The little things

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In this time of American craziness, I need the little things more than ever.

An iced coffee with a dollop of chocolate syrup.

A 75-degree day, sunny with a slight breeze.

My daughter laughing over something silly.

My son raving about a new song from Vic Mensa.

A drive with nowhere particular to go.

A fantastic book.

An unexpectedly wonderful movie.

And the above image.

That’s my son Emmett, who’s 11, with my dad, who’s not 11. We visited Lasdon Park in Somers, N.Y. Breathtaking place, with a Japanese garden and several monuments to soldiers of past wars. We walked and chatted and chatted and walked. At one point I asked son and grandpa to sit on a bench so I could snap this photo …

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Afterward, somewhat organically, a back scratch broke out. My dad scratched Emmett’s back, then Emmett scratched my dad’s back. I watched, so happy and filled with this euphoria that’s been largely missing over the past year. I don’t just crave it—I need it. Reminders that, as bad as things have become, there remain wonders and splendors and base pleasures in the world that can’t be taken away by a demonic president and his need to suck all from everyone.

Happiness continues to be an individual pursuit.

We own it.