I received this in an email today and thought I'd pass it along.
Someone might get a little enjoyment out of it.

Al

===============


THE FINAL RIDE

Many years ago, I drove a cab for a living. Once when I responded to a
call at 1:30 a.m., I found the building to be dark except for a single
light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers
would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. I had
seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only
means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always
went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my
assistance, I responded this way ...

I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute", answered an elderly,
frail little voice. I could hear something being dragged across the
floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman who looked to
be in her 80's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a
pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, something like somebody out of a
1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase.

At a glance, the apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for
years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks
on the walls, no knickknacks, pictures or utensils on the counters. In
the corner was a cardboard box filled with what looked like photos and
glassware.

"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase
to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we
walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me over and over for
my kindness. "It's nothing", I told her. "I just try to treat my
passengers the way I would want my loved ones treated". "Oh, you're such
a good boy", she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address,
then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"

"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly. "Oh, I don't mind," she
said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice." I looked in the
rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. "I don't have any family
left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long."

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you
like me to take?" I asked. For the next two hours, we drove through the
city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an
elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her
husband had lived when they were newlyweds and raised a family. She had
me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a
ballroom where she had gone dancing as a young woman. Sometimes she'd
ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit
staring into the darkness, saying nothing. As the first hint of sunlight
was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go on now."

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a building,
like a small convalescent home, with a circle driveway that passed
under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled
up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must
have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase
to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair. "How much do
I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse. "Nothing," I said.
"You have to make a living," she answered. "There are other passengers,"
I responded, and almost without thinking, I bent over and gave her a
hug. She held onto me tightly. "You gave an old woman a little moment
of joy," she said. "Thank you."

I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me,
a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life. I didn't pick up
any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought.

For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had
gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What
if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more
important in my life. In fact, I know I haven't. We're conditioned to
think that our lives revolve around great moments, but great moments
often catch us unaware, beautifully wrapped in what others may consider
a small one.

PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID, BUT ...
THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.

You won't get any big surprise in ten days if you send this message on
to people that you know, as a kind reminder, but ... you might help make
the world a little kinder and more compassionate by doing so.

Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we are here we might
as well enjoy the dance. Every morning when you open your eyes, tell
yourself that it is special. I DO!!!

Al Patrick wrote:

I received this in an email today and thought I'd pass it along.
Someone might get a little enjoyment out of it.

Al

===============

THE FINAL RIDE

Many years ago, I drove a cab for a living. Once when I responded to a
call at 1:30 a.m., I found the building to be dark except for a single
light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers
would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. I had
seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only
means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always
went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my
assistance, I responded this way ...

I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute", answered an elderly,
frail little voice. I could hear something being dragged across the
floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman who looked to
be in her 80's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a
pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, something like somebody out of a
1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase.

At a glance, the apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for
years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks
on the walls, no knickknacks, pictures or utensils on the counters. In
the corner was a cardboard box filled with what looked like photos and
glassware.

"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase
to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we
walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me over and over for
my kindness. "It's nothing", I told her. "I just try to treat my
passengers the way I would want my loved ones treated". "Oh, you're such
a good boy", she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address,
then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"

"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly. "Oh, I don't mind," she
said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice." I looked in the
rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. "I don't have any family
left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long."

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you
like me to take?" I asked. For the next two hours, we drove through the
city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an
elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her
husband had lived when they were newlyweds and raised a family. She had
me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a
ballroom where she had gone dancing as a young woman. Sometimes she'd
ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit
staring into the darkness, saying nothing. As the first hint of sunlight
was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go on now."

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a building,
like a small convalescent home, with a circle driveway that passed
under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled
up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must
have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase
to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair. "How much do
I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse. "Nothing," I said.
"You have to make a living," she answered. "There are other passengers,"
I responded, and almost without thinking, I bent over and gave her a
hug. She held onto me tightly. "You gave an old woman a little moment
of joy," she said. "Thank you."

I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me,
a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life. I didn't pick up
any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought.

For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had
gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What
if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more
important in my life. In fact, I know I haven't. We're conditioned to
think that our lives revolve around great moments, but great moments
often catch us unaware, beautifully wrapped in what others may consider
a small one.

PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID, BUT ...
THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.

You won't get any big surprise in ten days if you send this message on
to people that you know, as a kind reminder, but ... you might help make
the world a little kinder and more compassionate by doing so.

Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we are here we might
as well enjoy the dance. Every morning when you open your eyes, tell
yourself that it is special. I DO!!!

I've seen this piece before, but it's always nice to read it again as a subtle
reminder.

dxAce
Michigan
USA

dxAce wrote:

I've seen this piece before, but it's always nice to read it again as a subtle
reminder.

dxAce
Michigan
USA

If I heard right, you kept her purse and it's contents. She had her
life savings in there you b*st*rd. I hope the trip you bought to
Hawaii made it all worth while, scumball.





mike

In article twWnd.9582$l65.8227@clgrps13,
m II wrote:

dxAce wrote:

I've seen this piece before, but it's always nice to read it again as a
subtle
reminder.

dxAce
Michigan
USA

If I heard right, you kept her purse and it's contents. She had her
life savings in there you b*st*rd. I hope the trip you bought to
Hawaii made it all worth while, scumball.

Ok, you have degenerated enough for me.

Plonk

--
Telamon
Ventura, California

Telamon wrote:

Ok, you have degenerated enough for me.

Plonk


A degeneration gauge? Must be a surplus item from the last
Presidential Candidates' Survey. Your is obviously defective.



mike

m II wrote:

dxAce wrote:

I've seen this piece before, but it's always nice to read it again as a subtle
reminder.

dxAce
Michigan
USA

If I heard right, you kept her purse and it's contents. She had her
life savings in there you b*st*rd. I hope the trip you bought to
Hawaii made it all worth while, scumball.

LMAO at the stupid Canadian 'tard! The only trip I ever 'bought' to Hawaii was
provided by the US Navy.

dxAce
Michigan
USA

dxAce wrote:

LMAO at the stupid Canadian 'tard! The only trip I ever 'bought' to Hawaii was
provided by the US Navy.

dxAce
Michigan
USA


no LMFAO?

I see you've given up anal sex. In your case, it doesn't seem to make
any improvement.




mike