Chapter Three in “Decades with the Squad,” by my father, William Palmer Jervey, Jr.

“I’m OK. Help the girls,” pleaded the elderly gentleman as he stood shakily beside his demolished car. As was later determined, he was indeed alright, having sustained no injury. Most remarkable, considering the tattered wreck that had been his automobile. In fact, no one was badly hurt in this one.

“The girls” turned out to be two ladies, one middle aged and the other somewhat older. I don’t recall the exact nature of any injuries, but I will never forget the older of the two girls.

We found her seated on the floor of the back seat, her right foot painfully pinched beneath the front seat which had been knocked askew. She was the most adorable little old lady I have seen in many moons. She wore an ankle length dress of dark taffeta, a narrow black ribbon around her throat, a little black hat firmly in place on her head which was a mass of the most beautiful silver ringlets. The expression on her face was a combination of resignation, mild defiance, patient expectancy. She sat with her fingers laced together in her lap.

I said, “Ma’am, we’ll have to do some prising to get your foot loose. We won’t hurt you any more than we can help.”

“Very well, young man,” she replied, “and I hope you won’t think ill of me if I cry out. The pain is quite excruciating!”

I said, “Ma’am, you go ahead and holler all you want to.”

It didn’t take us long to get her loose, and in a few minutes we were in the ambulance speeding to the hospital. I was filling out the run report and timidly suggested that I needed to know how old she was. She snapped her head around, fixed a suspicious gaze upon me, and through pursed lips said, “Young man, are you going to put this in the paper?”

I said, “No, Ma’am, this is for our records. It’s just routine.”

Her stern expression softened, and she said, “Very well, I am eighty years of age, but I don’t like to publicize that fact because they won’t let you go places and do things.” I assured her that my report would in no way restrict her future activity.

We rode on to the hospital, engaged only in intermittent conversation. When I left her, she regarded me sweetly and said, “Young man, I am deeply indebted to you and your kindness. I shall remember you in my prayers.”

I said, “Certainly, Ma’am, glad to help when I can.”

What a priceless encounter!