The moral of a mean memory

I hadn’t thought of this event in years. Just today something triggered the memory and I decided to share it.

When I was in high school and had decided I wanted to be a field biologist when I grew up (this was in 1978 or so), I was ga-ga crazy over Jane Goodall and her research. In those days – since my parents were on a strict budget with four kids to raise and my dad’s business sometimes struggling – extraneous spending was a big no-no.

Additionally, before the internet, finding a coveted item was often a matter of pure chance. I wanted to find whatever I could on Jane Goodall, not an easy task.

One day my mother and I went to a thrift store in town. I liked this particular thrift store because it had an awesome selection of National Geographic magazines. Routinely I went through their selection, searching in vain for the December 1965 issue which featured Jane Goodall on the front. I desperately wanted a copy of this issue because, well, Jane Goodall.

On this particular day in the thrift store, I saw a pile of National Geographic magazines on the floor in the book section … and there, on top, was the precious issue I so desperately wanted! I was thrilled! I remember snatching it up, face ablaze with joy, staring at the magazine. At last, I’d found it!

But a man soon rained on my parade. In my excitement, I hadn’t realized the pile of National Geographic issues stacked on the floor were ones he’d selected to purchase. So he snarled at me that those magazines were his. I don’t remember exactly what he said, but I remember the snarling tone. He was just so mean about it. I dropped the issue back on his stack, did an about-face, and walked out of the thrift store. Once I was outside, I burst into tears.

At sixteen years old, I seldom cried. My mother didn’t know what happened, nor why I’d walked out of the thrift store. She followed me outside and, to her shock, I was weeping almost hysterically. She thought I’d been physical assaulted by someone, and was ready to charge back into the thrift store and do battle on my behalf. But through my incoherent hiccups, I told her no one had hurt me (physically), but how that man was just so mean. I couldn’t get over how mean he was.

Anyway, that ended our shopping trip. Mom took me home, I got over my crying jag, and life went on.

About two weeks later, Mom presented me with my very own brand-new copy of Jane Goodall’s book, “In the Shadow of Man.” She’d ordered it through a bookstore in town.

Now understand, the purchase of a brand-new (and technically unnecessary) book at that time was an almost unheard-of expense for my parents. And yet, they realized the depth of my interest in Dr. Goodall’s research and decided to get me my own copy of that book. Forty-seven years later, I still have it, because of course I do.

Jane Goodall even signed it after I attended one of her lectures. I should point out that my dad took me to that lecture during my senior year in high school, another example of how my parents supported their children’s academic interests.

Anyway, I don’t know why I suddenly remembered that man’s sheer meanness in the thrift store after all these years. I hadn’t meant any harm when I snatched up that issue of the magazine, but for whatever reason he couldn’t find it in himself to gently inform me he planned to purchase the issue himself. I’d met plenty of mean kids in school, but this was the first purely mean stranger I’d ever met. Say what you will, I remember him after nearly half a century.

My parents were able to take that mean memory and turn it into something beautiful.

So be kind to people. That’s the moral of this memory.

Source: http://www.rural-revolution.com/2025/06/the-moral-of-mean-memory.html