Mail call

Do you ever even see a letter carrier anymore? Remember when you used to wait for your mail each day? With so much instant communications now, fewer and fewer folks actually post cards and letters. Why? Isn't that still a valid form of communication? I say YES!! In fact, I'd love to see a movement to get back to sending letters and cards via the mail. (No card company put me up to this).

When I reach into my mailbox and find a personal letter or a card that someone has thoughtfully selected, it brings a smile to my face, and I want to immediately open it. I wish there were more.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love the internet and spend significant time on twitter, Instagram, and of course facebook. I love getting "newsy" emails too. Those though seem to be even more scarce. Folks will send an instant message of a text, but usually it's just a few words, and often even they are abbreviated.

We just aren't communicating with each other like we once did. Does anyone agree? Can I convince some of you to head down to your local drugstore or card shop and pick up a few greetings? How about a nice letter telling your friends and family that you are thinking of them? Of and while I'm at it, I'd love to hear from YOU too! One really easy way is simply to add your thoughts to the comments below. Let's communicate once again!

From a New York taxi driver

I have no idea who wrote this - I found it a long time ago on the internet and have seen it posted several times.  I've even shared it here before.  It's the kind of "feel good" story that I really like and again, these are not my words, but I wanted to share this great story with all of you once again.

A NYC Taxi driver wrote:

I arrived at the address and honked the horn. After waiting a few minutes I honked again. Since this was going to be my last ride of my shift I thought about just driving away, but instead I put the car in park and walked up to the door and knocked..

'Just a minute', answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940's movie.

By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.

There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

'Would you carry my bag out to the car?' she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.

She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.

She kept thanking me for my kindness. 'It's nothing', I told her. 'I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother to be treated.'

'Oh, you're such a good boy, she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address and then asked, 'Could you drive through downtown?'

'It's not the shortest way,' I answered quickly.

'Oh, I don't mind,' she said. 'I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice.

I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. 'I don't have any family left,' she continued in a soft voice. 'The doctor says I don't have very long.' I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

'What route would you like me to take?' I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.

We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, 'I'm tired. Let's go now'.

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move.

They must have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

'How much do I owe you?' She asked, reaching into her purse.

'Nothing,' I said.

'You have to make a living,' she answered.

'There are other passengers,' I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.

'You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,' she said. 'Thank you.'

I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day,I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver,or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.

We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

Celebrating nurses

In 1953, Dorothy Sutherland of the US Department of Health, Education, and Welfare proposed Nurses Day to President Eisenhower.  That was the first attempt to nationally recognize nurses.  Eisenhower did nothing.  President Richard Nixon finally did something in 1974 when he declared a week in February as National Nurse Week.  In 1990, the American Nurses Association began the current National Nurses Week celebrated from May 6th to May 12th.  Those dates were chosen because Florence Nightingale's birthday was May12.  

 

Now you know why I am writing about nurses today.  You actually only know one reason.  I have always had a great respect for those in nursing and really should write about them more often.  My mother was a nurse.  She was in the very first class of a school in Oneonta, NY and I can still recall her pride at her capping ceremony and all the hard work and dedication that she showed over the years at the many places she worked.

 

When Mom lay dying in a hospital back in 2013, I was again reminded of what angels nurses are.  While there were many wonderful professionals, there was one man in particular whom I will never forget.  He introduced himself to Mom the night she was admitted and then asked her what she wanted to be called.  That really touched her.  Someone cared enough to ask instead of just using her first name or calling her Mrs. - this guy asked.  It wasn't the only time he made an impression.  Just a few days later when her breathing had become difficult and she was in obvious distress, he was working in a different ward, but on my way to get her nurse for that day, I ran into him in the hall.  I was visibly upset and when I told him what was wrong, he turned and came immediately to her room telling me not to worry.  He stayed there with her for the next hour on what I later learned was his own time (he had gotten off just before I ran into him).

 

There are wonderful nurses who make a difference every day.  They take pride in their work and they care about their patients.  Let them know they are appreciated!

The great teacher inspires

William Arthur Ward who wrote more than a hundred articles, poems, books, and meditations, had this to say about teachers: “The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires.” Mr. Ward sure got that right! 

 

I'm always talking about people who inspire me and there are certainly teachers on that list.  The men and women in our classroom are too often taken for granted, but they can make a huge difference in the lives of many.  My aunt was a teacher and I've also dated a few teachers and I've seen firsthand the care and concern they have for what they do and for their students.  Yes, there are bad teachers and ones that just go through the motions, but isn't that true with any job?  It's time we showed more appreciation for our schoolteachers and gave them more support.

 

Tomorrow is Teacher Appreciation Day, and the whole week is dedicated to celebrating our country’s educators.  Think about the teachers that touched your life.  Are they still somewhere where you can contact them?  Send them a note of thanks!  I wish I could do that with Lou Ella Gridley, my fifth grade teacher.  She was like no other and I'll tell you more sometime.  I was fortunate enough to have a superior teacher the very next year and I certainly will never forget Letha Sines, my sixth grade teacher.

 

If you have school age children, pay close attention to the men and women who spend so much time each day giving them instruction.  Take notice of all the good they do.  Think of your friends and relatives also who might be teachers. 

 

Teachers make a difference.  I'm so grateful for Miss Gridley, Miss Sines, my dear Aunt Dee, Robert, Emilio, and so many teachers for have influenced my life.  Thanks!

Happy Birthday Keith Haring

Back in 2014, when the Rainbow Honor Walk was dedicated in San Francisco, I had the great privilege of joining with a friend to unveil the plaque in honor of Keith Allen Haring, an incredible artist whom I have always admired.

Keith Haring's life was way too short. Today he would have turned 66. Hard to believe. Keith passed away from AIDS-related complications in 1990, but his legacy lives on not only through his art but through the work of the Keith Haring Foundation, which makes grants that support a wide array of not-for-profit organizations. He lived for only 31 years, but his art and social activism will live forever, because he was not afraid to be seen. He did not live his life in secret, but he boldly let the world see him, and in doing so let the world see his brilliant work. One of his creations became a logo for National Coming Out Day because he was truly a logo in the way he lived, and that should inspire us all to lead an uncloseted life.

The next time I am in the middle of Castro Street in San Francisco (between 18th and 19th Streets) and see Keith Haring looking up at me, I'm going to meditate on his own words: "Art will never leave me and never should. So as I go into the next part of the trip I hope it will be more creative and more work involved and less talk and more doing, seeing, learning, being, loving, feeling, maybe less feeling, and just work my ass off, ’cause that, my friend, is where it’s at!"