Grandpa’s War – Part 13 – The Kindness of Strangers

Note: I’ve told this story several times before. Most recently, it won me 2nd place in the VA writing competition. But since I enjoy telling it, here it is one more time.

I’ve eaten at many a five and four star restaurant. I’ve eaten food prepared by some of the greatest chefs on this planet. I’ve also eaten more than my share of McDonald’s, Wendy’s, and Burger King hamburgers.

None of the meals compare to the surprise meal I received from a stranger.

We were in Saudi Arabia and just a few short months away from the invasion of Iraq. We were camped maybe five kilometers outside a small Saudi village named Al-Qaisumah. The town is important to this story since it was the only outpost of civilization for some miles. It also had the only pay phone we could use to call home for miles around.

I always laugh when I talk to people who thought we had phone tents and such to call from. Eventually we did, but that was a long ways down the line. The first phone tent I saw was well after the ground war was over.

Prior to that, we were dependent on whatever was available.

Going to use the phone was right up there with a major expedition to the Moon.

Or so it felt.

We drove into town, where the phone was in front of a small store. The store was made of adobe. It had small windows. It was also the closest thing to a 7-11 we were to see for some time.

In many ways, Al-Qaisumah reminded me of Capulin, Colorado. That’s a small town not far from the ranch I grew up on. The buildings were a little closer together, and there were no peaked roofs. But the construction and feeling was the same. If you ignored the women who were dressed like black ghosts with small children walking about town, it would have been like I was there.

The first time I called home, I drug everyone out of bed. A simple time computation said it was two in the morning. I recall my folks saying the television showed that we had things pretty good “over there.” Air conditioned barracks, TV, three hot meals a day.

I responded saying “I don’t know what army they’re showing you on the news, but I not in that army.”

I was living in a tent in the middle of nowhere. I washed out of a basin using water heated in a bucket. For entertainment we got either Armed Forces Radio or Baghdad Betty, depending on how the wind blew. And I was eating MREs (Meals Ready to Eat or Meals Rejected by Ethiopia – take your choice) three times a day.

And that leads me to the story of the Second Best meal I ever had.

We’d gone into town to use the phone. We arrived to find that half of 1^st Armored Division (slight exaggeration, but not by much) was lined up waiting to use it. In years to come I’d reflect that situation would have made some lucky terrorist very happy. Maybe it was the simple idea that everyone standing in line was armed that kept them away.

Fortunately, nothing ever happened.

We didn’t have a lot of luxury items out in the sticks. And after we made our calls, we’d go in the little store to buy something to eat.

I remember stepping into the cool interior of the store. The thick adobe kept the heat at bay and a simple window air conditioner kept the place rather cool. Several overhead lights illuminated the store.

As I walked through the door, the smell of onions from the produce section washed over me. The smell brought a smile to my face. It was as if I’d stepped into the time machine and been taken back to my grandfather’s store in New Mexico. It was like being a kid again walking through the door.

My grandfather sold a little of everything in his store, just like this place did. Over there was a wooden bin with sixteen penny nails. There were sundry items like clothing and laundry soap. Several free-standing shelves were full of canned items ranging from fruits and vegetables to canned chicken, fish, and meats. Another held staples like rice, pasta, and flour.

The proprietor also had several shelves with things you might find at any convenience store like the Saudi version of Little Debbie snack cakes, bags of chips, and candy bars.

But I was hungry. I’d been living on MREs three meals a day for a couple of weeks now. They’re perfect for the field, but despite efforts to provide some variety, you get tired of the same old stuff. I had reached the point where I’d have killed for a Big Mac just to have something different.

A snack cake, candy bar, or potato chips wasn’t going to cut it.

As I wandered through the store, I saw there were some refrigerators in the back. They wouldn’t look out of place in any 7-11. But the contents were as alien to most as something from the Moon or Mars would have been. There were sodas and you could tell it was a Pepsi only by the logo on the can. Everything else was in Arabic. There was also a notable lack of cold teas and of course beer.

As I studied the contents, I saw something that got my attention.

On one shelf were several small white bags about the size of a small bag of potato chips. The contents of the product were written in both Arabic and English.

“Laban,” the bag read in English.

Oh, yeah, I told myself, and grabbed two. The cold bags felt good in my hands.

If you’re unfamiliar with Laban (proper name is Labneh), think of it as Arab yogurt. In consistency, it’s someplace between yogurt and buttermilk. My people made it all the time, but truth be told, what they came out with was closer to yogurt.

The point is, I knew what this was. Laban is usually unflavored and is popular for breakfast or pretty much anytime. It can be part of a meal, and I’ve seen it spread on bread like butter. I’ve also known it to be used as a dressing for vegetables.

I was used to eating it just like it came out of the pot. Put some sugar in it, maybe a little jam for extra flavor, stir well, and enjoy. That’s what we called a good snack back on the Ranch.

I went to check out and placed the two bags on the counter.

The man who was running the cash register looked at me with shock and then the bags and back.

“Sir,” he said. He spoke excellent English. “Do you know what this is?”

Obviously he thought I was some American unfamiliar with the foods of the Middle East. I know some of my buddies looked at me like I’d lost my mind when I ate it.

I nodded, and answered, “Yes, Sir. I do. I was raised on this.”

His eyes got wide and he asked, “Are you from Saudi?”

“No,” I answered. “My Grandfather was from Lebanon.”

He dropped his hands to the counter, pushed the bags towards me, and said, “No charge.”

I thanked him for his gift and went out to the Humvee. I mixed it with some sugar and jam from an MRE and had a meal fit for a king.

I don’t know if this man knows how much I appreciated his generosity.

That simple act of kindness to a stranger far from home made that meal one of the finest I’ve ever eaten.

And for at least a few minutes, I was home.