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Surprised by Kindness
My wife asked me what was my happiest childhood memory? It was that day when my two friends came and asked if I was coming with them. It was a spring morning, and we took the ferry across to Kelvin to visit the museum.
We were there for several hours and on our return, we were rubbing our tummies with hunger. A man said, ‘Here’s a half crown, go and buy yourselves ice-cream.’ We jumped up and down singing ‘Chips, glorious chips.’ Then… we stopped. Went silent. The man had told us to buy ice-cream. But he just smiled, and we jumped up and down again, singing ‘Chips, glorious chips.’
And I would have to say, that was my happiest childhood memory; the day the kind man smiled and thought it was okay to buy chips.
Surprised by Kindness Critique
If I am permitted to critique my own piece by way of an exercise , I see this flash memoir from childhood distilling a vivid moment that’s compact, restrained, emotionally resonant and lingers far beyond its brief word count. The piece lies in its economy of language and its deep moral undercurrent, rendered more powerful through the lens of memory. Could it be more restrained? I've tried, but opt back to this version.
The stranger’s generosity, a simple act of handing over a half crown, a king’s ransom to children of the day and valued at £3 pounds in today's value . The gesture transforms an ordinary day into something enduring in the child’s memory. The choice of the phrase “a man said” is deliberately plain, almost anonymous, which magnifies the magic of the gesture in that he is a stranger. He appears and disappears like the figure in An Inspector Calls, offering a something without expectation, explanation, or follow-up. Ghostly in a metaphorical sense. It’s a moment of unprompted human goodness that speaks volumes: a child’s delight, a man’s quiet empathy, and the power of a coin to change not just a moment but a life.
What stands out is that the man does not just give money, he imparts wisdom: “buy yourselves ice-cream.” This instruction seems lighthearted but carries subtle weight. It introduces a tension that will soon elevate the anecdote from a sweet recollection into something more profound.
The central moral tension pivots on that brief pause: “Then… we stopped. Went silent.” The ellipsis captures the hesitancy, the conscience of children suddenly aware of a boundary. They were given something, and they feel beholden to respect the giver’s intention. The silence is morally and socially charged; brief but seismic.
Enter the man's smile. This smile, unnamed and unexplained, acts as moral blessing or the kind of absolution the priest would give me as I confessed my sins as a child. The smile doesn’t just resolve the tension; it unsparingly sanctifies the permission to purchase chips. There is a profound tenderness in this small moment, where mercy overrules rules.
In that instant, kindness transcends currency. The man is no longer simply generous; he becomes morally wise. He knows the delight lies not in dictating how to be happy, but in letting happiness be found.
This flash memoir quietly poses a profound question: What makes a memory endure? In this case, not just the event, but the permission to bend the rules in the name of joy. The stranger’s kindness is doubled by his wisdom in not correcting the children. The moral weight of his smile lingers, and so the reader, like the narrator, returns again to that Clydeside ferry, where happiness was found in a benevolent smile.
This is how childhood is often remembered: not in epic stories, but in small moral awakenings