After a long morning in the city, I stopped at the little convenience mart in the small town eight miles away from our farm to grab two burgers and an order of fries. I had carried my book in with me, so I took a seat in the narrow booth along the window that provides a view of the gas pumps and the town’s only stop sign. After reading a few paragraphs I heard someone take a seat in the booth behind me.
Halfway through the next paragraph a sweet clear whistling began. It was a mixture of birdcalls, melody and jig. Within minutes I had quit reading just to listen. No longer did I hear the sizzle of burgers on the grill or the cashier making change for fuel purchases – just the tune of a practiced musician with a fanciful nature.
The cashier caught my eye and told me my order was ready. I grabbed the brown bag, already showing a few speckles of grease. But before I left I turned back to the booths, where a man of seventy-five or eighty years sat passively and suddenly quiet. He wore Big Smith overalls, a red ball cap from a tractor supplier, and tinted trifocals. And as I walked up to him he smiled innocently.
“Your whistling has made my day”, I told him.
A little embarrassed he stumbled and said, “I didn’t even realize I was doing it.”
“But I did. Thank you.” Then I turned and walked out to my car.
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