More than a decade ago, I was fly-fishing in Ireland’s rugged Connemara region. It was early evening and a sudden storm blew in. As I was wading out of the water onto the rocky shore, my foot caught and I fell forward. I heard my ankle snap as I went down. Agony followed a few seconds later.
I was seriously injured and alone on an isolated and remote stretch of river, a mile from my car. My cell phone had no signal. Dark was settling in and a cold rain was falling. I had no choice but to start crawling toward my car, my broken ankle dangling at an odd ankle and shooting sharp pain up my leg with each bit of forward progress.
A narrow road ran along the hillside above me, but it was fenced off by a high hedge and rock wall. Getting up to it and over to the road was impossible, so I inched my way along the riverbank in the general direction of my car.
Over the next half hour or so, I’d managed to crawl several hundred yards, pausing every few minutes to let the agony reside. I was getting weaker and worried about going into shock. Then I thought I heard voices. I started yelling for help as loud as I could.
Suddenly, two guys jumped over the hedge above me and came running toward me. They were part of a small group of Italian bicyclists completing a long day’s ride when they heard me yell.
Several more of their friends followed them down the hill. They picked me up and carried me a long distance to a gate where their van was parked. They loaded me into the van and took me back to the hotel where Dottie was already worried about my late return. The hotel called a doctor. After he confirmed my broken ankle and as I was loaded into the ambulance for the long drive to Galway University Hospital, I hugged each of my rescuers while tears of gratitude flowed down my cheeks. Italians, especially bicyclists, will always have a special place in my heart.
Nothing comparing to that moment of gratitude has occurred since then, until just recently.
For months, as the madness of the president became more toxic every day, many of us gave in to fear and despair. Then the COVID pandemic struck, people started getting sick and dying, and the guy in the White House kept making things worse. Finally, in a twisted and desperate attempt to stay in office, he sent his terrorist gang to storm the capitol, bent on murder, destruction and overthrowing our legally elected leaders. For those of us whose parents fought a war against fascists overseas, it was the worst kind of nightmare to see a domestic version assault our capital.
We were saved by a small group of brave Americans, including a majority of congress, who did their duty.
Then on Jan. 20, the sun came out as we witnessed the inauguration of Joe Biden and Kamala Harris. I was overwhelmed with gratitude akin to what I felt on that evening in Ireland a decade ago.
I wasn’t the only one who shed tears of joy that day. The feeling of relief spread all over the country and around the world. Dottie and I even got a phone call from France. At first, I thought the person on the line was in some kind of trouble because the voice was high and excited, speaking French way too fast for me to understand. Then I realized it was our friend, Jacqueline, with whom we stayed a few years ago. She was overcome with joy because Biden won. She knew we shared her happiness.
Joy to the world. Gratitude feels wonderful.
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