A Memory of Rescue, from long ago

One of the very first times I took a train alone, I was a kid, taking summer ice skating lessons at the Wissahickon Skating Club. My mother dropped me off at the Bryn Mawr station and I climbed on board among the business suits wearing my furry sweater and my thick nude tights; my skates, wrapped in an old pink towel, were safe in my plastic blue bag. It wasn't yet 90 degrees, for it was still the morning hour, but by the time my connecting train broke down, it was hot, and the business suits had left, and it was only me and a number of lovely ladies bound for their cleaning jobs in Chestnut Hill.

After a long time of sitting on a train that wasn't likely to move again, the conductors let us off and we walked the final stretch of track like a sad processional—me with my skates, the ladies with their cleaning things. I wasn't even close to where I needed to be. In fact, I had no idea where I was. I had, I remember this, five dollars in my pocket.

I was rescued by the ladies bound for Chestnut Hill. They hailed a cab, they stuck me between them, they made sure that I was dropped off first at that Wissahickon rink—late for my lesson and sticky hot in my fake summer fur and thick tights, my five dollar bill still in my pocket.

I never saw them again, of course. I never learned their names, or if I did, I don't remember. But they remain with me.