(It’s 2005, and I’ve gone south to volunteer in a shelter after Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. One of the shelter residents is elderly and frail, and we are able to get her temporarily lodged in a local nursing home while we locate her family. She is from way down in the southwest part of the state, almost a hundred miles away. I am on the phone to a nurse at the home, explaining.)

Me: “We’re trying to find a way to get her home; unfortunately, she doesn’t have transport, and her family can’t come and get her. I’m going to be calling some of the churches in [Her Hometown] to see if we can arrange something.”

Nurse: “You’re at [Shelter], aren’t you?”

Me: “Yes, ma’am.”

Nurse: “Is [Deputy] there? Tell him to come talk to me.”

(There are a couple of local law enforcement personnel providing security at the shelter. The deputy in question is, in fact, on duty that day, and I call him to the phone. He is the size of a small truck, has a shaved head and a grim face, and looks like he eats live alligators for breakfast. He puts the phone to his ear and…)

Deputy: *in a deep bass rumble* “Hello?” *suddenly his expression changes, as does his tone of voice* “Yes, Mamma.”

(And that is how a little old lady got a ride home courtesy of the local sheriff’s office.)

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(I’m volunteering in a shelter after Hurricane Katrina. One of the residents is a frail, elderly woman; she is all alone and possibly suffering from dementia. She is barely able to tell the medical staff her name, and any paperwork and records were lost when she was evacuated a second time — before Hurricane Rita hit, many shelters housing Katrina evacuees were moved because they were in the path of the second hurricane. I just happen to be getting a cup of coffee in the staff room when the medical officer is lamenting to the shelter manager that they are getting nowhere trying to find her family.)

Me: “Are you talking about Mrs. [Common Last Name]?”

Doctor: “Yes. Nobody seems to know anything about her except that another resident thinks she may be from [Mid-Sized Town on the coast].”

(Like me, the doctor is from a major city, but I now live in a fairly rural area. I have an idea and Google [Mid-Sized Town]’s City Hall. The receptionist at City Hall doesn’t know our lost lady, but she gives me the number to the local senior services office. The woman who answers the phone there almost screams when I tell her my errand.)

Woman: “You have Mrs. [Common Last Name]? My Lord, her son is frantic! She’s been missing for almost two weeks!”

Doctor: *somewhat later* “What an incredible piece of luck, that woman knowing Mrs. [Common Last Name]. What if she hadn’t?”

Me: “Then I would have started calling every single church in [Mid-Sized Town] until I found someone who did.”

(I’m not exactly Sherlock Holmes; you just have to know where to look.)

(I’m standing behind a woman in line at the checkout who has put her groceries on the belt and has picked up her tiny baby out of the seat, as the baby started fussing. The customer in front of her is a sweet, older man who is having trouble getting his card to work. The woman is swaying side to side, something I don’t think much of because I did the same to calm down my kids when they were small. The older man turns to apologise for the wait, and gets a funny look on his face.)

Older Guy: “Are you okay, ma’am?”

(The woman spins around to face me and I see her face is slightly purple and her eyes are completely unfocused and darting around. Before I can react to try to catch her, she shoves the baby in my direction. I drop my items and catch the baby just in time, and the old man tries to catch the woman as she drops and starts twitching. They both end up on the floor, though he does break her fall. The cashier calls for help and there’s a flurry of activity, with managers calling for an ambulance and helping the woman. The old man scrambles back to his feet, and he and I step aside — me still holding the baby — while the ambulance officers show up and diagnose her with a seizure and start loading her into an ambulance. They take the baby with them — she has regained consciousness at this point and screams for her baby, thinking she had dropped them when she fell. In all the activity, the older man stays at the end of the checkout, waiting to finish paying for his groceries and leave. I look down and see he is holding his arm strangely.)

Me: “Sir, are you okay?”

Older Guy: “Ah, landed on my arm a bit funny.”

(Upon closer inspection, his arm is clearly broken quite badly near his wrist.)

Cashier: “Oh, no! Why didn’t you tell the ambulance guys? They would have taken you, too!”

Older Guy: “Oh, no, they were busy with the young lass. I’ve had my time; youngins are the future! I’ll get it looked at later.”

(We did eventually convince him to let me drive him to the hospital, with a promise of dropping his groceries off at home to his wife. She was beside herself and let me drive her back to her husband’s car so they wouldn’t have to worry about it later. Given the amount of stories on here about old people being cranky and mean, I was touched to find one who was willing to sit quietly through immense pain just so someone else would receive medical attention.)

Due to some budget cuts, the university I attend has had to make some buildings multipurpose. That means that people with different majors have to share buildings in order to use the classrooms, labs, and halls we need.

I am studying music, and I’m about to go on stage for my final grade. Needless to say, I’m freaking out with nerves.

Earlier in the day, we were warned not to go to the top floors of the theater, as they were being used as workshops for experimental artists. While I’m pacing around, I hear a noise and look up. There’s a young woman in protective gear leaning on the railing and staring at me.

She gives me a thumbs-up.

My first reaction is to laugh at the hilarity of the situation. Here’s a six-foot-tall violinist in a rented tux wearing a hole on the floor, being cheered up by some girl with a gas mask and a dirty lab coat. She doesn’t laugh, but points at the backstage door as if saying, “Go out there and floor ’em, man!”

And so I do. Thank you, girl in the gas mask, for giving me the weird encouragement I needed.

(I’m with my family at Hershey Park for the day. It is also my youngest sister’s tenth birthday. As part of her gift, I got her a small hair ornament that looks like a tiara that says, “Happy Birthday.” We have just finished a tour, and at the end an elderly man is handing out small Hershey bars — one for each person.)

Man: *squinting at my sister’s tiara* “What does that say?”

Me: “‘Happy Birthday.’”

Man: “How old are you today?”

Sister: “Ten!”

(The man proceeds to slowly count out and perfectly line up ten chocolate bars, then pushes them toward my sister.)

Man: *smiling* “Don’t tell anyone I did this. This is on behalf of Mr. and Mrs. Hershey. They would want you to have this on your birthday.”

(One of the sweetest things I’ve ever seen!)