Little Red-Haired Boy...

I was sitting with a sister and a brother at my mother's kitchen table yesterday. The inevitable happened – as it always does when 2 or more Alberts are gathered – and we brought out the Remember Whens. This happens organically when we're talking about or seeing something that reminds us of something that happened once upon a time.

To the outsider, this probably seems like we're just telling the same story again and again but that's never the case. When your family is as large and as scattered as ours, there's always someone who was not present at the time of the event or someone who knows some details that the others don't. I never get tired of this. These are not re-runs or rehashed tales, they're always about perspective that changes the way we hear things.

One story always leads to the next. What began with discussion of the open door policy in our home – our front door was never locked and friends and neighbors always knew that they could come in whenever they needed safe haven. Boy, did they come! Countless numbers of unrelated teenage boys were sleeping in our house at any given time. Local authorities understood this and our house was often the first stop for questioning. People often asked my mother why she had such a welcome mat at her step. As she put it – she always knew where *her* children were and that we were safe.

Talking about this brought up the Mystery Dinner Guest. Dinner happened at the table, with the whole family, at the same time every evening. Because of our family's fluid and open nature, it was not unusual for a friend or two to be at the table with us. As I recall, my siblings' friends were always polite and grateful. Some of them even helped clean up after. So when there was a little red-haired boy at the table every single night for an entire week, no one thought twice about it. Everyone assumed he was someone else's friend. He was clean, well-mannered, and said thank you after he ate.

After a solid week of dining with us, he just wasn't there so we started asking. Everyone thought he was another person's friend. No one knew his name. No one knew where he lived or how he ended up at our house. We lived in a fairly small, close knit community back then. Every family knew the other families in the neighborhood. No one knew this kid and, as far as we know, he was never seen or heard from again. Because he was nice, I hope he liked my mother's meatloaf, I hope he left with a full heart as well as his full belly, and I hope he remembers that nice lady with her nice family, and that he opens his door and his arms to share that kindness to others. I suspect that he probably does.

Naturally, one story always leads to the next, and we talked about “That Night In Philadelphia” that also featured kindness from strangers. Circa 1987, my mother, sister and I had been in an accident that left my sister very badly injured. She was being cared for in another state and my mother flew to be with her for a couple of days. When she was returning from the airport, her car broke down and she was stranded on the side of the road. There were no cell phones at this time and there was no way her car was going to get her home. So, she walked down the highway to an exit ramp, found a payphone, and called me in the apartment we shared.

I had a car that was not in much better condition than hers, but I was just a teenage girl in a city I didn't know. I took down the instructions she gave to find her and headed out to retrieve my mother. It was dark, it was cold, and I could not find the place but I kept trying. I stopped at every open place I could find in this rough area and asked if anyone had seen my mother and verified directions as best I could. In one particular stop, a man began to approach me from the side and at the exact moment that I saw him, another older man came at him to chase him away from me and to tell me I needed to get out of there. Now, metaphysical me wonders whether that older man was actually there or if a guardian angel swooped in. I'll never know, but I'm grateful either way.

The search for my mother went on for hours. It ended for me, when I found a store with a friendly clerk and a couple of bikers who stood watch while I called the apartment and heard my mother answer the phone. She made it home! These kind souls led me back to the highway with directions and a hug.

When I arrived, I heard my mother's tale of her side of the events. When she left the car and finally found a payphone, she found that she couldn't easily get back to the car. While I was searching for her, she was searching the streets for safe entry back to the highway where she left her car. After a while, she was scared and frustrated enough that she climbed an embankment and was about to cross a guard rail when a city police officer stopped her, scolded her for what she was doing, listened to her story and drove her – in his police car – back home.

Through the kindness of strangers, we both made it safely and securely, back to each other. We hugged and cried and said good night because we knew that the next day was going to bring the drudgery of recovering the car, and dealing with the details of life to follow.

Our lives are filled with stories like this. Sometimes the events are funny, sometimes dangerous, sometimes just tedious and draining. But the common thread in every one is Kindness of Strangers. So, when my kids laugh at me because I smile at or talk to every stranger that crosses my path, I hope they see the greater lesson behind it...we're not strangers at all. We're brothers and sisters in humanity and it's our job to care and to help. It's really just that simple.

Whoever that little red-haired boy is, he has a place in my heart and is my brother.