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By Nancy Webb from Michigan via John Fernan
For years, I was employed by a "living history" farm,
part of a large outdoor historical museum. Several days each week,
I and a few trusty border collies would move sheep through the
"village" and relate information about sheep, working
dogs, wool, and agricultural life in 19th century America. My
menagerie and I lived just a few minutes from the museum.
My heart’s true home, however, was a "real"
farm an hour away. The days we weren’t at the living history
farm were spent there, where hundreds of sheep, dairy cows, and
five hundred acres of crops gave both the dogs and myself plenty
of truly rewarding work, often in very "fragrant" conditions.
Each evening, I’d put off the inevitable drive back to the
city as long as possible.
My aging pick-up truck was appropriate for hauling manure-covered
farm dogs. An insulated cap on the back kept them warm or cool
as weather demanded, and also prevented them from spreading their
eau de farm to the upholstery. But the truck died one evening
at a busy intersection about ten miles from home.
With six dogs in the back and the end of the truck hanging
out in traffic, I turned on the blinkers, ran across to a gas
station and arranged for a tow truck. As I returned, I noticed
a classy, full-size sedan pull behind the truck with its hazard
lights also flashing. Two elderly women asked if they could push
me into a parking lot just up the road, and I gratefully accepted.
I told them how scared I’d been that someone would clip the
rear of the truck, since I had dogs in there.
Instantly they wanted to drive all seven of us home. I explained
that the dogs had been working on a farm and were filthy and smelled
terrible. A tow truck was coming, I assured them. They were horrified
at the idea of the dogs riding in the truck as it was towed, and
insisted on saving us! So I canceled the tow truck and climbed
into the back of the obviously well-cared-for luxury car with
my farm boots on. Twenty-four filthy paws and a lot of dirty fur
surrounded me.
The ladies insisted they were already headed in my direction
and assured me that they loved dogs and that I need not worry
a bit about the dirt! They refused to tell me their names when
I asked, and refused any payment. When we pulled into my driveway,
I tried to read their license plate number, thinking I could find
a way to thank them if I had a name! It was dark, and they pulled
away before I could decipher the numbers. It was clear, however,
that the plates were for a handicapped driver.
Why would two elderly women risk their own safety to stop for
a broken-down, beat-up pickup? The driver’s parting words
remind me every day that taking a risk for someone else can pay
you back: "Just do the same for someone else someday,"
they requested.
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