Letter No. 7: Five Pounds Of Cheese

I was at Fred Meyer recently when I heard someone whistling.

Not humming.

Whistling.

The source turned out to be a very tall man wearing oversized black headphones, tattered jean shorts, flip-flops, and a faded tank top that simply read, “Excuse Me?” He pushed his shopping cart through the produce section with the unmistakable contentment of someone who had absolutely nowhere else he needed to be.

I found myself watching him for a while.

He wasn’t wandering aimlessly. Quite the opposite. He examined the produce with remarkable care. He pursed his lips as though considering a kiss, squinted a little, and gave a slight nod while choosing apples. More than once he replaced something he’d already chosen with something that looked just a little better.

The whistling continued. He seemed completely unaware that anyone else found it unusual.

Or perhaps he knew…and simply didn’t care.

I smiled.

Not everyone reacted the way I did. One mother instinctively pulled her young child a little closer as he walked past, as though she wasn’t quite sure what to make of him.

A few aisles later, two high school girls reacted very differently. They fell into step beside him for a few moments, dancing to whatever tune he happened to be whistling. Then they turned toward each other, briefly held both hands, and leaned together laughing before separating and continuing down the next aisle.

He never seemed to notice either reaction. He wasn’t trying to brighten anyone’s day. He simply hadn’t hidden his own.

A few minutes later I found him again in the dairy section.

He was still whistling.

This time he was loading enormous five-pound bags of shredded Tillamook cheddar and mozzarella into his cart with the same careful attention he’d given the produce. I remember thinking that a man buying that much cheese almost certainly had an interesting story.

I never learned what it was. Somewhere between the avocados and the dairy aisle, I found myself smiling for an entirely different reason. Without realizing it, I’d started making up lyrics to whatever tune he was whistling.

I don’t remember the melody.

I only remember catching myself thinking:

“Cheese and avocados… la la la…”

I’ve thought about him several times since. Not because of the headphones. Not because of the shirt. Not even because of the cheese. I’ve thought about him because, somewhere between the avocados and the dairy aisle, his freedom became contagious. Two girls danced. I made up a song. An ordinary trip to the grocery store became a little lighter.

Maybe this is one way we form one another—not by trying to teach or impress, but by being fully ourselves in a way that gives someone else permission to do the same.

Until next Sunday,

George

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PS And since then, the song has grown a little.

Cheese and Avocados

Cheese and avocados,

apples in a row,

five-pound bags of Tillamook—who needs that much?

Who knows?

Flip-flops in the dairy aisle,

headphones big and black,

whistling like the whole wide world

was whistling right back.

One mother held her child close,

two girls danced along.

He never seemed to notice them.

He simply kept his song.

Cheese and avocados,

mozzarella too

somewhere in the grocery store,

Joy came whistling through.