Joy on two wheels

 

Tome moments in life are so odd, so delightfuly out of place, that they stick with you forever.

One spring afternoon, I found myself on the front stone steps of a downtown church in my home city. We’d just laid my great uncle to rest — a long, full life well lived. It was a quiet weekend morning. The street was gently alive with its usual soundtrack — streetcars rattling by, cars parked bumper to bumper, snippets of conversation floating by on the breeze.

This family had always been a little offbeat — my favorite among the relatives.  Their whole family carried a little streak of a slightly warped humor. The matriarch had passed years earlier, so now it was just the adult kids carrying on that peculiar, wonderful legacy.

I was talking with one cousin whom I especially enjoyed, our conversation bouncing easily between family stories, memories and little bursts of laughter. It felt right — a funeral can be solemn, yes, but it can also be a place where memory and mirth overlap.

And then a wry smile crept across her face. I turned to find what brought the smile.

Coming along the main street was an elderly man riding an equally elderly bicycle. The bike wobbled and groaned as he pedaled his way up the street. The old metal crate attached on the back clanking with every turn of the wheel. On his head sat a straw hat, frayed and faded. His old, worn shirt was plaid, his trousers patched. He looked like he’d pedaled straight out of a country postcard.

But it wasn’t the man — or even the bicycle — that stole the scene.

It was his passenger.

Balanced proudly atop the old metal crate was a rooster. A full-grown, colorful, feather-full, squawking rooster — preening, proudly strutting in place wings flapping, chest puffed, voice carrying over the din of the traffic. The bird looked utterly at home, as if city traffic and honking horns were nothing compared to the honor of riding parade-style through town. Master of his universe.

My cousin and I burst into laughter.

It didn’t seem possible to gain so much happiness from so little.
— Peter Larangis

Heads shaking, our eyes wide. We both knew exactly what her father would have said if he’d been there. He would have chuckled, maybe tipped an imaginary hat, and declared it the perfect punctuation mark to the day.

It was ridiculous. It was wonderful. It was joy, clattering past us on two wheels and a rusty chain — a reminder that happiness and grief can ride side by side, when we let them.

And that’s the thing about joy: it doesn’t always arrive wrapped in sunrises and songbirds. Sometimes it comes squawking down a busy street, balancing on the back of a bicycle, reminding you that life will always find ways to surprise you.

Until next time.

What about you? Have you ever had joy arrive at the most unexpected moment? The memory that makes you laugh every single time you think of it? I’d love to hear.