Last week I read an incredible story about San Jose’s Ada
Parsley. For the last 10 years this 69-year-old grandmother has
been tending the grave of a girl she never knew. Recently, she
escalated that vigilance by purchasing a $2,200 monument for the
burial site.
Last week I read an incredible story about San Jose’s Ada Parsley. For the last 10 years this 69-year-old grandmother has been tending the grave of a girl she never knew. Recently, she escalated that vigilance by purchasing a $2,200 monument for the burial site.
Initially, the grave had been marked by a wooden plaque with just the birth and death dates of 16-year-old Felisha Martin. Over the years, rain and sunshine had significantly eroded the tiny tribute to a short life.
Ada was upset about the disappearing eulogy because, “I don’t think anybody should be 16 years old, dead and forgotten.”
She asked, “What happened to this young girl and where was her family?”
Locals folks knew and answered. They remembered how Felisha’s boyfriend shot her as she shielded the couple’s 13-month-old daughter from the bullets. The baby lived, Felisha died and the boyfriend went to prison.
Ada decided that if Felisha’s daughter ever came back to the Bay Area to visit the grave, she should see a testament to her mother and her mother’s courage. So, Ada designed, ordered and paid for a granite marker with angels and dragonflies so that “nothing disappears on her anymore.”
By the time I finished reading the piece, I was into some pretty serious sniffing. The sad, short life of this young mother touched me. That she died trying to protect her baby. That no one but a stranger visits her grave.
But it was Ada’s generous gift that intrigued and challenged me for days.
First it reminded me of some of the great American challenges we’ve heard in the last two decades …
I thought about Rodney King daring us to accept those we don’t agree with or approve of in his infamous, “Can’t we all just get along?”
I thought about the movie that encouraged us to do more than “get along” with difficult people by “paying goodness forward.”
I thought about the ever so contagious “random acts of kindness” movement that swept across our country like wildfire. Poignant and sometimes hilarious stories emerged out of that delightful phase and always made me glad to be a part of the human clan.
Ada’s gift also made me realize that I’ve never done a random act of kindness that cost me money. (I define a random act as: for someone I don’t know; totally unexpected; unrequested; no chance of reciprocation.)
Usually my unsolicited deeds are just gifts of time. (I hate to use the word “just” because I do consider time a valuable commodity! But, in comparison to giving away money – much less two grand on a deceased stranger – I think “time” takes a back seat.)
When I do give cash, it’s to people I know, volunteer efforts I believe in or non-profit organizations with a track record of integrity.
Nor have I had anyone do a random monetary deed in my behalf. Strangers have shared a lot of smiles, compliments (especially on my new red car), thank-you’s and sometimes even useful consumer advice. One time I had a young man jog over to help me load cases of water into my trunk because he thought I “could use a hand.” It brightens my day considerably to have someone notice a need and be willing to get involved.
Lately, I’ve been a little concerned about the perceived loss of community spirit in Gilroy. Based on what I’ve heard and seen, it seems like we’ve misplaced our “small-town feel” or our “bi-partisan camaraderie.”
I think the perfect antidote to that apathy, discouragement or dissension would be a unified and renewed response to an old theme: Make an unexpected difference in the life of a stranger. (Maybe we could take it to a higher level occasionally and do something that costs us more than a smile or a second of our time.)
I also think it would be fun if participants sent brief e-mails to me about what you did and how it made you feel. Or, if you’re the recipient, tell me how the deed changed your day.
If I get enough letters, I’ll submit your stories for public perusal sometime in April. I’d love to spend 725 words bragging about the fabulous folks who live, work, volunteer, worship and play within our borders just to prove that random, creative caring is alive and well.
