I’m not a big fan of looking backwards, usually. There’s nothing you can do to change the past, so dwelling on it serves little purpose in my mind. Learning from it? Well, that’s something.

This year has taught me so very much. About me. About my friends. About my family. And about life in general. The lessons have sometimes come in powerful face slaps that sent me reeling for days or weeks on end. Sometimes they’ve snuck up on me, quietly, like Batman does on his villains. And I imagine still others have yet to register yet.

I took possibly one of the biggest risks I could have this year by walking away from a job that wasn’t making me happy to explore and find what would. My daughter was just a year old, and I had three months’ worth of income in the bank and a relatively solid idea of what I was good at. That was it. I started Altitude because I believed in what I was capable of doing. I still do. And the people around me have supported me, encouraged me, and unwaveringly cheered me on all the way.

So what I have I learned?

• Nothing is impossible.
• Believing in yourself is paramount, because absolutely no one else can adequately do it for you.
• True friends are worth everything, and they show themselves in the moments when you need them most. Treasure them.
• Hard work really does pay off. Not always right away, but it does.
• There are few absolutes in the world, save the love you have for your child.
• I am far stronger than I ever gave myself credit for.

Those of you reading here have likely landed because we’ve met somewhere along the way - either online or off. And I have to tell you that *you* are what keeps me coming back to this every day. Working insanely long days and waking up in the middle of the night to scribble down a fleeting idea. Because walking away from the corporate world was, in large part, a commitment to something bigger than me, part of which manifests in sharing this personal blog. I don’t want to do it on my own. I want you along with me. What fun is an adventure if you can’t share it?

Thank you for being here. Thanks for your friendship, your humor, your encouragement and your conversation. 2008 has been a pivotal year for me, and I can’t wait to charge into 2009 with all of you by my side.

Cheers, and Happy New Year to all of you.

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Ruthie is my grandmother. She turned 86 last week. And she’s amazing.

My family is a small one. Both parents are only children, so there have never been dozens of cousins and aunts and uncles roaming around. Our holiday gatherings are intimate and cozy, with copious food and drink and lots of stories to tell. Gramma has always been the matriarch, but not in the way you might imagine. She’s not prone to doling out unsolicited advice or brandishing her years of experience like a blunt weapon. Rather, she’s been the voice of humor and levity and has a quiet wisdom that always has captivated me.

When I was young, we lived down the street from Gramma and Grampa, which I thought made me the luckiest kid on earth. My younger brother and I spent summer days picking mulberries from the back tree and tramping our purple feet through Grampa’s woodshop and eventually onto Gramma’s carpet. (She never complained.) For some reason, boiled hot dogs and carrot sticks always tasted better sitting at Gramma’s table, where Eric and I fought over who got to sit in the red stool that Grampa made.

Gramma was always ready to play a game of Memory (my personal favorite) or dig out pads of paper and crayons. She never minded when I stole into her TV table drawers and borrowed the pencils that came free with proofs of purchase from Jay’s potato chips. They wrote better than all the others.

As a child, she was always the epitome of happiness to me. I never remember her upset, or angry, or even much sad. She never seemed to grow tired of my brother and me (and certainly not as tired as we often grew of each other). Life at Gramma’s house was the way it was supposed to be - full of warmth and too many sweet things, and loads of love.

It was only as a young adult that I started learning more about Ruthie herself.

Those summers in middle school, it never occurred to me to notice that Grampa had a cocktail by his side, even when I’d visit in the morning. Looking back, I’m still hard pressed to find the signs of his drunkenness, though I suppose if I thought really hard I could dig up a moment or two when Gramma steered me clear of him later in the day. He always had time for me and was ever gentle and kind, but Gramma must have artfully distracted me when it was necessary. It’s probably to her credit that I never noticed much of the ugly side of his drinking. And I certainly never knew of the nights she spent worrying, willing the car pulling into the driveway to be that of a taxi service and not the police. (This after she spent the early years of her marriage wondering if he’d come home from the war at all).

Grampa died when I was 13. The drinking didn’t kill him, but cancer eventually did. She survived that, too.

When I was young, I never thought anything much of the fact that Gramma didn’t drive, either. I didn’t know or understand the depth of her battles with agorophobia, or how much it took for her to overcome her petrifying fear of being out in public. She stopped driving in her 20s after a violent panic attack nearly caused her to crash horribly. But she managed to deal with her illness, even through the decades where doctors didn’t know enough about the disease to diagnose it (instead blaming it on outrageous things like PMS or hormone imbalances). I never knew what a journey it was for her to arrive at today, dealing with lifetime medication that helps her do simple things like shop, or socialize, without terrible effort.

Her sunny disposition belies so much of what she’s been through. Her transportation of choice today is a hot pink mountain bike that she bought at WalMart, complete with tacky plastic basket lashed to the handlebars. Yes, she rides it, and she loves it. Or, if the mood strikes, she just might set off on foot with Sammy - her fat, obstinate beagle - and look for the neighborhood garage sale. (The woman has more $2 t-shirts than any human should rightfully own).

The family delights in Gramma-isms, the malapropisms and mixed up idiomatic expressions that are so much a part of her dialogue. And she’s the most plugged in 86 year old that I know, sending me emails full of more emoticons than you can imagine. Our favorite Gramma-ism to date: Mom mentioned that she was going to clean up some stuff on her computer which would make it run at a better rate of speed. Gramma simply replied that apparently she’d have to learn to read faster.

Ruthie was her usual livewire self this year at Christmas Eve dinner, sipping her Manhattan and delighting in the toddlerishness that is my daughter. Gramma’s unapologetic laughter, as always, set the lot of us off with fits of giggles that wound their way through the entire evening. What a blessing it is to have four generations of women in one place.

But for the first time, I can see signs of Ruthie’s age. Her blue eyes sparkle still, but little things slip her memory as they’re apt to do, I suppose. But having watched her mom (my great-gramma Etta) slowly succumb to Alzheimer’s in her elder years, I see signs of some of the same holes in Gramma’s memory. The same patterns of confusion and frustration that she can’t remember. And I see the pain in my mom’s eyes as she sees it, too.

I know she can’t be here forever. But I’m so desperate for her to impart some of her strength, compassion, and widsom to my daughter. To me. To teach me what she knows about perseverance that I haven’t yet learned. To explain to me, somehow, all the things I need to know. I’ve never seen her look old before. I’ve never seen anyone but the outrageous, perpetually optimistic, amazing woman that I grew up with. And I’m scared.

But she is still here with me, today. For that I’m grateful. I will treat all the next months and years as holidays with Gramma, stuffing myself to the gills with her quirky sense of humor, and her moments of accidentally profound insights that leave me speechless. I’ll drink up her stories and get drunk on her laughter. I’ll absorb every ounce of fun and history and perspective that she’ll give me, and I’ll yet ask for more. I’ll let my daughter know her as much as Gramma can stand, hoping for osmosis and some kind of language between them that transcends 2-year-old-speak.

Once upon a time, I lamented my tiny family and our lack of bustle and chaos during the holidays. But not now, not today. I’ve spent the quiet of these years knowing Ruthie.

Merry Christmas, Gramma. I love you more than words.

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There are mice in my garage. And I don’t care.

I was actually alerted to this fact when, bleary eyed, I stumbled into my kitchen yesterday morning to find a small, ash colored field mouse curled up dead on the floor. It didn’t alarm me much (if it had been a cockroach, that’d have been a whole different scenario), but I was a bit sad. I think one of the cats probably had a bit too much fun with the poor thing and smooshed it to death.

So I did what any non-rodent petrified person would do and, rather than shrieking to wake up the rest of the house, I took an old tea towel and gingerly picked him up, wrapped him neatly, and carried him to the garage to lay him gently to rest in the Big Trash Can in the Sky (almost).

When I opened the door, I saw three little furry puffs, huddled behind the dog food, staring nervously at me. They scattered almost as quickly as I noticed them, disappearing somewhere behind the luggage and the clothes I’ve been meaning to donate to Goodwill for about three years.

I said a quick little something to the sky on behalf of my silent little stowaway, and put him in the trash. I was even careful to nestle him among the plastic so he didn’t tumble into a dark corner somewhere.

For a moment, I exercised my anthropomorphism and reflected on whether the mouse’s family and friends would be missing him, wondering what happened after he so bravely found a way to venture into the Warm House in search of dinner or something. I wondered if they realized what had happened, that their garagemate had met his doom in my kitchen only to be shipped off to the trash. I wondered if they were worried they’d be next.

So I did what any completely sane woman would do, and I gathered an old pillow, pulled off the cover, and used a box cutter to tear up a bit of the fluff and make a pile of warm fuzziness that just might make a human’s rendition of a mouse house. I took a handful of dog kibble and stuck it down inside. Then I tucked the pillow back in the corner where my pocket-sized tenants would be sure to find it.

I know they’re rodents, ok? I know this. But my garage is nothing more to me than a disorganized storage mess. It’s brimming with forgotten gadgets and books I can’t bear to part with but will never again read. It’s crammed with boxes I don’t even remember. They’re just more like accidental appendages, trailing behind me from move to move like toilet paper on a tennis shoe.

To them, it’s a warm(ish) shelter from the cold, somewhere to be relatively safe from harm, a place to be with their family and huddle together. I’m ok with sharing that with them. They’re not hurting anyone, most especially me, and I’ve got the room to let. After all, isn’t a little comfort and shelter something we all seek?

Photo credit: aturkus

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A curious thing happens to me every year around this time. I equate it to hibernation, though that’s not quite  a perfect word. It’s really a seasonal introspection, perhaps brought on by shorter days, longer nights, sentiments of the season or reflections of the past. Maybe all of it.

It’s not something that needs to be fixed. I’m not broken, or wanting the world to go away, or sulking in a corner listening to Christmas carols with a bottle of something. I promise.

I’ve always been incredibly atuned to nature. Outdoors is a very spiritual place to me, in all it’s facets. And winter especially brings on a set of emotions and reflections that are perfectly suited to the waning of daylight, the settling of snow on the branches, and the quiet air that hangs puffy and soft after a snowfall. We leave behind the remnants of a year, blanketing them in wet and white and cold.

I can’t also help but take stock this time of year of all the things I have and others don’t. How feeble and minor my issues are compared to some. How simple and exhilarating small things can be. It’s a time where I tuck into my own thoughts. Like kneading out knots in a well worn muscle, it’s painful sometimes, but always delivers a release and renewed determination to work again.

This year has been a transformational one for me, so I’m especially immersed in my hibernation and introspection. It’s the permission I’ve given myself to use some of my exceeding energy typically directed at doing, doing, doing, and spending some of it on finding, searching, and exploring.

I’m grateful to all of you, who have checked in to make sure I’m ok and I assure you that I am. This is an annual metamorphosis of sorts, a rite of passage that means I’m heading for the New Year, leaving my baggage behind, and bidding it a thoughtful farewell. I’m making room in my heart and my mind for the things that need the space. And I’m venturing into the crisp, fresh and chilled air of January knowing that the path ahead is mine to blaze.

Cheers to you. May your New Year be everything you wish for, and more.

Image credit: foto3116

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I tweeted tonight that I needed a laugh. Boy, did I get one. Or several. And it’s not fair to keep them all to myself, so here they are, for your enjoyment. (Fair warning, some are not for sensitive eyes).

From @BeckyMcCray, the picture that make me nearly spit wine on the computer.

From @JuliaGoolia, Out There Ads. And boy, are they ever.

@JustTamar sends this. If you haven’t seen the original Office, your life isn’t really complete.

I admit it. LOLCats make me laugh in an adolescent, giggly way. Here are @David_N_Wilson’s, and this one had me laughing far too much for my own good.

@einspruch shares some Rodney Dangerfield classic one liners.

@AllTheJonesMen quoted me a Bubba and Cooter pickup line. Have you seen them? A few here…

@kwbridge had me giggling up a storm at this. The best part, however, has little to do with the video itself. It’s all about part of the illustration/animation. See if you can figure out what had me laughing. (Hint: it’s quite juvenile).

@theotherway shared this gem from Erik Weiner, and if you haven’t seen it, this one is worth watching too.

@burnman speaks to the dog owners in the audience. And the dogs too.

@mikesansone sends this along. Why do babies laughing just kill us?

@jessieliebman shared some fantastic - and classic - George Carlin. RIP George, but thanks for this.

@rupertmike passed along some mullet love from the late Wesley Willis.

@ahsimpson Sent this great song from Kimya Dawson. Go teach it to your kids. Then listen to this song, too, from the Juno soundtrack.

And last but certainly not least (but undoubtedly the most un-PC of the bunch): @KatiRyan wins the award for making me laugh until tears rolled down my face. I’m sorry for that, but really, I’m not.

All laughter aside, it’s further proof of how rockin’ awesome my Twitter friends are. Thanks to all of you for bringing some fun into the evening.

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I worked as a bartender and a waitress for over 8 years, off and on. It was my main source of income while I was in college, and a good supplement to the meager earnings of a rookie non-profit development officer for a few years after that.

In actuality, I really enjoyed it. I’m rather social by nature, and it was great fun to meet and commiserate with people over a few beers and a football game on the big screen. It was like a microcosm of the world came to see me each night, with stories and lifestyles galore, and the best part is that they were willing to share. I’d probably still be doing it if I didn’t have big kid bills to pay.

The unfortunate truth is that a service environment can bring out the very worst in people. It’s as though they don’t think anyone is watching when they sit down to eat at a restaurant, and the person serving them is nothing more than their personal slave, worthy of not even common courtesy. Here’s my example.

I was working at a sports bar, the big kind with the huge wraparound bar and tables galore. The big screens were everywhere you looked, and the guys came in in droves. Packs of wolves hungry for fried food and endless $1.50 tap beers in those cheesy plastic promotional glasses.  They’d stack them on the table beside their plates, like some sort of trophy.

On a rather nondescript afternoon, I was greeted by a table of about a dozen burly guys, loud and raucous and there for a good time. At first, I was excited by their energy and eager to have a little fun.

But the instant I walked up to the table, it’s as if any notion of politeness had been sucked from the room.  Not one of them looked me in the eye. They shouted over each other, and barked orders at me.  They made cracks about my figure, made no apologies for calling me “honey” or “sweetie”, and were loud enough to ensure others heard them too.

I carried on and took care of them like any other table, but admittedly I spent as little time at that table as I could manage without laying down on the job. I tolerated with a sheepish smile the insults and the machismo, just willing them to get the hell out. At one point, the master of the coven snapped at me (yes, snapped his fingers to call me over), and hollered “C’mon over here Chunky, Big Daddy needs a refill.”  Revolting.

When they were finally ready to leave, Big Daddy himself left me a generous tip of exactly 29 cents. In the tin of barbeque sauce.

The point of my wordy story is not self pity. It’s that it seems that a service environment tends to bring out the inferiority complexes and the need for insecure people to flex their dominance over others. As if a person’s station as a restaurant server or bartender automatically opens to the door to treating them as indentured servants, erasing all trace of them as people.

Why do we do this? What the hell have we done with human decency?

My story is extreme, but I can’t begin to tell you how much you can learn about a person by watching how they behave at a restaurant. The way they interact with their server, their bartender, the busboy.  The amount of mistreatment and elitism they demonstrate in the face of someone working their butt off for hourly plus tips is in inverse proportion to how much mastery they can demonstrate over their own worlds.  It’s as though for a few moments, inside this alien service environment, they have some unwritten permission to become better than those whose job it is to bring them dinner. Because dammit, if they can’t lord over others outside those walls, they certainly can do so with a captive, servile audience.

There is no job that is unimportant. No honest role in the world that deserves derision, and no human doing an honest day’s work that deserves to be treated with rudeness, insignificance, and arrogance. We all seek our measure of security, contentment, peace.

I’d love for Big Daddy to spend some time in the shoes of so many of the single parents I worked with, making ends meet however they could. Or Manuel, my friend (to this day) and busboy at my old restaurant, who works to send money home and keep his kids - who he hasn’t seen in two years - in school.  Or the college students learning and working and dreaming of the day they can step boldly into the future and make their mark on this great rock. Or even Diana, who waited tables for 30 years because she loved it. In fact, I’d love to make waiting tables a prerequisite for any career. It teaches you so much about people, and probably equally as much about yourself.

So if we’re dining out sometime, be warned. I’m watching, observing. The measure of a man - or woman - in my eyes can largely be articulated in the short span of a grilled cheese sandwich.

I know you have stories, too, your view of the world from tableside. Share? I’ll get us a soda or two.

Thanks to Chris Brogan for the inspiration.

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Insecurity is so painfully, imperfectly human.

I’ve been reading a novel lately, the details of which are actually rather inconsequential. What’s struck me over and over is the dialogue.

The main character is a typically flawed, introspective and remarkably intelligent young woman. She’s in love with someone, but she’s sharply insecure about that relationship. Not surprising.

The brilliance is in the fact that her love interest allows - nay, encourages - her to speak what she’s thinking and feeling, regardless of how it may sound in the braces of love. Irrational. Needy. Insecure. Desperate. Wanting. And then he does something remarkable: he responds to it, and is reassuring. We as readers are immediately drawn to their relationship because as imperfect as it is, it has the element of reassurance.

We crave reassurance as humans. In fact, many of us are quite capable of recognizing that our thoughts and feelings are often irrational and driven by wayward emotion. But we want those we care about to not only encourage us to share those torturous thoughts, but we want to hear that they have them too. We want them to tell us it will be ok. That they care about us. That they’re going to be there anyway. The dialogue I’m reading is moving, if only because it satiates the wish we (or at least I) have to have someone look you up and down, and still tell you that you hold a very special place in their world.

Some of the most primal of human connections are based in a very fundamental sense of acceptance. We use familiar life constructs to define that: they like the same music I do, or we laugh at the same jokes, or we enjoy the same movies or books or activities. But what’s really at issue is the unconscious message that “you understand me”, and often in terms not easily articulated in written or spoken words. It’s a sense that by our affinities, we’re communicating something far more complicated and intricate about who we are, but those are more safely tucked behind more mundane ideas of hobbies.

Unless, of course, someone clicks with us enough to translate what lies beneath. And then, somehow, we feel validated. We are comforted in the knowledge that we are unique, that we have something to offer to someone that’s special to them, that they’d be missing something if not for us. We are reassured that we are not accidental.

How very fragile and elusive that can be.

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The amazing thing about the web is that your friends come from everywhere. Some you don’t even get a chance to meet. And in the spirit of Thanksgiving and before we all get wrapped up in the hubub, I wanted to spend a moment and say thanks to a few people that have touched me this year via these crazy interwebs. So here we go, in no particular order:

Mack Collier: For reminding me that chivalry is not dead, and that nice guys can still finish first. You’re one of the good eggs, Mack. Never change who you are. Thank you for being my friend.

Beth Harte: For unabashedly sharing her passion, and for always encouraging me never to hide my own. Beth, you’re someone that I hope I know and share life with for years to come.

Tim Jackson: For teaching me yet again that perseverance triumphs, and for being gentle and kind of spirit. There are few people who embrace and appreciate subtle beauty in the world, and I feel truly blessed to occasionally share the world through your eyes.

Frank Martin: You’ve shown me what generosity, humor, and compassion look like all wrapped up in a handsome package. You encouraged me and believed in me from the beginning, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am for that.

Pamela Martin: For letting us all have a bit of Frank, and for giving me endless amounts of laughter. Your ability to connect viscerally with people is profound, and I can’t wait for the next opportunity we have to cause a little mayhem together.

Jason Falls: Every conversation with you is eye-opening, and few people on the planet can elicit the unadulterated laughter that you do. For all the friendship, understanding, hilarity, and all that’s to come, I thank you.

Chris Brogan: Talent, generosity, brilliance and a searing wit all balled up in a guy who not only is amazingly good at what he does, but has the humility and ability to connect with people like few others I know. Cheers to always having copious junk monkeys, and never forget Step 1.

Geoff Livingston: Your personal brand is really high on my list. You’ve always told me to stay true to myself, and somehow, I keep listening. Thanks for that. Personal brand or no, I’m proud to call you my friend.

Liz Strauss: If I were building barns, I’d want you with me. Not only do you bring light and happiness wherever you go, but your desire to lift up those around you is an example that everyone needs to see.

Connie Reece: Pink boa or not, you are beyond fabulous. Everyone needs a Connie. I can’t tell you how many times you’ve brought me perspective that I just wouldn’t have otherwise found. Thank you for giving so much of yourself for others, always.

Kellye Crane: Talk about an inspiration! Every moment I’ve been terrified of doing this solo gig, you’ve been proof positive that not only can it be done, it can be done with style and poise. I can’t wait for the chance to share a cocktail and toast your success.

Sonny Gill: You’ve given me a whole new appreciation for Armani. I blame you for sucking me back into fantasy football this year, but getting to know you as a friend and colleague has been worth it. Plus, you let me beat up on the boys. That’s been fun.

Deb Robison: Just when I think you’re this delicate flower, you make me spit wine on my computer screen with a joke that I thought only I could appreciate. And what a razor sharp mind you have. Thank you for the hijinx. Just wait until we get together in person. Heh.

Tara Whittle: I’ve missed you since I’ve been so absent from Plurk, but I blame you for the money I spent on purple eyeshadow. You are so crazy smart, and incredibly warm and giving. I’m so glad we’ve connected.

Donna Tocci: I’ve missed you on Plurk, too. But you have always had a nanner for me when I needed one, and I can’t imagine how to return that favor now that my karma doesn’t allow me any. I was so excited to meet you, but it was far too short. Let’s be sure that the next time is longer.

Ann Handley: Word snobs, unite. I’m so inspired by your writing and your sense of humor. You have a talent, Ann. Plus, you crack me the hell up. Thanks for not only the professional opportunities, but for adding color and humanity to my crazy world.

Gavin Heaton: I will always remember how totally floored I was the first time you left a comment on my piddly little blog. You too regularly stitch me up with laughter, and often you probably don’t even know it. One of these days, I’m going to make it down under and thank you in person.

Jennifer Laycock: You’ve been another person that constantly amazes me with your generosity of spirit and commitment to do well by the people in your world. Thank you, for your encouragement in my professional adventures, but also for being someone that exemplifies the good in people.

David Alston: How fortunate am I that I get to call you my client AND my friend? I hope the latter will long outlast the former. We’re gonna kick some tail together, you know. And maybe do some Johnny and June cash renditions if I have enough margaritas.

Christina Kerley: Click My Junk, lady. You are profoundly amazing and you inspire me. That is all.

Gennefer Snowfield: How can I not love someone who loves jelly? Aside from that, you make me work my brain, and you understand some of the crazy shit that results. It’s always gratifying to meet a kindred spirit across the web, and I’m super glad I met you.

There are so many of you, and I’m sure I’ve missed someone, somewhere. And there are many of you that I’m just getting to know: Shannon Paul, Dave Mullen, Miguel Cano, Amber Tardiff, Olivier Blanchard, CC Chapman, Justin Cresswell, Lucretia Pruitt, Scott Parks, Katie Morse, Valeria Maltoni, Steve Woodruff, Lisa Hoffmann, Ken Burbary, Leigh Duncan-Durst, Cara Kiethley. And the dozens of people who keep showing up in my crazy universe, day in and day out, taxing my brain and expanding my mind and restoring my faith in the fact that connections between people are real, and good.

For those of you I have yet to get to know, let 2009 be the year when I count you too among my friends, and give you something worthwhile in return.

It’s your impact on people’s lives, including mine, that makes a big, fat, outrageous difference. You’ve blessed me. Thank you.

Photo Credit: carbonnyc

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When I was a child, there was a man named Kelly that worked at our local grocery store. It wasn’t much of a fancy store, just your typical neighborhood grocery where you occasionally ran into a schoolteacher in the aisles. (That in itself was always strange to me as a kid, imagining that my teachers had lives outside the classroom.)

Kelly was probably in his 50s or 60s, and he worked at the end of the cash register, bagging groceries and tucking paper sacks in carts. All the sacks were paper then, and they smelled vaguely of wood and dust, and made a delightful crinkling sound when all smashed aside one another in the grocery cart.

I’ve never known someone as happy as Kelly, I don’t think. He sang, and his laughter was big and unapologetic. His skin was a deep brown, and I remember how bright his enormous white teeth shone against it. The best part for me was when Kelly handed out lollipops. Each time he saw me, he asked me my name, although he must have known it a hundred times over. I’m sure now that he asked me just so I would tell him, and he could tell me just what a beautiful name it was.

There was a resonant, deep joy about this man. I never realized it, really (and I imagine there aren’t many 7-year-olds contemplating such things, especially when faced with a delightfully sticky sucker to distract them). He was that guy that everyone has a story about - the guy that just manifested happy, in all its glory.

He bagged groceries. As an adult, I’m now struck by the complexity of everything that makes up my world, and I wonder how I’d feel about working at the local grocery store, helping people out to their cars with today’s super-mega-bulk packages of Charmin and strawberries and anti-bacterial wipes. In fact, there aren’t many Kellys anymore, what with self-checkout and warehouse clubs where bags are dispensed with altogether.

Would I want for more? He didn’t. Or at least, he didn’t appear to. Kelly might have had regrets, or dreams of something else. But you’d never know it in the way he smiled and sang and laughed and brought everyone along for the ride with him. It’s as though the simplicity of his day was just fine by him, and handing me that red sucker while I blushed and stammered my way through a meek “thank you” was the highlight of his week. Maybe it was.

I imagine Kelly’s life as a simple one. A fulfilled one, and surely not without sadness at times, but overall one of contentment and peace. A home of his own, friends, a card game on the weekends and family over for Sunday supper. And then Monday, back to the store and brown paper sacks and neighborhood gossip.

Kelly must be quite elderly now if he’s still wandering this rock. I find him cropping up in my mind often, mostly when I find it hard to believe that simple and unfettered happiness is something real. I hear him laughing. I nearly hear him telling me that whatever it is, it’s just not that big a deal.

I’m not much for fluffy inspiration in hollow places. But Kelly brings me back to simple tenets that somehow always seem to matter. Be helpful, be kind, laugh, give of yourself, lift others, be grounded, say nice things.

And as often as you can, give out lollipops.

Image credit: Darwin Bell

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