Compassion Training

When I was a little girl, my best friend and I would walk the neighborhood some days and visit all of the old people. The tiny, black-haired lady across the street, whom I fondly referred to as Aunt Thelma, made us toast with blackberry jam while we sat eagerly at her black and white and gray chrome dinette set, our feet dangling from the tall, cushiony chairs. We would chat with her while she drank her tea and after the toast was consumed and the tea was drank, we moved on to the next house.

Down the street a a little way lived the sweet widow, Mrs. Caudera, and her little poodle who yapped incessantly. My friend and I knocked on the heavy wooden front door and Mrs. Caudera and her pup greeted us excitedly and welcomed us inside where she would give us candy. Most of the time the candy dish was filled with pastel-colored, melt-in-your-mouth mints and we gladly gobbled them up before bidding farewell.

On to the Vlahopolous's house where there was applesauce awaiting us! The petite elderly Greek couple lived right next door to my parents. They were soft spoken but appreciative when we carried their mail in from the porch and plopped down on their couch in the living room. They always had some applesauce on hand to share.

Times were different back then. Parents didn't worry about sending their children outside to play because the village was helping to raise them. Neighbors really knew each other and took care of one another.

I wish we would return to times when, above all else, we cared about one another. My parents taught me to value time spent with others. Granted, when I was six and seven years old, I enjoyed the candy and the jam and the applesauce as much as the companionship of my elderly neighbors; however, that experience proved to be a training ground of compassion for my future.