A woman fell in my neighborhood today. Her shoe caught a crack in the sidewalk, and she hit the concrete with a dull thud. Her hands blunted the impact but didn't do enough to shield her face. She'd bitten through part of her lower lip and was bleeding onto her white shirt and the sidewalk.
A pedestrian crossed the street and asked if she was okay. I was further away with my dog. I tugged on his leash, and we broke into a steady lope to close the distance.
Then I recognized the woman. It was Connie, a regular dog walker in my neighborhood. We'd just chatted ten minutes earlier on an adjacent street. She was seated on the sidewalk, her left hand braced against the pavement for balance. Her little dog, Monty, sat beside her, partly tangled in the leash still attached to Connie's right wrist.
I knelt beside Connie and rested my hand gently on her shoulder. She is an elderly woman and was understandably shaken.
"I'm sorry you fell, Connie. Did you hit your head anywhere?" I asked.
"No, I broke the fall with my hands," she said.
"Can you look up at me?" I wanted to make sure the blood was coming from her bitten lip.
"How do my teeth look?" she asked, opening her mouth.
"They seem fine. Looks like you just bit your lower lip. Any dizziness or pain?"
"No, I think I'm okay."
She took some tissues from her pocket and dabbed her lower lip, then studied the blood on the tissue.
"Connie, hold the tissue firmly against your lip. Direct pressure. It'll stop the bleeding faster."
She did as I suggested.
More residents appeared and asked what had happened and whether they could help.
"I'll be alright," Connie said. "I just need to try and stand up."
She managed to sit upright, and I offered to steady her. She started to rise, then sat back down.
"Nope, not ready yet. I have trouble getting up sometimes."
She wiped a shirt sleeve across her perspiring brow.
"That's okay, Connie. Take your time. Would you like me to phone my wife? She's a nurse. Our house is just around the corner."
"Oh no, but thank you. I need to call my husband, Patrick, to come get me and Monty."
She fished her phone out of a pocket. Her hands were shaking, and she struggled to make the call. I offered to help, but then Patrick's voice came through the speaker.
"Patrick, I fell. You need to get me," she said.
Patrick asked where she was. Connie looked around, confused. I told him the name of the street and the cross street. The old cop in me always pays attention to locations.
The others who'd stopped to help wished Connie well and went on their way. I continued kneeling beside her. We untangled Monty's leash, and he lunged at Nanuk, who barked back at him.
Connie admonished Monty, and I said, "He's just protecting you."
Soon Patrick arrived, and the two of us steadied Connie as she stood. Once she felt confident, we walked her to the car and placed Monty in the back seat.
"Get that lower lip looked at," I said with a smile.
Connie and Patrick thanked me, and away they drove.
Just the other day I read a sad story about an eleven-month-old South Carolina boy whose twenty-five-year-old father allegedly buried him alive in a dog crate. The boy's disappearance alarmed family members, who called 911 in a panic.
Nearly one hundred local, state, and federal first responders searched the surrounding area and countryside. The boy had been buried for twenty-four hours before searchers noticed freshly disturbed dirt and pine straw in the woods, not far from his grandfather's home, where the boy had briefly been left with his father.
Searchers heard the infant crying beneath the ground and dug him out. He was inside a two-by-two-foot wire dog crate wrapped in a towel that luckily created an air pocket, enabling him to breathe. Cool outdoor temperatures helped, too.
The boy's father was arrested for attempted murder. He has a history of criminal charges involving domestic violence.
When I read the story, memories from my police career surfaced. The many domestic violence calls. Missing persons. Distraught family members.
Sometimes these incidents ended favorably. Other times, we weren't so lucky.
Throughout my career, I've always been struck by the goodwill of strangers. The volunteers who showed up to search for missing children. The retired couple who brought hot coffee to my partner and me on a chilly night while we worked a fatality accident. People of all shapes, sizes, ethnicities, and backgrounds who stepped forward as witnesses or simply lent a hand during investigations and critical incidents.
The wisdom of Anne Frank comes to mind:
"In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart."
Recently, I was rearranging some books in the faith and philosophy section of my office bookcase. I inadvertently brushed against the soft leather cover of an old Bible that belonged to my father.
A wrinkled scrap of paper fluttered from its pages and landed nearby. It bore my late father's immaculate handwriting. At the top were the opening words of Galatians 6:2:
"Bear one another's burdens."
I thought of Ted Strollo, a homeless Italian immigrant who was struck by a car in town. My father was driving by and witnessed the accident. He ran to render aid and later visited Ted in the hospital. Eventually, he brought Ted home to convalesce. He helped him obtain state benefits and find a studio apartment.
We used to visit Ted during the holidays. Dad would bring him wool socks and his favorite Stella D'oro Italian cookies.
All of this left quite an impression on me as a boy.
Last year my wife and I took a trip to San Francisco to visit friends and enjoy the city. I brought along my rangefinder style camera to snap street photos. I spotted a family across the busy street waiting for the light to change at the crosswalk.
Among them was a toddler in a stroller, happily sipping a refreshment. I lifted my camera and snapped a photo.
Once the light changed, the family formed a kind of protective circle around the toddler as they crossed the intersection. They were alert to everything around them, all the traffic and people.
It was moving, how they protected the toddler. The way they encircled the stroller, safely navigating the busy intersection.
Today’s incident with Connie and the neighbors who came to help her made me think of that family and toddler in San Francisco. Funny how our minds make such disparate connections.
But really they’re not disparate at all.
They’re about the goodness of people. The light inside most of us. Benevolent, empathetic, loving light that shines brightest when others need us.
And we go to help them.
