STORIES TO MAKE YOU SMILE

HONEYSUCKLE AND BUTTERFLIES

On one of my early morning walks through a field of honeysuckle, I met a butterfly. She was of exceptional beauty; she had large, lovely, fiery, yellow wings, and she seemed to flutter effortlessly through this fresh-scented, drenched with the early morning dew field of flowers. The smell was refreshing, and I could imagine how she must be enjoying this experience.

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As she fluttered around me, smiling, I stopped, and said, "Hello, Ms. Butterfly."

She stopped her fluttering and sat on the lip of a nearby honeysuckle flower and replied. "Oh! Hello there", and then asked curiously. "It is a lovely morning. Isn't it? But, how do you know me?"

I will admit that I was taken aback by her response. I shyly responded. "Well. . . I have seen you here among these honeysuckle recently, and I have finally got up enough of a nerve to say something to you."

Ms. Butterfly responded. "Hmmm. . .” And then she asked. "What about you? What brings you here each morning?” She continued. "I have been noticing you too. You seem to be enjoying your walks each morning, picking, and smelling this lovely honeysuckle. Do you enjoy its fragrance?" And without waiting for my response, she answered her question pointedly. "The fragrance is addicting, isn't it?"

I nodded in agreement, still enraptured by her soft, dewy, sweet voice, lips dripping with the rich nectar of honeysuckle.

Ms. Butterfly continued. "You still haven't answered my question, though. Why do you come for this walk every morning?"

I responded. "My walk among these honeysuckles is part of my morning ritual. I awake early; I wash my face; I stretch; I have my coffee and favorite pastry, either a toasted bagel with cream cheese or a warmed croissant— plain, and then I get ready for my walk. I enjoy this walk tremendously. I cannot survive the day without it."

Ms. Butterfly chuckled and responded. "Neither can I."

??The BIC

BIC pens have been part of world history since around 1945, two years before my birth. It has been the writing instrument of choice for many school children, office workers, and dabblers. Part of this attraction is undeniable, its cost. A couple of dollars will get you one or just ask someone, perhaps. It is not much of a decision to part with it. Imagine that you can have one choice, or more options from fine to medium, to heavy ink output. The ball tends to glide smoothly and swiftly over the page, whether it is a yellow pad, newsprint, or hard surface; it is almost guaranteed to write, and it is practically indestructible.

Before the prevalence of computers with writing applications, the BIC pen was unmistakable and the pen of choice for most writers, lawyers, and others who wrote a lot. It is excellent for notetaking! It was in everyone’s book bag, briefcase, and desk draw. At Office Depot, Staples, Wal-Mart, and every Discount store, Pharmacies, and even Grocery store. You can buy one or dozens at a time, and at great prices too.

I had an emotional experience involving a BIC pen recently. During a telephone call with my son, I observed that he seemed depressed about his upcoming 23rd birthday. Maybe he felt “old,” or that real life was facing him. I didn’t know and didn’t ask, but I thought that I would get him something nice for his birthday this year.?

As strange as it seems, he and I rarely get each other birthday gifts. The same is true at Christmas; maybe he is just a big chip off this old block. If I were to ask him what he wanted for his birthday or Christmas, his response was predictable. “No, Dad, I don’t need anything,” he would say. I would say the same thing when he asked me, and although this is the case, there is always a surprise in the mail, occasionally, which makes receiving a gift from him very special, and I imagine he feels the same as well when he receives one from me.

I have given him gifts that I thought were timely and functional over the years and planned to continue this trend. On his graduation from high school, I could remember that I gave him a solid 18k gold Elgin pocket watch from my collection of watches. I collected watches and fountain pens. It was in immaculate condition, over 90 years old at the time, and strung on a solid 14k gold chain; a beautiful watch. I parted with it with some hesitation, but I did it because he deserved a special gift, something that had some significance.?

He loved it. He even slept with it first, showed it off to all his friends, and was always polished to a gleaming deep rich gold tone. I teased him about it then. I said to him. “If you keep polishing it, you will rub all the gold off” We had a good laugh at that, and he decided to put it away. I guess, somewhere among his hidden treasures. ?

For another gift, I had given him a classic Mont Blanc fountain pen from my collection. It was black with solid gold trim and had been in my collection of pens for a while. I warned him that it was not a pen for everyday use. It was a treasured gift because it is one of those classics, like a beautiful old classic car. Every once in a while, I would ask him about it, and he would say to me. “It’s right there with my watch, Dad.” And I would breathe a sigh of relief.??

This time, I wanted to get him something new. As I thought about it, I remembered that he told me several months ago that he would get a new watch. The one he wore had stopped working, and as I think about it now, it may have been a hint directed at me. So, it was decided. A watch would be fine. Now, the question was, “which watch.”?

Most watches are similar, except for the name, and the movement, the quality of the materials, solid gold, platinum, or solid steel, and of course, the perceived reliability. I thought about something stylish, something “today,” not a classic. The name Casio came to mind. The other criteria were that it should be an atomic watch, digital with a large face and a heavy band or strap. Yes, I decided. A watch was what I was going to get him. He would love it.

So, I went shopping online for this special gift. I shop online because I come to despite driving around all day, wasting time from store to store. Every time I think of all that traffic and difficulty finding parking, I cringe and retreat to my computer, so I shop online, more and more. It has become my comfort zone. After a deep search, I ended up at Amazon, fancy that (chuckle), I always seem to end up there, books, electronics, computers, etc., all featured great discounts.?

I found a Casio Atomic watch at a great price, discounted by forty (40) percent. It was a beauty. Clear black face, heavy strap, even lit up at night when you needed to check the time. I pulled the trigger and ordered it.?

I could have had it delivered directly to him, but I thought I wanted to send it. I would wrap it myself and mail it to him; delivery was three days, so I waited. Not by the door—it would take three days.?

The watch arrived as promised. I examined it, turning it over and over in my hands, even trying it on. Maybe I should keep this one and get another one for him; it fit my wrist so well. But I could wait, so I wrapped it and headed to the local Post Office.?

I got in a line, and as is usually the case at post offices, but not complaining, just being patient, which was difficult for me, simply because I hate being in line for anything, even food. I have left many a shopping cart at the grocery register, and I have walked out of many a bank while standing in line. I guess if I were homeless and needed to stand in line to get fed, I would probably starve to death.

Surprisingly, the line moved quickly. I got to the counter, put my package down, and gave the pretty female clerk a wink and a quick smile. She asked me the usual questions. “Anything perishable inside? Do you want this sent registered mail or certified mail?”

I thought. “Thanks for the choices; maybe I want just to mail it; how about that choice?” But I awoke from my slumber just in time to reply. “Certified,” and then realizing that I had to fill out the stupid form to accomplish this vital part of the transaction.?

I almost changed my mind about mailing the package via regular mail. Still, then I reasoned that the regular mail was like sending it on a slow boat to China, and she was kind in telling me to go fill out the forms and return directly to the window; that I did not have to get back in line; maybe she read my mind. I breathed a sigh of relief and went off to get the forms filled out.

I grabbed the forms and set out to complete them, but I had no pen or even a pencil, shockingly realized. A pen collector with no pens! I desperately looked around for one and spied one of those “non-working” pens that the post office supplies their customers; pens that do not work 99.99% of the time, and sure enough, this one didn’t work. So, what to do, I thought quietly. And then I saw her standing right next to me, a sweetheart of a lady about 90 years old, looking at me and smiling warmly.?

Hesitantly, I asked her. “Do you have a pen?”

She replied straight-faced. “Sure, would you be needing a pen to write, young man?”

I responded, “Yes, if it’s okay with you? Are you done using it?

She said. “Yes, I am done with it, but I am not sure I want to loan it to you, though. It is the only pen I have, and it is a BIC pen. The last time I loaned a pen out, I never got it back, and I am still mad about it.

I smiled, and not wanting to dissuade her from loaning me the pen, I frowned as I inquired, pretending interest. “Who did that to you? Who took your BIC and didn’t return it?

She replied smilingly. “My boyfriend. I told him that if he ever did that again, I was going to leave him for good.”

Curiously, I asked. “And did he return it?”

“He could not find it, so he bought me a dozen BIC pens. He knows what’s happening” She laughed and proceeded to dig the pen out of her large bag. “Here”, she offered, handing it to me and continuing. “It writes great. There is no pen like a BIC pen.”

?MY LOST WALLET

I was ensconced in my favorite sofa in a somewhat deep sleep, although I was supposed to be watching TV, instead, it was watching me sleep. I suddenly awoke in a panic and a question. “Where is my wallet?” I jumped up and immediately started looking around wildly, panicky. I could swear that I had lost it entirely. “But where?”

Understand that I like most people have an intense fear of losing keys or wallets. These are the two items that no one wants to lose, perhaps because of the disruption it causes and the anxiety. It can even affect you psychologically. So, these are the emotions that affected me in an instant, it seemed.

My established habit is to keep my keys and wallet in their own space when I am at home, and they have come to expect this treatment, so I comply, and my mind is always at ease because I know that when I am leaving the house, my keys and my wallet are there and waiting anxiously to go out with me.

I searched through the darkened house from front to back, back to front, in the hope of finding my lost wallet to no avail, all the time hoping that I did not lose it elsewhere, and all the while searching my mind, retracing my activity before getting home that evening.

I checked the space again, hoping magically that it would appear. It was more fantasy than reality, but I hoped it was there.

Keys were there, and she chuckled at me. She said, “You looked here already, you lost Wallet again?”

Reluctantly, I responded, “I should have lost you instead, you are easier to replace.” Keys with a huff, said, “Hmmm!”, and nothing more, apparently feeling slighted.

I circulated through the darkened house. I should have turned on every light, but in my haste and anxiety to find my wallet, I wasn’t thinking clearly, and in the darkness of my bedroom at the corner of my good eye, I had a glimpse of an object on the dresser. It seemed out of place somehow, and my heart raced. “Could this be my lost wallet?” I scrambled over to it, and alas, it was my wallet. And now that I found him, I was brave and feigning sternness, I questioned out loud. “What are you doing here?

Wallet chuckled, unafraid of my pretentious tirade. He responded. “Ha! I am not lost. You lost me, fool”.

It immediately reminded me of a time past when my son was just five years old and we were at a park together. My wife at the time warned me to keep an eye on him. She said, “He is slick. He likes to run; he will disappear on you.” We found a great spot under a large tree. It was shady with a nice breeze passing through. I put a large blanket down, and we each had a sandwich and some lemonade, and then he asked me to go over to the swing set a few feet away. I hesitated a bit remembering his mother’s words that seemed to echo through the air.

I reluctantly said “Ok” and he was off, grinning all the way there. He waved at me periodically from the swing set as he was enjoyed his new adventure, and I looked on a bit apprehensive.

Disregarding my better sense, I laid back and quickly fell asleep. It seemed to be only a few minutes had passed when I awoke to find him gone. I was in an absolute panic, thinking of the rage his mother would be in, if she found out, or when she found out. I found him eventually. He was hanging out with some cops in a trailer with a few other lost kids, and I said to him with a mixture of feigned anger and relief, shouting and immediately feeling guilty, but it was too late, “You are lost! I said. Where were you?” He looked at me smiling, and responded, “No. I am not lost, you are?” I was totally elated to find him and just as elated to find my lost wallet.

I picked up my wallet from the dresser and began to admonish it for getting lost. I said, “You gave me a fit, don’t do this again”

Wallet, now upset, replied. “Me? I didn’t do anything. You who lost me.”

I relented and apologized, “Look, I am sorry. I agree that it is my fault. I’ll make it right with you.”

My wallet relaxed, “Ok, then. Could you please take me back to my space, I miss Keys”

I took my wallet back to the space that he and Keys occupied, a large antique bowl on a small table next to the front door. Keys was ecstatic to see Wallet again, she perhaps thought that she had lost a great friend forever.

“I was worried about you, Wallet”, she said.

Wallet replied, “This was a lot of unnecessary drama, I was left in the dark with no one around to chat with, but it is good to be back with you, Keys. Anything happened while I was gone that I need to know?”

“Nothing at all”, Keys responded. “Just me here missing you sweetheart”.

A VISIT TO THE MARKETPLACE?

It’s late Friday evening, and the sun has set; although the day began crisp and filled with sunshine, the unique smell of rain now fills the air. People are all around me. They are rushing somewhere; traffic noise abounds, screeching tires, blaring horns, and the occasional shouting from an enraged driver or two, all of this activity promises to bring new customers to the neighborhood Mall—a good thing for the many shops, more competition, and more choices for the prudent shopper.?

It is October, and the seasons are changing quite rapidly. Yesterday, we survived the heat of the hot summer days; those days are now gone and replaced by cool fall weather. We are pulling out our collective sweaters, jackets, and rain gear once again.?

This Mall, commonly called a Strip Mall, is located at a major intersection, typically constructed on a strip of land, linear in design with few exceptions, just one story tall. Common walls connect most retailers.

?The buildings are slung low, almost identical in design with little to distinguish one from another, except for their signage strategically located above their entrance. In addition to the retail stores, there are two main family restaurants, at least four fast-food chains, a bank, a mobile phone store, and a police substation, all designed to offer a broad array of resources to the neighborhood.?

I get a comforting feeling when shopping here, perhaps because of the easy access and basic functionality. The week has been tenuous and difficult. I would imagine that many others joining me on this early evening excursion have similar sensibilities about the desire for a somewhat relaxed experience as they take the time to enjoy a bit of retail therapy, very much like I am doing.?

There is an impending rain, and my mood is perfect, as the fresh, clean scent of rain renews my spirit. It is simple but exciting because I love the rain. I love the smell of it, and I am incredibly excited when the rainfall is heavy in a continuous downpour.?

I am searching for something on this particular day, but I am not sure what I am looking for. I enter one of my favorite stores; it is a discount store with a wide variety of items. I can immediately smell the perfumed candles, which always seemed to be positioned near the entrance, perhaps to draw you in. I can also smell the distinct aroma of leather goods I particularly like because they are always so cool to the touch.?

I suddenly decide that I need a sweater, perhaps because of the expected rain and because I have a particular bias for cashmere, the most comforting material that I know. I love its heft and how I feel when I am wearing it —secure and confident.

I am lucky to find a wide choice of sweaters. I select three: One black, another gray, and a third one beige. It seems a miracle that I have found these – pure cashmere sweaters at a discount store. I am excited but subdued, not wanting to show too much emotion or attract other customers to my “find.”

I quickly make my way to the nearby cash register with my purchases, pay for them, and securely in hand, and exit the store and the Mall. The rain is now falling heavily, just as I ordered, so I hurry to my car, protecting my purchases. I quickly enter my car and drive out of the Mall, anxious to get home as the rain continues to fall. I am pondering the enjoyment of a hot cup of coffee, some fresh croissants, and tuning in to one of my favorite Cable networks, Turner Classics. Maybe Bogart is doing his usual thing. My long, difficult week is behind me, and the weekend brings great promise.

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Enjoy!

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