My Dad, Bill Richards, is a retired United Airlines pilot. Many years ago, he recounted this simple gift of kindness. I wanted to write it down before I forget his words, and share it with you just as he did. It's a short story and won't take up too much of your time.
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In the Chicago where I lived, back in the late 1960's, violence was part of life. People were suspicious of each other. Which meant that even if you saw someone in trouble - like on a freeway with a blown tire - you didn't stop to help. Particularly if the person in trouble was black and a woman.
Dad had a friend, also a pilot. The fellow was on his way to O'Hare airport to fly a trip somewhere. Dad never told me where because it makes no difference to this lesson of love. As the pilot-friend travelled down the freeway, he noticed a car parked up on the verge, it's emergency blinkers flashing. Two women stood at the open boot struggling to get out the spare tire. The pilot never thought twice as he pulled over to help.
He got out of his car and trotted over to assist. He suggested to the pair of African American women that they climb back into their car and out of the rain while he changed the blown tire. Then he noticed: one of the women was in tears. And she told him the urgency of their trip.
They were also driving to the airport to catch a flight. They were going to a funeral. They didn't know what to do. While they thanked the stranger for his help, all parties realized that his efforts would not solve the sadness they faced.
He thought it over for exactly 2.5 seconds. Reaching into his United Airlines uniform trousers he took out his car keys. He told them to take his car. Go to the UAL ticket desk and tell them where they parked his car and leave the keys. He'd take their car to the airport and do the same thing. When they returned to Chicago, they could pick up their vehicle.
At first they didn't believe him. Why would a privileged white man help a pair of black women particularly in the violent Chicago in which they all lived? When he insisted, they climbed into his car and sped off. The pilot changed the tire. As he did, it never dawned on him to question the identity of the beautiful woman, her face cracked by grief.
The pilot did as he promised. He fixed their car and took it to O'Hare. He flew his trip. He came home to Chicago and found his own car, exactly where the ticket agent at United told him it would be. Dad's friend drove home.
A week later he was at his house. He'd never thought again about the incident of the blown tire or the women he had assisted. This was back in the days when no one - not even a pilot - could afford a Color Television. Almost everyone had black & white.
When he answered the knock at his front door, he found a delivery driver. The guy had lugged a huge box across the driveway from his truck. When the pilot asked what was in the box and who had sent it, the driver looked at his clipboard and the delivery receipt.
"The consignment is for one RCA color television. You going to sign for it?"
"Who did you say it was from?" The driver looked again.
"It says here, Coretta Scott King. Now where do you want me to put it?"
The pilot helped the driver haul it into the house. As they set it up, Dad's friend had a hard time focusing because of the awe that had swept over him.
Despite the fact that she had just buried her husband, the woman he had never before met had taken the time to return his gift. She had sent him a colorful window on the world.
