 Hi, I'm James Randy. Let me tell you a short story folks. Recently I was driving on four-lane Broward Boulevard here in Florida, alongside the canal. And I noticed a huge box turtle powerlessly making his way across the road some distance away. The driver ahead of me swerved to avoid the creature but hardly slowed down. While I pulled over, I stopped and lugged a very heavy traveler to the edge of the water. He seemed not to express his thanks to me for his rescue, but he plopped into the canal with what I fancied as a certain degree of relief. It s the kind of thing I often do. I pick up sharp objects I find when walking along the beach, carrying them about with me until I find a suitable place to safely deposit them. For every stranded motorist that I report by telephone to the Highway Police, there are many others who pass that person by, but I m well aware of the reason I feel compelled to make such calls. You see, I had a very good teacher. My paternal grandfather, who long ago left us for what he believed would be a far greater adventure, was very important to me as I grew up. He cared a lot. He looked on lying as a grave infraction of proper social behavior, though I will tell you that on one occasion and only one I deliberately lied to him. I visited him as he was in his last hours, and he asked me if I thought that he was going to meet my grandmother, who had died a few years earlier. I told him that yes, he probably would, though I had no such delusion at all. He just smiled. Whether or not he believed me, I ll never know, but I did this to possibly bring him a bit of comfort in his last moments. I have no regrets about that at all. Gramps was one who would wipe away bits of chewing gum on a park bench because someone may sit in it, he d explain. Quite unnoticed, he d pick up and replace a hat that had fallen from a clothing rack in a restaurant. A piece of wire protruding from the fence at the playground would be bent back out of the way by my granddad. I learned a lot from him, watching him as he performed this part of his life. Now, Grandpa wasn t a caretaker or a watchman of any kind. He worked as an electrician. He wasn t employed to pick up after people or to ensure their safety, but was nonetheless getting enormous satisfaction from his small contributions. Together at the beach one day, we found a very old wallet containing two $1 bills and a faded identity card for some chap named Foster. As I expected, my granddad wrapped that wallet up and mailed it off to the address we d found inside. Two weeks later, it came back with a notification informing us that the owner had moved and had left no forwarding address. Grandpa simply extracted the $2 and stuck them into a book on the bookshelf. We reluctantly discarded the wallet. Well, the next Sunday morning I answered the door to find a lady there asking if we would contribute to a worthy charity. Grandpa lit up and retrieved the $2 from the bookshelf. He handed them to the lady and as she thanked him, he shook his head. No, no, no, that s not mine, he said. It s from Mr. Foster. I m sure he s glad he s been put to such a good use. And when I dropped that turtle at the canal edge last week, I said, Mr. Foster wishes you a long life and my grandpa would have smiled, I know. It s the way to go, folks. The world turns a little more smoothly. You re just a bit richer and someone, some place, may very well notice your good deed and resolve to follow suit. That way we re all better off. Won t you do something for Mr. Foster? Please. And thank you.