Unexpected Acts of Kindness
by Alice D. Outwater, Ph.D.
March 11, 2010, page 15

As I look back over my months and months of distress with John’s decline, I am reminded of several kindnesses that buoyed our spirits and lightened our days.
These unexpected generosities came in different forms and were both fortifying and touching as they sprang directly from the heart.

One autumn, John regularly sat in his folding chair on our front lawn, a light blanket over his knees. He was still able to read a bit, then slowly turning the pages of The New Yorker to enjoy the cartoons, or he would take in the headlines of the Burlington Free Press. Leaves were drifting down from the trees, and the air smelled of colder weather to come.

Soon his newspaper dropped to his lap as he drifted off for a quick snooze.

New neighbors had recently moved in across the street with a handsome tawny golden retriever that needed frequent outings. John was never keen about dogs of any shape, size or kind but he took a fancy to Ursula. Every afternoon Bill, the dog’s owner, honored John with an afternoon visit.

Ursula strained at the leash as they crossed the street, her whole body quivering in a frenzy and tail wagging wildly. She then paused a discreet distance from John. “Good whoofer, good whoofer,” John proclaimed as he patted her on her head and never glanced her way again. Satisfied with this hospitable welcome, Ursula lay down by his chair for a nap. The two of them were a portrait of contentment. John and Bill then proceeded to carry on a pleasant conversation of some length.

Now Ursula was not just any pet. Dignified and intelligent, she had been trained as a seeing eye dog. However, fate intervened as she walked around the block during her final exam. She glimpsed a squirrel jumping from branch to branch in a nearby tree and playfully barked at it.
That was it: she flunked the final exam after all those months of meticulous preparation. Ursula could never be trusted as a seeing eye dog. She was immediately put up for adoption and lucked into a comfy life with few responsibilities. Ursula and Bill became a vital punctuation point in John’s day, the ritual anticipation as Ursula approached him and then patiently waited for the gentle pat on her head.

We attended Ursula’s October birthday party on St. Ursula Day, a celebration marked on the Episcopal calendar. A large group of friends assembled at Bill and Elaine’s home. Ursula was decked out in her fanciest black collar encased with rhinestones, while a minister in full regalia officiated beside her. After the guests assembled she stretched out on the Oriental rug by the fireplace and closed her eyes, dreaming of a tasty dog biscuit.

We were given printouts of the order of the service that the minister had written with appropriate responses.
We sang all four verses of the familiar children’s hymn printed in most Protestant hymnals, “All Things Bright and Beautiful.” Cecil Alexander, a woman, wrote it in Sligo, Ireland, in 1848 (along with 400 other songs). Her husband was Anglican Bishop of Ireland. After each verse the minister spoke.

This follows a Navaho creation story in which the creator of the world realized he had a big job ahead. He needed an assistant, so he conceived a dog to help him create the world, the sun, the moon, the stars and lastly, man. The creator knew he had chosen well, as the dog became man’s best friend. At the conclusion of the ceremony the minister placed a small bowl with water beside Ursula and sprinkled it on her as a blessing. Before he had finished she leaped to her feet and eagerly, noisily lapped up the rest.

Another outstanding act of kindness stands out about that time.

Many days around noon I took John downtown for an outing, and he gingerly walked up Church Street to buy a sandwich, some coffee, and read the newspaper at Uncommon Grounds. The arrangement was I would meet him in the car at the intersection of Church and College Streets at a specified hour. However, as winter approached, the weather became more inclement. At times John would arrive early, feeling somewhat shaky and tired.

One day as the wind whipped up Church Street, leaving John unsteady as he leaned on his cane, Tom Pierce ran out from Michael Kehoe’s store to beckon him inside. He and Mike placed a sturdy wicker armchair in the window where John might sit down. From this perch he could see my red car approaching and amble out to meet me. This rescue and refuge became a regular event. One rainy day, with the store full of customers, Tom hurriedly excused himself, grabbed the huge green and white golf umbrella, and gently took John’s arm to escort him to our car.
As Tom bent over to open the door, his tailored suit was quickly soaked. He graciously helped John comfortably position himself in the passenger seat, then shut the door. Standing up straight, Tom smiled then put his hand to his forehead in a military salute. Safely inside the car, John slowly returned the salute and nodded in thanks. I drove my captain home. That was such a thoughtful, sensitive gesture, done regularly with Tom’s reassurances to me, “It is our pleasure. He is always welcome here with us.”

These random, spontaneous acts of kindness blessed our lives for months. They made an enormous difference, rays of light, fortifying us with much needed optimism.