It has indeed been many moons since I first saw the crossing guard guide children across Roberts Lane into Beardsley School. I drive by him each morning on my way to work, often being stopped by that red light at Roberts and Airport to let the children cross the street ever so slowly in complete un-anticipation of the school day ahead of them. But amongst all those small and sullen faces is the crossing guard. A gentleman who appears to be in his sixties, although I’d imagine he is probably older without looking a day over fifty.

Why do I feel it necessary to speak of this individual? Because he perplexes me so. He perplexes me on a daily basis. He perplexes me in a way that makes me look inside myself, and I am rarely willing to do that. He perplexes me because every time I see him, and exaggeration is not an option with this story, every time I see him, he is grinning from ear to ear. I often find myself at that stop light watching him hold up his ever symbolic red octagon with the word STOP upon it, while clenching a polished silver whistle in between his great white chompers. Yes, he still smiles while clenching the whistle between his teeth. 

As a natural pessimist, I found myself being drawn toward dissecting his smile from the get-go. Trying to find some sadistic reason why he could smile as much as he did. Was he on some sort of medication? Did he suffer some unusual face trauma where his face froze with a smile on it? No fool would be able to think so if you looked at this man long enough. His oddity was found in his genuine happiness. And as most of us can not help but stare at an accident on the side of the road, many of us can not help but stare at the rareness of someone genuinely smiling for no reason other than smiling in and of itself. When I first gave into the fact that this gentleman was truly full of joy, I could not help but smile myself. I began to look forward to driving to work simply because I knew a little bit of his joy will come my way, even though he does not know I exist.

It has been over a year now, since I first saw him, and I assure you he still smiles. He is smiling in September when mornings can start out at ninety degrees and he is smiling in January when mornings can start out at thirty. And yet, somehow the redundancy of it all has naturally made this incredible man lose the luster in my sights. Sometimes, I forget to notice. Sometimes, I am busy doing other things in my car. But, on those mornings when I am not applying my lipstick in the rear view mirror as I wait at the red light, and am mindful that he is present, I still study him vigorously.  

Why is it that a smile is so contagious? Because of its rarity these days? Or because it was crafted to do such contamination? I guess it does not really matter. I find myself not being accountable for the ‘why’s’ as much as I am for the ‘why not’s’. Why don’t I smile more often? Why can’t I find joy in my job if he can find joy in his? Why can’t I be remembered as an unusually happy person? I do not know the story of the crossing guard’s life. I only know that no human escapes life unscathed. And if he can smile so religiously, then my story is not over yet. My final page is not written as to whether or not my tragedies and triumphs will weigh a smile or frown upon my yet to be old and retired face. It’s a choice, isn’t it Mr. Crossing Guard? It’s a choice.