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Copyrights reserved by the author. If you are in doubt, please click on 'Copyrights' and read the details. Where is Norman Rockwell when we need him? by J. G. Fabiano Every now and then I am reminded why I live in one of the most perfect places in America. Sometimes it happens when I’m relaxing at the beach on a perfect summer’s day and sometimes it happens when I’m gazing out at the pristine whiteness of a winter storm. And sometimes it happens when I’m looking out the window while having my morning coffee. The other day I watched a young mom teaching her daughter how to ride a bicycle on the road in front of our house. The bicycle was white with pink trim and shone in the bright sunshine the way only a new bicycle can shine. The little girl learning to ride the bike wore a pink safety helmet that must have come with the bike and a shiny new riding outfit that was, of course, pink. The mom had been keeping her daughter steady by holding the back of the bicycle seat and she chose to let go right in front of our driveway, hoping her daughter would soon be able to join all the other neighborhood kids happily riding around. The theory was sound but the results left a lot to be desired because the brand new pink and white bicycle and its brand new pink and white rider took their first spill in front of our house. The mom hurried to see that her daughter was okay only to be pushed away as the daughter tried to show that she didn’t need any help to get up from her first fall. What made this scene even more entertaining was that the little girl’s older brother was riding circles around the two of them, showing off the skills he had acquired over the last two or three years of riding his bike. The little girl yelled at her brother to get out of the way and off they went again, the little girl pedalling, her mom running behind, holding onto the bicycle seat and the older brother speeding ahead of them. They rounded the corner at the end of my block and, for all I know, they are still out there somewhere. If you see them, toot your horn and give them a friendly wave. A couple of days later I was upstairs, working in my office that happens to overlook the backyards of my neighbors, gazing contentedly out at a scene of suburban bliss; well-kept lawns, leafy trees and colorful gardens. On this particular afternoon I was distracted by the labors of three youngsters building something out of scraps of plywood and two by fours. I also noticed four bike wheels of seemingly different sizes. I smiled as I watched them argue as to how to build what they were trying to build. Then, after about an hour, I watched them attach the wheels to what looked like the base of a wagon. This was done with much excitement and apparent sense of accomplishment. Finally, they had completed their task and I watched the three of them stare proudly at what they had built out of a few scraps of wood and old wheels.For the next couple of weeks I watched these same three youngsters ride around the neighborhood on their contraption. They invited some of their other friends to enjoy the fruits of their work and, what surprised me the most was, it worked quite well. In fact, after about a week they decided to put a kind of cover on the wagon that made it look like one of the covered wagons of the old West. I chuckled to myself, wondering why some folks thought our children had lost their ingenuity and imagination. Maybe those folks just stopped looking for it years ago. During another early morning coffee I caught a glimpse of an elderly gentleman walking slowly down the road past my house. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, a yellow-collared shirt, a pair of brown shorts, white socks, an old gray pair of sneakers and he carried a wooden cane. What made the biggest impression on me was his head was held high in a way that said nothing, especially his advancing years, would stop him enjoying his morning walk. Because of his strong and purposeful stride I assumed the cane was not so much for balance as the simple pleasure of tapping out his route. If I am up at the right time I often see this same old gentleman with the cane out for his morning walk and there is something about this modest little ritual which reminds me that all is well with the world. I dread to think of the day when the realization will come that I haven’t seen him for a long time and that I probably will never see him again. Just last week, I recall, I wrote about a recent fishing trip I took with some neighborhood friends. Three of us on board were of Italian heritage that made our skin dark from the sun and allowed us to go shirtless while one of our group was of Irish heritage and had to smear himself with spec-75 sun block and stay hidden beneath shirts and towels all day. We spent most of the day fishing where the York River meets the ocean and talked up a storm, opinionating on everything from neighborhood rumors to national politics. We argued war, the economy, elections, weight, baldness, taxes and death. Sometimes our voices grew loud in an attempt to out shout each other and other times we waved our arms and hands in the air in a futile attempt to dismiss each other’s arguments and, at the end of the day, I don’t remember how many fish we caught but we sure had enjoyed our day out together.At one point I tried to picture how we must have looked from a distance, a boat load of old duffers on a day out, arguing about everything and nothing, and I fancied I’d seen a picture of something similar by Norman Rockwell. Or maybe it just seemed like there should have been a Norman Rockwell picture of it. In fact, when I thought about my entire summer, it came back mostly as a series of Norman Rockwell pictures, and it reminded me why I live in one of the most perfect places in America. THE END
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