On Feb. 8, I witnessed a remarkable display of emotional stability exhibited by five adults at the Whitefish Post Office.  I not only observed it, I was the catalyst.  

I had three small packages. Two were solar lanterns I was sending to friends in Arizona and Missouri. The third was a small box containing three frozen banana bread muffins which were headed to my friend, Jim, in North Carolina. 

I had bragged to him on the phone a few days earlier about how excellent my latest batch of banana bread was. I went on to extoll the virtues of it – the chia seeds, walnuts, protein powder and extra spices I added. 

Jim is an artist I met at a craft fair in St. Louis many years ago. He was well over 6 feet tall and we drank beer together, alternating between my table full of pottery and his, where he was selling tie dyed shirts. He offered to take all my work and sell it in his gallery, and he did.  

While a U.S. patent on his tie dying method was being processed, he was paid $800/week not to dye. He often repeats this phrase to his own dark delight.  

“I was paid not to dye,” he’ll muse. 

Jim was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, then several years later, was involved in a fatal car accident that required him to undergo several surgeries. He uses a wheelchair now and jokes that he used to be tall, but now he is long. 

I spent $9.45 to send three muffins to him. 

I got to what I call the on-deck circle at the post office, the No. 1 spot in line, where I reached for my wallet, but could not find it. I checked coat and pants pockets, and even did the dramatic, self pat down from my collar bone to my belt buckle, all to no avail. 

“I have a dog treat,” I announced, holding half a dog bone and a bandana in my right hand. “Don't suppose they’ll accept this as payment.” 

I left, found my wallet in my truck and returned to stand in line again, this time behind five people. The man who was third in line saw me and gestured for me to get in the front of the line. When I refused, he gestured bigger and called to me to reposition myself. 

“Thank you,”  I said. “I can only do that if it’s alright with everyone. It'll have to be a group decision.”  

At that, three of the other waiters assented with nods and/or friendly grumbles. One man did not respond, so I remained in the back.  

I asked everyone to confirm that it would be alright, and the holdout finally acquiesced and said it’d be fine. I was concerned he was upset until, after thanking the group multiple times, I suggested this event was fodder for a newspaper article, at which, he said, with the timing of a comedic genius, “Here’s how you spell my name ...”  

The warmth and sense of community this act of decency gave me was off the chart. There are good people out there. There are good people doing good things right here. Thank you.