Readers share stories about inspiring strangers

My grandmother, Jane Waters, was telling me of a WWII reunion story this week! In 1943-44, she was 16 years old and living in LaFayette, Ga. (where we are still now...). Back then, convoys of troops would come through town on Hwy 27 between Atlanta and Chattanooga and everyone would line the streets to wave at the young boys. Boys would throw out pieces of paper with their names and addresses so girls would write. My grandmother began writing to Vincent Gish, a sandy-haired boy from Kentucky. He went overseas and continued writing for about two years. They lost contact when he was injured and in a hospital in France.

Meanwhile, 64 years later, my grandmother was notified of an ad in "good ole days" magazine where a Vincent Gish was looking for Jane (Hampton) Waters in Lafayette, Ga. She wrote to him and he called her this week! They spoke for an hour and he asked if he could call again — that they had 64 years to catch up. He is in California and sitting on his porch looking at her pictures that she had sent to him in 1944! He spoke about how he kept the letters and pictures, but his wife made his destroy the letters years ago. But they had gotten him through the hospital time. They talked about how his parents had asked for Jane to visit in Kentucky, but Jane's daddy refused the offer. They have never met in person, but share so many memories. I love to hear the stories of how "things were different then." How the ladies would meet upstairs in a building "on the square" in Lafayette every Thursday evening and make bandages and care packages for the soldiers and how no one dared speak bad of the president or any solder! God Bless.

—Holly McWhorter, LaFayette, Ga. (submitted on Sept. 18, 2007)

I was in my red, convertible Sunbird, age 26, on the shoulder of the Louisville expressway in the early '90s, and had a flat tire. People kept whizzing by, even police. I had my trunk open, obviously looking for the spare tire, and this truck (with a clothes dryer in the bed) pulls up behind me. Two huge men, both over 6 feet tall, one in sweats with flip-flops, no shirt, tattoos on both arms, and the other wearing a buttoned shirt and sweats, and a scarred face, walk up and ask if I need help. The first thing in my mind is that I am going to be chopped up into tiny pieces and thrown into the Kenmore in the truck bed. WAS I WRONG! The two men changed my tire, then directed me to the nearest gas station that had tires. They actually followed me there to make sure I made it! I offered to pay them for their time, and even give them gas money for going out of their way. I asked for their names and addresses to send something to them. They both declined all of it, and told me to have a safe trip back home. Then they were gone in an instant. As they say, never judge a book by its cover. I have never forgotten this, and have shared the story with many people over the years. I have found that angels come in all forms, looks, shapes and sizes.

—Anonymous, Ky. (submitted on Sept. 18, 2007)

I am a 74-year-old mother, grandmother and great-grandmother and several years ago, I was having lunch at a local chain restaurant, sitting alone at a table, when a family of five was seated nearby. I was sitting at a table for two and suddenly a young man, who seemed to be the middle son of the family of three boys, came over and asked if he could sit with me at my table. I was a little taken aback and looked over at the family to see if it was a joke, and they were talking among themselves and did not seem to be paying attention to what was going on. I told him that I would be happy to share my table with him and he sat down and we began the most enjoyable dinner conversation I had had in a long time. I found out that he and his family were on vacation and were from another part of the country. Being born and raised in Louisiana and a French "Cajun" to boot, I piqued his interest immensely, and he had many questions for me about my heritage, customs, and of course Cajun food. He was interested to know about my family and was very happy to share with me about his family and his plans for the future.

All in all it was a very rewarding and happy experience for me, and I hope he enjoyed it also. We ended the meal with a handshake and I wished him the best of luck with the rest of his life and he wished me well also. I have often thought of this young man. I marvel at the character of a young man in his early teens who saw an old lady sitting alone having a meal and came over to sit with her and share a lovely time together. He said he had plans to go to college after graduation from high school. Somehow I know that whatever he has chosen to do with his life that he is doing well. I strongly suspect that his brothers dared him to do this, and if they really did, I thank them very much for it was one of the most rewarding and enjoyable meals I had had in a very long time. I also know that this country will be in good hands as long as we have young men and women with this kind of character and tolerance of old people.

—Marjorie Prettelt, Gonzales, La. (submitted on Sept. 18, 2007)

I was having a really bad day. My relationship with my boyfriend was falling apart, my work situation seemed bleak and hopeless, I felt like I didn't have any friends. As I was leaving my office building, feeling humiliated and worthless, it started to pour down rain. I didn't have an umbrella and I was parked really far away. Just then, a stranger approached me and lent me her umbrella. I walked to my car, drove to the entrance of the building and returned the umbrella to her. I never saw her again, but she made me realize that you don't have to do really big things to have a huge impact. She gave me hope that things would get better. Because of this woman's kindness, I try to do small kindnesses to others. It makes me feel better and reminds me that I can make a difference.

—Anonymous, Tracys Landing, Md. (submitted on Sept. 18, 2007)

I was 18 years old and I had just finished EMT training. My first opportunity to brandish my young, unrefined and hasty skills would be as a volunteer with Othello ambulance service, in a town of about 2,000, 15 miles south of my hometown. The people there were warm and welcoming. The ambulance crews took me into their own homes and cooked me dinner. I knew their sons and daughters, and even some of their mothers and fathers. I thought I knew everything there was to know about death. Five years earlier, I'd been a hostage in a school shooting. At 13, I'd watched my childhood friend, my neighbor and my teacher die as my classmates lined up the surviving students (including myself) by alphabetical order using the roll call sheets. We were sure goners, save for the fact that the wrestling coach wandered into the room and managed a very hostile negotiations situation. And now here I was, ready to make a difference in the world. I was ready to share all I knew. I was eager to use CPR to save the ones who were meant to be saved, and just as likely to hold a dying person's hand and comfort them. This patient threw me for a surprise, though. My crew was paged to transport a cancer patient home. This patient was in his 30s. He'd been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Too young to drive the ambulance, I provided all patient care when I worked. I would sit with this man for 40 minutes while we drove him back to his house near O'Sullivan Dam to die.

I'll remember this person because he talked so candidly about death. He had no desire to put on a brave front in front of a cute, 18-year old girl. He told me about his favorite fishing hole. He told me about his wife and his work. It was so damn hot in that beast they called an ambulance. It had seen its day and the dust somehow found its way into the bus as we pulled up to a driveway so steep, I thought that thing would tip over. I listened while he talked about feeling sorry for his wife, because she would have to be the one to deal with all of this. The encounter I'd had with death many years earlier was different; it included the element of violence, and at an early age, I lost my sense of safety and was so emotionally exhausted trying to cope with that, that I hadn't had a chance to examine the many facets of loss that happened in one afternoon. But this man had lived and suffered through many painful months and reflected on all the really important things ... like family, fishing holes and friends. I went home that day promising myself I'd honor this experience and respected the fact that somehow, God had considered me worthy of this man's moments on this Earth. Today, I'm 25, and I'm a dispatcher for Spokane County Sheriff's Office. I try my best to remember my deputies and their families, and treat them as if they are my own family. I do everything I can to make sure they go home to their families, friends and fishing holes.

—Emily Stuber-Groshon, Spokane, Wash. (submitted on Sept. 18, 2007)

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