Hope, positivity and a return to ‘normal’ at a convenience store somewhere in Illinois

Some days, I wonder if it will be normal again, ever.

I’m not sure what I mean by “normal again.”

That’s deep thought for this guy who spends most of life’s swim in the shallow end.

I’m talking about “normal” generally. Back when more people got along. More harmony, less divisiveness . You could agree to disagree. Middle ground was a safe landing zone. Opinion was more private than social.

You were judged by the way you treated others more than the way you voted.

You know. Like it used to be.

That was normal, in my little world.

Will it ever be normal again?

I wonder.

Worry, sometimes.

But something happened to me a couple of weeks ago that was so simple, natural and normal that it seemed surreal. Let me explain:

It was a Tuesday morning in late July. I was driving in my car from the Chicago south suburbs to Champaign. I stopped at a Casey’s just off the interstate in Chebanse, in Kankakee County. You can’t go wrong with Casey’s pizza. I filled up my car with gas, too.

I came out of the store and found my car battery was dead. I did not have jumper cables. Nor did I have roadside emergency assistance. You think I’d learn, but I only think about emergencies after I have one.

Wasn’t really sure where I was.

Somewhere in Illinois.

I went back inside Casey’s to ask about local roadside assistance. A senior man at the counter buying lottery tickets interrupted. He was older than me. African American. Dressed like someone who was cleaning his garage.

“You need a jump?” he asked. “Hold on. I can help you.”

I said, “Thanks. I appreciate it ….”

We went outside. He drove his older, dented, repainted Pontiac to jump start my newer Honda. Yes, the irony was clear. Together, we figured out the location of my Honda’s battery under the hood. I helped but stayed out of his way mostly.

Within a few minutes, two men came out of the Casey’s and asked if we needed additional help. Both white guys, in their 40s. One said he was a mechanic. He offered some tips. Adjusted the cables. Eventually my car started.

We shared fist bumps.

Four very different guys somewhere in Illinois genuinely excited that my car started.

“Can you guys wait a minute?” I asked. I wanted to give them some cash. I went inside the store to an ATM. I came out and tried to pay each guy.

“No way,” said the first guy. “Do me a favor. Just do something nice for someone someday?”

I tried to pay the second guy. He also waved me off. He then looked at me and asked, “You going to pay all three of us?”

I nodded, “Yes.”

“Then give it all to him,” he said. Both men pointed to the senior, African American man in the old Pontiac who initially helped me. He didn’t want to take my money, either. The three of us insisted. He thanked me at least 20 times.

“That’s not necessary, man,” he said. “Didn’t help you so I’d get paid … no sir. Thanks, you three ….”

In a few minutes, we had driven off the Casey’s parking lot. I didn’t get their names, numbers or email addresses. I didn’t ask who they were voting for this fall, or if they cheered for the Cards or Cubs.

The moral of my column?

I still don’t know what’s normal and what’s not. But I expect increased divisiveness as we move into election season. Two sides. Wrong and right. No middle ground. But when the tone gets unbearably negative, I can close my eyes, ears and remember my 15 minutes in a Casey’s parking lot somewhere in Illinois and be reminded it’s not hopeless.