My Uncle's Shoes

Frosted Like Powder Sugar Doughnuts

                                                          Tom Froehlich

I overheard her say, “Yea, I moving to Vermont and going to a school on a farm”.  Her enthusiasm was infectious and I wanted to be a part of it. Know more about this adventure to the land of autumn leaves and maple syrup. I wanted to know if the farmhouse had clapboard siding or was made of rough hewn stone and if there would be fresh apple pies cooling on a red checked cloth covering a chipped enamel farm table in the kitchen.  

I smiled to myself realizing I was creating my own reality for her adventure. This girl who I later learned had never been out of the state of California and had never experienced a frosty fall morning, the soon to be dormant grass frosted like powder sugar doughnuts.  Autumn leaves of sienna and umber rustling in there own private waltz bidding farewell to clear autumn days.  I wanted to share with her the experiences I have had in climates less temperate than those of southern California.  Share in the excitement of her new adventure to a land foreign to her California roots.  Yet I was hesitant. I was unsure if I would be welcomed into her pending reality.  Fearful it would appear an invasion rather than sharing in the comradeship of adventure. Years previously, I made the same journey in the opposite direction, the sun and palm trees and Santa Anna winds as foreign to me as the wooded forests, rolling green hills and fresh spring rains pounding out their rhythm on the raftered farmhouse roof would be to her. 

I replaced the book I had been reading on the shelf and turned to leave the bookstore thinking of the excitement and anticipation of my own migration. I was reminded of people’s queries and how they had fueled my own excitement, making my adventure seem that much more real. More tangible. Imminent.  Never an intrusion.  Merely an affirmation that I was about to set out on an adventure they may wish to travel if only through conversation and a sharing of wanderlust.

Before leaving I stopped, turned and said with a smile, “Excuse me. I didn’t mean to eaves drop, but I heard you are moving to a farm in Vermont and it sounds amazing.”

With out a moment’s hesitation she turned to me and said, “Yes. I’m going to learn to teach English as a second language and then have a teaching job in Europe. I am soooo excited. I’ve never been out of the state of California.”

“It will be beautiful in Vermont.  I hope you have an amazing adventure.”

Her smile continued to beam as she thanked me for asking.

As I was leaving the bookstore I was drawn to a display of books on a table and began to browse.  A few minutes passed and I heard a voice say, “I just wanted to thank you again for asking me about my trip.  That was so kind of you.”

“Thank you for allowing me to be a part of your adventure.” I said.

I later walked out into the sunny California afternoon still sharing in this stranger’s journey.  I smiled as I thought of how her own smile had become more radiant when I asked her about her trip.  How my curiosity had fueled her own enthusiasm and wanderlust.

I realized that joy is not an emotion one should be reluctant to share nor share in. Joy has no limits.  No finite mass. Joy feeds on itself exponentially. It is a bottomless, blissful artesian well to be shared with no fear of depletion.

I will remember this day often and smile.  Smile wondering if this stranger, a stranger who’s wanderlust I share, is breakfasting on buckwheat pancakes and fresh maple syrup, safe and warm in her farmhouse as the winter winds remind her of the sunny California days of my own adventure.  Smile, remembering how a stranger taught me that joy is meant to be shared.