I had a memorable day recently, what I would call a ‘feel good’ day.

Nothing extra special occurred, nothing momentous, or life changing, or, as my old dad used to say, “nothing to write home about”. 

But lots of little observations, and one brief encounter, made it a special day.

The day began mundanely.

The road leading to the primary school throbbed with vehicles at 8.30am. It appeared that the entire world was jostling for a parking space, and yes, I got one!

Amidst the chaos of first morning back to school after the summer holidays, I saw bursts of happiness, lots of big smiles, and much excited to’ing and fro’ing.

Little kindy kids who may eventually grow into their new school uniform walked hand in hand into the school grounds with mum and dad.

Small children teetered with school bags almost as big as themselves on their backs. 

A few tears, and lots of hugs were the order of the day.

Teachers were welcoming, and calming, and wrangling, all at the same time, as teachers do. With dedication and love. 

And mums and dads and grandparents were ensuring memories, taking photos at the school entrance, before waving goodbye for the day, the first of the new school year.

I was part of this. Doing the Nanna thing. And it felt good.

As did my next task. Well, not really a task. My next enjoyment.

I love nothing better than a dip in my beloved rock pool. I say a dip because, though I can swim, I’m not a swimmer. I don’t do laps. 

I’m more of a frolicker. I love the crispness of the water, the saltiness of it, and I can frolic around for ages, until I get a bit pruney. Or I get the call of the caffeine, and the accompanying local paper to peruse as I sip. Utter bliss.

So, I’m out of the pool, and after a quick dry off, walk around the seafront in search of my coffee and local paper, and a few hours sojourn at the beach.

Walking along, I see ahead of me a gentleman pushing a walking frame, very tanned legs telling me he gets out and about frequently, and his gait suggesting he is quite elderly. 

As I come alongside to pass him, I say “good morning”, and because he looks surprised, and happy that I did, I impulsively stop. We start chatting. I basically complement him on his vigour and then instantly regret it, hoping he doesn’t think I am being patronising. He answers by telling me his name and where he lives (let’s call him Fred, not his real name, and yes, he’s a local).

He tells me he walks an hour every day, around the nearby showgrounds, then the harbour. After which he rests. Fred is 91.

I respond with sheer admiration. We talk more, about his late wife whom he greatly misses, about the beauty of where we live, and that, in his words, ‘Life Is What You Make It’.

And with that, we part company. 

I hope I meet up with Fred again. 

Ordinary, but delightful happenings, like the buzz of back to school day, coffee and a good read of my local paper, and a heartwarming encounter with a total stranger have enriched me.