Our rural telephone “ring” was one long and two shorts when I was young. All party-line phones rang our signal when we received a call. Neighbors sometimes “listened in,” and sometimes even interrupted our calls. “We could do that for you,” they might say, or, “You could ride with us.” Neighbors were personal friends, and it was easy to strike up a conversation with strangers. I think that accounts for what happened to us at a railroad station in Belgium 25 years ago.

I was trip leader for a 45-day bicycle tour in 1970 and had planned the itinerary and made reservations, etc., for seven Christian College students and myself. Our reservations for this night were at the Youth Hostel in Brugge, Belgium. One Sunday we had ridden with the wind at our backs all morning and had done a lot of sightseeing along the way. After lunch, traffic picked up, and it slowed us down. It actually became hazardous to be on the road.

During a rest stop near Ghent, I said, “There’s money in our budget for this; let’s just take the train from here.” Approved! We rolled our loaded bikes into the noisy rail station and leaned them against a wall. Jan stood near them as I went to buy tickets; the others wandered around the station. When I returned a woman was waving her arms and anxiously trying to tell Jan something in Flemish. The other girls came to see what was happening.

“Mrs. G.,” Jan said, relieved, “what’s she saying?” The woman turned to me, jabbering and pointing to the U.S. flags on our saddlebags. “Yes, we’re Americans.” She shook her head and waved as if to erase that thought. Trying again, she tapped her chest with one fist. I recognized the words “American” and “friend.” “You have a friend in America?” Yes! She was delighted and tried to tell us more. A man came up and saved the day.

He was her husband, who had learned to speak a little English while in prison during World War II. She had been trying to tell us that they had become good friends with the U.S. Army officer who had helped him get released and back home.

His wife prompted him to tell that they had kept in touch all of those years. Of course they worshiped this fellow as if he had won the war single-handedly!

Old country neighborly person that I am, I asked a foolish question. “Where does your friend live in America?” The woman answered “Co ... lum ... be ... a.” I helped her by asking, “Columbia University?” “No. Miz ... ou ... ra.” We all screamed, “Columbia, Mo.!” in disbelief. We all talked at once, telling about Christian College and asking the officer’s name. He was Columbia’s highly respected Col. John Crighton, and two of us knew his wife well. Jan, the bicyclist to whom the woman spoke in Flemish, and our daughter Nancy were his wife’s music pupils when they were children. We talked until it was time for us to load our bikes and leave.

Our new friends waved until the train pulled out of sight. Perhaps today they’re telling their friends -- as I say to you, -- “This is a small world indeed!”