I couldn’t feel my fingers or toes.
But that was ok. I was on a mission.
It was the day Santa was visiting. He’d be at my market pavilion that evening at 5:00PM, and I was preparing for his arrival. Kids were coming and the cookies were ready, and that morning at work, I had the nice surprise of finding extra lights in my storage area. (Our public works team had hung a few hundred feet of icicle lights on the farmers market pavilion the days prior.) Apparently, I, being spatially challenged, had ordered a couple hundred feet extra.
“We’re gonna make this Santa-space twinkly!”
Suddenly, I was Clark Griswold. I envisioned myself singing “Joy to the World” when I flipped the switch. I was working with a blank canvas in a new structure, knowing that no matter how many lights I found a space for, the festive part in my brain would be screaming, “More! More!”
But today…. the task at hand…was to get these lights up.
Interruptions
I was three hours in and the icicle lights were done. Now, lighted garland was being hung in six-foot increments. The sparkly star was up (not in its originally planned place—the wind was too fierce for it. The wind was. a. beast. Brutal, I say!) While I was squinting, standing back, and making sure the lights on the garland were spaced correctly, my Bose speaker belted out Brenda Lee.
About halfway into decking the rails, I noticed a work vehicle pull into the lot. The area isn’t public parking, and this vehicle parked perpendicular to the pavilion. My brain went into overdrive…”wonder what they’re doing”…”hope there’s no tomfoolery”…”am I going to have to ask them to move the truck”…”I’ve never heard of that business….”
The engine is cut off.
Burl Ives is in the background reminding me to have a holly jolly Christmas.
And I begin keeping a side-eye on them as they sit there.
My decorating finally took me to an area that required my facing them. I could keep an eye on them without gawking and I could see what they were up to. Suspicious activity requires that, you know.
I turned, and in the front seat I saw the driver eating something, and a tiny, older lady on the passenger side. “They’re just eating lunch,” I thought with relief.
Four minutes pass, and the passenger door opens. The gentleman comes around, assists the lady out of the truck, she straightens her peacoat, and begins walking in my direction.
“I need to walk around…my legs get stiff,” she said, as she made her way to where I was.
The man had already returned to the truck.
“I understand that!” I replied, as she made her way to me.
“I have issues with the arteries in my legs,” she continued. The doctor said I wouldn’t be walking in three years. That was six years ago. So, I make sure to get up & walk when I can.”
By now, she’d reached the area where I was decorating.
“Well, it looks like you’ve defied the odds—you’re getting around beautifully!”
A hearty laugh seemed to prompt the pointing of her cane. “My son is in that truck. I don’t let him know these things because I don’t want to worry him. He invited me to ride with him today for his work. First time I’ve done this!”
Our conversation seemed to just flow after that. I learned that…
…her bridge “didn’t fit right”
…she worked for an attorney without any formal training when she was 19 years old
… she worked for the railroad after that
…she lived in the very county where I’d previously lived almost 20 years
…she thought my daughter is beautiful (of course I showed her photos!)
…she was shocked I’m old enough to have a 31-year-old child (like I’m going to omit that tidbit…BOOYAH, FATHER TIME!)
…she believed in “divine appointments”
As she kept apologizing for taking me from my decorating, I kept telling her it was quite alright—she’s not taking me from anything.
Elegance & Grace
I found myself smiling largely the entire time she spoke. Her red lipstick matched her pillbox hat perfectly, and her eyes twinkled more than the thousands of lights I’d just strung. Her white hair reminded me of the soft, fluffy stuff we used for snow in our mini Christmas villages in the 1970s. Like cotton.
“Well, you sure have done a beautiful job,” she said.
(It was just lights, a star, and garland…..)
She told me her name…. but to maintain her privacy, I’ll call her “Mrs. B.”
She told me her age.
Eighty-nine.
Mrs. B used to travel “these parts” with her husband, who had passed some years ago. She’d not been here in a while, and as a matter of fact, she and her son were headed to another town about 30 minutes north of us, but they wanted to stop for lunch.
My town it was.
In a non-parking lot.
Beside my Santa space.
Forty-five minutes had passed, and the feeling in my fingers and toes had returned. I walked her to the truck where her son stood waiting for her, and invited her to come back in the summer for our farmers market.
“Ain’t nothin’ like a homegrown tomato, and we have some of the best!” I told her. “I would love to see you one Thursday during our market season.”
“I may just do that!” she said, as her son helped her into the truck. “You sure have made me want to visit again….thank you!”
I stood, contemplative, as the truck disappeared over the hill. The wind blustered around me.
I pivoted and noticed the lights of Santa’s space. Heard the joyful sounds of Bing Crosby. Felt the tips of my fingers and toes. And noticed I was still wearing a smile.
My mind…my body…my heart….needed this pause…needed this reminder.
Thank you, Mrs. B. I believe in divine appointments, too.
