On the Road to Damascus

I promise more focused fare later, but on my two-day sojourn to New Orleans I had a touching and disturbing moment. I stopped for lunch and gas in McComb, Miss. I'd started to fuel up when she came around the pumps. Her eyes were red, and she was obviously distressed.

Are you from around here, she asked with a hint of a quiver. Uh, no, but maybe I can help -- thinking she was panicked from being lost. I've certainly made this drive dozens of times years ago, so I know my way around south Mississippi a little.

My daughter and I are trying to get back home and we're out of cash and I'm lost and I'm trying to get some gas and they made me a deal on some here but I'm trying to get a room to sleep and . . .

Her story was babbling. She kept offering to her phone to call her mom to verify the story. But her pain was genuine. I felt sorry for her, and gave her some cash. I'd help her more than me today.

She was very thankful and a little ashamed and got back in her car. As I left, I thought about how maybe it was an elaborate panhandle. Maybe. Or maybe she really was down and out. Either way, it will help her -- she'll really use it to get fuel and food or whatever else it takes to get her to forget her current circumstance.

I've not run across folks in that much trouble outside of larger cities, and certainly not usually here in the deep South. I guess it is more hidden in smaller towns, but she shows me that things aren't still good out there, no matter what the season or the news might say.

I wondered as I got onto I-55 heading toward New Orleans if I helped her out to make her feel better, or me. If I'm honest, probably both.