I did a double-take while driving by the group of protesters at the corner of a busy intersection near a strip mall.

"Quick, take a picture," I told my daughter, who I was driving to a theater class. About 10 people were standing on either side of a large Black Lives Matter banner. They were holding signs that said: "Racism is not patriotism," "Pro-black does not mean anti-white," "We stand with Charlotte," "Stop killing children" and "White Silence = Violence."

All the protesters were white.

I was in a predominately white, affluent area that votes deep red. This is Todd Akin country, home base of the Missouri Republican representative who lost a senate race to Claire McCaskill when he said that women who are victims of so-called "legitimate rape" rarely get pregnant. It's also within 10 minutes of Ballwin, Missouri, where a police officer was shot in July.

It's the last place I'd expect to see anyone demonstrating in support of the Black Lives Matter movement.

Later, when I examined the picture I'd had my daughter take, I found a link to the group's Facebook page: West County Community Action Network -- We Can. Who were these fish out of water, and what were they trying to accomplish?

The group started nearly two years ago with a group at Emerson Unitarian Universalist Chapel in Chesterfield, Missouri, who felt compelled to act after Ferguson police officer Darren Wilson fatally shot Mike Brown, an unarmed black teenager.

"I got woke," said Jake Lyonfields, 24, a health care consultant who was raised in the county and worships at Emerson. He marched in the streets of Ferguson, but he realized he wanted to speak out in his own community.

One of the organizers, Lauren Lyerla, 51, says the group has been holding vigils weekly in various parts of west St. Louis County since October 2014. There are about three dozen active members in the group, which has expanded beyond the church, and about a dozen show up for the weekly protest.

"It can be really painful to hear every week the racist things being said to us," Lyonfields said. They estimate that about of the quarter of the reaction is negative. People might make an obscene finger gesture or yell at them as they drive by. Only a few people have gotten physically in their faces with insults.

"My favorite is when they say, 'All lives matter, a-hole!'" Lyerla said. Others question why they are even trying to raise the issue in their outlying suburban communities. They think, "I'm far enough out west that I don't have to look at it or think about it," she said.

But the dedicated activists also hear some supportive comments. Some people bring them hot chocolate in the winter and Gatorade in the summer. Others, like plant engineer Nicole Greer, see them and feel compelled to say more.

When Greer, who is African-American, first spotted the group, she told her 19-year-old daughter, Syndi Jackson, that they had to go express their gratitude.

"These people are out here going hard for us," she told her daughter. Their interaction led to both of them joining as volunteers and now leaders within the group. She said a passerby shouted "white power" at her when she joined a vigil.

The members decided to take their activism beyond the street, and started doing research on local police departments and school districts, reading up on policies and disciplinary data. They attend school board meetings to advocate for ways to break the school-to-prison pipeline, which begins with black and brown students being disproportionately suspended from school.

"Ferguson is everywhere," Lyonfields said. "The data shows it."

Greer said that her daughter was a top performer in a predominately white school district and they had to deal with issues related to race.

"I know there are issues because we have lived them," she said.

Group members have had several meetings with local police departments, one of which has agreed to include implicit bias training in the training protocol for its officers.

"Most white people in West County were entirely ready to let the race question drop once the (Darren Wilson) non-indictment announcement came," Lyerla said. People asked her why they were still out there. She said that an aspect of her own privilege is that other white people may listen to her more than they will people of color.

"I have access to a person's attention," she said. She sees her job as continuing to listen to African-Americans' experiences and amplify their voices.

"We provide some discomfort to some people who are entirely too comfortable in their white privilege," she said. "And maybe we provide some hope to those who agree with us and felt entirely alone out here."

Oftentimes, jumping to conclusions can make a person look ridiculous. Sometimes, the consequences are far more dire. But it's more entertaining to start with a trivial example.

Last month, the staff at Des Peres Park near St. Louis moved the picnic tables for a summer evening concert. Around the same time, fencing went up around a few trees to prevent further damage caused by excessive climbing.

The climbing had not been an issue before people started collecting those virtual monsters in the mobile game craze of the summer.

Immediately, the complaints started arriving through the city's website and on its social media page. White-hot Poke-rage prompted some to write that the "ill-timed" changes were "possibly retaliatory" strikes against Pokemon Go players. They decried it as "a wrong-headed move by the city," designed to push people out.

Slow your roll, Bulbasaur chaser.

Brian Schaffer, director of parks and recreation in Des Peres, reassured those who messaged that the park routinely moves the tables for all concerts. He had the fencing around the trees adjusted so there was more room to walk through them.

"It's nice to have people out in the park," he said, and people have different ways of enjoying it. In fact, when the benches were put back in place, Schaffer made sure more picnic tables were added where the Pokemon Go players had been congregating.

Even by suburban standards, it was a minor brouhaha, quickly resolved.

I wouldn't accuse the players who protested the changes of paranoia. There have been business owners who have complained about damage left behind by visitors cruising for the virtual creatures that appear in the smartphone game. Several sites around the country have gotten themselves removed from the app's locations. A Chicago lawmaker had proposed certain areas be off-limits to protect natural habitats and nesting grounds from getting trampled.

It's understandable that some players might get rankled or have questions about an unexpected change in a favored hangout. But it's the way in which a small group of people responded that is indicative of our times: React first. Assume the worst. Question later.

We live in an age of assumptions and instant judgments.

We've lost the ability to wait for information to form opinions and react. It may be partly because of a new information structure that allows the instant, rapid-fire spread of nuggets -- true or untrue -- coupled with talking heads who must fill hours before any real information is available.

The ease of spreading misinformation has, at its worst, endangered innocent lives or cost private citizens their reputations. We've seen this happen via social media during national tragedies, when people are desperate for information and the internet is rampant with people willing to exploit that for their own agendas.

Adding to that, the ability to fire off an angry missive has never been so simple. An angry tweet or online comment takes even fewer keystrokes than an enraged email.

Parents might recognize this behavior: Toddlers, tweens and teens often react this way to simple misunderstandings. The outsize reactions, accusations and distorted thinking are part of typical developmental stages we guide our children to grow out of. We try to teach them to ask a question rather than make an accusation. To check multiple, reliable sources for information. To be patient while situations unfold.

But what do we do when so many grown adults have forgotten or discarded these lessons?

We used to urge people to be civil to strangers because it was the right thing to do, or because it's how we would want to be treated. Now, perhaps we have to appeal to self-interest: Minimize your chances of looking like a fool.

Don't assume the parks are pushing Pokemon Go away.

Sweet Pea looked a bit dizzy, wobbly on her feet that morning.

Maybe she has an infection, Ayla Abbassi thought. The Abbassi family has a menagerie of barnyard animals around their suburban home in Ballwin, Missouri. They share a four-acre, wooded lot with two dogs, two cats, three ducks and 12 chickens -- including Sweet Pea, a 4-month-old silkie bantam.

Ayla moved Sweet Pea indoors once she got sick. By the third day, the chick's back wings were splitting and her legs were buckling under her weight. Abbassi, who works as an IT project manager, called around to find a vet who treated chickens.

She took her to the nearby Family Pet Hospital. Dr. Hallie Feagans called her later that day and said that the chicken likely had Marek's disease, a common viral disease affecting poultry.

Backyard chickens have become increasingly popular pets. Feagans raises 30 chickens herself, and sees about one or two a week at the hospital. They can be difficult to diagnose and treat. While there's no cure for Marek's disease, which causes paralysis, Feagans said Sweet Pea could still possibly pull through after three or four weeks. Some chickens survive the illness.

"It depends how much work you want to put into it," Feagans told Ayla. "She still has a chance."

That was enough for Ayla. She picked up Sweet Pea and took her home to her three daughters.

"I wanted my girls to feel and see compassion," she said. She told them that one day it could be their parents who were really dependent and helpless. "You need to practice being compassionate whenever the situation presents itself -- no matter how small."

For the next two and a half weeks, Ayla or her daughters massaged Sweet Pea's legs twice a day. Ayla did water therapy daily in the bathroom sink with the chicken, trying to help her build strength in her legs. She fashioned a chicken diaper out of a sock and sanitary napkin Sweet Pea could wear while she scooted around the house. They made a sling out of a plastic grocery bag to help her "walk" upright with some assistance. Her 6-year-old daughter, Zayna, read stories to Sweet Pea nightly and carted her around in a pink-trimmed baby-doll stroller.

Sweet Pea got playtime with her fowl friends every evening.

The chicken basked in the attention.

Ayla felt a little overwhelmed by the amount of care the sick chick needed, in addition to her life as a busy working parent. Her co-workers inquired about the status of her ailing chicken daily.

People go to extraordinary lengths regularly to care for their pets and possibly extend their lives. Not many would go to such trouble for an animal you can buy for $1.50 a pound at the grocery store and serve for dinner. But when raised as pets, chickens can have distinct personalities, and the Abbassis described Sweet Pea as small but mighty.

Despite the nurturing care, Sweet Pea wasn't improving. In fact, she was getting worse and her breathing had become labored. Ayla took her back to the vet. In her heart, she knew she was not going to see Sweet Pea again.

"I remember holding her in the office and saying, 'Goodbye, my darling. I'm sorry I failed you,'" she said.

The assistant at the vet's office told her not to say that -- "You worked so hard," she told her.

Ayla cried the entire way home and waited for news.

Feagans called her later that afternoon. The chicken was showing signs of respiratory struggles. She was on oxygen at the hospital.

"What would you do if you were in my shoes?" Ayla asked the vet.

There was a long pause.

"Ayla, I would let her go. I don't think she will get better."

Sweet Pea died on Aug. 18. She had lived for about a month after she got sick.

The vet didn't charge for the medicine, the last appointment or Sweet Pea's cremation, even though Abbassi insisted that she wanted to pay. Feagans refused to charge her.

"I know she worked really, really hard to save that little thing," Feagans said.

A few days later, instead of a bill, a handwritten card arrived in the mail. Feagans wrote a note thanking the Abbassis for the love and compassion they had provided Sweet Pea.

"She was very lucky to be part of a such a loving family," she wrote. "I wish every pet was treated as well and given as many chances as Sweet Pea was."

Ayla said Feagans made her feel that Sweet Pea was a lot more important than "just a chicken."

And, to them, she was.