This photo recently popped up on Facebook, triggering a memory.
One of my nephews attended West Point.
The first time I went to pick him up, he introduced me to his roommate.
The young man called me, "Ma'am".
I immediately liked him.
Then the conversation went like this:
"Aunt Patty? Would you mind giving my friend Booker a ride to the train station?"
"Certainly," I replied without hesitation.
"I'll take him anywhere he wants to go
as long as I don't have to drive over the Bear Mountain Bridge."
My nephew hesitated for a moment, then said:
"Um, Aunt Patty.
You have to go across the bridge to get to the train station."
People who know me well, know I have a real fear of heights.
I will go out of my way to avoid mountainous roadways and bridges.
And if forced to take a frightening route, I pray.
Out loud.
But I knew that in this case I needed to make an exception.
My mother frequently drove home the idea, based on her experiences during World War II,
that we needed to always do things "for the boys."
So I simply smiled and said, "No problem."
Duffle bags were tossed in the back of the car
and the polite young cadet was deposited safely on the other side of the Hudson River.
My prayers were simply silent ones that day.
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