A day is just a collection of small-but-significant events

My mother’s greatest gift to me, besides her faith, was deep listening.

It didn’t matter how busy she was with chores or the family business, she’d always make time to listen.

I could bounce in and pour out in buoyant, youthful exuberance every detail of a day, every single sight and sound, every expression and thought, every nuance of dialogue, and she’d hear me.

Whether in the midst of washing dishes or folding clothes, she’d gather my words up, without interruption or judgment, and find for me in them a lesson or common theme.

What a gift that was. In all these years since, I haven’t come across anyone quite so understanding or accommodating — not husband, children or friends.

There are so many things about her I miss, but listening is right there on top.

Without her presence in my life, I must write and ask you, dear reader, to occasionally ride along on a bumpy day that clamors to be “told” in all its gory and delicious detail.

The day in question, May 31, started sadly, reminiscent of that section in Dr. Seuss’ Hop on Pop that goes, “Sad, bad, dad, had. Dad is sad, very, very sad. He had a bad day. What a day Dad had.”

I quote this particular book, as opposed to say, “The Outsiders” or “West Side Story,” because the 4-year-old in my life requests that I read it five times a day every day.

This Saturday I felt like that poor “sad Dad” hunkered down in his chair, all gloomy, except that I was riding an early morning ferry alone on inadequate sleep after having turned over my youngest son to a student abroad program counselor.

My kids call me a “smothering mother” and insist that at the first opportunity they must jump ship and travel to the farthest corners of the world. To make this more painful, they ask me to make their jumping possible.

And so I was back on the ferry again at noon to attend my orientation piece of the trip. Except my Seattle bus stop was closed to construction and, while I wasn’t exactly lost, I wasn’t entirely sure the bus I was on headed for the Greenwood Senior Center.

So, creeping quietly to the front of the bus, I proceeded to discreetly ask the driver if he knew where the Center was.

“Let’s ask them,” he shouted and turning to his bus riders, elicited directions, laughter and shouts of, “You’re almost there.”

In the midst of smiles and words of encouragement, one young golden-haired man shot me the most memorable radiant smile.

I found the Center perfectly, as they directed. Walking back with my son we wandered into the little Greenwood shops killing time.

As we stood scanning the menu at a sandwich place, a voice sang out, “So did you find the Greenwood Senior Center all right?”

I looked up to see the golden-haired young man with the radiant smile, affirming for me that Seattle isn’t so much a large city as a cluster of small neighborhoods.

We wasted a lot of time in Greenwood, probably too much, because once again we didn’t foresee any bus problems.

One came, nonetheless, in the form of a bus driver who had a really bad day — worse than mine, worse than the dad in “Hop on Pop.”

Taking over from our initial driver, this woman stood in the bus doorway and let several entire city blocks know how bad her day had been. Slamming doors, flinging transfer papers and barking orders, she levered the full force of her bad day onto the passengers, especially one young couple with a stroller and a blonde baby girl.

A woman in the front seat figured she’d make the bus driver’s day even worse. Whipping out her cell phone, she proceeded to call up the bus barn and report the driver.

This did not make things better. I started to get scared, really scared.

So, considering that it worked the first time, I crept slowly to the front of the bus, positioned myself between the two women and asked quietly, “Do you happen to know what stop we need to take to catch the ferry?”

Turning to the woman with the cell phone, our driver snapped, “Can’t you see I am helping this nice lady? Will you quiet it down?”

It worked. With the driver’s attention diverted to her passengers, she slowed the bus as she fed me directions.

I then made small talk with the young couple, who were from Georgia. They talked gently with the driver, calming her further.

Guided by the driver to our stop, we made it to the ferry terminal in enough time.

Enough time, in fact, to buy smoothies while we waited to board.

Or so I thought. I didn’t foresee any problems with the ferry ticket line. Until the group of us standing there heard a loud crack, like something slamming hard against a wall.

We turned to see that an elderly man had slipped from his walker and smashed the back of his head against the floor.

This time I froze while a huge pool of blood formed by our feet. The young woman next to me rubbed her eyes in disbelief, but fortunately others weren’t as unresponsive as we.

People jumped out of line and rushed to reach the gentleman. One guy cradled his head, while a young woman, a North Kitsap High School athletic medicine graduate, stopped the blood flow.

A lady called 911 and talked to the paramedics and the gentleman, asking him questions that they relayed to her, “What’s your name, how old are you, where do you live,” while another man draped a coat over the gentleman for warmth and held his hand.

After the gentleman was carefully guided onto his ferry, we all boarded.

Feeling exhausted, I collapsed and took a long ferry nap. My son tried to sleep, but couldn’t.

Two twin 4-year-olds kept poking him in the eyes. “Where’s Hop on Pop, when you need it?”

Emerging off the ferry feeling infinitely more rested, we walked straight into a party, complete with speeches, handshakes and cake.

I had totally forgotten that the grand opening for the Bremerton Marina was that very evening.

While Seattle had been gray and dreary, sunshine shone all around for this grand celebration.

We listened to Tim Thomson, Ken Attebery and Cary Bozeman speak.

We saw Larry Stokes looking as dapper as ever as he joined in the cake-cutting.

It was Cheryl Kincer, however, who presented the most beautiful gift of the evening. She thanked the taxpayers for making the marina happen and told the story of a handicapped young man, who called her late at night to thank her for giving him access to the waterfront.

Then she invited us all to join her on a walk to the breakwater.

So we did, stopping for cake and passing dozens and dozens of boaters, who were out enjoying the evening air, boaters who will cross the water and shop and dine in Port Orchard.

Reflecting later, I realized that if my mother were listening to the day, she’d say, “So, it sounds like each of these situations was trying, even painful at times, but in the end people pulled together and came through for each other.”

And I’d have to say she was right.

Mary Colborn is a Port Orchard resident.

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