Frank is a cabbie. His large frame fits awkwardly in the well-worn driver’s seat of the old Caprice. My guess is they’ve both seen better days. Frank tells me he’s forty-five. Yet he seems more than a decade older, world-weary, worn and tired. You can see it in his hands, hear it in his voice.

Frank drives my family and I to the airport today. He drives slowly for a cabbie, takes his time. He exhibits none of the tension carried by the taxi driver stereotype. Instead, he just talks. Driving seems secondary somehow. I have a feeling Frank has something to teach me, so I interview him about his life, and he graciously shares his story.

Each day, Frank starts driving early in the morning, and he works well into the evening. Each and every day. He seems glad to have the gig.

Frank used to live at the Y, he tells me, until they shut it down. He rents a room in a motel now.

Frank’s dad died the same day they were being evicted. Dad dies at 2 AM, Frank tells me, matter-of-factly, and the Sheriff’s Police are knocking on the door by six. Can you believe that?, Frank asks casually.

Frank’s had hard times, he says. Things are better now.

Frank does not feel sorry for himself, nor is he seeking my pity. He has his church, and his church has helped him when he needed help. Frank is grateful. Frank knows guys who are a lot worse off.

As we approach the airport, I notice the requisite cardboard Christmas tree-shaped deodorizer dangling from the rear view mirror. The scent is ‘Ocean Breeze’.

And here we are, my family and I, on our way to spend another week, ironically, by the oceanside. And I love it there. I love that invigorating first glance at the incomprehensible vastness of the water, the majesty and strength of the waves, the sea-salt smell, the anticipation of fresh experience.

And it occurs to me that the closest Frank may ever get to any of that astounding beauty is the lab-created scent called ‘Ocean Breeze’ lazily emitting from his drab little evergreen.

Frank has none of those family pictures you often see tucked into the various corners offered by the front seats of cabs. No wife to share his life with. No children to enjoy, play with, watch grow. He seems to know this is his life. When I ask him about his dreams, he figures he’ll just keep driving.

I wonder if Frank is sad.

After we part with Frank, I’m having trouble retrieving e-mail in the airport, then on the plane. Once I gain a connection, I see vague, potentially upsetting news. Nothing serious, certainly. Possibly just an inconvenience, a misunderstanding.

Yet I am upset, anxious, seriously bummed out.

And instinctively I begin this piece. And I think about Frank. And I realize what he entered my life to teach me.

Be grateful, man. Be grateful for the best of it, yeah, that authentic smell of the ‘Ocean Breeze’.

But be grateful for what seems like the worst of it as well. For life, be it smooth or rough, is never less than astonishingly beautiful, miraculous even.

I left Frank a big tip. I hope he has occasion for joy in his life, at least once.

And if you ever read this, thanks Frank. I am forever grateful to you.