I was walking in my neighborhood recently and noticed a man across the street in a wheelchair. When we both reached the intersection, his chair hit a bump and threw him into the street. Immediately, a young woman ran past me to help.
“Will you watch my son?” she asked. Of course I would.
She and a young boy had been sitting in the grass by the curb. He looked up at me with some apprehension. “Your mother is being a good helper,” I said. “Are you a good helper?”
He nodded and hugged his stuffed dog. Meanwhile, his mother was struggling to help the fallen man, trying to hold his wheelchair steady and move him toward it.
When a BATA bus approached our corner, I waved at the driver and pointed to the scene up ahead. He gave a thumbs up, parked his bus and ran to assist. At the same time, a pickup truck pulled over and its driver jumped out.
As the little boy and I watched, the disabled man was eased carefully back into his wheelchair. Yes, he insisted, he was fine and he thanked everyone for their help, even me.
And I thought about how quickly we had all come to the rescue. Nobody stopped to ask the man about his politics, his religion, his ethnic background. We all just helped. Gladly.
Writer Karen Anderson lives in Traverse City.
