Beautification Patron

I wouldn’t have noticed the plaque if it wasn’t for a curious litte five-year-old that was tagging along with me that day to the library. She was amazing to watch, as she flitted from one little wonder to the next.

“Oh mommy, look at this neat little bench. Can we sit on it for a little bit?”

“Mommy what does this poster say?”

“Mommy, why do all the parks around here have these fancy signs with lots of words?”

I stopped and looked at the plaque. I can’t recall having ever seen it before with my conscious mind, although, I’m sure I’ve passed it time and time again. But who has time to read all those words?

I had time this day.

The words “benefactor,” “publisher,”  and “beautification patron” stuck out to me. Especially “beautification patron.” What a title!

I marveled at Mr. Anton H. Classen and all that he was able to accomplish in his life. He “helped.” He “served.” He “donated.” He “led.” He “brought.” I wondered about his life and if it was rich and if he had great joy. My five-year-old and I tried picturing the park in front of us as the fruit orchard it had once been. I could almost hear kids laughing and screaming as they chased each other, weaving in and out through the rows of trees. The idea of such a social gathering in this grove felt whimsical. I imagined them having an ice cream social and fanning themselves in the shade, picnic blankets strewn along the grass.

It is something to be able to look back on a life once lived. To get a glimpse of it, not in moments or seasons, but as one entire whole. To realize that the accomplishments were once but dreams conjured up in the minds of ordinary men and women. To realize that they could have just as easily not dreamed or not, for that matter, truly lived. To realize that their story to me is just a blip and yet to them it was week upon week of choices and risks and messes and persistence. To realize that each of us is writing our own story, word piled upon word, and that the story, in it’s finality, has the equal possibility of whimsical greatness.

I am thankful for Mr. Classen, for he shows me of life’s often untapped possibilities. And I am thankful for a certain five-year-old who asks all the right questions and takes notice of library posters, unique benches and odd little bronze plaques with too many words.

Wonder is all around us. Does our story make time for it?

Tagged as: Inspirational, self-help, wonder