We don't have kids, so I was surprised when the neighborhood parents' association asked me to volunteer for morning crossing duty. "Most families can't cover their shifts," the coordinator told me. "We'd really appreciate the help." I said yes. My husband said I was too nice. I said, "It's twenty minutes, Mark. How hard can it be?" For three weeks, I stood at the corner of Maple and 4th at 7:40 every morning. I waved the kids across, said good morning to every single one, and then drove straight to my office downtown, where I meet clients all day. On Tuesday, it rained. I stood at the corner with a big black umbrella, wearing my work heels, and walked eleven children across the street safely. At 8:30, my phone rang. It was the coordinator, Deb. "Hi, just a quick note. If you're holding an umbrella, you can't really see the kids, right? Please don't use one next time. And honestly, it's not appropriate to do crossing duty in heels." I put my pen down. "What should I do in the rain, then?" "A raincoat, maybe." "And the shoes?" "Something more practical. We want to look like we take this seriously." I looked at the clock. I was thirty minutes from a client meeting, in the same shoes she was complaining about. "Deb, I volunteered because you said not enough families could help. I'm not a parent here. I'm doing this on my own time, before work." "I understand, but..." "I'm going to stop. Thank you for the opportunity." "Oh. Well. Okay." I hung up and told my husband that night over dinner. He put his fork down very slowly. "They want you to change your shoes for a volunteer job. They asked you." "It's fine. We don't have kids. I'll just stay out of it." "No," he said. "You'll stay out of it. But I'm not." The next morning, at 7:35, I looked out the window and saw my husband standing at the corner of Maple and 4th. He was wearing a bright yellow rain poncho, rubber boots, and a safety vest he had clearly bought on the way home. In one hand he held a stop sign. In the other, he held an enormous golf umbrella. I stood at the window with my coffee, laughing so hard I almost spilled it. He stayed there all week. On Friday, Deb walked up to him in a raincoat and a clipboard. "Sir, I'm sorry, but you can't hold an umbrella while..." My husband smiled politely. "Ma'am, I'm happy to follow every rule on that clipboard. Is there a rule about who is allowed to ask volunteers to stop volunteering?" I'm told she opened her mouth, closed it, and walked back to her car. By the following Monday, the school sent a message to the entire neighborhood. They needed three more crossing guards. They also wanted to thank the "two volunteers who have no children in the school and showed up every day anyway." That afternoon, I found a small envelope taped to our front door. Inside was a card, drawn in crayon, with a stick figure in a yellow poncho and a tall woman in high heels. At the bottom, in careful letters, it said, "Thank you for keeping us safe. We like your shoes." I stuck it on the fridge. The next morning, I stood at the corner in my work heels and the same black umbrella, with my husband next to me in his poncho. Eleven kids crossed the street. Nobody called.