03/27/2024
Spread the love

By: Jefferson Weaver

Jefferson-WeaverEverybody needs a bright spot on a dreary day.

I call mine Gingersnap.

She has bright red curls that rebel with all the feistiness a natural redhead can muster, and the mischievous grin of a playful ball of fire. She likes puppies, flowers and puddles. She’s at her happiest when a neighborhood park floods, since she can splash the resultant puddles to her heart’s content.

She isn’t mine, of course—her mom Heather and I just happen to be friends. Miss Heather and the Gingersnap came by to see me the other day while they were on the family walk. It was one of those oppressive days when clouds threatened a frog-strangling, ditch-overwhelming, road-destroying afternoon storm, a promise that was fulfilled later on. Miss Heather is a strong advocate of keeping young’uns outside as much as possible, both for their physical health and their mother’s well-being.

They were about a block away from my office when Heather waved at a passerby. Gingersnap, who doesn’t miss a trick, as the old saying goes, asked why her mom waved.

“We wave to be polite,” Miss Heather explained, “and because somebody might be having bad day. It might make them feel better.”
Gingersnap pondered this.

“Can we go wave at Mr. Jefferson?” she asked. “He might be having a bad day, and we might cheer him up.”

Sure enough I was, and sure enough they did.

Now, my beloved Miss Rhonda teaches a Sunday school class of kids about the age of the Gingersnap, so I can speak a little of the language. I still needed a translator for the rapid-fire happiness that was almost shouted in my ear as the little redhead gave me a bonecrushing hug and climbed around my neck.

I have a strange effect on children; whether it’s the hair, the beard, or the occasional smell of an unlucky predator, kids from about six months old to two years are usually terrified of me. After that age, however, many automatically assume that I am their best friend.
I very much want to be that friend, because quite frankly, little kids are cool.

Little kids understand a lot that we as adults have cast aside; they know the importance of fairness in deed, not speech. While few of them are above a fib or a tall tale, they appreciate honesty. Kids who don’t get along well with others soon find themselves alone on the playground, and that’s no fun.

Little kids can also be utterly frank; they have no social stigma attached to telling it like it is, unlike most politicians and many so-called mature grownups.

Take Miss Bella, for instance.

Bella is the daughter, granddaughter and great-niece of a family I consider dear friends. She likes to fish, but she prefers to kiss her fish, then release them. She is something of a little fashionista, too, which led to her unapologetic critique of my outfit at church one morning.
It was during trapping season, and I had left home at dawn and in a hurry. My Sunday clothes were on a hanger in the truck, and after feeding the horses, I ducked into the freeing tack room to change clothes.

Grabbing clothing in the dark is never a smart move, but I had grabbed a rather bold tie that clashed rather badly with my vest. I shrugged and went ahead dressing; God doesn’t care if your colors compliment or collide, as long as your heart’s in the right place when you’re in his house at the appointed time.

At church, Miss Bella came bouncing down the hall toward Rhonda’s class (being a big girl, Bella’s now an alumni). As is her custom, she came running toward me for a hug. I creaked down on one knee to share the hug, and she stopped short.

Her towhead tilted to one side, and a critical look came over her face. At all of three and a half feet tall, she owned the big hairy man in the black suit, black and gold vest, and awful tie.

“That tie, Mr. Jefferson—it’s awful ugly. It doesn’t go with that vest at all!”

I still got my hug, but I also tend to be a little more circumspect in my fashion choices when I know Miss Bella’s around.
I met a little gentleman a while back about Bella’s age, and he was gifted with the same level of refreshing openness that makes children both precious and humbling.

I disremember the particular event I was covering, but there were some draft horses there; naturally, the littlest kids at the event wanted to meet the biggest horses. Although the gross weight of the teams was somewhere around 8,500 pounds, drafts are generally the gentlest souls ever created. These particular teams were well-versed in dealing with the public (especially since the kids were equipped with treats by the horses’ owner).

One little fellow, whose parents have had him on horseback since before he was born, eyed the largest of the Belgian behemoths with a professional’s squint.

“What do think of the big horsies?” his grandmother, who has only a passing knowledge of horseflesh, said. The little fellow shook his head.
“That thing eats a lot, so he poops a lot,” was his immediate reply. “Who cleans up all his poop?”

Everyone else was marveling at the majesty of these nine-foot tall animals, and the little fellow was all business.

That, my friends, is why I love little kids. There’s no ill intent, even in the frankest observation. Some instinctively want to make people feel better. They can recognize when something’s out of place, and want to know why. And before they are taught to be quiet or that some people are different or that they need to be part of the crowd, rather than an individual – before they’re grownup, in other words—they understand why it’s a good thing to make somebody’s day brighter.

Little kids understand what we as grownups forget–that even on a dreary, rainy, depressing day, the world can still be full of puddles just waiting to be splashed.

Share this article using the shortlink: https://bladencounty.org/?p=21005

About Author