Didn't your mother ever tell you...

• not to talk to strangers


• don't run with scissors


• don't point, it's rude


• don't accept rides from strangers


• don't offer rides to strangers - you never know if they're a homicidal maniac


• don't take candy from strangers


• look both ways before you cross the street


• there are starving people in china, you will eat what is put in front of you!

I am sure that these are things you have all heard growing up. Some of them you understood and obeyed, others, not so much. I personally never got the 'starving people in china' one, so what? Yeah they're starving, but why do I have to eat the peas. I will personally deliver the peas to them, then they will no longer be starving and I won't have to eat the little, round, green veggies. Problem solved. Yes? That reasoning got me strange looks.

But over the weekend 2 of these Mother's rules of thumbs were broken. Saturday afternoon I was picked up at school and was driven straight to the gym. I walked in, swiped my little ID tag - I hate it when they say "hello, Emily!" that's not really friendly, that's creepy. - and headed to the locker room to change out of my Cosmetologist apparel. There is a changing room open, and I start walking to it. Someone crosses in front of me. A small Asian woman, about 5' tall(if that) who looked to be somewhere in her 50's maybe(I'm a rather bad judge of age so...). She was striding across the room towards a locker holding what I assumed was the rest of her clothes as she was dressed only in a long tshirt and underwear, she had just showered, her hair was wet and tousled. After walking a couple steps more towards the changing room I am stopped by this little Asian and questioned.

She's noticed my smock, did I work today? - well, I'm still a student, but yes I did 'work' today

So I 'worked' Saturdays, so my weekend was Sunday and Monday? - u-huh

she points a finger at my name tag. You go to the 'Institute'? unable to say the whole name, where is that? - Wethersfield. I replied, giving its location information

This type of Question&Answer session continues on for about 10 minutes. She asks more about my school, if I've learned to cut hair, if I went to the gym everyday. I looked good. Did I eat all the food groups? Really? She moved on, choosing the gym as our next topic. I was blown away by how easily this conversation was flowing. I didn't know her, she didn't know me, she spoke very broken English but understood all that I said and responded quite enthusiastically. Her excitement for the profession which I had chosen made me bare my pearly whites in happiness. By the time we said goodbye and I had changed into gym clothes I had only 20 minutes left. I hopped onto an elliptical next to my dad who had headphones wedged into his ears and seemed to be in his own little world. I smiled to myself, recounting the run in with the cute, little, old, Asian woman. This was one stranger I was glad I had talked to.

Early the next morning my mother had made an appointment at the gym at 9:30. I was reluctant. Sunday was the first day of my weekend, the day I wanted to sleep in the most. "I'll let you sleep on Monday." she says, but I don't care about Monday, I'd rather get up earlier then. It was the day after I'd gotten up at 6:30 that I wanted to sleep. But because we haven't found a church yet my mother has been using Sunday mornings to work out. So I get up and we head out to Cardio Express. We work out with a trainer for 20 or so minutes and then leave. We are driving around the parkade parking lot, listening to our van squeal.

This van is 11 years old and has had more problems than Michael Phelps would trying to beat Shean White racing down a bunny hill on skis. Its latest thing is to make a high pitched squealing sound as we drive anywhere under 40mph. It sounds like a dying animal, and in a sense, it is. Our little complaints stop momentarily and my mother and I are both silent, tired.

We approach the stop sign across from the abandoned Bradley's parking lot. A woman sits on the curb parallel to us. She is wearing a long trench coat wrapped tightly around her thin waist. A scarf is covering her head, tied neatly under her chin. Beside her is a little cart on wheels with a few bags of groceries inside. She look like a babushka - a little Russian grandmother.

I wonder if she's waiting for someone, or if she needs a ride. I look at my mother who seems to be pondering the same thing. She glances at me and then verbalizes the question we're both thinking. "Should we give her a ride? Do you think she needs it? Do you think she'd even take it?" we sat there for a few seconds, then pulled to the curb. Mom stuck her head out the window and yelled to the woman. No answer. The babushka rose to her feet, she was very tall and slender as she walked towards our van. Mom repeated the question, this time receiving a response. "I don't normally accept rides." Mom jumped out of the car and opened the side door for her. As they figured where to put the woman's groceries - she was very concerned about the fragility of the eggs she just bought - I picked up my iPhone and made a music selection. I figured what I had playing now probably wouldn't be too enjoyable for this lady. I settled on a nice quiet album of hymns that seemed to match the perfect stillness of the quiet Sunday morning. We got our guest settled into the seat behind my mother and set off. This charming old lady lived right on main street, in an apartment next to the Bike Shoppe. The whole ride she made comments about everything. What a nice van, it has very comfortable seats, it drives nice. What nice music. It is beautiful. Isn't the weather beautiful today! She carried on in a very amiable way. She reminded me of my friends grandmother and I wondered what her life's story was. We found her apartment building and helped her(and her eggs) out of the car - again she told us what a wonderful vehicle we had. My mother asked if she needed help with her things and we were assured by Leona, that was her name, that she was fine, and thank you very much.

Mom climbed back into the car and we both sat there for a few seconds as Leona walked away with her groceries. Without a word the car was put into drive and we headed home. "Weren't we just complaining about our van? Right before we picked her up?" I murmured. "yeah," mom sighed, "interesting how that happened huh?" Our van that we had both just pronounced as a piece of crap that we'd be happy to see go was viewed moments later as a treasure to someone. I thought about that for a minute. Sure, it wasn't shiny, it had no hubcaps, no CD player. The speakers went on the fritz, the window got stuck sometimes, one of the seat belts would freeze in the winter and the carpet was permanently a muddy brown color. This van was over a decade old and had...personality, but it got us where we wanted to go. It's taken us on road trip after road trip, to the grocery store, dance, and on occasion, the random deliverance of random people.

I guess it was a treasure.