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LESSON FROM A STRANGER
I'm not afraid of strangers. I'm surrounded by them every day. My friend Lou and I, we sit on the bench down at the corner of 5th and Winslow, right downtown, almost every morning. Lou is a people watcher. He sits there and talks about the expresson on the faces of the people walking by, how they look angry or sad or stupid. He decides who didn't sleep last night, and who was out drinking until 2 a.m. I guess he has a sixth sense about people, or at least he thinks he does. He talks about their clothing too; mentions if they are wearing baggy pants, or dirty shirts, and expounds about a particular pretty lady who passes every morning on her way to work wearing bright, short, summer dresses, her high heels clicking on the shadowed pavement as she taps by.
He describes their smells too, although I have a darn good nose and I don't need him to tell me about that pretty lady's perfume, because it smells like the field of flowers that used to grow behind the little country house where I grew up. I can still remember how the sweet, almost overpowering scent of those flowers wafted on the summer breeze, rushing on unseen air through the open windows of our small home. I liked that smell better than when my mom made brownies, the odor of the baking chocolate causing my mouth to water and that little impatient, squirmy thing that lived inside me hardly able to wait until they were cool to taste them. But the flowers smelled the best.
I always know when that lady is approaching because her soft, flowery perfume precedes her. And Lou, well he gets a little excited. I can hear it in his voice as soon as he spots her. It's like he gets a tickle in his throat and his lowered voice becomes raspy as he takes in what she's wearing today. He talks about her long, shapely legs as if he's never seen a lady's legs before. Well, knowing old Lou as I do for these many years, it probably has been awhile. Neither of us is a spring chicken any more.
This morning though: I started to tell you about this morning and the stranger. A man sauntered past us, and true to his personality Lou began to talk about how this person seemed a little surly, with hooded eyes that looked from side to side like marbles rolling around in an egg cup, shoes untied and ill fitting that sort of slap-slapped against the concrete sidewalk as he went slowly past our bench. Lou didn't need to mention that he was not one of the regulars on their way to their same old regular day. No, this one was a stranger. I knew by the way he walked, slowing as he passed, that he would turn and come back. Lou was keeping an eye on him, never fully trusting anyone, fearful of the unusual, cautious about anyone not in the flow of the morning routine. The stranger shuffled closer to our bench and stood in front of us, not speaking. Lou tensed, and I could tell he was about to say something perhaps a bit rude, when the stranger slowly reached out to me and took my hand in his own. "Sir," he said, "I'm a poor soul. I don't have many material things, and in the winter I sometimes lack a roof over my head, and a coat warm enough to keep out the icy chill. There are times when a bowl of warmth from the soup kitchen and my faith are all that keep me going." As he spoke, he pressed some money into my hand. I could tell it was several bills. "Sir," he continued, "even though I am poor and have none of the riches I see around me every day, I still have my eyes, and that makes me very wealthy indeed."
As he turned away to leave, I moved my red-tipped cane so he wouldn't trip, and thanked him, my heart filling with grateful love. And Lou, well, I knew he had just learned a little lesson about trust and love, no matter how a stranger might be dressed. END
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