This is a franchise and small business related blog. Once in awhile, I do some humorous stuff, but I rarely go too off topic. But today, I am going totally off topic. I am going to share a short story that a friend of mine, Marshall Reddy, of Jacksonville Florida, sent to me. Maybe you have seen it. Maybe not.<\/p>\n
I have been getting a little burned out as of late…all of this writing, marketing, and networking that is now such a huge part of my consulting business, sometimes gets in the way of other life stuff. Other really important life stuff.<\/strong> You may tear up a little {Or a lot} after reading this one, folks. But, I feel it is important for all of us to read<\/em>, who happen to be a part of this new economy…this new technology driven life, which has in some respects, taken over our lives, with it’s always on-always connected electronically, technology….<\/p>\n Here is the story written by a cab driver:<\/strong><\/p>\n “I pulled up to the address the dispatcher had directed me to go. I beeped once and then again but still nobody came to the door. I walked to the door and knocked. ‘Just a minute’, answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.<\/p>\n After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90’s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie.<\/p>\n By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.<\/p>\n There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.<\/p>\n ‘Would you carry my bag out to the car?’ she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.<\/p>\n She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.<\/p>\n She kept thanking me for my kindness. ‘It’s nothing’, I told her. ‘I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated’.<\/p>\n ‘Oh, you’re such a good boy’, she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, and then asked, ‘Could you drive through downtown?’<\/p>\n ‘It’s not the shortest way,’ I answered quickly.<\/p>\n ‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I’m in no hurry. I’m on my way to a hospice’.<\/p>\n I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. ‘I don’t have any family left,’ she continued. ‘The doctor says I don’t have very long.’ I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.<\/p>\n ‘What route would you like me to take?’ I asked.<\/p>\n For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.<\/p>\n We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.<\/p>\n Sometimes she’d ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.<\/p>\n As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, ‘I’m tired. Let’s go now’<\/p>\n We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.<\/p>\n Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move.They must have been expecting her.<\/p>\n I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.<\/p>\n ‘How much do I owe you?’ she asked, reaching into her purse.<\/p>\n ‘Nothing,’ I said<\/p>\n ‘You have to make a living,’ she answered.<\/p>\n ‘There are other passengers,’ I responded.<\/p>\n Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.<\/p>\n ‘You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,’ she said.<\/p>\n ‘Thank you.’<\/p>\n I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.<\/p>\n I didn’t pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift?<\/p>\n What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?<\/p>\n On a quick review, I don’t think that I have done anything more important in my life.<\/p>\n We’re conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.<\/p>\n But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.<\/p>\n