The gate agent wanted to board him early, because he was elderly and legally blind. If I had to guess, I’d say he was in his late eighties. He was tall, probably at least 6’4” and the furthest thing from friendly. I led him back to his seat, the fourth row from the back.

“Here’s your seat, sir. Right here on your right.”

“Why do you people always give me a seat in the very back of the airplane?" he growled.

“I’m not sure sir, maybe it has to do with when you bought your ticket.”

“How do you expect me fit into that seat? Why do you keep making the seats smaller and smaller?”

He was stiff and struggled mightily to fold himself into the seat. I raised the arm rest to help. He finally managed to sit down but kept his big foot out in the aisle.

“Sir, you're going to have to put your foot underneath the seat in front of you. You're liable to trip people.”

“I can’t move it.”

The grumpy geezer was getting on my last nerve. 

I knelt on the floor, took his size thirteen wing-tipped shoe, picked it up and wedged it inside the metal bar under the seat. It was a tight fit. His knees were right up against the seat in front of him. Looking at him squeezed in there did make the seat look unusually small.

Breathing a little heavily from the effort of getting his foot out of the aisle, I began closing bins.

“Where did you put my bag?” he barked out.

“It’s in the bin right above you.”

“I want it down.”

So now I’m your personal lackey?

I forced myself to smile, “You can have it down for now, but I have to put it back up for take-off and landing.”  Because it sure as heck isn't going to fit under the seat with those giant feet of yours.

Sitting on my jumpseat behind him, I looked at the miserable old coot, sitting stiffly, looking straight ahead.

His gray hair was thick and neatly combed. I’d noticed earlier that he wore a nice suit. Flicks of dandruff clung to the shoulders of his suit and there was a spot of spittle on his tie. I surmised he had once been a handsome, distinguished man—maybe even pleasant? He’s probably shocked to find himself so old and decrepit—wondering where the years went. My heart softened towards him. Who knew why he was flying? Maybe he’d just lost a loved one and was returning from a funeral.

I knew when we landed he would need help getting up. As soon as the seat belt sign went off, I managed to make my way up to him, but he’d already tried to stand on his own and was falling over. I wasn’t strong enough to hold him up, we were both going down, but, miraculously, a man seated in the very last row was right beside us, helping me hold him up, kindly urging him to sit back down.

Tears welled in my eyes—they always do when a stranger jumps up to help a fellow passenger. Strange, but true.

The stranger waited until everyone had deplaned and helped me get the man out of his seat. 

I thought the old grump was going to walk off without saying a word. But I was wrong, he stopped, turned and took a long look at me, “Thank you,” he said softly. “You’ve been very kind.”

I know the smallest acts of kindness are never wasted, but having it acknowledged made my day. Even though my thoughts had not been kind, I reaped the joy from acting kind and (of course) it brought tear to my eyes.