My first memory of having real compassion came early in my life. A time when walking into the Long John Silvers, at age eight, was a thrilling experience. Not because of the smell of fish and french fries frying in vats of grease, or the staff members in their pirate uniforms. Not even because of the big brass bell that my sister and I got to ring once our order was complete. It was thrilling because of the prize machine. This was a time back in the late 70s when video games, claw machines and toys with your meals were still a rarity.

My handsome, if ornery, dad always led the way, proud of his three girls following up the rear. My beautiful and quietly elegant mom, was stylish with her long blonde hair styled like Farah Faucet. My tomboy little sister wore her favorite green Garanimal pant set, and sported the short, Dorothy Hamill, haircut that was all the rage at the time. I bobbed along the sidewalk with strands of my long straight blond hair escaping the hair clips and falling into my eyes. Our family was young, attractive and energetic. An outing on a Friday night to the LJS eatery was a treat.

My sister and I peaked over the top of the front counter, with our little fingers curled and gripping the edge of the metal surface. What we were ordering was not nearly as important as what came with it. A child size order of fried fish, coleslaw and hush puppies earned a singular silver token. When the order was complete, two of these silver tokens were set on the counter for my sister and I to use to get our prizes from the prize machines against the wall. We each grabbed our tokens, quickly turned to face the brass bell where dad lifted us one at time so we could ring it. Once our feet were firmly back on the floor we ran to retrieve our treasures.

My sister reached the dispenser first and inserted her shiny token. Her tiny fingers struggled to turn the silver dial. Then it hit the crucial spot and a plastic bubble tinkled into the metal holding tray at the bottom of the machine. Then another fell. In her struggle to turn the crank, she didn’t finish the cycle. The hatch remained open. As she jiggled the crank back and forth, the prize bubbles kept coming. We exchanged glances with raised eyebrows and then went right back to our task. The click of metal on metal, the dinging of plastic balls falling into the tray made a kind of music. We giggled and jumped up and down with every new prize. To a six and eight year old this was equal to hitting the lotto – except something felt naughty about it. We emptied the machine.

Excited to share our windfall with our parents we gathered our bounty into the folds of our shirts and carried it to the table. As we each opened our pouches of treasure, the plastic bubbles bounced and skidded across the table. My sister’s tiny arm reached quickly to stop them from tumbling off the table and on to the floor. We beamed with pleasure as we explained to our parents how this treasure trove came to be in our possession.

To my surprise, the look on my moms face was one of concern instead of joy. “Girls,” she said softly, “those don’t belong to you.”

What was she talking about? Of course they belonged to us. I swiped a strand of white static filled hair off my forehead, scratched a healing scab on my knee and looked at her quizzically.

She could have just told us that it was stealing. She would have been right. We would have obeyed begrudgingly, but we would not have learned a lesson. Instead she chose a different approach. She decided to teach us a lesson in compassion. I also learned the added lesson of the power of a story.

She began to tell us the story of a little boy who was very poor and didn’t have any toys. He would come into the Long John Silvers with his poor family for a rare treat. She described him waiting, peeking over the counter much as we did earlier. The cashier’s hand would lay down his one shiny token. He ran to the prize machines on the wall, too excited to even ring the bell first.

He placed his shiny coin into the machine and his tiny fingers turned the crank. Click, click, click, clunk. The dial made a full turn but no plastic bubble fell into the tray. He lifted on to his tiptoes and peered into the machine. It was empty. Not a single prize was left. There would be no prize for the poor little boy with no toys.

My sister and I looked at each other with distress on our tiny tanned faces. I could feel his heartbreak as if it was my own. The question, where did all the prizes go? The disappointment of realizing that days of anticipation were not going to be fulfilled. The crushing defeat of having to go to his booth and eat his fish and hush puppies while tears made clean paths down his dirty face.

My sister and I started to gather the plastic bubbles in unison. We had the same feelings, the same thought. We had to return the prizes to their rightful place to await the little boy with no toys. Gathered into the folds of our shirts we helped each other empty them one by one onto the metal countertop. The teenage pirate walked over with a question on his face. We enthusiastically explained that the machine had given us all the prizes but we wanted to return them for the poor little boy with no toys. It didn’t take long for his interest to wane and he simply gathered them up and went to refill the machine.

My sister and I each kept one prize. We happily ate our fried food and chatted away with mom and dad about our day. We were happy to return the prizes. I learned a lesson that day that has stuck with me my entire life. Taking what doesn’t belong to you hurts someone. It doesn’t matter who it is or if I know them. They could be me. They have been me.

Still there have been people in my life that would take advantage of my compassionate nature. Too bad they did not have a mom like mine. She gave me a gift that day. She changed the way I would see the world. She made me a storyteller.