Small Things

I have a story; but, it is a tiny story. No major anthems to be played in this one; no great heroics or drama. No major motion picture in the works. But, in my life, as small a part of the cosmos as it is, I was buoyed by it. And, that’s enough for me.

Last week, Mojo and I engaged in what has long been our daily ritual: up at 7 and, with Mojo’s near frantic endorsement, down to the beach in scant minutes. A truly wonderful time of the day for me, but a time of exquisite and pure happiness for Mojo who looks forward to it in a way that I’m not sure most humans can fully comprehend. We returned home an hour later. In my usual style, I rinsed him off, toweled him dry, fed him breakfast, and got on with the day. What I had not noticed was that Mojo had lost his tags. All of them. The ocean’s rust inducing qualities had, over time, literally severed the metal rings holding the tags to Mojo’s collar. These would include his name tag, his Isle of Palms license, and his rabies tag. Unknown to us, Mojo had become -- in a legal sense -- nameless, illegal, and a rabies menace.

How long this situation would have endured, I cannot say. I do not check his collar for these things any more than I check my wallet to make sure my driver’s license is there. But, later that day, when I opened our mailbox, there was Mojo’s shining name tag laying in there next to the day’s mail. There was no note with it. No indication of whom had come upon it at the beach. No hint as to who had picked it up, and, without expectation of reward or recognition, had made the effort to return it to our home, silently and anonymously. Just a good, unnamed person doing what he or she thought was the right thing to do. A small kindness. How can you not smile at this slight, but warm, gesture of caring?

But, this was not the end of the story. Once I realized that Mojo’s name tag had been AWOL, I knew I needed to take steps to replace the others that were now likely on their way to Bermuda, or, more likely, resting on the ocean floor somewhere. The following day I headed down to the municipal offices of the Isle of Palms armed with my IDs and the receipt I had for Mojo’s original tag. When I approached the second floor window -- also the home of the IoP police -- there was a fellow on the other side amiably looking at me asking if he could help me. I told him I needed a replacement IoP ID tag for Mojo. He asked me for my name, and I told him, “Golland.” He looked at me for more than a normal moment, and asked, “Jeff Golland?” In that moment I stared intently back at the clerk aggressively wondering whether this guy knew me, or, just as likely, whether I knew him and had, sadly, failed to recognize him. Concluding that the guy was, in fact, a stranger, I responded that, yes, I was, indeed, Jeff Golland. Hearing that, he reached to his left and presented to me, lo and behold, my missing IoP ID tag. Not only had the tag not floated to Bermuda nor been surrendered to the ocean floor, but yet another nameless and goodhearted soul had come to the rescue. Someone out there had found this tag laying in the sand and had made the effort not just to pick it up but to take the time (and make the effort) to actually return it to the offices at the Isle of Palms in the hopes that it would find its way back to me, a total stranger. And, it did. And, I was amazed. A replacement tag would have cost only a few dollars, but some kind soul thought enough of my predicament to try to spare me the expense, and maybe make my life a bit easier.

I assure you, no music played. There were no rows of people clapping or cheering in the corridors as I walked back to my car, tag in hand. But, I might just as well have heard music in my head - uplifting, inspiring music. I couldn’t stop smiling. Would this have happened in New York or Los Angeles? Not likely. Is this what it means to live in a small town? Maybe. Would it encourage me to do the same if I should come across someone’s lost stuff?

You bet.