The Fourth of July approaches and reminds me of a relationship I have that thrives because of an annual Independence Day rendezvous. When we first met near an airport baggage claim, I was hoisting a few heavy bags into the back of a minivan. She watched from a distance as cargo was being transferred into her own conveyance. In my task, as I hustled past her window on some luggage errand or other, she smiled the biggest, “I know we haven’t met yet, but I can hardly wait!” It was the most enticing ear-to-ear smile I had had the pleasure to receive from anyone in all me decades to that point. At our next encounter, she added to her endearing effervescent grin body language so visible and alluring that my whole being leaped as it hadn’t since arthritis crowned my joints and purloined my youthful vigor. By then, I was beginning to think the rest of the female world had been wrong and I was indeed the best thing since sliced bread, like my youthful memories and middle-aged dreams indicated.

Sixteen months later my suspicions were confirmed. The love that put my own head spinning was part of a mutual love. I discovered that she looked for me when she knew we were near one another, her head turned in my direction when she heard my voice, and her largest smile transmitted pleasure when our eyes met. In fact, she couldn’t see me without saying “Poppy!” in joyous exclamation, waves of happiness moving toward me or with me. In our annual July reunions, she found great and even gleeful pleasure in curling up on my lap, bouncing at my knee, sitting by my side, or spending time playing Chutes and Ladders at a table or fishing for pan fish at a lake side. My granddaughter lives in Florida and my home is in the Rondout Valley, but her preference for Poppy has firmly planted my heart in Florida, a state I never liked before. I love this little corner of the Catskills with its mountains, waterways, and wonderful people — on a par with George Bailey’s Bedford Falls — but my granddaughters’ pull at the heart sometimes makes our five acres feel like the locus of trivialities attended in an inconsequential locale.

I suspect Hugh Heffner had no inkling that he looked as old as Methuselah when he died in 2017. I nested better into aging, if I may say so. Not foolish enough to let thinning pate, expanding waistline, and weakening muscles and back go unnoticed, heart-to-heart conversations with my aging realities brought us to a mutually agreed understanding (others might call it a stand-off, but this is my story and I’m sticking to it!). Aging agreed not to move on me too quickly and I agreed to smile most of the time. Until grandfathering dawned, I gave up aiming at being a stand out in the crowd and found comforting solace in fading into the surroundings, even though it didn’t bring the same rush. I curled up with humdrum even though being recognized by others for power, skill, and stellar attempts and accomplishments got all the press. I found the silver linings in drabness — things like, “People don’t expect a lot from the anonymous member of the crowd,” “Slow and steady wins the race,” and “Even Abraham Lincoln lost two elections before becoming president.” Old Humdrum didn’t even rub my nose in it.

However, my granddaughters have voided my understanding with humdrum, sentencing it to the ash heap of accommodations to pipe dreams where it belongs. When their boredom or downright crankiness miraculously vanishes at my arrival, when their tears transform into joy at the sound of my voice, when a distasteful activity becomes an adventure. When “Poppy” partners up, my life finds meaning and I’m King of the Universe! Doubts or depressions hiding in the dark corners of my soul, waiting patiently for an opportunity to pounce on my happiness, are exiled to a netherworld forever. At that moment life is good and everything is in sync.

Call me a fool if you must, but most of the time I am convinced there is a discernable God, and he/she is not lurking about like an evil schoolmaster waiting for student misdeeds to be overrated and punished unmercifully. I am also convinced that God yearns to be in our presence, seeks us out when we’re absent, lights up when we enter the room, and turns every pore of heaven’s existence toward us when our voice is heard. I’m sure God’s face wrinkles in displeasure if we take divine favor as a starting gun for privilege or a mark signaling perfection. God’s own name is on the deed to the universe which we inhabit, but I have little doubt that God would be pleased to know that his/her fawning attention made you feel like the best thing since sliced bread.