Yesterday I read an interesting comment on Facebook. I don’t believe in Angels, she wrote, people invent them to make themselves feel better or a situation easier to bear. The comment created an uproar amongst readers. As with most subjects, it is each person’s belief …real or not real?
The comment brought to mind a story….
It was the early 1980’s and I was still trying to adjust to living in surroundings completely alien to this country girl of lakes and mountains. It appeared to me that people were just not as friendly as those I knew back in my native Maine. I wanted to make friends, but wasn’t sure just how to go about it.
It was time to make a move and I decided to sell Avon products. What better way to get to know my neighbors! I was lonesome, but was I that lonesome? I had never knocked on doors to sell anything…at least not in my adult hood. I started knocking on doors and everyone was polite and yes, most bought something but there was something lacking. I just did not feel that I was making friends, but that I was looked upon as their Avon Lady!
One day I was feeling especially down and I couldn’t shake it, but I had orders to deliver, so jumped in our old car and headed for town. I was getting tired of the routine. I knew more people, but I still went home and received no phone calls or invitations. This was definitely not Maine! I drew my car up to the big yellow house I had visited several times before. The lady was always so nice and chatted up a storm whenever I stopped. Maybe this would cheer me up. But this day, the lady seemed quiet and a little down herself. I greeted her with “How are you today?”
She leaned forward and in a quiet voice said, “It’s been a little hard today. My father isn’t that well.” I told her I was sorry to hear that and suddenly, she put her hand on my shoulder and said, “You’re from Maine, aren’t you?” I replied that yes, I had been living here only a few years. “Would you mind taking a few minutes to say hello to my father in the other room? He’s from Maine and I bet he would like to talk to you.” Well what to do? I put my sales bag on the chair and followed her to find an elderly man in a recliner staring out the window.
“Sandy’s from Maine, Dad” the lady said as she left the room.
Well here goes nothing, I thought. “Where are you from in Maine?” I asked and the old man waved his hand in the air. “You wouldn’t know it. Just a small place.” It was as though he were dismissing me with the wave of his hand. “Try me,” I smiled. “I know a lot of small places.” Someone help me out here, I thought.
The man paused and looked as though he were on an impossible mission. “Well, I can tell you, but you won’t know it. It’s a little town called Lockes Mills.”
I couldn’t speak and it seemed like forever before the words came out. ” I know Lockes Mills. I’m from Lockes Mills.”
“Nooooo, you have to be kidding me.” His eyes seemed to come alive and he straightened up in the recliner. “Do you know the East Bethel Road?” I nodded my head and he went on, “There was a Coolidge farm out there and I worked years ago for them.”
I cannot tell you how long we visited or all the things we talked about. It was as though he had suddenly found the day. I felt as though one of my friends from Maine had come to visit me to let me know that everything was going to be fine.
I always made time to visit a few minutes with him each time I drove to that neighborhood. The lady said her Dad seemed to “perk” right up after each visit. What are the chances of my finding someone from that little town of Lockes Mills on a day when I was about to give up on trying to adjust. I never knew the man’s name because it didn’t seem important and I doubt he knew mine.
Years later, I have adjusted and found many friends in this area, but I will never forget the day I was lead to find a fellow Mainer when I felt so alone.
Luck of the draw? An Angel? Who knows?