A last bit of story from our trip up north.  As we were leaving Grindstone City, way back on a dirt road we passed this:

It was a beautiful little hill with a family plot, all fenced in with obvious care.

We climbed the hill and quietly explored.  It was beautiful.  Maple trees were in full color, there was no sound except for birds and chipmunks.

We wandered about, reading the headstones, piecing together the family histories.  One stone caught my attention; a small unassuming stone of a little boy who was born and died the year I was born.  Next to him were his parents, who died many years later.

I stopped a moment and thought back to all the things I’ve done in my life.  While I was walking to kindergarten in my “milk money” dress, the one with pockets to carry the nickle for the week’s milk, this little boy was resting here.  When I graduated from high school, learned to drive a car,  went off to college, he was still here…when I bought my first house, got married, changed jobs, traveled…well…he was up on this beautiful little knoll.

For whatever reason I connected with this little boy who missed out on so much.  He should be about ready to retire now, he should have stories to tell his grandchildren.  He should be peacefully sitting on a porch somewhere, listening to the birds and chipmunks.

When things get hectic and crazy and when I’m overwhelmed and tired all I have to think about is a little boy forever peaceful up there on that knoll, and I’ll know that I’m the lucky one.

Peaceful or not, I’m the lucky one.