Twenty-eight years ago, my wife, Sonia, and I were driving to my hometown of Asheboro for the 50th-anniversary dinner for Boy Scout Troop 527, which my dad, Harris Coffin, had started in 1936. Our son, Jon, 13, and daughter Anna, 12, were with us.
About halfway there, we discovered smoke coming from under the hood, and we pulled off on the side of the road. We determined it would be foolish to go on, so we called AAA to haul our car back to Compact Cars in Charlotte. But what were we to do?
About the time AAA showed up, a young man in a beaten-up car stopped and asked if he could help. He didn’t look much better than his car, but what were our options? Ride back with AAA? Call a friend to drive 35 or 40 miles to get us?
We took him up on his offer and crowded in the back seat with its torn cushions and scores of McDonald’s and Burger King wrappers on the floor along with wires and pieces of greasy equipment. He drove us straight to the First United Methodist Church in Asheboro, where the dinner was taking place. He couldn’t have been nicer. Mother and Dad drove us back to Charlotte the next morning. Alex Coffin, Charlotte
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