Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones:
Cinderella
(1863)

"If only we could remember this inescapable fact and more frequently act upon it."

No week passes without The Muse, in her Port Commissioner role, being invited to some ceremonial supper or solemn civic society gathering. Her presence is expected as a part of her charter to represent the citizens of the county and, especially, of her district. She only sometimes expects me to string along in what I explain amounts to fulfilling the underappreciated role of Arm Candy. We arrive, with her remembering names from last time, and constituents somewhat pleased at her appearance. The majority don’t know her from Eve, and even fewer know the first thing about me. We’ve registered online beforehand and dutifully purchase our raffle and 50/50 Split tickets, the latter of which awards half the evening’s raffle and drinks takings to one fortunate attendee, which amounted to $61.50 that evening.

These gatherings are typically small towny. Nobody gets especially dressed up to attend, a clean shirt or blouse, and the better boots, but no gowns or ties. Kids are welcome, though they soon grow bored. The organizers attempt to conduct a business meeting with the hall largely filled with indifference, though everyone’s in great spirits. The beer and wine pours contribute to a congenial atmosphere, as if everyone was special for being there, which, of course, they are. The Muse welcomes the opportunity to interact with a fellow Port Commissioner, since she rarely has that opportunity aside from regularly scheduled Port Commission meetings. With only three commissioners, any two constitute a quorum, who must, by law, meet only in previously scheduled public meetings. These sorts of convergences qualify under the law, though they still agree to sit at separate tables to avoid any suspicion of collusion.

We took a table with two remaining seats. The other five already seated look like the family unit they turn out to be, and a lovely family they are. The girls attend the local school. The mom manages the little local library. The dad retired early with full points from government service with the Corps of Engineers. They’d relocated from Nashville. He’d spent his final years monitoring runoff in the Snake River Basin from the Wyoming Tetons down to the Snake’s convergence with the Columbia, on the edge of our Walla Walla Valley. She’d grown up in a DC suburb, daughter of a bureaucrat, and he’d been raised in Evanston, Wyoming, where my dear friend Franklin’s Great Aunt had run the local railroad hotel. Every small-city gathering exhibits clear evidence that we inhabit a shockingly, reassuringly small world. We chatted like old, familiar hens.

The supper was servicable if somewhat regrettable. The after program, though, proved to be the purpose of the evening. This was set aside for Recognizing, an essential service, especially in these dreary EndDays times. We might, as the Bible tries to explain, be called to service, though not everybody answers. In small towns, most get at least goaded into providing some sort of service, for everyone wears many hats. There are very few overlaps in essential services, and most competently provide several of these as a matter of course because they live there. This night, the Student of the Year, Employee of the Year, and Citizen of the Year would be announced, and each would receive a blown glass heart on an engraved stand. Each would be called to stand before their neighbors, the very ones they were just attending Knitting Group with earlier, to receive extended standing, heartfelt recognition, and applause for their presence and their irreplaceable contributions.

Sara, the mom at our table, was declared Employee of the Year for her efforts to properly organize the little local library. Another received the Citizen of the Year award for convening that knitting circle, which had been creating magical prayer shawls in the First Christian Church basement for decades. The Citizen’s daughters had snuck over from the West Side to witness their mother’s coronation, and all was truly terrific with this world. We left, having lost the dessert raffle, for a twilight drive back to what has been poorly disguised as civilization, as renewed and refreshed as if we’d been declared Citizens of the Year ourselves. Perhaps we had been.

It seems especially important now, when the headlines struggle to find a single uplifting story to scream, that we somehow take control, if only for relatively small but not necessarily insignificant things. These might prove to be the most significant events to control, especially when everything else in this world feels as if it’s controlled by madmen. We who are seemingly powerless, nearer the bottom of the so-called great cosmic food pyramid, hold good and decent reason to celebrate our existence, even, perhaps especially, through what certainly might seem like EndDays. We’re still students, so at least one of us certainly qualifies to be declared Student of the Year! And we have jobs, so someone, even if we have to squint a bit—though we won’t—deserves some Recognizing for their especially energizing efforts. Each of us might aspire to one day be acknowledged as Citizen of the Year, too, for the designation’s never beyond any of you, or any of us who, too often, feel like powerless captives on a careening bus driven by idiots.

We inescapably seem to wear EndDays blinders, our focus cynically influenced. We need not accept anything we might perceive in anybody proffered else’s face value. We should know we’re surrounded by deceivers bent upon influencing our experiences, not necessarily for the better. We remain powerful enough to recognize the differences between hollow political promises and the genuine articles we’re gratefully forced to cope with in our own often underappreciated existences. We could always respond by appreciating more deeply, more sincerely, more honestly. Few experiences prove to be more uplifting than lifting up some fellow citizen for their contribution they might not have noticed made all the difference. None of us live inconsequential lives. If only we could remember this inescapable fact and more frequently act upon it.

©2026 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #EndDays, #PureSchmaltz