Spelling Kindness

This is an Ask & Give post—stories of asking for what we need and giving what we have. On the road, there’s a thinness of margins, between you and me, between “all good” and “no, no, no.” People, often strangers, show up for each other.

The road is, of course, life. It’s yours, and it’s mine. And the thin margins are, of course, now. We need, in this moment, to be and receive and see and hold up to the light kindness among the neighbors we cross paths and share lives with, all of us fragile creatures sharing this planet. I’m honored to feature stories of kindness from around the globe. Please let me know if you have a story to share.

The author of today’s story sometimes has roosters in the background of the voiceovers of her posts. She writes through the lens of astrology with the goal of helping “as many people as possible learn to love themselves for who they are—dark parts and all.” As a solo traveler,

Kaitlyn Ramsay

has seen vistas aplenty and known many adventures—including traveling across Australia’s Nullarbor Plain. Since, she’s relocated to Northern Thailand, from Canada, which is where today’s story comes from.

On Kaitlyn’s stack, Loving the Dark Parts, you’ll find “astrology made practical” and “real life made magical.” In today’s story, you’ll find a tender sweetness and a reminder of how, through our care, we can impact people more than they may know.

Here’s Kaitlyn.

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Spelling Kindness

The sun was slowly setting behind the mountain range when I pulled up to my new usual laundry shop, front wheel wobbling on my rented Honda Scoopy scooter, a bag of dirty laundry propped between my legs. Usually when I did this, I had two full functional tires, but this time, I had already been driving about three minutes when I realised the front tire was busted.

Having a flat tire on a scooter means only half of the tires are functional. This makes for a most uncomfortable experience, maneuvering through the inconsistent tugs and pulls from left to right, bouncing up and down, holding on for dear life, and praying the whole damn tire doesn’t fall off the rim. I do not recommend it.

Somehow, though, I’d found my balance long enough to pull up the hill, rim barely hanging on, where I met eyes with Waen, the laundry shop owner. She looked at me with concern as she took in the lifeless tire and my obvious struggles. Then she pointed to my tire, gesturing to acknowledge the danger of riding like this.

Sunset in Thailand. All photos taken by or courtesy of KAITLYN RAMSAY

Waen and I had been becoming closer. Each time I dropped my dirty laundry off, she would practice writing my name in English on a slip of paper ripped from her notebook that noted the weight and price of the job to be done. After writing each letter, she would look up at me for confirmation. “K-a-i …” And I would encourage her to keep going.

Now, before taking my laundry, she turned to her husband and said something in Thai (I didn’t know the language at this point, so I didn’t catch the words exchanged). He drive off on his own motorbike, leaving Waen and me to our usual conversation and orders of laundry business.

I propped the bag filled with dirty laundry on the desk. Waen took it and set it on the analog scale, noting the weight on the slip of paper with her pen. We continued the ritual of spelling my name, me helping her, at her prompt, to finish—“t-l-y-n.” We shared a smile and a laugh as I admired her kindness and consistency and appreciated her determination to memorize the spelling of my first name—which she did, in time. 

Just as we finished, Waen’s husband pulled up on his bright blue Honda Wave, a small semi-automatic scooter, having been gone for all of three minutes. Now, he parked in front of the shop, as if he were getting ready to drive off again at any moment. 

Waen put my laundry behind the counter, letting me know it would be clean and folded by the next afternoon. She looked at her husband again, saying words I didn’t yet understand. “The mechanics are closed, so leave your motorbike here for the night, and we will help you tomorrow when they open again,” Waen said as her husband wheeled the lifeless Scoopy up the small, narrow ramp that led behind their shop. “It will be safe here for the night. You take our bike,” she said, pointing to the blue Wave.

I must’ve looked stunned because she and her husband both reassured me it would be okay, that they only lived around the corner and didn’t need to go anywhere for the rest of the evening. Here they were, offering a stranger their only mode of transportation, in good faith that I would come back with it the next day.

Not only did they offer me their motorbike, but Waen’s husband had gone to the gas station to be sure I would have a full tank of gas. 

This was their plan all along.

Waen’s husband led me to the bike and asked me if I knew how to ride a semi-automatic (no clutch but still requiring the driver to shift gears). I nodded anxiously, all the while aware it had been a good five years since I’d ridden a manual motorbike. I had begged my mom to let me get one in high school. She’d agreed on the condition I take lessons—thank god.

I hopped onto the clutchless bike while Waen’s husband kick-started it from the sidelines.

I nervously clicked the pedal with my toes to put it in first gear. Taking the biggest deep breath, I took off, shifting from first to second, to third and then to fourth in the clunkiest fashion—body tense the whole way home, praying I wouldn’t crash the only transportation of my kind laundry lady.

In the morning, feeling much more comfortable and back in the swing of shifting gears, I regained my muscle memory and rode back to Waen’s shop, where I picked up my rental bike to get it fixed. 

I wonder if, subconsciously, that exchange may be the reason I chose a Honda Wave for my own bike when it came time for me to own one. A connection to a time where a stranger showed me kindness far past what was necessary or expected, a daily reminder to be kind to others because you never know how deeply it might touch their heart.

To this day, when visitors ask me for a recommendation of a good laundry place, I send them to Waen—not for her abilities alone (she’s great at what she does), but also for the gestures of kindness she has shown me over the years. I now do my own laundry at the local laundromat, but Waen lives in my heart as I spread her name through small interactions with visitors, friends, and family, and now here on The Rolling Desk.

My dad has since visited three times over the years. Each time he comes back, he takes his laundry to Waen. “Kaitlyn’s dad!” She lights up with excitement every time. Even after years have passed, she recognizes him and remembers me. I’m not sure if she knows, but she is my inspiration for a life well lived—a life filled with connection, nurtured hearts, and simple gestures that shape the person I want to be. 

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Do you love this story as much as I do? I chose it for its sweetness and for the way it highlights something important about “small” gestures—that they have far-reaching ripples. I teared up when I first read the phrase “she is my inspiration for a life well lived.” What more could we ever hope to be? Thank you, Kaitlyn, for sharing.

Thank you, all, for reading, liking, and commenting. And for being, accepting, and seeing kindnesses.

Let’s help Kaitlyn keep spreading Waen’s name around, shall we? Pretty please, restack “Spelling Kindness” (press the little recycle button) or share it with a link! And don’t forget to check out more from Kaitlyn at Loving the Dark Parts.

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Have a story for Ask & Give?

Want to write about a time when someone, perhaps a total stranger, had your back or when you helped out someone in need or witnessed such an exchange? Hit me up here or by DM if you’d enjoy having your work included in the collection. (Not yet published pieces may be given priority.)

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