By any other name

The heat was rising in waves off the faded asphalt on his left and past the curb.  He pedaled his rickety beach cruiser bicycle along Macintosh Road, cruising the pebbled and sun-bleached sidewalk, weaving now and then to avoid the weeds growing like Southern corn stalks from between the cracks.  

It was not easy to tell his age, his skin being folded and wrinkled from the sun; brown like the cigarette stains on his hands.   His eyes were shaded under a gray baseball cap - a Walmart selection that had a #3 on the front bill.   Blue jeans hung loosely on his skinny frame, short and faded and sagging down in the back.   And for the dual purpose of keeping cool and looking cool, he had on a ribbed and sleeveless t-shirt.

Balanced on his handlebars was a boxed set of beer, twelve cans precariously perched; sliding from side to side as the bike tried to keep a straight line in the dizzying sun.    As if performed in a ring at the nearby Circus, the act featured a masterment of physics - the bicycle, the shifting and flimsy collection of cans, the weeds and the light poles, and the brilliant solar spot light.   Only Ringmaster Ned was missing.

It probably wasn't easy to keep those cool beers in their box.  Already the blue and white cardboard was becoming soft and loose with condensation.   And the effort expended to keep the whole complex process in motion was no doubt creating a gigantic thirst.  One way or the other, it appeared inevitable.

It wasn't long before the beach cruiser 's front tire met a crack in the pavement.   The end of the box popped open and several beers tumbled out to the ground.   As the man reached for the falling box, he lost his grip on the handlebars.   Bike, man and box all tumbled on to the hot concrete.

I muttured to myself, "Are you kidding me?"

I watched as the cans spun around on the pale concrete, their streaks of water instantly evaporating as they rolled..   The man stood up over his bicycle, took off his hat and waved #3 around in frustration.   He shook his fist at the cans lying there, cursing his bad luck and the cheap glue used at the Keystone factory.

The lights at the intersection changed and cars began to move.   I felt sorry for this man on his bike.   Ok, it was a little humorous, but I felt bad for being entertained at his expense.   And as much as I want to call him a redneck, I think it would be kind of mean, given his personal tragedy.

But come on, if not that, then what?

Your best day

It was a day that surprised all of us.  It snuck up like a treacherous thief, waiting behind a tree in the backyard; grabbing your bicycle and disappearing with a sneer.   A thief of innocence, too.

Some days in our lives can be so rare and significant that they endure; remembered with a permanence.  They linger through the years - though blurred and remembered perhaps only in bits and pieces.   Framing our lives.   This was a day like that.  

A day when character is tested.

That evening, I looked into the tearful and red eyes of my sister and knew she had one of those days.  My sister, who we remember cooing and kicking and rolling on her blanket when we were teenagers. The one whom we bathed in the kitchen sink as we sat laughing with our high school friends.   Little could we envision then that one day she would be there when we needed her most.

I told her that it was a day to remember; a difficult day by any measure.  But it was over now - passed by as one of her life’s great challenges.   But I also told her that I knew when she met God in heaven, he would say it was one of her best days ever.

It was.   And we love you Meg.