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The Story Out of Woodstock, Illinois

by Bill Tammeus of the Kansas City Star

"You want some lemonade?" the kid hollered at us from across the street. My old street, actually, West South Street, the street on which I spent much of my boyhood, the street on which, as a kid myself, I sold lemonade at a similarly rickety sidewalk stand.

"You’re our first customer and the first customer gets it free," the boy said. My sister and I looked at each other. The look said: How can you beat free?

So we walked across and bellied up to the bar at the corner of South and Hayward Streets. Two boys sat (well, sat in the up-and-down ways boys sit) on chairs behind a small table just one house down the sidewalk from the house in which my sister and I grew up. She and I were in town for a visit and were taking a look at the home of our childhood.

I held my cup of free lemonade and took a sip (hoping that the kids’ parents had made it). My sister asked them where they lived. They pointed to two houses down Hayward. It was hard to tell which ones they meant. And anyway, the people we once knew who lived in those houses no doubt were, like us, long gone.

"Do you know what?" I asked the boys

"What?"

"When I was about your age, I lived in that house right there
and I used to sell lemonade right out here at the edge of this
same sidewalk."

"You did?" one boy asked. He seemed intrigued. The other kid was more interested in finding their first paying customer.

"Yes I did. And one day some high school kids drove up in a car. One of those big boys in the car got out and came up to me and handed me a dollar, but he didn’t want any lemonade. He just handed me a dollar and left."

I reached into my pockets and pulled out four quarters.

"Here," I said, "Maybe some day you’ll remember this the way I still remember that."

The kid took the money. My sister and I headed up the hill toward our old house. I had waited nearly 50 years to do that and it felt good.

It’s really quite astounding how we remember small acts of unexpected kindness. I have no idea why that school kid back in the 1950s gave me a whole dollar—quite a prize back then. But the experience made me believe what I still believe, which is that sometimes pure, unmerited favor falls on us... I mean to say that the teen-ager who gave me a dollar once at my lemonade stand helped to create in me the capacity to believe in kindness…

Reprinted with permission from Bill Tammeus of the Kansas City Star.
Copyright, The Kansas City Star, 2005, all rights reserved.

Handout 2Print Handout 2

The Story Out of London

January 20, 1936, a bitter cold day in the back streets of a run-down area in southern London, drove a hungry young lad of eleven to ring a doorbell and beg for a glass of milk. Although he would have requested more, he knew that to do so often resulted in doors being slammed in his face. On this day, he had already been rejected twelve times but on his thirteenth try, he sensed better fortune was coming his way.

When Mrs. Bright answered the door and hearing the lad’s request, she smiled and invited him in to warm himself by the fire, while she busied her herself in the kitchen preparing the milk. When she emerged from the kitchen holding the glass of warm milk in one hand he noticed a plate of cookies in the other. They sat and talked together next to the fire for what seemed to the young lad to be quite a long time, not something he was used to having happen. He told her his name was Samuel Watson and that he had no idea where his parents were or even if they were alive. He related that he had an older brother who was on the streets with him for a time, but that scarcity caused them to split up. Sam admitted that he had been fending for himself for almost two years now.

She, too, told him of better days when she had a son and a husband—both now deceased. They talked together about their hopes and dreams and when they finally bid each other good day, the young lad thanked her and asked if there might be a small chore or two that he could do to repay her kindness. She said that she could not think of anything but that it was her privilege to have an opportunity to offer her friendship and that was pay enough.

Years passed and Mrs. Bright moved to America where she had relatives in New York. There she was able to secure a modest apartment of her own and pick up odd jobs sewing and mending garments for the more well-to-do residents of the area. In January of ’78 amidst one of the coldest and bitterest of eastern winters, she took ill and was taken to a local hospital where she was diagnosed with a rare disease that spelled a slow and painful death unless remedied by surgery. She had little money and no insurance and so was placed in a ward for the destitute.

Days passed and despite her worsening condition, she maintained a good relationship with everyone in the ward and her reputation for smiling amidst her pain and impending death became the topic of conversation in the medical lounge of the hospital.

On the 18th of January, one week after her arrival and just when it seemed that her life would be snuffed out, it was announced that she had been approved for surgery and that her procedure was scheduled in two days. While excited about the prospect of life-saving surgery, she was confused. After all, how could she afford to pay the hospital bill, much less the surgeon’s fee?

Three days following her surgery, Mrs. Bright was sitting up and already feeling much like her old self. Engaging the attending nurses in conversation, she would often confess her deep appreciation to the hospital while at the same time expressing concern for how she would pay her bill. The nurses assured her that the hospital would make arrangements for her to pay over a period of time and that she should not worry herself about it but concentrate on healing.

The day came for her release. As she prepared herself, she requested the bill. When the nurse returned with the bill, she smiled and fought back a tear as she handed it to Mrs. Bright. The total hospital and surgeon expenses read $34,950, but written in large letters across the bill were the words PAID IN FULL, signed by a Dr. S. Watson!

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