They say that few things in life teach you as much as travel – leaving the old home place for environs less familiar and routines less rote. New scenery, new people, new experiences often add up to regaining perspective on ideas somehow forgotten … and deeper appreciation for truths still held dear.
It’s a thousand miles from our home to that of our in-laws. Most of those miles cross sprawling deserts whose vistas and climate nurture a firm determination to stay in the air-conditioned vehicle and keep the pedal firmly on the metal. Our dog, Archie, logs his miles pacing the backseat, and after a while, it’s easy to take it for granted that that’s what dogs do, while their peeps chat and hum to the music.
Our first day out, we made it three, three-and-a-half hours before pulling over to the blazing sidewalk in front of a remote Quickie-Mart / gas station. We took our turns ducking into the restrooms, then opened the car door to give Archie a stretch and lift of the leg. The leg stayed up so long that, after a few moments, we wondered if he was trying out for the Bolshoi Ballet. When we offered him a sip of water, he drained the bowl twice, then looked up at us with a baleful stare somewhere between heartfelt gratitude and “took you long enough to think of that.”
The look hurt. The rest of the road trip was marked by more frequent stops, for his sake, in whatever shady spots we could find.
The problem with obliviousness is … well, obliviousness. We don’t know what we don’t know, we don’t notice what we don’t notice, and so many, many others pay a formidable cost – in time, in pain, in peace of mind – for our deepening self-absorption and myopia.
My in-laws have a dog of their own, which means a greater abundance of poo, once Archie joins the backyard festivities. Eventually, I reminded myself to join in the poo-up-picking … and found that it takes on a different aspect, when you’re doing that sad duty in someone else’s yard.
Sages have long assured us that “the grass is always greener,” etc., but they’ve failed to mention that the poo is a little more distinctive, too. I was reminded of President Gerald Ford’s thoughtful dictum that, “No man should have to clean up after another man’s dog,” and of my former pastor, Gary Young, who used to say that “no one should be pastor of a church unless he’s willing to clean its bathrooms.”
They were both right. And policing another’s backyard – in the summer sun and humidity – is a thoughtful reminder that someone, always, has to do the dirty work of life. Too often, we assume that someone is … someone else. Rethinking that is a good nudge toward reclaiming our often-elusive humility.
There’s a pizza place in my in-laws’ hometown whose cuisine and milieu suit me especially fine. It’s a local establishment, not a chain, so I only eat there once or twice a year, when we’re visiting. I look forward to those outings very much.
My father-in-law does not. He eats there every weekend, bowing to the preference of a coterie of friends who’ve declared it the official site of their Sunday-after-church reunions. Every week, the same cashiers and waiters, same sights and aromas, same taste of the same cheesy options.
He’s gotten so he fairly gags at the prospect – which must have an unpleasant effect on his pastor, who, bringing his Sabbath sermon in for a rhetorical landing every seventh morning, looks down on my pa-in-law’s distracted, greenish countenance.
We went to the pizza place anyway, a couple of weeks ago. Because it’s my father-in-law’s way to put the desires of others before his own. This is what reasonable, generous people do. We make small sacrifices for each other – even though they sometimes loom larger than the bigger ones we’d probably more willingly offer. We allow each other our preferences, step aside for someone else’s urgencies, let those with curious tastes enjoy and appreciate their favorite things.
It’s why we not only let others cut over in traffic, bite our tongue when they talk over our punchlines, and leave for them the last cookie on the plate, but – sometimes – find it within ourselves to smile wanly as we do so.
The teenage girl behind the counter of the local Chick-fil-A was smiling as we walked in one evening. She waved us over to her open register. When my father-in-law grew tongue-twisted, trying to order the advertised special, she winked at him, quietly confiding that she couldn’t pronounce the name, either. She told him that it came with fried, grilled, or extra spicy chicken, then leaned forward to whisper, confidentially: “the ‘extra spicy’ is really spicy.”
My turn, and I ordered a milkshake: cherry, but no whipped cream. She pecked it into the register, then glanced up with a quizzical expression. “You always get it that way?” she asked.
“I do,” I replied.
“I get it just the opposite,” she said, smiling with an “aren’t people funny?” expression.
She gave us our total, then sighed, wistfully. “Counting all this is making me hungry.”
“Maybe you’ll get a break in a bit,” I suggested, fishing for my change, “and can grab something for yourself.” She looked at me, shaking her head slowly and solemnly. Then she laughed.
Now, usually, you meet two kinds of fast-food workers: a) those who can take an order quickly, but keep the conversation terse and look at you, if at all, like something they stepped in while cleaning the bathroom earlier. And, b) those who can carry on a jolly conversation, but take so long ringing up your order that you can feel 50 pairs of angry eyes boring a hole into your head from the line building up behind you.
The impressive thing about “Peyton,” (as her name tag read) was that she could keep up the cheerful to-and-fro without missing a key on the register, confusing the drinks at the fountain, or getting lost in the change she handed back to me. She was a fast, thorough pro – and a kind one.
“Y’all have fun tonight,” she smiled, handing us our drinks. “Take good care, okay?”
My father-in-law and I kept stealing glances from our table, as we ate, curious to see if she treated every customer so well. She did. Mothers with bawling children, gang-bangers talking snark, middle-schoolers giggling and texting – she managed them all with cheer and aplomb.
What a wonderful blessing one thoughtful person can be, in the lives of the people around her.
Traveling is an introduction to all kinds of good experiences, all kinds of lessons learned. This summer, it was worth driving a thousand miles – twice – if only to pour some water, pick up some poo, eat a little pizza ... and make Peyton’s fine acquaintance.
Comments