One by One

Remember those ol’ Sunday School songs? Like Count your many blessings, one by one . . . Maybe that wisdom should not be discounted or disinherited today. I am amazed when a modern pop singer accompanied by a few guitars and a drummer sings and the audience sings right along word for word. But I wonder if seventy-five years later they will still remember the words or the melody.

I cannot remember when I last sang Count Your Blessings. So, looking way back, I began to count my blessings (and a few other remembrances). I remember when the iceman came, lugging up a chunk of ice and slipping it into a little doorway. While he was busy, we fetched a little piece of ice for ourselves.

Then came the Colonial man with bread and all kinds of goodies. Then the milk man. In the winter the cream on top would freeze and push itself up a couple of inches. Then the huckster with produce came down the street. Now I just read about people trying to silence the ice cream trucks playing tunes to let us know they are nearby. This ol’ guy kinda likes the sound but not at three in the morning.

Ah yes. I was just a kid when my dad would take off for a week on an assignment. I was delegated to shovel the ashes out of the furnace, then dig for those red hot clinkers and drop them into a metal bin. A chore? Nope. Fun! I also remember when the monstrous (to me) coal truck came, laid down a wooden barrier on the lawn, and then I watched the truck sink in the soft soil. They tried. But even though we didn’t freeze inside, the lawn was a mess. Now I merely set a dial on the wall (if I remember).

Then my first typewriter. Clunk, clunk, clunk it went. Oops, wrong letter. So, I took my little bottle, blotted out the error, and continued. The other day, my wife joined me to look at some pictures our daughter-in-law sent on their anniversary. Interesting. My wife, who rarely uses the computer, tried to type an email. It was horrible. The wrong letter, a misplaced space, finally she gave up. I took over. Same thing. The keyboard went on strike I guess. I tried this, then that. No luck. So, I shut the thing down. Later, I cranked it up (crank?) and it worked just fine. Go figure. My ol’ typewriter never treated me like that.

Can you handle one more blessing? My ol’ car. It purred like a kitten, stopped on a dime, but I had to crank the windows up and down, stick shift, no air-conditioning but gas was fifteen cents, sometimes cheaper. We just traded in our seven-year old minivan for a sedan which barks when I back up if someone gets too close. Oh so nice. Power driver’s seat and a dial which tells me how much air is in each tire (but not the mini spare).

Sure, I can hear you wondering about these blessings. Maybe we could call them reminders of days gone by. Since I hold no grudges on any of these ancient happenings, I suppose I can call them “blessings” (holy, sacred, blissful, fortunate) because they are a cause of happiness. Have you counted your [ancient or modern] blessings lately? It’s really not a bad idea.