Many years ago, my three-year-old son drew a picture which he was so proud of he thought it a masterpiece worthy of sale that would bring him instant wealth. It was difficult to resist his enthusiasm, and not wanting to squash any budding entrepreneurial spirit, I helped him make a "For Sale" sign.

He took his picture, his sign, and a little stool, and sat out on the curb on Main Street. I stood in the front window, peeking from behind the drapes, holding my breath, second-guessing the wisdom of allowing this, and already sick-to-my-stomach-certain that some bogeyman would try to snatch this darling little blue-eyed blond boy.

Car after car drove by. No one stopped. I was relieved that apparently there were no kidnappers in the area. I was saddened, too, that this precious little boy sat and sat, waiting, hoping. I kept my vigil.

Finally, the UPS truck pulled up to the curb. The driver got out, approached my son, took out his wallet, exchanged a few words, gave him the $1 asking price, took the picture, and drove on. My son ran into the house, waving his dollar bill, bursting with enthusiasm. Then he stopped short, took a breath, and began to cry. I tried to comfort him and find the source of this sudden disappointment. Between sobs he wailed, "I really really liked my picture, mom, and now it's gone!" I suggested he draw another for himself, and, somewhat molified, he set to work. When this second masterpiece was finished, though, he lamented he didn't like it nearly as much, it wasn't the same, and he wished he had the first one.

I was so moved by that UPS man who had actually seen into the heart of a boy, so grateful for his action, that all these many years later I still buy things from children at the side of the road, and often find myself asking for blessings for that dear UPS man, whoever he is, wherever he is.

Now, twenty years later, I have found him again - not the very same UPS man, of course, but that's irrelevant.

I was driving down a US Highway in southern Iowa recently, yakking on the phone (Bluetooth engaged of course), when I heard a shot. I was startled, certainly, but did not know where it came from, and continued on - until the "Low Tire Pressure" light on the dashboard flashed. I knew immediately then that I had a flat tire. I abruptly ended the conversation, and with no safe place to pull over, continued on, as soon as possible pulling off into the driveway of an apparently deserted campground.

I do not remember ever having a flat tire before, but I do recall that all I had to do was call my insurance company, and they would dispatch a nearby wrecker service. I was confident I would soon be on my way again. Thank goodness for cell phones and 1-800 help lines.

(Incidentally, I purchased my first cell phone the day after I found my car dead in the parking lot late at night following some meeting. Fortunately, it was the parking lot of the Pella Public Library. I simply crossed over to the police station, told them my plight, and hoped I would not be ticketed for leaving the car there overnight. Walking to my office, I called my mechanic and arranged for him to get the car in the morning, and my son, to give me a ride home. How very thankful I was to have this happening in town, not in some remote, unfamiliar location.)

My insurance agent was not at his office, of course, but he did not answer his cell, either. At home, his wife told me he was coaching a game, and she gave me his two associates' numbers. Neither of them answered. The 1-800 direct help line to the insurance company was busy - again and again and again. The cell phone help line *677 was likewise continually busy. The Highway Patrol didn't answer either.

Frustrated to say the least, I simply decided to change the tire myself. Then I thought, "Jacking up the car? I could really use some help with this. I'm in Iowa, afterall, not Chicago."

I went to the edge of the road and starting waving at traffc going by. Most simply drove right on by. Some waved back...Iowans are so friendly. I went back to the car.

I've watched and helped change tires a few times. I can do it, I told myself. I emptied the trunk of the car, leaving the trunk open, got out the spare and the manual and loosened the lug nuts. I wasn't sure how to unfold the jack.

I looked again at the traffic streaming by.

In the distance, I saw a UPS truck coming. I got that warm, fuzzy feeling. Ah, now I'm ok, I thought. I tried to flag him down. He went by but pulled over, backed up. I asked if he could help me change the tire. He was at the end of his run and had to return the truck, but he said he had to come back this way on his way home, and if I were still here then, he'd stop and help. He left, but I felt more hopeful. I mean, he's a UPS guy.

I saw a white truck coming. Trucks. Guys in trucks know what they're doing, I said to myself. I started waving again. The white truck flew by, driver smiling and waving back at me. Disgusted, I went back to the manual and the car.

The white truck returned. The young man said it took him a minute, but he finally decided there was something fishy about a lady standing by the side of the road waving at traffic, and something dejected about the way I looked when he passed, so he decided to return, bless his heart.

We set to work. I think he was a little surprised that I had the lug nuts off, but he knew how to unfold the jack. Now we're cooking, I thought. Not certain where to put the jack, he, too, consulted the manual, placed the jack properly, raised the car, and yanked on the tire. He yanked again. We yanked together. It didn't budge. He pulled and prodded and yanked to no avail, while I was again calling everyone who didn't answer. Then he called his uncle for advice. He applied oil where it was sticking. Neither the advice nor the oil helped.

I called my mechanic. He said put the lug nuts back on but not tight and drive it a little ways, the tire would loosen.

I did. It didn't. I called him back.

He said drive until it does. It didn't. I called him back.

He told me this is not unusual, that often, even on the hydraulic lift, they can't get tires off, and have to pry them off. He asked where I was, but I wasn't close. Find a pry bar, he said. The young man (Tyler) started looking around the campground.

Meanwhile, the UPS man stopped on his way home from work. I knew he would. He was not a big man, but he was certainly strong, and said he had the same difficulty with the tires when he tried to rotate them on his own truck. He and Tyler yanked and kicked and prodded and pulled. He got quite a bit of exercise banging the tire with the spare. Really, should changing a tire be this difficult?

Two ladies in a truck pulled in, somehow related to the campground. I asked if they had a pry bar. One offered a lug wrench. The men tried prying with that and the socket wrench but that tire didn't budge, and they were worried about damaging the rim. Tyler has by now offered to take me anywhere I want to go, a very kind and generous offer, when I know he has plans for this Friday night in the other direction. It wouldn't solve the problem with the car anyway.

While the two of them continued to bang the tire, I called the only person I knew by her full name in the nearest town and asked who to call to come tow me, and/or if there was a representative of my insurance company in her town. This insurance agent answered his phone and recommended the same towing service. I didn't get an answer at either of the tow numbers though. She called back a few minutes later to inquire if a tow truck was coming. When told not, she said "Don't worry, George and I are already on our way. We'll be there in a minute."

They arrived, and - Thank You, Lord! - George had a pry bar, a mean-looking, six-foot-long two-by-two inch thick iron bar. First, he had to inspect things and try his hand at pulling and prodding and banging, but - need I say? - the third man on the scene couldn't get the tire off either. The problem now was, no one was quite sure where to position the pry bar so as to get the tire off without damaging anything else on the car, and I was not trusting the jack enough to let anyone actually crawl under the car.

George called his grandson. "He messes with cars all the time," he explained. George told him what was wrong and where we were, and the seventh helper hit the road to find us. While we were waiting, introductions were made all around, and Mrs. George smiled in recognition of the UPS man. "He's a good one," she said.

I knew that. He's an UPS guy.

Twenty minutes later, and more than two hours after this all began, this old red car zoomed by, took suddenly to the shoulder, backed up faster than I've ever seen someone in reverse, and pulled into the driveway. A young man jumped out leaving the door open and car running, took the pry bar from his grandfather, put it in exactly the right place, popped that tire off, dropped the bar, got in his car, and zoomed off again. He was there less than a minute.

In no time at all, George, the UPS man and Tyler, who both gamely stayed through to the end, had the spare tire on. George fatherly warned me that the car would ride differently, not to be concerned, not to be in too much of a hurry, that I'd get where I was going by dark anyway. Hugs and thank-you's were given all around, and we all rolled out of there.

I am so thankful this happened in the daylight. I am so thankful it wasn't snowing or raining or flooding or tornado-ing. I am so thankful for cell phones. I am so thankful for George and his wife and their grandson, the two ladies, the UPS man, and Tyler. I am so thankful this happened in Iowa.

They are why I live here.

You know, come to think it, Tyler would make a great UPS guy.

Marty Racheter 61808