As we two prammed down University Avenue past the Irvington Preparatory Academy on the sidewalk opposite the school, my granddaughter and I heard the sudden rushing and rustling of clothes, and the slap of shoes on the ground. I’m assuming that Myah heard the things I did, but she had a flower in her hand, plucked from plantings that line our route, and her focus may have been on the “sniffer.” But I heard the children coming, saw the teens running, and then heard an older, cautioning voice: “Be careful. Watch the baby.”
On as many days as we can, my 16-month-old granddaughter and I roll down the street to the Irvington Circle, where she likes to circle the fountain. We pram past the Collier-Magar house, where fat black bumble bees hug the flowers, to the Coal Yard Coffee House. We mock the mechanical voice that, when we open the door, announces, “Front Door.” We look to see who is in there to serve us our iced tea and lemon muffin: Kinsey or “Nice Lady?” If it is Nice Lady, we dance on the stage to her music; Kinsey smiles to see us, delighted to notice Myah’s growth. We eat our muffin, toss our trash and pram back home. But on this day, before we get to the fountain, or pass the bumble bee garden, or open the “front door” at the Coal Yard, we have come through the eye of a gentle storm.
It has become common on social media for some to mourn the passing of civility and good manners in the young, and to cite some perceived rarity in kindness by those recalcitrant youth as a cause for the belief in the possibility of good in “this generation.” I am in my 8th decade in this world and never in my adult life have I despaired that the young people I see today are less courteous and compassionate than those I encountered when I was 40 years old, or 50, or 60. I will admit that my attitude may be a reflection of my willingness to concede the possibility of good in people, and I am especially disinclined to assume that misbehavior is the sole province of the young. Now, as Myah and I navigate the slanted slabs of University Avenue, the teens gallop past us — some to the left and some to the right of the pram — ever mindful of the voice that continues to caution for care, to “watch the baby.” And this happened:
One young man, at the tail end of the gamboling group, stopped to warn me of the uneven pavement beneath the great drooping fir and in front of the Little Free Library that Myah and her mother have visited at the corner of University and Dewey. “Be careful; it’s uneven here,” he said. And this last young man stopped his running to ask us, “Do you need some help?”
That night, after my daughter had returned from work and my granddaughter had leapt from my arms and into her mother’s, I sat down to write a letter to the principal of Irvington Prep, for I wanted that person to “note well and remember that your students were considerate and watchful, careful not to upset the carriage.” In the midst of what appeared to be a running exercise, “that last young man epitomized the grace that is always possible within us and for us.” That young man’s offer of help was the grace note on an already beautiful piece of music — the joyful and exuberant celebration of youthful strength and buoyant laughter.
cjon3acd@att.net