The Kindness of Strangers



When Blanche DuBois uttered her infamous “I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers” line in ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’, I was at a loss. I was young and relatively immature, so I just tossed it off as a southern etiquette thing. Now that I am older, wiser, and hopefully more accomplished, I recognize it for the universal truth it reflects. Strangers can be far more reliable than friends in certain situations, especially if it cuts to the heart of what you are about. Friends are earthbound beings with expectations and predilections that are fixed in their orbit of associations. Strangers often come out of themselves and offer the solace and essentials that are the backbone of our self-esteem.

I recently appeared in a theatre production of which I am particularly proud. The venue was free and conveniently located. I alerted my dear friends with every detail imaginable for a hassle-free attendance. With the exception of two parties who phoned with regrets for their inability to attend, this performance was completely ignored. I scanned the audience for familiar faces and was altogether frustrated in my quest to locate any. I was confronted with a tableau of total strangers before me. Ah, my beautiful strangers.

After the show, the friends of my fellow cast members came up to me with poignant comments and enthusiastic praise for my performance. They didn’t have to do this. They weren’t cornered and put upon to come up with an appropriate response to my creative renderings. They sought me out and offered unadulterated appreciation unfettered by previous relations. They were clean, angelic envoys inspired by an insightful script and earnest dramatizations. They were what theatre is all about. I walked home alone that night, but with a deep satisfaction in what I had been able to accomplish along with my gifted comrades.

Friends are friends and are fine within their context, and I appreciate their contributions to my overall welfare, but they do not comprise the entire world. I am not concerned that they might be offended by this entry, because they never visit my blog anyway. They like me to remain in the place they have reserved for me in their lives and are not really concerned about what moves me to expound on my grasp of matters finite and eternal. Those intimate explorations are reserved for strangers.

Cheney Accidentally Shoots Fellow Hunter
Feb 12, 6:19 PM (ET)
By NEDRA PICKLER
WASHINGTON (AP) - Vice President Dick Cheney accidentally shot and wounded a companion during a weekend quail hunting trip in Texas, spraying the fellow hunter in the face and chest with shotgun pellets.

Now they’re shooting each other. And the beat goes on …

On Deck




My mother came from a family of ten children. Lots of aunts and uncles, and a slew of cousins, made for a holiday madness of mischief and mayhem tailor-made for rambunctious kids. Each Christmas Eve we would all gather at my grandparents house and eat, wrestle, eat, unwrap presents, eat, and watch episodes of Hopalong Cassidy courtesy of my mother’s cousin Louie and his movie projector, shown against a white sheet hung on the wall. It was magic. We kids called him Uncle Louie the Doc, because he attempted medical school when he was younger, and because we had a legitimate Uncle Louie in my Aunt Dottie’s husband. This time in my life was graphically concluded by a Christmas in my early teens when we celebrated in our own home without extended family, on Christmas morning instead of eve, and I unenthusiastically opened presents of jackets, pants, and socks, all earmarked for proper school presentation. It was the end of an era.

Today that family of ten boasts one survivor, a wonderful aunt who feels left behind by her brothers and sisters. My cousins and I are now in the on-deck circle, awaiting our turn in the batters box, kicking dirt off our cleats and taking practice swings. I guess we’ll go down swinging. I’ll accept that. One adage I could never warm up to is, “They’ll have to drag me out kicking and screaming.” I have never seen anyone go out that way. I’ve seen weary, fragile faces preparing for, possibly even welcoming, the Grim Reaper, but not one rebel rouser. I believe we have it backwards in this regard. We come in ‘kicking and screaming’. We go out as best we can, hoping to make some contact and contribute to the game. A walk-off home run is out of the question, unless we are unfortunate enough to be taken violently in the blush of our youth. Yes, fame is indeed fleeting. Just ask Aaron Boone.

No, it is not fame that I’m after. If it were true, I would have pursued it more ardently than history will attest. I suppose I do aspire to be known, but not for a miraculous feat or a series of fiscal accomplishments. I want to be revealed. I don’t fancy bringing my game with me. I want to leave all on the field … here on planet Earth. You don’t have to remember me for what I did, just have an idea of who I was and how I played the game. I’ll do the same for you. I promise.