The Kindness Of Strangers

"I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."

-- Tennessee Williams, A Streetcar Named Desire

"A kind lady lives here" hobo sign, 8-3-14

"Today, give a stranger one of your smiles.

It might be the only sunshine he sees all day."

-- H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

On my bike ride yesterday I got caught in a pretty terrible storm.

Usually I keep riding through whatever Mother Nature flings at me. But yesterday, she flung me right off the road into someone's front yard. Another rider, a guy named Terry, saw me turn in and followed me.

The storm didn't look like it was going to give up anytime soon, and the two of us found meager, inadequate shelter under a big tree and cowered there together, dripping and shivering, while the hostile rain, hail, wind and lighting raged around us.

After a little while, someone appeared in the doorway of the little green house next door -- a young woman -- waving at us to come over.

This kind young lady invited us into her house bikes and all. A little girl, talkative and friendly as hell, bounced and skipped gaily towards us announcing "It's so nice to help people!" and handed us dry towels.

A tow-headed toddler watched warily from the next room.

The lovely, kind young lady and the adorable, bubbly little girl chatted with us until the storm finally eased up enough for Terry to get back on the road and my husband came to rescue me.

As it turned out, the kind lady's husband also rides, so she understood the plight of two stranded cyclists sidelined by a storm, and took compassion on us.

I was freezing by the time my husband arrived with his truck to drive me and my dripping bike home. My hands were numb. My feet were numb. But my heart was warmed by the kind gesture from a total stranger.

I don't like to stop riding if I don't absolutely have to.

I absolutely had to.

It's a good thing I stopped where I did.



*A note about today's picture:

During the late 1800s and early 1900s, out-of-work homeless men called hobos were a common sight jumping on and off freight trains and traveling on foot along America's railroad tracks. To communicate with others in "the brotherhood," hobos devised a clever set of symbols -- simple rudimentary icons drawn in chalk or coal on sidewalks or mailboxes, etc. -- to inform, help, warn, encourage and guide one another on their travels from town to town. This simple cat drawn outside a home indicated that "a kind lady lives here."

Feeling Necessary

"I just want one person I can rescue
and I want one person who needs me.
Who can't live without me."

-- Chuck Palahniuk, Choke

Lego man rescuing a Lego bear 2-9-14

"He found something that he wanted,

had always wanted and always would want --

not to be admired, as he had feared;

not to be loved, as he had made himself believe;

but to be necessary to people, to be indispensable ..."

-- F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise

Lego man rescuing a Lego bear (2) 2-9-14

"The way he's watching me makes me feel needed

like no one's ever been able to make me feel.

In a way, he makes me feel necessary.

Like my existence alone is necessary for his survival."

-- Colleen Hoover, Hopeless

I married an extremely smart, capable, self-sufficient, ambitious, efficient man who can do pretty much anything I can do, usually better, usually ahead of time, usually before I can even think about getting around to doing whatever it is, and usually before I'm even out of bed in the morning.

In addition to earning all the money and supporting our household, he handles our finances. He gets the kids to school. He gets the groceries. He runs the sweeper. He does the laundry. He folds the laundry. Not because I can't. But because he gets there first. If it was left up to me, I'd get there eventually. I'd get there sometime before we ran out of food and clean clothes. But he always gets there way sooner than I do. So he just does stuff. He sees something that needs to be done, and he does it. I see a thing that needs to be done and a thought flickers across my mind that a thing needs to be done, and then I walk past the thing, and get lost in a daydream, or an idea, or a project, and when I walk past the thing again, he's already done it. With hospital corners. Without anyone seeing him do it.

He's like a super-hero.

Don't get the wrong idea. He isn't a control freak. He's just a high-achiever. A perfectionist. A valedictorian who also graduated at the top of his medical school class who runs his own business. He's an Eagle Scout for Chrissakes. He saves lives. For real.

And I'm not complaining. I want to make that crystal clear. I sincerely appreciate all that he does, I need him to do everything he does, and he does a shit ton.

It's great. He's great. 

But honestly, sometimes being out-greated by someone so great can make me feel a little bit not-so-great --not so necessary, anyway. 

And that is not his fault.

He's so sweet, he has even tried being not so awesome, just to make me feel better. 

He's tried "letting" me do things, given back some of the duties that he's assumed over our 20-some years together. He's only trying to help. He's only trying to love me. But for me, it feels like pity. It feels patronizing. It's that feeling you get when you know someone let you win the game, when you know damn well they could have beaten you without even trying. 

He's tried to hold himself back, but I can sense him chafing under it. He's like a dog that sees a squirrel and wants to chase the squirrel because it's in his nature to chase the squirrel, but he's trying really hard not to chase the squirrel because he thinks it will make me happier if he doesn't chase it, so he tries to stifle the urge so that I can chase the squirrel even though every sinew of his body is twitching with squirrel-chasing impulse that he's pretending not to have. But I'm all like "Squirrel? What squirrel?" And even if I did chase the squirrel, I'd be a day late and a dollar short, and I'd get distracted by a sunbeam or a snowflake anyway and nobody would get any fucking squirrel.

I think he thinks I don't notice him trying so hard to rein it in, but I do. 

And I know he's happier chasing the squirrels, and buying the groceries, and running the sweeper, and paying the bills. I know it. He knows it. It's just the way it is. And I've learned to be okay with it.

Nevertheless, living with someone who meets all the needs can leave me feeling a little un-needed.

But there is one thing that I do for my family that nobody else does as good as me. There is one territory that hasn't been claimed. One last outpost that's still mine. 

The kitchen. 

Somebody has to feed the superhero.

And even though someone else brings in the groceries, that food would rot on the counters and in the refrigerator if I didn't transform it into deliciousness day in and day out. Whether it's Great Grandma's breaded pork chops, my own velvety-smooth avocado dip, my mouth-watering rhubarb crumble, racks of finger-licking fall-apart barbecue ribs, or homemade soup, or pizza, or chocolate chip cookies without the chocolate chips, just the way he likes them -- I've got it dialed in. 

My food is good, and it's not bragging if it's true. 

My boys don't need me for much around here. They're all very capable. But they do need me to cook for them or they'd be living on Cheerios and take-out.

I know my husband loves me. He's never given me any reason to doubt it. But sometimes, I wonder how much he needs me. And then I cook him a pot roast and the aroma hits him before he's even in the house. And when he walks through the door after a day of rescuing the world, I see his shoulders relax just a teensy bit, and then I enjoy him enjoying a delicious, satisfying meal that I made, and I know that I did that for him, and that he needed it, and that he needs me. 

It's a good thing.