I had foolishly left my cell phone at home. No problem. Luckily—or so I thought—I was on the side of a major street in a nice, suburban neighborhood. Nobody would mistake me for an “urban misfit,” such as one of the drunks or mentally imbalanced street people who are often found in major cities. Traffic was heavy and surely some kind person would stop and provide me assistance.

Ten minutes passed. I tried to get up to a standing position. I was unsuccessful. Tears became even more abundant as I sat injured on the ground and the cars kept passing by. There must be at least one kind Samaritan on the road. After 30 minutes of no assistance, I struggled to my feet. With much difficulty, I hobbled and hopped four blocks to a small neighborhood store. The proprietor immediately offered a chair, a towel, ice for the knee and a telephone to call my husband.

The injury has since healed, but my belief in the good in mankind has been adjusted. I learned that day that some people just don’t care about others. This enlightenment has made me be a little more cautious with my “everything is wonderful” philosophy. I’m a little more guarded. I refuse to give up my optimism completely. I’m still a Pollyanna, but now I’m one that starts with a small “p.” I’ve learned that this is a better way to proceed through life.