Common Pity

I must have looked a sight, standing there by the side of the road in the rain surveying the four ten-foot, 8-inch diameter locust logs (intended as posts for a tall garden fence) lying in the grassy margin with the little wood-decked trailer upside down on top of them. I have the nasty habit of trying to get too much hauling capacity out of my little trailer, but in this case it wasn’t the weight alone that did it in so much as that weight combined with rough terrain and a badly worn, partially dry-rotted tire. When it dawned on me that the tire was flat, I had pulled off the road, sighed bitterly, unloaded the logs, checked to be sure the tire was not serviceable, and then turned the trailer over onto the logs so the whole mess would be a bit more compact (yes, the trailer is small and light enough for a reasonably strong person to handle it that way, and, no, I should not attempt to haul these kinds of loads on it). I left a note with a phone number, and headed home to borrow a neighbor’s vehicle. Our neighbors on one side have a lovely trailer that is perfectly sized for the job, but a call to them produced the information that while the trailer was graciously available as always, it happened that the vehicle that pulls the trailer was predisposed, having taken one of them to work. When I neared home, I got confirmation that another neighbor (also my good friend and employer) had a small pickup truck available, which fact produced a minor bliss of relief.

Upon reaching home, I hurriedly got the checkbook and paced up the hill to procure the truck. A half-hour later I was loading up the other half of my fence-post order. When the proprietor of the lumber mill noticed the vehicle change and heard of my self-induced plight, he said he and his wife could go the long way to their daughter’s place that evening and help me load up when they came by; they would be there in fifteen minutes. I thanked him and said I’d do what I could with the logs and trailer in the meantime. As kind as his offer was, I hated to inconvenience him in that way and certainly intended to do my best to load it myself (though I was not at all sure I could do it) and prevent his needing to stop and help me with my pitiful mess.

As it turned out, I didn’t have a chance to try. No sooner had I removed the trailer from the stack and bent to lift the end of the first log than a man about my age in a white dress shirt with the cuffs turned up (very stylish…he looked like he was headed for a party) miraculously appeared at the other end. Before we could get the thing loaded, a man a little younger than myself, with compact build, close-cropped hair, a Virginia accent, and a wad of tobacco in his lower lip got his hands on it, too (he didn’t bother to ask if we needed help). By the time we had loaded that one and reached for the other, another youngish fellow with plain work clothes and old-fashioned hat (this is part of the dress code of at least one sect of the “Old Order” Mennonites in our area…maybe a fedora?) showed up to help. There was a moment on that second log when each of the four of us was bearing a portion of the burden. After that one, the partygoer mentioned that the rest of us seemed to have it under control. The Old Order guy noted kindly that, also, the rest of us weren’t wearing a white shirt, whereupon the stylish dude exited the scene to the sound of my thanks. The three of us spent a few minutes with the other two logs and then loaded the hapless trailer on top of the stack.

I chose not to embarrass us all by gushing, but my gratitude was heartfelt and I let them know. My mind was spinning with the rapidity of the events, and as they dissipated into the Dayton backdrop, I was too boggled to notice where they had gone so I could know where they had come from. I suddenly realized I also didn’t know any of their names. The Classic Virginian was the only one left within earshot, so I approached him, asked his name (which of course I have no hope of remembering), and shook his hand. After my thanking him the third time or so, he said something like, “Sure! You know, I hate to see a man…[he struggled to find words to sum up my situation]…like that.”

True enough. Don’t we all?! After I had gotten home and had a minute or two of relaxation to think about the event, I began to marvel. It’s not just the fact that four perfect strangers felt compassion for me and inconvenienced themselves on my behalf (this doesn’t even count the three or four extraneous verbal offers issued through open car windows at various points throughout the procedure), and it’s not just that they seemed, in my anxious state, to have materialized supernaturally and to have dissipated the same way. It’s also this: When was the last time you have seen or imagined a “Granola Cruncher”, an “Old Order”, a “Redneck”, and a “Dandy” cooperating on anything? This will be one of the healing memories for me of goodness and compassion rising spontaneously from the human heart and superseding our unconsciously enforced (yet carefully maintained) boundaries. It also contributes to my feeling of loving the valley where I live.

After I had secured the load, the lumber mill owner and his wife came trundling by in their buggy, pausing nearby. He called out, noting (gratefully, I am sure) that I must have gotten it loaded already. I let him know that three people had stopped to help me. “Well, good!” he said, waving goodbye as his wife flicked the reins to urge the horse onward. He did not seem surprised.