Monday, October 04, 2004
Pay it Forward
By Lauren Williams
We moved to SW 54th Avenue in Portland last July. I knew this neighborhood was different when we returned from grocery shopping one afternoon to find a photocopied, child-drawn invitation to a Saturday afternoon ice cream social. Bring your own spoon, bowl, and a topping. An ice cream social! Where were we – a Norman Rockwell painting? That Sunday we walked down the hill two blocks to meet our neighbors and heard stories of people who had grown up here, moved away, and come back to raise their families. We met 70-year-old couples who had helped friends next door build garages or fences. We ate vanilla ice cream topped with crumbled cookies, bananas, coconut, and chocolate sauce. Little kids rode their bikes in circles in the street. That day I fell in love with my neighborhood.
Early this summer, ice cream social glow having been doused by a long, wet, winter, I was trying to start my lawnmower. I yanked and yanked on the starter cord. The motor sputtered and stopped, sputtered and stopped. My cheeks grew red from both the effort and the embarrassment as the occasional car or dog-walker passed by. Suddenly, one of these cars stopped. It was Phil, my neighbor I’d met once (we both have small children – we get busy). I had seen him pull out of his driveway about 10 minutes earlier.
“Here,” he said, as he handed me a shiny can.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Quick Start. You spray it on the filter, like this,” he explained, as he bent down to show me where the filter was, rightly assuming I did not know the anatomy of a lawnmower.
After he sprayed this magic liquid for two seconds, I yanked one final time, and the mower started right up. He handed me the can, smiled, and went back to his house. He had driven to the hardware store for the sole purpose of getting me this arm-, shoulder-, and back-saving stuff. “How kind,” was all I could think.
The next week when I knocked on Phil’s front door to give him the lavender plant I’d gotten at the farmer’s market (a small token of my gratitude), I learned that he used to be the person on the block ruining his arm every Saturday while trying to start his lawnmower. It was Floyd, Phil’s across-the-street neighbor, who had given him a can of Quick Start.
Now, as I run or walk through the neighborhood, I always keep an eye out for someone having trouble starting their mower. It’s now my duty to pass on the magic can.
We moved to SW 54th Avenue in Portland last July. I knew this neighborhood was different when we returned from grocery shopping one afternoon to find a photocopied, child-drawn invitation to a Saturday afternoon ice cream social. Bring your own spoon, bowl, and a topping. An ice cream social! Where were we – a Norman Rockwell painting? That Sunday we walked down the hill two blocks to meet our neighbors and heard stories of people who had grown up here, moved away, and come back to raise their families. We met 70-year-old couples who had helped friends next door build garages or fences. We ate vanilla ice cream topped with crumbled cookies, bananas, coconut, and chocolate sauce. Little kids rode their bikes in circles in the street. That day I fell in love with my neighborhood.
Early this summer, ice cream social glow having been doused by a long, wet, winter, I was trying to start my lawnmower. I yanked and yanked on the starter cord. The motor sputtered and stopped, sputtered and stopped. My cheeks grew red from both the effort and the embarrassment as the occasional car or dog-walker passed by. Suddenly, one of these cars stopped. It was Phil, my neighbor I’d met once (we both have small children – we get busy). I had seen him pull out of his driveway about 10 minutes earlier.
“Here,” he said, as he handed me a shiny can.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Quick Start. You spray it on the filter, like this,” he explained, as he bent down to show me where the filter was, rightly assuming I did not know the anatomy of a lawnmower.
After he sprayed this magic liquid for two seconds, I yanked one final time, and the mower started right up. He handed me the can, smiled, and went back to his house. He had driven to the hardware store for the sole purpose of getting me this arm-, shoulder-, and back-saving stuff. “How kind,” was all I could think.
The next week when I knocked on Phil’s front door to give him the lavender plant I’d gotten at the farmer’s market (a small token of my gratitude), I learned that he used to be the person on the block ruining his arm every Saturday while trying to start his lawnmower. It was Floyd, Phil’s across-the-street neighbor, who had given him a can of Quick Start.
Now, as I run or walk through the neighborhood, I always keep an eye out for someone having trouble starting their mower. It’s now my duty to pass on the magic can.
