While riding my bike this week, I encountered a man and three young children piling limbs onto a trailer. My estimation has the children between the ages of eight and eleven. The man looked to be in his early sixties. He could have been an older dad or a younger grandpa. I’m going to gamble here with young gramps.

The children were working diligently. No one was whining or complaining even though it was hotter than a wool sock inside Satan’s dryer on the fourth of July. They were piling their sticks in neat formation with pleasant demeanors.

“You got some good-looking kids working mighty smart there,” I commented as I pedaled by. (Working mighty smart is high praise in the south.)

“You want one of them?” he replied.

“No, not today. I’m all good in the young’un category.”

I passed on by with a big smile on my face – not stopping to hear what I suspect was next in their dialogue.

I’m guessing that they shrieked in mock horror that he would try to peddle them off to a cyclist. It’s quite probable that they asked which one would of them would be offered up for trade and that he replied, “Now, y’all know that I would give any or all of you away. That lady just wouldn’t take you.” They would yell in protest, and he would get them back on the task of stacking sticks, all of them knowing that not only would he have not parted with them, but he would also have sacrificed himself in front of a firing squad or on a train track, to save them or to offer a single one a boost toward better than what he had himself.

Something about this endearing interaction gave me such hope. In a world that seems so divided and judgey and ick, this showed me that in a personal way, on an intimate level, we can create the shape of those around us for good, having fun, building budding character.

I made my way back home thinking about these people. I wondered what those kids called him – maybe Papa, or Poppy, or Grampy, or Paw Paw. My own grandfathers were Grandaddy and Pap. Pap died when I was two, but Grandaddy was a significant influencer in my life. I followed him and his Irish Setter, Lady, all around his property. He was retired from farming by the time I came along, and his daily activities included walking his land and assessing the condition of what used to be. He called it “piddlin.” He mostly ignored my preschool questions and ramblings, then quieted me with a cane fishing pole and the indirect instruction to hush up with, “Butterball, fish don’t bite much when there’s noise.” Since we took our fishing seriously, I settled right down.

I don’t know that he liked me that much, but I’m quite certain that he loved me.

It was similar with uncles who gave me a taste of Red Man to discourage tobacco use or gently threatened my boyfriends with tales of knife fights and juke joint pistol shooting. It’s such a delicate balance of being too loving and being too harsh. There’s a blend in there somewhere that nurtures a solid foundation mixed with humor and humility.

Smokin Hot Love Biscuit is good at this. He usually answers Ryann’s messages with, “Who’s calling?” And signs off with, “I love you, baby. Now, get a job.”

This contrasts with the unconditional love I got from the women in my family. I am certain that if I called Aunt Betty right now and said, “Hey, I killed someone and I need help getting rid of the body.” Her response would be, “Shug, some folks deserve killing and I’m sure you did a good job. Let me get my shoes on, I’ll be waiting by the door.” To me balance is less the scales of justice and more a finely calibrated distribution of total body mass. Being tolerated with the thought that I could be traded at any moment along with being cherished gave me a compass of both my value and insignificance on the planet. It continues to be a helpful filter to keep emotions and opinions in check.

I wove the side streets and neighborhoods toward home, avoiding the main roads where bikes with baskets aren’t much welcomed at lunchtime. As I turned onto Ann Street, I came upon a fork in the road. For real, there was a fork hanging out on the asphalt as if a table had been partially set. Metaphorically or literally, when forks in the road are referenced, typically there are only a couple of choices. Even poetic mastermind Robert Frost says two roads diverged in a yellow road, where upon he proceeds to wax philosophical about taking the road less traveled making all the difference. I never knew what the difference was, but when there’s a fork, it seems you must decide between two choices. Sometimes you get it right. Sometimes you don’t. Tomaytoe. Tomahtoe.

Yet here this fork sat in the road, tines glinting in the light, offering up a four way stop sign buffet of choices. It was the grandpa and three children in such a symbolic way that it almost sounds concocted. Many tines, little time.

This street utensil helped me work through what has been on my mind for the better part of this year. When there are only two parts to a fork, it’s tempting to make the way we choose the right one. Accompanying that temptation is if we are on the right road, then the other path must be wrong street. Perhaps this is part of the human condition, but dang, it wears me down.

It’s my belief that there are unlimited tines and forks, representing a variety pack of versions of truth and rightness, many of which are deeply rooted in the experiences that have shaped personal beliefs.

I’m okay if they rub up against yours in an onery uncle way or totally align in an Aunt Betty way – we can all still be friends. I don’t need to call you names on social media or avoid you in the CVS. As humans, we can co-exist in harmony if we set our intention to work mighty smart on it.