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“Frank”ly

My dad relocated from AR to San Antonio, TX when he was 85 years old.  I live in GA.  John, my brother who lives in AR, flew into San Antonio and happened onto a taxi driver named Frank, who was great.  John said I should give Frank a try and gave me his number for my next trip in.  So I called Frank.  He was very friendly on the phone and said he would meet me at baggage claim.  And there he was, holding a sign with my name on it, when I arrived.  He was such a gentleman, cared for me well, and carried me safely to Dad’s.  I told him when I would need a ride back to the airport – and he was there to collect me.  The kicker was he cost no more than a regular taxi but it felt like I had a personal driver.  This routine happened I’m sure at least 10 times during Dad’s life in TX.  The comfort of knowing Frank would take care of me carried me through those many trips at the end of Dad’s life.  Frank is a part of my story.  Who is a part of your story?

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