THE SMALLEST THINGS

by Ruth Briggs

I long ago learned my life was not going to be one gala event after another, not even to be endowed with many trips or exciting happenings. Not that I wouldn’t have liked it that way, but had I had that other life I once thought so important, how much I would have missed in learning that it takes the smallest things to make my day. It can be just a morning walk meeting the children from junior high on their way to classes. These happy, eager chattering youngsters, some carefree, some thoughtful, all interesting. Seldom is there one who does not smile in passing or say “Good Morning,” or just “Hi.” These are the self-centered, badly mannered teens of today? Well, do we not see in others just what we are looking for?

It has been the pleasure of finding a ten dollar bill tucked away in a hidden compartment of my billfold. I had even forgotten what for, but a nice feeling to find it there waiting for something special, all over again.

Or once when I was waiting in a drug store for a prescription, a sweet eager little clerk came rushing over to me. When I told her I was now being helped, she seemed disappointed and said, “I wanted so much to wait on you.” Maybe it was her first job, as I looked like someone you could sell almost anything to. Anyhow it gave me a nice warm feeling to know I did not look like a bore, even to a salesperson.

Sometimes it is only hearing Vicki Carr’s heart aching rendition of “It must be him, or I shall die.” Oh, the bittersweet tears she and I had shed over that song, and I don’t think either of us ever knew if he called.

Then it can be my littlest, very hungry grandson’s blue, blue eyes, serious with the bit of wisdom he is about to divulge.

“Grandma, you make the best peanut butter sandwiches. Susie’s mother makes them look as good as yours, but they don’t taste as good as yours do.”

He’ll have me making better and better peanut butter sandwiches!

And again, this same heaven sent child with a flash back thought of something that had pleased him and me up to my elbows in sudsy dishwater.

“Could I kiss your hand even it if is all soapy?”

The things I have learned from this baby, who notices the minutest markings on a butterfly’s wings, but never the color of a person’s skin.

Sometimes in the evening, when I am taking my sixteen block constitutional, I am joined by my mysterious companion. I have not inquired into his background, for I prefer to keep him anonymous. The pleasure this simple walk in the early twilight can be wading through crackling leaves, pausing to watch a squirrel climb a tree, noticing a strange bird, children playing outside as long as a shred of daylight lasts. Then the lights beginning to blink on in the homes, long lines of cars passing with people eager to get home from work, others hurrying to the food market before it closes. When we reach the edge of town, before we turn back, we pause to drink in the beauty of the orange and gold of the setting sun. We see it with equal appreciation, this astute friend of mine, and each in our own way. He escorts me home right up to the door and after I’ve said, “Goodnight. See you tomorrow?” he vanishes, to go back to where ever he came from, this almost human Scottie dog.

Or again, it can be my daily visit with Dr. Kihm on radio, or a long chat with a friendly neighbor over a cup of coffee, a letter from a loved one I don’t get to see very often, or even finding a dress I’d wanted but didn’t feel I could afford, had found its way to the sales rack. Simple things, yes, for this fast changing world we live in today, never to be taken for granted, but appreciated.

Then, in retrospect, I have a few incidents and sayings I treasure, that I can bring out and dust off, or a little chuckle of remembrance. Here is one:

During jury duty, in which we were impounded, the dining room table conversation was a potpourri of just about everything brought out in frank discussions (and a healthy attitude it is) one older, very distinguished gentleman was heard to comment: “One thing this jury is not long on, is modesty.”

Just sharing my thoughts with you today is another pleasure for me. How about you?

Note:

Shortly before my youngest brother died earlier this year, he sent me a box of family memorabilia. Among the items was this untitled piece by my mother. It must have been written sometime in the 1950s, a time when my two brothers and I had left to begin our callings, my mother left with a marriage that had not been very pleasant for any of us. Yet she not only coped with day to day adversities, but as I recently learned, maintained a “spiritual life,” perhaps toughened by the injuries.

My mother died in 2007 at the age of 105.

Read Ruth’s Poetry:

Minnesota Morning