That evening proved different. There was a paddlewheeler
docked on the North Little Rock side of the river and the planning chapter had
leased it for the evening. Members brought their spouses for an excursion up
the river to the new lock and dam, and back. It was a casual affair, a with drinks and food. Of
course I came alone.
The crowd wasn’t rude, just preoccupied as we began our trek.
I was, having been a naval coxswain, somewhat interested in the handling of the
craft, but that interest had faded before we had passed the “big rock,” a stone
outcropping on the river side of Carpetbagger Hill. The crowd gathered into groups
and couples, recalling school days, past events, and missing acquaintances.
I leaned on a rail, watched the city glide by, and calculated
how long it would be before this lonely, miserable, ordeal ended. Little did I know that I
was about to meet one of the planet’s true saints.
A female voice broke the silence. “How are you liking your new
job?”
I turned. There stood a diminutive woman in her late
twenties with a soft drink in her hand. I knew that we had been introduced, but
for the life of me, I couldn’t remember who she was. She caught my confusion
straight away.
“I’m Linda Vines,” she said, “Jim’s wife. You’re the new
planner, aren’t you?”
I confessed my guilt. She said, “It must be a little odd,
not to know anyone that is.”
What could I say? She was the boss’s wife. I concurred.
“You’re just out of the service?”
“Yes ma’am, the Navy.”
“Jim tells me you were in Vietnam.”
“Yes ma’am.” To my relief, she didn't give me "the look" that I had come to expect. She just smiled and nodded. “Now cut out that ‘ma’am’ stuff," she said, "I’m just Linda.”
My gosh, someone was talking to me. She asked about my
family, my military experience, college, and hobbies. It turned out that we
both had an interest in literature. We delved straight away into that, and soon
discovered we had a mutual affection for F. Scott Fitzgerald.
It was turning into a
magical trip. It seemed no time at all before the craft was swinging in its
long semi-circle to begin the journey back. I found myself expounding on my
take that Fitzgerald used the exchange of water that powered the funicular
railroad in Tender is the Night as a metaphor for the Pygmalion-like transfer
of strength to the character Nicole from Dick, her lover and psychiatrist. I couldn’t
believe that I was telling this tiny stranger all this and she wasn’t laughing.
Off in the distance I could hear Jim “holding court” with
some story. He wasn’t missing her, so we continued to talk until the lights of
Downtown Little Rock came into view. What a pleasant trip it had been.
I’ve thought of that night countless times and about how a
small kindness to a lonely stranger can make such a difference in one’s life. I
could never be as fine a person as Linda Vines, but I have tried to make
strangers feel welcome whenever I thought they might need to see a welcoming
face. Maybe, just maybe, I have affected someone along the way. I certainly hope so.
The years were not kind to the Vines family. They weighed
heavily on Linda. The last time I saw her, she had shrunk to an even smaller
size, but her face demonstrated the steel within her that kept her going
through it all.
Long before that, I sat down one day and wrote her a long
note recalling that night and the excursion up the river. I had become
successful in my own right by then, but I recounted to her how miserably lonely
I had been at that long-ago time and how her show of empathy had comforted and
taught. I mailed the note to her, and I’m glad I did. She was facing Job-like
trials at the time.
Jim called me a few days later. He said the note made her
cry, and he thanked me for it.
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