Not that it matters what I think, but this world is a mess. Open your newspaper, turn on your television. Selfishness is for sale, and it's selling at clearance prices.
New Orleans, Louisiana: I once saw a teenage boy, lean as a two-by-four, tap-dancing on a sheet of cardboard. His brother beat a plastic bucket with drumsticks. The percussion got faster; so did the kid's feet. Before long, fifty spectators had gathered. The kid danced until he broke a sweat.
For his big finish, so help me, the kid did a backflip. I found myself applauding and carrying on.
When the boys finished, all they'd earned were seven dollars in tips. I know this because five dollars in that box came from me. The disappointed young dancer swallowed his pride and yelled to everyone, “God bless y'all!”
And he looked like he meant it, too.
Chipley, Florida. Piggly Wiggly. A young girl and her boyfriend stood ahead of me in line. Her, with a baby on her hip. Him, covered in sawdust. On the conveyor belt: basic groceries, baby food, diapers, and formula.
The skinny boy reached into his pocket to pay. When he did, the manager came over and whispered
into the young man's ear, then winked at him. The kid put his wallet away, and with sincerity he said, “God bless you, sir.”
They left with a full buggy.
Mobile, Alabama: my truck broke down. It was raining. And during the dark-ages, before cellphones, to be stranded meant exactly that.
Four Mexican construction workers on their lunch break approached me. One of them was a mechanic. He fixed my truck right there. I tried to pay him, he refused. He slammed my hood shut, shook my hand, and left me with a "God bless you, my friend." He said it in such a thick accent I almost missed it.
Not that it matters what I think, but this world is a mess. Open your newspaper, turn on your television. Selfishness is for sale, and it's selling at clearance prices.
But to those of you who tap dance; who…
This Jackson County community, which rests on the Alabama-Georgia border, has 792 folks. It's as tiny as things get.
Grand Ridge, Florida: Wednesday, March 16, at 7:30 a.m. — Two wrecked school buses and one demolished eighteen-wheeler sat on Highway 90, smoldering. You ought to have seen them. They were a terrifying vision. It was as though a bomb had gone off in the sleepy town.
This Jackson County community, which rests on the Alabama-Georgia border, has 792 folks. It's as tiny as things get. In fact, if it were any smaller, folks would be stuck inside a Baptist fellowship hall. To an outsider, it's a nothing-town. When passing through, all you see are trailer homes, farmland, and sprawling trees.
Before yesterday, the biggest thing to ever happen here was Ashleigh Lollie — a pretty girl whose daddy moves mobile homes for a living. She's 2015's reigning Miss Florida. Which is still big news.
But now, Grand Ridge is on the news for something different.
Three monstrous vehicles, blackened and contorted. They look like crushed Budweiser cans. It happened when a semi driver rear-ended a school bus. The bus
shot forward to strike a second bus in front of it.
One man said, “It was like a horrible demolition derby.”
That's exactly what it was. Seventy-two injured. Children cut from the wreckage. Four students airlifted to the hospital. A shut down highway. Broken legs. Damaged eye sockets. Bruised organs. Gashes. Blood. Wailing parents. Tears. I can't think of anything more gut-ripping.
It wasn't but a few moments after the disaster, that swarms of folks arrived on the scene. And I'm not talking a few highway patrolmen and sheriff deputies — though they were there, too. I'm talking 300 small-town people. Neighbors, mothers, fathers, preachers, loggers, janitors, construction workers, farmers, tire-salesmen, teachers, off-duty nurses, first responders, fire-fighters.
Half the town.
One emotional woman said, “I can't believe how many damn people were out here. I-I-I just can't.”
If that's not enough to make you believe in goodness again, try this on…