The familiar smell that seems to accompany all Post Offices permeated the air as I stood at the counter of our local branch with my wife and daughter as we worked through our passport applications, and, in my case, a renewal. The postman behind the counter assisted my wife, and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed an older gentlemen enter the queue, and eventually make his way to the adjacent window in which he was assisted by a postwoman in what I over-heard to be his own quest for a passport renewal.

Turning to get a better look, I recognized him immediately.

“Well,” the postman began, snapping me back to the task at hand, “two of the three sets of pictures turned out alright, but one set was blurry, so we’ll need to take yours again,” he stated as he gestured towards my daughter before walking through a door that led to the Post Office lobby where the photos were to be taken.

Turning to me, my wife inquired, “Well, do you want to go with her, or stay here with the paperwork?”

I elected the former, and we made our way into the lobby where a make-shift backdrop was positioned behind a stool to allow the dull, personality muting passport photos to be taken.

While becoming lost in the surroundings as the postman made adjustments to his camera, I noticed a plaque on the wall that celebrated this building having been erected in 1986, with names of the sitting notable positions of the day, like President Ronald Reagen, as well as the Postmaster General, whose name eludes me at the moment.

As the postman wrapped up a much clearer, more acceptable image, I noticed the older man I’d observed previously walking towards the exit.

In that moment, I had two options. Either I allowed him to leave and I’d miss an opportunity, risking a very real potential that I may never see him again (let’s be real, none of us are getting any younger), or I intercept, and engage him in a discussion.

Anyone that knows me already knows that I chose the latter. I’m not a big fan of regrets.

“Mr. Moreland!” I exclaimed as he walked through the first set of glass doors that brought him into the lobby we’d be standing in.

As a bemused look crossed his face, I outstretched my hand, and continued, “Dave Foster! I was a percussionist in your classes many years ago. You were my first band instructor.”

“Dave!” he acknowledged, gripping my hand.

I appreciated the pleasantry, although I was fairly certain that my face, and name, were both likely lost in a sea of thousands of students he’d had over his several decades of teaching. With my classmates bringing up the tail end of his career, I didn’t expect that his mental hard-drive would be able to quickly access such information, but he powered on, simply knowing that I remembered him, and that it didn’t necessarily matter if he remembered me.

“What are you up to these days?” he asked.

I informed him that I’d become a railroader and held several positions ranging from Freight Conductor to Locomotive Engineer, and then made my way into management as a Trainmaster, and now a Manager of Safety and Training, I was sure to let him know that I’d continued my time on the Drumline and as a percussionist all throughout high school, and I proudly beamed that I’d spent a lot of time in a hard rock band, and that I still play to this day.

After admitting that he’d never delved into learning how to play a drum-kit due to being unable to afford one when he was younger, in spite of the prodding of his friends who believed it would be easy enough to buy his own “after a few gigs,” I shifted the conversation, introducing my daughter. I then informed him that she, too, had an interest in music as she passively dabbles with a guitar and drum-set of her own.

They passed a few words, with my daughter displaying her shyness, and eventually, identifying the subtle awkwardness that exists in a 10-year-old child, I sought an opportunity to get to the point that led me to disrupt the flow of Mr. Moreland’s day.

“Alright, so I remember in 7th or 8th grade, you had composed an original piece that we performed. I think it was called ‘Echoes From The Dragon’s Lair’. Did you ever get a recording of that? I’d love to have it…” I began.

“Ah! Yes! It was actually called ‘Sounds From the Dragon’s Cave!'” he exclaimed, as his posture straightened, and his face was illuminated with pride. “Unfortunately, we never recorded it, or produced it- It wasn’t very technically complicated, it was just a simple composition that was meant to help younger musicians learn to play together as a group.”

“Well, I just wanted you to know that- what, 30 years later? However long it’s been, I still remember that piece, and it touched me enough that I’ve thought of it for all these years.”

I saw tears form in his eyes, and his voice trembled as he said, “Well, thank you Dave. I don’t think you know exactly how much that means to me…”

He paused, then continued, “…you know, you’d never know this, but today has been a pretty rough day for me, and that just completely made my day. I… thank you.”

“No, thank you… and if you ever do something with that piece, please, let me know.”

He took down my phone number, and before shaking my hand again to go our separate ways, he looked to my daughter and said, “You know, Mrs. Murdock probably has a copy of Sounds From the Dragon’s Cave, so when you get to her class, make sure you ask her about it.”

He shook my hand, and we parted ways, both of us wearing smiles from the encounter.

After we completed our business, and the applications were mailed, we stepped through the glass doors that lead to the parking lot, and I turned to my daughter and asked her what she’d learned.

“Well… I learned that he was your first band teacher,” she said innocently.

“Well, you’re not wrong, but what I’d hoped you’d learned was that you never know what kind of a day someone is having, and sometimes, just saying something kind to them can change everything, so if you ever have something kind to say to someone- Make sure you do.”

“Yeah, that made me happy,” she replied.

Me too, kid. Me too.