puddles-20100605-748b-2There once was a boy from Chicago,

Who didn’t know how far he should go…

“Stop!  Wrong genre, man, you really gotta quit listening to those voices in your head. Begin again.”

In the beginning, there was this little boy growing up on the Northside of Chicago.  He liked to jump in puddles.  Whenever it was raining cats and poodles, he knew that there would be puddles.

The boy always jumped in with both feet, for that’s how he did everything.  If you are gonna jump, jump high and deep.

If there was someone already in the puddle he would linger around the edge, sticking a toe in here and there, trying to have fun.  And if there was room for more than one in the puddle, then ‘Sploosh,’ he would jump in with both feet.

That was the most fun; kids working together trying to kick all the water out of a puddle.

Of course, there is no end to the number of puddles that form when the rain comes.

The little boy noticed that water kept returning to the puddles no matter how hard he kicked, but he didn’t care.  That’s the way he was, and that’s the way things were.

It is nice to jump in puddles when you are a little kid.

As the boy grew, he realized that the puddles also grew deeper, and slowly they changed shape and substance.  Instead of holding only water, they began to hold other things: issues and problems; things needing to be done.

The little boy wondered, “How am I going to handle this?  This is not much fun.  Splashing water was easy and fun.  This is work.  Boys can’t do this.”

Time went by and the puddles kept changing. The little boy kept jumping in with both feet, for that’s what boys do.

But more was changing than just the puddles; the boy grew to be something more than a boy.  And he kept jumping in with both feet.

After what seemed like ages, the grown boy looked back and reflected upon the series of puddles that made up a large part of his life.  He had seen people drown in their own puddles, as he had nearly drowned upon occasion.  He wondered why he had survived and thrived when so many had not?  What power had got him through?

He had a mother that taught him that people were nice and a father who taught that duty was something to be lived.  He never heard them say it. But he knew. And somehow he had been granted a faith that reinforced both those lessons.

The little boy remembered friends through the years who invited him into their puddles, or who jumped in beside him, or who sometimes shoved him in when he froze.

This once little boy realized that there was no special power.

There was a little bit of education, a bigger bit of comaraderie, some experience and a dash of maturity.  All of these had been blended with a sense of childish wonder, whenever he saw the water splash.

And maybe, just maybe, the power that got him through was the way he always jumped in with both feet.


Bill A.



One Comment Add yours

  1. Monalisa says:

    A Bella story! With a great reflection of life.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s