At the climax of Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire, Blanche DuBois says to the doctor who has unexpectedly arrived on her doorstep, “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.” Most of us would like to think otherwise of ourselves; we want to be self-reliant and strong. This is as it should be — but the kindness of strangers, together with the connectedness that both leads to it and grows from it, should not be turned away just because it could undermine our vision of ourselves.
On September 30, 2005, my wife Barbara underwent total hip-replacement surgery. Many of our friends knew of her impending hospital stay in advance, and there were the usual well-wishes and offers of “If you need anything, just call.” Four days later, she came home to begin her recovery and rehabilitation. Four days after that, on October 8, she fell down a flight of stairs while descending with crutches. Although we didn’t know it until 30 hours later, she had broken the femur of the leg that had just received a new hip joint. That disaster and its sequelae have taught us — are still teaching us — a powerful lesson about the kindness of strangers.
Word of Barbara’s accident circulated rapidly through our family and our circle of friends. And, intending that our clients should understand the reasons for the inevitable slowdown of our business, I telephoned Daniel Kirchheimer, who is a close personal friend. I asked him to post a message about the mishap on the Pentrace message board and to the Zoss list. That phone call triggered an avalanche. There were dozens of shocked, sympathetic, and hopeful responses on both Pentrace and Zoss. Phones rang, both at home and on my belt. Personal email messages began arriving at both my inbox and Daniel’s. They poured in from pen friends and clients, most of whom we have never met in person, all over the U.S.A. and in too many other countries to count. From Christians, Jews, Muslims, and others came assurances that Barbara was in the writers’ prayers. We were, and still are, quite moved by these correspondences; we hadn’t had any notion that so many of our pen-community acquaintances felt close enough to us that they were willing to open themselves up in such a fashion.
Perhaps most surprising of all were the many offers of help. People wrote that they were truly sorry they couldn’t come to us to offer personal assistance, but that if there was any favor, however small, that we needed or wanted, we had only to ask. Books, tasty delicacies, anything that might make things a little less painful, these were all offered. The number of bouquets and dish gardens in Barbara’s hospital room, and later her room at a local rehabilitation facility, broke records that had stood since before we were married nearly 40 years ago. One client, whom we know only by email and telephone, wrote to ask when Barbara would be coming home because he didn’t think he wanted to clutter her temporary lodgings. When she came home, a very large and very spectacular arrangement arrived from him. As I write, at the end of October, we’re still working our way through two boxes of luscious chocolates that arrived, one from Iowa and the other from New York.
And there are the cards and letters. There have come beautiful, thoughtfully chosen cards inscribed with the warmest of get-well wishes, and long handwritten letters often sharing — yet again — personal sentiments on a surprisingly deep level. The cards and letters, in addition to comforting and heartening us, also greatly impressed the hospital and rehab staff. Not only did the nurses, aides, and other staff comment on the number of writings, but also the quality of the handwriting (and in some cases full-blown calligraphy) had been until then beyond their ken.
Some of the people who have written to us used to be total strangers; there have been messages from Zoss-list members and Pentrace lurkers whose names we didn’t even know. None of these people is any longer a stranger. Others, whom we had thought to be at most business acquaintances, have also become non-strangers. Our world is much smaller than it was a month ago. Our family, if family is defined as the people you care about, is much larger than it was. We are humbled. And it’s all because we, and all of the people about whom I’m writing, share a common interest: pens. Pen people are the world’s best people.