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| Volume 18, Issue 1 | Winter 2006 |
RTAP Library is Now OnlineThe Regional Rural Technical Assistance Program (RTAP) online library is functional and ready for customers to check out library materials. This online library, located at www.surtc.org/rtap/, was developed for the transit operations in Montana, North Dakota and South Dakota. It was made possible by RTAP funds from the three states and SURTC's website development support staff. The current inventory includes library material collected in the RTAP libraries of all thee states. All that material is now housed and inventoried at SURTC. Some of the older material has been archived and the balance is now online. The library committee assisted in deciding what to archive and what to put online. The library committee is made up of two members from each of the three states: Montana, North Dakota and South Dakota. The names and contact information for the committee members are found under the "About Us" tab on the website. These will also be the individuals to approve the purchase of new material for the library. If you have any suggests on material you'd like to see inventoried in this library, please contact someone on the library committee www.surtc.org/rtap/about/ or Gary Hegland at SURTC: (701)231-6436 or gary.hegland@ndsu.edu. The site also has a links page that links to the National RTAP website, other regional RTAP websites, transportation research centers, the Easter Seals clearinghouse as well as CTAA and APTA. Our goal is to make this library of training and resource material easily available to all transit agencies and organizations in Montana and the Dakotas, and provide you with new, relevant and usable material for the future.  The Cab RideTwenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under the circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. The passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself. So I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute," answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940's movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware. "Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she asked. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness. "It's nothing," I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated." "Oh, you're such a good boy," she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?" "It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly. "Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to hospice." I looked in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were glistening. "I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long left."
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now." We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair. "How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse. "Nothing," I said. "You have to make a living," she answered. "There are other passengers," I responded. Almost without thinking, I bent over and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly. "You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you." I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life. I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take that run, or had honked once, then driven away? On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life. We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware - beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one. People may not remember exactly what you did, or what you said, but they will always remember how you made them feel.
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In this issue...
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I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you like me to take," I asked. For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.