
– And, why, oh why, is the threat level always orange at the airport?
These weren’t new thoughts or all that original thoughts for that matter. They were just varied musing to munch on mentally as I fed my face physically. It was like my brain was on random mode, stuck on the heading “big things.” I wasn’t paying these thoughts much mind, actually, but I was starting to get a little overwhelmed. It is inevitable when the “big things” in life bombard you all at once. And truth be told, I was getting a bit depressed on that cold, gray-day lunch hour.
This wasn’t relaxing at all.
So when a man in a red truck drew near I welcomed the change. My mind quickly dropped all those “big things” and began working through the possible reasons for this new development. I didn’t recognize the truck or the man behind the wheel so this probably wasn’t a social meeting. He wasn’t wearing a uniform so I figured I was safe for taking up two spaces in an otherwise empty parking lot. By the time his ride saddled up alongside mine facing opposite directions, I was fully prepared to say, “Sorry, I don’t know where such-n-such road is.”

We rolled down our windows, he offered a polite greeting and proceeded to ask if I owned a green chair.
This was an unexpected turn. I must have look puzzled so he continued. Getting out and walking to the back of his truck he explained that he had noticed me sitting in a green chair reading at Cam-plex Park last week.
When I left that day, I had forgotten my green chair — a little fold-up number with mesh cup holders in the arm rests and a canvas bag for easy toting. The man in the red truck scooped it up lest someone else swipe it for their own.

“I figured I’d see you again someday,” the Good Samaritan said. “And if I didn’t I would have a nice green chair.” The stranger kept my green chair in the back of his truck for a week, keeping a watchful eye for my small SUV with an out-of-state license plate. And when he spotted mine, situated at an angle made perfect for spotting from Warlow Drive, he shifted into gear. He smiled as I professed my thanks after he handed me my green chair. He shook my hand and drove away leaving me nearly as puzzled as I was when he first posed his query.
The difference was an uplifting levity to my thoughts. With all the “big things” in the world to worry about, it was a “little thing” that made everything seem alright. My green chair. I bought it for $9 on sale at KMart. It is utterly replaceable. Yet, as a symbol of human decency it becomes priceless. At least to me.
The stranger in the red truck. He could have been any one of us, really. Yet, as an agent of kindness he becomes a shining example of the inherent goodness of humankind. And at that moment, the “big things” didn’t seem so big and the “little things” didn’t seem so little. I smiled then as I realized I didn’t even catch his name. I’ll remember him every time I unfold that green chair, though. Such a little thing, a random act of kindness. But its the “little things” that make this life worthwhile and help put all those “big things” in their place.