on the kindness of strangers
A random work conversation had me remembering some moments that still have me saying that “this wouldn’t happen in Chicago.” And they didn’t.
Picture this… the early 1990’s in Door County, Wisconsin. Door County is, more or less, the peninsula that divides Green Bay and Lake Michigan. A very pretty, if touristy, place. My then boyfriend and I had driven up for the Fourth of July holiday with our bicycles and were staying at a B&B on the quiet side of the peninsula, which meant lakeside. The inn was owned and operated by a lovely couple and the husband was a working potter. I bought one of his beautiful bowls with swirls of blue and green and it held my fruit and salads for many years, but unfortunately, it was part of the small group of household goods that did not survive my multiple moves in 2013-2015.
We spent our time biking the back roads from small town to small town, chased a couple of times by dogs of indeterminate intentions. We returned to our room each day, showered, and headed out in the car to find a place to feast. We visited Al Johnson's and admired the goats who had their own private elevator to take them up to the roof and back down. We went to a Door County Fish Boil. Hmmm… not my most favourite meal. Not by a long shot. But if you go, you must experience this at least once. (I much prefer shrimp or crawfish boils!)
When we’d return from biking, we put our bikes into an unlocked shed per our hosts’ instructions. There’d never been any problems. On our penultimate day, we went out to the shed to get our bikes. His $1000 Cannondale mountain was there, but my $300 Specialized hybrid was gone. Obviously not a very sophisticated thief. The owners called the police. The sheriff came out immediately, and he thought he knew whom the thief might be. Just a local drunk teen needing a ride home. That would explain a lot, but it didn’t make me feel any better.
Not to spoil the entire day, the B&B couple let me use the wife’s bicycle. Our plan had been to take the ferry to Washington Island and explore. So we did, but I was miserable as her bike was not the best fit and I knew I’d be sore the next day.
The next morning, we packed, and went to the kitchen for our last delicious breakfast. On the way past the front door I looked out and there, in the grass, was my bike. No damage but for a couple of new scratches. Intact, but for my helmet and the saddle bag that held a small set of allen wrenches and other tools and a spare inner tube. I really couldn’t complain!
About two weeks later, I received an envelope from the B&B. Inside was a letter of apology from the boy along with a money order for $50 for a new helmet. (I know I saved that letter, but heaven only knows where it is at this moment.)
That would NOT have happened in Chicago.
Another time I was touched by a kind stranger, I was living in New Orleans.
A new friend and I had been on a a worldwide photowalk during the morning hours. It was all through the French Quarter. Afterwards, I introduced her to Cafe Amelie and we had a fabulous lunch. Afterwards we browsed a few shops, and I bought a linen top in my favourite linen shop, even with its odd name, California Drawstrings. Then she went Uptown to return home and I went towards Rampart Street and home to Tremé. When I got to Rampart, the bus was at least 30 minutes away (the transit system in New Orleans is ridiculous on the weekends) and I hailed a cab as I was exhausted. I fell asleep on the couch almost immediately and woke straight up a few hours later. The bag with my linen shirt! I must have left it in the cab! I walked through my shotgun looking on my desk and my kitchen island when I usually plopped things down. Nothing! Damn. I was mad at myself, but at least I hadn’t forgotten my camera.
The next morning, while enjoying coffee and Mollie Malone and Madeleine Manx were on each side of me, there was a knock on my shutters and looking up, I saw my across the street neighbour at my door. She said that she had something for me. She said that a man had come to my place, but he didn’t think anyone was home. So he approached her. She was sitting on her porch, as usual, keeping an eye on our block and watching her grandbabies. He gave her my package and said I’d left it in his cab. Yes! What a kind man! What a good neighbour!
The next time I went to Rouse’s to make groceries, I bought her a bouquet of flowers of my own choosing. She was a bit taken aback, and I then explained how this definitely would not have happened in Chicago.
It’s moments like these that I keep close and remember when the world seems filled with anger and hate and worry. They were not perfect people. They weren't looking for anything in return. They weren't on Instagram or Facebook promoting themselves. They were simply everyday good people just being themselves and doing what’s right. It’s these people that make my heart happy and give me hope. And there are some in Chicago, too, I know.
Picture this… the early 1990’s in Door County, Wisconsin. Door County is, more or less, the peninsula that divides Green Bay and Lake Michigan. A very pretty, if touristy, place. My then boyfriend and I had driven up for the Fourth of July holiday with our bicycles and were staying at a B&B on the quiet side of the peninsula, which meant lakeside. The inn was owned and operated by a lovely couple and the husband was a working potter. I bought one of his beautiful bowls with swirls of blue and green and it held my fruit and salads for many years, but unfortunately, it was part of the small group of household goods that did not survive my multiple moves in 2013-2015.
We spent our time biking the back roads from small town to small town, chased a couple of times by dogs of indeterminate intentions. We returned to our room each day, showered, and headed out in the car to find a place to feast. We visited Al Johnson's and admired the goats who had their own private elevator to take them up to the roof and back down. We went to a Door County Fish Boil. Hmmm… not my most favourite meal. Not by a long shot. But if you go, you must experience this at least once. (I much prefer shrimp or crawfish boils!)
When we’d return from biking, we put our bikes into an unlocked shed per our hosts’ instructions. There’d never been any problems. On our penultimate day, we went out to the shed to get our bikes. His $1000 Cannondale mountain was there, but my $300 Specialized hybrid was gone. Obviously not a very sophisticated thief. The owners called the police. The sheriff came out immediately, and he thought he knew whom the thief might be. Just a local drunk teen needing a ride home. That would explain a lot, but it didn’t make me feel any better.
Not to spoil the entire day, the B&B couple let me use the wife’s bicycle. Our plan had been to take the ferry to Washington Island and explore. So we did, but I was miserable as her bike was not the best fit and I knew I’d be sore the next day.
The next morning, we packed, and went to the kitchen for our last delicious breakfast. On the way past the front door I looked out and there, in the grass, was my bike. No damage but for a couple of new scratches. Intact, but for my helmet and the saddle bag that held a small set of allen wrenches and other tools and a spare inner tube. I really couldn’t complain!
About two weeks later, I received an envelope from the B&B. Inside was a letter of apology from the boy along with a money order for $50 for a new helmet. (I know I saved that letter, but heaven only knows where it is at this moment.)
That would NOT have happened in Chicago.
Another time I was touched by a kind stranger, I was living in New Orleans.
A new friend and I had been on a a worldwide photowalk during the morning hours. It was all through the French Quarter. Afterwards, I introduced her to Cafe Amelie and we had a fabulous lunch. Afterwards we browsed a few shops, and I bought a linen top in my favourite linen shop, even with its odd name, California Drawstrings. Then she went Uptown to return home and I went towards Rampart Street and home to Tremé. When I got to Rampart, the bus was at least 30 minutes away (the transit system in New Orleans is ridiculous on the weekends) and I hailed a cab as I was exhausted. I fell asleep on the couch almost immediately and woke straight up a few hours later. The bag with my linen shirt! I must have left it in the cab! I walked through my shotgun looking on my desk and my kitchen island when I usually plopped things down. Nothing! Damn. I was mad at myself, but at least I hadn’t forgotten my camera.
The next morning, while enjoying coffee and Mollie Malone and Madeleine Manx were on each side of me, there was a knock on my shutters and looking up, I saw my across the street neighbour at my door. She said that she had something for me. She said that a man had come to my place, but he didn’t think anyone was home. So he approached her. She was sitting on her porch, as usual, keeping an eye on our block and watching her grandbabies. He gave her my package and said I’d left it in his cab. Yes! What a kind man! What a good neighbour!
The next time I went to Rouse’s to make groceries, I bought her a bouquet of flowers of my own choosing. She was a bit taken aback, and I then explained how this definitely would not have happened in Chicago.
It’s moments like these that I keep close and remember when the world seems filled with anger and hate and worry. They were not perfect people. They weren't looking for anything in return. They weren't on Instagram or Facebook promoting themselves. They were simply everyday good people just being themselves and doing what’s right. It’s these people that make my heart happy and give me hope. And there are some in Chicago, too, I know.
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| still life with tulips ©Trish Korous | 2013 |
there are always good ones out there, trish.
ReplyDeleteThey’re just few and far between. x
Delete