I’m continuing my series as I write about 55 people who have impacted my life
I love how people leave their mark on my life, even after they’re no longer in it. Some stay in memory, unnamed but unforgettable. This is one of those stories.
It was the summer of 1978 or 1979. The sun was warm but not stifling, and the air smelled of freshly cut grass and distant barbecues. My sister and I were upstate in Monticello, New York, visiting our cousin, who lived in a place called Klein’s Bungalows. They were charming little homes, and I remember how freeing it felt to push my wheelchair along the sidewalks without worrying about cars. It was a family-friendly haven, the kind of place where kids could roam without a second thought.
That day, my sister and I were exploring on our own. Usually, when we visited, our cousin was around, but this time, she wasn’t. We didn’t have anyone to play with, but in a place like Klein’s, that hardly mattered. It was so safe, so welcoming, that my mom had no problem letting her 9- and 8-year-old daughters venture out on their own.
And that’s when we met her.
She was working in her garden when she noticed us. An elderly woman, with soft, light-colored hair—maybe dark blonde or gray—she had a warm presence, the kind that made you feel at ease instantly. She greeted us with a smile and said something that made us laugh, though I can’t remember what. But I remember the feeling. The way she spoke to us like we were old friends, like we belonged there in that moment with her.
She invited us to sit at a wooden picnic bench outside her bungalow while she continued tending to her plants. She even brought out small pots so I could help her, handing me a tiny spade and guiding my hands. I wasn’t just a visitor; for a little while, I was part of her world.
Then, she asked if we were hungry.
My sister and I exchanged looks—was this okay? What would Mom say? I was the oldest, and I knew she’d hold me responsible. But something about the woman put me at ease. She radiated warmth and kindness. When she went inside to prepare lunch, we stayed, trusting that good things were coming.
And we were right. She returned with the most delicious chicken salad sandwiches we had ever eaten. No exaggeration. The toasted bread, the perfectly seasoned chicken, the crisp lettuce—it was perfection. She even served us cold glasses of lemonade, the condensation dripping down the sides of the cups as we sat in the warm afternoon air.
That woman’s kindness didn’t just make our day—it left an imprint on our lives. To this day, every time my sister and I make a chicken salad sandwich, we remember her. It’s funny how something as simple as a sandwich can carry so much meaning. Maybe it wasn’t just the ingredients that made it so good. Maybe it was her kindness, her generosity, the way she welcomed us like family.
When we finally left—hours later—we gleefully told our mom all about the woman, her garden, and the incredible sandwich. I remember my mom being hesitant at first, but after hearing every detail I eagerly shared, she felt at ease.
I can’t remember if we ever saw that woman again, but we’ll always remember her generosity—and her chicken salad sandwich.
And because I want you to experience a piece of that memory, I’m sharing the recipe. But I think you’ll find that the real secret ingredient isn’t in the sandwich—it’s in the kindness of the person making it.
This photo is the closest I could find to a simple, yet delicious sandwich like the one on that day.
Sandwich recipe
chopped chicken (no skin)
mayo (I know she used Hellman’s)
sliced toasted white bread
Chicken and mayo mixed then spread on the toasted bread
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