The most expensive piece of real estate that we may own is sweetness. As fortunate as we all may be while navigating through life, it would be far easier to let go of a quality that exudes vulnerability. Sweetness is usually not provoking, quite the contrary, but it may be catnip to some in this month of mischief. Like consideration or politeness, a kind disposition may come across as weakness to the wrong people. They see it as an invitation of an unsociable kind.
One may contemplate a life where sweetness goes underground, which could stir a Hallmark-ian imagination to think of hidden acts of charm. On the road, however, we see sweetness all the time: a father drives his dirt bike down a long driveway in South Jersey to get the mail which prompts whoops of glee with the hit of every bump from his toddler son who sits in his lap; a woman places dozens of small flags on a town hall lawn against a dewy sunrise downashore for Veterans Day unaware of passers-by; a mother alongside the Carranza Memorial in the heart of the Pinelands shares the story of the heroic aviator Captain Emilio Carranza with her daughters. Current examples come to mind: families and pets đŸ don costumes in town-and-city proud Halloween parades, a mother listens to her child play the flute on a family farm as they keep each other company during a pumpkin sale, and green-thumbed urbanites’ window boxes overflow with autumn rainbows of flowers New York City way.
The sweetest person whom I have known, and I am fortunate to know many, was our grandmother Helen, whose name meant “light”. Though she was exceedingly shy, people gravitated to her kindness and warmth. She was a five-star baker, a reflection of her Bavarian heritage, and the house we all lived in was full of the conversation and laughter of family and friends who often dropped in to visit at the cozy home by the firehouse in Vailsburg, Newark, where our grandfather was a firefighter before he retired. Despite having a large dining room table, we all gathered around the small Formica kitchen one. While the coffee brewed, the percolator often going haywire somehow, everyone gabbed in overlapping dialogue and non sequiturs like that fabulous family in “While You Were Sleeping,” taking leave only to sing songs around the player piano in the foyer. Casey had the girl with the strawberry curls, and our grandfather had his girl with her hazel green eyes.
When a kind reserve was once mistaken as hesitation when I was a child, someone remarked to me, “You’re spending too much time with your grandmother,” meaning that I was becoming like her. My thought was and is, “I hope so.” In the way of the good having consideration over the bad in making life decisions, this is a roundabout avenue to arriving home to sweetness, no better place to be in this Anti-Bullying Month of October.
âArriving Home at Sweetnessâ All Rights Reserved © 2019 Kathleen Helen Levey