Genuine kindness is a common currency that brings universal value to everything.
I don’t even know her name, but the woman with large, dark eyes and a pink t-shirt did something that mattered. I met her quite by accident this past weekend when I traveled to New Hampshire to deliver a presentation at a meeting for people who plan county and state fairs in that region of the country.
Since my presentation was scheduled for Saturday afternoon and I would be unable to fly home that same day, I booked a later flight on Sunday to allow some time for exploration. Late Saturday afternoon was spent making a quick trip to Portsmouth, a picturesque town on the New Hampshire coast that I first visited a couple summers ago. The sole purpose of the trip was food. I could not wait to savor the briny flavor of oysters that were plucked from the ocean just hours before I slurped them from their shells, followed by the lush, buttery goodness of a simply made lobster roll. Looking out the window over the waters that yielded this feast was a scenic bonus.
As I ate the oysters, I thought fondly and longingly of my mother. She loved oysters, and even when she became ill, she would ask my father to bring her some from time to time. It was Mother’s Day weekend two years ago that my family was forced to make the difficult decision to place my mother in a nursing home, where she died a few days later. Although I was quite pleased to be in New England for the weekend, it was one of several moments on the trip where I felt melancholy and briefly blinked back the tears of loss.
Vermont is one of six U.S. states I had never visited, so I took the opportunity on Sunday to check it off my list. Following the route suggested by one of the women who had attended my presentation, I crossed the state line separating New Hampshire and Vermont in time for an early lunch. I had neither a plan, nor much time to search for a place to eat; so when I spied an authentic-looking old rail car, turned diner, I pulled in. It turns out the rail car was an authentic Worcester Semi-Streamliner dining car, built in 1946, and one of the few of its type still around.
Two steps inside the cozy, nostalgic diner, I met the dark-haired woman with the pink shirt – a proud seventh generation Vermont resident. She seemed so genuinely happy to see me that it took me a bit off guard. She wished me a happy Mother’s Day and again I felt the pang of missing Mom. She took the time to learn I was from Texas and only had a short time to visit. She made sure I knew how to get to Quechee Gorge, encouraged me to plan another trip to witness the region’s famous fall foliage, asked me if I had ever tasted true Maple syrup and made me feel like I was chatting with a long-time girlfriend, not a person whom I had just met.
When it came time for me to leave, she called out “wait a sec” from behind the counter, then came around a gave me a huge hug. The gesture surprised me. How good it felt to be hugged on Mother’s Day surprised me even more. And the stark awareness of just how much I needed the unsuspected hug stirred deep inside of me.
No one knows another’s story or the season of life they may be weathering. But genuine kindness is a common currency that brings universal value to everything. Chances are this woman was separated by work from her own mother or children. But she did something that mattered. She exhibited tremendous customer service. She soothed the wary heart of a total stranger. And she, in a tiny but powerful way, improved the human condition. Before I left Vermont, I bought a small bottle of Maple syrup to remind me of her natural, sweet spirit and the need to pass her kindness along.
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