I was designing a brochure for a retirement home, and my client wanted it to have seniors’ photos. When I sent her the brochure for approval:
Client: “I don’t like these pictures.”
Me: “Why not?”
Client: “It’s just so sad. They all look so… old.”
A gentleman in his eighties said he needed help signing into his retirement account. Not only did he not have an account, but he’d never used a computer before. In fact, he bought a computer just to access his retirement account.
I talked him through every step, including helping him power up and access a browser, and teaching him what a mouse looked like and how to use it.
He took notes every step of the way and repeated them back to me, apologizing often and saying I must think he was stupid because I was so knowledgeable. I reassured him that everything’s easy once you know how.
It took well over an hour, but he was able to create an account and sign in. Once there, I asked him what he wanted to see. He was somewhat surprised and told me:
Caller: “You sent me a postcard that said to sign in today.”
And we had. We mailed a postcard to every account holder, and it did indeed say, “Sign in Now!” So, he bought a computer in order to follow our instructions.
I asked him if he ever wondered how holidays affected his payment date. Yes! Let’s go look! He was able to follow my instructions to navigate to that page, and when he saw it, it took his breath away.
Caller: “Oh, wouldya lookit that!”
I took him on a tour of the pages that would answer common questions. He sounded delighted at each new page, and I could hear the catch in his voice when he thanked me.
I am sixteen, starting my very first job in retail as a Saturday employee on the deli counter in the food section of a large department store.
One rather slow day, I have just measured and wrapped a rather large quantity of bacon for a small, hunched over, frail-looking little old lady. As she walks toward the checkout to pay, another sales assistant irritates me by remarking:
Coworker: “I wonder what such a lady is going to do with all that bacon?”
The two of us idly watch the customer slowly hobbling away.
Me: “It’s wrong to make assumptions about someone just by looking at them. She might not be a lonely little lady going home to her empty house. She could be anyone! She might cook for a huge, four-generational family in a busy home!”
However, just as I had gotten to the magic words, “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” the lady picked the packet of bacon out of her basket, put it smartly into her handbag, and made for the door.
My friend and I pursued her; I initially did not really think that we were apprehending a shoplifter, but rather that we might be assisting a frail person with a memory problem.
However, her pace was incredible. Both of us girls were young and fairly fit, and she really didn’t have much of a head start on us. However, for a little old lady, she hurtled out of the store and ran off up the road like Usain Bolt. There was no possibility of our overtaking her.
I never could work out if she really had been an elderly lady who had realised that she could get away with this kind of thing with impunity, as she had been a world champion sprinter in her youth, and liked to keep herself in trim, or if she was a young, incredibly fit shoplifter who went to all the bother of disguising herself, just for the sake of two pounds of bacon.
My friend certainly learned not to judge a book by its cover, though. Actually, reading this back now, I hope that I did, too.
I’m thirty-nine, and I do the grocery shopping for my parents, who I live with — mainly because I have the time, but also because I enjoy it. It gets me away from the house, and I’m a bit of an organizational nerd. I enjoy playing grocery “Tetris” in the cart. I like finding deals. I enjoy clipping coupons. I even have a list of each aisle and what’s on it for maximum grocery list planning! So, my grocers know me. They recognize me. If they don’t see me for a while, they charge up like my favorite auntie, hands on hips, asking, “Where have you been? Why haven’t you been in to see me?” I love my store.
This happened a few years ago, around the first year of the global health crisis. I stopped in to pick up a few things. I had written things down a bit out of order because I’d scribbled it while I was at work. I had my store “map”, though, and was consulting it when I nearly bumped into an older gentleman. When I say, “older”, I don’t mean fifties; this man was closer to eighty. He apologized and seemed flustered, so I asked him if he was all right.
Gentleman: *Despairingly* “I’m lost. I can’t find [simple item].”
I glanced at my “map” to confirm before telling him which aisle. He thanked me, and then, completely bereft and almost seeming to give up, he said:
Gentleman: “My wife used to do the shopping for us. Fifty years. She’s been gone a month, and I don’t know how to do this.”
My heart instantly broke.
Me: “What else are you looking for?”
He showed me his list. I accompanied him while we found all the items he’d come looking for and a few others. It wasn’t much — the bare essentials for a single man for the week — and we were done in about fifteen minutes.
As we shopped, we talked. His wife had caught [contagious illness] and fought for almost four weeks before passing away. I ended up giving him my “map”, hoping it would help him as he acclimated to this new task. As he headed for the checkout and I prepared to go back to my shopping (I still only had two or three of my own items in my basket), I heard him say to one of the floor managers:
Gentleman: “That young lady right there deserves a raise.”
The floor manager smiled at me.
Manager: “Oh, I’d love to, but she doesn’t work here.”
The old man looked at me, tears in his eyes, and thanked me. I told him I was happy to do it.
I still am. It’s been three years, and I still think about him from time to time, wondering and worrying about whether he’s okay.
When I was a child in the 1980s, I walked approximately two miles to school every day. (Yes, that was considered “safe” back then, believe it or not!) Along the way, I had to pass by a motel. There were two building strips with a small courtyard in the middle, and I would cut through the courtyard every day. No one seemed to mind.
When I would pass through, I would see an elderly woman busily working away — sweeping, carrying bags of laundry, and whatnot. When I would return home, she would still be working. I would yell:
Me: “Wow, you’re still here?”
She would chuckle and say something witty in return. Some days when I wasn’t on my way to school but passing through, she’d see me and say:
Woman: “Yup! I’m still here!”
This went on for years and became our little inside joke. One day as a teen, I asked her:
Me: “Seriously, how long have you been here?”
Woman: “Last June marked forty-four years. This motel is my baby. The day it closes will be the day of my burial!”
Fast forward to my sophomore year in college, I dropped by my hometown over the holidays. Of course, I just had to go see if she meant what she said about her never giving up the motel. And wouldn’t you believe…
Me: “YOU’RE KIDDING ME!”
Woman: “Yup! I’m still here.” *Laughing hysterically* “Why don’t you stay a night? I’ll comp you!”
I stayed a night there for the heck of it even though I was staying with my dad.
Fast forward eight years. By then, I had acquired a wife and a daughter in Germany. We flew into the US on a vacation and dropped into my hometown. I couldn’t wait to show this lady my own little crew and introduce my family to this gracious lady whom I had pestered for years as a kid.
Sadly, as we approached the motel, I immediately saw that it had been emptied out… and the marquee letter sign next to the motel said:
Marquee: “Sorry, [My Name], you JUST missed her! [Owner], 1906-2008.”
And by all accounts, they were right about “just missed”. According to the obituary I pulled up, she had passed only a month and a half earlier. I still kick myself for not having visited sooner.
But I always remember with a smile the kind old lady at the motel who was always “still there”!
