I picked up #3 from the #1 drop off and then went to meet #2 at her camp. It was a warm day. #2 was flushed from her practice, starving, thirsty and ready to leave.
#3 wanted to play on the playground.
#2 started to protest and then said, "OK Mo, we'll play for a little bit!" To me she said, "She probably hates being in the car!"
Oh, I love that #2 so much. She has such a kind soul.
So they played a little while and suddenly I started hearing bag-pipe music blaring. There were cars going in and out of the parking lot but it still seemed an unlikely choice of music to amp up. It was plain bag-pipe music...and not even a rap version!
I was puzzled.
The two grands I had with me walked over and asked me what that sound was. We looked around...and finally noticed a short and t-shirt dressed man pacing up and down the sidewalk beyond the bushes by the park.
I told the girls we would go watch.
And we did.
He paced and played and we sat on the green Arizona spring-time grass. The sun was warm. Orange blossoms scented the air. I sat as the filling in a Grandma sandwich...my sweaty little soccer player on one side and blonde, little Morgan on the other.
There was no parade and no band. I forgot there was no kilt or green hills of Ireland. The musician played 'Amazing Grace' and 'Danny Boy' and a very sad celtic sounding song whose title escapes me and it was magic.
When the musician finally stopped playing, the air became too quiet. After a moment, though, our little audience of three applauded him.
He seemed embarrassed.
And then #2, the little girl with the heart the size of the Grand Canyon told him...
"I could feel your music in my heart."
He looked down at the bagpipe and then up at the pony-taled strawberry blond girl by my side.
"Thank you," he said quietly, "You made my day."
I waited a moment, trying to think of the right thing to say.
"No," I replied, "Thank you. You made ours."