Familiarity and Sunlight

I was sitting in the banker's office when I realized I had forgotten my wallet -- my big trip to the county seat for the week, estate matters to settle and funds to juggle and affidavits to sign, and me with no I.D.

But this is a small town, and the bank is locally owned, everybody smiling and helpful and asking about the grandkids. All sums were handled and papers notarized without a break in talk about family and friends. I wouldn't call it small.

The sun was shining. When I got home, the dogs were elated to see me, the grass was greener, and coltsfoot was blooming in the berms. Even the tracks in the corn stubble made by the farmer's spreader going over the hill looked good, pleasing me more than raked sand in a Zen garden.

The woman at the trust office had told me how happy she was to have moved back into the old family farmhouse in Upper Turkeyfoot, home for her clan for five generations. "Isn't this a great place to live?" she said. And it is.

A visit to the bank is not famous for lifting your spirits, but this one did. Thing is, it's not even my bank. But it will be.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved