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[Leavitt, continued--]

One day Jeff came into the hospital, accompanied by four different nurses, all of them beaming. “We have a surprise for you,” he said. I didn't dare assume they were bringing me my baby because they kept telling me that wasn't possible yet. They wheeled me into the nurse’s break room where someone had set up a huge screen.

Then one of the nurses flicked the room into darkness, and a video began. There, there, there. Like lightning. Like magic. On the screen, my tiny son was gurgling in his first bath at home! Jeff had filmed him at his first visit to the pediatrician, who said hello to me on the screen! There was my baby sleeping, waking, taking a bottle and smiling (I swear he was smiling at me!) on the screen. That baby was glowing as a pearl.

Halfway through the film, I started to cry. But it wasn’t the crying I had been doing before, that tough angry wail because I was being denied so much. It was crying out of gratitude, out of love, and because of the incredible kindness of both these busy, busy nurses who gave up their break room and their time, and because of my overwhelmed and terrified husband who nevertheless had managed to make me a document of all of my baby’s life that I was missing. He sat there, holding my hand and sharing it with me.

Caroline Leavitt
New York, NY
Author of: Pictures of You;
Cruel Beautiful World;
​With or Without You (August, 2020)


In my twenties, I battled depression and anxiety while caring for a very ill, very difficult parent. After I turned 26, the love of my life confessed one evening that he didn’t want to get married again. I was devastated. I was living in a big new city, didn’t have many friends, and my parents were incapable of providing any kind emotional support. I was lost.

​During the ensuing breakup phase, this man wrote me the most amazing letter I have ever received. No one had ever before acknowledged the remarkable adversities I had survived, my innate kindness, how uncommon it was to be both book smart and street smart, my honesty and character and loyalty. I had never noticed much of this about myself and it took my breath away. It had the effect of a life preserver; I read the letter everyday for months, maybe even a couple of years. Then one day I realized I had changed. I was strong, at peace, and now the insecure, under-confident 20-something no longer existed.

​Anonymous
​Philadelphia, PA


A guy sits in a folding chair that's chained to a traffic sign, reading. His gloved hands hold a shallow cardboard box containing a book. His hooded face leans down, totally concentrated; a private act on this popular downtown corner. His battered sign says he's in the beginning stages of a debilitating disease. Yet he has good color. His clothes look okay, his eyes sparkle behind thick glasses when he talks about books.

A couple feet from his chair is a food wagon. Construction workers, arrayed on the sidewalk, wait for coffee, Danish, egg sandwich on a bagel. I break the line with my water purchase, though resentful looks disappear as I say, "Just the water." The lady in the wagon takes my dollar. (Everyone knows you don't have to wait for water.)

The homeless guy's still fixed on his pages. He's got thinning reddish hair, late 40's maybe, too alert for a junkie or a guy on a permanent bender. Perhaps a working man down on his luck, if not part of a Dickensian homeless ring, an urban legend of a Fagin character who divvies up misery signs and street corners for a percentage. But I suspect no nights on grates for this guy. There's no patina of dirt or smell. Certainly not a con person with a glint in his eyes, grabbing purses or even finagling for money. He's hardly paying attention to the paper cup between his ankles.

I put a dollar in the cup.  Don't think well of me. I am not a generous individual who feels for the homeless, except in passing. Yet sometimes, in my heart of hearts, I, who have spent decades worried about rent, truly feel ‘there but for the grace of G-d go I.’ I'm superstitious. My dollar is to buy off misfortune, reinforce the strange grace that allows me to survive in this city. Even now, growing old with a mate in a decent apartment, we struggle.

Can I spare the dollar I spend on water? No, but the one toward a brownie can go. He says "thank you," makes eye contact. Before he can go back to his reading I ask what he likes. "Whatever I can find." "But what's your choice?" "Spy books, true stories, conspiracy, adventure." Hunger there. I can relate.

I came to this city as a young playwright, worked in the publishing industry, beginning with a test, a press release on a biography of Jim Morrison. I was thrilled to write materials for a department, paid to be a writer. Despite years of plugging books (my own work on the side)--I still loved them, though publishing had proved a one-sided affair.  

Once a professional reviewer, now I was sent books by publishers to review for free. A stack was next to my desk. First I gave him a thriller, then a book about disinformation and a history of the Cold War.  Each time I put a dollar in his cup, though we both knew his 'thank you' was perfunctory before his one-line spot-on reviews. Curious, I gave him my own dystopian novel.
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A week later, as I bought my water, he stopped me to say thanks for all the books and especially the future world one. He said he had never read a book like that and liked it so much, he would keep it on his shelf (he lives somewhere?). I said I was glad, that the book was my own. He said, “I thought that.” (What? Was I  so transparent?).  As one writer to another, he told me about ‘a guy who works for a publisher’ who stops by. This person is interested in a book he's writing.

He confides he needs a cable for his computer to finish but is almost done. I am delighted for him. He also confides he's been in prison. I let him know prison chronicles always have an audience. He says the publishing guy also told him that. I encourage him to finish. He says again that my novel was like nothing he had ever read. I glowed from the admiration of a fan (colleague?).

Is the dollar my price of entry? I test that with a hardcover bestseller about an infamous American spy--a true story. He's excited it's a prize winner but then asks if I want it back. I assure him, no, that I got it for free. So amazing he counts the book I didn’t finish, a treasure!

When next I stop to talk books, I don't hand him a dollar (I am short that day) and apologize. He brushes that off and asks if I can find some Nietzsche and Jung.  He’s intense, like asking for a serious drug.  I am surprised by a request and say I might have some at home. I talk about Jung's Universal consciousness and Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil, sharing that my grandfather showed me that book in high school, said it was important.  He nodded before returning to his latest read.

I return to my desk to plug other peoples’ books for my dollars, thinking about a person who wants to read everything. In Borges’ fiction, there’s a library containing every book ever to be written and a librarian outracing mortality. But my guy is not about quantity. Perhaps to find “truth,” not the plural?  To me, who’s lost the quest, that's beyond value AND he was kind about my own book. 

He asked again about Nietzsche. I was sorry I couldn't find it but said I would look for my Jung. He said he had read ALL of Nietzsche, just wanted to own a copy but could probably get it free online. I nod. The truth is I won’t look for my copy of Jung. I don’t know where it is but am fiercely affectionate about the content. It’s mine.

I am back to giving him my dollar, when I can. What value I get for it!

Susan I. Weinstein
New York, NY
Author of: ​The Anarchist's Girlfriend
​Paradise Gardens
Tales of the Mer Family Onyx

​​My true mountain tale hails from just before cell phones and GPS, when snail mail reigned. Would the outcome be the same today with our higher tech but lower civility? You get to judge.

The apt tri-element name (Native American-derived?) of rugged mountains in western Wyoming embraces its wildness: WIND RIVER RANGE. The Rockies here exhibit undulating green valleys flanked by monumental granite. We had backpacked for several days to the base of imposing Gannett Peak (above), the state's highest (13,810'). Named after geographer Henry Gannett (known as the Father of the Quadrangle, basis for America's topo maps), Gannett Peak contains a glacier likely the largest in the American Rockies.

Our route bypasses this majestic glacier. We still drink-in grand landscapes. The often-steep trail meanders through snow-patched forest and flowery meadows laced with mirror ponds and crystal streams, all amid towering jagged ridges (a/k/a mountains). We witness a clapping crash of boulders cascading down the far canyon face, some the size of buses we estimate. Dangers lurk here. Yesterday's surprise encounter with a grizzly and her cub, never a good combo, had spooked men and beast alike. And our provisions are running low. So we steel for a 20+ mile final long day hiking out of this remote wilderness.
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The next morning we embark later than prudent. I slip off a wet log into an icy creek. But our swift pace soon resumes. After hours of intense alpine sun baking away at high altitude, dehydration creeps up on us. I get the chills and shakes, likely a case of sunstroke. Nausea and a mental fog ensue. Vital water and extra resting delay our progress. Later, as the sun sets, our tender feet slow down, tiring from miles of steady hiking with packs on our backs. Our bodies feel tender, a bit wobbly. Darkness descends along the path, now in dense forest. Then our flashlight batteries go dead. We look heavenward: only by sighting starry sky in gaps at the tops of tall pines do we stay on the trail.

About midnight, we near the trailhead with relief. But elation at reaching our car soon subsides, for two reasons. Our feet are so sore, even touching the brake pedal hurts. You long trekkers will commiserate. Second, somehow I'd lost my new glasses, glasses necessary to drive legally. Fortunately, a lone motel appears after an hour's black drive squinting at the prairie road. This was not my proudest day.

A note left at the ranger's cabin described my eyeglasses and their likely location, a sharp bend in the trail where we photographed wildflowers. Ten days later and now back East, I open a package postmarked Indianapolis–behold, my pricey glasses intact! Midwesterners live up to their friendly image. An observant hiker cared enough to recover the item, check with the Ranger, and mail it promptly.

The tough last day of this adventure turned more memorable by the kindness of complete strangers, indeed a stranger we never meet. She earned her Good Samaritan spurs. I was humbled and grateful, both for that backpacking "learning experience" and for a renewed belief in my fellow travelers.

P. Johnson
Plymouth Meeting, PA
(photo credit: Don Paulson)

Growing up in white suburbia seemed Our Town-typical with its varied fortunes. Of course, seared into my young mind was the tragic. While mowing his lawn, the father of those gorgeous teen blondes in the corner Tudor keeled over dead one morning. Across the street, that home's patriarch waved his shotgun at kids who trespassed on his manicured yard to retrieve balls. At the other end of our road, the local hot dog ended up crippled from diving into the shallow end of their pool.

Then there was Kenny. He stood out among an otherwise unremarkable bunch of neighborhood kids. We two were the youngest, and his fragile emotions and frame earned Kenny a sissy nickname. Not for long. He matured into a wiry master of martial arts, beware. Anything electronic or mechanical absorbed Kenny. He could fix your brother's motorcycle and built his own color TV from a kit with a million parts. He was always wiring some invention in his bedroom workshop when not practicing for a public piano recital. I was in awe. Was he the next wave of human evolution?

We were not close friends but when together Kenny always had your back. I remember him as easy-going and perhaps the most non-judgmental person I've ever met. One night at a party with his friends, my first and only encounter with pot yielded a disorienting high. I was zonked, all a blur. He drove me home that night then carried me up to bed. What my conservative parents suspected I never knew. The next morning I recalled little of it so was doubly relieved there were no questions. Kenny's ever-ready smile and tactful remarks must have done the trick.

After the Ivy League, Kenny became a doctor, settling into a specialty feeding his need to solve puzzles. I'm sure he's been a crack forensic pathologist for California law enforcement. I've lost track of him for a couple decades but will always remember his Renaissance-Man brilliance along with a genuine niceness. Kenny would make you chuckle from observing some situation like no one else. And his good deed that risky night still makes me smile.

Anonymous
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The lady who lived alone upstairs on the 11th floor had some form of dementia. I never met Mary, but about every six months she would leave the water on in her bathroom and it would flood my bathroom. The owner of my unit handled the repairs.

One evening, I was sleeping and heard a gravelly, muffled voice say “help”. I don’t know how I heard her in the dead of night through concrete floors. I groggily put on my bathrobe and padded to the fire stairwell down the hall. When I opened the door on the 11th floor, my eyes flung open: there was about 6 inches of smoke along the ceiling of the long main hallway. I flew down the steps and called the front desk. After that, everything was a blur. There was a kitchen fire: our building with hundreds of residents was evacuated, the fire trucks came, and Mary was unharmed.

I'm not sure which won out that night, my good heart or instinct for danger.

Anonymous
Boston, MA

My father was a gentle, thoughtful man. Even though he became president of the largest Philadelphia firm of its type, he didn't bring home his commander-in-chief mantle. There was a good deal of family play as well as affection from our parents. Dad especially relished surprising us three boys.

He'd made a baseball diamond with small outfield of our large backyard. In one corner he transformed our huge playhouse into a chicken coop then planted a long garden on the side with 60 tomato plants and other veggies. They say that gardeners worship their crops, and Dad was certainly down on his knees a lot. Joining him (for worms) was Gertrude, a Rhode Island Red hen, colorful in feather and spirit, who bonded with him. They soon became inseparable, Gertrude sprinting across the yard to greet him daily. Until one fateful day when a neighbor's Dalmatian claimed Gerty.

One Saturday we awoke with excitement and delight to discover a high, fast zipline he'd installed. A worrier, Mom was less impressed. He'd fashioned a pulley with rope handle. It sped noisily on a steel wire diagonally over the baseball field, skimming the top of a perfectly shaped cherry tree, source of Mom's fragrant pies. For our 1960's neighborhood of kids, this zipline was quite the novelty. He was thinking outside the box.

Speaking of boxes, for several years Dad practiced an unusual ritual, much to our pleasure. To celebrate his birthday, always a mid August feast on his brick-laid patio, he prepared surprises. For his birthday, each of us got handed a gift--from him! Those presents always matched our individual hobbies. 

The habit of reverse gift-giving on his birthday faded away after we left for college. Memories of Dad have faded, too, since his passing a decade ago. But in my mind, he isn't diminished in death. I like to recall these and other kindnesses of this admirable man from The Greatest Generation.

​P. Johnson
Plymouth Meeting, PA
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​I don't drive, but fortunately a grocery store is nearby. However, I have a terrible habit of overloading my shopping cart at the grocery store. As the years pass it gets harder and harder pushing that cart those 4 city blocks and then hauling the heavy bags up a flight of stairs to my 2nd floor apartment.

One hot afternoon last summer I really overdid it. As soon as I walked out of the store I realized getting home was a going to be an extremely difficult task. This was a scary admission to myself, my heart pounded. I proceeded on my way and was sweating upon reaching a certain traffic stop. Suddenly my landlord's truck eased next to me. Before my inner voice even said, should I ask?, his handyman jumped out from the passenger side, lifted my cart into the back of the pickup, and climbed there to steady it. He told me to get in the passenger seat.

My landlord drove me and my two-ton cart home. The handyman even carried all of the bags up the stairs and into my apartment. I must have thanked them ten times! They could have just beeped and waved and continued on their way but instead saved my day. Sadly, we live in a selfish, it's-all-about-me world so when an act of kindness comes our way, we notice and remember. 

Barbara A.
Landsdowne, PA

​© 2019  Peter Johnson
Website designed & built by P.J.

Top photo with bus:
​© 2011  Ekaterina Nosenko
Top photo with African Americans:
© 2017  Kali9 on Getty Images
Used with permissions.
Large photos, backgrounds: by P.J.