Truth be told, I’d have initially preferred to sink my husky frame into the warm beige leather of the Lincoln Town Car that came to fetch me from a disturbingly populated Terminal D baggage claim carrousel at 12:21 A.M.
Truth be told, I’d have fancied a snooze, a half chance to shut down my hazy head in the dark of night after a near sleepless weekend on the other side of the country, but Phil had a story to tell, so I stayed as cogent as possible in that moment and offered myself to his tale.
Everyone has a story, and I’m glad I was present physically and mentally for his.
*****
Two years ago this month, I saddled up beside a Canadian dad at a Houston BBQ joint. Between tearing through a rack of ribs and licking our fingers clean, we talked about trying to see and hear — like, really see and hear and listen to — the people around us, the often faceless and seemingly storyless people our lives touch on a regular basis: the cashier at the grocery store, the waiter at the Texas BBQ joint, the driver who picks you up at the airport after midnight.
I’ve become friends with that cheery Canadian since that dinner and chat, and, like him, I’ve been striving to be better at giving others a platform, for however short a time, to talk about their day, to tell their story or, in Phil’s case, to give a sleepy traveler an abridged version of their interesting life during a 50 minute car ride in a Lincoln Town Car. I’ve been genuinely present in most all of these brief interactions during the past two years, following the rainbow’s path.
Last night, in the dark of a cold February night, there was a pot of solid gold.
Everyone has a story.
*****
Phil has led a remarkable life and I had the distinct privilege of hearing about some of it: the work with the U.N. on early climate change and meteorological studies, weather balloons on early satellites, travels to Russia, Peru, China, Sub-Saharan Africa, and so much more from the life of a man still filled with hope for the future of our planet and with so much more to lend to the efforts to improve and extend life on it, but who has been driving the graveyard shift to care for his ailing parents during the daytime.
I didn’t have to talk much. Phil handled the bulk of that, but I stayed alert and outwardly curious. Toward the end of the ride and conversation, I asked him what’s the one thing that he’s found, in all his travels and partnerships with people from every continent, that binds us together. His answer was simple and eloquent. Phil said that we all want to improve the quality of life for ourselves and for those who’ll come next. True that, sir.
In a small way, Phil, you’ve improved mine. Thank you for telling me your story.
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