Almost . . .

It was around 1965 I believe. A few years after the picture at the right was taken. I had my newfound freedom off the farm. I was old enough to drive, although I didn’t have a car, and independent enough to go a distance to visit my relatives. I used Dad’s car.

It was early afternoon when I drove about 40 miles to Philadelphia to visit my second-cousins somewhere near Second Street and Girard Avenue, if I remember right. On that day I was nicely dressed in a suit and tie. Anyway, I drove toward the waterfront not far from the Delaware River. I was on a street in a quiet part of town, and I got thirsty. I saw a small grocery store and parked a couple car lengths beyond it. I carefully locked the passenger side door. You never know what could happen in a strange neighborhood. I had in mind to get something to drink, like orange juice. I entered the small store and bought a small container of orange juice and engaged in conversation with the proprietors as I drank it. They were a Russian husband and wife who had this store for years. They did not especially like the city but it was a living for them to have the small neighborhood convenience store.

I finally stepped out of the store and onto the sidewalk. Suddenly the door of a bar opened across the street and a woman stumbled out and toward me. I watched as she came close and then she fell down just a couple yards from me. A man rushed out and came up to her exclaiming, “Mama!”, and carefully helped her up. He brought her over to me and asked if I would please take her home, just a few blocks down the street. She was ill, he said.

I was not exactly naïve but I was in a quandary—doing a good deed, or possibly getting into a trap. I was not the kind of person to be used to the strange activities of strangers in a big city. As I hesitated, the woman walked over to the car and tried the door on the passenger's side. She stood waiting as the man explained her illness and the need for someone to take her home. In my hesitancy I was almost ready to help them out as I slowly wandered toward the car.

Suddenly, from the store came a call, “Mister…Mister…you forgot something!” The Russian lady was outside the store and waving a handkerchief in my direction. “You forgot something!” I answered to the ruse and walked back to the safety of the store. Both proprietors gave me an orientation lesson on the devious misadventures that occasionally occurred in the neighborhood. “It’s a bum city,” they said. “They have already stolen from people... and killed people. They would do just what they tried to do to you. It’s a bum city!” As I waited inside the store, both the would-be thieves went back into the bar.

I thanked the Russian couple profusely, and when the street was empty once again, I left, chastened by the experience.

Psalm 91:11 Because thou hast made the LORD, which is my refuge, even the most High, thy habitation; There shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling. For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.

That’s not to say I’m treated with any particular favor more than anyone else could. It apparently was to be a lesson learned—learning to be careful in a city of strangers, even if it is called The City of Brotherly Love. I thank God that it was not a worse experience. After all, I don't exactly lack for bad experiences, but that's another story or two.