Every time I feel sorry for myself or grumble about some insignificant thing like a clogged sink, I think of Linda.
We met on the front patio of the Country Inn and Suites where Dick and I stayed during this year’s Back to the
Fifties
car show.
Eight years had passed since I’d attended this hugely popular car show at the Minnesota State Fairgrounds, and participant and spectator numbers had burgeoned.
Bright-colored street rods roared along Twin City freeways.
Local television news shows interviewed street rodders.
The fairgrounds were jampacked with people.
Our hotel was hopping with street rod people. We filled space in the parking lot and on the patio both before and after dinner.
Street rod people are a diverse group. Among those staying at our hotel were a father and his son from Chicago, an inter-generational group from southern Minnesota, and another family group from the Milwaukee area.
Linda was with the Milwaukee group. We just happened to meet on the patio, as I was about to go to my room. Am I ever glad I didn’t.
We started chatting and two hours later, I realized I had met one of those unique people who light up and impact other people’s lives just by who they are.
With cigarette in one hand and coffee cup in the other, she talked easily and listened attentively, and soon I saw a window into her life.
Linda’s age fell somewhere in her fifties and she had already had two knee replacements and was scheduled for rotator cuff surgery the following week.
She had worked for 15 years in nursing homes and enthusiastically talked about the various personalities and experiences of her patients.
When she could no longer physically take care of the elderly, she found a job as a nursing home activities director where she currently works, again talking with genuine love and respect for her patients.
I mentioned how lucky her clients were to have her, but she seemed oblivious to any praise.
“I like my job,” was her low-key response.
I felt guilty. I don’t even pack my husband’s suitcase and have a hard time remembering to buy him T-shirts, but Linda’s story didn’t end there.
A family member interrupted her with a phone message from home—“Olivia’s blood pressure medicine was nowhere to be found.”
Linda gave the needed instructions, then explained. “Olivia is my sweetheart. She’s my 23-year-old developmentally disabled daughter and this is one of my first weekends away from her. She didn’t think she wanted to come along, but I think she’s changed her mind, poor dear.”
As we talked, I learned that, in addition to high blood pressure, Olivia needed a knee brace and had spinal problems.
Not a word of complaint. Not a bitter sigh.
As the sunset and darkness slowly filled the Twin City sky, the men around us discussed car stuff…the tan and green ‘55 Buick… the miniaturized ’49 Mercury.
Linda and I talked about our lives.
When we departed for home the next morning, I knew I’d met that rarest of rare humans—a true giver.
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