Wooden Bench by the Creek

“I can’t take this anymore.” I thought to myself as I slammed the trunk full of boxes shut. At only seventeen years old, that was our fifth move since I began high school. I should have been running in the cross country meet that day, I know I would’ve won. I’d finally hit a 17 minute 5k. I’d trained at the high school track across from our apartment two, sometimes three times a day in my worn out tennis shoes. Maybe it was just to get out of our crammed little space, or maybe just to clear my mind, but I would run, despite my new shin splints. the wind would brush against my shaggy blonde hair. I was free, at least while I ran.

“That’s over now.” I thought. I was in a new town. A new school. Another house. Mama did her best, but there was only so much she could do for the three of us on her salary. Dad left her with nothing but me after finding out she was pregnant with my sister. I hadn’t heard from him in 5 years, but I didn’t care. We didn’t need him. I was the man of the house. One day, I would be the one to make my dreams come true. Somehow I’d get rich, and then we would be happy. We would be happy when Mama didn’t have to work so hard. We would be happy when we didn’t live in such dumpy places. Every house, apartment, or trailer we stayed in made me hate our circumstances. We would be happy when we could afford a house with more than one bedroom and our lights could stay on.

“Maybe a house like that,” I thought as we passed a beautiful, three story, white, colonial-style home.

It had a dark red roof, black shutters, and French doors.

We got to the new place on a foggy morning in October. It only took Mama and I around four hours to unload and get almost all of our unpacking done while Raine played in the small patch of grass outside the front door. I say Mama helped, but Raine needed a lot of attention. I sat down on the old sofa but the musty smell, buzz of fluorescent lighting, and the smoke-stained walls were suffocating enough to inspire an afternoon run.

I was used to bigger cities, but our new town, London, was nice. It wasn’t like the London in Europe. Besides the empty hardwood flooring building uptown, there were no tall buildings, just tall trees old enough to tell stories about the Civil War. There were no crowds of people, but there were pastures full of cattle. Instead of miles of cars, there were fields and old rolling mountains as far as the eye could see. Bordering many of those fields were woods that seemed to stretch forever.

The sound of frogs, rustling leaves, and the smell of autumn air made those forests feel inviting to me. I knew there was a running trail that entered the woods behind our new house. My mama thought the trail would be a great selling point that would entice me to move again. The overgrown pathway led me to believe that no one had used the trail in a while. I decided to venture down the path. Besides limbs, some spiderwebs, and Rhododendron overtaking the trail, it was pleasant.

I ran for about two miles, when through the fog, a bit of light caught my eye which stopped me in my tracks. Curiosity overtaking me, I waved my hand through the air, hoping to catch the ray of light and find its origins. After a few seconds, I found it. I followed the light making my way through the brush and briar patches. The reflected light belonged to a small metal chest sitting on an old wooden bench. It was about 20 yards from the trail, but I made my way to the bench which sat comfortably on a little bank by a creek. In the chest was a black leather notebook. Engraved In the bottom right corner was a name, Joseph Greyson. Though small, the contents of the journal were overflowing with pictures, letters, receipts, and other things that someone might want to remember.

Intrigued by my findings, I sat on the bench, picked up the book, and opened the first page.

The first journal entry read,

“September 18, 1946

Today I took a jog on the trail Pa and I blazed. Having a lack of financial stability has been mentally exhausting, and I am no longer happy. I feel like I can’t go on. While on my run, I stopped to catch my breath and found a pretty spot next to the creek.”

As I lingered longer to read the journal entries, I discovered that Joseph Greyson continued to return to that spot next to the creek that became so capable of easing his mind and body. The journal implied that he was 25, and had nothing to show for it. His parents were long gone, and his only family was an aunt he never knew.

In order, a few more entries stated,

“I showed Caroline my spot by the creek, and she suggested we build a bench on the bank so that we could have picnics.”

“I unexpectedly came into a great sum of money last week. Aunt Loretta left me $20,000 dollars when she died. It’s so much money that I have no idea what to do with it. Maybe I’ll start my own business.”

“The flooring business has picked up, so I’ve decided to buy some land, build a house, and ask Caroline to marry me....”

As I continued to read, Joseph’s life took a complete turn. From nobody, to somebody. With $20,000 he conquered his world. He had the perfect life. Joseph worked hard, founded a hardwood flooring business, and never had to worry about money. He built a beautiful colonial-style home for him and his wife. A picture was enclosed of the home, and I realized I’d seen the home earlier that day. Joseph Greyson was the talk of success in town. Pictures of his business downtown, old newspaper articles, and records littered the journal. I was careful not to drop them on the forest floor. There were pictures of a beautiful young Caroline happy on her wedding day with Joseph by her side. As I flipped through the journal, pictures of the couple together became less and less.

Joseph began throwing himself into his work, making him a millionaire. Although he had good intentions, Joseph spent so many early mornings and late nights at work, that he barely had time for his wife, or to retreat to his bench by the creek.

He would have time to be with his Caroline, and do the things he loved after he was happy with his progress. A task that was never completed. Life passed him by, and the seasons changed around that bench by the creek.

Joseph sold his business after Caroline died. He was disappointed at what he became and gave it all up. He kept enough capital to take care of himself and gave most of it away, except $20,000. Joseph kept it with lost hope that he could start over. He thought that maybe he could take that money and do something better. Something that wouldn’t have compelled him to lose so many other important things.

It was starting to get dark, and I had to read the last entry by the light of my cell phone as notifications from a worried mom blinked across.

Joseph wrote, “Today, I am writing from my favorite spot. The spot that brought me so much comfort. The spot that receives rays of sunlight through the trees above to warm my soul. I miss Caroline. I have no family, and the flooring business has made it impossible to find friends. My only friend is this old wooden bench by the creek that reminds me of my sweetheart. So here, in my old age, I’ll leave my journal for the next person who finds this safe haven. I pray this person is humble in all their doings, and that they may find joy in simple things. I hope they learn from my mistakes that there is not enough money in the world to make them happy. Happiness was my own decision, and I neglected it. I had everything I ever needed. My beautiful Caroline.

To the one who finds this journal:

My will, which includes the estate located on the edge of this town.

Also inclided is the $20,000 that brought me stability in life, but never happiness. I hope this person can take what I was given and create a full happy life, unlike the one I designed.

Make happiness your only goal, and you will find joy no matter your circumstances.”

I opened an envelope which included his will and $20,000 cash. I read it as my eyes strained to see what my brain strained to comprehend.

I couldn’t believe it. Perplexed, I ran home as quickly as possible stumbling over roots and stumps along the way.

Out of breath, I threw open the door. As I recounted the story, my mother grew speechless. Joseph Greyson left everything to me.

The next few months were a blur. We were famous in our small town. I was almost eighteen, and we would have a totally new life. I regretted my attitude about the approach I took to our previous homes and my life. Though our life was changing, Joseph taught me a lesson. I learned that no matter what progress I’ve made, I need to find joy in the little things. Like going running. Like my broken little family. Like that wooden bench by the creek.