When I was a kid, my father was a coin collector.
At the end of day, he'd dump any loose change found in his pockets into empty pipe tobacco cans. This depository rested in his top dresser drawer, and its contents were used for one purpose: to fund an annual excursion to an amusement park.
It was a special treat for his children, but I think he enjoyed it most. It was the happiest I ever remember seeing him. Waving to his offspring from the gated sidelines of a Tilt-a-Whirl, or accompanying one of us in the very front seat of a first roller coaster car, chugging up up up with arms held high at the crest of the first hill, and yelling the loudest as we dropped to the unknown below.
Coin by coin, it was something he believed was worth doing. A small daily action that bought brightness and delight. It was perhaps what French philosopher Paul Ricoeur deemed the "second naivete." A renewed encounter with the excitement of childhood glued tight to the insight that accompanies life's hard-earned experience.
In the novel JR, author William Gaddis wrote:
"First time in history there are so many opportunities to do so many God damned things not worth doing” (477).
These days, celebrity masquerades as hero. Knucklehead opinion is primetime gospel, and recreational shopping serves as spiritual seance. But there are still some things worth doing every day.
One action begets another, and now I gather coins. Not for a journey to Kings Dominion, but for the wonder ride of reading. The depository is a plastic jug that previously hosted UTZ pretzels. Every day I put any coins left in the pocket of my jeans or at the bottom of my purse into this bowl located at the base of my kitchen pantry. And at the end of the year, I donate it to a literacy group, volunteers who help others learn to read.
I taught someone how to read once, a long time ago. He was a man in his late 60s. It took a year. As the months went by, letters became words, sentences became paragraphs until finally a reading monster was born. A simple newspaper offered the thrill of an amusement ride. At his graduation, he read The Gettysburg Address. I went behind the building and cried. It was the best thing I have ever done, and will ever do. 'Cause I can't imagine the darkness of not being able to understand words on a page.
Philosopher Martin Buber nailed it: to be really young is to be able to begin.
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