ON A WONDERFUL DAY LIKE TODAY

“If I win the lottery,” I shared recently, “I would buy an Ipad and also rent a Sebring convertible for the week.”

They looked at me—this couple—laughing. Oh, it was polite, their laughter. And it was borne, shall we say, of amusement–not derision. Still, the man pressed on. “That’s what you’d do?”

At 62, I’ve learned well that nothing with a price tag is priceless. Would leasing a Porsche blow a better breeze in my face?

My life’s at peace. Having all I need, (and knowing it), I feel sunshine regardless of weather. I’d trade places with no one. Even so, even in this realm of spice, some days—some twenty-four hours—are just better than others. Some periods—sunrise to sunrise—just beg to be savored.

Will Rogers said “One must wait until evening to see how splendid the day has been.” Not true. I’m thinking specifically of a melodic period just last week. Even in my abundant world, I knew bright and early; I felt it. From the opening bell, as the hits kept coming, my buoyancy grew.

       “…On a wonderful morning like this
       When the sun is as big as a yellow balloon
       Even the sparrows are singing in tune
       On a wonderful morning like this….”

I woke early mid-week, dreading the day. A file—I knew it by heart—had been missing for days. (‘ Took it to the show to work on; ‘recalled putting it back in my trunk. Then it went missing). A day of search awaited.

At 7:15 I found the papersl Right where I’d placed them. (I’d forgotten). Pressure off, I drove downtown, ready to kick ass. (The man on the other side was one of those silk-suited lawyers—the kind that underestimates gents like me, or for that matter anyone he’d consider ethnic. F him). Our encounter, later that day, played perfectly. Polite yet condescending, the guy (predicably) cut me off once too often. Then, with my genteel touch, when all folks were listening I took my shot: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to talk while you were interrupting.”

Bazinga. It was that kind of day.

The phone kept ringing, (and all calls were good). Only good news, or so it seemed. An invitation for this, a call to do that. Even heard from an old client that owed me money and wanted to send it. It was amazing! None of the clowns checked in.

And then it got better. So much better. The best words, by far, came from H, (on the medical front). Great news from his doc. It was 4pm when Hal passed it on, and it emboldened me further. On this Day Of Days, on this earthly rotation, I, Bruce Bogart, would attempt to scale Mt. Everest.

“Aunt Helen,” I purred, “This is Bruce.”
“What is it?” she said (in a tone that could neuter an ape).
“I’m going out of town this week and my time is tight. Could I just pick up your groceries tomorrow then drop ‘em off?”
“I would consider it,” she replied, “But I wanted to stop at Jack’s too.”
“I know where Jack’s is,” I noted meakly.
“But I like to get out. I must go.”

Good scout that I am, I acquiesced. Politely. “OK, I’ll pick you up at 2. No big deal.” (Who was I to complain, I figured. The day’d been so great).

Then: back on the horse, back to my winning zone. First dinner with my Tuesday group at Brio…then a meeting…then quality time with a friend.

It was nearing Letterman, the day drawing to a close.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, tendering the ultimate of delicacies, watermelon and hot dogs, (microwaved as I like them).

“This is phenomenal!” I exclaimed. “What a perfect day. Even the food’s just right. I’m getting my phone—I need to write this all down.”

My Blackberry, at this late hour, was flashing. Not a good sign. Hitting the voice mail, gingerly, I wondered. We were nearing midnight. Would my coach turn to pumpkin?

And then I listened…twice!

“There’s a call from Aunt Helen,” I announced. “She says I can shop without her tomorrow—and just drop off her food!” (And the hits just keep on coming!)

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****   

I never did write things down that night. I did, rather, recount it to the friend who reduced it to email. For posterity.

My brother’s health, to be sure, was the major matter. The rest—all the other hits that fell—were life. Just life. My cup, though, truly does runneth over. I marvel at the ordinary knowing all days aren’t perfect, but life is. And knowing further that when my head’s on straight, every day’s a drive in a Sebring convertible.

       “…For the world’s in a wonderful way….”

                                  Bricusse/Newley

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