Gallantry

No other people or vehicles were present. The snowy street was silent and magical.

As a college student in 1973, I was working as an usher at a theater in Madison, Wisconsin, the night the world-famous French mime Marcel Marceau performed. He was spellbinding in his skits as various characters.

Early the next morning, I was picking my way along the narrow, unshoveled Langdon Street sidewalk following others' footprints amid snow piled a couple of feet deep. No other people or vehicles were present. The snowy street was silent and magical.

I glanced up and noticed a man in a long, thick fur coat stepping along the sidewalk path about a block ahead. I knew immediately it was Marcel Marceau.

When he was about three feet in front of me, our eyes met. He shrugged loosely, rolling his shoulders. Then, with a broad, sweeping gesture, he stepped aside into the snowbank. I nodded firmly to thank him as he graciously invited me to walk past. I didn't want to fumble for words say thank you out loud and spoil my unforgettable personal mime performance.

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