Polka Dots and Sunshine Teardrops

Polka Dots and Sunshine Tear Drops

         There have been roller coaster highs and lows in my life, exhilarating successes and soul-numbing defeats. There are also cherished moments of the best life can offer: my wedding day, the births of our two sons, later our adoption of our daughter, and the day that mouse in polka dots squeezed my arm.

         I keep these cherished moments deep inside, because I’m not an emotional guy. Oh, I can rage over injustices, but true to my gender, I remain stoic in the face of small joys and even miraculous events – like that day with the mouse. However, I’ve often been chided by Marsha my wife, for wearing depression like a heavy, smothering cape. That’s because she refuses to accept just how unfair life can be. Marsha has faith that bad times fade and life always gets better. But it was that mouse in polka dots that taught me there are many others who share her optimism.

         Several years ago, I had returned to California to seek employment. The job I landed in the Central Valley didn’t offer much potential, and my ego was bruised by this not-so-fruitful job search. It didn’t help that although we were on a tight budget, friends and relatives insisted that we couldn’t come back to California and not take our boys to Disneyland. Somehow this notion was implanted in the boys’ heads, so when summer arrived, they made great plans about what to do at Disneyland.

         Facing the inevitable, we set out in the wee hours of the morning, with the boys asleep in the car. We arrived at Disneyland just as the gates opened. Once inside the park, our boys, armed with “mad money” from grandma, immediately decided they had to buy something “Disney” in one of the shops on Main Street. I am not a shopper, so, as my wife and sons went into the nearest shop, I stayed outside, leaning against a lamppost.

         I was fatigued from the long drive and had a sour stomach from too much coffee. In this blue mood, I surveyed the street. A teenaged staff member in a striped vest and straw hat quickly swept up a paper wrapper carelessly discarded a moment earlier. Across the street, a perky woman at a vendor’s cart cheerfully gave a balloon to a tyke riding on an adult’s shoulders. “Minimum wage summer help,” I grumbled cynically, settling deeper into my blue mood. “Bet they can’t keep smiling all day.”

         I listened to the voices of people gathered at the small tables nearby, enjoying breakfast from the shop next door. I turned to see who was speaking in a melodious Caribbean accent. A tall black man, in a Panama hat and an outrageously colorful Calypso shirt, was laughing with a friend. I smiled and inwardly dubbed him, “Calypso Man.” At the next table sat a middle-aged woman with raven-black hair pulled tightly into a bun, looking overdressed in her European-cut pantsuit. “She’s Spanish or Portuguese,” I thought. Then an odd contraption at the next table caught my eye and a chill swept over me.

         In a walker, a large steel oval on casters, a young boy swayed precariously in a harness suspended from a cable. I realized as he struggled toward his mother that the boy was probably afflicted with cerebral palsy, and the walker gave him mobility. His father snapped a photo with a camera and both parents were enjoying the glee with which their young son was taking in the sites of The Magic Kingdom. A feeling of shame crept over me. I’d been wallowing in a sullen mood of self-pity, yet I had two healthy boys who were just as gleeful about their visit to Disneyland.

         My somber reflection was interrupted by a commotion in the street. Children were shouting and laughing, where, as if by magic, Disney characters had appeared on the sidewalk. Clumsy Goofy stumbled through the crowd while Pluto Dog trotted along leading a parade of laughing kids. I took my camera bag off my shoulder, sure that my boys would rush out of the souvenir shop.

         A squeal of joy erupted behind me and, turning, I saw the little boy in the walker struggling toward me, an autograph book clutched in his hands. His delighted gaze obviously wasn’t meant for me. I turned around to find myself face to face with a very large mouse head topped by a huge polka dot bow. Back at the tables, Calypso Man laughed and shouted, “It’s de mouse! Minnie Mouse!” The kid inside the character, wearing a polka dot skirt and Minnie Mouse head, made an appreciative curtsy. The crowd clapped and cheered, and I smiled.

         The blues were just beginning to slip away when I heard a murmur of concern from the crowd. Looking back over my shoulder, I could see the child in the walker, faltering as the caster wheels caught in the cracks between the bricks of the little dining patio. He was struggling toward Minnie Mouse, but there were still several tables around which he had to navigate. Goofy and Pluto were moving on down the sidewalk and alongside me, Minnie was signing the last autograph book held out by an admirer.

         A dark feeling descended upon me, as if I were standing in the eye of a storm, about to sweep over me with suffocating depression. How could life be this unfair? In desperation, I spoke to the mouse character. “Minnie, there’s a little boy who wants to see you.” I pointed over my shoulder. Minnie Mouse gazed at the boy, then at the other characters moving down the street.

         The mouse again turned toward the little boy and I realized the kid inside the costume was in a quandary about whether to follow the park rules and keep moving through the crowd, or to wait a few minutes more for one solitary child. Then the big rubber nose pushed towards me, and a gloved hand reached over and squeezed my arm – hard. My heart seemed to skip a beat as understanding flowed through me. “I think Minnie is going to wait,” I cried out. Minnie squeezed my arm again and made a thumbs-up gesture.

         As realization swept through the breakfast crowd, there was a flurry of activity among these total strangers. Calypso Man jumped up and grabbed the corner of his table. “Quick!” He urged his friend, “We must move de tables, Mon.” The Portuguese Lady stood and snatched up the breakfast trays, moving them quickly out of the way. There was the scrape of metal and the scuffle of feet as tables were moved to create a pathway for the child in his walker. One more obstacle remained; a small hedge with a miniature wrought iron fence stood between the mouse and the boy.

         Grabbing my arm for support, Minnie leaned far over and tousled the boy’s hair as he struggled into reach. Minnie accepted his autograph book and signed it with a flourish. As she handed the book back and squeezed the boy’ shoulder in a one-handed hug, he shrieked in delight and turned toward his parents, a gigantic smile on his face. Minnie gave a quick wave and skipped off, leaving a delighted child and two parents with tears welling up in their eyes.

         The little boy, chortling joyfully, thrust the book at his mother who swept him into her arms. “Yes, it was Minnie,” she chanted, as proud poppa kept snapping photos, “Yes, it was Minnie! Minnie Mouse!” Now the Portuguese Lady was blubbering into her handkerchief. And as Calypso Man turned to replace the moved tables, he and I made eye contact. There were tears in his eyes too. Wiping his cheek, he chuckled and said, “Mon, it’s de sun! Too bright!” Laughing, he held out his wet palm, “See, sunshine tear drops!”

         Dabbing my own cheeks with my T-shirt sleeve, I grinned back at him and quipped, “Yeah, sunshine and L.A. smog!” Calypso Man winked, nodded his head, and with the look of a very wise sage, said, “Still, it’s a good day.” I thought about the small miracle that had just occurred among so many strangers. “A good day,” I repeated, “A really good day.”

         Glancing around, I realized my boys had run off after Minnie Mouse, with Marsha in close pursuit. “I’ve got to go, I stammered awkwardly, “my kids…” Calypso Man shrugged and making an impatient shoving gesture he cried, “Go, Mon!” As I turned to sprint after my family, he called out, “Got to love de Mouse!” Slinging my camera bag over one shoulder, I pumped a fist skyward and shouted back, “Got to love this place!” Then running down the street, oblivious to the people around me, I thrust my fists skyward and joyfully shouted, “It’s a really good day!”

         Through the years, I’ve had occasion to recall that day and sometimes to tell someone of that small miracle. And, although I am not an emotional guy, I have to blink away those sunshine tears. It is then that I find myself subconsciously rubbing my arm where that squeeze from some kid in a summertime job reawakened hope and joy within me.

Originally published in Pure Inspiration Magazine. As this was one of the most well received true stories published in that magazine,
it later became the lead story in the anthology, Thin Threads - Stories of Joy & Inspiration, available at online bookstores