~Simple Joy 5~ A mailbox.

At the end of the little dirt road, was a mailbox, set at a jaunty angle, although perhaps twenty years ago it had sat upright. The many seasons of rain and snow had clearly taken it's toll. It was a dedicated box, opening and closing whenever the mail carrier came. Never rejecting the envelopes and packages that were placed-or shoved-inside, whether big or small, important or not. No matter the weather, it stands like a faithful little soldier, protecting the contents inside of it or waving it's petty red flag high into the air.

Such a job is taken for granted, sometimes forgotten entirely. But to have the task of guarding words is a significant one indeed, for words are precious things. I guess we downplay the role of the mailbox, because it is more often than not disappointing. The abundance of bills, magazines with empty articles, advertisements for unwanted junk. In remembering this little container, however, remember also the times when it brought you joy. The day you expected nothing but bills, but found a letter from an old friend. The February where you received valentines in red envelopes as well as a little box of chocolates wrapped up in newspaper. The day your grandmother sent you a letter, just to say hello. That time you were in college, feeling low and stressed, and your mother sent you a package from home, filled with homemade cookies and notes of encouragement.

Certainly, mailboxes can become just a habitual item of every day, bearing reminders and statements one would rather not receive. But they are also protectors and givers of words, delivering envelopes of sunshine to brighten one's day.

P.S. I couldn't resist uploading this picture :)

~Simply joy 4~ Boots.

Daddy's boots. They were tall worn out things with holes in the toes and dirt that never quite came off.  Reeking with the scent of hard work, and some sweat too, these boots were well used.

Daddy had bought them back in the day before he and Mamma were married and he was trying to get her attention. Mamma often told us that story. Of how daddy had spent half of his spending money for the Summer on those boots. He had got them at the most elite store in town, where a man sized your foot and wrapped them up in a fancy red box with crackling tissue paper. Her eyes glowing and her cheeks red, Mamma would laugh as she told us how proud and stylish daddy felt with those leather kicks on his scrawny feet. She remembered the Sunday after he purchased them, he walked into church with a silly grin on his sunburned face, strutting his long skinny legs down the aisle to show off his feet. He had stopped at Mammas pew and tipped his hat, just in case she hadn't noticed him and his new boots when he first came in.

I smile as I clean out my parents shop and find those boots. I turn them over in my hand, noting all the scuffs and stains, each with a story attached to them. I try to picture them as they were when Daddy first bought them. Funny how something as silly as these boots could hold so many memories. But it's time to part with them.

Who knows, maybe I'll buy Daddy a new pair of boots for Christmas this year, and maybe someday there will be another funny story attached to them. But something tells me that this first pair will always be his best.

~Simple joy 3~ A hand.

Smoke. Ash. Fire.
 Bradley James slipped in and out of consciousness. His skin itched and tingled and burned. His lungs were on fire. His chest heaved as cough after cough erupted from his mouth, each more painful then the last. His thick rimmed glasses were crushed and shards of glass cut at his eyes. His left leg was trapped by a heavy metal beam. He could barely feel it. Oh, His body ached.
 He tried to move but rubble and scrap metal trapped him down. He couldn't even see the sky. He closed his eyes, as darkness came and went, remembering the last few hours.

Confusion as the elevators shut down and people began leaving work. The slight tipping. The footage. Oh those horrific pictures. A plane in the tower. Clouds of fire. The tower literally crushing. Then, you could feel it. The vibrations. The swaying. The lights flickered. Everyone began running, screaming. The type of screams of fear and terror  that echo for all eternity in your head. They were running through Bradley's mind right this second. He had made it to level 6, and then the floor beneath him collapsed and he was swallowed up into darkness and ash and rubble.
The last thing he remembered was looking at one of his co-workers, Greg, right in the eyes. Greg's face went white, and he shut his eyes as if bracing himself for the blow. Then, darkness.

Bradley screamed in pain as the hot tears began seeping down his cheeks. What if he didn't make it? What about the thousands of others who worked above him? If he didn't come out alive, how would they? He knew the numbers would be significant, the losses great. Faces he had seen every day, he would never set eyes on again.
"WWWHHHHHYYYY?" He yelled in anger.

Something large fell on top of him, and he was knocked out again. Hours later he awoke, this time the pain in his body unbearable. He yelled in suffering several times, as if it could unleash some of it in his body. But it didn't. So Bradley James, age 34, real estate officer of twin tower two, prepared himself to die. He pictured his parents. His twin sister, Kelly. His two sons Michael and Brody. When he thought of his wife Abigail, he couldn't bear it anymore.
"NOOOOO!" He screamed, hot tears streaming down his face.

He couldn't lose them all. He didn't want to die yet. Then, faintly, he heard voices. He couldn't make out what they were saying exactly, but he knew they were there.
"Over.....did you....keep......hear.."
"HELP!" Bradley screamed. "I'M HERE! HELP ME!" He tried to move, but everything was trapped. Except his right arm. He lifted and reached as high as he could with it, pushing through rubble until it became fairly free. He waved it and shouted. "HELP!!!" Then he heard it. Running, digging.
"We're coming for you!" Someone shouted.

Bradley closed his eyes in gratefulness. "I'm here!" He barely let out, too exhausted to scream anymore. Finally, the weight lessened. And then a warm, strong hand grabbed his tightly. They started to pull him. Shots of pain ran down Bradley's entire body and he yelled in anguish. But he would rather experience this, than death. His leg was still trapped but after some more pulling, he was finally set free and they dragged him out of the rubble into the fresh air. "Thank you." Bradley mouthed, tears from pain and thanks still flowing. He leaned on the fire-fighter who had pulled him out and dared to look down on his leg. It was torn from the thigh down in a terrible gash. But he was alive. Thanks to this man.

"Thank you." He let out again, then began a fit of coughing. The firefighter put his arm around him as he led him out the rubble onto the dusty streets. "You're welcome, sir." He left Bradley sitting on the pavement, as he called an ambulance. Bradley didn't move, catching his breath, daring to look at the damage done to the towers. He winced. They were destroyed. Then he heard crying. No, not crying, sobbing. Wailing. He turned. An older woman in a red cardigan was sitting behind him, crouched down in tears. He stood up and hobbled over to her, though it took every ounce of strength left in him. "Are you ok?" It was a stupid question to ask, but it was all he could think of. "My son-" That was all she could say through the tears, but that was enough. Bradley knelt down next to her and placed his hand over hers. It was a gesture worth a thousand words.

 

~Simple joy 2 ~ An American flag

 The heat of the sun bounced off the pavement road, making the walk in the parade almost unbearable. Dillon Martin, tall and thin with hazelnut eyes, was resting the American flag on his right shoulder. Two veterans from the Vietnam war walked on either side of him. They pressed on in a steady pace, legs stiff and in sync, eyes looking straight ahead. Eyes that had witnessed much, from the way they looked up at that American Flag and nodded towards the people.

It had been Dillon's first year in Afghanistan, and already he understood how much horror is involved with war. How much sacrifice, not only in those who give their life for their country, but those who live on-having to exist day by day with the memories of their traumatic experiences haunting them. Memories of death and bloodshed and pleas of forbearance. He scanned the faces of the crowds. They clapped, but he wondered if they knew.

 "They gave up their lives for you." Dillon thought.
 No, maybe not their bodies. But forever the scars and wounds from battle would constantly plague them, causing more anguish than any major injury. A slight wind blew, causing the large flag to dance. Dillon looked up at it and smiled gently, remembering the symbolism of his countries flag.. The colors of the pale, vertical stripes signified purity and innocence. He looked at the people, America had lost that. Red signified hardiness and valor. Again, America's respect for the brave and courageous of this country had lessened. Blue had represented vigilance, perseverance and justice. Dillon's heart became heavy as he watched the people closely. Women chatted as they passed by, unbeknownst to the men who had fought for their freedom. People fiddled with their phones, already too bored to pay any respect at all. Couples, too focused on each other, laughed and and giggled as the true hero's of the country walked right by them. Where were the just? The perseverant?  The vigilant? Dillon again looked at the flag, remembering a quote from a book, published in 1977 by the House of representatives...

"The star on the flag is a symbol of the heavens and the divine goal to which man has aspired from time immemorial; the stripe is symbolic of the rays of light emanating from the sun."

The divine goal of man - to reach the stars in the heavens, to reach GOD. That was the true goal of why they fought for this blessed country. To have the freedom to continue that trek for heaven. Dillon continued walking. Then faintly, in the distance he heard a voice. He noticed the crowds were looking around for it as well. Anger bubbled inside of him. The people were already paying their countries hero's no respect. Whoever was distracting them even more should know better. As they walked on however, the voice became more clear and distinct. Dillon started to make out the words of a song.

"America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!"

Dillon looked into the crowd, where the voice was coming from. There ahead of them, a man, around his eighties, was standing on top of  a picnic table on the edge of a park. His hand was lifted in Salute and his baritone voice lifted among the hu-bub of the crowds. Dillon watched more closely, his throat beginning to grow tight. He had been wrong. There were still just and courageous people walking in America and honoring it's soldiers. As they walked nearer, the mans' voice began to shake as he continued singing America the beautiful.


"O beautiful for heroes proved In liberating strife,
Who more than self their country loved,
And mercy more than life!
America! America! May God thy gold refine
Till all success be nobleness,
And ev'ry gain divine!"

Dillon saluted him and the flag in his arms danced for joy.

~Simple Joy 1~A fire

Smoldering.
Roaring.
Blazing.
Hungry.

The tangerine sparks of the campfire crackled loudly in the lonely night air. The light so orange and red, illuminated the faces of the small family who were sitting around it to keep warm on their camping trip. Especially Amy, the 12 year old in the corner. Her eyes were overflowing with wonder and trepidation.  Her heart was burning, like the embers. And the wispy grey smoke swam through her nostrils and into her lungs, filling her with a woody feeling of warmth.

The glowing flames that swayed and twirled in a fiery dance had entranced her.
How does it even happen? She thought.
She knew it had something to do with gas and a chemical reaction.
But it seemed so much more remarkable than something that could just be explained right away.
More...wild. More...
MAGICAL.
The way it furiously ate away at whatever it touched, like a dragon. The way the sparks flew up and dotted the black sky like stars. And the way the ash gently cascaded down to earth, like snowflakes.

It was only a fire. Something that can appear at the swish of a match. Something ordinary that most people have experienced. But at that moment, to Amy, it was an enchanting power from a different world full of spells and adventures.


And though violent, with the capacity to lick away the forest around her with it's deathly tongues of fire, it was absolutely beautiful.

And there you go folks, simple joy #1- FIRE.