Monthly Archives: November 2024

Postcards

Finding Whitman ….

Saturday, November, 16, 2024, 12:44 p.m.

While waiting for Nicole to deliver the first of her always luminous — and my requisite two — Saturday morning cortados at the tiny, tender coffee shop on North Main (which you should totally visit), I was perusing the small packs of Commonplace Coffee for sale near the counter, whose blends are always intentionally dedicated (they have one inspired by WYEP — a sonic apothecary of Pittsburgh’s airwaves for the past 50 years — called ‘Morning Mixtape’ [swoon]). Commonplace Coffee is a tender haven in its own right nestled in Pittsburgh’s North Side (which you should totally visit).

Unbeknownst to me, on the back of every one of Commonplace’s coffee packs is a Walt Whitman poem, evidently the inspiration for their name.

Stumbling upon such treasure was as much medicine for my morning as Nicole’s perfect cortados.

And too good not to share with kindred spirits.


Here’s to waiting / to find Whitman waiting patiently / scribbled on the back of packs / whispering across centuries / reaching like seashells washed ashore / for humble travelers bowing their heads / searching for a little light / to lighten their loads 

To solid ground for all. 

*raises cup to meet the morning light

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Postcards

Foregrounding things ….

Got outta bed after a long night of bad dreaming.

Forecast called for rain. Looked like maybe a little pocket this morning before the skies open. Threw on a ballcap and sweats and drove myself to the cemetery. Parked in the usual spot. 

I love visiting on Sundays. It’s so genuinely, and evolvingly, beautiful. 

Quiet enough to hear the crows. 

So many deer — to make clear it’s a shared space. 

Enough hills of varying lengths and grade to afford options. 

Impossible to ignore the seasons.

Took a couple sips of water before locking up the car and easing into my route.

Which starts with a gentle downhill into a left turn with a short, steep climb that takes you up and around a corner. Elevates your heart rate — a good, early systems check to let you know what you might have in the tank — before gifting you a little downhill to catch your breath. Spits you into a roundabout that sometimes I’ll lap a few times for some easy distance before backwashing into a long straightway that takes me back to the crematorium — or as my daughter likes to call it, the “E-Z Bake” — near where my car’s parked.

I circle the parking area a couple times before heading up a nice, easy grade that drops you down to one of my favorite parts — a sloping hill of the cemetery that’s reserved for military veterans.  

On days when my tank’s full, I’ll loop here a few times before continuing on and finishing my first full lap somewhere around three miles. 

This morning … I paused, despite the rain on the way. Was only a couple miles into things.

The flags always get me. 

The hill’s persistent breeze tends to keep them waving.

If the flags weren’t there, I would just look beyond the gravestones to whatever’s beyond. 

So I’m grateful for the flags for reminding me to think of those buried below them.

And their sacrifices, both in the act and substance of their serving. To things bigger than themselves — whether troop, platoon, buddy, family, hometown, country.

Like the deer, the flags remind me that this is a shared space, and by that I mean the cemetery. And the world. 

The flags remind me to listen for what those who are no longer … might have to say to our Now.

To inform our Not Yet. 

I imagine some genuine characters are buried here. Imagine a lot of strong, colorful and varying perspectives represented. Imagine all made their share of mistakes. Imagine that they learned some things along the way that they tried to pass on. Probably saw some things differently at the end than they did at the beginning. Probably were buried with some messy regrets, just as we will be buried with ours.

This morning the leaves got me, too. 

Foregrounding things. 

A reminder that that this, too, is but a season. 

No more and no less. 

As ever.

The bare tree in the background, a reminder, too. 

That in our falling, we only fall so far from where we start. 

Pretty much the whole mystery of it all, right there.

Quiet enough to hear the crows. 

And long enough to hear them fading in the distance. 

After just a couple minutes, I took a deep breath and continued on.

Going as far as I could until the skies finally opened. 

Finished where I started, not far from the E-Z bake. 

Took note of the fact of that, too. 

Kept the windows down on my short drive back home. 

So I could smell the rain on the pavement.

And be reminded that the rain gets us all wet just the same.

By the time I got back home, I was hearing the words of Kurt Vonnegut.

Wondered if he, a veteran of the firebombing of Dresden, was spending this gray Sunday buried under a waving flag somewhere. 

How he pretty much summed up all of the above some sixty some years ago in a couple lines from Cat’s Cradle. 

“Life is a garden, not a road. We enter and exit through the same gate. Wandering, where we go matters less than what we notice.” 

Clear as the crows.

Only took him 25 words. 

Took me 800 to try and say the same thing.  

Sometimes I take the scenic route.

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Letters for Maggie

Free Refills ….

Wednesday, Nov. 6, 2024 6:28 a.m. 

Got up yesterday morning feeling … untethered. Outside, the sun was coming up on an unseasonably warm November day. The kind of sunshine we almost don’t deserve. I was feeling the heaviness of everything.

All the noise would soon be coming to its unnatural conclusion. I’d just poured my ritual 10 Tuesday ounces into my Thermos, but my cup still felt empty. 

So I got in my car and drove towards the small coffee shop on North Main Street. The one where I like to write my daughter postcards on Saturdays. It’s quiet. One room. Handful of tables, small counter on which is perched a little clear case with baked goodies made by Nicole, one of the kind staff there. Reliably chill playlist. 

I didn’t need a coffee. Just some humanity.

So, halfway up Main Street, I peeled off into the drive through at the bank. Got some cash from the machine. Humble pebbles for the scale, I told myself. 

Got to the coffee shop right as it opened at 8. Parked across the street, and followed a woman in the front door. She was friends with the barrista on duty, and they dove right into easy conversation. Denise, the barrista, paused their conversation to wait on me. I ordered my cortado, paying with my Darth Vadar credit card. Added a small tip. 

After placing my order, I asked Denise if they still did Pay It Forward. She nodded. I handed over what I’d withdrawn from the machine. 

She thanked me, and I took a seat by the counter while she prepared my to go order. 

When in walked a middle aged man in a ballcap. Kinda scruffy. Came in chatty. 

Asked Denise, “What’s the strongest coffee you have?” He went on to say that he’d been nine years sober, mentioning the exact number of months and days for good measure. “So coffee’s a very important thing in my life.” 

After Denise informed him of the dark roast of the day, he asked what sizes they had. 

“How much is in a large?” he asked. Twenty ounces, she replied.

He asked her how much refills were. They’re free, Denise said. 

From my chair I apprehended that maybe he didn’t have much on him. Probably didn’t have anywhere in particular to be. Interested in how far and for how long his dollars might stretch.

The stories we tell ourselves about the world around us. 

He ordered his 20 ounces, asked her what he owed. 

She told him not to worry about it. 

“I’m sorry?” he said. 

I tensed up a bit. I didn’t want to be around to watch anything. 

I just came in to put a few pebbles on the scale and be on my way.

“It’s taken care of,” was all she said. 

I exhaled.  

“Wow,” he said. “Really? Um, thank you.” 

He paused a beat. 

“When I came in, I could tell that you had a really kind face.” 

I smiled from my chair, because I think I said those exact words to Denise the last time I was in. It occurred to me that was also the day I dropped off my mail-in ballot at the county’s voter registration office. 

I needed some humanity that day, too. Denise’s gesture unlocked his. 

“You know, I was always a big egomaniac. I hurt a lot of people with my ego. But one of the biggest things they teach you is humility.

“A big part of learning humility is that receiving kindness is just as important as giving kindness. It’s not easy … but I’ve learned how to receive kindness.”

He asked Denise her name so he could thank her by it. Gave his in return.

Strong coffee in hand, he started to make his way to a table. Then he paused.

What he did next … I will never forget.

He turned back to Denise. 

“Now I’m going to just have to find someone to pay your kindness forward,” he said. 

He sees me sitting in my chair. 

I met his gaze just in time to see his eyes alight.  

“Can I buy you a coffee?” he asked me. 

The best sermons are the ones you don’t see coming. 

I thanked him profusely for giving me what I woke up needing from the world. What I’d hoped to find driving up Main Street not needing a coffee.

The way it came out was, “Already got one on the way. But, next time I see you, maybe we can have one together.” 

He asked me my name. Gave his in return. 

“God bless you, Pete,” he said. 

“Backacha,” was all the lump in my throat would allow. 

Pebbles on the scale.

Denise parked my cortado on the counter. I got up from my chair and met her at the register. 

Exchanged fist bumps, and received the warmest smile from her kind face.  

The kind of sunshine we most certainly deserve.

There are saints all around us. Most are hidden in plain sight. Sometimes they don’t look like you or me. 

We need to humble ourselves to see them.

So we can receive their kindness. 

So that when our own cups are empty, we can be reminded that refills are free.

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Fathers and Sons

Sunday morning mix tape ….

Things That Got Me Through My First 10-Mile Run

EQT 10 Miler – 11.3.24

The fortuitous timing of turning back the clocks gifting us an extra hour to make an 8:30 a.m. start time at Station Square. 

Karry’s words before I left the house:  “Enjoy your time with your son.” Until she said them, my mind was anxious about whether or not I had 10 miles in me (the odds far from guaranteed). Her six words melted my anxiety on the spot, reminding me that the morning in front of me was not to be measured by distance. A reminder that I can’t hear often enough: that what we do is not what we are doing. That it’s not about arriving. It’s about being resident.

Being among the first Sunday morning passengers on the T at South Hills. Watching and listening to it fill up, stop by stop … all shapes, sizes, colors and ages. A crescendo of expectation. By the time we arrived at Station Square, it was filled to overflowing. Spilling out onto the sidewalk to make the pilgrimage over to Highmark Stadium. The loud music and announcer calling us from a distance. The feeling of being part of a summoning.

Shortly after starting, going across the West End Bridge and looking right to see Pittsburgh glistening under the clearest, crispiest blue sky. A lone boat had the confluence all to itself, its wake billowing behind, regal as a queen’s robe. The sun and the scene conspiring to almost make me cry it was so Sunday morning beautiful.

About 2 miles in, I caught Peter on a slight down hill somewhere on the North Side. I stayed just behind him, careful to remain outside of his peripheral vision. I didn’t want to risk him seeing me and feeling compelled to slow down his pace on my behalf. Content to just let him be my pacer for a little bit. What Grace to have lived long enough to follow in my son’s footsteps. 

My playlist serving up the best medicine exactly when I needed it. Three miles in, Frank Sinatra crooning, “Nice and Easy,” me hearing Frank’s finger snaps in the mix for the first time. He couldn’t resist … the band was swinging so much. By the last choruses, I couldn’t either. Me and Frank in the rocking chair as it were. Ol’ Blue Eyes subsequently passing the baton to Pancho Sanchez, Rage Against the Machine, Lauryn Hill, AC/DC, Levon and The Band, Morgan Harper Nichols, Indigo Girls and a chorus of other encouragers. One of my best mixtapes ever, if we’re bein’ honest here.  

The cheerleaders, mascots, DJs, cow-bell ringers, kids, friends, significants, seniors, families and neighbors who came to root. Especially the two drumlines throwing down. When I saw they had their hands full, I made sure to applaud them.

About six miles in, passing under an archway that read, “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.” Proly woulda cried at that point, too, if I hadn’t been holding on to my tears for miles 9 and 10.  

Between miles 7 and 8 we ran on Penn Avenue through the Strip District. It was as close as I’ll ever come to imagining what Stallone had in mind running Rocky through the streets of Philadelphia.  Penn Avenue’s melting pot holding down the Strip’s legacy while the world squeezes in on all sides. 

Pretty much over the whole endeavor by mile 8, but also knowing I’d run too far to give up. Muscling through the last two on fumes and a blistered and calloused right foot. Accepting every hi-5 offered by folks encouraging from the sidewalk. A thousand bonus points to the saints holding the Mario-inspired “TOUCH FOR POWER BOOST” signs down the home stretch.

Encouragers, never underestimate yourselves.

 

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