The hardest arithmetic to master is that which enables us to count our blessings. (Eric Hoffer)
It’s not the first time I’ve thought about my friend Gladys as I shower, as I add just a tad more warm water and savor scented soap. Gladys didn’t have running water when she was young. I remember the story she told me about the first time, as a child, she had a chance to experience the luxury I take for granted. After gym class the teacher told the girls to take a shower before going back to class. Most of the girls wouldn’t consider nudity in a school setting. They dabbed a little water on their necks, then left. Gladys closed the curtain, turned the knobs, and discovered a vast improvement over a metal tub in an outhouse.
Gladys told me that story years ago. She took a difficult life where poverty and hunger were everyday realities, and survived. She died four days before the September 11 tragedy. Nevertheless, sometimes, when I allow my heart to become free enough, I remember—and celebrate simple gifts.
I wrote Gladys’s story and tried to sell it. The last agent I spoke to said that the story’s flaw could be that I loved her too much. She wanted more distance, I suppose. She had other more concrete suggestions. Excellent ones. Those I can use. But I cannot forget a woman who taught me to recognize what is important in life—more than a decade after her death.
In the meantime I write other stories, very different. Sure, someday, I will go back and rewrite the book. Add, perhaps, even subtract. Love less? I doubt it.