Took the hotel elevator downstairs to forage for far-from-home Monday coffee and a bite before heading out for an afternoon workshop with a Jedi High Council of new clients. Been stressing for days about the gathering, which represented our one and only opportunity to make a good first impression with about a dozen higher ups.
Grabbed a plain black coffee (did the trick) and a yogurt from their cooler (not that great), and went back to toss my empties in the garbage, when I spied a small bowl of bananas on the counter behind the person working. Likely owing to my pre-caffeinated state, I’d not seen the bowl when I’d ordered.
“Ooh, may I have a banana, please?” I asked the person who’d waited on me a couple minutes ago, explaining unnecessarily that I’d not seen them when I’d first ordered. She turned, walked over to the bowl and reached to grab one.
Then she pulled her empty hand back.
On second thought …
“I’ll let you pick,” she said.
Idabeen fine with whatever she’d picked, but, um, OK.
So I walked around the corner of the counter to where the bowl sat. Sized up the options, grabbed the biggest one automatically, figuring that hotel bananas come at a price and all cost the same, so bigger was the best choice. Really didn’t give it a second thought.
In the couple seconds while I was sizing up the options in the bowl, the person behind the counter said, “Some people prefer smaller ones, some bigger. Where I come from the smaller ones are much sweeter.
“In Sudan, we let the monkeys have the bigger ones.”
“Really?” I asked, as the corners of my mouth propped themselves into a curious smile.
“Yes … the smaller ones are sweet … like candy,” she said, as her face registered a memory of the taste. “We rush to pick the small ones before the monkeys can get to them. But we leave the bigger ones, and let the monkeys have those.”
In my life I have never bothered to consider any distinction of taste in the relative size of a banana.
“I assume they are a different variety than what we have here,” I said. She said she didn’t know for sure as she asked me my room number to apply the charge. I didn’t either, but found myself needing to know, so later looked it up. Turns out that the dwarf cavendish is the primary banana grown in Sudan (among the 50 varieties that grow there), which is, in fact, smaller than the commercial variety we are used to here.
She began to list the myriad ways they cook with bananas back home … frying, roasting, baking. “Oh, and the plantains,” she continued.
As she allowed herself a few small seconds of reverie, I found myself walking over to the bowl again.
I put the big one back in exchange for a smaller one.
“Ah, Mr. William … you were just here,” she said, looking at her screen and seeing my previous order. I could read on her face she was pausing for another second thought before deciding on something.
“I give you the banana,” she said.
Of course, she simply meant the smaller one I had already started to peel.
But, as I’ve thought about it, the true gift was in the form of her language. In the brief span of an otherwise mundane transaction that barely lasted a minute — one of the hundreds each of us would encounter in our unfolding day — she had re-presented the whole idea of something that I had heretofore taken for granted.
I give you … the banana.
Since she had addressed me by name, I asked hers in return. “Yoo-me” she said, spelling it for me: U-M-I.
I thanked her for her generosity, by which I meant her spirit.
As I walked from the counter I knew that I would never look at a banana the same way again. And that when I do, I’ll think of Umi.
And how she made my world bigger by sharing from hers.
I mean, much, much bigger in ways that I am only beginning to appreciate.
Like the convicting possibility that my default OS may be born of a scarcity mindset … whose first instinct is to grab for the biggest and the most for me … rather than what might actually be for the best for reasons that may be far beyond my limited understanding. Me and the monkeys are gonna need some time chewin’ on that big banana.
In the meantime … I will content myself with the wisdom inherent in Umi’s simple act of kindness.
That the scale of far-from-home Mondays is indeed relative.
And that there is a sweetness to be found in small things.
Bananas, yes … and in the tiniest of moments, buried deep in the otherwise mundane bowls of our everyday encounters.
“I’ve got some good friends, now. But I’ve never seen their parents’ back porch.”
Add that to the big pile of lines I wish I’d written.
Curse you, Ben Rector.
That’s just one of the, like, gajillion heart haymakers packed into his song and video for “Old Friends,” which I’ve been walking with like a fanny pack since a couple kindred spirits serendipitously made me aware of its existence.
But that line in particular.
Been using it as a sorting hat of sorts over my morning coffee. Of all the neighborhood saints I grew up with, there’s really only a handful whose back porches that I can conjure, even in hazy outline. Four, by my inexact count.
Three of ‘em were more portal than destination, gateways to backyard magic, owing to their functional humbleness.
But, standing on them now and looking out …
Amy
Just the tiniest back porch … barely enough room for a lawn chair or two — overlooking a yard as modest as all ours were, fenced in … in their case mainly for the dogs. Always dogs. Ginger was the first one I remember … shaggy in the way that made you long to pet her if she wasn’t always barking at you (ha). As I recall, the back porch invariably bore the muddy smudge of Amy and (little sis) Jodi’s canine du jour. I’m sure we contributed our fair share of mud prints, too. Though the yard was modest in size, its fence automatically qualified it for birthday party kickballing (before they put the pool in, yes?), while also mandating that one of us had to run like hell if a foul escaped along the third base line … as it was all downhill from Seventh Street for a few blocks. I also remember that anything that cleared the fence in back brought the very real possibility of getting yelled at by Mr. Wyda (scary) during the retrieval process. Oh, and I remember that glorious ‘metal detector summer,’ when our Moms would go foraging together. The magical signaling hum as Mrs. Hawkins waved it over her back yard with the seriousness of a mystic at a seance. Oh, and I distinctly remember being in their small kitchen whose screen door looked out on the back yard, as Mrs. Hawkins scooped french fries from the basket of what my eight-year-old self remembers as the first deep fryer in the neighborhood (cue angel chorus), which instantly made her kitchen my favorite restaurant on the planet.
Jerry
Jerry’s small backyard was packed with awesome, hosting a hoop, their magical pull-behind camper (perfect sleepover vessel), and, perhaps best of all, open access to a quiet alley that provided secret, safe, bike passage on both sides. My remembrance of Jerry’s back porch is irresistibly biased by one moment in particular. I believe it occurred early in the evening of a summer camper sleepover … when Mrs. Rehanek emerged on the back porch, which stood off from the kitchen, carrying freshly made ice cream cherry sodas, which proceeded to blow my nine-year-old mind. And which immediately certified Mrs. Rehanek as a bona fide sorceress and, which still ranks as the most magical potion I ever experienced in my childhood, and possibly in my lifetime. Summer as God intended … spooned fizzy from a glass.
Jeff
Jeff’s back porch was a bit bigger than Amy and Jerry’s, but, like theirs, sat right off the kitchen … overlooking a yard shaded by their glorious big tree that unevened the ground with its roots … but which never daunted us from wiffleballing. Ample room for bases … and a fence that gave us home runs to shoot for, though the tree played center-right field better than we could, snagging as many of our big flies as ever cleared the fence. And any line drives to right whose vector was lower than the tree line ran the risk of landing near their old dog Butchie, who pretty much hated everybody, except Jeff (sometimes). Anything Butchie got a hold of = automatic ground rule double.
Danny
Danny’s back porch was the one destination among the bunch.
Awning covered shade and cushioned chairs on top of astroturf … perfect for resting when we needed a break from running amok elsewhere. It’s where we’d take our summer popsicles, and where we’d towel off from his perfectly-sized-for-tiny-human-Marco Polo-above-ground-pool that barely squeezed alongside his house … before going inside to catch Lost In Space on Channel 10, that one summer’s destination TV.
Danny’s back porch is also where we all gathered and ate pizza the night we graduated high school. Open to whoever wanted to stop by. I remember our friends from outside the neighborhood coming and going while the rest of us just hung out. I also seem to recall some of our parents walking down to join for a bit. By then we weren’t the same friends we were growing up (middle school and high school can do that to a person) but I think we kinda had a sense that, despite everything, we’d always know each other as neighbors.
I don’t know how the rest remember it, but I remember graduation pizza on Danny’s porch as the most perfect coda on our growing up together.
__
Sitting here in desperate need of re-filling my morning, middle-age cup, it’s good to know that I can still find my way back to our parents’ back porches. And conjure fresh the taste of Mrs. Hawkins’ french fries, Mrs. Rehanek’s ice cream cherry sodas (forever The Bomb), and all those summer popsicles from Mrs. Hoff’s downstairs freezer chest (tie between lime and banana as my forever favorites). Oh, and an honorable mention to Mrs. Hughes’ birthday party homemade hamburger pizza. Not gonna lie, a bit of an acquired taste (ha).
“I’ve got some good friends, now. But I’ve never seen their parents back porch.”
And in case you’re wondering … from memory I can still dial their house phones.
“What time should we leave?” Emma, the organized one, asked me the night before, whereupon I did the math in my head, which family history has proven time and time again really means, “a slight majority of the math.” Looked up the drive on Google, which placed it around 30 minutes. Should be good if we leave by 10, I guesstimated. “I’ll set my alarm for 9:50,” my son informed me, which prompted me to suggest, unsuccessfully, we leave by 9:45. Which means we left at 10:10, which got us there at 10:45, which left us just enough time to park, pick up our bibs, and evacuate any remaining bodily fluids before taking our place at the back of the pack of already stretched and warmed-up humans massed at the starting line.
Our tight window robbed me of sharing the signature element of my pre-plannning. For motivation I was going to play Kurt Russell’s Herb Brooks’ “Miracle” speech before we got out of the car. Remind them that they were, you know, born to be hockey players. Alas.
To be fair … it’d been four years since the last time I’d participated in an organized race, so was a bit out of practice. And to be honest, I never really was what one would call ‘in practice.’ In the handful of 5 and 10Ks I’d begrudgingly participated in the couple years before the pandemic, I was never in charge of any of the planning. All of that fell to my ‘running buddy,’ Jason, whose default is to subjugate every detail to his monarchical rule. He’d prompt our registration, then spec our departure time and the ensuing directions. My race day responsibilities were limited to a light stretch followed by (a.) watching the back of Jason’s jersey get smaller and smaller in the distance, and then (b.) concentrating all of my energies on not puking down the front of me while maintaining operating control of my bowels until the whole unpleasantness was over.
It was the memory of one such episode that prompted me this New Year’s Eve to casually mention to Peter that I’d seen that there was a “Resolution 5K” run in Oakdale on New Year’s Day. Five New Year’s Eve’s ago, as I was a couple Moscow Mules into my evening, Jason texted me a link to that year’s race, accompanied by, “You in?” I remember convincing myself that my third Moscow Mule was spiritually akin to the training montage in Rocky IV where Stallone is carrying a felled tree on his shoulders while trudging through the Russian winter. From what I recall, my next day’s performance was, in fact, a fair simulacrum of an overmatched, middle-aged man carrying a felled tree on his shoulders while trudging through the Russian winter.
I hadn’t really asked Peter if he was interested in this year’s version, so was surprised when he responded to my dissemination of the fact with, “I’ll do it.” Nor was I expecting Emma’s response after I informed her that I’d signed Peter and me up. “Sign me up, too.” Neither had ever done a 5K before.
Seconds after doing so, apparently in the throes of what science calls a “runner’s high,” I wandered into the dining room and informed Karry of our New Year’s Day plans and asked if she wanted to ride with us and, you know, cheer us along. Which prompted the following exchange.
So it was ‘just’ the three of us standing in the light snow in 30-degree weather seconds before the start of the race, whereupon Peter asked if we’d be running together or just doing our own thing.
“Do your own thing,” I advised, since I wasn’t quite sure what any of our things were.
Since we were waaaaaayyyyyy in the back of the pack, I spent the first couple minutes maneuvering around participants either walking or easing into things (whose better judgement qualified every single one of them to be my Life Coach). Managed to carve out some space and was settling into a rhythm when a guy runs up along side me and asks me what my pace is. I hadn’t thought to consider that data point prior to his asking. I looked at my phone and saw I was matriculating at a 7:43 clip. Had I been sipping a Moscow Mule at that moment I would’ve reacted with my first spit take of the New Year. From what I could remember that was about a minute faster than my pre-pandemic pace. The voice in my head immediately channeled my Inner Karry — “[emphatic decline employing surprisingly colorful verbiage].”
“That’s my pace, too!” he said enthusiastically. “My name’s Jason,” he said cheerfully. (Apparently I’m a magnet for Racin’ Jasons.) “Do you have a target today?” he asked. Since we’d just met I couldn’t give him my honest answer — “Not pooping my pants” — instead opting for a simple “No.” Undaunted, he asked me if I intended to maintain my pace the rest of the way.
I took a deep breath and replied: “Look, before we get too far into this relationship, I’m not who you think I am. I’m living a lie right now. If I keep up this charade one of us is going to end up on the side of the trail bleating like a heifer giving birth to triplets before we hit the turnaround. You look like a nice enough fellow, but this … this is never going to work. The best thing for you to do right now is to leave me. Forget we ever met. Go, just go. Go live a life. And whatever you do … promise me you will never, ever look back.”
All of which came out of my mouth as, “Nope,” as I knew I would need all my breaths for the foreseeable future.
As I found an odd reassurance in watching New Jason’s jersey get smaller and smaller in the distance, I began to recall my previous race experiences. Turns out that running is just like riding a bike, except way harder … and with lots more awful running involved. I was reminded that the first mile is always further than it seems. “Surely I’ve run a mile by now,” I think to myself about a quarter of a mile in.
And the second mile is always The Worst. I refer to it as the “Seriously, what were you thinking?” mile. It’s just mean. Apparently it had a difficult upbringing. Probably overbearing parents. Most likely a bed wetter. Even when I’m running longer distances, the second mile just mercilessly taunts me.
Nevertheless, I managed to make it to the turnaround, and shortly thereafter, my phone let me know I’d made it two miles … upon which I convinced myself that this would all be over soon. Found someone just slightly ahead of me that was ambling at a reasonable pace and settled in behind them.
Stole a glance at my phone when I was about 23 minutes in. Figured I only had about three-ish minutes left to go. At which point my endorphins began to ask me my thoughts on a potential finishing kick.
“Good one,” I responded before realizing that my endorphins, much like my wife, are not kidders.
I hadn’t reached three miles yet, so was in no great hurry to make any rash decisions.
Then all of a sudden this very tall, bearded dude zooms past me. In full gallop. Like, really going for it, Kentucky-Derby-style. Sizing him up I figured he was likely in my age group. I was genuinely impressed. “Wow,” I thought. Clearly he had a plan that involved more than just maintaining a good grip on his bowels. “Good luck with … all that,” I mentally saluted as he sped past.
A couple minutes later, my phone tells me I’m at three miles. And when I look up, I see that I’m actually gaining on Tall Bearded Dude, who was now visibly scuffling down the home stretch. Looked like his bowels wanted a word with him. Kicked a little too early, evidently.
Hubris.
Which my endorphins and I discovered is apparently contagious in men of my age group.
“We’re taking this f*cker down!” my endorphins exclaimed.
“Language!” I scolded in reply, before putting my metaphorical pedal to the metal, which reacted with all the responsiveness of my parents’ 1980 Mercury Monarch that I learned to drive on.
“OK, give us a minute here,” my body replied … before marshaling all my remaining faculties into a barely perceptible acceleration, which catapulted me past Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Guy in a turn of events that surprised me almost but not quite as much Brigette Nielsen when Rocky drew blood from Ivan Drago.
As the finish line came into view up ahead, I somehow managed to keep TBPP Guy in my wake while retaining a majority of the bodily ingredients I’d started with, including a teensy measure of pride.
After catching my breath I sought out Peter and Emma and found them upright and in tact as well. We made our way to the community center for some water, and to steal a glance at the posted results just for funsies. Both Peter and I finished sixth in our respective age groups (even more impressive for him, as he was fighting a bit of a chest cold), while Emma finished third in her female age group, earning a tiny medal. Not bad for a coupla first timers.
Driving home in a car redolent with the aroma of our respective Ks, I was reminded of what I used to appreciate about participating in races. They’re invariably mini exercises in aliveness. Of the conscious choice to sign up. Of the sacred act of pulling a shirt over your head and lacing your shoes. Of stretching to give your body its best chance. Of seeking out your place amongst kindred spirits at different places along their respective journeys. Of watching the backs of jerseys getting smaller and smaller in the distance. Of humbling second miles where your inner voice gains the upper hand. Of appreciating that there will always be folks faster than you, and folks content with taking their own good time, and many lessons to be learned from both. And that you are probably both of those things to those around you, too. Opportunities to push yourself a little harder than you otherwise might … and seeing what happens. Heck, if it were up to me I’d give a tiny medal to Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Guy — for not waiting until he was ready to give it all he had. Better late than never, you know?
Summing the math on the above — or at least the slight majority of the math — aliveness is the blessing of the Racin’ Jasons and Peters and Emmas in my life … people who both ask and answer questions that I don’t always have the courage to ask myself, and who push me to see how fast and far I might be able to go.
And who make me want to be a little bit better next time.
Letters for Maggie 