In 1988, it was Christmastime, I was getting gas.
A woman came up to me. She had a tiny little girl with that cute wonderful toddler face and big brown eyes.
She asked me if there was a Greyhound station near by. I told her the closest station was about 10 miles away.
She’d gone to Folsom Prison to visit her Uncle who worked there. He had the day off and had gone to Oakland. They’d missed each other. Her surprise visit had gone all wrong.
I didn’t know her. She was from Oakland. She was black. I was a pale white career girl with high heels and a red suit. I lived in a town where 90% of the citizens were white (except for the people in Folsom Prison.) It shouldn’t have mattered what color any of us were.
We were both nice normal young women. That is all that mattered.
I didn’t know her. I didn’t know her uncle. I was getting gas because I was going to the Greyhound station to ship a package to Los Angeles.
I gave her and the sweet toddler a ride. She started to cry. I told her that it was ok and to have a great trip.
I didn’t do anything extraordinary. I just did the right thing. I never thought about it again and never even said anything to anybody.
The daughter would be grown now. I hope they had a wonderful Christmas and that all is well. The mom seemed sweet.