Chapter Seven: (Cont._6)

As the weather warmed in late spring of 1971, planners in central Arkansas hosted a conference tor the professional association. I suffered through the daytime events, not understanding much of the deeper topics they covered. Tom and Jim introduced me around to resounding indifference and I just nodded as if I knew everything and everyone.

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.

Sunrise Memories: March 16, 2018

It only takes a small step of kindness to make an impact on a person’s life. I thought about that yesterday for some reason. Maybe it was Elvis.

We visited our loved one at the respite home, and guess what? Elvis came there to sing for the residents, and they loved him. Some even danced, as best they could. One was good at it, a man they call “The Colonel.” Actually, he is a retired sergeant from the United States Air Force. He says he once played saxophone in a band, and he still has the steps.

“Elvis” was a Little Rock firefighter who sings for fun at such gatherings. He was good singer and a good man who does small acts of kindness for others.

But it wasn’t Elvis I was thinking about. How’s that for a “buried lead” Dixie Land and Sonny Rhodes? (They are actual dear journalist friends of mine).

Anyway, I was thinking of Linda Vines. The wife of the late Jim Vines, one of the two bosses at my first professional job in Little Rock. He died some years ago after suffering for over 30 years with a slow but progressive case of MS.

It happened this way. Day before yesterday I attended a conference of the Arkansas Chapter of the American Planning Association. It was the first one I had attended in a few years as I am more than a bit retired from active duty. I saw, and visited with, some dear old friends, and met a few new ones. They all greeted me kindly.

What happened was that it made me think of the first one I attended, those many years ago. I was just out of the Navy and knew only the two guys I worked for and their spouses. The professionals were all old friends, many having attended grad school together in the recent past. The Chapter had rented an excursion boat for an evening trip up the Arkansas River. I felt like a newly released convict at a Sunday School picnic and there was no escape.

No one paid me the least bit of attention. Even had they, I didn’t know enough to talk sensibly about the profession and it didn’t appear to be a crowd that would have been interested in sea stories. It was worse than standing watch alone in some godforsaken place. Here, I was alone but had to watch others having fun.

I was standing alone on the deck, watching my new home city roll by when someone walked up and asked me something or other about where I was from or what I had been doing lately. It was Linda Vines. Before long we were identifying people whom we both knew and she was entertaining me with stories about their graduate school days. The evening passed smoothly and I have rarely, in my entire life, been more thankful to another human being.

Several years ago, a few before Jim died, I sat one day and wrote Linda a letter reminding her of that evening and how thankful I was for her willingness to make a stranger feel less alone. I then told her how the incident helped form a lifetime commitment on my part always to try and make newcomers to a gathering feel welcome, and how small acts of kindness can grow.

Jim called me a week or so later. Without any small talk, he informed me, “You made my wife cry.”

I waited.

“Thank you,” he said. “That was a great act of kindness.”

Yep.