While driving home, I get stuck waiting at the railway crossing near the station of my little hometown. The station is to my left, the train has just stopped there. From my right, over a grassland, two preteen boys are biking toward the crossing. I mostly notice them because I am a bit worried about them knowing to look out for the train. They do; they lie down on the grass just under the bank, probably to watch the train from below. They’re nearer than I’m really comfortable with but safe enough.

Once the train is gone, one of them runs up the bank and puts something on a rail. Then, he looks around and adds two rather large stones — about the width of the rail itself, as far as I can see from where I am sitting in the third car from crossing. Then, he grabs his bike and goes to join his friend standing near the crossing; they obviously want to cross both the railway and street.

Seeing these actions, I roll down my right window. With half a dozen cars in each direction, they won’t be able to cross the street before my car reaches them, so I will be able to tell them off.

Only… the first car stops at the crossing. I don’t hear what is said, but one of the boys runs back to the rail and swipes the stones off. The cars in front of me drive away.

Wait, but he left the first thing. It’s not a stone but something colourful; maybe it’s soft, but still, I’m not going to take any chances.

I stop by the boys and shout for them to get the last item, as well, while the first car from the opposite direction has also stopped and is honking. The boys go and get the third item, as well, and we all drive on.

Somebody got a triple dose of being raised by the village today. And I got my belief that I am living among decent people confirmed.

I drive passenger trains for a living. This story took place very early after I started driving on my own. I drove a train going south. They were switching out a bridge between the third and the fourth station. No trains could pass, so we would empty the train at station three, and we’d all take a bus to station four where we would continue the journey south on a different train. It was a planned job, and everything had been planned and arranged meticulously.

When we left my starting station, we made announcements about the bus. As my coworker told me later, she even told everyone affected in person as she took their tickets.

When we got close, we made another announcement, and to be absolutely certain that no one would be left, we made one more after we had stopped. My colleague helped the passengers find their way to the bus while I switched the driver’s compartment for the next driver. I also walked through the train after the doors were closed to make certain it was empty. 

There, I found an entire family obliviously waiting for the train to continue on its merry way.

Me: “Excuse me, but you have to switch to the bus now. I’ll open the door for you.”

Mother: “What?! No one told us about this!” 

Me: “We made several announcements.”

Mother: “We didn’t hear anything, right?”

There were nods of assent from the family.

Mother: “It is absolutely unacceptable for you to suddenly have us switch to a bus without any warning.”

Me: “It isn’t sudden. We’ve made several announcements, and it’s even on your ticket. This has been planned for at least half a year. Now let me show you where the bus is; I don’t want to be late.”

There was some more arguing before I got them to leave the train. I don’t recall exactly what was said since, at that point, I started to lose my temper and got very snarky. But I still don’t get how an entire group of people could miss all that information; it wasn’t a language barrier, they all seemed to hear me perfectly fine, and the kids were ten or older.

My dad used to do a lot of reenacting. At one battle, a group decided to hike to some historic site “not far” from their campsite. They had to walk through a long train tunnel to get to their goal. There was a human-sized passage beside the tunnel, but it was very muddy. Everyone except Dad decided to walk along the tracks since that was a dry path, and they’d only seen one train come through in two days. They felt safe to walk into the tunnel with no side space to jump to safety.

Dad walked faster than the others, so he exited the human tunnel when the rest of the group was still in the train tunnel. He could see the guys in the dark, within fifty yards or so of the exit.

Suddenly, a train whistle came from deep inside the tunnel behind ’em.

Those out-of-shape middle-aged men set some sprint records getting out of that tunnel before the train came barrelling through. They laughed off the close call, went to see the historic site, and headed back.

Half of the guys decided to follow Dad through the muddy human tunnel. The other half were convinced that there was no way another train would come along so soon after the first, so they headed into the train tunnel. They’d not gotten far when they heard a train whistle. Everyone ended up following Dad through the muddy human tunnel after that second train came barrelling down the tracks.

I’ve always wondered if those dumba**es gave the train workers heart attacks as they saw a group of idiots on the tracks ahead of ’em.

I was very, very early in my pregnancy when this happened — like a single-digit number of weeks, way too early for anything to be showing. However, I did already have some super fun pregnancy symptoms. Namely, I was liable to burst into tears at ANYTHING, the ligaments in my hips had fully checked out and refused to do their jobs, and being on my feet, especially walking, for more than an hour would bring on a wave of fatigue so severe it would often genuinely make me feel that I physically couldn’t take another step. The latter was especially unhelpful as I have always been a very active person and my favourite way of getting anywhere is to walk, so I have overestimated myself a few times already.

I’ve spent the day house-hunting and exploring the new city that I am relocating to. I get to the train station to head back to the suburb where I am staying with friends until I find somewhere permanent, and I am standing on my platform when I am suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of fatigue. “No matter,” I assure myself. “The train will be here in two minutes, and then I can sit down.”

The train does arrive; however, due to the systematic gutting of our national rail system, the two trains before were delayed, meaning this one is heaving with people. I struggle down the aisle until I come to a set of two priority seats. All are occupied by seemingly able-bodied men in shirts and ties, already with laptops out on the tray tables. As the train moves off, I ask them:

Me: “Excuse me. Is there a possibility I could have a seat here? I’m pregnant, and…”

This draws sniggers from one, who seems to be the ringleader.

Me: “…and I’m struggling to stay upright if I’m honest.”

Ringleader: “You’re not pregnant.”

Me: “And you’re not a doctor. Could you please let me sit down?”

I’m holding onto a rail for dear life and feeling seriously close to fainting when this shocks me back:

Ringleader: “If you’re pregnant, where’s the father?”

Now, this is already an obscenely personal, presumptuous, and judgmental question for anyone, but for me, it hits where it hurts. See, my baby-daddy and I are in a relationship and very much in love, but he is currently studying for a year abroad. We both really want him to finish and enjoy the experience, so we decided that he’s going to finish the year out there. While he will be back before our baby is born, I am doing the majority of pregnancy, including packing up and moving to a new city, by myself.

Unfortunately, thanks to those lovely hormones, instead of becoming ragefully articulate, I feel myself start to dissolve into tears.

Me: *Through tears* “Look, I…”

This is when the angel that is Mrs. T comes into my life. She is the teeniest, tiniest, oldest West African woman you have ever seen in your life. She looks like she could have been school friends with Father Time.

Mrs. T: *Putting her hand on my arm* “You take my seat, darling.”

All my emotions are replaced with mortification that I might take the seat of someone who so clearly needs one.

Me: “No, no. Really, please, I can’t. It’s only three stops. I can stand.”

Mrs. T: “No, no, you should sit.”

Mrs. T guided me into her seat with that special blend of force and gentleness that only wonderful old ladies seem to possess. She then stood staunchly in front of the shamed business boys in the priority seats until one of them shuffled up and mumbled something about her having his seat. She watched over them in extraordinary silence the whole time while I was able to recover in the next row.

We ended up getting off at the same stop, where she told me that the house next to hers had just gone on the market. She set me up with a viewing, and I moved in three weeks later.

Mrs. T came over and checked in on me every single day while my partner was away. She brought me home-cooked food and did little bits of cleaning and tidying when I didn’t have the energy. I taught her how to use video calling to keep in touch with her grandchildren at university and friends in Ghana. When her nephew came out as non-binary, I sat with her and talked through her feelings about it and recommended some resources to help her understand.

When my partner finally returned and moved in, she threw her arms around him and kissed him on the top of his head like he was an old friend she’d been missing.

And when our baby was born, at home, she was downstairs the whole time and was one of the first people to come see me and the baby when we were ready for visitors. When I gave her the baby to hold, she turned to my partner, beaming, and declared, “‘Dis my fourteenth grandbaby, you know?”

I hope every single one of you has a Mrs. T come into your lives; she is a treasure.

This story is part of the Best-Feel-Good-Stories Of-2023 roundup!

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Four members of my family are on a two-day trip on a point-to-point daily excursion train, with a long stop at the destination for touristy-type doings. While most people who board at the main station, as we did, ride the same train both ways — or one way and take a bus for the return — we have opted to spend the night in a hotel after arrival and return by train the following day. The time and number of the return train are clearly noted on our tickets.

On the first leg of our trip, a photographer passes through, taking pictures of each person, couple, or group. Normally, they are printed and presented for sale shortly before the end of the run for those who won’t be on the train for the return, or on the train later for those who will be in their seats on the way back. Because we are not returning on that same train or by motor coach, the photographer (supposedly) notes which train we will be on for our return the following day. Great! My sons want copies, so we look forward to that; it’s pretty much a guaranteed sale.

On the train the following day, a photographer first passes through the train cars taking photos of those who are “new” to the train, and then they return to present the packets for potential sale, but ours is not in the bin. We are told that’s not a problem; it’ll be available at the photography studio at the train station.

After departing the train, my two sons and I head to the studio as instructed while my husband walks to the remote parking area to collect the car.

Attendant: “I’m sorry, your photos aren’t here. I’ll take your details and have the manager contact you. There are three trains a day a couple of hours apart, so the packet may have accidentally been sorted into the wrong bin. Do you have the card that you were given when the pictures were taken?”

Me: “No. Unfortunately, we’ve misplaced it.”

Attendant: “That’s okay. We should still be able to locate the pictures since we know which trains you were on. Are there any special features, besides three men and a woman, that would help identify the pictures?”

Me: “Well, the other man is bald on top with a white beard and long white hair; he’s often mistaken for Santa.”

Attendant: “Anything else?”

And here the three of us stand facing her: an imposing gentle giant with missing front teeth and a receding hairline, a heavily bearded, long-haired mountain-man-type guy, and me, a woman with a very short pixie cut, a large, purple facial birthmark, and a right eye that points to the side instead of ahead.

I asked myself if she really needed to ask that question, and then I provided the obvious specifics.

Later, we found and provided the code on the photographer’s card, but they claimed to have never located the photos. I suspect no one even tried.