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the last cab ride
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Jul 11, 2020 13:51:05   #
badbobby Loc: Humble Texas
 
posted this before
but it's damn good


A reminder about what life is really about.

I arrived at the address and honked the horn.

After waiting a few minutes, I honked again.

Since this was going to be my last ride of

my shift I thought about just driving away,

But instead I put the car in park and walked up to the

door and knocked...

'Just a minute', answered a frail, elderly voice. I could

hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened.

A small woman in her 90's stood before me.

She was wearing a print dress

and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it,

like somebody out of a 1940's movie.

By her side was a small nylon suitcase.

The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years.

All the furniture was covered with sheets.

There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks

or utensils on the counters.

In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos

and glassware.

'Would you carry my bag out to the car?' she said.

I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to

assist the woman.

She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.

She kept thanking me for my kindness.

'It's nothing', I told her. 'I just try to treat my passengers

The way I would want my mother to be treated.'

'Oh, you're such a good boy’ she said.

When we got in the cab, she gave me an address

and then asked,

'Could you drive through downtown?'

'It's not the shortest way,' I answered quickly.'

Oh, I don't mind,' she said.

'I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice’.

I looked in the rear-view mirror.

Her eyes were glistening.

'I don't have any family left,'

she continued in a soft voice…

'The doctor says I don't have very long.'

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

'What route would you like me to take?' I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city.

She showed me the building where she had once

worked as an elevator operator.

We drove through the neighborhood where she and

her husband had lived when they were newlyweds.

She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse

that had once been a ballroom where she had gone

dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a

particular building or corner, and would sit staring into the

darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon,

She suddenly said, 'I'm tired. Let's go now'.

We drove in silence to the address she had given me.

It was a low building, like a small convalescent home,

with a driveway that passed under a portico.

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as

we pulled up.

They were solicitous and intent, watching her

every move.

They must have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small

suitcase to the door.

The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

'How much do I owe you?' She asked,

reaching into her purse.

'Nothing,' I answered.

'You have to make a living,' she said.

'There are other passengers,' I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug.

She held onto me tightly.

'You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,' she said.

'Thank you.'

I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim

morning light.

Behind me, a door shut.

It was the sound of the closing of a life...

For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk.

What if that woman had gotten an angry driver,

or one who was impatient to end his shift?

What if I had refused to take the run,

or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that

I have done anything more important in my life.

We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve

around great moments.

But great moments often catch us

unaware – beautifully wrapped in what

others may consider a small one.

PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY

WHAT YOU DID,

OR WHAT YOU SAID,

BUT THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER

HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL...

At the bottom of this great story was a

request to forward this –

I deleted that request because if you

have read to this point,

You won't have to be asked to pass it

along, you just will...

Thank you, my friend...

Life may not be the party we hoped

for, but while we are here we might

as well dance. 💃🏾

Reply
Jul 11, 2020 14:01:58   #
FourchonLa. Loc: Fourchon Louisiana, South Louisiana
 
Wow. Just wow. Thanks for the post.

Reply
Jul 11, 2020 14:10:14   #
Olddawg Loc: Citrus Springs, Fl
 
BB, as soon as I saw the title, it reminded of a story I had read years ago that has guíded my behavior many times since and I was going to tell that story and was of course struggling to remember how it went. Then I realised this was the story. Thank you for.you telling it again and I'm sure it will touch many, I hope it will affect the way many end up treating our elderly instead of getting short with them or ignoring them as is so popular today. You may be BAD, but you are alright in my books.

Reply
 
 
Jul 11, 2020 14:15:13   #
flyguy Loc: Lake Onalaska, Sunfish Capitol of the World!
 
A very, very, good read, bb, thank you!

Reply
Jul 11, 2020 14:53:22   #
badbobby Loc: Humble Texas
 
Olddawg wrote:
BB, as soon as I saw the title, it reminded of a story I had read years ago that has guíded my behavior many times since and I was going to tell that story and was of course struggling to remember how it went. Then I realised this was the story. Thank you for.you telling it again and I'm sure it will touch many, I hope it will affect the way many end up treating our elderly instead of getting short with them or ignoring them as is so popular today. You may be BAD, but you are alright in my books.
BB, as soon as I saw the title, it reminded of a s... (show quote)


tx dawg
glad you liked the post

Reply
Jul 11, 2020 14:54:42   #
badbobby Loc: Humble Texas
 
flyguy wrote:
A very, very, good read, bb, thank you!


as usual fly, always a kind word from you
thank you

Reply
Jul 11, 2020 16:07:47   #
Randyhartford Loc: Lawrence, Kansas
 
badbobby wrote:
posted this before
but it's damn good


A reminder about what life is really about.

I arrived at the address and honked the horn.

After waiting a few minutes, I honked again.

Since this was going to be my last ride of

my shift I thought about just driving away,

But instead I put the car in park and walked up to the

door and knocked...

'Just a minute', answered a frail, elderly voice. I could

hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened.

A small woman in her 90's stood before me.

She was wearing a print dress

and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it,

like somebody out of a 1940's movie.

By her side was a small nylon suitcase.

The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years.

All the furniture was covered with sheets.

There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks

or utensils on the counters.

In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos

and glassware.

'Would you carry my bag out to the car?' she said.

I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to

assist the woman.

She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.

She kept thanking me for my kindness.

'It's nothing', I told her. 'I just try to treat my passengers

The way I would want my mother to be treated.'

'Oh, you're such a good boy’ she said.

When we got in the cab, she gave me an address

and then asked,

'Could you drive through downtown?'

'It's not the shortest way,' I answered quickly.'

Oh, I don't mind,' she said.

'I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice’.

I looked in the rear-view mirror.

Her eyes were glistening.

'I don't have any family left,'

she continued in a soft voice…

'The doctor says I don't have very long.'

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

'What route would you like me to take?' I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city.

She showed me the building where she had once

worked as an elevator operator.

We drove through the neighborhood where she and

her husband had lived when they were newlyweds.

She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse

that had once been a ballroom where she had gone

dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a

particular building or corner, and would sit staring into the

darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon,

She suddenly said, 'I'm tired. Let's go now'.

We drove in silence to the address she had given me.

It was a low building, like a small convalescent home,

with a driveway that passed under a portico.

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as

we pulled up.

They were solicitous and intent, watching her

every move.

They must have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small

suitcase to the door.

The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

'How much do I owe you?' She asked,

reaching into her purse.

'Nothing,' I answered.

'You have to make a living,' she said.

'There are other passengers,' I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug.

She held onto me tightly.

'You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,' she said.

'Thank you.'

I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim

morning light.

Behind me, a door shut.

It was the sound of the closing of a life...

For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk.

What if that woman had gotten an angry driver,

or one who was impatient to end his shift?

What if I had refused to take the run,

or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that

I have done anything more important in my life.

We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve

around great moments.

But great moments often catch us

unaware – beautifully wrapped in what

others may consider a small one.

PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY

WHAT YOU DID,

OR WHAT YOU SAID,

BUT THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER

HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL...

At the bottom of this great story was a

request to forward this –

I deleted that request because if you

have read to this point,

You won't have to be asked to pass it

along, you just will...

Thank you, my friend...

Life may not be the party we hoped

for, but while we are here we might

as well dance. 💃🏾
posted this before br but it's damn good br br b... (show quote)


Thanks for posting this again, B.B.
I enjoyed it just as much as I did when you posted it on Dec. 30 last year. I put it in my “favorites” back then so I can re-read it whenever I get “too busy”.....

Reply
 
 
Jul 11, 2020 16:10:46   #
flyguy Loc: Lake Onalaska, Sunfish Capitol of the World!
 
Randyhartford wrote:
Thanks for posting this again, B.B.
I enjoyed it just as much as I did when you posted it on Dec. 30 last year. I put it in my “favorites” back then so I can re-read it whenever I get “too busy”.....


A good idea, Randy.

Reply
Jul 11, 2020 16:49:19   #
badbobby Loc: Humble Texas
 
Randyhartford wrote:
Thanks for posting this again, B.B.
I enjoyed it just as much as I did when you posted it on Dec. 30 last year. I put it in my “favorites” back then so I can re-read it whenever I get “too busy”.....


it's certainly worth reposting
thanks Randy

Reply
Jul 11, 2020 17:39:21   #
Iowa Farmer Loc: Iowa City Iowa
 
Excellent read, BB, truer words were never spoken "treat others as you would like to be treated "

Reply
Jul 11, 2020 18:04:19   #
EasternOZ Loc: Kansas City Metro
 
badbobby wrote:
posted this before
but it's damn good


A reminder about what life is really about.

I arrived at the address and honked the horn.

After waiting a few minutes, I honked again.

Since this was going to be my last ride of

my shift I thought about just driving away,

But instead I put the car in park and walked up to the

door and knocked...

'Just a minute', answered a frail, elderly voice. I could

hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened.

A small woman in her 90's stood before me.

She was wearing a print dress

and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it,

like somebody out of a 1940's movie.

By her side was a small nylon suitcase.

The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years.

All the furniture was covered with sheets.

There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks

or utensils on the counters.

In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos

and glassware.

'Would you carry my bag out to the car?' she said.

I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to

assist the woman.

She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.

She kept thanking me for my kindness.

'It's nothing', I told her. 'I just try to treat my passengers

The way I would want my mother to be treated.'

'Oh, you're such a good boy’ she said.

When we got in the cab, she gave me an address

and then asked,

'Could you drive through downtown?'

'It's not the shortest way,' I answered quickly.'

Oh, I don't mind,' she said.

'I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice’.

I looked in the rear-view mirror.

Her eyes were glistening.

'I don't have any family left,'

she continued in a soft voice…

'The doctor says I don't have very long.'

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

'What route would you like me to take?' I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city.

She showed me the building where she had once

worked as an elevator operator.

We drove through the neighborhood where she and

her husband had lived when they were newlyweds.

She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse

that had once been a ballroom where she had gone

dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a

particular building or corner, and would sit staring into the

darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon,

She suddenly said, 'I'm tired. Let's go now'.

We drove in silence to the address she had given me.

It was a low building, like a small convalescent home,

with a driveway that passed under a portico.

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as

we pulled up.

They were solicitous and intent, watching her

every move.

They must have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small

suitcase to the door.

The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

'How much do I owe you?' She asked,

reaching into her purse.

'Nothing,' I answered.

'You have to make a living,' she said.

'There are other passengers,' I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug.

She held onto me tightly.

'You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,' she said.

'Thank you.'

I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim

morning light.

Behind me, a door shut.

It was the sound of the closing of a life...

For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk.

What if that woman had gotten an angry driver,

or one who was impatient to end his shift?

What if I had refused to take the run,

or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that

I have done anything more important in my life.

We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve

around great moments.

But great moments often catch us

unaware – beautifully wrapped in what

others may consider a small one.

PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY

WHAT YOU DID,

OR WHAT YOU SAID,

BUT THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER

HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL...

At the bottom of this great story was a

request to forward this –

I deleted that request because if you

have read to this point,

You won't have to be asked to pass it

along, you just will...

Thank you, my friend...

Life may not be the party we hoped

for, but while we are here we might

as well dance. 💃🏾
posted this before br but it's damn good br br b... (show quote)



Thank you bb.

All to often life has us in a hurry.

Reply
 
 
Jul 12, 2020 08:50:39   #
kandydisbar Loc: West Orange, NJ
 
Beautiful

Reply
Jul 12, 2020 10:09:11   #
bahmer Loc: Northern Illinois Rockford
 
badbobby wrote:
posted this before
but it's damn good


A reminder about what life is really about.

I arrived at the address and honked the horn.

After waiting a few minutes, I honked again.

Since this was going to be my last ride of

my shift I thought about just driving away,

But instead I put the car in park and walked up to the

door and knocked...

'Just a minute', answered a frail, elderly voice. I could

hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened.

A small woman in her 90's stood before me.

She was wearing a print dress

and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it,

like somebody out of a 1940's movie.

By her side was a small nylon suitcase.

The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years.

All the furniture was covered with sheets.

There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks

or utensils on the counters.

In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos

and glassware.

'Would you carry my bag out to the car?' she said.

I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to

assist the woman.

She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.

She kept thanking me for my kindness.

'It's nothing', I told her. 'I just try to treat my passengers

The way I would want my mother to be treated.'

'Oh, you're such a good boy’ she said.

When we got in the cab, she gave me an address

and then asked,

'Could you drive through downtown?'

'It's not the shortest way,' I answered quickly.'

Oh, I don't mind,' she said.

'I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice’.

I looked in the rear-view mirror.

Her eyes were glistening.

'I don't have any family left,'

she continued in a soft voice…

'The doctor says I don't have very long.'

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

'What route would you like me to take?' I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city.

She showed me the building where she had once

worked as an elevator operator.

We drove through the neighborhood where she and

her husband had lived when they were newlyweds.

She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse

that had once been a ballroom where she had gone

dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a

particular building or corner, and would sit staring into the

darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon,

She suddenly said, 'I'm tired. Let's go now'.

We drove in silence to the address she had given me.

It was a low building, like a small convalescent home,

with a driveway that passed under a portico.

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as

we pulled up.

They were solicitous and intent, watching her

every move.

They must have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small

suitcase to the door.

The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

'How much do I owe you?' She asked,

reaching into her purse.

'Nothing,' I answered.

'You have to make a living,' she said.

'There are other passengers,' I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug.

She held onto me tightly.

'You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,' she said.

'Thank you.'

I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim

morning light.

Behind me, a door shut.

It was the sound of the closing of a life...

For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk.

What if that woman had gotten an angry driver,

or one who was impatient to end his shift?

What if I had refused to take the run,

or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that

I have done anything more important in my life.

We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve

around great moments.

But great moments often catch us

unaware – beautifully wrapped in what

others may consider a small one.

PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY

WHAT YOU DID,

OR WHAT YOU SAID,

BUT THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER

HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL...

At the bottom of this great story was a

request to forward this –

I deleted that request because if you

have read to this point,

You won't have to be asked to pass it

along, you just will...

Thank you, my friend...

Life may not be the party we hoped

for, but while we are here we might

as well dance. 💃🏾
posted this before br but it's damn good br br b... (show quote)


Another great post there badbobby thanks for that, It caused my eyes to leak. I will pass it on thanks.

Reply
Jul 12, 2020 11:02:43   #
Fish Dancer Loc: Guntersville, Alabama
 
badbobby wrote:
posted this before
but it's damn good


A reminder about what life is really about.

I arrived at the address and honked the horn.

After waiting a few minutes, I honked again.

Since this was going to be my last ride of

my shift I thought about just driving away,

But instead I put the car in park and walked up to the

door and knocked...

'Just a minute', answered a frail, elderly voice. I could

hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened.

A small woman in her 90's stood before me.

She was wearing a print dress

and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it,

like somebody out of a 1940's movie.

By her side was a small nylon suitcase.

The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years.

All the furniture was covered with sheets.

There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks

or utensils on the counters.

In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos

and glassware.

'Would you carry my bag out to the car?' she said.

I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to

assist the woman.

She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.

She kept thanking me for my kindness.

'It's nothing', I told her. 'I just try to treat my passengers

The way I would want my mother to be treated.'

'Oh, you're such a good boy’ she said.

When we got in the cab, she gave me an address

and then asked,

'Could you drive through downtown?'

'It's not the shortest way,' I answered quickly.'

Oh, I don't mind,' she said.

'I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice’.

I looked in the rear-view mirror.

Her eyes were glistening.

'I don't have any family left,'

she continued in a soft voice…

'The doctor says I don't have very long.'

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

'What route would you like me to take?' I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city.

She showed me the building where she had once

worked as an elevator operator.

We drove through the neighborhood where she and

her husband had lived when they were newlyweds.

She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse

that had once been a ballroom where she had gone

dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a

particular building or corner, and would sit staring into the

darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon,

She suddenly said, 'I'm tired. Let's go now'.

We drove in silence to the address she had given me.

It was a low building, like a small convalescent home,

with a driveway that passed under a portico.

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as

we pulled up.

They were solicitous and intent, watching her

every move.

They must have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small

suitcase to the door.

The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

'How much do I owe you?' She asked,

reaching into her purse.

'Nothing,' I answered.

'You have to make a living,' she said.

'There are other passengers,' I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug.

She held onto me tightly.

'You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,' she said.

'Thank you.'

I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim

morning light.

Behind me, a door shut.

It was the sound of the closing of a life...

For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk.

What if that woman had gotten an angry driver,

or one who was impatient to end his shift?

What if I had refused to take the run,

or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that

I have done anything more important in my life.

We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve

around great moments.

But great moments often catch us

unaware – beautifully wrapped in what

others may consider a small one.

PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY

WHAT YOU DID,

OR WHAT YOU SAID,

BUT THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER

HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL...

At the bottom of this great story was a

request to forward this –

I deleted that request because if you

have read to this point,

You won't have to be asked to pass it

along, you just will...

Thank you, my friend...

Life may not be the party we hoped

for, but while we are here we might

as well dance. 💃🏾
posted this before br but it's damn good br br b... (show quote)


Thanks bb. Brought a tear to my eye the first time you posted it and it did again this time too. I’ve always had a soft spot for the older folks. When I was in my early 20’s I was a chef at a retirement home and on my breaks I would go visit the residents and just listen to their stories. I believe we both got equal enjoyment out of the telling and the listening.

Reply
Jul 12, 2020 11:15:44   #
Smokypig Loc: Cheyenne, wyoming
 
Loved this post the first time. I think I somehow liked it better this time. Please, post it again, sometime.

Reply
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