From our home in the South Hills of Pittsburgh to where I worked at the University in Oakland, I had a fast 13-mile commute. Fast, that is, since I left home long before other commuters were on the road, avoiding the stress of riding the brake and hitting the gas, bumper to bumper, until we were hand fed into the single-laned Liberty Tunnel by a traffic cop so famous for his choreographed traffic control that he was featured in the movie “Flashdance.”

Three or four of us would meet at Wendy’s each morning for coffee, where finding a table even at 7:00 a.m. was a problem. The other regulars all seemed to know each other, spoke loudly across tables, were frequently argumentative, smoked incessantly, and kept their cups filled with coffee and their pockets filled with sugar packets.

We gave them names as we whispered between us to “Watch out!, here comes plaid flare pants with an overflowing cup.” Or, “There’s wears-her-teeth-in-her-pocket stealing more sugar.”

We began to wonder if there was something in the water in Oakland like the water in Love Canal: too many cases per capita for one small neighborhood! Then we figured it out. Western Psychiatric Hospital, part of the University of Pittsburgh, was across the street. This high number of the mentally challenged were victims (or beneficiaries) of budget cuts putting people who had been institutionalized on the streets and living in half-way houses, while still remaining close to medical supervision and medication.

They were not homeless. They came in each morning, hair still wet from a shower, clothes clean, and enough money to buy coffee but not enough to take a bus. Wendy’s had a promotion where buying a coffee cup meant you could get refills for a nickel ... forever. I kept my cup clean and ready. Everyone did the same. It was good for everybody but the management. They filled every seat in the place but didn’t make more than a nickel on anyone.

Into this group of professors, doctors, nurses, students, computer programmers, secretaries and the unemployed restless ones, came someone who could fit anywhere on the list. Paula said each morning, “Here comes the lady who looks like Richie Cunningham’s mother,” and then we heard someone call her Barbara. She was always smiling and friendly and we greeted her the same way.

After many days of meeting and greeting she touched my sleeve and said: “I got new shoes.” Before I could respond, she swung her leg up and almost over the table, bringing it to a rest with brown brogans pointing toward me. I started some inane comment when the woman who wears pink curlers said: “Oh, oh, I see London, I see France, I see Barbara’s underpants.”

Barbara scowled and shushed her and I went on line for coffee, knowing for sure then just which camp Barbara belonged in. Her shoes were new, but she wore no socks on her pale and blue-veined legs. I thought how cold it must be for her. But, I didn’t give a second thought to Barbara.

Two weeks later, I was scrambling through the last minutes of shopping before the mall closed when I saw bright red legwarmers. Impulsively, I bought them for Barbara, wrapped them and put them aside.

It was the Friday before Christmas weekend. I carried a shopping bag into Wendy’s chock full of grab-bag and secret Santa gifts for the office party. I slipped away from my table and said Merry Christmas to Barbara. She smiled brightly—the reaction I expected—and, after tearing open the tissue paper wrapped present, said: “You know, missy, my legs were cold last week.”

I started to say something because her smile made me think she was saying something about how nice..... “They’ve been cold since October,” she continued, still smiling. “Hey, Rose, look what I got. Red socks. Missy thinks I’m Santa Claus,” she spoke as she pulled the leg warmers over her heavy shoes and up beyond her knees.

I knew it. I’d opened the floodgates. Here it comes, I thought to myself. I can’t run and I can’t hide. She turned to fix her eyes on mine. I looked back at her with feigned rapt attention. Barbara had the stage and I could only let her act out what was coming.

“We had three schools send kids to sing last night. They were waiting in the hall to come in, one group after the other, “she said, her pretended smile more effective than a string of swear words, “to sing songs for us ... the same songs. They gave us candy canes. I got three. Maybe they’ll rot my teeth,” she laughed and with her tongue jiggled her upperplate playfully.

I remember seeing a nurse I knew come in and look over at the scene unfolding. How I wished she would put her arms around my shoulders and quietly lead me to safety.

Barbara went on. “We got turkeys and fruitcakes and cans and cans and cans and cans and cans and more cans.” Every eye was on her and so, sensing she had an audience, she turned to continue her theatrics.

I turned as well and moved away, like a cornered mouse sneaking past a cat poised to pounce. My thoughts were a jumble of expressions like inmates taking over the asylum and asking myself why I was listening to a blithering idiot.

But, Barbara was not blithering and what she said was not blather. Out of the mouth of this person not certified to function in society came wisdom that seems to have escaped the committees that meet; the organizations that form, the volunteers that march and the choirs that sing to the tunes of clanging bells and the clinking coins filling kettles.

People are cold in November. People need help in March. The leg warmers I gave on Friday had been wrapped and ready for five days of a very cold week.

I stopped for coffee at the counter 20 feet away from her, feeling red-faced from the stinging words lashed out at me, and the counterman said quietly: “Well, I guess she told you.”

With an embarrassed smile, I said: “Yes, I guess she taught me a lesson. I feel as if I’m being sent home with a note for my parents to sign, “Constance is not living up to the level of her ability.”

“ Ah, don’t worry about it. It’s her Lithium talking. They’re all on it,” he said.

Soberly, I said: “Yes ... right ... “ More soberly, then, I said: “Maybe.”

I thought of Barbara today. I was finishing grocery shopping and noticed a huge gift-wrapped carton at the end of every checkout counter marked: Food Collection. Outside, the bell ringers stood by the freshly painted red kettles. On the way out, I tossed in some coins, of course, just for the joy of it. Yes, Merry Christmas. It felt good. Because of Barbara’s lesson, I toss coins in June, and in February as well, and there’s joy in that. There are no red kettles to pitch them to in July but there are still those needing to catch!

Reversal of fortune is not so uncommon that we can rule out this year’s catcher being next year’s pitcher. To further that thought, if destiny ever puts me on the receiving end of society’s generosity, well, then, I’d hate to have to wait until Christmas.