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The

The The date was December 12, 1985. The place was somewhere along Howe Avenue on the east side of Sacramento, California. The man was named Hugh Scrutton. He was the owner of a small

computer and technology rental company that had been doing quite well for a handful of

years. Of course that was not all this man was. He was also a good and

trustworthy and affectionate boyfriend, a respectful son, a loving brother, and a

good timing friend. Though he had traveled the world and climbed tall mountains, he was

nonetheless known as a man of gentle meekness. Later, he would be remembered as one who

epitomized the virtues of straightforward sincerity, fairness, and kindness to others.

But on this day, Scrutton was merely leaving his shop in order to attend a trade show on the

other side of town. The weather was fair, business was good, and the

slight shift in daily rhythm, the kind that makes a man feel secure in the thing that he's given

his life to building, made everything feel more important than it probably had a right to feel.

That is nothing against Scrudden.

We all taste those small joys in the midst of our toils that seem magnified above their

smallness.

Those moments of serendipity that sometimes break in on the vanity of life.

While a true glory, these moments of joy can sometimes make us miss the forest of life's

fragility in a cursed world, for the trees of small triumphs here and there.

...