There is no greater challenge than to have someone relying upon you; no greater satisfaction than to vindicate his expectation.
-Kingman Brewster, Jr.

I’m in the ninth week of recovery from my open-heart surgery, and things have slowed down considerably. The incisions on my chest and left arm are almost completely healed. The incision on my right knee doesn’t hurt as much, but constant fatigue is driving me batty.

Kitch thinks I’m doing too much, and she may have a point, but I am watching myself and I don’t do anything strenuous. I write, and think, and edit a bit. I can’t spend much time outside as the sun just drains my energy.

I like to be busy and involved. If I could, I would cut the grass and get back on the road shooting episodes for Windsor Park Stories, but the energy is just not there yet.

As I mentioned earlier I have had meetings with my two demons, anxiety and depression almost every day. Thankfully they are not out of control, but we did have a few unpleasant days this week.

Sometimes the best things in life come at such a huge emotional price, and I am convinced that most people do not have the faintest idea or sensitivity for what a recovering open-heart patient goes through during the weeks after the operation. It's just another sign that we are losing our humanness. It got so bad one day this week that I broke down on the telephone, and could not finish a conversation with a person who had no compassion and cared less what I was experiencing.

We live in a world of appearances. People think you look good and you sound good so you must be good, and often that is not the case.

As I’ve said to a number of friends and acquaintances, it’s not may face that’s sick.

At times it feels like you are locked in a body that just won’t perform according to capacity and plan. In a word, it's frustrating. You don’t feel badly, but you don’t feel good either. It’s like living in neutral.

I'm told that it will take a full year for everything to heal, and you cannot force the process.

To cope with this Kitch and I plan an activity in the morning and an activity in the afternoon. That way I have an opportunity to rest in between.

This Thursday I was feeling the consequences of two bad days with a lot of external stress, but I was determined to make something out of the day.

Thursday, August 16, was a dreary day. The sky was heavy and you could feel the rain in the air. It was a perfect day to do stand-ups for the Changed Forever episode we will screen in Shanksville in September.

At 10:30 a.m. we loaded our Chrysler van with video equipment, and we headed for McHale Hall on the Misericordia University campus. This building was the background for the human flag ceremony that attracted 102 students, faculty and staff to mark the fifth anniversary of one of the worst days in American history, September 11, 2001.

Things went surprisingly well considering that it has been several weeks since I stood in front of a camera. The words came easily as I stood there, without a script, to tell the story of a handful of students and two administrators who went to Shanksville and were changed forever.

An impressive young woman named Dana Pienta called it a place of hope and heroes. In my opinion, her words were perfect and more encourging was the fact that I remembered them despite the deep anesthesia that was still in my system following my surgery.

There were few takes, and the most difficult thing to remember was the name change from College Misericordia to Misericordia University.

It was just before noon when Kitch and I packed our gear, and returned to Windsor Park to check the footage. As we looked at the material Kitch smiled a sigh of relief. Everything looked and sounded fine. Our first location shoot after quadruple by- pass surgery went well.

During lunch we talked about the intros and the structure of the episode. I took a short nap and it was on to the afternoon chore.

Sometime after 2 p.m. we packed a huge cardboard box from Staples containing a super-sized enlargement of a picture of my daughter and her two children into the back of the van. Sarah O’Brien skillfully took the picture just before the start of the Irish Teachers Festival. It was a surprise birthday present for my son-in-law.

At the UPS office several miles away, we met the most accommodating man who treated us with kindness, courtesy and respect. It was the best experience I have ever had with UPS, and it put an extra bounce in my step.

On our way home we decided to stop at Motor World. It is the largest car dealership in this part of the state. Generally referred to as an automobile mall, it is the Mall of America for people in the market for a new car.

We were there to visit, not to buy.

We wanted to see up close and in a personal way the 2007 Prius. For several months my cousin and her husband had been telling us that our 1995 Chrysler Town and Country was way past its prime. Every time we took it to Dreier Automotive, they cautioned us not to take any long trips in the van. It was no longer reliable.

Quite frankly, I am not a car buff. It matters little what I drive, and less what the car looks like. To me an automobile is a depreciating asset. The moment you leave the dealership, your new car begins to lose value.

I must admit, however, that we had a special attachment to the Town and Country.

Yes, it had 158,000 miles in its history. Yes, it rattled a bit, the power steering fluid leaked, there was a problem with the motor mount, but this car is a classic. It was the first luxury mini van. It was the car I purchased for my daughter's wedding. It was the car that took us to my son’s college graduation in Ohio.

This is the van that carried boxes of video equipment to hundreds of video shoots at J.P. Morgan in New York. A parking lot in the shadow of 60 Wall Street was the second home for this van from 1995 to 2001.

This was the van that took dozens of students to location shoots in Cape May, New Jersey, West Point, New York, Washington, DC, Christiana, Delaware, and the site of the 1980 Winter Olympics in Lake Placid, New York.

This is the van that took us to Minnesota where we met the family of Coach Herb Brooks.

This is the green van that transported Patti Brooks to King’s College when she accepted an honorary degree from the college on behalf of her husband and the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team in 2005.

This is the van that became the Chrylser Motel on a bitter cold, winter night when we were stranded on Interstate 80 on our way home from the USOC's Hall of Fame induction of Coach Herb Brooks in Chicago and a visit with my daughter in Ohio.

I was attached to this van. We had a history, and I had no intention pf parting with it.

Well, that was before I met the most extraordinary salesperson I have ever met, a 26-year-old Cambodian-American named Sam.

When we entered the parking lot of the Motor World complex, the place seemed deserted. We parked the van in front of the Toyota showroom, and in moments we were inside surrounded by beautiful vehicles. The showroom was quiet, and there were few sales people in sight.

A very tall man passed us twice. He smiled politely, but did not stop to talk. A middle aged man of slight build approached us, and when we told him we wanted to speak with someone, he told us that someone would be with us in a few minutes.

No one came, and we decided to leave.

As we exited the showroom a young man of slight build and an engaging smile stopped what he was doing and asked if he could help us.

We asked him to show us where we could find a Prius, and he literally went out of his way to show us where they were located. Then he said the magic words: “When I am finished here, I will come over to help you.”

More important than the words was the deed. He came, not to sell, not to badger, not to embarrass or cajole. He came to help us.

We liked him from the first hello. There was a kindness about him. There was gentleness about him. There was goodness about him. There was a sincerity about him. There was a way about him that you do not normally associate with car salesmen.

Sam was impeccably dressed in a blue starched dress shirt and a classic tie. His brown shoes were polished like a Marine officer’s shoes and they reflected light off his dark pants.

Sam knew everything there is to know about the Prius, and he demonstrated its sophisticated technology in a way that would make the teacher of the year proud.

He was in no hurry to get on to other business. When his cell phone vibrated, he did not answer it. We were the focus of his attention.

He made us feel comfortable, and at home. It was a pleasant experience, and he gave us to believe that this was a good day to purchase a car because it was a slow day and the sales manager might be more flexible.

In less than an hour, two people who had no intention of buying a new car signed the papers that would make us Prius owners.

Yes, there was a need, but in my mind there was no urgency.

Yes, there was a feeling that many open-heart patients have that you should do it now because you cannot count on tomorrow.

Yes, we liked the product. We wanted to purchase a hybrid for a number of reasons, fuel efficiency and environmental reasons as well. There were, however, many other things on our mind including the number of debts we had incurred this summer before and after surgery.

Buying a car was not our highest priority.

In the end it was the reputation of the Prius, and the pure magic of Sam that sealed the deal.

Sam is a genuine success story that hopefully we will record for Windsor Park Stories. In our mind, he is a model of what a successful salesman should be: well groomed, well mannered, pleasant, respectful, thoughtful, courteous and honest.

We bought a car from a person 40 years our junior because we connected with him on a very important level, values. "When I look at people,” he told us, "I treat them the same way I want to be treated when I am a shopper, with kindness and respect.”

“When I go to a store,” he said, “and I am treated rudely, I walk out.”

On that day, in that super mall of automobiles, Motor World, we bought Sam as much as we bought the Prius.

There is a lesson in this for all of us. My mother taught it to me more than half a century ago: “You catch more bees with honey than you do with vinegar.”

We will think of Sam often when we drive our Prius. We will have Sam and his family here to visit Windsor Park so that we can learn more about his background and his life journey.

Sam K. Nhem gives lie to something I wrote about the younger generation: In America,18-34 year olds rule. The only problem, they have no money and they are maxed out on all of their credit cards. They can't hold a job, and they can't buy a home. Their parents and grandparents have what they want...money and time. Unfortunately they are dismissed by consultants and marketers as past their prime!

We will connect again and again with this young man, because he lives what Kingman Brewester wrote:

There is no greater challenge than to have someone relying upon you; no greater satisfaction than to vindicate his expectation.

(Picture credits: Kitch Loftus-Mussari, Sarah O'Brien, Mussari-Loftus Associates, LTD)

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