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		<title>The Cab Ride</title>
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		<description>emilyg's Blog: The Cab Ride</description>
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			<title>Comment #2</title>
			<link>/blogentry/57001#c66273</link>
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			<pubDate>Sun, 14 Aug 2011 02:05:33 GMT</pubDate>
			<dc:creator>emilyg</dc:creator>
			<description><![CDATA[<p>Thank you CW$.  Which Chekhow story?</p>]]></description>
			<category>emilyg</category>
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			<title>Comment #1</title>
			<link>/blogentry/57001#c66271</link>
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			<pubDate>Sun, 14 Aug 2011 01:54:40 GMT</pubDate>
			<dc:creator>CashWinner$</dc:creator>
			<description><![CDATA[<p>So Beautiful! ..... (lol..at first it reminded me of this menacing short-story by Chekhov).. Yours is nicer!</p>]]></description>
			<category>CashWinner$</category>
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			<title>Original Blog Entry: The Cab Ride</title>
			<link>/blogentry/57001</link>
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			<pubDate>Sun, 14 Aug 2011 01:21:53 GMT</pubDate>
			<dc:creator>emilyg</dc:creator>
			<description><![CDATA[<p>The Cab Ride<br /><br />The<br /><br />Cab Ride<br /><br />I arrived at the address and honked the horn.<br /><br />after waiting a few minutes I walked to the<br /><br />door and knocked.. &#x27;Just a minute&#x27;, answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something<br /><br />being dragged across the floor.<br /><br />After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90&#x27;s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940&#x27;s<br /><br />movie.<br /><br />By her side was a small nylon<br /><br />suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was<br /><br />covered with sheets.<br /><br />There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.<br /><br />&#x27;Would you carry my bag out to the car?&#x27; she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.<br /><br />She kept thanking me for my kindness. &#x27;It&#x27;s nothing&#x27;, I told her.. &#x27;I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother to be treated.&#x27;<br /><br />&#x27;Oh, you&#x27;re such a good boy, she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address and then asked, &#x27;Could you drive through downtown?&#x27;<br /><br />&#x27;It&#x27;s not the shortest way,&#x27; I answered<br /><br />quickly..<br /><br />&#x27;Oh, I don&#x27;t mind,&#x27; she said. &#x27;I&#x27;m in no hurry. I&#x27;m on my way to a hospice.<br /><br />I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. &#x27;I don&#x27;t have any family left,&#x27; she continued in a soft voice.. &#x27;The doctor says I don&#x27;t have very long.&#x27; I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.<br /><br />&#x27;What route would you like me to take?&#x27; I asked.<br /><br />For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.<br /><br />We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds She had me pull up in<br /><br />front of a furniture warehouse that had once<br /><br />been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.<br /><br />Sometimes she&#x27;d ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.<br /><br />As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, &#x27;I&#x27;m tired. Let&#x27;s go now&#x27;.<br /><br />We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.<br /><br />Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her.<br /><br />I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.<br /><br />&#x27;How much do I owe you?&#x27; She asked, reaching into her purse.<br /><br />&#x27;Nothing,&#x27; I said<br /><br />&#x27;You have to make a living,&#x27; she answered.<br /><br />&#x27;There are other passengers,&#x27; I responded.<br /><br />Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.<br /><br />&#x27;You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,&#x27; she said. Thank you.&#x27;<br /><br />I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light.. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life..<br /><br />I didn&#x27;t pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked<br /><br />once, then driven away?<br /><br />On a quick review, I don&#x27;t think that I have done anything more important in my life.<br /><br />We&#x27;re conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.<br /><br />But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.<br /><br />PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY<br /><br />WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID ~BUT THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU M you might help make the world a little kinder and more compassionate by sending. it on and reminding us that often it is the random acts of<br /><br />kindness that most benefit all of us.<br /><br />... &#x5b;&#xa0;<a href="/blogentry/57001">More</a>&#xa0;&#x5d;</p>]]></description>
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