The Happy Book

Ok, I'm picturing myself on A HAPPY DAY: Barefoot. Tan. 110 pounds. Laying in green grass under a leafy tree on a hot, sunny afternoon. (No ants crawling out of the grass on me). Pink cotton candy in one hand, an icy can of Pibb Zero in the other. (No bees buzzing around the cotton candy). No phone. A pile of books stacked up beside me and all afternoon to read. A cool blue pool nearby. (No bugs floating in the pool). I can see my little dogs snoozing in a patch of dandelions and Tony casting a line from his canoe. Soon some lovely person will deliver a big plate of fresh pineapple and divinity to me for my supper, then my dapper husband and I will drive to town in our classic convertible for a movie, a round of Goofy Golf (no screaming kids on the course, of course), and a Cherry Limeade from Sonic.  Ah, the perfect day.

My 110-pound days are long gone, I'm afraid, and the closest my husband has ever been to dapper was on our wedding day in his white tux with the bell-bottom pants and blue ruffled shirt (hey, it was the 70s).  But the rest of my perfectly happy day is within reach.  I'm a firm believer in being happy. Maybe that's why I like The Happy Book so much.

   

It celebrates what makes you glad. It teaches you with silly exercises to practice happiness so it gets easier to find.  You can scribble thoughts, make lists, doodle and dream of the big and little things that make you smile. Skip around in it;  there's no special order to it.  As the book says, "Pick it up when you feel crappy. If your day has been just ridiculously, stupidly awful, no need to write in the book -- just read it."  

 

One page instructs you to take $10 and spend it on something totally frivolous that makes you happy.  You know those giant playballs at the grocery store?  That's what I'd buy. I love those things.

Another page says, "Families are an intricate machine made of shared history, love, tradition, weirdness and comfort. Post your favorite family photos here." Weirdness, huh? Seems the perfect

place to post this odd-and-beloved  picture of  Tony.  It always makes me snort:

 

Being happy is good for you. 

The Happy Book is a good reminder of all the big and little things that are good in your life. 

 And we all need reminding.

Tell me in the comments what makes you happy.

Didn't you just do that?

Why, yes, I DID just rearrange.

Thank you for noticing.
 I like to shake it up now and then.

What? No, I can stop re-arranging anytime I want.

Rosie, don't look at me that way. Quit looking at me.

I can't help myself. I'm a compulsive re-arranger.

This week, I moved the counters. All by myself. When I wake up motivated to rearrange the heavy stuff, I can't wait for someone with testosterone to wander by.

So here's the new counter layout, viewed from the front doors:

Hmmm...

does that look messy or interesting? How about interestingly messy?

Check out the pile of Stuff behind the counter: I'm sorry to admit that IS a mess. Boxes to be unpacked, things I abandoned on the floor when I answered the phone and forgot to come back, little wheels off things and a teetering 412-pound stack of brochures. It's an ever-changing assortment that's ever-present, much to my ever-lasting shame. I've come to accept that The Banging of the Shins on Stuff back there is just an occupational hazard:

Oh, well.  Come on in and climb over. 

I've moved forty zillion napkins and paper plates and greeting cards.

The baby gifts have flip-flopped with the kitchen goods, the candles and the lotions have traded places with the invitations, and I can't recall where I put the fuzzy pink Easter ducks but it will come to me in the middle of the night.

So come see. Winter's moved out, Spring's moved in, and I've moved every single thing in the shop.

  I even dusted!

But better make it snappy -- I might move the counters again next week if my feet quit hurting.

87

I think you can tell by the eyes. Ornery.

Hardly a day goes by that somebody doesn't stop by the counter and remember something about my Dad. Usually something ornery. I can relate.

He was a great whistler, and he'd warble "Silver Threads and Golden Needles" repeatedly because he knew it drove me crazy. He teased mercilessly about boyfriends and cooties. He hugged the stuffing out of you and pounded you on the back as he squeezed. When I baked cookies, he'd take a bite and fall down on his back and kick his legs and play dead. Ornery.

He and his pack of old guy pals would sit out on the mall every afternoon and drink coffee; we'd hear them giggling like little girls. I don't know what they were laughing about and it's probably better that way. We had a gum machine in the shop for many years, and he kept a pocket-full of pennies for kids; he told little boys that the yellow gumballs made girls kiss them. He asked little girls if they were married. Ornery.

Ask his grandkids. He was famous for The Knee Trap: he'd catch you as you walked by his recliner, trap you between his knees and wouldn't let go until my mom hollered at him. Generations of children fell for, "Look here" and were rewarded with a gentle squirt of pool water in the face. Or he'd grin, extend his fist and invite you to, "Put your finger in here." And even though you knew it would hurt like the dickens, you would. (Even after I was a grown-up, I couldn't resist... I guess I liked to see him smirk). Ornery.

He'd smooth his eyebrow with his pinky and say, "Aren't I purty?" No matter what sort of mortal injury you had, he'd proclaim, "I've had worse places in my eye." He claimed everyday that, "Tomorrow's my birthday." Ornery.

Well, today IS his birthday. He'd be 87 ornery years old. He's been gone four years, and just before he died, he told me, "I've had a happy life. I'd like to do it all over again, every day of it."

Ornery, yeah... and happy. You can tell by the eyes.

Is It Spring Yet?

I was
thinking
daffodils
and little yellow ducks.




Mother Nature had other plans today,
apparently.


That's the beauty of having a shop. We're always trying to stay one step ahead of the season, so while it may look like this on my driveway, it's SPRING at Dickerson's!


So struggle into your giant wool coat. Put on two pairs of long underwear. Climb into your Uggs. I've already lost three mittens this season, but if you can find a matching pair, pull 'em on and come over to the shop for a sweet little taste of Spring. You want daffodils and little yellow ducks? We've got 'em.