Spring had finally appeared in 1963 in Michigan. It was late April, with the grass and fields greening up as a few daffodils and tulips poked their little heads about.

The temperature had risen, but the skies were still gray and ominous just like my state of mind. This wasn’t the first time in the past few weeks that discouragement and frustration had left me isolated and alone.

Literally living on the wrong side of the tracks was no fun. Sharing a three-room apartment with my parents and four younger siblings was no picnic. Life for a poor teenage girl sometimes seemed unfair.

In addition to the normal angst, things often closed in on me. My only source of retreat and peace was to walk the railroad tracks in solitude to clear my mind.

My concentration and energy went solely to simultaneously stepping precisely in the center of each railroad tie while keeping an accurate count of them.

Without realizing it, I had walked nearly two miles. Sighing heavily, I slowly turned around to face my starting point. Far in the distance I saw the shabby, brick building my family and I existed in above the little diner below, so I decided to head back.

Little more than halfway back, an unexpected noise broke into my indulgence in self-pity. Startled, I watched without movement until finally seeing the source of the sound.

A man at the fertilizer plant struggled with a huge pry bar, attempting to move a railroad car. I nearly broke into applause when at last he single-handedly succeeded in moving the monstrosity.

With his receding hairline, I judged him to be about 30. He had a svelte, trim build and was handsomely tanned for so early in the season. Definitely the outdoor type, I surmised, becoming acutely aware of his ruggedness.

He spotted me as he strode around to the side of car to open the doors and unload it.

“Hello,” he called out.

I picked up my pace and returned his greeting. Casting me a broad grin, he asked, “How are ya doing today?” His smile lit up his entire face, revealing big dimples, a slightly cleft chin and sparkling dark eyes.

“All right, I guess. How about you?”

“I’d be doin’ a whole lot better if I hadn’t run out of cigarettes.”

“Having a nicotine fit, huh?”

“I can’t leave right now ‘cause I’m the only one here. I don’t suppose I could talk you into bringin’ me a pack from town, could I?”

All the clichés I’d heard for years ran through my head at this unexpected request, but “don’t talk to strangers” stood out.

My mind raced. I had never bought cigarettes before, and in the thriving metropolis — population about 490 — everyone in the village would know about it before nightfall, if I did. Mom would kill me — again.

My parents’ words of, “Help someone ever chance you git, Lou. You never know when you might need help yourself.” Throwing caution to the wind, I said, “Sure, if you have the money.”

He told me what kind and dropped some coins into my hand. As we almost touched, I noticed the strength and sturdiness of his hands.

The whole time inside the store, I felt sheepish. Mr. Sturtevant watched me suspiciously at the counter as I avoided eye contact.

Shoving the cigarettes and change into my pocket, I left as swiftly as possible. Feeling like the proverbial kid with my hand in the cookie jar, I don’t think I breathed until I was safely across the street.

On my return, I followed the sound of a machine and spotted the man. He shut off the motor, dismounted and strode toward my outstretched hand with the smokes and change.

He had the most intriguing smile I’d ever seen. Unable to explain it, I felt comfortable in his presence. I had no fear.

“You’ve just saved my life, little lady,” he chided, while tearing open the package with the savagery of a ravenous animal.

Lighting up and taking a long, deep drag, he then exhaled slowly and said, “It’s just a nasty habit I’ve got.”

“I’ve got to be getting home.”

He took another drag and asked, “You live around here?”

“Yeah, upstairs over the diner.”

Still puffing, he climbed back on the lift truck and when I turned to leave, he said, “Say, when are you goin’ out with me, anyway?”

Rather die than admit it, I was flattered. A presumptuous one, but a real man instead of the schoolboys I was used to had asked me out.

With all the cockiness and self-confidence I could muster, I turned to walk away and called out over my shoulder, “Who said I was?”

… to be continued.