Grace in a Small Touch

by Gil Hoy

After the nursery school toddlers had crossed Harvard Street in Brookline, Massachusetts, all bound together by their undersized safety ropes and their teacher's watchful eye, little remained on the sidewalk to show that they'd been there, waiting patiently for the pedestrian light to change. All that was left after their slow-moving, teacher-toddler jaunt were two little orange juice cartons, their thin straws still inserted in silver-lined, foiled holes. They had somehow escaped the teacher's attention before she and her pupils crossed the street.

Only a few of us recognized the gray-haired, hunched-back man as he approached. He and I had become casual friends at local political events over the years while talking about the politics of the day. I was a Brookline Selectman back then, and he would sometimes share with me his views on how our hometown of about 55,000 people should be run, which I was all too happy to hear. He had once been the Democratic nominee for President of the United States.

Behind me, I heard someone say in a low voice, “Hey, that's Michael Dukakis.” He was in his late eighties by then but could still be seen most days taking walks around the neighborhood surrounding his Brookline home. He'd been a standout cross-country runner at Brookline High School, which my three now-grown children and I had also attended. He was in fine shape for his age.

The day was hot, and sweat had formed on my brow as I watched him gracefully scoop up the two orange juice cartons. He bent over to pick them up with a nonchalance and innocence that belied his gritty political career. And he then put them in his pants pocket. The legend is that when he was Governor — and the legend is true — he would regularly pick up trash that he came across while walking every day to the “Green Line” on Beacon Street in Brookline, Massachusetts to take the subway to the State House in downtown Boston.

Michael didn't see me watching him on that hot summer day. But after a short time, the teacher recognized him from across the street and called out his name.

He smiled at her and spoke to the toddlers: “try to learn something important today and be kind to each other.”

One of the little girls exclaimed, “I will, I promise.”

He crossed the street and gently shook her hand. And then he slowly walked away with the speed and cadence that old men often have after they've reached a certain age.

As far as I know, I was the only one of us who saw Governor Dukakis pick up the orange juice cartons on that warm August afternoon. I think he would have wanted it that way. He once shared with me his belief that unnoticed good deeds — acts where there is no expectation of reward or recognition — are the best builders of character.

I was privileged to see two empty orange juice cartons ennobled that day by an old man still working on building character and, now, I am privileged to be able to tell you about it. In recapturing what I saw, I know I'm acting as more than a recording secretary and am remembering far more than the mere facts I observed. I do so because of how much I admire and respect the man. He would have made a great President, I am sure, and he was and still is a true public servant in the finest traditions of that too infrequently noble vocation.