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September has always seemed to me to be the “middle child” of the calendar. Not the loud, confetti-throwing sibling like July with its fireworks, nor the overachieving December who demands the whole family’s attention. No, September quietly tiptoes in, hoping someone will notice it.
But this isn’t really about months. It’s about that space in life when nothing particularly dramatic is happening. No fireworks, no turkey, no champagne countdown. Just ordinary days that look suspiciously like one another. We tend to rush through those stretches, like they don’t count unless they come with a party hat or a greeting card.
I used to think life was measured in the big occasions — the weddings, the graduations, the holidays. But the older I get, the more I’ve come to appreciate the days in between. The quiet ones. They’re the glue that holds all the celebrations together.
When I was a kid, those “quiet days” often revolved around chores. Mowing the lawn, for example, was my job. We had one of those old-fashioned push mowers, the kind that made a clattering sound as the blades spun. I always seemed to run over the sprinkler heads. Dad would come out and say, “Didn’t you see that?” and I’d shrug, “Nope.” He’d shake his head, not really getting mad per se but reminding me they cost money. Then he'd say, “Look where you’re mowing, son. Take your time.” I hear the same thing from Connie, my beloved, just for different reasons.
Eventually, I convinced dad to buy a gas mower. I thought that would solve everything. It didn’t. In fact, the sprinklers suffered even more. But at least I got the lawn done quicker, which left more time for goofing off. I’ll admit, I was always thankful for the coming of fall — less mowing, fewer sprinkler casualties.
And then there were the silly moments indoors. My dad always thought he had a good impression of John F. Kennedy. Us kids would egg him on: “Talk like Kennedy, Dad!” He’d stand a little taller, put on his presidential tone, and say something about, “Ask not what your country can do for you.” We thought it was awesome. Looking back, it wasn’t about accuracy — it was about us laughing together in an ordinary living room on an ordinary evening.
That’s the thing about quiet days. They’re not empty spaces, right? They’re where life truly happens. Even the mishaps — the broken sprinklers, the sputtering mower, Dad’s presidential speeches — become the stories that last longer than the so-called “big holiday days.”
When I remember those days, it strikes me that the quiet days were also where I learned some of the best life lessons. Patience, for instance. To take my time. You learn it quickly when pushing a heavy mower up and down a long yard in the summer sun. Humor, too — because if you can’t laugh at a mangled sprinkler head or your dad’s Boston accent drifting somewhere between Kennedy and cartoon characters, then you’re missing half the fun. And gratitude — the kind that sneaks up on you when you realize you’re rich, not in money, but in memories and stories.
The quiet times also remind us that ordinary life doesn’t have to be dressed up to matter. They teach us that laughter around a dinner table or a cool breeze drifting through an open window can be just as important as the moments that make the headlines.
Those ordinary days, stacked one after another, build a foundation that carries us through the big days, and the hard ones.
Why should we remember and appreciate the unnoticed, unremarkable days that somehow stick with us the longest? They remind us that joy doesn’t always come with a parade. Sometimes, it comes in the form of grass clippings stuck to your shoes, a dad with a half-decent Kennedy impression, and the relief of a cool evening breeze when the mower is finally parked in the garage.
And once in a while, if you’re lucky, those ordinary days grow into extraordinary memories — the kind you carry with you long after the fireworks fade and the wrapping paper is thrown away.
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Richard Stride is the current CEO of Cascade Community Healthcare.
