Red Light Wonder

I was at a stop light when I saw it, the simplest of things, and not something that is in my daily visual dictionary.   Fifty to sixty yards ahead I saw 15 or so brightly colored balloons, all knotted together in one heap of a  mess, floating up into the sky.    I watched  them as they went higher and higher, not taking my eyes off their path.  I felt like I was floating right along with them, motionless in time.   The sky was a perfect blue and their gentleness upwards made the moment surreal. 

I was watching this tidbit of a spectacle in awe; with a giddy child-like anticipation.  What is it with balloons or bubbles or fireworks, that makes grown-ups regress into a state of utter wonderment?  Don't get me wrong, I relished that moment and was as utterly disappointed when the light switched to green  - and how often does that happen?!    Ah, wonderment.  And despite what some of my close friends believe about my love of math, that definitely is not a feeling I get when I am crunching numbers, or pulling weeds or paying the utility bill, for that matter.   I think what hit home with me is the idea, if even for an instance that I was able to just set aside the daily duties, stresses and never ending errands, even just for a moment....and without having to try.  It just snuck up on me, and that was priceless.  An unplanned, unexpected, pure moment; a moment  when time is suspended and hope exists in the cracks.

Yards later I discovered the little moment of joy happened due to a car salesmen adjusting the car windshield signs (and apparently the balloons tied to them) on his lot.   I doubt he lost anymore that day, but I am thankful for the ones he did.

Now, does anyone have any bubbles?

15 Minutes to the Main Event

Today I realized something about myself, and I must admit it is a little embarrassing.  As much as people think I am put-together, got-it-together and have-it-together, I must not be.   I was with friends who I rarely go to the movies with, so I was a little uncertain as to how we would interact.  The movie previews began, and while it is something I look forward too, it also caused a pang of anxiety.   I am not sure if I wanted them to know this little tid-bit about me. It's pretty personal  - a little nugget of a secret. 

I cry at movie previews - 95% of  them to be exact! 

I know this about myself, but for some reason I can't remember to bring a single tissue with me. And forget about using the napkins for my greasy popcorn fingers.  I'm not sure if they are even classified as paper.   Irregardless, I really don't think I should be tearing up at a video montage and choice sound bites that include cartoon characters.   But with clever cut-a-ways and anthemic music, my fate is set.  I am doomed to eye drizzle.  

I like to think of myself as someone with an intellectual palette - an educated mind.  So why is it so easy for Hollywood to figure me out?  The idea that some big-wig in tinsel town knows me without even knowing me, irks me.    It really has me questioning myself and I  wonder what in the world is wrong with me?   I mean, I am different, right???    If I were different, I wouldn't be that easy to peg.  I wouldn't cry as much, and therefore I would not have to figure out ways to disguise my irrational acts. 

I was hiding my sappiness pretty well and thought I might make it through the previews with my dignity in tact, but I was toast when the preview for Red Tails, a story about the trials of black WWII fighter pilots, graced the screen.   Those tears were legit, but there are only so many clever ways one can disguise wiping the eyes preview after preview, or getting in a sniffle when there is a loud crash or musical climax.  I can only hide this secret for so long!

My covert eye wiping must of been adequate enough, that or my movie buddies were too entrapped themselves to notice the moistness in my eyes.  I think my secret is safe for now, but one day I'll be exposed for the sap that I am.  I just hope the discoverer is a kindred spirit and that they have a hidden stash of tissues to share.

Ninety Plus

I am procrastinating - procrastinating packing for a last minute ticket purchase.  I wish I could say it was a spontaneous trip to the Bahamas, or to visit old friends in London, rather, it is much more somber trip, a trip to my granddad's funeral.   I decided to bring one of my daughter's first grade school projects, you know the kind  "Interview your oldest living relative."  She did it years ago and Granddaddy was here target.

I was flipping through the pages not believing that the handwriting on the page  belonged to my almost teenager,  but what was even more amazing were the stories those floppy  l's and downward sloping lines told.  I had grown up listening to Granddaddy's stories, and while they were entertaining and adventure filled, they weren't any of the ones on the page.   In this book, there were stories he told of teasing his brother with frogs, and his father enrolling him in CCC when he was 15 - 3 years before eligibility.  He told the stories of a three room house where he and his brother slept on the floor so his sisters could have a bed.  They were stories of a different time.

When  asked what toys he had growing up, he said a little red wagon.  period.     He went to eight grade, 3 times, not because he couldn't cut it, but because there wasn't a high school for him to attend, and his love for school brought him back year after year.    He told us of being so clumsy on the basketball team they invented a new position for him  - on the bench.   

My favorite story was one he tells of  meeting a pretty girl on the bus and how he married that girl and raised 5 girls of their own.  He earned his GED, went back to college, was a high school civics teacher, a WWII vet, a pastor,  a farmer and volunteered thousands of hours at the local hospital after his high school sweetheart died there, too young, too soon.

And through every nook and cranny, he told stories.

I think it was his way to connect the dots of his life, of his family, and to the world around him.   Looking back over his life, it is easy to see that in all the stories, every darn one of them, they revolved around people.  His life centered around people, serving them, loving them, educating them and giving to them.   Sure he had many accomplishments, many feathers in his cap and fetes he overcame, but if I were to look at his life like a book, I would see throughout the pages and pages his love and care for others.

I guess the story will continue...with 5 daughters and a multitude of grandchildren and great grandchildren, how could it not?   I am thankful now, for that hours long project sitting with  my daughter slowly and patiently coaxing a six year old to write down every word because now  I can't think of a better gift to keep, than the story of his life.