A sad lesson

Usually after I pick Rachel up from school we head home over the Hawthorne Bridge, one of the approximately 57 bridges that cross the Willamette River and connect Portland's east and west sides. For years -- long before Rachel was born -- a street performer would station himself at the onramp to the bridge. He was invariably dressed in an all-white tuxedo, and would play a badly out of tune trumpet, do little magic tricks, and generally try to entertain the cars waiting to get on the bridge. Rachel got to expect him, and would exclaim about "the Funny Man" when she did.

A couple of weeks ago, the street performer died -- by his own hand, as it turned out, though he also was suffering from a variety of physical ailments. A makeshift memorial of balloons, flowers, stuffed animals, &c. has sprouted at his erstwhile post, which Rachel noticed on our drive home tonight.

"Look Daddy, the Funny Man left his stuff!" she said.

I decided that she was mature enough to handle one of the grimmer realities of life.

"Well, sweetie, I have some sad news," I said. "The Funny Man died."

"He DIED?!?" she exclaimed. "What did he die on?" (I think she meant "of".)

I explained that he'd been very sick, and that a lot of people around the city missed him and left the items there as a way to show that.

"Well, I want to leave something too!" she said. "Maybe one of my stuffed animals, or a balloon."

A beat, then "I'm just heartbroken!"

I reached back and held her hand for a few minutes, then she asked me to resume telling her the story that had been interrupted by this little object lesson. I did, but not before telling her that I'd read in the newspaper that the thing that had made the Funny Man happiest was making kids smile.

"So when you smiled and waved at him, you were actually helping him and making him happy," I said. "That may seem like a little thing, but it's really one of the best things you can do."