When I think of my Grandfather, one impression that comes to mind is observing my first "random act of kindness" in 1951, when I was 6 years old.

It was a Sunday after church and I was with my Mother and Grandparents, on our way to eat dinner at the Union Hotel, across Main Street from the train depot in Burlington, Iowa.

The hotel retained the elegance of the glory days of railroading at the turn of the century. The posh surroundings, with red velvet couches, chairs and matching circular settees in the lobby were contrasted by dark oak woodwork everywhere.

The fragrances were a wonder of olfactory delights for a 6 year old. Shoe shine polish and tobacco blended with delightful kitchen smells. In the dining room, the table was replete with china, silver, goblets and linen. The food was excellent and Sundays were my Gram's respite from cooking, so we always made the best of it.

Walking to the hotel after parking the car, a man spoke to my Grandfather as we were about to enter. In contrast to the after church patrons, he was unshaven, threadbare and there was nothing clean about him. My Grandfather stayed outside to talk with the man, while the rest of us went inside to be seated.

We had gotten our salads by the time my Grandfather finally arrived at our table. He explained that he had walked across the street to the railroad station and bought the man a one-way ticket to a destination back East, where his family lived. It was a two day ride on the train, so my Grandfather had given him some money for food, too.

We had dined at the Union Hotel for at least one Sunday a month since I could remember. My Gram's favorite was Lobster Newburgh, while Grampy liked the Beef Wellington. My Mother and I tried different dishes, each visit. This is where I learned to like escargot and Brussels sprouts. She encouraged me to try everything and experience the variety of flavors that food offers.

The universal among us, however, were the freshly baked orange rolls that were served with the meal. They were flaky and marvelously aromatic. The smell of them baking in the kitchen flowed through the dining room, and whet the appetite. The waiter was a welcome sight, headed for our table carrying a basket of rolls, pats of butter and a pitcher of ice water.

It was hard for a 6 year old to wait long enough to give the waiter my order before digging in. When unwound, they proved incredibly sticky, but deliriously tasty � hot and slathered with melting butter. Holy Moly, the waiter would bring more, should we run low. There were no fingerbowls, so a wet napkin would have to be employed to chaste sticky fingers before salad was served.

That day, we enjoyed several linen covered baskets of orange rolls with our dinners of meatloaf or fried chicken. The specials were just fine that Sunday. They came with choice of potato, two sides and a beverage. We enjoyed our meal together that day and I'm sure a large part of it was the pride in knowing it was my Grandfather who had helped a man, down on his luck, but was now safely and happily on the way home to his family.

Kim Jameson, a retired nursing home administrator, lives in Decatur.