Every time I open my refrigerator and reach into the top drawer and remove that red and white glass bottle of Coca-Cola it takes me back to a time when a 75-year-old woman named Bea handed me an ice cold Coca-Cola over the fence every week when I cut her grass.
It was 1989, the same year the Berlin wall fell. I was 16 years old and homeless. My walls were up to say the least. I didn’t trust anyone. I just wanted to work, earn money and buy food. I wasn’t about to let my guard down and wouldn’t get close to anyone.
Week after week Bea handed me an ice cold Coca-Cola over the fence and we would talk. Or I should say, she would talk. She’d talk about simple things like the weather or her wood-working business or the job I was doing. Little by little those walls around me began to crumble.