 | | Just Tell'em Someone Cares
July 24, 2012 |
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There are some miles that need to be traveled for one reason or
another, and in the 30 or so years I roamed the hiways of America as
an over the road trucker, there were many roads I was supposed to
take, many sights I was supposed to see...many stories I was chosen to
record. Few have shamed me as deeply as this one.
The heat of
the afternoon seemed to penetrate even my bones as I faced the
August sun of '81, heading west out of Shreveport. The road was
going to be long, the days and nights longer, before I dropped the
load behind me in Tucson Arizona, and reloaded my trailer to head
home to Nebraska, and the sanctuary of my family. Between the ‘now',
and the ‘then' of pulling in the drive way at home, my job was to be
the best I could be, to care about those around me...to be alert to
trouble and mindful of my responsibility to avoid it, for the sake
of others.
In the late afternoon of the second day, I finally
made it to one of my fuel stops, a busy truck stop on I-10 in Las
Cruces New Mexico. I pulled in, weary and aching from the many hours
of sitting and trying to stay focused, and pulled my rig up to the
fuel pumps to fill up. As I was fueling, I noticed parked next to
the building behind me, an older brown station wagon, loaded to
capacity in back with suitcases, and a tarp bulging precariously on
top of the car, strapped down with ropes. The hood of the car was
open, and a fella about mid twenties was leaning under the hood,
working on something that left him and his t-shirt greasy and dirty.
“Try it now” I heard him tell a young woman sitting in the car. I
watched as the car started and they smiled at each other, watched as
he grabbed his few tools he was using, watched absently as he closed
the hood of the old car. “Apparently”, I remember thinking, “he got
it fixed”.
I finished fueling, and as I headed for the
station to pay for the fuel, the young husband who had been working
on the car, approached me and said, “excuse me”.
He was
timid, uneasy as he came up to me. “I don't know how to ask this
without asking straight out. Could you spare a few dollars for gas?
I'm trying to get to California to my sisters...moving there from
Tennessee...but my family ran out of money. Had to spend the last of
it to fix my car. I'm broke sir, my family hasn't eaten since
yesterday, and we're out of gas. Been here since this morning”. I
looked at him, looked over at the car, and saw his wife and two of
his kids sitting there, a third child, a toddler, was in it's mamas
arms fussing as she rocked him. They were watching Daddy talk to
some strange man in the parking lot, and I could not imagine how
they must have felt, though it must have resembled lost...or
overwhelmed...maybe beaten in a terrible game of ‘nothing left to go
on'...
“Give me a minute ok”, I told him. “I'll be back”, and I
walked on in to the truck stop station to pay my fuel bill. My mind
buzzing with number crunching on how much money I needed to finish
my trip, and would there be anything I could do to help that family?
As I entered the station, I got in line at the cashier where a
couple other truckers were waiting to pay. In front of the line was
a young soldier dressed in fatigues, mid to late twenties I guess,
and he put what looked like a pack of chiclets gum on the counter,
reached into his pocket pulled out his wallet, and handed the
cashier a one hundred dollar bill. “Is that the smallest you got”?,
the cashier asked him. “Nope”, he said simply. She took the bill,
and began counting out the change to him, but he stopped her. “I
need you to do sumthin' for me. Theres a family parked outside in an
old brown chevy wagon, out of gas and hungry. They need a little
help. I want you to give that to ‘em...and tell just tell ‘em someone
cares. But I want you to wait till I'm gone ok”? And then he turned,
stepped away from the counter, and quickly walked out the door,
before any of us could say anything to him. We watched as he
disappeared around the corner of the building, and a few seconds
later watched as an old battered 4x4 pickup rolled out the driveway,
and the soldier with no name at the wheel, turned west up the
interstate and was lost in the glaring sun.
We all turned to
look at each other, all embarrassed, all shamed by our silence, all
humbled by a soldier that took the time to care, and to act without
looking back.
“I wanna add to the pot”, a trucker said, and
dropped a few bills on the counter in front of the cashier. “And me
too”, said another, handing her his meal ticket and a fifty dollar
bill. “Put the change in the pot hon”, he told her, and he too
walked out the door.
I paid my bill, and as I gathered up my
receipt for the fuel and left a contribution to the growing pot, the
mama walked in to the station with her kids. “I'm sorry”, she said.
“Would you mind if we use the restroom again for a few minutes to
wash and cool off.”?
“Maam”, the cashier spoke to her. “I
need to talk to you”, and she walked over to the mama, hugged her,
and took her hand. “This is for your family. I'm supposed to tell
you that someone cares”., and she put the money in her hand. The
mama looked at her, at the money, and back at the cashier, tears
running down her face. “Who....why....how?”, she sobbed, her eyes wide
with wonder and glistening with a brand new Hope. “I'm not supposed
to say honey. But I've never seen somethin' like this happen
before”, she told the mama, her kids at her side. “All I'm supposed
to tell you is....someone cares”.
The two women embraced each
other, both crying now, and finally the mama kneeled on the floor,
hugging her children. “God is watching over us kids, just like mommy
and daddy said. Lets go tell Daddy it's time to eat should we”? The
kids were excited, jumping and yelling ‘yeaaaaaaa', as they raced
out the door to an old brown chevy wagon, to tell daddy about a
miracle. It was suppertime in New Mexico for a family of five, they
had seen the hand of God, and they were for a time in an August sun
of '81, allowed to put down their burden, because a soldier had
cared enough to carry that burden for them. | By Robert VanDerslice
Copyright
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