Kindness that’s Contagious

Recently at the request of my kids, our family met for a weekend in my hometown of Medina, Ohio, a robust community situated strategically between Akron and Cleveland. After I was born, my parents, who had both worked for B.F. Goodrich Tire and Rubber Company, returned to my mom’s hometown in Medina to settle down and raise the family. And so, on this particular weekend, we all, kids, spouses, and grand-kids, descended on Medina for a weekend of dad’s latent childhood memories.

All told, we spent the bigger part of three days dodging in and out of barber shops, department stores and grocery stores; schools, pools and cemeteries.
But it was the hardware store, that playground of power tools and must-have gadgets that has proved most encouraging to me. It was here that my father worked for most of my younger years and it is here where the poignant personalities echo through the walls ornamented with hoes, hammers, and hand tools. People with names such as Steve, Dave, and Don– all of these I remember like it was yesterday and in some small way, they shaped my life and my family’s life, if only in a manner of cooperating pieces of a puzzle.As I entered the store and moved through the familiarity of all its smells and reminiscent signatures, I happened upon the owner; his name is Steve, as was his father who owned the store when my dad worked here. It wasn’t long before he returned me to a time when men like Don, and Dave, and Harold roamed these premises and engaged me as Ray’s son. I would hear about these guys at the dinner table and confirmed my dad’s perceptions through my own memories as I shadowed my dad’s movements through the store.
But there was one memory I needed to share with him because it involved his dad. As dads we appreciate those times when we hear good reports of our children’s behavior, even more so, as adults when we hear of their godly character. But also as a son, I rejoice at those times when I have heard that my parents left a mark in someone else’s life; so I thought Steve might as well.
Years ago, I remember my dad’s yearly, particularly seasonal battle with hay fever. I remember vividly the regular visits to the specialist, the allergy shots in both arms, the almost constant battle with drowsiness that all but overcame him when he was not working and limited his interactions with our family. His battle was year-round– a regular if not monthly regimen of shots and pills meant to keep the allergy at bay. Central air conditioning seemed to hold out a potential for help, maybe some temporary relief, but no one in my circles had seen that luxury transformed into a reality.And then, one day, a car that I recognized, pulled in the driveway and out popped Steve, our present Steve’s dad, with a very large box. Inside, as you have now probably guessed, was a window air conditioner, small, and no doubt, now the type we put in bedrooms or other small rooms. For anyone who has lived in humidity, you understand the curled pages of your books and the nights spent sleeping in front of the fan that accompanies summer in many places. But today it was Christmas in June. Steve carried the unit into our living room, placed it on the floor and left. That’s what I remember. And from that very night that dad installed it in their bedroom, I remember it becoming the destination getaway for many a supper and evening, spent in enjoying this respite from the humidity and the relentless pursuit of pollen.I have no idea what a window “ac” unit cost in 1967; I don’t know if Steve merely wrote this one off from his business expenses; I only know that this one simple act of kindness made a massive difference in my father’s life and burned a memory in my mind that has never faded.This was my opportunity to thank young Steve for his father’s act of kindness. It became his opportunity to share with me that pursuing such kindness was a passion of his father; reaching out to others within our community and meeting needs through a charitable foundation that now lives on after he has died.Who knew that a trip to my dad’s hardware store would hold such promise?

Will your children recognize kindness when they come upon it, because they saw it in you first? Better yet, will they reproduce this gracious fruit in others?