I was outside, raking leaves (because I’m an adult and I do chores that I assign myself. Also because I reaped the consequences of not raking leaves last fall—having to deal with leaves in snowpiles all winter) when a bike cycled past. I took a passing notice and then straightened up when the bike came back down the sidewalk again.
“Hi!” said the kid. “Do you need any help?”
I immediately had a million questions. Is he going to ask for money? Why is this kid stopping? I can see a phone on his bike; do his parents know where he is? How local is this kid? Is my teacher aura strong enough to make this child not think stranger danger?
“I don’t need any money; I just can help,” he quickly continued, probably noting me sizing him up.
“Do your parents know you are here?” I decided on first. He explained that he was heading to the school up the street, but he could help out for ten minutes. I checked my phone—12:55 p.m. He probably had a 1 p.m. commitment, so I was still a bit puzzled on why he wanted to stop.
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll take the help. I’m Alex.” He told me his name and then wheeled his bike into the driveway, took my rake, and got to work, helmet still securely fastened to his head.
We didn’t talk much as we raked the leaves into piles. I showed him how to use the rake to pick up more leaves to deposit on the tarp, and he suggested in the future, I take a lawnmower over the piles and then grind up the leaves, getting them nicely into a bag. I resisted the urge to ask if that was his family’s tactic, incredibly aware that anything I said could be construed as prying too much into this kid’s business.
At 1:05 p.m., I ran inside the house, grabbed five dollars out of my wallet, and took outside the big bowl of candy untouched from Halloween. “I know you said you didn’t need anything,” I said when I came back out, “but it was really a nice thing that you did, stopping to help me.” I offered the five dollars and told him to take five pieces of candy—five mini Hershey’s bars.
“Are you sure?” He pushed the five dollars back to me.
“Nope! All yours. Thanks for your help. Tell your parents that you did this, okay? It was really nice of you.” I looked him right in the eyes, trying to beam into him how grateful I was for his gesture, and he nodded. (My sister later told me this was a very teacher moment; I retorted that I was this close to writing a note and making him take it home, which I guess proves her point.)
I took the rake up again from him, and I waved as he hopped on his bike and went back down the street. Then I almost cried.
It’s quite easy to be jaded, even when it comes to the children I see daily. They forget to pick up after themselves, casually write on desks, spill food, say unkind things to each other, and generally seem to find it difficult to see beyond themselves.
But there are still helpers among them. I am often tempted to deny these helpers, to do everything on my own. But saying yes to that boy made that Sunday afternoon, those ten minutes, something to remember rather than just another part of an outdoor chore. I’m glad he took a risk, and I’m glad I swallowed my pride and met him halfway.
Alex Johnson (‘19) is a high school English teacher in Massachusetts. She spends her days being an uncool adult who enjoys reading romance novels and explaining niche rhythm game strategies.
