A happy meal—no, not McDonald’s

I went to a cool dinner party recently—all done with class and style. About 30 guests, seated places but buffet platters, host and hostess perfectly relaxed as though they did that every night of the week.

But what struck me most was a talk with the host who elaborated on their plans for the house. I should say here that though they are newlyweds, she has lived in the house ten years and transformed an ordinary sixties bungalow into a thoroughly modern house with a floor plan that flows easily and naturally.

In telling me the plans for continuing upgrade, the host told me how happy he was, how much this house felt like home to him. I was happy for him but also happy for myself, for having heard that. It struck me how uplifting it is to be around happy people.

I have known people in my life, too many of them, whose approach to life is to moan and complain. They are over-worked, under-appreciated, they never get a break; they always have something to find fault with—if it’s not their life, they’ll find something in yours to criticize. Such people drag you down.

Last night, because of that discussion, I went home on a cloud of happiness that lasted all day, and I realized how important it is to be around happy people. It’s contagious.

Having sounded so Pollyanna-like, here are a couple of downer notes. Last night as I was going to bed, I started to refill my ice water. The refrigerator had no power—so no icemaker, no water spigot, no interior light. It had been fine an hour earlier, and nothing catastrophic had happened. Jordan and Jacob, bless them, came out with flashlights and checked the breakers—all okay, and everything else in the cottage worked. We put towels out to catch the drips, and I resolved to call the repair service first thing today.

Here’s the lesson learned and the reason I’m telling this story. This morning I remembered about computers and suggested we unplug it and plug it back in. The plug was difficult to access—Jordan got down on the floor in a position I could never duplicate, reache way back in a cupboard, unplugged and plugged—there was a small beep, and voila! It was up and running. I’ve kept a watchful eye on it all day.

Today I learned that an old friend died, in a nearby nursing home, at the age of 97. We used to be part of the same social group, at least twenty-five years ago, and I knew his wife had died, thought he had too. Now I am overcome with remorse for not visiting him. Object lesson: keep track of your friends. Joe Schott was a good man, and I am sorry I missed years of knowing and listening to his stories about life in J. Edgar Hoover’s FBI. Joe was the author of the book No Left Turns, which detailed a trip in which Hoover did not allow the car to make a left turn—ever!