Previous | Orphan Survival Stories Index | Next
THE GOOD OLE DAYS
I miss the good old days when you could hold a door open for a lady or maybe an elderly person. I think I learned that kind of stuff when I was in the Boy Scouts of America, back a long, long time ago when being courteous, kind, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean and reverent meant something respectful. What the heck happened to those good old days anyway?
The other day I was waiting for my wife outside the local Wal Mart when I saw a woman in her ‘30s approaching the front door. I reached out, opened the door and held it so that she could enter. "I think I can do that for myself" she yelled very rudely making sure everyone else in the area could hear.
Rather embarrassed and red faced, I let go of the door allowing her to catch it with her own hand as she entered the store. Well, I was not going to let that happen to me again.
“People can just open their own dog gone doors from now on,” I thought.
A few minutes later, here comes this young fellow in a wheelchair. What am I supposed to do now? As he approached the door, I reached over and opened it for the man anyway. But as he entered the door, he looked back at me as though I had just tried to push him off a cliff or something. Beside that, he did not even say thank you.
"Well, that's really it this time!" I said.
Right behind the wheelchair guy comes an elderly gentleman and his wife. The old lady had a cane in her hand and the old man was shuffling so slowly that I thought she would probably leave him behind and never be able to find him again. These are the kinds of people who really need someone to open the door for them and they appreciate it too. So I reached out and opened the door. But they walked right past me, opened the other double door all by themselves and then entered the store. All the people who were leaving the store kept looking at me as though I was a doorman or some kind of an idiot or something. I finally let go of the door and just stood there.
A few minutes later, I saw a woman with a great big purse and two little kids in her arms, but this time the woman happened to be African American. Well that made me really stop and think for a minute. Let's see now, the A.A.R.P. had all ready given me the cold shoulder. The Special Olympic Committee would probably be sending me a notice in the mail, the white lady probably headed some nation-wide self-sufficient organization, the Boy Scouts of American had long forgotten about me and now I guess it was the N.A.A.C.P.’s turn to get a piece of this fat, bald headed guy.
Nevertheless, I reached out and opened the door for the lady. She smiled and thanked me as she walked through the door and I kindly returned the smile. But then her kid turned and spit on me doing that tongue thing that kids do to make the nasty sound. That was the final straw for me. I mean that is it, no more! There will be absolutely no more opening doors for anyone, except for maybe blind people. But then only the ones who have a white cane in hand, a seeing eye dog and still they will have to have lots of personal identification as well as a birth certificate and three letters of recommendation, all in Braille.
I walked back into the store to see if I could find my wife and sure enough, here she comes with an armload of clothes and shoes for our granddaughter, Chelsey. As she approached the door, I just stood there waiting for her to open it all by herself.
"Well," she said as she stopped and stood before the unopened door looking at me with that ridiculous look that wives sometimes give their husbands. "WHAT! I said.
"Open the door," she says.
I reached out and while opening the door I bowed forward at the waist and said, "Excuse me, madam. Do you have an A.A.R.P. card or a valid handicap sticker?" "Don't make me tell everyone what an idiot you are," she said. "I think I can do that for myself," I mumbled as I stepped behind her sticking my tongue out at her to make the nasty sound, scratching the top of my baldhead and shuffling off toward our car.
As my wife and I were leaving the Wal Mart parking lot, I saw a young woman about 19 years of age wearing a pair of white skin-tight hot pants and a skimpy little pink cut-off halter top heading toward Wal Mart’s front door. Three young men ran as fast as they could to open the door for the young woman.
"What are you looking at Pa?" asked my wife with a smile. "Just remembering the good old days, Ma," I replied as I squeezed the hand of the woman I love.
"I did not open the door for you because you are male or female, black or white, young or old, or because you are blind or in a wheel chair. I opened the door for you because I am a gentleman." AUTHOR UNKNOWN