Umbrellas, Shark Teeth and One Tiny Toad
by Mitchell Kyd, Rural PA
When people feel connected, they aren’t afraid to treat strangers as friend.
In the middle of practically nowhere, along the road “up the valley” from me, tire tracks and flattened grass in front of a rustic, roofed stand verify that visitors stop there regularly and year-round. A hand-painted sign proclaims “Free”, and I’ve seen the table stocked with glassware and household goods, kids’ toys and small tools. A box labeled “Food Pantry” encourages visitors to take what they need, including garden produce that’s been donated in season.
A handmade cabinet with a glass door sits alongside, bearing the sign “Free Library.” It’s an unexpected spot for readers to browse, take, borrow or donate books. Who initiated this rural outreach is a mystery to me. With no businesses or churches nearby and no seeming connections to any home within view, it simply exists out of kindness.
Places that create deep roots for the people who live there seem to inspire that kind of action. I see it all the time. When people feel connected, they aren’t afraid to treat strangers as friend.
Although my friend Teresa worked in downtown Pittsburgh, she grew up and got anchored in a quiet, wooded neighborhood outside the city. She buys and carries extra umbrellas in her car, a gift for soggy strangers anywhere, whether waiting in the rain at bus stops or slogging their way home with their groceries.
My rock guy, Tom, gives bags of tumbled stones to kids, assortments that often include a few shark teeth. A retired teacher knows it might be more than a moment’s amusement; his gift could fire up a future geologist or jewelry designer.
My computer guy, Don, runs a small business with a tiny footprint but heavy foot traffic. As a kindness, especially for all the harried delivery drivers who face every day as a race, he plunked down a fridge directly inside his shop door. It’s always stocked with cold drinks he offers to anyone popping in.
Friend Lynn lives in the only house at the end of a long lane off a country road. For years she’s been leaving bags of candy for the crew who picks up her trash, a “thank you” for making the trek. She also hands out wrapped candy to traffic flaggers and others she sees stopped along her way. It wipes away the weary for a bit, I suspect. When she shared her roadside tales with a friend, he started his own kindness crusade – in Minnesota, as he’s bicycling.
“It’s such a tiny thing,” Lynn says, “but it’s such an investment. You can see instantly how one small gesture like that can change the direction of someone’s day, including your own.”
Sometimes changing the direction of a day means picking up strangers, even if they’re not the same species. One sweltering August morning, I walked into a local pharmacy to find two employees fussing over the contents of a discarded ice cream dish. One woman held the dish while another slowly poured water into it, one gentle drop at a time. I had to ask … When they opened for business that Monday morning, they found a little toad had been stuck between the glass doors all weekend, trapped in that awful heat. They were doing their best to rehydrate the tiny critter which, I swear, was wearing a look of relief and gratitude when I peered in.
It’s funny how familiar things resonate differently over time. While watching Peter Jackson’s movie adaptation of J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Hobbit” again recently, one scene instantly reminded me of my friends. The wizard Gandalf was asked why he chose Bilbo, a tiny Hobbit, to be part of a dangerous journey to end an encroaching darkness. Others thought overcoming great evil demanded great power.
“…That is not what I have found,” was Gandalf’s cinematic reply. “I’ve found it is the small, everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay … small acts of kindness and love.”
I agree. To all the ordinary folk quietly offering kindness in our everyday world, thank you.
Freelance writer Mitchell Kyd credits her deep roots in rural Pennsylvania as inspiration for her work. As a regular contributor to Penn Lines magazine and former newspaper columnist, she writes frequently about the joys and poignant moments of small-town living. Her March, 2026, column is reprinted here with permission from Penn Lines, the monthly magazine of the Pennsylvania Rural Electric Association. You can find more of Kyd's stories at deadmousediaries.com.
