“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Ol’ Chuck Dickens nailed it when he wrote those first lines to A Tale of Two Cities. He was writing about life during the French Revolution, but the mixed feelings evoked by those words have probably been felt by all of us at one time or another. I’ve felt the highs and lows bundled together many times, and I felt it again Friday.
We drove to Waco for an event at Baylor celebrating academic scholarships. We were lured by the prospect we might finally meet a student who had received the small endowed memorial scholarship we’ve funded for graduate students in journalism. We arrived a few minutes late and were directed to our assigned table and sat down in the only two vacant seats together. We turned our chairs and listened to the speaker and then turned back to get settled and meet the others at the table.
We were a little confused by the name cards at the place settings that had us seated on either side of a young man in a coat and tie. But then the arrangement became clear when he introduced himself: He was Michael, a journalism graduate student. He said someone else was supposed to be there but couldn’t make it, so he was asked to come at the last moment.
As we waited to be served and then ate, Michael pretty much shared his entire life story. His grandmother was from Mexico, he grew up in Waco where his father was a firefighter. He lost a sibling shortly after birth but has a sister. He is a first-generation college graduate and majored in photojournalism. He’s getting his master’s in public relations because he doesn’t want to just report the news. He wants to tell stories in words and photographs that will ultimately help people.
He showed us some pictures he’d taken, including several from recent Sunday mornings at The Church Under the Bridge, a congregation of homeless people and others that meets beneath one of the I-35 overpasses in Waco. He had paired the photos of congregants, who he had gotten to know by name, with quotes from them that help tell their stories.
I told him how my career had shifted early from newspaper reporting and writing to pretty much doing what he was talking about: telling stories. He said an internship at an autism advocacy center got him interested in working with children with disabilities, and LeAnn told him about her career working in speech pathology and early childhood development.
He said he loves music and told us how he had played trumpet in Baylor’s Golden Wave Marching Band (another connection for LeAnn) and helped organize the Baylor Mariachi. He surprised me when he said Johnny Cash and his song, “Man in Black,” had contributed to his interest in helping people who, as Cash sang, were “the poor and the beaten down, livin’ in the hopeless, hungry side of town.”
When the Baylor event was over, we exchanged phone numbers and promised to be in touch in the future – to see how life was going and offer career advice if he wanted it. Before we left, I asked Michael who he had replaced at the table, and he didn’t know. I told him it didn’t matter; “You were the best person for us to meet.”
As we headed back out of town on Texas 31, our preferred low-stress route, we talked about how glad we were we hadn’t given in to the Friday afternoon impulse to stay home after a busy week. We also were looking forward to getting home early and relaxing, but then the dashboard lit up with warning lights and we felt and heard the familiar sound of a tire rim grinding on the pavement. I pulled onto the shoulder and turned into a dirt road dead-ending into a field.
Unbelievable; another flat tire! I say “another” because we’ve had four flats on two vehicles in four months — three of those in April including two that week. AAUGH!!! Just like that, the warm glow from our time with Michael had been plowed under by the inconceivable inconvenience and frustration of yet another flat tire, this time on a rural highway 100 miles from home.
After sitting a moment to absorb the feeling of, “This can’t possibly be happening again, can it?”, I got out of the car to inspect the damage while LeAnn got on the phone to call roadside assistance. With no spare tire, I got out the electric air pump and sealant canister that came with the car. I’d had to use it before and knew what I was doing. At the same time, a car pulled up behind us and a woman jumped out to see if she could help. I told her I had it under control as I turned on the pump, but she pointed to the white sealant flowing out of the tire onto the pavement like stale milk. As I groaned and turned off the pump, she offered the donut spare in her trunk if she could get to it, while another man pulled up ready to help change the tire.
Meanwhile, LeAnn made connections and arranged a tow all the way back to Dallas, so I thanked our new roadside friends for their help and sent them on their way. The woman — “Tanya, like Tanya Tucker,” she said — gave me her phone number and said to call her if we changed our mind.
It was warm with the sun going down behind us, so we rolled down the windows to capture the cool cross breeze. It was actually a very nice day, and looking out the open windows, we saw a few lingering bluebonnets and lots of wine cups peaking over the bright green spring grass. Staring straight ahead out the windshield, we faced a field of corn or maize with white wind turbines whirling on the horizon. As we sat there, we were visited by a large bird with a long tail, white chest and orange belly. It jumped from fence to ground and back to fence several times before leaving us.
Watching LeAnn’s phone, a tracking app showed a tow truck out on a country road making its way toward us, and occasionally we’d get a message with an estimated arrival time. In a while the driver called to let us know he was near. When LeAnn asked if he had room for two of us in his truck, he paused a moment and said, “We’ll make it work.”
His name was Tony, and after he got the car up on the flatbed and we climbed onto his clean and clear front seat, we headed north on a county road across farmland toward I-35. He told us to let him know if we needed to stop for any reason, and I joked we could stop at Buc-ee’s. “I love Buc-ee’s,” he said. “Ever tried their brisket?”
As we rolled along, we heard another life story, mostly prompted by LeAnn’s thoughtful questions. Tony lived on some acreage in rural Malone with his wife, two sons and two daughters, all under age 15. He raised cattle, worked as a butcher (he’d processed 75 head that morning), and supplied wagyu beef to restaurants in the Metroplex and overseas. And obviously, he towed cars when he got the call.
Digging deeper, we learned he was born in Kuwait and lived in Jordan and Jerusalem before his family came to the United States during the Gulf War. They settled in Arlington when he was seven. He said he was working at multiple jobs like his father, who had been considered “wealthy” in the Middle East. We didn’t talk about faith, but no matter his tradition or even none at all, his kindness, compassion and easy-going personality were evidence enough of a gracious and caring spirit.
When we got to Dallas, we were met at the dealership by another man named Tony. “There’s a lot of Tonys tonight,” our driver said as the new Tony showed us where to park and took our key. We thought he was there to greet us but he was doing inventory and just happened to be leaving when we drove up. We said goodbye to both Tonys and hello to Richard, our longtime Baylor and Wilshire friend, who after a text from the highway dropped his Friday night plans and drove across town to take us home.
By midday Saturday we had a new tire and were ready to meet Sunday with whatever came at us. Monday, I sent a text to Tanya thanking her again for her kindness. She answered back, “Yes sir, I’m so glad to hear y’all made it ok. I been thinking about it and worried. Thank you and God bless.”
God bless indeed. Looking back now, it wasn’t the best or worst of days. Thanks to Michael, Tanya, two Tonys and Richard, it was a day we’ll never forget.