As this winter of remembering draws to a close, there are just a couple of last stories that beg to be told. This one, while teary at the time, now brings me a broad smile:

During my son’s high school years, he and I lived in Juneau, Alaska. Bruce was a good boy. However, he was a teenager. He struggled sometimes, simply because those were his growing up years. We lived in a small cabin on North Douglas Island, across the bridge and way to the north of downtown. Bruce needed our truck to get to high school. What teenager doesn’t need a vehicle? In this case, however, it was true. The school bus didn’t come anywhere near where we lived. And so, Bruce took our truck every morning. And I walked what felt like a mile each morning to where I could get a connection to the city bus. I took that bus to the University of Alaska Southeast, where I worked as a college professor.  And I took the bus back home each night. It was a very long ride, taking about an hour by the time I made the necessary transfers.

When I arrived home each night, the immediate concern was supper. I’d never enjoyed cooking all that much; however, since I was Bruce’s only parent in those days, I was the chef extraordinaire of the house. What else was a dad to do?

I tried my best. I scoured women’s magazines at the supermarket and actually bought a cookbook or two. In my opinion, I was preparing pretty decent meals. But to hear my son talk, that was certainly not the case. I think Bruce hated my cooking! After hauling water and cranking up the cook stove – yes, our place had no running water and the stove was an antique – I would do all in my power to set nutritious meals before my son. However, it seemed to me I could never please him. Bruce’s reactions to the food placed before him were alternately: “Not this again,” or Dad, I’m not eating this.”  I know he didn’t like my meals!

So I was at my wits’ end regarding what I called feeding the boy. The next day, as I rode the bus back home, I felt in a rather hopeless and teary condition. To make matters worse, it was raining – not such an unusual condition in Juneau. I was sitting in a seat just across and slightly back of the bus driver, Frank, who leaned over toward me and asked: “Tough day at the office, David?” And I called back: “No, too many rough days at the stove.” And then, of course, I told Frank the whole sad situation.

To my surprise, Frank pulled the bus over to the side of the road; we were near the end of the line, and I was the only passenger. He got out a little notebook and wrote out a recipe for “potato, vegetable, and ground beef casserole.” I was amazed. And, I was absolutely delighted.  I can taste it even now.  Frank had “saved my bacon” at least for that night.  Bruce liked it – or at least, he didn’t reject it outright – and, true to my ways, once I like something, I go back to it again and again, so “potato, vegetable, and ground beef casserole” was on the rotation at least once a week.

But the story doesn’t end there. When Frank got home that night, he called our faculty secretary at the university.  (Remember, this was a small, tight-knit town.) According to what Molly, our secretary, told me later on, Frank requested that: “All the women in the department make a collection of simple and easy recipes – in order to save David’s life.” And, sure enough, in about a week I received this spiral notebook from the 12 women I worked with. The title on the front was: Lifesaving Recipes For David.

Well, indeed, those recipes did save my life. Bruce came to love the various concoctions that my friends told me how to prepare. And, as the year went on, our father-son relationship got better and better – along with the quality of our meals. There were no more tears shed on the Juneau-Douglas bus. There was rain outside, but no tears inside.

I suppose there’s a moral to this story: Sometimes when you can go no further on your own, you need a little help from your friends. My bus driver, Frank, gave me more than just a ride on that dreary Juneau evening; he gave me a bus ride home.

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So, how about you? When you were at that truly desperate end of your rope, who saved your day? Who surprised you with the words – or a gesture – that made the big difference?