The People You Meet--Volume One

Newburyport has so many fine qualities that they're tough to rank. But one of my clear favorites is how this city seems to present many opportunities to meet new people.


I just like this picture of City Hall. Look at the trees.

I'd say typical meetings happen at Cashman Park. I'll be tossing the ball for Lucy while chatting with another dog owner (or parent if I have The Boy. ) Happens a lot downtown too at Plum Island Roasters or another downtown spot. But last week I didn't have to do a thing to meet Nancy Bartley.

I stepped out of my Green Street office to wait for Nicole to pick me up. I intentionally packed up a few minutes early so I could enjoy the last few hours of a beautiful September afternoon from my little perch. The sunglasses were on, and I casually looked up the street toward the IC to admire the sunlight warming the other side of the street.

Then I noticed a woman in a wheelchair and a young man without one coming down the street. The woman looked my way but we were a good 20-30 feet away so I no idea she was looking at me. She rolled steadily on. The young man kept pace. Then, she started steering the chair in my general direction until it became clear she was indeed looking at me. The young man dutifully followed her lead.

I assumed immediately that she was looking for directions. I have that kind of face--even with sunglasses on. As a younger man headed to work in Boston, people frequently stopped me on the streets of the Back Bay to ask me how they could get to Cheers. Being from Boston I've never gone to Cheers (well have you?) but I certainly knew where it was. So I told them. (Who says Bostonians aren't friendly?)

But this woman knew exactly where she was going.

"Hi," she beamed. "Would you like to buy a copy of my autobiography?"

Um..what? I didn't expect that.

"How much is it?" I can't believe I asked that. I mean it's a reasonable question but this woman--this author--clearly had overcome some intense physical limitations to write a book. She sat way back on the wheelchair. I can't remember how she steered it, but it wasn't effortless. Yet, she wrote a book. I never wrote a book. So can price be an object?

"Twelve dollars," she said, holding it up. It was a paperback book, about the size of a thick play bill you might get at the theater. I could see a wheel chair on the cover. The title of the book was "Look at Me, Not at My Wheelchair." I was happy that instinctively passed that test.

I opened my wallet. I knew I'd taken a bundle of money out earlier in the day. But the withdrawal preceded a bundle of errands. But surely I had $12. Nope, I only had a five and three ones.

"All I have is eight dollars," I said. I was a bit embarrassed but if I'd known I'd be asked to by a $12 book I wouldn't have bought a loaf of Harvest Bread at Greta's. (Love that stuff.)

"That's fine," her friend said. We completed the transaction. We chatted a bit about what I do and how she might get her book published. I didn't have much to offer her except a promise to pass the book over to a friend at the Daily News. I'm sure they'd like to write an article.

We said good bye. I put the sunglasses back on. Grabbed my backpack and headed up Green Street so I could meet Nicole on High.

I also started reading....more next time.