One morning last week when I attempted to start my car absolutely nothing happened. Had it been dark outside when I turned the ignition key the sound of crickets would have been deafening.

But with the proper perspective what could have been a day-ruiner ended up serving as a reminder of how good life truly is. Remembering the auto club membership I’ve had for the past 30 years, I called roadside service, and less than 45 minutes later a friendly young fellow showed up and jump-started the recalcitrant automobile, allowing me to resume my day’s planned activities. And as both the automotive technician and I noted at the time, if a dead battery is the issue, what better place to have it than right in front of one’s own home, and at what better time than on a day when it wasn’t precipitating and the temperature was neither tropical nor sub-freezing?

Healthy children, satisfying employment, and the love of family and friends are merely tips of the iceberg when it comes to the many tangible gifts each of us can celebrate every day if we so choose. But there are also countless unexpected pleasures, endowments that are as delightful as they are random. Such events often defy categorizing, but serve as reminders of just how enjoyable ordinary life can be.

A few years ago, I treated myself to a trip to an independent bookstore where the staff is unfailingly cheerful and helpful. On top of that the products they carry run far beyond items one can easily acquire from larger retailers. In addition to carrying the works of local and/or lesserknown authors, they have a wide variety of unique and offbeat items that, when distributed suitably, are guaranteed to put a smile on a friend’s face. For example, they had bumper stickers proclaiming, “Booksellers Without Borders,” even before the downfall of one of the nation’s biggest corporate book chains made those three words actual fact.

My goal that day was to load up on the sorts of subversive postcards that, when mailed to the appropriate friends, would improve their day in the same way so many of them have brightened mine over the years, and as it turned out there was no shortage of such materials. No description of the items I purchased would do them justice, but suffice it to say what they had in stock was more than sufficient. After I had selected about 30 or so gems I went to the cash register, where the store’s proprietor began adding up my purchases, counting each postcard by hand and totaling up what I owed with a pencil and paper. Then he entered the appropriate numbers into an old-fashioned (non-electronic) cash register, which is exactly as it should be in an independent bookstore. “Your total comes to $26.57,” he said.

A stunned look came over my face. The man who had just informed me I owed him nearly thirty dollars for a bunch of 4” by 6” rectangles looked momentarily concerned, perhaps thinking a prospective customer had suddenly acquired a case of sticker shock, come to his senses and realized he didn’t want to pay that amount of money for a stack of cardboard. However, fortunately for all concerned that wasn’t the case at all. Quickly recovering my power of speech, I asked him, “Did you say twenty-six fifty-seven?”

“I did,” he replied, somewhat cautiously.

That’s when I revealed the source of my momentary mental paralysis: I was born on February 6, 1957. The bill for those postcards came to the exact digits of my birth date, and was surely an indication something special was about to happen (or was happening at that very moment) in my life! And what made that very random moment even more special: the cashier clearly understood my excitement over this seemingly innocuous coincidence, and joined me in celebrating it!

I’ve been back to that bookstore several times since the day I joyfully forked over that $26.57, but what brought this story back to mind was a visit there late last month. I was looking to reload on postcards, and once again there was a mother lode of good ones for sale. The store’s proprietor was again manning the cash register when I brought my purchases to him, and after totaling them up he pleasantly told me what I owed him.

“That’ll be $26.58,” he said.

A negative person would have complained about inflation, but I just smiled, secure in the knowledge that the Karma gods had just declared me one year younger.

— When he isn’t buying postcards, Andy Young teaches at a York County high school.

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