The real things haven’t changed. It is still best to honest and truthful; to make the most of what we have; to be happy with simple pleasures; and have courage when things go wrong. –Laura Ingalls Wilder
I confess that I’m easily entertained these days. Perhaps I’ve always been so. But in these final weeks of summer, I’m already lamenting the loss of simple pleasures I’ve come to enjoy. The older I get, the more I appreciate the power of such pleasures to transform my day.
And I’m in good company with poet Robert Frost, whose little poem, “Dust of Snow,” speaks of saving the day with something as simple, yet pleasurable, as snow released from a tree branch:
Dust of Snow
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
How many times have such simple pleasures “saved a part of a day I had rued”? Far too many to count. The kitten in the photo above is one of many (can you really have too many kittens?) born to my farm cats this summer. Tortie, one of my favorites, runs up to me the moment I open the door. Spending just a few moments with her is mood-changing and life-affirming. As is watching my koi come up from the depths to eat the fish food I throw in handfuls across the pond each evening. It’s a good night if at least two of the six make their presence, their dorsal fins breaking the water’s surface as they compete with sunfish, bass, and catfish for food. It’s an even better night if all six emerge flashing their orange, black, and white scales. And it’s a great night when Geraldine, my grandson’s duck, beelines it from her hidey-hole in the cattails and joins the menagerie. When the weather turns and the water cools, this nightly ritual is a simple pleasure I’ll really miss.
In Edith Wharton’s novel, Summer, she writes of ordinary pleasures that prompt us to abandon thinking and become “immersed in an inarticulate well-being.” There’s something about sitting on my screened porch as I watch the rose-breasted grosbeaks and finches at the bird feeders that evokes a sense of inarticulate well-being. Even on days when it would’ve been much more comfortable to sit in my air-conditioned house, I’ve chosen the screened porch. For I know these summer days are short, and soon enough, I’ll move the plants indoors and cover the patio furniture for the winter.
And what about the pleasure of homemade ice cream? As good as the first bowl is, licking the dasher after the ice cream maker finally stops might be even better. My family will attest that I’ve been a glutton with the dasher, for the first taste of homemade ice cream is divine. In Farewell Summer, American novelist Ray Bradbury writes, “I never in my life argued with a piece of cake or a bowl of ice cream.” Yes, the simple pleasure of tasting something wonderful requires no explanation and no defense. I’ve made it known to family and friends that, if I could choose one thing for my last meal on earth, it would be a 9 x 13 pan of Scotcharoos, which I’d consume in one sitting, relishing every crumb. The simple pleasure of Rice Krispies and peanut butter and chocolate defies words.
As I was walking at dawn last week, the eastern sky blazed in colors my granddad would’ve called “sky-blue-pink.” When my alarm went off at 6, I was tempted to roll over and walk later in the day. But as poet and children’s writer Shel Silverstein insists, “It’s amazing the difference a bit of sky can make.” And this was exactly it. For 45 glorious minutes, I marveled at the sky I would’ve missed if I hadn’t hauled myself out of bed. That sky made all the difference in the world.
And then there’s the sweet weight of a sleeping baby on your chest. As I held my new grandson, Carter, the other night, I felt him nestle into the hollow beneath my shoulder, and I remembered all the nights I’d held my infant children, the moon streaming in through the window by the rocking chair, the house silent, and the knowledge there was nowhere else in the world I’d rather be. We may be able to bring peace to warring factions if we just put sleeping babies in their leaders’ arms.
Irish poet William Butler Yeats claimed that “[t]he world is full of magical things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” Perhaps simple pleasures aren’t really all that simple, but rather “magical” and waiting for “our senses to grow sharper.” When an indigo bunting sighting or a slice of freshly baked bread can “save some part of a day I had rued,” perhaps these pleasures are as transformative and deeply gratifying as any. Perhaps, they are more.
My grandson Carter
