Have a Nice Day

I am old enough to remember the 1970s, when I aged from 6 to 16. Those were my formative years. I remember hippies and hippie vans, polluted rivers, litter, "All in the Family," "The Waltons," and happy faces.

You remember happy faces, don't you? They were as ubiquitous as peace signs. Yellow circles with big, elongated eyes and upturned smiles. (Wal-Mart has co-opted a variation of the happy face in its advertising, but it isn't quite the same. Emoticons have also brought back the happy face in a miniscule format.)

Anyway, I remember happy faces and store clerks (all store clerks) saying thank you and have a nice day. They don't say thank you anymore (in fact, I usually find myself thanking them), and they rarely say have a nice day. They usually just kind of shrug and turn their attention to the next customer in line. (Am I sounding like an old bitty, or what? I know I am, but it's true!)

Back then, it was good to be known as nice, but somewhere along the line people began disparaging the adjective. Nice went from meaning 'kind, thoughtful and sensitive to the needs of others' to meaning 'ordinary and unassertive.' Nice people became synonymous with doormats, and who wanted to be a doormat?

Now we've gotten 180 degrees out of phase with 'nice' often meaning its opposite, 'not nice.' (Think seagulls in famous "Finding Nemo" scene.) 'Ni-ice," on the other hand, means very nice.

I started thinking about this because today I realized that my view of how to experience a day is out of whack. To this point in my adult life (certainly since becoming a mother), I have regarded one 24-hour period as a commodity to be properly used rather than enjoyed.

For some reason, this makes me think of a story I read in our local paper in 2002 by Bruce Northam, a National Geographic travel writer. I wrote most of the story down in my quote book:

My father and I walk together a lot. Last summer we undertook a 180 mile trek across Wales, coast-to-coast along Offa's Dyke - the grand earthwork project conceived in the eighth century by King Offa of Mercia to separate England from Wales. Our walk was a celebration of sorts.

A year earlier, my father, who was then 70, had undergone open heart bypass and back surgery. Now we were walking together atop the long, curving ridge- boundary of Brecon Beacons National Park. En route we befriended Erica, a Welsh woman who was clearly oblivious to the beck and call of stress.

At dusk the three of us encountered an elderly lady and her beagle hiking toward us. Teetering along on a walking stick, she wore a motoring cap and held a bunch of wildflowers. I said "hello" and asked her where she was going. She replied in Welsh,

"Rydw I yna yn barod." We looked to Erica for a translation.

"She said, 'I'm already there.'" (Cheryl's side note: ISN'T THAT THE BEST?)

They continued their placid conversation in Welsh until the old woman resumed her walk. As she faded into the distance, I declared my envy for her simple philosophy.

"Let's catch up with her. There's something else I'd like to ask her."

We spun around and caught up with her. She walked a few more steps along the trail, traded her flowers to the other hand, and raised an eyebrow. Erica translated my question,

"What's the secret to a long and happy life?"

The old woman and I scrutinized each other for an instant, beings from different eras and opposite sides of an ocean. She directed her answer to Erica.

"Moments." There was a quiet pause. Then the old woman smiled, squinted at my father, and spoke slowly,

"Moments are all we get. A true walker understands this."

After a silent minute, we all clutched hands with the old woman, then we waved good-bye as she trudged off with eternal poise and bearing. As we turned to continue on our way, my father and I exchanged smiles.

Moments. They are all we get.

~ Author Bruce Northam ~