statues and flowers

We took quick choppy steps along the cement where many knees had been shredded, many skid marks created, many Halloween nights hiding and many long hours spent waiting for Mom and Dad to finally return to the car. Yes, this was Grandma’s house. We pushed the plastic orange car, the one with the yellow hardtop, up the street and listened to the sound of the dirt crackling under the wheel.

My stubby legs quickly loss their strength as I gulped sweet summer air and pretended to help push the now slowing car. With one hand on the car, I stared doubtfully at the hill my sister was practically dragging me up. I was hoping the journey to the top would be worth the ride down, but the top had more than a ride to offer.

We gazed upon the green grassy hill we had looked at so many times, but rarely seen. Our eyes grew big at the sight. We ditched the old car and the original purpose of our voyage, to engage in plucking the gorgeous, tiny flowers that dotted the lawn. We couldn’t quite remember the name of the happy little flowers, but thought it was something like “dandetiger”. Our episode of delight was disastrously halted, as headlights peered through the dusky shadows, and the singing acceleration of a car approached rapidly. Much to our dismay, the white, aged town car swung into the driveway and a lady looked at us curiously. Fear was immediately instilled within our small hearts, pounding vigorously, eyes wide, like when they can’t quite get adjusted to the dark. We had been picking their flowers! Clear thinking from a wise six-year old kicked in quickly.

“Julia, be quiet. Act like a statue, she won’t notice us,” were the instructions Laura whispered urgently. There we stood, frozen, with a dozen of these amazing flowers in the back of our small, orange car. Our eyes wandered slyly, but statues we remained. We felt believable, and that was all that mattered.

“It’s ok,” the lady said with a chuckle. “You can pick those.” We weren’t falling for that one. Frozen we stood, each body part where we had abandoned it, not daring to breathe, not daring to swallow. She strolled into the house with a sigh of amusement. Laura and I looked at each other with glee. We had fooled her! Leaving the crime scene, we shoved the car down the road and back to Grandma’s, hands full of our new prized possession.

I’m reminded of the saying, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure”. In a world that consistently longs for the future and emphasizes the negative, we often let the small pleasures of the present pass us by. Pleasures like the sound of trains at night; receiving a sincere, handwritten letter in the mail; the sound of cars swishing by after an early Saturday morning rain, when I lie in my sheets, knowing I don’t have to get up; listening to a CD and adoring every song on it; the feeling in my stomach and chest the light of dusk evokes; smiling to myself while pondering an old childhood memory. Only as we discover our own small pleasures do we truly begin to live.