Disaster often lurks when Pansy and I take a trip, usually in no small part because I fail to tend to details.
Most recently, on our anniversary trip, for example, I didn’t set our first destination point on our GPS before we left home. But I’ll also try to implicate the mountains of Virginia that often prevented adequate satellite transmission, once we made the connection.
Without the aid of our “eye in the sky,” I made an innocent stop at a McDonald’s, where I often stop for a quick cup of coffee and a potty break. Returning to the car, I drove in the direction I thought would lead us back to I-77. That proved to be abysmally wrong. We wound up in a subdivision somewhere north of Greater Charlotte, North Carolina.
Frantically searching for a place I could readily turn around on a neighborhood street, I suddenly came upon a service truck for a communications company. Its parking lights were on, and a man sat in the truck. I pulled ahead of the truck, stopped our blue 2007 Honda Accord and walked toward the white and yellow truck.
I asked the driver if he could tell me how to get back on I-77 toward Statesville. He tried to give me spoken directions but soon realized I was not taking in all the details. So he said, “Follow me. I’ll take you there. “
Long story fairly short, this man drove miles out of the way in order to get us back on our route. When he saw us safe and in the correct lane, he stayed in a different lane and left without my being able to thank him — face to face, at least.
But that’s not the end of the story. his truck had the familiar question on the back: “How’s my Driving.” It also had the vehicle ID and a toll free number to call to leave comments. We followed him for roughly fifteen to twenty minutes, so I got Pansy to jot down that information.
Later in the afternoon, at an Interstate rest area, I called the company and tried to tell our story to the person who answered. However, she wanted just barebones facts. I felt frustrated because I didn’t have opportunity to praise this driver. But then, to my delight, a company official called me back the next day. He seemed bowled over to get a commendation: People call mainly to complain.
The company rep gave me this Good Samaritan’s name, Carlos Salgado. He said Señor Salgado would receive a citation on the company’s entire internal communication network, making all his fellow drivers aware of this noble deed.
We arrived in the general area of Roanoke, Virginia, and should have gotten to our hotel well before dark, but in this mountainous region, our GPS worked only intermittently, so we went miles beyond our destination before realizing it.
Our next Guardian Angels were two intelligent, friendly, helpful clerks at a Pilot gas station. After I explained our situation, they used their company computer and personal smart phones to track down our hotel while I gassed up the car.
These young women could have brushed me off with an indifferent, “I don’t know” or “We’re busy with other customers.” But they used technology plus their collective knowledge of Greater Roanoke and wrote thorough details of the right route, and we arrived as dark was closing in (Neither of us feels safe driving after dark, any farther than just around our town).
I paid cash for my tank fill-up, and when we got to the hotel room, I found the postal address for the Pilot store on my receipt for the gas. So I wrote high praise for these energetic, determined, and thoughtful women.
Through our entire stay in Roanoke — not just on our initial arrival — we had difficulty finding our way to the Quality Inn, although we would pass within a block or two of it every time.
Even with the aid of our GPS, we would sail by as we heard the female voice assure us, “You have arrived at your destination on the right.” The problem arose because the inn is on a frontage road we overlooked repeatedly.
And this brings us to yet another Samaritan on our last night in Roanoke. After I overshot the hotel a couple of times, I found our way into the parking lot of a Wendy’s fast food restaurant that was very near our lodging.
I got in the line for ordering food, and when I reached the young lady who was taking orders, I asked how to get to the hotel. She did not live in the area, and she had no idea of how to find the nearby inn. She called for help from a young management type who also could not tell me exactly.
Our conversation was civil, but perhaps a bit loud, so others in line or seated nearby heard my questioning. A fellow senior citizen in the store stepped over and said, “I know exactly how to get there. You can follow me.”
She and her husband had just returned from the Mayo Clinic in Maryland where he periodically receives treatment for early stages of dementia. They live near Wendy’s and had stopped in to get the company’s signature Frosty ice cream dessert before going home.
True to her word, this kind lady went with me to our car, greeted Pansy, and told her of the plan. She paced her driving to allow us to stay close behind her all the way into the hotel parking lot.
In these three settings, then, people helped us, people who had no obvious reason, no justification, other than having caring spirits.
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