The Best Things

My dear friend Gary DeMore writes of wistful memories of a childhood spent amid the bracing atmosphere of Detroit, Michigan.

Apparently, Gary was kept on a short lease while his older siblings galloped with unfettered freedom. One snowy day found Gary home with his mother, suffering with that interminable affliction of the young – boredom. Even a child, especially an imaginative child, grows bored after repeated viewings of The Lone Ranger, Sky King, or even Gene Autry, back in the saddle again.

 

My friend has not the temperament to remain bored long. A jacket was put on; boots slipped over feet, mittens enveloped hands. Down the back stairs he trod to the accompanying motherly chorus of “Gary stay in the yard.” And, “Gary don’t get into anything.”

Gary didn’t. He went to the shed, removed the snow shovel and started to work. From the center of the yard outward in a square pattern he shoveled the snow. With dogged determination he stayed on path. Gradually, foot by foot, inch by inch, the snow was moved from the yard onto an ever growing bank along the edges. His was definitely a labor of love, a long-lasting love.

 

Finally, the goal was realized. All of the yard’s snow was not embanked along the property lines. The snow shovel was returned to the shed. Restful moments were spent leaning against the shed’s door as the youth eyes surveyed his handiwork. He walked over to one spot and patted the snow with his mitten-covered palm. Every thing was now ready.

 

Returning to the shed he now extracted the garden hose. Quickly, it was attached. The water was turned on, flooding the backyard in the center of the damned up sides. Gary speaks of the joy of sliding across his own personal ice rink. There’s joy in his words as he recalls the skates the family finally got him.

I got Gary’s newsletter and the story of his wintry adventure just a few days after my kids and grandchildren visited. Gary would like my grandkids.

Perhaps they were as bored as Gary on that cold day in Detroit; perhaps they’re as adventuresome as I imagine them to be. Whatever the reason the middle of the afternoon found them slowly one-by-one drifting outside. The minutes were short until the squeals of joy echoed about the yard.

 

They’d gone into my garage and removed some debris. Large cardboard boxes seemed the plunder of choice. Large plastic containers were second in preference. With only these implements my front yard had become a place of thrills as good as any at Six Flags.

We live on a hill, a hill so steep it has been known to make a preacher cuss during lawn mowing. But it’s not too steep for a cardboard seat slide; it’s not too steep for a plastic container tumble. The sounds of their laughter echoing through the neighborhood as they slid and crashed and cried, “Watch this!” is still felt.

 

So, here’s to Gary’s ice skating rink. Here’s to my grandkids hill sliding antics. Here’s to the absence of the things we buy at the stores, and the presence of that which matters. When all is said and done, the best things in life are not things.