I crumpled gratefully into my grandfather’s chair, and moaned a little as I took off my shoes. I had to wonder how many other men in my family had done the same thing through all the years that chair has served.
Amelia, who recently discovered that she has teeth, toddled over, chose a toe, and chomped. She’s still a tiny puppy, so that’s her prerogative. Thankfully her heritage has not kicked in yet, so she’s just being a puppy. Her bites aren’t that dangerous yet.
Her older half-brothers, Jughead and Bingo, are mirror images of their parents— Jug is colored like their half-leopard Catahoula mom, Gloria, with all the aggression and drive of both Gloria’s Catahoula mom and her blue tick dad. Jug might not mean to, but he could take a toe off if he isn’t careful. Bingo mirrors their more laid-back, let’s-be-friends father, Happy Jack. He’d gnaw on it for a bit first. Tiny Amelia still has to decide which side of the family she plans to emulate.
I scooped her up and listened to her complain about life as a puppy until she went to sleep.
Puppies are one of the simple things in life that make all the difference.
There is nothing simple about trying to feed, house and care for a hobby farm like ours. Goats can be full of mirth and menace, often at the same time, but watching a newborn kid finds its feet while the exhausted mother heaves herself up for a first feeding — that simple moment makes it worthwhile.
A friend called me the other day, for absolutely no reason except to say hello. I felt a little guilty for not having at least sent a text in that direction recently. We talked about nothing of consequence, but the act of reaching out to someone just to reach is among the simplest gestures that can make most of a lousy day fade into the background.
I was involved in a discussion over pocketknives the other day (an actual discussion, with real people, face to face, not online). All the men involved had their personal preferences, and with each came a story. We all distinctly remembered our first knives, too— mine was a sheepfoot Barlow, someone else had a Sodbuster like I carry now, yet another had a three-blade Case trapper. Visiting with likeminded men, some of whom were strangers, all of whom had a common bond, advising another on what we thought would be best for his own son, was special. I wondered how many others had stood precisely where we stood in the same store and had the same discussion.
Simple things like that can help us remember those who came before us, those who did their best to make things better for the next generations. You realize pretty quickly that there’s an awesome responsibility there, too, but that doesn’t take away from the simple pleasure of being around those of a like mind, similar experience, and the same cause, even something so pedestrian as choosing a pocketknife.
I speak too often of my friend the Dandelion Princess, but little kids have to be the royalty of finding the simple pleasures in life. I don’t care how often she finds a feather, an interesting stick, a pretty rock or even an old bone, it’s doubtful that Indiana Jones’ joy over finding the Ark of the Covenant could eclipse her happiness. Give her a puppy or kitten to play with, and you’ll be jealous of her simple joy.
There are folks who grumble about little kids in church, especially when they get restless or noisy, but I would submit there is no faith as beautiful as that of a child, and no massive choir with a symphony and months of practice can sing as beautifully as a five-year-old belting out Jesus Loves Me.
I try very hard to obey the rule about the Sabbath, so my Saturdays are always jampacked with chores. On a particularly warm winter’s day, my various aches and pains were cooperating, so I was able to accomplish a good bit, to the point of breaking a good honest sweat. As the sun went behind the pines, shooting pastels through the trees like a technicolor lasers, I stretched and groaned on the ancient glider in our front yard with a glass of cold tea. For just a few moments, everything was as close to perfect as it can be on earth.
Happy Jack was asleep beside me, Bodie the bulldog was cheerfully chewing a bone, and in the house I could hear my bride singing. The air temperature was just cool enough for a decent fire, which was methodically eliminating the leftovers of a tired old oak and a nasty gum tree. Johnny Cash the rooster and June Carter the hen were fussing on their roost, as they always do.
You could go to a lot of trouble and expense and never come close to the beauty of a few simple minutes like that.
We too often disregard the simple things in life, since those who thrive on our attention and money consider such things backward and silly, or at least quaint aberrations in the complex, fast-moving eye-candy ridden world that is shoved in our faces every moment of every day. We often say we want to simplify things, but we let the complexities that really don’t matter get in the way. It’s hard to put down, much less turn off, our digital masters.
I would submit that life is better when roosters scream at the dawn, newfound friends argue the finer points of pocketknives, hound dogs snore, cats purr on your shoulder, little girls harvest and share dandelions, squirrels cuss the world, tea is cold enough to hurt your teeth, your favorite grill knows how you want your sandwich as you come through the door, bream seem like they’re going to break your canepole for possession of a cricket, old books tell new stories, and puppies chew your toes.
I think a lot of folks would be a whole lot easier to get along with if they’d spend a little more time enjoying the simple things in life.
