My father's father used to do a lot of Spring and Summer camping. Over the years, he's owned a lot of large and spacious RVs and tends to enjoy showing them off to people. He'a also an avid hunter and fisherman. He'd always catch a lot of fish, possibly more than any one human would need. My grandfather is a very good cook and, quite often when he'd have a great catch, he'd start cooking the fish, making hush puppies, and turn the whole thing into a party.
When I was about 13 years old, my father picked us up for the weekend and took us to one of these parties. My grandfather was camping at Wister Lake and in good spirits. He even invited all of the other people who were camping to the party. I played cards with others. I sang with my dad. I talked to people. Mostly, however, I spent my time kind of secluded in a corner and read.
I'm not sure what drew the woman's attention to me. To be honest, I can't even remember what she looked like. I do know she set down by me and asked me about my book. Ever one to enjoy talking about what I was reading . . . and also a little starved for attention . . . I smiled at her and began to tell her the plot. She'd not read the book, but she seemed to enjoy what I was telling her about it. She even asked questions to clarify what certain characters were doing and how then connected to the story.
I don't remember how long we talked. Like I said, I don't even remember anything about her. I just know the conversation happened and that I was happy during it. I felt smart and important. I felt entertaining and charming. At that age, given my father's neglect and my mother's usual need for fuckery, any positive feedback from adults was always met with a lot of enthusiasm from me.
About a month later, Dad took us to see my grandfather at his house. When we arrived, there was a paper sack sitting in the recliner. The sack was brought to me and I was told that the woman I'd spoken to at the party had spent the next day yardsaling. She happened upon a whole stash of books in the same genre as what I'd been reading. She bought them for me and told my grandfather to give them to me.
You know, I'm 38 now, but I can still remember how this made me feel. I was honored. I felt magical. I felt just astounded that someone, practically a stranger, would think so much of me that she would do this. I remember holding the bag in my hands. I remember pulling each book out and marveling at it like it was some kind of rare treasure. I felt so special.
Random acts of kindness are the greatest form of anarchy. I've said this time and time again. That is only a small measure of the power of kindness though. Random acts of kindness taken on their own immortality. They make a mark, a deep and lasting mark, in the lives of those touched by the kindness.
Imagine your life as a river and all your moments are the drops of water. They're all there, all connecting, all small bits making up the greater Whole. When someone does something kind and loving for you, in this spontaneous, surprising way, it's like a deep marker is set in the river. A place denoted for being significant. The water flows around this marker now. It's altered the path forever.
The gift of the books changed me. I'm not saying the books themselves lead me to some fantastic ideas that became best sellers. It wasn't about the books. It was about the gift. The gift made me more sure of myself. The gift made me more willing to open up to others. Not because I thought I'd get more stuff, but because I knew what I had to say was entertaining to others.
I really wish I remember this woman's name . . . assuming I ever had it. I wish I could remember more than just how her voice sounded. I wish I knew something about her because I am so grateful to her. Her gift was, and always has been, very special to me. A bag of books from a yard sale made a little neglected tween feel like the queen of the world. All these years later, it still makes me feel that way.
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