I walked by “RonRon” during my early morning walk.

I have a cordial, conversational relationship with him. Most folks around town know him.

I don’t know why his name is doubled, or if that’s even his “real” name. I don’t know his last name. I don’t know if he’s married or has children or how old he is or where he’s from.

I don’t recall what he wears because, quite honestly, his smile is so big and effervescent that it’s all I ever notice.

This day he gripped a long-handled brush in his hands and used it to splash soapy water onto a dirty 18-wheeler.

Concluding he had gotten a part-time job at this local trucking business to wash trucks each morning, I quipped, “Goodness, that’s a never-ending job, isn’t it?”

He lowered his arms, turned, and beamed at me: “Yes, but I love it.”

I searched for sarcasm in his eyes, his smile, his tone.


He genuinely loves the job.

It wasn’t an extraordinary job. It won’t make him independently wealthy or build up his 401K. It won’t take him to exotic locales or provide him opportunities to swing deals, exert his moxie, or deliver keynotes.

But, he can: Walk to work. Go home for lunch, maybe even take a nap. Work outdoors, where I once heard him say he prefers to be. Feel the sun on his back and watch the clouds. Wear whatever he wants. Build his muscles even as he works. Whistle or sing without disturbing anyone. Achieve instant gratification by transforming a mud-splattered vehicle into a clean one in a matter of minutes. Maybe even collect his pay in cash.

Yes, some would say his is an ordinary life. But HE has chosen to find the extraordinary in it.

And in that moment, I saw more contentment and satisfaction on his face than I’d ever seen on that of any doctor, lawyer, stock broker, pilot, professor, business owner, etc.

His extraordinary did indeed take care of itself.

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