Most mornings this summer, as I am just on the verge of waking, I hear the squeek of our front door opening followed by the whoosh and click of it closing.
The first few times I was alarmed. “Which of my children just left the house?” “Why did they leave?” “Why aren’t they coming right back in?”
But now I know. I just smile to myself and curl back to sleep for a few minutes.
It’s Goldie. If I looked out the window, I’d see her – messy blonde hair and pajamas – crouched down in the gutter . . . saving potato bugs.
Those silly bugs. They don’t know well enough to steer clear of danger. They’re always wandering into the gutter – oblivious to the possibility that water might come gushing down it at any moment and carry them to a miserable end.
In Washington, it was worms. Nearly every night it would rain. Out the worms would crawl – only to find themselves stuck on quickly drying pavement as the morning dawned.
Luckily, for many, there was Goldie – worrying over them when no one else would.
I suppose one could heartlessly point out to her what a small dent her dedicated service to these lowly of the low is making; how few she is really saving. But, even if they did, it wouldn’t matter. She seems to have her own little view of life that meshes wholeheartedly with the somewhat over-told, and sentimental starfish tale. You know: “There are miles of beach! Thousands of starfish! You can’t possibly make a difference.”
(And, of course, I am taking great liberties in my use of quotation marks.) Still, the well-known reply: “It makes a difference to this one.”
Bless her tender little soul. She’s quite fond of pouring love into people . . . and things . . . and small creatures. I don’t know that anyone wants to be compared to a potato bug. Definitely not a worm. Starfish certainly make for a lovelier metaphor. Still, I am quite certain I will see this same behavior extend to many who might be struggling a bit when Goldie chances upon them.
And . . . some lovely pictures of Daisy taken, surprisingly, in our bathroom. Sometimes you find lovely light in the most unlikely places. Ooh . . . I was totally not still playing on the above metaphor, but . . .
