Imagine sitting in your breakfast nook having a cup of coffee when all of a sudden you see someone about to die. What would you do? Last Christmas, John Gelinne found out.

On Dec. 26, Gelinne, 60, was gazing out the back windows of his home in Edgewater, Maryland, at frozen Beards Creek. Children and grandchildren bustled around the house. Thats when Gelinnes daughter, Aimee DeMayo, spotted the Piper Cherokee.

Look! she cried. Gelinne looked up just in time to see a small aircraft a few hundred yards away, losing altitude.

As the plane disappeared behind the trees, Gelinne, a former Navy commander and current cybersecurity expert, realized it was going to land in the creek. He flashed on a moment from more than 20 years earlier: Sept. 11, 2001. Gelinne was at work in the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., when terrorists crashed a jumbo jet into the building. He fled the chaos but has always wondered if he could have stayed inside and helped.

To the right was the crisis, and to the left was escape. I dont even know if I couldve gone right, but I went left, he recalled. I always second-guessed myself about that decision.

On this day, Gelinne didnt hesitate. He ran down to the waterfront. The plane had skidded to a stop on the broad, frozen creek, far from shore. It was now sinking. The pilot was standing on the wing. Gelinne knew from his Navy training that even a few minutes in the icy water could kill the pilot.

Gelinne tested the ice with his foot and decided not to take any chances walking on it. So he and his son, John Jr., 37, pulled two kayaks out from under their back deck.

I figured, if it can float on the water, it can slide on the ice, Gelinne says.

The kayaks paddles proved too flimsy, so the pair tried using shovels to push the boats along. Their first attempts left them spinning in circles. But with some muscle, they made progress.

The two men set off, pushing their boats across the ice. It was exhausting work. When Gelinne reached the plane, it had broken through the ice and sunk; only its tail was visible. The pilot was standing on a tail wing, submerged up to his chest, surrounded by open water. Gelinne nudged his kayak off the ice and into the water, paddling toward the pilot and thinking, What if he panics? What if I flip?

With his son nearby, Gelinne focused on keeping the pilot calm, joking, Just hang on to the boat as if you were hugging your wife. The pilot grabbed the kayaks bow. Now the two men were floating together, but Gelinne knew he had to get the pilot out of the water and up onto the shelf of unbroken ice behind him before the man lost too much body heat. But each time Gelinne tried to land atop the ice shelf, the kayak broke through. He needed the other mans help.

I said, Im going to push real hard, and you kick real hard, and damned if we didnt get up onto the ice, Gelinne says.

By now a police officer had arrived and radioed for help. A boat from the Maryland Department of Natural Resources appeared, breaking through ice as it arrived. It picked up the pilot, Steve Couchman, 71, and whisked him to safety; he would be treated for minor injuries. Later the boat returned to help Gelinne, now exhausted, to shore. John Jr. made his own way back after salvaging a bag containing vital flight logs, which the pilot had thrown onto the ice.

The cavalry had arrived just in time, Gelinne recalled. Im 60 years old, he says. There was no way I could get him to shore. Still, he was satisfied hed gone the right way that day.

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It was a sunny afternoon in June of 2022 when Anthony Perry stepped off the train at Chicagos 69th Street station. The 20-year-old, who worked nights in a grocery store, was on his way to see his grandfather so they could go look at a car Perry was thinking about buying.

On the platform, two men were throwing punches. Then the unthinkable happened: The pair tumbled over the edge and onto the tracks. One man ended up on his back, fending off blows. Suddenly, he started bucking and convulsing. The aggressor straddling him leaped backward, bounded back up onto the platform and disappeared.

The man had fallen atop the third rail, the conduit for the 600 volts of electricity that power Chicagos L trains. As Perry and other horrified onlookers watched, he twitched grotesquely as the current surged through his body, his head bouncing up and down off the tracks.

Help him! a woman wailed. Please, someone!

Perry couldnt just stand there and watch. He sat at the edge of the platform and eased himself down. Assuming that every rail between him and the man was electrified, Perry took a few quick bounds, high-kneeing it as hed done in high school football, until he was standing over the victim.

The guy looked dead, his body still thrashing rhythmically as the electricity pulsed, his head banging against a steel rail. Perry wondered how he was going to escape the situation hed just put himself intostraddling the deadly rail, about to lay hands on a body coursing with electricity. The train hed just gotten off was idling, thankfully. But had the conductor seen him? Would it start up again?

Putting his trust in God, Perry reached down and grasped the victims wrist. Instantly, he felt a blast of electric shock shoot through his body. Perry flinched and jumped back. He reached down a second time, and was shocked again. But the third time he seized the mans wrist and forearm and, braving the shock, yanked. The guys body slid briefly along the third rail, coming to rest on the gravel on the outer edge of the tracks, beside a concrete barricade.

The man was breathing, but raggedly. Something wasnt right.

Give him chest compressions! yelled a woman on the platform wearing scrubs.

Perry was no expert, but for a few moments he worked on the mans heart until the victim began convulsing. Once again, Perry grabbed him, keeping him from flailing back onto the third rail or smashing his head into the concrete.

Then, he heard a commotion behind himparamedics and firefighters had arrived. Theyd told authorities to cut the circuit, deactivating the third rail. Perry let the professionals take over. His heart still racing from the adrenaline and the electric shocks, he climbed back up onto the platform, grabbed his things and continued on to his grandfathers. As planned, they went to look at the car he wanted to buy, but it had been sold.

The evening news reported the incident, crediting an anonymous hero with saving the victims life. After a friend outed him to the media, Perry became the toast of Chicago. Just days after the incident, a local philanthropist rewarded him with a car. Perry was then recruited by the Chicago Fire Department and is now training to be an EMT.

Out of all the people on the platform that day, why was Perry the only one to help? As he sees it, he alone was not thinking about what harm might befall him.

The word Ill use is faith, he says. Faith over fear.

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As surprising as it was at the time, it isn’t super rare: Every year, around 1 in 1,500 babies born in the United States has a “limb difference,” according to the CDC. Having extra fingers or toes is the most common limb difference. My form, called amniotic band syndrome, is more rare, occurring in 1 out of every 10,000 to 15,000 births. Regardless of the form the disability takes, these families have to learn all the ins and outs of navigating that disabilityfrom finding accessible travelto building confidence in their kidsfrom day one.

Indeed, that announcement of my limb difference would come to define the rest of my life, and it might have been a disaster if it hadn’t been for what happened next. I’m told that a nurse bundled me up, took me back into the room, placed me in my mother’s arms and instructed: “You will take her home. You will love her. You will raise her like you would any child. You will treat her as normal.”

Which is exactly what happened.

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A normal childhood sort of

My parents took that admonition seriously, and for the most part, it was great. I played sports, acted in theater, excelled in school, participated in student government and had playdates with friends. While I did get some stares and “polite” questions about my disability, I am lucky because I wasn’t made fun of for my limb difference.

As kids do, I quickly learned to adapt, working around the “missing” hand. One of my earliest memories is my father trying to teach me to tie my shoes. I gently nudged him out of the way because his two-handed method wouldn’t work for me, and I figured out a way to do it with one hand.

Not every challenge was that simple, however. Because my parents were trying so hard to make me feel “normal,” that also meant I didn’t really have space to talk about my limb differenceand it was different. No matter how we tried to reframe it, other kids had two hands and I had only one.

Why I started hiding my disability

That fact that I was different hit me hard my first day of high school. I was 13, an age when kids are already very self-conscious and the need to fit in is magnified. I remember getting on the yellow school bus and one of the other kids stared just a little too long at my left arm. The staring unnerved me in a way it never had before, and I felt a sudden urge to hide my hand, so I impulsively slipped it into my pocket.

I told myself that I’d just hide it that one day, while I was trying to make friends. But one day of hiding turned into a week, which turned into a month, which became years25 of them to be exact.

I spent the next two decades keeping my limb difference hidden at all times. I’d keep it in my pocket, cover it with extra-long sleeves or tuck it behind bags or underneath jackets. But the thing about hiding is that the very act implies there is something bad or wrong (or else why would you need to hide it?). In my mind, I had decided that my missing hand made me hideous and that if people knew about it they would be scared of me and not want to be around me anymore. I internalized this self-loathing, and it only strengthened over the years. Honestly, I was terrified that if I exposed my limb difference that people would find me as ugly as I found myself. I felt lonely and scared all the time.

Dating with a limb difference

Making friendships felt challenging enough, but trying to find love felt particularly daunting. As I started dating, I made deliberate efforts to hide my limb difference. Eventually we’d reach a point in the relationship where I knew I had to tell them. I’d agonize over the “big reveal” and build it up in my mind and theirs for days. I’d tell them, “There’s something I really need to tell you,” and then leave them to imagine what terrible thing I was hiding. When I had steeled myself, I’d call them on the phone and say abruptly, “I was born missing my left hand”and then immediately hang up before they could respond. I’d wait in shame and fear for them to call me back (which they all did, to their credit), but even then, I couldn’t bear to talk about it, so I’d let it go to the answering machine and then listen to their message later.

Everyone I shared this withfriend, co-worker or boyfriendtook it well and said kind things like, “You shouldn’t hide it” or “It’s no big deal.” But their words didn’t matter to me. The only words that really mattered were the ones I was telling myself, that story of how I was awful and unworthy of love. Hiding feels a lot like lying, and it’s hard to build close relationships when you constantly feel like you’re lying to your loved ones. And the more you hide, the harder it becomes to stop hiding.

Why I stopped hiding my disability

Interestingly enough, it was a date that convinced me to stop hiding my limb difference.

When I was 38 years old, exhausted of hiding and so lonely, I met someone special and invited them in. The combination of me finally feeling ready to unhide and his willingness to go through the unhiding process with me was exactly what I needed. For the first time in my life, I allowed someone to really hold my limb, look at it, take pictures of it, touch it, love itlove me.

That relationship ended after 10 years, but I kept the self-love and compassion I learned from it. From that point on, I saw my limb difference as something unique and beautiful about me, something that should be shown, not hidden.

How unhiding my arm made everything in my life better

It was a transformational experience, and through that process, I learned to love me too. This ability to love myself changed how I lived my entire life, and it made me happier.

It started with physical care: For years, I’d gotten frostbite on my left hand every winter because I’d shove it so deep into my pocket that I wouldn’t feel it freezing. Unhiding it meant learning to take care of itlearning little things like how to keep it warm and protect it from the elements.

My relationships also improved. I learned that being comfortable with myself made other people more comfortable as well. Talking about my struggles gave them permission to talk about theirs too, and I was able to bond on a deeper level with a much larger group of people. I wasn’t lonely anymore.

I finally found my tribe. Because I wasn’t so focused on hiding myself, I started looking around me and noticing other people with limb differences. There are a lot of us! It was through one of these new friends that I discovered the Lucky Fin Project, an organization dedicated to people with all types of limb differences. I eventually joined the organization’s board to help raise awareness and more deeply advocate for my community.

My life’s purpose also became clear

For 25 years, I’d worked in nonprofit organizations working with young people, but accepting my disability sparked a passion in me to educate others about disability as part of diversity, through public speaking and writing. I pivoted my career, and my mission now is to expand the conversation about disability and work with organizations so their employees can unhide and thrive.

Last year, I also wrote a book, Singlehandedly: Learning to Unhide and Embrace Connection. It focuses on my journey of hiding and learning to unhide, and the need for disability to be included in diversity conversations. Now, I’m building a global movement and community around unhiding.

What I wish everyone understood about disabilities

We often think of diversity in relation to race, gender and sexual orientation, and we often leave out the largest minority group: people with a disability. Diversity is about valuing different perspectives and experiences, and disabilities offer a beautiful and different perspective, yet we very rarely hear it.

Disabilities can be visible, like mine, or invisible, like mental health, neurodiversity or a chronic illness. And whatever form they take, they are life-changingin positive and challenging ways. This is why it’s so important for people with a disability to be able to talk about it openly and why it’s so important for people without a disability to learn how to be an ally and an advocate. Here are a few steps you can take to do that.

Educate yourself

This starts with understanding and examining your own beliefs about disability. Challenge negative thoughts you have about people with different disabilities. Read books, listen to podcasts, watch shows or talk to others to understand their experience better. (Not sure where to start? Check out the resources guide on my website.)

Watch how you ask questions

Everyone’s curious about my missing handand curiosity is normalbut before you ask someone a question about their disability, ask yourself, Why do I need to know this? Are you asking out of kindness and a desire to support them, or is it to satisfy your personal curiosity? Examine your motives.

Be respectful of boundaries

Don’t make assumptions about people’s abilities. People with disabilities have learned to accommodate and adapt in ways you can’t even imagine. Ask how you can support someone instead of just taking over. And please respect physical boundariesjust because someone looks different, it doesn’t give us permission to touch their difference without permission.

Another thing to keep in mind? Not all disabilities are visible, so please don’t demand to know why someone has a disability placard on their car.

Everyone is hiding something

If I’ve learned one thing through my advocacy work, it’s that hiding is universal. My missing hand is just a tool to talk about it. One of the things I do in my workplace seminars is give each person a blank postcard, tell them to write what they are hiding and then (anonymously) mail it back to me. People have shared hiding mental-health issues, family challenges, abuse, financial problems, their age, their faith, political views, education status, addiction, neurodiversity, physical challengesthe list goes on and on. But they all start the same: “I’ve never told anyone this ”

Hiding things, especially from loved ones, is exhausting and isolating, and it prevents us from getting help and support. So why do we all do it? It’s that primal shame for being different and the fear of being rejected for our differences. It’s such a universal experience, yet we all feel like we can’t talk about it. It’s time to change that.

Unhiding can set you free

In my book, I describe four steps to unhide whatever it is you’re hiding:

1. Acknowledge what you’re hiding. It’s harder than you think! Say it out loud. Write it down. But you can’t change something you don’t acknowledge.
2. Invite someone in. Find a person you can talk to about what you’re hiding. There’s immense power in bringing it out of the darkeven if you just start with one other human being.
3. Build your community. Go onlinethere’s a support group for everything, no matter how niche. It’s incredibly freeing to be able to recognize that you’re not the only one suffering this way and that others have done exactly what you’ve done to cope.
4. Share your story. Be an example to others of unhiding. Share the freedom that comes with it. This becomes a positive loop, inspiring others who in turn inspire their loved ones.

Unhiding is the key to connection. When we do this, we create a beautiful safe space where everyone can feel seen and loved for who they are and know that they belong. Hiding holds all of us backunhiding sets all of us free.

Ruth Rathblott, MSW, is a renowned diversity and inclusion speaker, nonprofit leader and TEDx speaker. She is also the author of the new book Singlehandedly: Learning to Unhide and Embrace Connection.

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Clear a path to the door

My grandmother told me to clear a path to the door every night before bed. It makes for a smooth escape if theres ever a fire in the night. But clearing a path to the door came, in time, to mean so much more. I learned Ill be much happier tomorrow if I tidy all the clutter tonight. And its a good habit when getting involved with new people or activities. Trying mountain climbing or whitewater rafting becomes possible when I know I have a safe exit plan if it becomes too risky. That clear path is always a wise plan. Glynda Hamilton, Vancouver, WA

Bring the ball

My family moved to a small Virginia football town when I was in fourth grade. I loved football, but I had three strikes against me. I was the new kid, from up north andgaspa girl. When I came home from school dejected that nobody would let me play, my mother said, If you want to play football, you bring the ball. By next season, if you wanted me on your team, you had to take my little brothers too. I never forgot the lesson. Ive been bringing the ball ever since. Jacqueline Travers, Woodbine, MD

Know when to go

I was on a four-day float trip down the Colorado River with a large, fun group. At the end, when I said I didnt want to get off the river, another woman said to me, Its always best to leave while youre still having fun. It changed my outlook that day, and Ive applied it to many other circumstances since. Maren Hirschi, Cedar City, UT

Silence your inner critic

While learning to paint landscapes with my boyfriend, I complained that I couldnt turn off the critic in my head. He told me, When that happens to me, I say Be quiet, Im painting here. Ill talk to you later. It worked for me that day, and later in graduate school while I was writing papers. His advice made me a more confident person. Kate Johnson, Conway, SC

Curb your appetite

Dont have a champagne appetite on a beer pocketbook. That was my dads mantra. He had been well-to-do early in life but hadnt changed his spending when he wasnt any longer. Fortunately, I have a beer appetite. Mike Fleischmann, Fort Collins, CO

Dont impress, express

My choir was stressed before a big competition. Right before our turn to sing, our choir director said, We are not here to impress; we are here to express. It made all the difference. Shawn Mecham, Sandy, UT

Create a home you love

Fill your home with things you love, not things you think other people will love. That was something my mom always said. My home is full of flowers, rabbits, birds, nature, lovely fabrics and elegant glassware. Others tell me its beautiful, comfortable and welcoming. But everything in it brings me joy, and thats what matters. Becca Brasfield, Burns, TN

Give a gift to a giver

A co-worker gave me a Christmas gift, and I felt bad because I hadnt gotten one for her. She said, Every time you receive a gift, you allow someone to be a giver. She made me feel so good, and I never forgot that. Cathy Beck, Mesa, AZ

Let it be the squirrel

I was 16 with a new drivers license. I asked my dad if I could take the car for the afternoon. As he handed me the keys, he said, Angela, if its you or the squirrel, let it be the squirrel. I realized my dad knew how softhearted I was. I thought Id hidden it well. Angela Conti, Turners Falls, MA

See the work

My mom was a woman of few words, but one phrase of hers that stuck was see the work, which meant see what needs to be done without being told. If toys are left out, put them away. If dishes are being washed, grab a towel and dry. If litter is strewn along the road, pick it up as you walk. Ive shared see the work with countless students, and our halls are always clean and the chairs stacked by the end of the day. Simple advice from a quiet woman. Wendy Baures, Fountain City, WI

Dont be too quick to judge

My Mississippian mother used to tell me, You cant tell the depth of the well by the length of the handle on the pump. I think this must be the Mississippi version of Dont judge a book by its cover. Sarah Jane Garner, Tuscaloosa, AL

Keep it sweet

My dad used to say, Make your words soft and sweet. Some day you might have to eat them. Thirty years later, I still hear his voice encouraging me to be patient. Pattie Weiner, West Springfield, MA

Keep moving forward

Several years ago, I heard actress Doris Roberts give a speech in which she said, Look back, but dont stare. She had many words of wisdom that night, but that stuck with me and never left. Liz Hormel, Fremont, CA

Make time to do it right

If you dont have time to do it right the first time, how are you going to find time to do it over? Advice from my 91-year-old dad that Ive shared with my daughter and granddaughter. Sharon Price, Mobile, AL

Habits are like cobwebs

Succinct advice from my grandfather: Habits are like cobwebs that turn into cables. They can hold you up or hold you down. Kirk Goebel, Albuquerque, NM

Get your spouse a drink

On planes, they always tell you to secure your own oxygen mask before helping others. That advice doesnt always apply to marriage. Years ago, I heard a wedding officiant say, When youre thirsty, get your spouse a drink. I took it to heart and make every effort to acknowledge my husbands needs. After 20 years of marriage, hes gotten even better at it than I have. Marriage isnt 50-50. When both partners give 100 percent and put one anothers needs before their own, the outcome is far greater than happily ever after.
S.H., American Fork, UT

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It all started with a simple question: Can I paint your portrait?

In the summer of 2015, Brian Peterson and his wife, Vanessa, had just moved to Santa Ana, California. Outside the couples fourth-floor apartment, an unkempt homeless man was often yelling on the street corner, sometimes keeping them awake at night. Peterson, 28, would pass the guy on his way to his job as a car designer at Kia Motors, but they never spoke. What could they possibly have in common?

One day, Peterson was relaxing in his living room, reading the book Love Does, about the power of love in action, when his quiet was disturbed by the homeless man. Inspired by the books compassionate message, Peterson made an unexpected decision: He was going to go outside and introduce himself.

In that first conversation, Peterson learned that the mans name was Matt Faris. Hed moved to Southern California from Kentucky to pursue a career in music, but he soon fell on hard times and ended up living on the street for more than a decade.

It was the weirdest thing to me, Peterson recalled later on the podcast Top Artist. I saw beauty on the face of a man who hadnt shaved in probably a year, had overgrown fingernails, probably hadnt had a shower in close to a year. But his story, the life inside of him, inspired me. And even though Peterson, a graduate of the Cleveland Institute of Art, hadnt picked up a paintbrush in about eight years, he found himself asking if he could paint Fariss portrait. Faris said yes.

Petersons connection with Faris led him to form Faces of Santa Ana, a nonprofit organization focused on befriending and painting portraits of members of the community who are unhoused. Working from a black-and-white photo of the subject taken with his phone, Peterson chooses colors inspired by the subjects personality and life story, creating a poignant portrait. He showed one man winning his battle with alcoholism, for example, by transitioning the colors from a somber blue to a brilliant scarlet.

Peterson sells the vibrant 30-by-40-inch canvassigned by both subject and artistfor a few thousand dollars, splitting the proceeds and putting half into what he calls a love account for his model. He then helps people use the money to get back on their feet.

Many of Petersons new friends use the donations to secure immediate necessitiesmedical care, hotel rooms, food. But Peterson has learned not to make assumptions about what a person needs most. Ive made so many mistakes thinking I knew what people wanted, he says. Then I realized: Why dont we just ask them?

Faris used the funds from his portrait to record an album, fulfilling his musical dreams. Another subject, Kimberly Sondoval, had never been able to financially support her daughter. She asked, Can I use the money to pay my daughters rent? When the check was delivered, they both wept in my arms, Peterson recalls.

In the eight years since Faces of Santa Ana was established, Peterson, who now lives in Miami with his wife and children, has formed a new nonprofit called Faces of Mankind, a collective of artists who are creating portraits of people experiencing homelessness around the country.

Peterson has painted 41 of these portraits himself. But theres more to the finished products than the money they bring to someone who’s down and out. Hes discovered that the buyers tend to connect to the story of the person in the painting, finding similarities and often friendship with someone they might have otherwise overlooked or stereotyped.

People often tell me, I was the one that would cross the street. But I see homeless people differently now, Peterson says. I didnt know that would happen.

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A battle with God

The stars burn brilliant over Lake Manatee as the man backstrokes through the dark water. Hes exhausted and frustrated by his lack of progress, but he believes he can swim all night if he must. Then a bristling intuition creeps upon him, and he sits up in the water and peers to his left. Just two feet away lurks the unmistakable shape of an alligators snout, the slitted eye yellowy in the starlight. The man whirls onto his stomach and flings out his hands to swim, but the gator strikes, seizing his right forearm in its teeth. The predator twists its powerful body, snapping the mans arm back at the elbow. For a moment the mans world goes black, as if lightning has struck inside his head. Then, still firmly holding its prey, the reptile dives, looking to drown its victim in the silent midnight depths of the lake.

The way Eric Merda saw it, the past two weeks had been one long, crazy battle with God. The 43-year-old father of seven had always had his strugglesaddiction, street fights, run-ins with the lawbut things had recently become clear. For one thing, hed come to accept that his relationship with the mother of five of his children was over. For another, hed begun to realize he was running with a dangerous crowd. Intelligent, creative and spiritual, a self-described weirdo, Merda knew hed been on the wrong track. God was telling him to clean up his act and live up to his gifts.

So hed been on a sort of ascetic quest. By day, hed toil beneath the Florida sun in and around his home base of Bradenton, installing and repairing sprinkler systems as hed done for 25 years. By evening, hed wander and explore. For the first time, he had no woman or children to go home to. He spent much of his surplus time on Siesta Key Beach, where he gave himself daring challenges: How far out into the ocean can I go at night? How long can I float face-up with my head tipped back so far that my eyes stay in the saltwater? For a while now, there had been a thin line between embracing life and courting death. Which was it going to be?

Sometimes he slept unsheltered on the sand of Siesta Key. One morning he awoke to see litter scattered along the beach, and felt God telling him that he ought to clean it up. He began collecting trash. It felt good, so he made a habit of picking up litter wherever he saw it, not just on the beach. It became a kind of compulsion.

Into the swamp

On Monday, July 18, 2022, he had a job up in the rural portions of Manatee County. He was finished by late afternoon. Time to explore. Near an intersection of two country byways, he spotted a dirt road with a sign that read Lake Manatee Fish Camp. He nosed his old white work van down into the area, past a little country store and some folks pitching horseshoes, and followed the road. It ended at a boat ramp onto Lake Manatee, a man-made reservoir covering about four square miles, ringed by wild swampland. Trash lay strewn along the roadside. Merda jumped out of his van, leaving his phone and keys inside, and started collecting the garbage into piles.

After a while, a thought occurred to himIve been working all day. Nobodys forcing me to pick up trash. Im going to see whats in these woods. With the abandon of a schoolboy, he ran off into the trees. Before long, he encountered a seemingly impenetrable thicket of brush, thorns and vines. Seemingly impenetrable: a nice challenge. He charged into it and did battle for many long minutes. It was exhausting, but he pushed on. When at last he emerged into a grove of scrawny orange trees, he was sweaty, cut up and tired. He had no idea where he was in relation to the lake. Hed been pushing through the thicket for hours, and now all he wanted was to get back to his van and go home.

He spent another couple of hours wandering among the orange trees, which were laid out in an endless grid. No sign of civilization. The lake and his van certainly werent out here in an orange grove, so he reentered the woods and soon found himself mucking around in swamp water. There seemed no way out of this bog. He labored for hours as the sun sank. Tall, thick grasses and thorns clogged his way; mud and water filled his boots. His feet hurt so badly that he took his boots off and carried thembut the twigs and brambles lacerated his soles, so he stopped and pulled the boots back on. He tried to navigate by the sun but kept losing it. Each time he picked out a landmark or chose a beeline course, he became hopelessly lost again after just a few minutes.

Darkness was falling when at last he reemerged onto the shore of the lake. There across the water stood the boat launch, now empty, and a little highway bridge, less than a quarter-mile away as the crow fliesor as the duck swims. He was beaten, sore and thirsty. Reenter the swamp? Out of the question. Who knew where hed end up? Hed have to swim for it across the lake.

Deep-water danger

The water was surprisingly cold, especially as it deepened. He started out paddling strongly for the opposite bank, drinking lake water to quench his awful thirst. After a few minutes he realized hed never make it with his clothes on. He shed every stitch, letting his work duds sink to the bottom of the dark lake.

He swam on, but some strange current prevented his progress. He was a good swimmer, yet he somehow kept diverging from his goal. Hed point himself at the boat launch, swim a few strokes, lift his head and find that he was way off course. It was maddening, but he refused to surrender to emotion. In a fistfight, the guy who comes into it panicking, with no self-control, hes the one who gets whooped. The sun disappeared and the stars came out, and still he struggled, alternating between a backstroke and a crawl.

And thats when he saw the alligator. Before he could swim a stroke, before he could save himself, before he could let out a scream, the creature struck like a snake. It sank its teeth into Merdas forearm, breaking it at the elbow, and dragged him underwater.

Merda went into fight mode. He flung his other arm around the gators middle, clutching at its heaving belly as he kicked his feet to keep from going to the bottom. Man and beast resurfaced and Merda gulped airbut just as quickly the gator yanked him under again. The third time, the alligator did what alligators do: It barrel-rolled its entire body in a vicious coup de grce, and Merda felt the flesh of his arm tearing away as the limb was severed. The creature disappeared into the darkness, carrying Merdas forearm with it.

No pain yet, only terror. His one thought was to get out of the water. He swam furiously, paddling with the stump, and came to rest at the lakes edge not far from where he had entered. He paused for a time, heaving, in the partially submerged grasses. Nearby stood an enormous tree on drier ground. He dragged himself over to it and stood screaming for help across the desolate lake.

Then he realized, Im the only one who can get myself out of this. Just like Im the only one who can fix every other part of my life. He posted up next to the trunk of the tree and waited for dawn.

When the pain arrived, it was exquisite.

In the morning, he spotted two airplanes. Each time, he climbed up the tree and waved and hollered, which did him no good. He was stark naked in the wilderness, bereft of his right forearm and with nothing to use for a signal. Again, he started pushing through the tall grasses and immediately became lost anew, wandering in circles. He decided the best course was to reenter the water and wade the lakes edge, following its quarter-mile curve until it reached the boat launch.

But that proved nearly impossible too. Submerged logs, tallgrasses, saw grasses, overhanging brush and sudden drop-offs stymied his progress. He howled in pain when he blundered into a stick that poked into the exposed muscle of his right arm. Chest-deep in the murky water, he looked behind him, and there, 100 feet away, stared the bumpy eyes of the alligatoror an alligator, anywaysilently following him. He moved to shallower water and the gator eyes sank beneath the surface. All through the long day, as he struggled along, the creature dogged him. Maddeningly, thanks to the meandering shoreline, the boat launch appeared farther away than ever.

As night fell, he happened upon a concrete structure at the lakes edge, no doubt part of the reservoir system. Hungry, thirsty and in agony, he haltingly climbed onto it, stretched out and slept. He awoke in darkness with the horrifying awareness that he was only a couple of feet above the swamp water with his left arm dangling off the structure like a second proffered morsel. That was enough. He wanted out of the swamp. He wanted dry land.

Life or death

Up till then, Merda had been ambivalent about life and death. Now he could hear God telling him, All right. After this, I dont want to hear any more. If you choose to die, you choose to die. If you choose to live, then good luck to you, because its not going to be easy. Hed always figured his concept of God would get him kicked out of most churches: By his philosophy, since were all made in Gods image, God is part of each of us, and each of us is part of God. Thus, to have faith in God is to have faith in oneself, and to quarrel with God is to quarrel with oneself. And he was done quarreling with himself.

In the dark, he blundered his way through an eternity of 10-foot-tall grasses whose roots lay beneath knee-deep water. Disoriented again. The sun dawned on a new day, his third out here, and before long the Florida heat set the swampland to broiling. Green horseflies swarmed his injury where the naked muscle twitched and the bare bone gleamed. The land was so soggy that even when he wasnt standing in water, he could scoop at the earth with his good hand and a little puddle of filthy drinking water would fill the depression hed made. He nibbled at some tiny purple flowers growing throughout the swamplands.

He began to fade, utterly spent and bloodied. But hed made his decision. Hed chosen life, even if it meant the pain and frustration of endless struggle. Whenever his fatigue overwhelmed him, he pushed over the tallgrasses to make a mat on which to sleep.

His quest was dry land, and at last he found itonly to discover it overwhelmingly choked with thorny vines. It was either the swamp or this endless wall of thornsno getting around it, over it or under it. He must push through. Its just a little pain, he told himself. You arent even going to remember it once its gone. So he dragged himself into the bramble, crab-walking at times, getting sliced and punctured, pausing periodically to psych himself up for more pain.

In late afternoon, he came across a brown quart beer bottle lying in the mud like a signal from civilization. He knew now that he was saved. How far can somebody throw a beer bottle40 feet? That meant just 40 feet to the road. You can go another 40 feet.

He did, and when he exited the thorns he found that he was staggering alongside the road near the turnaround spot for the boat launch. On the other side of a wire fence, a man stood beside a red car.

Hey! Hey! Merda yelled.

The man goggled at the stranger, naked save for the blood and mud that covered his body. What are you doing back there? he said.

A gator got me! Merda answered, waving his stump. You got any water?

Holy ! I dont have any water, but Ill get you some, for sure.

The fence was the final obstacle between him and civilization. Merda had had enough. He lay down in the weeds on the swamp side of the divider and waited for the EMTs, who would cut the fence wire and carry him over to the helicopter that would whisk him away to the rest of his life.

A long recovery

Merda spent nearly three weeks in a Sarasota hospital. His wound had become infected in the swamp, so surgeons removed considerably more than the alligator had taken, leaving him with only about six inches of arm past the shoulder. Its incredible that he didnt bleed to deathbut, by some miracle, he says, the wound barely bled.

He ate like a machine in the hospital, and sent a buddy out for one entree not on the kitchens menu: gator bites.

On his release, he tried to return to work. I can still dig a hole, he says. But its with one hand, very slowly.

It wasnt practical to take up his old trade. So now hes casting about for some way to make a living while sharing the things hes learned. Consult? Teach? Write a childrens book? Take up public speaking? Try to become a comedian?

He says he wants to inspire people to think, If a skinny little dude from Sarasota, Florida, can fight a gator and walk out of the swamp, why am I afraid to open my own business, go to college or get a contractors license?

The road ahead wont be easy. But then again, that was part of the deal with God. Sometimes he feels at a loss, as if his dreams sound too ambitious, too ridiculous. But, Merda says with the wisdom of a man who has done battle with the divine, It sounded pretty ridiculous that I was going to make it out of that swamp alive too.

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The post This Man Spent Days in a Swamp After Losing His Arm to an Alligator—and Lived to Tell the Tale appeared first on Reader's Digest.

Well, can I use your bathroom?

Nope. Drivers use the port-a-potty.

And good luck finding a port-a-potty thats not an abomination. So much for the morning. Pick up another load, get moving again.

Evening comes, and hes required by law to limit his shift to 14 hours, which means its time to start looking for a parking spot. The miles and minutes roll by with no success. He might pull into as many as three truck stopsall full, and him exhausted and just wanting to be home. Often enough, the search for a parking place goes on until hes right up against his 14 hours and the road is beginning to look blurry. Such times, hell call his wife, Alicia, back home in Waddington, New York.

Hey, hell say. Talk to me for an hour. Im looking for a parking space.

Shell stay on the phone with him until at last he finds a truck stop with an empty spot. Hell hang up and make his way into the facility, eager for the shower he might not have gotten yesterday, and if the trucking gods are displeased with him, only three of the showers will be working and a line of 15 other drivers will be waiting ahead of him. Hes got to be back on the road in 10 hours. He needs the sleep. Hell buy something to eat, clean himself with baby wipes and stretch out in the sleeping compartment of his rig. Tomorrow will be another day.

Trucking has never been an easy way to make a living. But its a lifeline for Murphy and 2 million or so other Americans who haul almost 11 billion tons of goods72% of the countrys freightover our highways and byways each year. For many, the job provides a stable income, often with health-care and retirement benefits. Now more than ever, especially with the boom in e-commerce, we need those workers plying our vast network of interstates, warehouses and stores.

A shortage of drivers?

But, just when we need drivers most, trucking companies find themselves struggling to maintain a steady workforce to haul all that freight. Not enough drivers means that trucking companies charge more for hauling goodsa cost that gets passed on to consumers, raising the price of almost everything.

According to the American Trucking Associations (ATA, the leading industry group), the U.S. currently faces a shortage of 80,000 truckers, an astonishing figure that the organization expects to double by 2030.

Daniel Murray, senior vice president of the American Transportation Research Institute (ATRI), says an insufficient number of drivers on the road creates not just an economic problem but also a safety issue.

Drivers are under more pressure by employers and customers to move goods faster, more frequently, he says. Pushed to get their freight delivered on time and to pick up the next load, many are exceeding the number of hours theyre legally allowed to drive. A shortfall of drivers can also mean that the product youre looking for isnt on the store shelf when you want it.

If youre relying on a just-in-time delivery system that prioritizes the synchronization of precise schedules and you cant count on drivers to get the goods there, youre going to have disruptions in the supply chain, says Robert Puentes, president of the Eno Center for Transportation, a think tank.

As alarming as this sounds, theres disagreement among industry experts about how big the trucker shortage isand even whether the problem the industry faces can rightly be called a shortage.

ATAs numbers are just not realistic, says Jason Miller, PhD, interim chair of the Department of Supply Chain Management at the Broad College of Business at Michigan State University. He concedes that there are occasional, temporary shortfalls of truck drivers, but says the labor market promptly fills them. For more than a decade, the ATA has been sounding the alarm about a chronic, severe shortagebut, Miller says, the statistics just dont support it.

Lewie Pugh, executive vice president of the Owner-Operator Independent Driver Association (OOIDA), agrees. Theres never been a shortage, he says. Thats just something that big carriers say to cover up business practices that arent fair to drivers, trucking or safety. After all, Pugh points out, 400,000 people earn their commercial driver licenses (CDL) every year. You wouldnt see that if there were indeed a lack of labor.

Then why does the industry buzz with talk of a shortage? The most likely answer is that there is indeed a labor problem in truckingbut, with a turnover rate of 70% for smaller carriers and 90% for larger ones, what the industry has is a retention issue, not a lack of people willing to enter the field in the first place. That may seem a subtle distinction, but it has real repercussions for solving the crisis. It turns the question from Where do we find more drivers? to How can we keep the drivers we already have?

The ATA published a post last year saying the turnover figures have been misunderstood and mostly represent churn, or job-hopping between trucking carriers, which could be a sign of driver empowerment in a tight labor market. The OOIDA publication Land Line sees it differently, calling churn a sign of driver desperation and unhappiness. Either way, the Department of Transportation found that 300,000 truckers leave the industry annually.
This resonates with Mike Murphy, who, along with his truck-driving duties, has trained more than 150 new drivers, many of whom balked at the harsh realities of the job.

The students would come into my truck and I would show them the ropes over six weeks, Murphy says. A lot of guys would go through six weeks of training and then say, Hey, this isnt for me. And they were done.

Despite their differences about whether theres a shortage, theres surprising consensus among experts, industry groups and truck drivers about the retention issueand about the reasons so many drivers bail on the industry. Unfortunately, while companies know why their drivers are quitting, too often their response is to try to attract new employees rather than address the complaints of the ones leaving.

Show me the money!

In nearly every survey, truckers list their compensation as a top issue.

Trucker salaries have not kept up with inflation since the 1970s, says Pugh. While some fleets such as UPS and Walmart offer generous packages, with salaries sometimes in the six figures, most truckers can expect to pull in around $50,000 per year.

An average workweek for a trucker is 70 hours, Pugh says, because thats what theyre allowed to drive. And a lot of them work a lot more than 70 hours. When you take that $50,000 and you divide that into a 70-hour week and 50 weeks a year, thats like $14.28 an hour.

Under the Fair Labor Standards Act, truckers are exempt from being paid overtime, to discourage drivers from compromising safety by racking up hours. But, Pugh says, Drivers are giving away 20 to 30 hours a week just sitting at loading docks waiting to either load or unload.

Less-scrupulous outfits engage in misleading practices to lure young drivers. They offer you an $8,000 signing bonus, says Andrew Emde, a 55-year industry veteran. What they dont tell you is that if you quit before a certain amount of time, you wont get it. And the other thing they dont tell you is they spread it out over five years.

Federal law allows trucking companies to pay their drivers by the mile. When the wheels arent turning, no money is being made. If your truck breaks down, if theres a line at the dock, if theres standstill traffic, youre off the clock. More trucks in circulation means all these problems are getting worse, not better. And theres no fudging the books, because the company constantly monitors your activity via GPS and electronic logging systems.

Give me a break

It might seem trivial, but the lack of parking, rest areas and bathroom facilities at truckers disposal is so demoralizing that its viewed as a major factor in drivers decisions to quit the industry. Mike Murphys bleary search for a place to lay his head for the night is a familiar tale to other drivers, who also tell of interstate off-ramps littered with human feces because truckers have nowhere to relieve themselves.

Its even worse for female drivers, who make up 6% to 8% of all truck drivers but only 2.7% of long-haul truckers. One of them, Clarissa Rankin, has spoken unabashedly about the good and bad parts of the industry on social media and talk shows.

Its horrible, she says. Women have nothing in the truck stops. Nothing. You name it, we dont have it. Tampons, panty liners, hair bows, like pull-back scrunchies? Nothing. The most youll get is a pink hat that says Truck Driver. This year, Rankin opened her own line of cosmetics and travel essentials for women in trucking, called Owtspoken. She hopes to have her products in wide distribution at truck stops soonbut its an uphill battle.

The lack of conveniences is an annoyance, but, Rankin says, of greater concern to women is the lack of security on the roads. She describes the truckers-only side of the truck stop as a whole nother world. Prostitution. Sex trafficking. Robberies. When a lot of trucks are parked end-to-end or side-by-side for the night, she says, you dont know who youre sleeping next to. You could be sleeping with a cold-blooded rapist and murderer right next to you. In a survey by CDLLife, an online community of truck drivers, 21% of drivers said theyve been the victims of crimeand 42% of those crimes were violent. Little wonder so few women are attracted to the job.

So why arent private companies responding to these obvious needs by building more, bigger, better, safer, well-lit truck stops with plenty of parking? Its the NIMBY effectnot in my backyard, says ATRIs Murray. Nobody wants a truck parking lot anywhere near their home. At the same time, he says, e-commerce and just-in-time delivery have created a need for truck parking much closer to the customers they serve.

The lack of infrastructure isnt just unpleasant for drivers. It affects their bottom line. On average, Murray says, truck drivers now are leaving their revenue routes 56 minutes early, which equates to almost $5,000 a year in lost wages, just to find a place to sleep for the night.

Big boss is watching

One of the things thats always been appealing about truck driving is the lure of the open road, the freedom to be on your own, making your own decisions. But todays drivers are subject to ever-increasing scrutiny, with companies placing cameras not only facing the road, but in some cases pointing at the driver in the cab. Every movement of the vehicle is monitored via technology in a bid to fend off lawsuits and reduce insurance costs.

Clarissa Rankin now has her own truck and operates independently, but when she first started out and was driving for a major carrier, someone pulled out in front of her, forcing her to brake hard. Her phone rang immediately. It was the company.

They said, What was that hard brake about? Were going to have to have you take a class now. I said, Im not taking no doggone class. You know? Im not doing all that. If you dont do it, you can lose your job. But I didnt care. Every five seconds, it was something, she says. No grown-up wants to be babysat.

Emde agrees. The freedom of the road and all the romantic stuff goes out the window as soon as somebody puts a camera in your face, he says.

Drug testing, especially for marijuana, is another regulation that causes drivers to exit the industry in droves. Despite legalization initiatives in various states, interstate trucking prohibits drivers from having any trace of THC in their systems. Obviously, driving while high must remain illegaljust as with alcoholbut huge numbers of safe truckers are losing their jobs because trace amounts of the substance, from legal consumption on their own time, are still circulating in their blood.

The Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration maintains a clearinghouse database of drivers whose routine drug tests have come up positive. According to ATRIs Murray, More than 90,000 truckers who tested positive have not started the administrative process to remove themselves from the clearinghouse and get back into long-haul trucking. Which tells us theyre fine continuing to smoke pot and drive locally in jobs where the CDL is not a requirement.

No one wants truck drivers working while under the influence, but allowing them the same access to recreational substances that others enjoy during their nonworking hours could be a way of retaining workers who may otherwise quit the industry.

A world of pain

Sitting behind the wheel of a truck for 70 hours a week for decades is a recipe for poor health. Veteran drivers recite their litanies of bad backs, obesity, heart problems. Its certainly on Mike Murphys mind.

One of the reasons Im looking forward to getting out of driving is that I need to get active, he says. Ive had my legs start to swell up and stuff like that. Theres not really time to exercise, to do the things that you should be doing for your body.

He tries to eat well, but its not easy. His options are limited to fast food or whatever is available in truck-stop diners, which is notoriously unhealthy farejust try finding fresh fruits and vegetables. A few facilities have experimented with healthier foods, but it remains next to impossible to get consistently nutritious meals while out on the road.

But drivers concerns about health and well-being arent limited to diet and exercise.

Driving is stressful work, requiring prolonged vigilance and concentration. And the type of trucking where the labor crisis is most strongly feltlong-haulcan be lonely, especially for people with families.

You miss everything, Murphy says. Trucking becomes your life. After 25 years, you realize, Wow, Ive got nieces and nephews graduating from college, and I didnt get to watch them grow up.

Through the years, Andrew Emde has seen a lot of young people enter the industry believing that the time constraints and separation from their families wouldnt be that bad.

After a while, reality sets in, he says, and people look for work closer to home.

Mike Murphy figures he has another 10 years of driving ahead of him before he can retire. He got into the industry back in the 90s when he realized his small town simply wasnt a big enough market to support the dog-grooming business hed opened. In the end, he says, trucking has been a good job.

Its allowed me to buy a house and a car and to live in a rural community, perks he might otherwise not have enjoyed. He estimates hed have had to take a 50% pay cut if he had taken work around Waddington. But you give up a lot, he says. Im kind of looking forward to not having to do it anymore.

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The post The Big-Rig Crisis: How We Fail Our Truckers appeared first on Reader's Digest.

Knowing when to cash in

My mothers luck was legendary. She once won a brand-new Ford in a church raffle. Forty years later, she won a Mercedes from the same church. My favorite was when she visited Las Vegas. My sister gave our mother $25 for fun. Mother spent it all on one chip, dropped the chip into a giant slot machine, won $125 and said, Thats probably enough. Angela Murphy-Walters, Elizabethton, TN

A goof-proof roof

Three months after buying our home, we learned wed need a new roof because of damage incurred right before closing. It was a drawn-out process involving real estate agents and insurance. For months, we got nowhere. Then I arrived home one day to a crew working on the roof. I was confused as to why I hadnt been notified, until my neighbor strolled up and said, My roof sure looks nice on your house. Turned out, my neighbors shingles had been mistakenly delivered to our house, and the crew just started working. The roofing company admitted its mistake, so we wound up with a free roof. The freakiest part? We got a final claim rejection letter in the mail that evening. We wouldve had to pay out of pocket. It remains the weirdest stroke of good luck we ever had. Jennifer Schoonover, Trimble, MO

A real diamond in the rough

My wife cherishes her diamond engagement ring. Six years into our marriage, it disappeared. We searched everywhereall over the house, her classroom, the yardbut no luck. We replaced it with a cubic zirconia copy. One afternoon 14 years later, while digging in the garden, I saw something: my wifes diamond engagement ring, still shiny after all these years. Lawrence Lefke, North Myrtle Beach, SC

An electrifying find

I was a repairman fixing an outlet at the apartment of a woman who had just moved in. I removed the outlet cover and noticed a piece of paper folded so tightly between the outlet box and wall stud that I had to use needle-nose pliers to pull it out. Much to my surprise, I unfolded a $100 bill! It had nothing to do with why the outlet wasnt working. The new tenant said it wasnt hers, and the previous tenant didnt respond to a message about it. My boss eventually told me to just keep the money. To a father of two in 1979, that $100 was a lot of money and a stroke of great luck. Paul Diggs, Oklahoma City, OK

A heads-up buy

A man holding a yard sale noticed me looking at a jar of old coins. He told me it contained some rare coins, including several wheat pennies and a real old Indian head penny from way back in the 1800s. As a coin collector, I knew that one coin could be worth hundreds of dollars. He wouldnt let me examine the coins, so I bought the jar for $3. When I examined my find at home, I found the Indian head penny, but there was a hole drilled right through the center. It was worthless to a coin collectora copper washer at best! And there were no wheat pennies at all. The man had lied to me. I did find a rare Canadian coin worth $200, though, which he mustve overlooked. He thought hed sold me a jar of duds, but karma bit him hard that day, and it kissed me on the cheek. I still have that rare coin. Joseph Duckworth, Davisville, WV

Tact for tack

Id flown to England with my church group for an educational trip. One gentleman said hed lost a gold tie tack earlier in the day. That evening, a friend and I went for a walk. When we were a considerable distance from the hotel, I suddenly stopped. I think I just stepped on a thumbtack, I said. It was, unbelievably, the mans tie tack that pricked my foot. I was happy to return his treasured retirement gift. Betty Shoemaker, Hilton Head Island, SC

Luck strikes twice

Feb. 4, 1951, was a lucky day for me indeed. Pillsbury was hosting a big Bake-Off event, and Id submitted a jingle to its jingle-writing contest. I woke up the morning of the event, business as usual, when my labor pains began. My husband and I rushed to the hospital, where I had a healthy delivery. Three days later, a man knocked on our door. I was supposed to have been at the Bake-Off for the jingle winners announcement, and apparently theyd stood on stage announcing Louise Miller! Louise Miller has won! but I was in labor and obviously forgot all about it. I was in bed holding my son when the gentleman presented my winning prize, a sterling silverware set and mahogany chest. He smiled and said, Talk about being born with a silver spoon in ones mouth! This baby has a complete set. Yes, it was my lucky daytwice! Louise Miller Glen, Burnie, MD

Not quite a needle, but close

I was mowing on my ranch, and thick hay kept getting wrapped around the rotor. Every time I had to dismount the tractor to cut the hay. By the fourth time, I realized that my best knife was missing. Assuming it was lost to the hayfield, I got another and kept mowing. Later, while hauling the baled hay into the barn, I noticed that two of the bales were mistakenly tied together. I stopped to pull them apart, and there it wasmy knife packed between the only two bales that needed checking. What are the chances? Ken Macrae, Ellensburg, WA

Lucky No. 92

In 1984, my wifes favorite radio station was giving away a Mustang convertible. Lyn was one of 103 (the Florida radio stations call sign) callers to win a key. Only one would start the Stang. Lyn had key 92. Her confidence rose as those before her tried their keys and failed. After key 91 cranked and busted, Lyn strode up to the Mustang, confidently waved the DJs away from the hood and announced, Im taking this baby home tonight! The crowd hooted as she opened the door, boldly buckled the seat belt (which no one else had dared to do), settled into the drivers seat, turned her keyand fired up the engine! The radio station played her scream of joy over and over for weeks. Christopher Springhorn, Houston, TX

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The post Our Readers Share Their Greatest Strokes of Good Fortune appeared first on Reader's Digest.

Laurent Camprubi is about 15miles off the coast of northwestern Spain, hoisting the mainsail on the deck of the 39-foot sailboat Jeanne. Ever since he left Lisbon, Portugal, the day before, he has been fighting the elements. But he is in his element too.

Camprubi is aiming to qualify for the Route du Rhum, a 4,077-mile race held every four years from Saint-Malo in France to Guadeloupe, a group of islands in the Caribbean. On a night thats anything but calm, the solo athlete is tacking, adjusting, to ensure that the vessel gets to its destination of Cherbourg, France, about 1,050miles to the northeast. After more than 12hours of sailing, Camprubi decides to take a much-needed break. While a beacon automatically broadcasts his position to Route du Rhum organizers every 15minutes, the waves batter the Jeanne in a language all their own: screams, whistles, crashes, roars.

He knows that in the distance is the craggy peninsula Cape Finisterre, or end of the world, but 6- to 10-foot waves have turned his surroundings into a uniform dark gray.

A test of strength and perseverance

Tall and lanky, the 62-year-old has been sailing since his 20s and is eager to tackle the Route du Rhum, which he considers the Everest of sailing. A stylist for a Portugal-based fashion footwear company, Camprubi lives with his partner, Virginie Philip, and their two children in Marseilles, where he has been training for months. The race would be a test of strength and perseverance, and Camprubi, a lifelong cyclist and runner, has also been doing weight training to build his core muscles so that he will be better able to keep his balance in rough seas. And tonight, it is indeed rough.

As Camprubi lies in the cockpit, resting, a wave crashes into the boat, which suddenly slows down. Opening his eyes, Camprubi sees the boat beginning to list to one side, and he knows what has happened: He has lost the keelthe weighted fin that runs along the bottom of the boat to keep it upright. The Jeanne is capsizing.

You have 15seconds to get below deck before the boat flips over, he tells himself. Your life depends on it. Move!

Once below, he attempts to close the door, but water keeps rushing in, making the task impossible. The Jeanne violently flips upside down, bobbing in the waves. Camprubi has been thrown to the ceiling and is crouched there, on what is now his floor. His prescription eyeglasses are smashed, as are the computer and other electronics, and the pieces are floating in seawater.

He ventures farther into the boat to retrieve his survival kit, then returns to what he judges to be the safest spot, by the door. Almost 20minutes after capsizing, he sets off his SOS signal and grabs his bright red survival suit. Made of waterproof neoprene, its a bulky, stiff onesie, complete with hood and attached booties. He knows that adrenaline is still keeping him warm, but once it wears off, the suit is his best defense while waiting for whatever help might come. Hes in an air bubble; the water, about 68degrees, is now up to his chest. So on goes the suit, one cramping, chilled leg at a time.

At 8:23 p.m., moments after Camprubi activated his emergency beaconwhich contained both a radio transmitter and global positioning system (GPS)the Spanish coast guard detected it. Immediately, an elaborate, tightly choreographed effort was put into action, complete with two rescue ships, three helicopters and five divers. It was black outside, and dangerous. The question on everyones mind: How could the vessels lone occupant survive in such weather, no matter how experienced?

Help will come, help will come

At 9:26p.m., one of the helicopter pilots spotted something white in the swirling, angry sea: the bottom of a sailboat that appeared to be missing its keel. One optionto secure the vessel with slings and hoist it onto one of the ships with a cranewas dismissed as foolhardy because of the wind and the danger it posed to Camprubi. Besides, no one knew what was happening inside.

A diver was lowered by a cable onto the hull of the boat, tasked with checking for signs of life. He banged on the hull, shouting that help had arrived. But his words blew away with the wind.

Camprubi is finishing putting on the top part of his survival suit when he hears someone banging on the hull. Thump. Thump. Thump. He tries to hammer back, but his arms get entangled in the sleeves.

Im here! he shouts. Im here!

Then, nothing. Was he heard? He curls up into a corner to wait, water sloshing and rising ever higher. His air bubble cant last forever.

Help will come, he silently recites. Help will come. Help will come.

Still, a darker thought intrudes: Maybe Ive been abandoned.

To the rescuers surprise and relief, they heard the sailor shouting back. But for everyones safety, they put off any rescue attempt until the next morning, when calmer seas and daylight would prevail. The question was, would Camprubi still be alive when they came back? Time was not their ally. He could die from exposure, or he could drown. But they had no choice.

That evening, a representative from Frances Ministry of Defense in Marseilles phoned Virginie Philip, but she assumed it was a telemarketer and didnt answer. When she checked her voicemail 15minutes later, she heard a message telling her that Camprubis emergency beacon had been set off. Her world fell apart.

Is Laurent OK? she asked when she called back.

We dont know, came the reply.

And so, the waiting began.

The couples daughter, 12-year-old Jeanne, stayed beside her mom while their son, 3-month-old Paul, slept.

Philip called Richard Sautieux, Camprubis friend and sailing team manager, to see if he could find out what was happening. At midnight, she received an update from the organizer of the Route du Rhum: All he could tell her was that the boat had capsized, and the Spanish coast guard was involved.

Trying to tamp down her panic, Philip focused on being calm in front of her daughter, who eventually fell asleep. Unable to sleep herself, Philip watched the hands of the clock slowly crawl past 1, then 2, then 3, then 4a.m. Just past 8a.m., her phone rang again. It was the Ministry of Defense with bad news: The chance of finding him alive is practically zero.

It was time to tell Camprubis family. Philip started by calling Camprubis brother, who assured her that Camprubi was too stubborn to give up.

He will fight to the end, he told Philip. Trust me, if anyone is going to survive something like this, its him.

No choice but to have faith

On one level, Philip agreed. Certainly, the man she had been with for 14years lived large and took risks, but hed never been one to panic when bad things happened. And right now, she had no choice but to have faith.

In the cabin of the Jeanne, Camprubi is disheartened, and so tired. Water, still seeping, sloshing and spraying, has filled more space, shrinking his air bubble. The water is also mixed with gas from an engine he had on board for emergency use, which he never got a chance to use. Not only is the smell overwhelming, the gas stings his skin and he has to keep his eyes shut tight to protect them.

Time means nothing now, minutes and hours flowing into each other in a jumble. Maybe its 2a.m.? He cant remember when he last ate or slept.

Dont think about that. Focus. Dont fall asleep.

He knows that the air bubble thats keeping him alive continues to shrink, and the water level has crept higher on his chest. With a grunt, he reaches out to grasp safety handles attached to the sides of the hull. He knows he needs to keep as much of himself out of the water as he can if hes to avoid hypothermia.

From time to time, Camprubi tries to concentrate on listening for a soundanything that signals the coast guard has not given up on him. But as the light gets stronger, there is only quiet and calm.

Images of his life crowd his mind. Not his life flashing before his eyes, but the things he will miss about his life. Things like conversations with his three adult children from his first marriage. And also what he wont get to be there for: Paul saying Papa for the first time and taking his first steps. Jeanne graduating from middle school.

By now, Camprubi has been gripping the handles for hours, and hes exhausted. He lets go of them. Hes floating on his back, arms and legs splayed. But when the water laps over his face, he sputters and is alert again.

And then he hears knocking.

Just before 9 a.m., some 13hours after Camprubis boat flipped, two divers made their way to the Jeanne. The seas had calmed, and their job was to secure the boat with three giant yellow buoys. The idea was to keep the boat afloat while the team conducted either a rescue or a salvage operation. When it was secured, the divers knocked on the hull. They didnt expect to get a response, but they heard shouting. Against all odds, against the mercurial sea and wind that had toppled him over, Laurent Camprubi was alive. Diving below the surface to peek in the cabin window, they saw his red booties moving.

But wires and jagged pieces of broken wood and metal floated underneath the hull, blocking the divers access to the cabin door. So they began the painstaking job of diving under, again and again, to clear a path. It was slow, dangerous work with objects that could slice or snag them. Bit by bit, one hour flowing into a second hour, then a third, they collected and disposed, rising to the surface when a bag was full, then diving back down again.

You have to stay alive, Camprubi told himself. But he knew that now was not the time to start doubting his rescuers. As one of the helicopters positioned itself above the Sar Gavia, a bright orange, 130-foot tugboat, a diver knelt on top of the hull of the sailboat, explaining in shouts to Camprubi what they needed him to do.

Camprubi learned there would be no helicopter to lift the Jeanne up because the vessel was already in pieces. That no divers would smash through the window to pluck him out because it wasnt big enough; besides, water would rush in and pull him under. The only way out was through that door.

Surviving was up to him

Tired and chilled from so many hours of exposure, his muscles cramping, Camprubi understood that surviving this was still up to him. Because as soon as a diver opened the door, he would have to swim out fast, with everything he had, to avoid the torrent of seawater waiting on the other side to pin him down and drown him. Hed have one chance.

The rescue began just after noon. Holding his breath, Camprubi waited by the door, treading water, poised to break through when it opened. He forced himself to breathe slowly, calmly as he waitedand suddenly, the door opened. Acting on instinct, he was through it like a shot, swimming, using adrenaline and his arms and bicycle-hardened legs to power against the rush of the water. He swam under the hull and then made a right turn to go up, up sixfeet to the surface. He broke through to the surface, gasping for air. A diverthe same one who had knocked on the hull the night beforewas waiting to attach a harness so the helicopter could hoist him aboard.

The men embraced. I was so afraid you wouldnt survive the night, the diver admitted.

Camprubi answered: I was so afraid you wouldnt come back for me.

When Camprubi boarded the helicopter that would take him to a hospital in the nearby Spanish coastal city of ACorua, his legs buckled as he bent over to catch his breath. It was 12:35p.m.more than 16hours since the Jeanne had capsized.

Soon hed be treated for exposure and hypothermia, and doctors would flush the gasoline out of his eyes. He would learn that hed lost 15pounds during those 16hours, all of it muscle.

But on the helicopter, none of that mattered. All he wanted was to talk to Philip. When someone on board finally handed him a phone, neither of them could speakthey were both crying too hard.

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The battle began at the Myrtle Beach Costco. I was steering a shopping cart with enough food to stock a doomsday bunker when I spotted a bulky bag of spinach.

We could make a salad, I suggested.

You can make a salad, Mom answered. Im not gonna have any salad.

First blood had been drawn.

Moms dinner table had always been a parade of simple Southern recipes, dishes that seem to say,Were all gonna die of heart attacks, so lets do it as a family. For a newly minted New York City slicker to return home and suggest a salad not of the macaroni persuasion, on Thanksgiving of all days, was blasphemy against God. Of course, I no longer believe in God.

It had already been a challenge for Mom to get me home for Thanksgiving. Id skipped the last four years, opting for romantic trips abroad with my boyfriend. Now, newly brokenhearted, I decided to pull a prodigal child: do the right thing and return home.

Spirit flies direct from New York, Mom texted me.

Going home feels like going backward, I thought but didnt say. The flight was turbulent enough to induce labor, but we managed to land without any change to the number of souls onboard. My entire familytwo sisters, brother, Mom, Dad and my older sisters three childrenwere in the airport lobby with a Welcome Home, Zach sign. The spectacle suggested I was returning from war; Id just forsaken my familial obligations. My mom smiled and gave me a one-handed hug, the other hand gripping my 6-year-old nieces baby doll.

I tossed my tiny bag in Dads truck and rode shotgun. We talked about the weather and city living. Meanwhile, I worried that if I mentioned my ex-boyfriend too loudly, he might drive us into a ditch. Theres a tension in Southern airthe strange bedfellows of homophobia and humidity, and the ever-present terror that the person you were might be long behind you, but they are still breathing down your neck.

On Thanksgiving morning, Mom was in the kitchen preparing cardiovascular warfare. I observed her at work with enough distance to be curious, almost ethnographic, and offered commentary on my findings.

You put sugar in the deviled eggs?!

Just a little, she said. Matter-of-fact.

You know theres already sugar in practically everything? I explained. Big Food adds sugar to keep us addicted.

Oh, is that so, she said, stirring and not changing a thing.

I carved out a corner on the counter and started to put together my simple salad. Spinach, a few tomatoes, some cheese. Id never really been in the kitchen much as a kid. Chores were gendered and uneven in our house: Women did the cooking, washed the dishes, cleaned the bathroom, kitchen and living room, and ironed clothes. Men mowed the lawn. On the TV was the Macys Parade, a fabulous Broadway musical number snuck in between the masculine Spider-Man and bro-y Hulk balloons. I watched it as I finished my three-ingredient masterpiece and asked Mom if I should put on the dressing now or later.

Yeah, put it on there, she answered. And stick it in the fridge so it stays cold.

Maybe Mom was warming up to a collaborator in her kitchen, her queer kid doing her work. She told me she loves me, something she says so often its like shes trying to convince us both.

Think youll have any? I asked.

Nah, Im not gonna have any salad.

My two nieces set the dining room table, used so infrequently that it feels like playing house. Every seat would be full this holiday thanks to my older sisters addiction to having children. My nephew and nieces, referred to as the babies, dont know me well at all, a casualty of my not visiting. A friend told me you can show up for a niece or nephew at any age, but I feel bad that were not closer.

I didnt grow up in this house, so it always feels a bit fake to think of it as home. My parents moved from Roanoke, Virginia, to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, during my first year of college. Generations had lived in a small circle in the Shenandoah Valley, until my entrepreneurial, adventurous mother set her sights on the shore. She built her dream (20-minutes-from-the-) beach house.

Her act of generational, geographic rebellion must have been genetic. I was living my dream too, in New York. Ever since high school, when a coach bus drove me and 40 classmates to watch the witches of Oz from the nosebleeds, I knew I wanted to live there. After a too-long tour of duty in Chicago, a cataclysmic breakup finally jettisoned me to the city of 4 a.m. bars. I was living my (sharing-a-single-bathroom-with-three-other-adult-humans) dream. If everything turned out exactly as we planned, wed be very bored gods.

When the meal was ready, everyone took their seats. Dad emerged from hibernation. He looked gentler now than I remembered, a soft, gray beard hiding his neck. He never hit us, except with zingers and Bible verses. A pastor in his past life, Dad could deliver full-length sermons at the dinner table, hellfire and brimstone as appetizer and aperitif to any meal. Today, hunger bested the Holy Spirit.

Dear Heavenly Father, we thank you for the meal. In Jesuss precious name we pray, amen.

The prayer ended, and my 10-year-old nephew outed me. Zachs eyes werent closed!

Mom shot me a stare but broke it quickly. A four-year time-out had put everyone on their best behavior. We silently agreed to try to keep things light on Turkey Day. Instead of yelling about atheism, Christianity, Trump, abortion, homosexuality, kids in cages, racism, capitalism and socialism, we passed the mac n cheese and potatoes.

None for Zach. Zachs a vegetarian, my younger sister said when the turkey made its rounds.

Our plates were filled and emptied.

Why dont we all say something were thankful for? my mom pitched.

Its a tradition wed done as children. I always sat anxiously during the game, shame and fear pulsing through my body because I knew there was only one right answer.

Jesus Christ, my youngest niece said dutifully.

I wondered if her answer would change over timeand as drastically as I hadfrom a straight, meat-eating, Christian conservative to a queer, vegetarian, atheist socialist. Would she get the space and time to dig and grow, or just pour some more sugar in the deviled eggs?

After a couple more thankful answersa few Jesuses and a gas-price joke from DadI became brave enough to share my truth.

Im thankful for Lady Gaga.

Zachary, my mom chided.

I smiled and course-corrected: Im thankful to be with my family.

Aww, she cooed.

Slices of her no-bake cheesecake and a pecan pie from Cracker Barrel, recruited in recent years to help out as the matriarch aged, were distributed. A plastic pitcher of sweet tea met its demise. Dad retreated to the recliner in his bedroom to watch football with my brother, while my sisters cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. At 15 minutes total, the meal was more of a feeding than a sit-down dinner. Its brevity kept us from hurting each other. Family members always have the nuclear codes for each other, the precise collection of words and phrases that, when entered, cause total annihilation. Tonights short summit staved off mutually assured destruction.

I helped my sisters put the leftovers in the fridge when I saw the carnage. Drowning in buttermilk, waterboarded by ranch, wrinkled beyond recognition: my salad. I reached for the bowl to see if any of it could be salvaged, a mother not ready to say goodbye to her child, but the ingredients had already decomposed. I considered taking a bite, but dessert had left me no room.

This victory would go to my mother. Her subtle but effective smear campaign against something green on her dinner table was a success. Perhaps it was a fools battle to begin withto push against the juggernauts, the parade balloons of Tradition and Mom and Homebut I tried and failed with pride.

Mom passed behind me as I poured the aftermath into the trash.

Oh no, she said. Guess none of us are having salad.

Excerpted from Is It Hot in Here (or Am I Suffering for All Eternity for the Sins I Committed on Earth)?by Zach Zimmerman, published by Chronicle Books. Copyright 2023 by Zach Zimmerman.

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Across the street was another neighbor, Werner. Weather permitting, Werner sat on a battered La-Z-Boy recliner hed set up on his lawn. The two men, both around the same age, stared at each other but rarely talked. When Steve collapsed on his porch, Werner watched as the ambulance crew tried to revive him. I went to Steves funeral, a subdued event (there were just four of us, including a priest who hadnt met him).

Steve and Werner are a handy metaphor for the kind of isolation that COVID-19 has visited upon many of us, an isolation that still lingers. Though we men were heading in that direction anyway: The percentage of males with at least six close friends fell by half between 1990 and 2021, according to the Survey Center on American Life.

What’s going on with men’s friendships?

Simply put, men are in a friend recession. Guys are gifted in the art of isolation, the result of social conditioning and 10,000 years of evolutionary forces, where cooperation has been offset by competition. The invention of the big-screen TV hasnt helped.

And so, by middle age, we can find ourselves stranded. People move, were occupied with children and work. Were tired, were distracted, we change. Then theres our team mindset. A 2020 Oxford University study confirms what many guys will readily admit: Males prefer to socialize in groups rather than one-on-one. Groups are looser, less intimate. And shared activities often revolve around somethinga sport, a bar, a fantasy football draft. But when the activity goes away, the group often goes with it.

I reconnected with an old friend who had played professional football, and I asked him if he was in touch with any of his former teammates. No, he said; when football ended, those connections did too. Without that central activity to sustain them, they all vanished from one anothers lives.

There was a time when card games or beer-league hockey or getting together to watch the Super Bowl was a sort of guilty pleasure, a vaguely senseless masculine activity. Now were learning that these things, or at least the connectedness they represent, are fundamental to mental health.

Poker: An anchor for men’s friendships

Twenty years ago, I was invited to join a poker game made up of writers, a few musicians, a lawyer, a media guy. We met monthly, and the game became a sort of oasis. There were literary quarrels, laughter, discussions about music and lots of stories. We didnt socialize much outside the game. Spouses and children got a conversational nod but mostly remained in the background.

That game became part of the essential fabric of my life, and it evolved with the group. We used to start at 7 p.m. with a martini and play until 2 a.m. Now there are no martinis (a lot less alcohol of any kind), and we quit before midnight. The haze of cigarette smoke is long gone. The food is betterover two decades weve gone from chips and pretzels to sushi and homemade tarte Tatin. Two of our original players died and one moved away, but the game remains, with new players joining, a new society forming.

When the pandemic arrived, we switched to Zoom games. We downloaded a poker app on our phones and looked at those nine boxes containing our heads on our computer screens. The app dealt all nine players instantaneously, so the Zoom version galloped along much faster than the live version, where the dealer would laboriously shuffle and deal, or stop mid-deal to tell a story until someone finally barked, Deal the damn cards.

Despite the efficiency, the app presented problems. It took all our concentration to keep track, on multiple screens, of what was going on with each other and with the game. Conversational flow and easy banter didnt really happen. It felt like any online poker game, the kind played with anonymous strangers.

Two of the guys eventually pulled out, saying theyd wait until we could get together in person. A couple of months later, when we finally reconvened for our live game after a two-year break, we rejoiced. We didnt care that someones dog ate much of the food wed put out. We didnt mind the slow dealing, the stories and losing hands. It was just good to see everyone, to talk and to feel the comfort of the group.

The importance of male friendship

Isolation is a common factor in male suicide, particularly men who are middle-aged and older. Its one reason their suicide rates are three times higher than those of women. According to Robin Dunbar, an evolutionary psychologist at Oxford University, women really do have more friends than men, and womens relationships with their friends are more intense. Loneliness already played a role in mens declining mental health, but the pandemic created more isolation, followed by a global spike in depression and anxiety.

Many people who have been working at home are staying put. Some offices are opening up again, but not everyone is going back, at least not full time. Those who are may find themselves in an almost empty officeoften a lonelier feeling than working from homeand without the lunches with clients or after-work drinks with colleagues.

Even though getting together with other men is beneficial for mental health, in my experience there are limitations to mens groupsthe biggest one being that they just arent conducive to discussing emotional issues. At my poker game, we celebrate one anothers successes, but we rarely acknowledge failures or vulnerabilities. This can be taken to extremes. One of our guys died of cancer without telling any of us he was sick. We thought Bert looked a bit thin, a bit tired. Then he was gone.

A look at men’s friendships with women

In a 2018 article in the American Journal of Mens Health about mens social connectedness and mental health, the authors wrote that men often seek emotional connections outside of male groups. We look to womenwives, sisters, female friendswhich allows us to maintain a pattern of masculinity in public while seeking emotional support from women in private.

The Oxford University study that observed that men like socializing in groups also noted that women prefer to socialize one on one. Its a setting more conducive to discussing fears, vulnerabilitiesgetting really personal. Which is one reason friendships with women are the perfect complement to male friendships. I have a spouse to confide in, and a few female friends I regularly meet one-to-one for lunch.

The dynamic is much different from getting together with the guys, as much as I love doing that. When I am with my female friends, we talk about our children, work, the state of everyones health, our aging parents. We have a glass of wine and talk for two hours, and I emerge into the afternoon light, unburdened. I like to think they do too.

There isnt much research on male-female friendship, but the research that does exist points out one perhaps obvious fact: Men generally get more out of male-female friendships than women do. Women already have female friends with whom to share feelings and fears. All they gain from us is the male perspective, which may not always be uplifting.

And there are issues with heterosexual male-female friendships, chiefly the potential for sexual tension. In a study published more than 20 years ago in the Journal of Social and Personal Relationships, women reported this as the least appealing aspect of having a male friend, while for men it was one of the main reasons to initiate a female friendship.

The research, while not new, supports the view made famous in When Harry Met Sally . In the 1989 film, Billy Crystal says to Meg Ryan, Men and women cant be friends because the sex part always gets in the way. Ryan asks if that means men can be friends only with women they dont find attractive. Nope, Crystal answers, saying that men want to have sex with them too.

So there are risks to male-female friendships, which can, of course, be compounded by jealous partners (though not mine, thankfully). However, the rewards of cross-sex friendships, as researchers call them, are significant, at least for men.

Im just really glad to have both types of friendships. I can meet my female friends for a nice lunch, a glass of wine, an unburdening. Then head off to poker.

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If Timothy White Jr. were Captain America, perhaps one fling of the superheros trademark shield could have saved the day. But this was real life. And though White has dressed up as Captain America for conventions, parades and the local Anti-Bullying Superhero Day, when he spotted trouble on this September afternoon he wasnt wearing his costume and couldnt fall back on any superpowers.

It was rush hour in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. White, 38, was driving home from the nonprofit he and his mother run, called AMiracle4Sure, which helps formerly incarcerated individuals reenter society. He noticed a gray Nissan four-door pickup on the opposite side of the two-lane street. It was hard to miss, since it was swerving and careening into the curb before course-correcting, only to careen into the curb again.

As the pickup drew closer, White got a good look at the problem: The driver appeared to be asleep. Pretty soon, this guys going to crash into a house and kill himself or somebody else, White thought.

While many people would have kept on driving, thats not how Whitewhose girlfriend refers to him as Captain Harrisburg because of his perpetual instinct to help outoperates. He had to stop that vehicle.

Captain Harrisburg to the rescue

White busted a U-turn and was now facing in the same direction as the pickup, but there were four cars separating them. White honked his horn, hoping the cars in front would move aside. They didnt. He tried to swing into the left lane and pass everyone, but oncoming traffic made it impossible.

Trapped, White pulled his car over, jumped out and sprinted up the sidewalk. The truck was going 10 to 15 miles per hour, White estimates. Captain Harrisburgeven in loafersruns faster than a swerving pickup.

He darted into the road, running around to the drivers side. The window was down on this temperate autumn day. White grabbed the frame of the windowhis legs moving in step with the pickupand with a mighty heave, leaped in.

White was now inside the cab of the truck, waist deep, his legs dangling out the window. The man behind the wheel, 64-year-old Todd DeAngelis, was just conscious enough to be startled by the peculiar sight of a stranger sprawled across his stomach, and he let out a yelp.

White worked quickly. They were coming up to a busy intersection, he recalls, so I was trying to stop anything before it happened.

He took hold of the gear shift and forced the pickup into park, causing it to jolt to a stop. He ejected himself from the truck window the same way he came in. By his estimate, he was in and out of the truck in about four seconds.

From outside the truck, White asked DeAngelis if he was OK. No, he replied, in a haze. DeAngelis, a diabetic, was unexpectedly facing dangerously low blood sugar.

White flagged down a police officer. An ambulance soon arrived and took DeAngelis to a hospital, where it was determined that had his blood sugar gone much lower, he could have gone into a diabetic coma.

He kept me from a much worse accident than it could have been, DeAngelis said after his recovery.

Whites actions that day were not out of character. As a teenager, he once kicked in the door of a house that was on fire to see if anyone was trapped inside. Fortunately, the house was empty.

Im always trying to help where I can, when I can, he says.

But jumping into a moving vehicle to prevent a crash? White admits this was new territory.

It took me a couple of days, he says, and a couple of beers, to chill out.

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Take these heartfelt (and hysterical) love stories from our readers below, for instance. Some feature romantic gestures that got a spouse to smile, while others are funny tales that prove everyday love is a hoot. Read on to get some inspiration for saying “I love you!”

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Pumpkin proposal

“My boyfriend and I were carving pumpkins. After carving a lid, I found that mine was already hollowed outwith a diamond ring inside. I was thrilled at his proposal and flummoxed as to how he pulled off placing the ring box in my seemingly untouched pumpkin. Years later, pumpkin carving remains a favoriteand my husbands trick a mystery.” Brenda Walsh, Avon, OH

“Harleyville” you too

“My husband and I try to maintain a sense of humor about our shortcomings, like his refusal to admit he has a hearing problem. While driving along the highway one day, I read a roadside exit aloud: ‘Harleyville.’ He turned to me and said, ‘I love you too.’ Its become an inside joke between usinstead of ‘I love you’ we just say ‘Harleyville’!” Alyce Dassing, Elkridge, MD

Holding each other up

“My boyfriend, Dean, had a stroke at age 47. He needed therapy to use his arm and leg again. He was tired and depressed, but I encouraged him. One day, he stumbled while we walked down the hallway. I helped him straighten up and we continued. He sagged again, but I wouldnt let him fall. The more he seemed to be sliding down, the more resolved I was to help. Finally, he said, ‘Will you please stop holding me up? Im trying to get on one knee and ask you to marry me.’ Weve been married for 11 years.” Amiee Mingus, Berlin Heights, OH

Cutting the mustard

“I stepped away from making my turkey sandwich for just a moment. When I got back, my husband had added the mustard for me in the shape of a heart. It wasnt some grand gesture, but nine years later, I still think about it and smile.” Claire Jones, Overland Park, KS

From first date to 50 states

“For my wifes 50th birthday, I signed 50 birthday cards and mailed them to friends and relatives all over the country to mail back to my wife on my behalf. This way, shed get a birthday card postmarked from all 50 states. My son drove from Oregon to Washington to have one postmarked in the Evergreen State. I even enlisted a few Holiday Inn managers!” Richard Hauser, La Quinta, CA

Really digging one another

“Early in our marriage, my husband, Bill, and I worked different shifts and seldom saw each other. Wed leave notes to communicate, addressing each other and signing off with just our initials. One day, I came home to find our pond frozen and ‘M I LOVE U B’ written in giant letters on the snow. I was touched by the sweet message and imagined the work it took to shovel out each letter. After 18 years of marriage, he is still the love of my life.” Mary Schultz, Wauseon, OH

Cant hide love

“My husband once got me a credit cardsize ‘I love you’ greeting card. I hid it for him to run across. He returned the favor, and weve now been hiding it back and forth for years. Some times it stays hidden longer than otherslike when he hid it in the pocket of my fleece jacket at the end of winter.” Cricket Lott, Lansing, MI

License to love

“I wrote a letter to my wife, Patty, every day while I was deployed. I signed each of them, ‘Patty, I Love You, Mike.’ Sometimes Id abbreviate it to PILYM. Once home, I had to buy a new vehicle registration. I chose a custom license plate that reads PILYM, which makes her smile every time I pull in the driveway.” Michael Flavin, Grove City, OH

Now thats an air kiss

“I was attending a jump meet with several other skydivers, including Jerry, whom I was dating. When we jumped from 6,000 feet, Jerry grabbed hold of me and gave me a kiss, known as a ‘kiss pass’ if you do it while free-falling. I knew it was his way of telling me that he loved me. We got married four months later.” Joan Helms, Indio, CA

Celebrity crushes

“When our daughter sent out her wedding ‘save the date’ cards, she accidentally addressed ours to ‘Dad and guest.’ My husband the jokester quickly lined up two other women (both A-list actresses) to take before asking me, his wife of 30 years. As his third choice, I told him it would take a grand gesture to get me to be his date. We joked for weeks until I came home to roses and a letter detailing all the reasons he loves me and asking if I would be his date. It was a beautiful weddingshame those actresses had to miss it.” Brenda Pyle, Menomonie, WI

Beloved blossoms

“My husband, Larry, was excellent at giving unique gifts. One Christmas, he gave me 100 daffodil bulbs of all kinds and colors. It is my favorite flower, tied to special memories of my grandmother. However, I have a black thumb and thought, Oh no! Am I going to have to plant all these? Reading my mind, Larry assured me that planting was part of the gift. He planted all 100 bulbs all over our yard, and they blossom into a beautiful landscape each spring. Larry passed a few years ago, but each spring when the daffodils bloom, I know his love still surrounds me.” Janis Smith, Loganville, GA

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The video begins with Ella sitting with a full plate of crispy steak and potatoes. “Can I just give it [to] him?” Ella adorably asks her father. “Go ahead,” her father affirms. Ella, full of initiative, quickly hurries from the table with the full plate of food and a fork outside the restaurant.

From the view of the restaurant window, Ella’s father proudly gushes over his daughter’s altruism: “This is my girl right here. I love her to bits.” Ella then approaches a homeless man sitting on a bench right outside the restaurant with the full meal and a fork. The man happily accepts the meal. Ella’s father, unable to contain his pride, repeats, “that’s my girl.” As Ella makes her way back into the restaurant, the homeless man looks back before digging into the hot meal.

“He’s like ‘oh my god! Are you kidding me? I just got steak and potatoes,'” Ella’s father says. Ella, full of joy, walks back into the restaurant smiling.

“Good job Ella!” her father exclaims. “I think you just made his week. How does that make you feel?” Ella scrunches up her face while beaming. “I like it!” she grins.

About the moment, Ella’s father describes it full of pride: “My daughter learned a valuable lesson by giving back to people that have less. Ella saw a homeless guy outside of the restaurant and gave him her steak and potato dinner. Proud father moment!”

It’s encounters like these that show how it just takes one person to make a difference. Whether a friend, family or stranger, a kind act can go a long way. There’s no end to acts of kindness for kids, or anyone of any age, to do. As we can see from Ella’s selflessness, it just may make someone’s day.

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The first dance

I was young, with a tedious job and a long commute. Life was a snooze. What happened to my dreams?

Driving one night, I heard an ad for a Chicago Bulls cheerleading tryout. I dont know what pushed me, but days later I was in a packed room, wearing a leotard, tights and a number. I knew little of cheerleading or basketball.

As we danced, judges weaved among us, clipboards in hand. I survived cut after cut. At the very end, my number was called. My heart sankId lost at the buzzer. Sixteen girls joined me in the next room. Then, a judge. We were puzzled.

Look around, she said. You are the new 19851986 Chicago Bulls cheerleaders.

Being a Luvabull was an honor and a privilege, and it shook up my life. I kept my full-time job ($20 per game wouldnt cover the bills) and spent my nights and weekends at practices, games and events. Seeing the Bulls (and yes, Michael Jordan) up close was a whirlwind, once-in-a-lifetime experience that Ill cherish forever, all because I took a crazy chance to get out of a rut. Lois Lavrisa, Savannah, GA

Getting the last laugh

Im 73 years old and a stand-up comedian. I took a class for the heck of it at age 70. I had meat in the freezer older than most of my classmates. To graduate, we had to perform in front of an audience, and I almost backed out. But I was on a high after hearing the laughter of the crowd.

Now, I perform in restaurants, comedy clubs, senior centers, etc. I even have an audition for Americas Got Talent coming up! Who wouldve thought? Valerie Libasci, Levittown, NY

Clear eyes, full hearts

I was a high school football coach for 35 years. In a small Texas town, that means the highs are high and the lows are … you get the point. I was fired for not winning enough one season. Pranksters put For sale signs in our yard. It was tough to explain to my kids, who idolized their dad.

One day, a neighbor gave me a note of encouragement with the word “perseverance.” That same day I got a letter in the mail from my dearest friend, citing perseverance as well. That afternoon, I visited my wifes classroom, and the word was written on the board. That was 25 years ago, but when things get turbulent, I still remember that day. Glen Jones, San Angelo, TX

Back in business

I was suddenly middle-aged with no rsum and no more kids who needed me at home. What was I supposed to do with the rest of my life? Id been designing items for my own pets for a while, so I began manufacturing them. I had none of the skills to start an e-commerce business: web design, shipping, marketing, social media, SEO, bookkeeping, inventory management. It took a full day just to figure out printing labels.

I still have a way to go, but Ive doubled my sales. Plus, Ive made wonderful friends in entrepreneur spaces and among my cat-loving customer base. Its been the most thrilling challenge imaginable. Dawn LaFontaine, Ashland, MA

One mans litter …

The pandemic shut down my sons adult day-care program. Individuals with autism crave routine, so it was very hard on him. We began walking the three-mile loop around our lake picking up garbage every Tuesday to establish a new routine.

Autism has deficits, but it also has strengths. One is commitment to routine. My guy wants to head out every Tuesday, rain or shine. The trail looks cleaner every week, and he takes pride in a job well done. He misses his day-care program, but youd never know it. When life gives you garbage, put it in the trash can. Annemarie Martin, Milford, PA

Fostering hope

I was a stay-at-home mother of five when my husband and I applied to be foster parents and were asked to take in a 2-year-old. Hours later, a little girl walked through the door and into our hearts.

She and I quickly developed a deep bond. We applied to adopt her. She was, after all, our child. She was instead placed with a distant relative.

I fell into a depression, became seriously ill and was hospitalized. My doctor urged me to make plans for my future. I began studying elementary education. It was difficult to finish school and run my home, but I did it and spent 25 years at the local elementary school.

But I never stopped grieving for my child. When she became an adult, we reconnected. She finally, officially anyway, became our daughter via adult adoption. We always knew we were mother and daughter. Elizabeth Gilbert, Angola, IN

The happiest job on earth

When the 2008 recession hit, I struggled to find work. A friend said, Why dont you do something around Disney? Your whole face lights up when you say the word.

I applied to many Disney-related jobs and gladly trained to book vacations to one of my favorite places on the planet. My main income was from referrals and repeat business as my client base grew. In 2014, I moved from Philadelphia, where Id lived since birth, to Florida, near Walt Disney World.

This career is my retirement. I get photos from families on trips I booked, thank-you notes from clientsmany of whom have become friendsand videos of kids reaching into their stockings to find letters from their favorite Disney characters about their upcoming surprise trips. This reinvention has given me more satisfaction than anything else Ive done. Marlene Patrick, Minneola, FL

A daughters gift

My oldest child caught measles before she could be vaccinated, and she was left with an intellectual disability. My husband and I had two more kids, and we all supported her at every turn. She passed from a brain aneurysm at age 40 but was a tremendous blessing and taught us a great deal.

Our other daughter is now a special education teacher. Our son is a financial planner specializing in families with members who have disabilities. I co-founded a residential facility for adults with intellectual disabilities and have been its administrator for 20 years. We all believe our years of living with and loving Cathy were meant to prepare us for the paths we now walk. Sandy Thompson, Richmond, VA

Righting and rewriting history

I knew nothing of my husbands South Carolina hometown when we moved there in 1967, but I was delighted that the nearby college was one of the few offering my desired home economics degree. My father-in-law initially suggested the school, aware that it had no Black students and making a joke at my expense, but I applied and was accepted. I walked to campus or hired a cab, and I carried my books, son and baby bag with me to make it happen.

I was wary, having witnessed the Orangeburg Massacre not long before, where police had shot protesters of racial segregation at South Carolina State University. But on my first day, another student greeted me and offered a tour. We chatted and she made me feel welcome.

I didnt know this was something I was not supposed to do. I didnt know my husband would become abusive. I didnt know Id divorce. I didnt know I would achieve my dream of becoming a 4-H agent. I didnt know Id successfully raise my son on my own. I didnt know Id help start a shelter for battered women. I didnt know Id retire after 30 years from a career I loved. I didnt know Id remarry.

I didnt know that Id be the first Black graduate of my university, or that Id receive an honorary doctorate in public service. I didnt know I was making history. Annette Reynolds, Florence, SC

The post Readers Share Stories of Strength and Success After Setbacks appeared first on Reader's Digest.

Meir Kalmanson thought they, too, should get to celebrate the big day. So on a cold February Sunday in 2017, as he headed to a Super Bowl party at a New York City club a friend owned, he invited six homeless men he met on the street to climb into an Uber and join him.

The men, as might be expected, were a tad leery. But Kalmanson, now 33, has an earnestness and an innate decency about him that put people at ease, and the men were swayed. Watch the game? Go somewhere warm? Get food to fill an empty belly? Of course!

Over burgers, wings and soda, bedecked in New England Patriots jerseys, Kalmanson and his homeless guests watched the Patriots claw back from a 25-point hole to beat the Atlanta Falcons. Kalmanson describes the scene as warm, exciting energy. Conversation flowed. We were on the edge of our seats. Cheering, laughing.

But the game played just a small role in the nights success, he says. More important was the mens interaction with one another and the other fans.

We were part of a bigger party that was happening, says Kalmanson. So if you walked in you couldnt tell who was homeless and who wasnt. As a result, the men felt that they were part of something. They had their dignity restored.

For that evening, they were no longer outsiders. They belonged.

Kalmanson, aka Meir Kay to the 319,000 YouTube followers who watch his inspirational videos, assumed that the party was a one-off. But the following year, when friends and YouTube fans asked about the next Super Bowl party, he knew the event had already taken on a life of its own.

And so began the charitable organization Super Soul Parties (supersoulparty.org). Kalmanson works with a network of volunteers and homeless shelters in cities around the country to organize the gatherings and transport guests on game day. Last year, more than 2,000 homeless men and women in 36 cities watched the Los Angeles Rams tame the Cincinnati Bengals. Kalmansons goal is to spread the celebrations to every state.

The parties have evolved from that first one. Homeless attendees now have access to new clothing and a barber, as well as mental health therapists and affordable housing organizations. Families are also welcome. Last year, during the halftime show featuring Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg, everyone got up, and it turned into a big dance party, says Kalmanson. In such carefree circumstances, he adds, people are reminded who they areand not the identity we place on them or how they label themselves.

Ultimately, the Super Soul Parties are more than a sporting event. Theyre opportunities to bring awareness to the plight of the homeless while making them feel a part of a larger community. And then theres this. A Super Soul Party moment Kalmanson holds dear happened in 2020. A local news station came to an event in Oklahoma City and interviewed an older homeless man. That night, a young man watching the news recognized him as the father he hadnt seen in years. Theyve since reconnected, and the older man met his grandchildren for the first time.

Helping others is not something new for Kalmanson. As a devout Jew, he grew up in a household that lived by the Golden Rule, helping those in need, whether it was a meal or a place to stay, he says. Its the most important thing in life: Be kind, be kind, be kind.

100-Plus Random Acts of Kindness

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The post His Super Bowl Parties Feed the Homeless, So Everybody Wins appeared first on Reader's Digest.

He sends the photo to his wife, Brittney Harrison, who is six months pregnant with their first child. Harrison, a 39-year-old flooring sales executive, is returning to his home in Lakeland, Florida, after taking part in an offshore deep-sea-fishing tournament in Marsh Harbour, Bahamas.

Its around noon. The early May weather is perfect, and the viewsbrilliant blue skies and crystalline ocean beloware drop-dead beautiful. The plane is being flown by Ken Allen, a 64-year-old veteran pilot. To Allens right in the co-pilots seat is his friend Russ Franck, 70. Francks no pilot, but he does enjoy going along for the ride.

Around 45 minutes into their scheduled 75-minute flight to Treasure Coast International Airport in Fort Pierce, Florida, air traffic controllers in Miami clear Allen to begin his approach to Fort Pierce, which is now about 70 miles to the west. They instruct him to descend to 10,000 feet.

November 333 Lima Delta, Roger, Miami Center, says Allen, using the planes call sign.

A few minutes later, as Allen continues his descent, the right side of his head starts pounding: Boom! Boom! Boom! Every time his heart beats, Allen feels as if his head is being hit with a hammer.

What the heck? Allen wonders as he winces in pain. Out of his right eye, he begins seeing bright blue lights flashing.

Guys, I dont feel good, he tells Harrison and Franck. The pain is severe. The pounding intensifies. His voice shaking, he says, Everything is fuzzy! It’s one of the scariest possible moments as a pilot.

Harrison answers immediately, What does that mean?

I dont know. My head is killing me! I dont … Allen suddenly stops talking, and Harrison watches him slump back in his seat. The plane is now careening toward the sea without a pilot.

Harrison manages to undo his seat belt and, fighting G-forces that want to pin him back to his seat, stumbles a few feet to Allen. He and Franck try to rouse Allen. No response. The pilot is unconscious. And the plane is out of control, plummeting in a deep, dizzying 340-mile-per-hour dive to the ocean below.

Instead of blue sky, the two men see whitecaps on waves below that are getting bigger and bigger as the plane continues to drop to 9,000, then 8,000, then 7,000 feet. The Cessna Caravans automatic emergency alarms are wailing. Although hes never taken a flying lesson, Harrison has flown on enough small planes and observed enough pilots to know that he has to pull back on the planes yoke to bring the planes nose up. But he has to do it slowly: It’s an unfortunate airplane feature that if you pull the yoke too quickly, the motor could stall or the wings could be ripped off. Squatting behind Allens seat, he reaches over the unconscious pilot and grabs the yoke while Franck grabs the co-pilots yoke.

As the plane falls, both Harrison and Franck struggle to level off the plane, which has dropped nearly 4,000 feet in 30 seconds. Soon, the planes nose levels off and turns up, before climbing back to 9,000 feet.

Can you hold this steady? Harrison asks Franck. While holding the co-pilots yoke, Franck helps Harrison unbuckle Allens seat belt, and Harrison pulls him off the seat and gently lays the unconscious pilot on the floor of the cabin. Harrison quickly climbs into the pilots seat and takes stock of the situation. First and foremost, they are alive. But they are a long way from home. And neither man has ever flown a plane before.

A serious situation

Air traffic controller Chip Flores has been on duty in the control tower at Fort Pierces Treasure Coast International Airport since 7 a.m. Because the winds have recently picked up, many of the student pilots who would normally be flying have been grounded, and Flores is thankful for the low traffic.

The quiet is interrupted when Flores gets a call on his headset. Its Harrison: Traffic. N Triple 3, Lima Delta. Come in, he says, using the planes call sign the way hed heard Allen say it.

Flores responds, Caravan 333, Lima Delta, Fort Pierce tower.

Ive got a serious situation here, says Harrison. My pilot … uh … has gone … incoherent. I have no idea how to fly the airplane.

Flores jumps from his seat and hits a button on his console that broadcasts the radio transmission through the control towers loudspeakers. Alerted to an emergency, everyone in the tower drops what they are doing and listens to the call.

Flores asks Harrison, Whats your position?

I have no idea. I see the coast of Florida in front of me, and I have no idea.

Flores takes a deep breath. What he doesnt know is that somehow the Cessnas display screens have gone blank. Harrison must have hit a switch that turned them off when he tugged Allen from his seat. The only instruments that are still operational are the altimeter, a basic compass, and the attitude indicator, which shows whether the plane is level.

What Flores does know is that he may lose radio contact with Harrison at any minute because the plane is flying south and will soon be beyond the airports radio transmission limits. Flores is also concerned about those first words Harrison said: I have no idea how to fly the airplane.

Harrison, Flores decides, needs a quick flying lesson. He radios Harrison and calmly tells him, Try to hold the wings level, and see if you can start descending for me. Push forward on the controls, and descend at a very slow rate.

Flores and the entire tower team await Harrisons response.

Yeah, we are descending right now at 550 feet a minute. … What heading do I need to be at?

Flores never gets the chance to tell him. Hes lost contact with the plane as it flies out of the airports radio transmission zone.

Flores radios Harrison, This is Fort Pierce tower. Are you on the frequency?

No answer.

Inside November 333 Lima Delta, Harrison and Franck realize they have lost contact with the tower. Floress voice is replaced by static, then nothing. Once again, Harrison and Franck are on their own. While Harrison holds the plane steady, Franck tries to figure out where they are. And if they are even flying in the right direction. Franck had ceded control of the plane to the younger Harrison under the mistaken belief that he may have had some flight simulator experience because he seemed so focused.

Franck peers out his window and says, Look, theres the coast over there. He checks his compass to double-check his bearings. We need to go west to get to the airport.

Harrison nods and makes a gradual turn toward the coast.

Franck instinctively reaches down to where Ken Allen is lying on the floor and taps his feet. The stricken pilot moves ever so slightly, and Franck whispers, Hang in there, Ken. Hang in there, my friend.

A high-stakes mission

As the plane flies into Palm Beach International Airport airspace, air traffic controllers there take over from Flores. Their main mission: Find someone to teach a passenger who has never flown before how to land a plane.

Greg Battani, air traffic control specialist at the Palm Beach airport, pages Robert Morgan, who is sitting outside and reading a book on his break. Morgan, an experienced air traffic controller and flight instructor, hears the page: Morgan! Come to the radar room immediately. He slips on his shoes and rushes inside.

The airports operations manager, Mark Siviglia, meets him at the door and quickly briefs him: We have passengers flying a plane, a Cessna 208. The pilot is unconscious. Can you help land this plane?

Morgans eyes widen, and he thinks, Is this really happening? This sounds like a movie!

Morgan sits down at a radar scope in the darkened radar room and thinks, What am I going to tell this guy? Gathering his nerves, he radios Harrison, who is now about 20 miles to the south and flying west toward the Florida coastline. This is 322 Palm Beach approach. What we are going to do is get you to Boca Raton airport.

Harrison responds, I am not a pilot. My screens are black.

No problem. I want you to make a shallow turn to the north and hold steady at 3,000 feet.

Morgan and the other controllers follow the Cessna on their radar screens as it turns slightly to the north on a heading for the airport at Boca Raton. Morgan radios Harrison, Thats great. You look good. Then, because he knows its important to keep in radio contact with a trainee pilot, he adds reassuringly, Dont worry. Im here for you.

Standard practice in an aviation emergency is to get the plane on the ground as soon as possible. In this case, that would mean landing at the Boca Raton airport. But Boca Raton is a congested area, and the airport has only one runway. So Morgan decides to reroute Harrison farther north to the larger Palm Beach International Airport with its three massive 10,000-foot-long runways and a host of emergency services.

Maintain your height at 3,000, and start a shallow turn to the right. Shallow turns are key. Too steep a turn by an untrained flier could cause the plane to spiral to the ground.

As soon as Morgan radios the change, the Palm Beach International Airport staffers swing into action. Air traffic controllers man the radios, stop all departures at the busy airport and place incoming flights into holding patterns. Emergency responders are ordered into positions along the runway, and all vehicles and planes are moved away from the airports three runways.

Harrison and Franck are glued to their headsets, listening to Morgans instructions. Franck scans the ground for familiar landmarks. He sees the I-95 freeway and nudges Harrison. They follow it north to Palm Beach International Airport.

As they do so, Harrison practices controlling the Cessnas altitude, pushing the yoke forward to descend a bit and pulling it back to go up again. He also makes some small turns to the right, then to the left.

The plane is now about 6 miles south of the Palm Beach airport. You should see the airport straight ahead, Morgan tells Harrison. I want you to start descending to 2,000 feet.

“That guy is amazing”

As Harrison descends, Morgan grows concerned that Harrison is still flying too fast for a safe landing. Hes also worried about 28 mph crosswinds swirling around the runway, which can easily force a small plane off course on landing. Morgan tells him to make a slight turn to the west.

Were going to bring you out to the west and give you more time to get lower and perfectly lined up with the runway, he says.

Harrison follows each of Morgans instructions and is now turning the plane back to the airport to make his approach to the massive Runway 10L.

Lets slow you down, says Morgan. See that black throttle control in front of you? Pull that back a little bit. Keep your speed above 110 knots.

Harrison throttles back and lines up the runway, which is 3 miles away. The radar room is quiet; everyones eyes are glued to the radar screens, watching this final approach.

Your speed looks fine, Morgan tells Harrison. As you get closer, the runway will get wider, and once it gets really wide, I want you to pull the power back to you and also pull back on the controls.

Hey! I dont know how to use the brakes. What do I do when I land?

When you get to the ground, just put your feet on the top of the pedals and apply a bit of pressure. Morgan quickly adds, Gentle! Be very gentle when you press on the pedals. What he doesnt mention is that putting too much pressure on the brakes too early can blow a tire, causing a pilot to lose control of the plane, possibly crashing on the runway.

As the Cessna nears the airport, Morgan reads out the planes altitude to Harrison, 600 feet … 500 feet 400 feet. … Youre doing great!

Harrison, now 1 mile from landing, descends to 300 feet and is on target to land on Runway 10L. The airports radar cannot pick up planes under 300 feet, and November 333 Lima Delta disappears from Morgans screen.

Are you still there? Morgan shouts.

Ten seconds of torturous silence follow. Morgan swallows deeply as he and the other controllers in the blacked-out radar room stare at the blank radar screens.

Three seconds … four seconds … five seconds … six seconds. … Nothing. Seven seconds eight seconds nine seconds

Then the rooms loudspeaker crackles to life. Its Harrison. Im on the ground. How do I stop this thing?

Morgan hits the radio call button: Use the toe brakesgently!

Harrison, still barefoot, presses the tops of the pedals gently and brings the plane to a stop, smack-dab in the middle of the runway, 25 minutes after taking the controls.

The radar room erupts in cheers. Exhausted but flushed with adrenaline, Morgan stands and blinks back tears.

Harrison, feeling comfortable at the planes controls, radios Morgan, Hey, do you want me to taxi this off the runway?

Morgan chuckles. Amazing, he says to himself. That guy is amazing.

Editors note: Ambulances rushed Ken Allen to the nearby Palm Beach Gardens Medical Center, where he was diagnosed with an aortic dissection, a tear in the inner layer of the aorta that is often fatal. Doctors operated immediately, and he is expected to make a full recovery.

Next, learn the reasons behind airplane safety rules andwhy some airplane seats face backward.

Why Its So Cold on Planes

Why Airplane Windows Are Round

How Does In-Flight Wi-Fi Work?

The post This Passenger Got an Emergency Flying Lesson After His Pilot Passed Out at 10,000 Feet appeared first on Reader's Digest.

Moving stories of everyday holiday heroes

The holidays, admittedly, can get hectic. Getting a tree, planning Christmas parties, shopping for the kids’ Christmas presentsso much to do, so little time. However, it’s important to step back and remember that Christmas and the entire holiday season is a time to spread kindness and good cheer to all. Even the smallest act of kindness can make a big difference in someone’s life.

Need proof? Read these lovely tales of real-life Secret Santas who helped turn the holidays around for our readers. These true accounts of strangers stepping up could put even the grumpiest Scrooge in a good mood!

GetReader’s DigestsRead Up newsletterfor more inspiring stories, humor, cleaning, travel, tech and fun facts all week long.

The post Readers Share Their Heartwarming Real-Life Secret Santa Stories appeared first on Reader's Digest.

It was hard to do on a teachers salary, but every day from the post-Thanksgiving return until the Christmas break, Jessie managed to bring the kids some little token of holiday magica pack of crayons, a pencil, something. No matter how small the gift, Levinsons students were always grateful. And there was a good chance it would outshine whatever their families could afford to give them. Despite being surrounded by wealthy neighborhoods, their community was so poor that when it rained, kids came to school wearing trash bags. Some didnt brush their teeth because they didnt own a toothbrush.

Hard times

Then the pandemic hit, and the district switched to online learning.

Levinson and her colleagues worried that their kids, who received free breakfast, lunch and dinner at school, would go hungry. To their relief, the district announced it would continue distributing meals to the kids and their families. But while food would be taken care of, Zoom opened the educators eyes to many other physical hardships their students faced. For Levinson and her colleagues, it was a peek behind the curtains into their students home livesand what they saw broke the teachers hearts, especially when the cold weather came around.

One kindergartner spent her daily six hours of Zoom hunkered at the back of a mini-mart while her father worked. Others attended virtual class from motel rooms where their families were temporarily sheltering. On screen, some students had several siblings in the background, all sharing one bed and doing online school for various grades.

And, with the climate-controlled environment of the school building now inaccessible to the students, Levinson began to hear a common complaint. They would tell me they were cold, she says. Theyd be trying to type on the computer, and you could see that their little fingers were cold. It was Southern California, so the temperatures werent frigidbut it did drop down into the 40s, and a lot of the kids were working in unheated spaces.

Real-life elves

Levinson knew she had to do something. But on her limited means, how could she possibly keep all her students warm? She created a simple wish list on Amazon: a blanket for each of her 24 students to stave off the cold. On the Nextdoor app, she made a heartfelt plea to the residents of her well-heeled neighborhood: Help Keep My Students Warm and Bundled on Zoom, she wrote. She explained the situation, pointed any potential donors toward her Amazon wish list, clicked Send and hoped for the best. Five minutes later she got a text from a neighbor. Im looking at your wish list, the message read, but theres nothing there. Levinson reopened the Amazon page. Just like that, in five minutes flat, her neighbors had fulfilled the wish in its entirety.

Quickly, Levinson reached out to her colleague who taught the schools other pre-kindergarten class. Can I add your class? she asked.

Sure!

And just as quickly, the second class was showered with donated blankets. Still more messages came in: We want to buy. We want to help. Theres nothing there.

So Levinson looped in a third classroom and kept updating the wish list. How about hoodies for the kids? Scarves? Mittens? Umbrellas? School supplies?

Her plea had gone viral, and in the days that followed, it seemed that whatever she asked for, generous donorsfrom California to Texas to Pennsylvaniawere willing to provide. Levinson had always been touched by how caring and generous her students were.

Thats not how I grew up, she confesses. I would be that little brat, like, How come Im not getting name-brand? But these kids appreciated every little thing.

If they received some small gift, theyd often ask shyly if they could share it with their siblings. If classmates were having a bad day, their little friends would surround them with questions and hugs, seeking to make things better.

So when the donations came pouring in, Jessie the Elf joined Levinsons Zoom class to deliver an important message: I hear youre being good! Youll be getting rewards soon, and gifts from Santa.

Such largesse could not have come at a better time. COVID hit us pretty hard, says Monique Luna, whose son Nathan was a pre-K student in Ms. Levinsons Zoom class. My husband had lost his job. We were in a financial [scrape]. We depended on [those gifts].

The packages piled up in Levinsons one-bedroom apartment. With the help of colleagues, shed sort the donations and carry them to a distribution point for grateful parents to pick up. Often the kids were along for the ride, giving Levinson another chance to reiterate Jessie the Elfs message: Jessie brought all these things because youre working so hard and youre so kind. She wants you to be warm and happy, because you make her happy every day. And each new morning, Jessie made her appearance on Zoom to reveal what new reward the kids generous behavior had produced.

Giving knows no calendar

Christmas comes but once a year, but giving knows no calendar. As the summer of 2021 drew to a close, and students and teachers prepared to return to in-person schooling, Levinson started hearing from her pool of donors. We want to help with back-to-school supplies, they said. Do you need stuff? Can we help?

With school supplies as expensive as they were, of course the families needed help. Once again, Levinson put up a wish list, and the response was so overwhelming that she arranged for each of the schools 600 students to receive a backpack filled with supplies.

For Christmas 2021, the community again came bearing gifts, and Jessie the Elf again did her part by distilling the enormous generosity down to fit a childs magical worldview. So much stuff poured into the school that the library stood unusable for weeks, piled as it was with packages. Besides the blankets, hats, gloves, scarves, hoodies, umbrellas and backpacks, the kids received unique Christmas gifts like toys, play dough, art supplies, water bottles, fuzzy robes, markers, stuffed animals, books, pajamas, socks, jackets, printers for their classrooms, tablets and more.

Kindness is contagious

A team of lawyers from a nearby company adopted families to Christmas shop for. A tutoring company volunteered its services for free. When a local news channel got wind of all the Santa stories, it triggered a small media frenzy. The kids got used to seeing themselves on TV. Were celebrities! theyd say. Inspired by what had happened at San Fernando Elementary, teachers at other low-income schools in the area put up Amazon wish lists of their own, and they, too, watched the donations pour in.

Parents were in awe of the generosity of complete strangers, says Jennifer Valdemar, the schools assistant principal. At the end of a school day, when cars lined up to collect the kids, she says, it was not uncommon for parents to roll down their windows and ask, Who can I thank? How can I thank them?

Monique Luna was one of those parents. I dont think theres enough words, she says. Theres not enough thank-you’s to give to them. Especially during the pandemic, when we were all suffering, still theres somebody willing to help out a random person they dont even know. I wish there was more I could say or do to thank them.

But most of the donors were happy to remain anonymous. Like Levinson, they were not in it for the publicity or even for the thanks, but because their hearts couldnt bear to see kids lacking basic necessities.

For Levinson, one of the great surprises in all this was just who chose to give so selflessly. On neighborhood forums, she says, Theres so much slander and hate and political stuff. People bashing teachers. But when something like this comes up, everybody jumps in to help, even the people who have been so negative. Its just beautiful. Its just absolute community. Ive cried a lot.

For the students of San Fernando Elementary School, their universe is simple. They absolutely, 100 percent believe that Jessie brings all this stuff, and that their kindness is why its happening, Levinson says. I love that they believe this.

In the world of a young child, what matters is being kind and caring, looking out for one another, sharing what you have. Jessie the Elf represents a 2,000-year-old narrative in which a severely disadvantaged childone born to penniless parents in a drafty barnwould go on to teach the world that its the children who have it right, that our differences are trivial and love is the thing that matters most. In our troubled times, its easy to believe that the lesson has been lost. But it hasnt. Its just that sometimes we need the little children to reawaken it in us.

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The post Meet the Kind Strangers Who Became Real Christmas Elves to Kids in Need appeared first on Reader's Digest.

Jim Glaub and Dylan Parker had just been handed the keys to their new Manhattan apartment on 22nd Street when the outgoing tenant said something curious: Just so you know, theres this thing where letters addressed to Santa come to the apartment. The previous tenants had received the mail too. It had been coming for years, and no one knows why. But its not that big a deal.

Glaub and Parker settled in to their new home, and for the first two years only a few letters trickled in from kids or parents asking Santa for gifts they could not otherwise afford: toys, coats, a doll. Then in the months leading to Christmas 2010, they were deluged. Every day, theyd open their mailbox to find it brimming over with letters to Santa. They responded to as many as they could, writing notes, even buying gifts. But they could only do so much.

Glaub, of course, is not Santa. He runs a Broadway marketing company. But one night, when he and Parker threw a 1960s-themed Christmas party, a solution appeared. Guests, dressed in mod outfits and hippie beads, noticed the hundreds of letters Glaub and Parker had yet to act upon, tucked in the corner of their dining room, and asked about them.

I told them the story, Glaub says. His guests were intrigued. A lot of people were like, Ill take a letter. Ill fulfill it.

Thats when Glaub and Parker realized they didnt have to fulfill all these letters themselves. People want to help.

And so was born Miracle on 22nd Street, a community-based volunteer organization that responds to childrens letters to Santa with seasons greetings and gifts for kids.

To spread the word, they started a website, miracleon22ndstreet.com, and a Facebook page. Working with other nonprofits that help those in need, they invited families from around the country to go online and request gifts and Christmas toys for their children. Likewise, donors, aka elves, can sign up to buy gifts for a child or family, accompanied by a signed note with Elf before their name, such as Elf Jim or Elf Jody. Both families and elves are vetted either by the nonprofits or by Miracle on 22nd Street.

Letters typically request popular items, such as Paw Patrol and CoComelon for little kids, makeup and bikes for older ones. One child living in a crowded household wrote that he suffered back pain from sleeping on the living room couch. With the OK from the boys parents, the childs elf bought him a bed.

Some letters are heartbreaking. One child wrote: Dear Santa, For Christmas, I want my brothers to get better. My younger brother has a hard time walking and has to use his wheelchair. I wish he could play like me. I also wish my baby brother could eat like me and not have his feeding tube. I know these are not real presents, but this is all I want this year.

Thats a tough ask for any elf. But Miracle on 22nd Street did send the children gift cards and a kind note.

Last year, Glaub and Miracle on 22nd Street helped more than 800 families. One beneficiary wrote on Facebook: Huge shoutout to my kids’ elf! You helped give this newly single momma of 4 the best present. You gave my babies a reason to smile and enjoy their Christmas after everything weve been through. All I wanted was to see them happy, and I got just what I wanted.

Glaub no longer dwells on why the letters come to the apartment. Putting in the long hours to help the families is what its all about for him. Its part of Christmas for me, he says. Its the same for the elves and families. They look forward to it. Not to do it would be very sad for a lot of people. It wouldnt be Christmas without it.

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There is no way they just drove into that water, thought Corion Evans. The 16-year-old was hanging out with friends in a parking area underneath a Moss Point, Mississippi, highway in July when a sedan with three teenage girls inside propelled off a boat ramp and into the Pascagoula River. It came to rest some 20 feet from land, then sank. The driver, Evans would learn, had blindly followed erroneous directions from her GPS.

It was around 2:30 a.m. by the time Evans and brothers Karon and Caleb Bradley got to the rivers edge. In the darkness, they could barely make out the girls clinging to the roof, the only part of the car still, barely, above water. But they could hear screaming.

Evans ripped off his shirt and shoes, tossed his phone down, then dived into the water, a river he knew alligators called home. He helped the first girl he saw and, keeping her head above water, led her ashore.

Just then, a man called out. Police Officer Garry Mercer had arrived. He dived into the river to help another of the girls. But halfway back to shore, she panicked and went underwater, pulling Mercer down with her.

Evans jumped back in the water and helped them until they could stand. If he hadnt been there, who knows? Mercer told the Washington Post.

There was still one girl in the water. Cora Watson, 19, could not swim. She was gulping water, struggling to stay afloat. And scared.

I heard Cora screaming Help! and I thought she was done, Caleb told WLOX in Biloxi.

I just knew my last breath was coming, Watson said. My mind said, Youre slowly losing yourself. She began to go under. Then, a jolt. Corion had grabbed me.

The three girls and Officer Mercer were taken to the hospital and released. Theyre alive because Corion Evans risked his life to save them. Theyre alive, says his mother, Marquita Evans, because Corion Evans broke his curfew.

But shes not mad, she told the Post. He had a good reason.

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It turns out that John Cena is just that type of person. He’s a triple threat of the very best kind: He’s got brawn, he’s got brains and a heart of gold.

The former wrestler-turned-actor, 45, just set a new world record for most wishes granted through the Make-A-Wish foundation, with 650 wishes granted. And he didn’t just set a recordhe smashed it. No other celebrity has granted more than 400 wishes in the organization’s decades-long history.

Breaking Good News Alert

John Cena has set a new record for most wishes granted through the Make A Wish Foundation.

He has now granted 650 wishes to critically ill children more than anyone else in history. pic.twitter.com/5pJvXMduPk

Goodable (@Goodable) September 23, 2022

Make-A-Wish, which has been around for 42 years, supports the dreams of critically ill children aged 2-18, providing fun experiences like trips to Disney World, family reunions, concerts and tropical vacations. But one of the most requested wishes? Meeting a celebrity of their choice, most of whom are athletes and actors. (Not all of them thoughone very popular request is making a cake with Cake Boss’s Buddy Valastro!)

Other kind-hearted celebrities who have granted wishes include bands like Maroon 5, who have invited wishers to perform onstage with them, Tim Tebow, who has thrown a football around with many of them, Michael Jordan (who has granted over 200 wishes), and others like Miley Cyrus, Dwayne Johnson and Lady Gaga.

But Cena is by far the most requested celebrity and has said he’ll always answer the call to fulfill these children’s dreams. “If you ever need me for this ever, I don’t care what I’m doing, I will drop what I’m doing and be involved because I think that’s the coolest thing,” Cena said of the organization in 2019.

He’s also donated over six million airline miles to the foundation to help cover airfare for families having wishes granted, and has said he aims to grant at least 1,000 wishes, if not more.

“There is no more humbling experience than a child who could ask for anything in the world asking to meet me,” he said after he granted his 500th wish. “I have faced some of the toughest Superstars in WWE history and I’ve never encountered more bravery or toughness than I see in each wish kid that I meet. It is inspiring to see the impact that granting wishes can have and I look forward to granting 500 more.” This definitely makes the list of some of the most endearing kindness quotes we’ve heard.

Sources:

• Guinness Book of World Records: John Cena Breaks Make-a-Wish Record After Granting Hundreds of Wishes
• WWE Community: Make-a-Wish Celebrates John Cena for Granting Record 500 Wishes

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The post John Cena Breaks the Record for the Most Make-a-Wish Requests Granted appeared first on Reader's Digest.

When White, a 43-year-old security agent from Rohnert Park, California, snagged the pit bull puppy in 2018, Darby was just another four-legged lug: young, friendly, playful, strong as an ox.

Then, in the summer of 2019, came Darbys date with destiny.

Darby springs into action as a hero pet

White was fishing in Northern Californias Bodega Bay. He left Darby, then a year old and 100 pounds, to chill in the parked car, windows down, while he cast his line a few yards away. The fish werent biting, White recalls, until suddenly, they were.

At first, White thought he had hooked a stingray. But as he reeled it in, he realized it was a sevengill shark, about 6 feet long. Not uncommon, but still dangerous. “Their teeth are gnarly,” White says. He brought it close and carefully unhooked it, expecting it to swim away. It didnt.

“The shark clamped down on my ankle,” says White. “All of a sudden there was blood everywhere.”

He yelled for help, hoping the two fishermen at the far end of the beach could hear. But they didnt seem to know what was happening. Fortunately, Darby did. He hurled himself out an open window of the car and down the embankment toward the water. He ran right up to the shark and sank his teeth into its gills.

“That just made the shark bite down harder,” White says. Darby backed off, then regrouped and latched onto the sharks tail. The shark released its grip, and White managed to push it into shallow water, where it swam off.

“The whole thing took less than a minute,” White saysbut it left plenty of damage. White was able to stop the bleeding and get to the hospital, where he learned that an artery had been punctured and nearly severed.

That wouldve been the end of it, had Darbys story not gone viral. White was contacted by NBC News and CNN. Thats when the countless cash offers started to come in.

But the big dog was not for sale. He had another job to do.

Darby: A hero at home too

At the time of the attack, White lived with his parents, James Sr. and Pam. When Whites mother passed in early 2022, Darby and James Sr. became inseparable. Being James Sr.s best buddy has been Darbys greatest gift to the family.

“We were worried. Sometimes when one parent goes, the other can get really depressed. But I know that Darbys here, so I dont worry,” says White.

Today, Whites shark bite is long healed, but Darby (aka the House Hippo) is a bigger hero than ever. “All he wants is to be surrounded by his humans,” says White. “If my dad makes a hamburger, Darby gets a hamburger, with a bun. Thats his best day. Hes got it made.”

“Pit bulls have a bad reputation, but theyll give their life to save yours,” White says. “Someone could offer me a million dollars for him, and I wouldnt take it.”

Next, read more of our hero pet stories, including the pet squirrel who thwarted a robbery.

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Maybe shes fishing, Conrad, then 20, thought as he continued driving his Mustang to his home a short distance away. His friends car had broken down, so Conrad was making a quick stop to grab some tools before heading out to help.

Tools in hand, he climbed into his car. Instead of taking a shortcut, though, he opted to head back over the bridge. Something about that woman didnt sit right. Why would she be fishing this late at nightin May, when its still cold in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin?

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Checking on the woman on the bridge

As he crossed the quarter-mile-long bridge, Conrad saw the woman standing in the same spot. He pulled a U-turn and parked on a diagonal some 20 feet away with his hazards flashing, blocking one of the four lanes. In case there was trouble, he hoped another driver would take note and help.

He stepped out of his car and got a clearer picture of the scene. The woman was in her 20s, dressed in pants and a heavy coat. What hed thought was a backpack was in fact rope pooled by her feet. One end was tied to a bridge post. The other, around her neck.

“Hey, whats going on?” Conrad called out. He didnt acknowledge the rope because he didnt want to let on that he knew exactly what was going on.

She spoke reticently, but he kept probing, eventually pulling from her that she was going through a particularly rough patch. She was jobless, not doing well in schoolin short, life wasnt working out as shed hoped.

“Not everything goes as planned,” agreed Conrad. He started talking about the ups and downs hed faced in his life. As he talked, he inched closer.

When she mentioned that, on top of everything else, her car had broken down, Conrad chuckled. “Well, thats better than when my friend rolled his car,” he said. “Too much power for him.” The woman laughed.

“I told a few more jokes about my friends, and the dumb things weve done, just to get her mind off stuff,” he says.

Conrad is a quiet guy, not given to gabbing. But for the next hour he found enough topics of conversation to keep the woman engaged and even laughing. She grew comfortable enough to let him get within a few feet of her.

Then a switch seemingly went off.

Saving the woman on the bridge

Without warning, she climbed onto the railing. Conrad reached for her. She teetered. He threw his arms around her, hauling her down off the railing. She grabbed the railing, saying, “Im not worth it.”

“Let go of the railing,” Conrad said, his heart pounding, “or Ill have to yank you off, and I dont want to hurt you.”

Suddenly, bright lights appeared. It was the police. Someone had reported Conrads car for being parked on the bridgejust as hed hoped. The two officers took hold of the woman, then handed Conrad a knife so that he could sever the rope tethering her to the bridge. Soon, more police arrived and the woman was taken to a hospital for observation.

Sadly, this was not the first time someone tried to end it all on one of the citys bridges. What was unusual was what Alex Conrad did.

“Usually, at best, we have someone see something odd and call us later,” says police Lt. Brian Micolichek. “Its rare that someone gets personally involved.”

One officer was so impressed by Conrads actions that he suggested he consider a career as a police negotiator. Conrad declined.

“You cant win them all,” he says. “And Id have to live with that for the rest of my life.” Instead, hes going out with a perfect record.

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Time has not been kind to the gravesites of veterans in Iowa City, Iowa. Many of the headstones are weathered and covered in dirt and lichen. Others have sunk into the ground. The graves had been neglected, ignored. Not a fitting tribute to those who fought in Americas battles, ranging from the Civil War to more recent conflicts. Aaron Schultz, 19, first noticed their tattered state while visiting the grave of a neighbor in 2021.

“They gave their lives to serve this country, and I feel that needs to be honored,” Schultz told KCRG-TV news.

Schultz was determined to spruce up their graves. “People think, Oh this person died in 1965, so his headstone should be dirty,” he told CBS2 in eastern Iowa. “But theres a way to clean it off and preserve it to what it was.”

He bought a cleaning solution used at Arlington National Cemetery, as well as scrapers to remove lichen and mold. He then began visiting cemeteries, spritzing and scrubbing until the headstones fairly gleamed.

A friendship formed by a good deed

Schultz posted his handiwork on Facebook. One person who took note was Madonna White, 67. Like Schultz, White has family members who served in the military.

“I was moved by the fact that he had felt that strongly about this,” she told the Associated Press. So, they joined forces, and soon an unlikely friendship blossomed between Schultz, who attends Kirkwood Community College, and White, who is retired. In between scouring and sudsing, White said, “we have great conversations about all kinds of stuff.”

So far, the pair have restored more than 100 headstones. “Were gonna work on these veterans stones until we get them all,” White told CBS2.

Schultz agreed: “Its a good way to spend your timedoing a good deed.”

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But the real magic is how it came to be built and lovingly crafted by the people of Kingsport themselves, most of whom had no idea how to wield a chisel, let alone fashion a carousel.

How the Kingsport Carousel came to be

It began 14 years ago when Kingsport transplant Gale Joh wanted to give back to the place that had become his home. Originally from Binghamton, New York, the carousel capital of the world, Joh spent his youth riding the citys half-dozen carousels. Kids in Kingsport should know the same joy, he thought.

So, in 2008, he proposed the pipe dream to a city alderman. She scoffed at the cost, declaring, Kingsport will have a carousel when pigs fly! That alderman happened to be his wife.

Undeterred, Joh turned to his local Kiwanis club. Reggie Martin, Milton Nelson, George Gibson and Ted Heiligthe Four Horsemenshared Johs enthusiasm. They werent the carpenters and mechanics Kingsport needed, but they were the problem-solvers. The Horsemen attended woodcarving classes three-and-a-half hours away in Chattanooga to learn to carve carousel statues. Giving selflessly for the greater good is nothing new in Kingsport. In fact, they have a term for it: the Kingsport Spirit.

Kingsport was chiseled out of the Appalachian Mountains on the tail of the Industrial Revolution. People came from all around to make a new beginning for themselves. And with them they brought an old-school work ethic infused with a spirit of understanding and generosityand the aim of improving everyones quality of life.

The carousel represents that so well, says Jeff Fleming, Visit Kingsports relocation manager.

The Four Horsemen returned from Chattanooga as adept carvers, and the city gifted a facility to use as a workshop. The carousel project found its hooves. Then, suddenly, Gale Joh passed from Lewy body dementia in 2010.

The Kingsport Carousel carries on

Johs dream wouldnt die with him. Instead, donations flowed. The Horsemen taught volunteers to sculpt (each statue takes about a year), and a local artist taught them to paint. Sculptures took on characteristics of their carvers. Valerie Joh carved several, including a pig with wings.

Next, theyd need a frame (a floor, poles, sweeps, rounding boards, gears and an electric motor) to house the statues. In 2011, word of the volunteer carousel effort reached a Connecticut zoo, which donated an old frame sitting in storage. And a Kingsport shipping company offered a free ride in an empty truck that just happened to be returning from New York. Two days and a truckload of neatly disassembled parts later, Kingsports carousel frame was on its way.

When faced with an obstacle, wed put it out to the universe and our community, and a solution would arrive, says Bonnie Macdonald, Kingsports former cultural arts administrator.

Just as volunteer artists emerged, so did mechanics to reassemble the frame. Heilig, a chemist by trade, built flooring for the entire platform.

In 2015, after seven years, with the help of 300 volunteers and 700 sponsors, the Kingsport Carousel was ready to ride. A lilting, whirling work of art, it stands as a symbol of both extraordinary gumption and fun for funs sake.

High schoolers borrow the carousel as a photo backdrop every prom. Its a favorite field trip destination for Girls Inc. of Kingsport, an after-school program. Its the go-to for date nights, proposals and sunny afternoons.

Were not the carousel capital of the U.S.; thats still Binghamton, says Macdonald. But when it came time to make a carousel, we had all the talents we needed right here.

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Not many nice places shower their residents with burning embers. But on that hot August day in 2020, as ash rained down and flames closed in, Jim Rhodes didnt want to be anywhere but Coulterville, California.

My kid called from Alabama. We first heard about the fire from him, Rhodes recalls. He said, Evacuate! I said, Evacuate? To where?

Coulterville is a tiny town in Northern California, about 150 miles inland from San Francisco, nestled among dry hills where ranchers raise cattle and other livestock. The nearest sizeable town, Mariposa, is 26 miles away. Once Mexican territory and later a gold rush boom town, Coulterville is barely a crossroads today. It has a Main Street, a park and a museum. Its got a cafe, a consignment shop and a VFW post.

And with summer temperatures routinely topping 100 degrees, it has firessometimes big fires. And this, Rhodes knew, was a big fire. Eventually, this blaze would have a name: the Moc Fire, for the tiny town of Moccasin, where it began as a brush fire, origins unknown. It would burn for 10 days, consuming almost 3,000 acres.

Rhodes woke to find his Dodge covered in ash and the news broadcasting evacuation orders. Ranchers across the region were scrambling to protect their animals, loading them into trailers or just setting them loose to find safety. Volunteers were readying fairgrounds in Mariposa and Sonora to shelter animals large and small; already they were filling up with dogs, cats, chickens, horses, cattle, donkeys, llamas, goats, sheep and rabbits.

As residents and animals hauled out, firefighters poured in. With them came the biggest bulldozer Ive ever seen, says Rhodes, sent to cut the firebreak that could save the town. We knew that if it breached the cut, wed all have to get out of here.

The stakes were clear. The danger was growing. But slowly Rhodes realized: He hadnt come to Coulterville just to leave when the town needed him. A Vietnam combat veteran, Rhodes had been looking for a retirement spot when a fellow vet recommended Coulterville. He quickly became enamored of the dusty old town, with its sturdy VFW and its eclectic cast of local characters. And they, in turn, embraced him. He couldnt leave, fire be damned.

So he stayed, joining the handful of residents gathered around the Main Street bulletin board where fire officials posted updates. He knew he could help somebody, somehow.

Around midmorning, a rancher hed never met came by asking for help evacuating animals. Rhodess phone was still ringing: His son still wanted him to evacuate.

The old soldier knew what to do. I hung up my phone, got in the truck and headed down 49 to see how I could help, he says.

Coulterville, California: Shaped by gold and disaster

Fires and floods have always been a part of life for Coulterville. So have people like Jim Rhodes. Whenever theres a blaze, youll see the community running toward the fire, not away from it, says Dawn Huston, co-owner of Main Streets Coulter Cafe.

Huston would know. In these dry, brushy hills, small fires crop up constantly, started by lightning, careless campers or even the motor of a hot car parked on dry grass. The state firefighters handle the big jobs, but it falls to everyone to stop small fires before they grow. A little fire popped up on our neighbors property not long ago, Huston says. As soon as we saw it, I jumped on my quad and went to help. Thats what you do.

Founded around 1850 as a miners trading post, Coulterville recorded its first fire nine years later. The town would burn three times and wash away once in its first 60 years. But gold kept people coming; at its 19th-century peak the place had 5,000 people, 10 hotels and 25 saloons. Later it would become a gateway to Yosemite, bringing a steady stream of tourists to shop Main Street and dine at the historic Hotel Jeffery.

Today, most of the gold is long gone. Most of the tourists too. Wildfires keep coming, though, closing roads to Coulterville three times in the past four years. A structural fire took out the Jeffery in 2014, and its been closed ever since. And COVID slowed tourism across the region.

None of that has helped the town, whose precarious economy depends on a mix of ranching, tourism and anything else that might bring a dollar. While hundreds of people live on ranches large and small scattered in the hills, Coultervilles official population is now about 125 people. If you drove past Coulterville today, youd barely notice it.

But if you got a flat tire or ran out of gas, you wouldnt have to wait long for help, says Huston. You see somebody broken down on the side of the road, and you ask them if they need help, and theyll say, Youre the tenth person whos stopped already, she says.

Huston grew up nearby and returned in 2010 after years in San Francisco. She and her partner opened their cafe on Main Street and bought a 35-acre ranch. Huston knows it could all disappear.

You have to come to terms with the fact that you can lose your property, your animals, everything, she says. So what keeps Huston in Coulterville? Its the people. In San Francisco, theres 50 plumbers within a mile of your house, but I wasnt close with all my neighbors. Here I know all of them. You rely on them in a different way.

The tradition goes way back, says one of those neighbors, Sue Garrett. Any time I go to town, I call around and see who needs anything, she says. Garrett is a fifth-generation rancher, raising cattle on 1,000 acres first staked out by her great-great-great-grandfather. The building itself has never burned, but the property is crisscrossed with firebreaks from past battles.

On the day the Moc Fire sprang up, Garrett quickly realized her ranch was in a critical spot. If the fire went through our property, it would have gone right into town, she says. We were the last chance to stop it.

Sure enough, her lower pasture was soon a staging area for fire trucks and firefighters. Bulldozers began slicing through her fence lines, cutting a new firebreak and clearing out the old ones. She let loose her cattle to find safety, including the beloved bull with the black-and-white tail she calls Pep Le Pew. Its an old practice in a place where there arent nearly enough trailers to haul every animal.

If you get a fire, youve got to start cutting fences, she explains. We paint phone numbers on hooves, or put on these laminated ID tags. Still, you might not see them for six months.

Over the next 10 days, while the Moc Fire burned, Garrett took care of animals at the Mariposa Fairgrounds shelter. Horses needed their stalls cleaned. Cattle and sheep needed food and water. The work was hot and exhausting, sometimes 18 hours a day. Garrett wouldnt have it any other way. Weve got everything against us, but I dont care, she says. When you have fires and floods that shut the roads, it makes you resilient. You figure things out. You go where youre needed.

Taking care of each other in Coulterville, California

Theres no shortage of need in the homes and ranches of Coulterville.

Around here, $20 is 20 dollar bills, says Jesse Salcedo. Times are tight.

The son of Native American farm workers, Salcedo later found success as a general contractor. Like Rhodes, hes a veteran who came to the Coulterville area looking for that elusive combination of privacy and community.

Salcedo is now a local fixture, best known for making traditional Native American tipis that he sells or donates to charity fundraisers. His newest project is a heritage festivalBanderitas Dayshighlighting Coultervilles Mexican and Native American history. When Salcedo needed a sound system, Dawn Huston lent him a PA system. And when he needed some stress relief, Huston had that covered too.

I went over to the cafe, and she said, What do you need? Salcedo says. And I said, I just need a hug.

Salcedos father was a member of the Pueblo tribe; his mother, a Yaqui. His Coulterville neighbors remind him of the tireless men and women who worked alongside his parents in the California vineyards. The grit of these peopletheyre survivors, says Salcedo.

Its one result of all those fires and floods, says Huston: a community that knows how to work together. Everything in Coulterville depends heavily on volunteers, she says, including the history museum, the VFW, the food pantries and the annual street party called CoyoteFest. The towns residents include newcomers and old-timers, liberals and conservatives, people with money and people without. But what most locals share, Huston says, is the will to set aside differences when their place needs them to.

Its not what color you are, or whats your politics or your sexuality. Its, are you a good egg? Mostly its good eggs, she says. Everybody sees it as part of their responsibility to take care of themselves, but also to take care of their neighbors.

On the front lines of the fire

On that sultry day when the Moc Fire closed in on Coulterville, Jim Rhodes was ready to do his part. He just wasnt sure exactly what it would be.

The air was still. Ash and embers tumbled down. Rhodes was sitting in a pickup truck with two men he barely knew, winding up a narrow rural highway. The men didnt know exactly where the fire was; the haze was too thick. They knew that if the wind stayed down, it probably wouldnt move very fast. But they also knew that if the wind rose, all bets were off.

Either way, there was no turning back. So he let his combat training kick in. He was on a mission. His team was with him; the only way to go was forward. And the next thing Rhodes knew, he was in some strangers barnyard, surrounded by frightened horses and goats. The animals knew something was up, he says.

The work went quickly. The rancher gave them laminated ID tags on necklaces to slide over the animals heads before setting them free; with those in place, any animal that didnt make it home on its own could be picked up. Rhodes struggled to get the necklaces over the frightened horses necks. The goats were easier. Their necks are lower, Rhodes says.

The little crew did the same thing at a second ranch. By then, the fire had closed the main highway, so after helping everyone they could find, they made their way back to safety by the back roads, four hours after beginning.

Later they learned that the fire had come perilously close to jumping the firebreak. One of the homes they visited would burna total loss, Rhodes saysbut the animals he set loose that day were all recovered within a week. And while the Moc Fire would burn about 2,800 acres of ranchland and forest, no lives were lost, and no major livestock losses were reported. Even Pep the bull and the rest of the Garrett herd made it home safely.

So Coulterville still stands. Its far from a perfect place. It has its share of troubles. Jobs and housing are scarce. Venomous snakebites will kill your calves. And, of course, fire can come anytime. It can be a hard life on both people and animals.

But Coulterville has thrived before, and it can thrive again. It has concerts at the cafe and theme parties at the consignment shop. It has its history museum and its gold rush attractions. It has the annual CoyoteFest, complete with music, vendors and a signature howling contest. Soon it might even have a place to sit down and eata new owner plans to reopen the Hotel Jeffery, complete with bar and restaurant.

A cocktail I didnt make myself? I cant wait! says Huston.

But in the meantime, theres usually dinner at the VFW once a week. And if you meet Sue Garrett and she invites you to the ranch for tacos, dont be shy; its from the heart.

Were not just being polite, she says. We wouldnt say it if we didnt mean it.

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The challenge is simple: Answer a math questionsay, whats 8 x 8 + 50?and get five seconds to grab as much as you can from Lucky Candy bodegas shelves, all for free.

For Ahmed Medy Alwan, 23, joy is as essential as breakfastand regulars at his familys corner store sometimes struggle for both. So he came up with a clever way to brighten his customers days. Ive always helped out people in the neighborhood, he says. Theyve known me since I was a little kid. I know half of them by name. And, you know, sometimes they need credit.

Lucky Candy is located on a busy street in the Bronx, which is whats known as a food desert, where affordable, healthy food is scarce. Many residents rely on neighborhood shops like Lucky Candy for their daily needs.

Introducing the “bodega challenge”

Enter the #bodegachallenge. When a young math whiz gets an answer right, one of two things usually happens. Some kids dart for the candy, and who could blame them? Others grab things like rice, oranges and potatoes, clearly thinking of family at home.

Theyre doing something good, Berto, a student who stopped in after school, told Inside Edition. Because here, we see a lot of people who dont even have anything.

Alwan covers the sprees with his paycheck. But his boss, aka his father, Saleh Aobad, doesnt mind chipping in too. A Yemeni immigrant, Aobad knows that in one of the toughest, most competitive places in the U.S., a bit of help goes a long way.

This changed our relationship with the community big-time, says Alwan. Theyre showing so much love, and theyre lining up at the store for a chance to play.

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The post Solve a Math Problem, Get Free Food: How the Lucky Candy Bodega Uses Math—and Kindness—to Help the Community appeared first on Reader's Digest.

It was a bright spring afternoon along the Maryland coast, and Jonathan Bauer, 51, a technology executive at a hospital, and his 13-year-old daughter, Ava, were taking full advantage of it. They were driving with the windows down as they headed home on the 1.4-mile, two-lane Route 90 bridge, which spans the shallow waters of Assawoman Bay. Suddenly, the calm was disturbed by the squeal of tires.

The crash that changed everything

Not far ahead of them, a black pickup was skidding from one lane to the other. To the Bauers horror, it slammed into a concrete barrier, spun like a top, flipped over the SUV directly ahead of them, and came to rest dangling over the railing of the bridge. Bauer hit the brakes in time to avoid the vehicles in his path, but a BMW sedan that had smashed into the guardrail on the right came sliding backward toward him. He swerved left, but too latethe BMW struck his Volvos fender before crashing into the vehicle behind him.

Bauer stopped the car. Ava, are you OK? he asked. She was shaken, but otherwise unhurt.

He ran to the BMW. Are you OK? he asked the driver. She nodded, too shocked to speak.

And then a shriek. It came from the pickup, which had come to rest on its right side. The rear passenger compartment and truck bed hung out past the guardrail, 30 or more feet above the waters of the bay. The drivers door flung open and a man climbed out. He dropped to the ground, then sprinted to the railing. Bauer ran up beside him. The man pointed down, saying something in Spanish. In the water was a car seat. Bobbing next to it, a girl, about two years old. Pink polka-dotted dress, brown hair, brown eyes, terrified, floating on her back, kicking and splashing and screaming.

Make sure you know what to do after a car accident that will make all the difference.

A parent’s worst nightmare

From around the truck, more screaming from its other passengers who had gotten clear of the wreck and were looking down into the water.

Matters quickly went from bad to frightening when the toddler rolled over onto her stomach. Bauer waited for the pickup driver to do something, but he didnt budge. Maybe he was in shock.

Ava! Bauer yelled, stooping to remove his shoes. Stay by the car!

He held no illusions about his chances jumping from this height into such shallow water. Four feet of depth was the most he could hope forhed gotten his boat stuck here a time or two. And were there rocks this close to the concrete pillar of the bridge?

Hed soon find out.

A leap of faith

He climbed onto the railing and executed the most painless belly flop he could muster. A moment later he was bouncing off the sandy bottomunhurt! The little girl was less than 10 feet away. Bauer swam to her in a few quick strokes and lifted her out of the water: mouth half open, eyes nearly closed, not breathing. Standing, he laid her against his shoulder and whacked at her back with the flat of his hand. Come on come on…

And then a retching sound as ocean water came streaming from her mouth. But still no breath. Another whack on the back and another retch, followed by a gasp, and then the beautiful sensation of little fingers gripping him around the neck. Her eyes were opened now, focused on him. He pulled her close, hugging her to shield her from the cold.

A moment later a family on a pontoon boat pulled up and hauled Bauer and the little girl aboard. They motored to a boat ramp where an ambulance waited. Minutes later, the girl was en route to Johns Hopkins Hospital in a helicopter, and Bauer was hugging his own daughter next to their banged-up car on the bridge. The toddler suffered a broken shoulder but was otherwise uninjured.

Ava Bauer was so inspired by her fathers actions that four months later she became a cadet firefighter so that she too could save lives. That girl is going to live a whole life because of him, she says. Its incredible.

If this story inspired you, read about the Dads on Duty who are preventing violence at their local high school.

The post This Man Jumped Off a Bridge to Save a Child After a Car Accident appeared first on Reader's Digest.