Wrangler Dani

Living in the OC, we get used to being harangued. We are honked at, swerved by and gestured wildly towards on the road, ignored in check-out lines and summarily dismissed by snooty salespeople. We learn to navigate with our heads down, becoming more narcissistic by the day, and knowing that the strangers surrounding us would be kind, if they only had the time.

However, the upside to the general unfriendliness of this culture is that when true kindness arises in a stranger, it’s accompanied by a lump in my throat and euphoria – plus a story – re-told until it becomes legend: The Tale of the Good Ladies Who I Don’t Know But Were So Nice That I’m Inspired to Care More About People in General.

I took a half-day off work yesterday, with the intention of knocking out some Wedding to-dos and trying to smack some happiness into the gloomy outlook that’s been haunting me lately. I had heard tell of an awesome antique store in San Juan Capistrano, and decided to find it on my way home. I had to circle SJC’s tiny town center multiple times, had texted my tipster friend in despair, and was hot, bothered and hungry when I finally saw it. AHA! In triumph I pulled over, ready for glee amongst the chipped china, old leather and faded posters of “The Old Barn”.

I had wandered for a while, perusing and hmmmm-ing, and my stomach was starting to growl. I hadn’t really found anything I couldn’t live without (and considering how unusual that is) I reasoned I should leave before anything changed. I was about to turn towards the exit when a sweet-faced Grandma asked if I was looking for something. Typically I would just say “no, thanks” and leave, but something about her made me pause.

“Well – you wouldn’t happen to have a wooden ladder or old mailbox would you?”

She lead me straight to a lovely old cast-iron mailbox, which I would’ve bought on the spot if it wasn’t a couple of hundred dollars more than I have and weighing about as much as a baby elephant.

Not to be deterred, she asked all her antique-loving lady-friends, and soon they were all buzzing about me, trying to find the perfect mailbox and ladder and stopping by with a smile and an “I think I saw one…” before disappearing, only to return triumphantly with a prized relic for my inspection.

Soon they had exhausted their resources but not their resolve. Of course, they asked me why I needed such an odd combination, in order that they might better help me find the Perfect Thing.

Soon, I was seated on a stool, feeling for all the world like a wedding-planning Kathleen Kelly, telling our story and describing my inspirations to these new-old friends. At least six ladies were gathered, oooohhhing over decor ideas, begging “what’s his name?” like school-girls and eyes sparkling as they got caught up in The Story.

We’re at least a few generations apart, we’re in the land of narcissism and cynics. We’re not supposed to have anything in common, and our stories are not supposed to have this kind of lustre. The kindness of strangers is not supposed to mean this much.

But as I walked back to my truck, leaving behind my phone number (Joan said she’d try to get her husband to sell me his old ladder, as it “just sits in the yard, and he shouldn’t be on it at his age anyway”) and a promise to stop by with pictures, I had tears in my eyes and a conviction in my heart. A little friendliness goes a long way.

Thank you, “The Old Barn” ladies, for making this girl’s day.