Expectancy is the atmosphere for miracles.
    ~ Edwin Louis Cole

I imagine an empty bench under a tree, waiting for me where I can sit knowing the peace that passes all understanding will cradle my heart and still my mind.  

 "I am not waiting for God. God is waiting for me."     ---Dr. Charles Stanley

Anticipation:  Something is waiting.  Something calls. Your inner child remembers . . . when your young heart believed in flight and you let it soar.  And it is still waiting for you.

Your inner dreams were not too lofty.  They anticipated lift-off.
They were exactly the height your heart knew it could fly.
                     ----Violet Gaze

Through a Child's Eyes

Lianna, my granddaughter, likes to look out the window.  Coco, the family dog joins her, anticipating something, the outside world full of wonders. 

Reminds me of another little girl, looking out the window, waiting for something, perhaps an unknown, but always something special.  

It was another century, a different setting, but the anticipation was the same. I remember.

New Jersey, 1950s

Waiting. Waiting.  I remember when life was so slow even the tick-tocks of the 
clock seemed not to hurry. 

Life for this little girl was a series of waiting . . . waiting for mother's attention, waiting for good weather to play outside, for my older brother to come home from school, for my dad to come home from work, for Christmas and waiting for that illusive time that grown-ups called,

"When you are older."

This was post-war America, before supermarkets, before shopping malls, before private phone lines, and before two-car-families.  And living in the country with our stay-at-home-mothers truly meant staying at home.  

City folks had public streetcars for transportation, but we country folk had no means to go anywhere except for the general store a short walk up the street.  Sick? The doctor came to us: house calls. 

Anticipation was too big a word for my younger self to understand, but nevertheless, I lived in its constant state, looking out the window, missing the freedom I enjoyed living on the family farm, a household that buzzed with activity.  In our quiet new home, against the slow tick-tock of the clock, I kept waiting for something, anything, to happen. 

I learned I didn't have to wait too long.

And almost every day something did happen. Street vendors on rickety old trucks loaded down with their goods to sell came rattling down our street. We had no means to go to them, so they came to us.

The milkman came quietly on Mondays before the sun rose. Although I never saw him, the evidence was there at our doorstep, every Monday morning. We had a weekly standing order of 2 bottles, unless my mother left a note for him.

Tuesdays brought the fruit truck.  From my perch by the living room window, I could hear the driver coming down the street.  He would belt out in his best operatic Caruso-like voice:
                        "Bah-Nan-Nahs!   Five cents a Pow-ound!"-

Sometimes, my mother would grab my hand and yank us back in the house, muttering,

                           "He's crazy to ask such a price!"  

But often next week's lower prices would have my mother and the fruit man on better terms.  I carried a load of curiosity about the way adults spoke to each other but understanding would come much later. . .  another thing to wait for, and of course, waiting was this little girl's full-time business.

There were other vendors, now blurred in my memory.  I recall an old truck clanging its way down the street with pots and pans banging noisily together. We let it go by, hardly ever venturing out to see what he was selling.

Friday--Fish Day.   I could smell that truck from blocks away.  

I was afraid of the fish man in his blood-stained apron. He wielded a large butcher knife, cutting up fish with such terrifying force, then tossing the unwanted parts into a big tub. He'd wipe his hands on his blood smeared apron. What a grisly performance for my aunts, grandmother, my mother and me!
 
I would hide behind my mother, peeking out periodically, waiting for his grand finale.  After all the chopping and gutting, he would hold up several fresh filets of fish for all to see.  I can still recall the white flesh flapping in the air as he held each one up like a prize.  It was my grandmother who would give the final approval,

                                "Nice-sa feesha".

The fishman, in spite of all the blood and gore, seemed like a happy guy.  Why not?  He reeled in a thriving business.  All our friends and neighbors, in fact everyone in our little town was Catholic and Fridays meant fish.

                             "Mangia il pesce."

The Bakery Van

I have saved the very best arrival for last. I will introduce you to Mr. Pulmonari, the bakery man, who unlike the other vendors did not come regularly and had no particular day.  But there was one special day when he arrived and actually parked his van in our driveway.  A private showing. 

He didn't have to wait long for my mother and me to run outside to greet him. With a tip of his hat and a nod in our direction, he whistled his way to the back of his van.  We were not far behind.  We gave him our complete attention. 

He opened the double doors like a maestro, spreading his arms wide as in theatrical presentation.  A touch of the hand and a tray of gooey sweet pastries appeared.  The sticky buns were shiny with raisins dotting the tops. He waited for our ooohs and ahhhhs before sliding out the next tray with breads and muffins. Oh, I can still recall how good they smelled.  

My anticipation knew no bounds for what was about to come, holding my breath until the very last tray was in full view.  Somehow, I harbored a notion that this one would be the best. And there it was! A tray with rows and rows of beautifully decorated cupcakes, with sprinkles and icing piled high with a curl at the top.   

There rarely was much money for the extras of life, anything considered to be a luxury, and store-bought cupcakes were the epitome of extravagance.  We ate what the earth gave us and we raised chickens.  So, I knew very well that my mother would not be buying any treats, and I knew not to beg.  But dreams were free, especially the fanciful ones.  My wide-open eyes must have spoken volumes because Mr. Pulmonari, true to his name, had a heart beating with generosity.

Like a caped magician waving a magic spell over the "land of cupcakes", his hand circled over the rainbow of sweets. Then he stopped right over one particular cupcake with pink icing and sprinkles.  He carefully picked it up, placed it on a napkin and walked over to me.  One look at my mother's face and I knew I had permission to accept it. 

Once inside our house, seated at the table, I reveled in my good fortune and just stared at my prize.  I distinctly remember twirling it with my hands, turning it round and round, delaying that first luscious bite with the thrill of elation until I was sure of the very spot to sink my teeth.  

And oh, it was as good as the anticipation.

I like getting reacquainted with that little girl.  She exists, still looking out windows of expectation.   

These days, I like taking in the grandeur of the live oak tree in our backyard with massive arms that branch low, in full anticipation of things within my reach. 
-----g. hill

We are not done meeting everyone who's going to matter.  Some of the best experiences are still waiting for you.                                  
                    ----Dr. Sara Kuburic

Waiting for you . . ..

 The Lord is good to them that hope in him, to the soul that seeketh him.
                    ----Lamentations 3:25

Want More Journeys to the Past? See Our Sunday Drive, and I am From.

Message in the Window is a true story about a mother’s spirit living on.

Our Sunday Drive

I Am From . . .

The Message in the Window

Enjoy Anticipation by Carly Simon:

Images are mine own, or from clip art, pixabay,.com or AI generated.