You were probably having a well-earned cup of coffee, catching up on the latest speed traps, checking your tires or whatever it is that is checked by drivers who make their living traveling the roads and are dependent on their vehicles. I was not having coffee. I had just ended my first day at Attleboro High School and was settling into my car and getting up the courage to drive home.

Before being hired by the school district, I had never driven on a highway; after being hired, I practiced the route between Brookline and Attleboro several times with a patient friend. I had memorized all the landmarks—I knew where to look for the cranberry bog and the small patch where the interesting tree was and where to turn on to I-95 from the local road, and then to 128, and then to Route 9, and then to Beacon Street, and then home. The morning commute at 5:00 a.m. presented few problems because I was essentially alone on the roads. Going home was different; there was traffic—lots of traffic. White-knuckled, I started my trip. Somehow— fatigue, distraction, nerves, hubris— I ran out of landmarks and realized that I was on my way into Boston. I was lost.

I drove into an area that seemed to be filled with trucks as big as small countries. What did you think when I, a wild woman, erupted from my car, incoherently saying over and over, “I lost 128. I ran out of my landmarks. I ran out of my landmarks.”

You wonderful, kind men. Do you remember me? Do you remember the woman you saved? There were two of you and each of you gave me very clear directions on what I needed to do in order to get back on my route. At one point, as if I were not there, one of you said to the other, “She’s listening, but can’t hear us.” The two of you huddled together and one of you came back to me with a plan. “Here’s what we are going to do: I’m going to take my truck out in front of your car and you follow and pull in behind me. We’re going to put you between us.” You looked at me, waiting for my response. Beginning to understand, I choked out, “OK.” Then you motioned to your friend, “His truck will come behind you and we will bring you to Route 9.” Again, you looked at me and waited. “OK.” You started to walk away, hesitated, and turned back to me. “You know, you have to tell your husband that he can’t let you drive on the highway by yourself. It’s dangerous.” I realized that the ring on my left hand had twisted around so that only a thin gold band showed. I also realized that this was not the time to wave my high and mighty credentials alongside my copy of Ms. magazine. I looked at you and said, “OK.”

You and your friend brought me to a juncture I did not recognize and the two of you positioned your trucks so that traffic, coming and going, was blocked. You got out of your truck and waved me across several lanes of highway to the exit for Route 9.

I never asked who you were; we never exchanged names. But I think of you often and bless our meeting. I wonder, do you ever tell the story of the hysterical housewife you saved? I know I tell the story of your kindness whenever I hear criticism of truck drivers. You may have been wearing a road-weary shirt and rumpled jeans, but I only saw you and continue to see you wrapped in a cape with a large “S” on your chest.