My fall story and how a few leaves inspired me as a boy to no end
Hey guys!
Hope everyone is doing well!
I wanted to share a quick, personal story about my life, which I think might help inspire you, but first I need to take care of a quick piece of admin business.
I hate more than anything to ask for favors, but if you have read one of my books and NOT dropped a review on them on Amazon, I’d sure appreciate it if you take a moment and do so. Reviews on there are critical, and they can be as short as a couple of lines. (Here are the links in the off-chance I’ve convinced you: Sold Out, Mexican Heat, Afghan Storm, Soldier On, and Little Man, and the Dixon County War. And here are the Audible links, in case you listened to them: Sold Out and Mexican Heat.)
Now, with that out of the way, let me share an event with you that helped change the course of my life.
When I was a boy, I used to love to be in the woods. I loved exploring them and playing in them with friends. But on one fall day about this time of year — probably about two weeks earlier — I was in the woods alone and lost track of time.
And I was sitting there on a comfortable ledge, pretty high up, just watching the woods. Back then, I could watch squirrels or chipmunks or maybe a deer for hours without being bored and that’s what I was looking for on that day. 
But there was nothing moving, even once I sat down and got quiet. This is a rare occurrence and it’s the only time it’s ever happened to me — and I’ve spent quite a bit of time in the woods.
No squirrels. No chipmunks. And I don’t remember any birds or crows, though surely there were some. Usually I notice them, but that day there was nothing.
In these wide-open woods, there was just me, sitting on a ledge watching leaves fall to the ground. And as I sat there, I lost track of time. Just mesmerized as leaf-after-leaf drifted down, all the while waiting to see something spring or prance by.
But nothing did, and in about a three-hour time period, I can’t tell you how many leaves I watched drift and descend to the ground. Literally thousands, if I had to guess.
Most of them were brown and hardly noticeable, and they fell fairly quickly and predictably. But every now and then, in my trance-like state, I noticed one that wasn’t brown. Sometimes a yellow one. Or perhaps a red one. Even a couple of purple ones.
And these leaves that stood out instantly caught my (bored) eye, and I’d watch them descend while ignoring the other brown ones that dropped around them.
Every now and then, a vivid red or yellow one would be shaped just right allowing it to catch small wisps of wind and float sideways as they arced to the ground. Incredibly, sometimes a few would be so perfectly aerodynamic that they’d glide and almost lift with small up winds.
For hours I sat captivated by these leaves of all colors, but by the end I could only recall a few that had fallen. Perhaps a couple dozen. Out of literally hundreds and hundreds.
And as I came out of my almost meditative state, prompted by hunger and a stark reality I had stayed out too long, a shocking realization hit me: we are all leaves.
We all fall and our lives are brief. Barely noticed. Certainly not remembered. 
But I had noticed some of those unique leaves. I had remembered their form and color, and the path they had taken. And it instantly hit me that I didn’t want to be a brown leave that fell straight down, like every other leaf. I wanted to be yellow or purple! I wanted to glide and float and lift with the wind! I wanted to land a hundred yards from the tree from which I fell, not right below it!
I wanted some young boy to see me and take note! To smile and remember me, and make his own mind up to be a little different and memorable.
And from that day — I was thirteen — I swore to myself I’d do all I could to maximize whatever potential I had. Up to that point, I did things to please my parents and others. But after that magical day in the woods, I did things for me. I felt called to move toward greatness, and the Marine Corps fit my picture of what a great, young man would aspire to at that time.
Later, I’d feel that same call to become a journalist. And still alter, an entrepreneur who launched a newspaper. Finally, I’d grow courageous enough to attempt the impossible mountain of becoming a full-time author.
There may still be other paths, as I’ve learned that the more I figure out about life, the less I know.
But one thing I do know is I know there is at least one of you out there who harbors some dream, as well, and I hope my small story will help inspire you to pursue it as vigorously (and responsibly) as you can. (Additional motivation: Find true happiness: announce your dreams to the world today.)
Other authors before me have inspired me with their success and their calls to action, so perhaps this one is yours.
But this post isn’t just meant for the dreamers who have some burning inside their soul.
All of us can be memorable, despite work and life demands. All of us can be red or purple and soar like the wind.
A great example is one of the most remarkable men I ever crossed paths with. I was working part-time at one of the most depressing manufacturing plants while in college when I first met him. I don’t remember his name now, much to my chagrin, but he was a jolly man from the inner city.
So many people were hired and quit at that plant that you didn’t bother getting to know the new ones, especially those assigned to parts inspection where I worked. But he was assigned to our station and my buddy and I watched him on his first day to see how fast he’d break — same as so many others before him.
But this man just smiled and sang to himself and whistled away that first day.
The job required you to lift with your fingers these really heavy airbag cylinders, all of which were soaked in some kind of toxic who knows what. And if you were good, you’d do two per hand and work your way up to three or four or even five.
All the work was timed and each hour crawled by like a mini-lifetime. I kid you not, there was never a day or even one-hour shift that I didn’t nearly quit.
Your fingers ached, the oil did weird stuff to your skin, and your clothes were ruined nearly every day. But the jolly, new man survived the first day, and left with a smile.
And day-after-day, it was the same. He came in as if he had the greatest job in the world and volunteered for the worst parts of the job. “Oh, it’s not too bad,” he’d say with a smile as he grabbed another crate.
We soon learned he was poor, rode the bus to work, and had no family. He wouldn’t say much about where he lived, but it was my impression he lived in the projects. As we grew to be friends with him, we learned he’d never take any form of assistance. No ride home, even if the bus wouldn’t arrive for another hour. No ride down to the gas station, which was a mile away.
My buddy and I were finishing up college, happily married, bright futures ahead of us, and at least thirty years younger, but this man was a 100x happier than us. And while he couldn’t work circles around us — we were both studs — he held his own and surpassed us with his attitude. We complained about having to be there and what better jobs were out there. He didn’t mind working late, even off the clock. Or sweeping up afterward.
His attitude was unlike any attitude I’ve ever encountered. His countenance was not of this world, and his smile and laughter was infectious. Never has such an imperfect smile been so perfect.
We’d try to talk news with him, but he’d work his way out of the conversation. He didn’t want to talk politics, the economy, or a hundred other things that might kill his smile. And surprisingly, though we learned he was Christian, he never even talked about his views or pushed his religion.
He lived his religion, and it was one of the most beautiful sights to behold. (I’m still not convinced he was human.)
To this day, I can say that few people have influenced me as much as this man. He wasn’t some decorated Marine. Not some kind of big-time author or anyone famous. Just a man who stood out, every single day of his life, like the yellow and purple leaves that floated down to the ground in those woods that day back when I was a boy.
I have told dozens of people about this man in the past twenty years, and I’ll bet every person that’s gotten to know him has done the same.
My point in this much too-long blogpost is that all of us can strive to stand out more, to be more beautiful and memorable and inspiring.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you just never know who’s watching, or how much you will shape their lives for years to come.
In closing, I hope this small story of my life has in some small way sparked yours. Feel free to share it, of course, if it has. Oh, and don’t forget about my review request up top if you’ve enjoyed my books and are up for it.
Keep the faith!
Stan R. Mitchell
About me: Stan R. Mitchell writes some of the most action-packed, fast-moving gunfighter novels around. Tired of slow-paced, investigative novels that take 50 pages to excite you? Look no further! Stan is the best-selling author of 5 novels in 3 different time periods. He’s also a prior infantry Marine with Combat Action Ribbon, and a former journalist who spent ten years in the newspaper business, learning how to hook the reader, cut out the filler, and just tell the story. In short, Stan is knowledgeable, he’s fast, and his books will blow you away. Don’t forget to subscribe for email alerts to keep up with his latest works.
