¡Qué buena esta vida!

Life is so good.

Can you wake up in the morning and be excited about a new day? Can you go to bed this evening, and think of all the wonderful things in your life, and feel sincerely, that it's all good? Do you have regrets or recollections of bad times? If so, can you move past them, learn from them, and move on?

After reading Life is So Good, by George Dawson and Richard Glaubman, I was reminded again of how fortunate I've been, despite events that could have made me absolutely bitter and hateful for the rest of my life. I've been lucky and... here I am.

I would have liked to have met George Dawson. His life spanned the 20th century. He learned to read at the age of 98! The grandson of a slave, he tells the stories of his life growing up in Texas, and traveling across the United States. At a very early age, Dawson was forced to bear the cruelties of poverty and injustices of racial discrimination. I was struck though, by his ability to remain strong and optimistic. This man worked hard all his life, lived simply, and never allowed hardships to embitter him.

This book integrates real historical events with Dawson's experiences, which are told to Glaubman, an elementary school teacher who "co-writes" this book. This is not a "How-to-live-your-best-life" kind of book, but there are certainly lessons within it. Dawson reminds the reader

1. to treasure your family

2. to maintain a good work ethic

3. that sometimes you must say nothing

4. and sometimes you MUST say something

5. you don't need things to be happy

6. and how reading is a right, a gift, and a pleasure.

Life is indeed good. This evening, I enjoyed a meal with my family. I was able to write. And now to bed with another book...

Goodnight Sam...

He was 70, maybe 80
when his wife lay dying in the hospital
and it was our turn to make sure he got to bed OK.
I let myself in after dinner
noticing the cat’s moist food had dried up,
the refrigerator was left open,
and something smelled in the trash can.
Sam sat, as he always did, in his chair by the living room window
reading the newspaper by the light of a lamp
in a short sleeve plaid shirt, khaki pants
his black framed glasses perched neatly on his nose.
It was my job to tell him it was time to get ready for bed.
He seemed insulted by my being there,
folded his paper, made two, three attempts to get up
and upon steadying himself,
shuffled off to his bedroom while I
washed his plate, glass, fork and knife
opened a can of Friskies Buffet and
gave the cat fresh water.
I sat in his wife’s chair and waited
looking around me, at photos of a young couple,
mementos of World War Two
and a collection of knick-knacks placed on faded cream-colored doilies
while he paced back and forth from living room to bathroom
in boxer shorts, white undershirt, brown socks
pale sagging skin
and disheveled white hair.
I made him nervous I know,
it breaks my heart to remember.
“Are you leaving yet?”
“Yes Sam. Goodnight,”
I locked the door behind me,
cut through the back yard
and went inside where I continued to watch him
from our own kitchen window
until he finally turned out the light.