Tiny dances can change everything

Squeaky wheels better greased

Ichuckle when I hear someone say they’ve done something a certain way for many years in an effort to convince me that’s the right way to do it. Sure, you could’ve done it like that for 40 years and done it wrong the whole time. Don’t believe me? Ask the person next to you to sing an Elton John song and see if they get the lyrics right. Just because they’ve been singing “Hold me closer, Tony Danza” since 1971 doesn’t mean that’s what Elton crooned.

Each year, I find more and more things I thought were one way are actually another. As a child, I was surprised to learn that what I called the “hot topper weeder” was a “hot water heater,” and that “granddaddy hog legs” were “granddaddy long legs.” Trapper John still sings “You’re the one in the boat” instead of “You’re the one that I want” when we watch the film “Grease.” Granted, Olivia Newton John was a catch, and Travolta was some fine bait back in the day, but that doesn’t make it a fishin’ show.

Even if we get the words right, we don’t always understand the meaning. I belted out the songs “Sleeping Single in a Double Bed” and “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue” long before I realized they were warbling about romance gone awry. I just knew I was an only child and had brown eyes!

This week, I read a story — one I’d heard before, but not with the same depth. It’s the story of an elderly man who carried a small can of oil with him wherever he went. When he found a gate that was stiff to open, he oiled the latch. When a door squeaked as he entered, he oiled the hinge. A drop here, a drop there, he quietly oiled and went about his day. He was on no grand quest to find difficult places. He simply looked and listened and oiled troubles as he encountered them. Folks talked about him. Some pitied him. Others thought him crazy or eccentric. He won no accolades or recognition of any kind. His only reward was his hope that he’d left things better than he’d found them, and that those who came afterward would have an easier path than he.

Fine, he’s an old man with a can and a plan to be nice, I get it. And I know a few squeaky-wheeled folks who could stand a good dousing of motor oil. Let me at ’em!

But maybe that’s not the (only) point. What struck me this year — a year unlike any we’ve seen for generations — is how we’re given countless opportunities to make life better without ever leaving our stoop. How the next great American novel might not be as profound as one word of encouragement said to the postman, neighbor or person sitting beside you. You know, the one who’s still humming “Tiny Dancer.”

This Christmas, may we all sleep snuggled with the one in our boat, warm as hot water heaters, our rusty parts oiled and our hearts filled with hope.