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Audio slideshow presentation of Ken Hamilton's opinion page column "The Courtesy Card."

Embracing the values of our grandparents would serve us well. The warm, February sunshine and the melting snow buoyed my spirits unlike it had done on any other day of the waning winter, and I stopped by a greetings card store to share that moment with a sick friend by getting her a get-well card.

While I was there, the song that was rocking in my heart soon danced its way across my tongue and out into the ears of those around me. When I realized it, I embarrassingly looked up and saw the smiling faces of the patrons that shared the aisle with me. “No, don't stop,” one white-haired woman said. “It is good to hear people who are still happy in this world.”

“How could I not be happy,” I chimed, “when I share it with people as wonderful as you?”

Like the morning sunrise, golden rays of light began to pour from her aging blue eyes; and her lips curled up at their corners, as though the pinkish clouds of dawn was her smile. She giggled, gave me a gentle slap on my shoulder, turned and then continued her shopping. When at the checkout counter, the cashier and I exchanged some light and giddy conversation with yet another customer.

Soon, I headed for the door, but I stopped to admire a display of colorful Mylar birthday balloons, and I remembered that one of the employees at Tim Horton’s wanted one for her birthday. It was a week away, and I decided to buy it later.

Upon reaching the door, that customer from the counter was directly behind me and, without thought, I opened the doors for her. We had unknowingly parked our cars next to each other’s and we walked towards them together. There, she began a short, heartfelt conversation.

“You know, you’re awfully nice,” she said. “People just don’t do nice things for each other anymore.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I said. “I only opened the door for you.”

“I know,” she said. “But you made everyone in the store feel good and then you politely opened the doors for me. Most people are not like you.”

I disagree; there are lots of people like me and every once in a while I run into one of them — people whose stratospheric joys often fill the air but those joys rise out of the deep, blue waters of their profound sadness. Somewhere on the shores between those two points, there a mother once stood who cared enough to teach.

But I knew what she meant. Even though I enjoy spending a great deal of time alone, I still love people very much. The briefest of brushes with most of them bring a great deal of joy and knowledge.

Nonetheless, I was feeling something strangely familiar from this woman. Though the platonic lyrics of her most sincere thoughts danced off her tongue in bright and melodious notes; within the echoing of her heart were the dark, disharmonious drumbeats of her deeper feelings. It carried with them a much sadder and emptier tune.

She began to describe how her native Toronto had changed from the warm and friendly place where she had once played, and has grown into a concrete jungle in which she now must endure and survive: a society held prisoner by its own growth. With half of its more than five-million citizens not born in Toronto, the city, and the country, is no longer the Toronto, and Canada, of either of our youths. Now Buffalo can be more pleasant than Tee-Oh.

She stood teary-eyed and thankful in that cooling parking lot, as the western winds gently whipped about the ends of her long, gray neck scarf. In that short moment, we both had shared a drink from the warm oasis of each other’s souls. Yet, we knew that the blowing ‘winds of time’ had long carried with them those tiny grains of sand that continuously attacked and eroded the values that we had both come to know and trust; leaving behind an encroaching desert of emptiness.

The more that she recounted the ways that our society had changed, the more her voice stuttered and cracked, so much so, that I knew that she would soon melt into a full-blown cry. I was not yet ready for my joy to submerge back into those deep, blue waters of profound sadness — now a tad bit deeper, though warmer, because of her tears. She dabbed her eyes with the end of her scarf and continued to talk. But, I interrupted her and I looked into her moist eyes — and then opened my arms. 

Without hesitation, the stranger almost instantly fell into them. As though we were two kindergarten children on the playground of life, and that she had just fallen and hurt herself, I gently hugged her and patted her on her back, telling her that things would be all right. A few whimpers passed and we soon said our ‘good-byes,’ and we went our separate ways, still not knowing each other’s names.

That evening, the get-well card that was bought at the store was also dropped off into the mail. But earlier that afternoon, two new and nameless friends had not only merged a moment but also had merged a history of seemingly lost values. They dropped those ‘get-well cards’ off into each other’s hearts.  Those types of courtesy cards can’t be purchased; and yet, they cost them nothing. Unfortunately, if society loses the message that those cards carry within their whispered words, then it will cost it nearly everything that it once had. 

Wouldn't it be good if we gave ‘get-well cards’ as such to each other more often?

Ken Hamilton is a Niagara Falls resident. His columns run Fridays in the Gazette. He welcomes feedback at Ken Hamilton930@aol.com.