Waking up, thinking of saints this Sunday morning.
Yesterday, Karry mentioned in passing that it would have been her Mom’s 90th birthday.
I confessed that over the past couple of days I found myself registering the month and days, sifting my brain as if there was a birthday I should be remembering, but coming up empty.
Betty passed way too early, at 71, from colon cancer. Can’t believe it’s been 19 years. Peter and Emma were so young.
There’s a photo we keep on the mantle in the dining room.
I can’t remember the exact circumstances, but I think it was the first time we visited her house after her passing.
I just remember it was a photo that demanded to be taken.
On the day I remember entering the house through the garage door (as we almost always did) … taking the stairs up to the main floor … and coming to the top of the steps.
Instinctively looking left.
When Peter was young and we’d visit, Gram would always leave a present for Peter in the window in the dining room.
Usually a little Matchbox car or truck.
Once loosed from the car, he’d tear up the steps, expectant … look left and make a beeline to the window to see what treasure she had left him.
She never forgot. He never even had to ask. Even when we’d show up unannounced, there was always something waiting for him in the window.
I always thought that the ritual of that was just the most perfect summing up of Karry’s mom.
While I hid my enthusiasms better than Peter, I always came up those steps, expectant, too.
You knew there would always be a simple kindness waiting for you.
A sweet tea.
An egg sandwich.
Something from the garden.
And, if it was Sunday, a feast for the ages.
Oh, how she threw down on Sundays.
On the day we visited after her passing, I remember looking left and seeing the window sill empty.
But instead of feeling the emptiness of that, I registered the sight of the sun’s morning rays blasting through the window, bathing the sill in the most wonderful light.
As if the heavens were conferring their eternal special blessing on that tender, sacred space.
It struck me in the moment, as it still does these 19 years later, as the perfect embodiment of Betty’s love and kindness.
The promise of a present always waiting in the window.
In the back row were friends I met at Waynesburg College.
We went for tacos after.
Sitting next to my first college roommate, he reminded me that he’d met my friend John a couple times before.
First time at my wedding.
Last time … at my Dad’s funeral.
After the show had ended … and I walked into the lobby and saw John and Lisa, Matt and Jenn, Scott and Aline, Mike and Laura, and Mike #2 (who had Kelly drop him off) … all of ’em standing there … waiting to greet me … the first thought I had was how rare and precious a thing it is to have friends from different seasons of your life together in the same room.
Pretty much weddings and funerals, as my first college roommate validated.
So to get to share a tiny theater and some tacos with humans responsible for crowd surfing me through my youth …
My friend Doug texted me Thursday, which triggered the following exchange.
I was grateful to Doug for giving me something to look forward to.
Actually, two things.
First and foremost, the delight of his company … the gift of picking up the conversation we began when we met as drummers our freshman year at Waynesburg College.
Secondly, for the gift of the arriving.
Ever since April who cuts my hair closed her shop on High Street, I’ve missed driving to Waynesburg every fourth Saturday morning.
I miss driving through Washington just as it’s just waking up and hopping on Interstate 79.
I don’t take 79 the whole way to Waynesburg, though.
I fall in love at the Ruff Creek exit.
By the time I see the sign announcing two miles to Ruff Creek, I am almost giddy. After the exit’s abrupt stop sign, I ease past the gas station on the left and the Church on the right where the cop sat that one time.
Confirming the coast is clear, I politely punch it and take the two-lane roller coaster climb of a hill as if it’s the roller coaster itself, my one and only chance to clear any slow pokes content with letting life and me pass them by, so that by the top … the only thing in front of me are two lanes irresistibly wide open and waiting … the juiciest Jane Mansfield stretch of swerves and curves in all of Greene County.
Cue angel chorus.
Three sets of gently undulating left and right curves carved in an incline … tempting me and the GTI to a little Saturday morning orneriness.
At the first left, I leave the right lane and visit the passing lane, following the arc of the bend, and, as long as there are no other cars in sight, swing all the way back into the right as the road snakes.
Since the hill’s not quite done, I keep my foot on the gas so I can feel the pull into the curve until it releases me into the next left … and then gently back again into the far right.
By the third left, the sequence is doing the good work of my morning coffee. All of it taking less than a minute.
The loveliest little moment of aliveness.
The only-every-four-week sequence made it precious. Something to look forward to.
Something I’ve missed.
__
Saturday’s reminder of which was almost but not quite as good as the big bear hug Doug and I greeted each other with, before hunkering down in our cushy red booth.
After sharing my gratitude with Doug for his invitation, for the delight of his company, and the gift in the pilgrimage, we were deep into catching up on family, music, and books when he interrupted me.
He: “Still looking for your pay it forward?”
Me: “Yes!”
He: “An older couple just came in and sat down.”
We called our server over, who was more than happy to conspire with us.
“I’m going over to take their order right now.”
I stole a glance out of the corner of my eye.
Older married couple out for Saturday breakfast.
Late 60’s, maybe 70s. I’m a bad guesser.
I overheard the husband order Double Meat for his breakfast platter, which made me smile.
A man after my Dad’s quadruple-bypassed heart, I thought to myself.
I confessed to Doug that something about older couples always melts me.
Told him about being at the coffee shop last Saturday as a couple regulars I’ve seen before took the table next to me. It was freezing outside, so they were all bundled up. Kept their toboggans on the whole time.
They were adorable.
I wasn’t eavesdropping, but sitting next to them, I couldn’t help but notice.
They talked the whole time.
Genuine conversation.
Asked questions of the other.
Not a phone in sight.
Made each other laugh on more than one occasion.
When they left, I asked Nicole, who does the baking and who I heard call them by name, whether they were just friends or ….
“They’re married,” she confirmed. “They are just the sweetest.”
I said aloud how I hoped to live long enough to be an old couple who keeps their toboggans on while sipping their Saturday morning coffee.
I shared the above with Doug as we resumed losing ourselves in the swerves and curves of our conversation.
Asking questions of the other.
Making each other laugh on more than one occasion.
‘Til it was time to get on with our Saturdays.
When we got to the register to pay our bills, another customer was waiting for a to go order. I noticed she was wearing a Dairy Queen shirt.
I also noticed that the older couple had gotten up to leave, too, and were heading in our direction.
The wife had a lot of difficulty walking, so they were taking their time, her husband gently holding her arm as they made their way.
They chatted while they took the time she needed.
I apprehended that it wasn’t an easy choice for them to decide to go out for breakfast.
They probably don’t do it as often as they used to.
Which maybe made it something they looked forward to this week.
I imagined that their years together have taught them something of arrivings, too.
I melted in place.
When they got near the register, we and the DQ person stepped aside to let them pass between us — a humble Saturday morning honor guard — as the husband helped his wife to the restroom.
It took a minute for them to pass between us. Enough time for the husband to notice the DQ logo on the girl’s shirt, too.
“Peanut buster parfait,” he said, and smiled as he went past.
I hi-fived him in my head.
That was Dad’s favorite, too.
Standing in line with my friend at the register, waiting to pay our bills at the Bob Evans on a Saturday morning.
Re-watched all of my favorite holiday movies this season.
Except one.
A Charlie Brown Christmas, which we never got around to.
Destination TV when the kids were younger, though.
I mean, Linus droppin’ the mic at the end?
Puts a lump in my throat every time.
It was only this year that I was made aware of something I’d never noticed in all my previous watchings.
He drops the blanket, too.
In the climactic “Light’s, please” scene, right before he says, “Fear not …” Linus drops his blanket.
All those years I watched it, I never noticed it.
When a friend mentioned it to me, I got chills.
A sermon hidden in plain sight.
Looked it up online.
Yep.
Apparently, the Internet’s known about this for some time.
I asked my family if they were aware.
Nope.
Once I became aware, though, I couldn’t stop geeking out about it, asking friends. Sharing with those, who like me, were uninitiated.
Immediately thought of my high school buddy, Bob, an animator, who grew up a connoisseur of comics and cartoons.
I shot him a note … said I assumed he knew about this, but I couldn’t risk him not knowing.
He, of course, knew about the scene.
Shared the wisest reply.
“I did know about the dropped blanket thing, but I never really attached any significance to it.
“I always looked at it from an animation perspective, where I think Linus does a lot of arm gesturing during that scene and instead of animating a blanket moving around wildly with his arms, they just had him drop it and then pick it up again when he was done talking. I think the reason I thought that was because when Charlie Brown is talking to him right before Linus goes off, Charlie Brown drops his coat right before talking with his hands. Again, I assumed that was for animation purposes.”
Brilliant insight, which Bob’s always been good for.
At first his reply hit me like a splash of cold water.
“A Charlie Brown Christmas.” (Peanuts Worldwide)
So … a practical animation choice.
No sermon intended.
Nothing to see here.
Hmm.
But just because Charles Schulz may have been more interested in easing his animating burden doesn’t mean there’s not a sermon to be found.
Just because something isn’t true, or as intended, doesn’t mean it can’t be meaningful.
Otherwise myths wouldn’t exist.
Or religions, some might say.
We live in a world that would rather know how the trick is done than believe in magic.
Not me.
I’d rather be (open to being) awed.
I’ve learned to keep my antenna up for magic and meaning … even where it’s not supposed to exist.
Who says a perfect sermon can’t be found in a practical choice?
Even Bob in his wisdom agrees.
“But I guess in the big picture, it’s a much better story and makes more sense to say that Linus didn’t need security during that moment.”
We can let the blanket drop … without letting it get wet.
__
Sitting in my usual seat at my favorite coffee shop where I’m typing this, I watched an older woman, bundled head to toe for the cold, walk in to warm herself for a few minutes before catching her Saturday morning bus.
As she was trudging back to the door with 12 warm ounces in her hand, already bracing for the cold on the other side, a familiar downtown face came in, and seeing her, stepped to the side, and with his right arm, backhanded the door open for her.
Not the biggest fellow, he had to bend over a bit to muster the strength to brace the door open with just his one arm.
But from where I sat, his forced hunch read as a bow, imbuing his humble act with an added reverence.
Allowing the older woman catching her bus to pass through the door regal as a queen, nobly enrobed in her winter coat, her toboggan pulled tight like a crown.
She nodded thanks to him as she exited.
As if to a loyal subject.
It was a scene that neither would likely think of ever again.
She, a bus to catch.
He, cold hands to warm at the fireplace.
Me, a lump in my throat for the gift of bearing witness.
It was a scene I’m likely never to forget.
His bow. Her nod.
A sermon hidden in plain sight.
A sweet and simple reminder to be kind where we can to those we encounter along the way.
To humble ourselves to allow the strangers we meet to walk in dignity in an otherwise cold world.
If he’d have been holding a blanket in his right hand, he might have made the practical choice to drop it, too.
For starters I drove through the snow into the city. Roads were awful. Slid into a bank trying to make the left onto Maiden Street.
Traffic on the interstate slowed to a sloppy crawl just before Canonsburg. Google told me I should peel off the exit, so I listened.
Called home to let Karry know my circumstances.
Candidly, part of me was hoping she’d tell me to just come back home.
Give me an excuse not to go through with the second brave thing.
“You should stay on the interstate. It’s gonna be better than the side roads.”
She is so much better than Google.
It was the wisest counsel … from the person who’s been pointing in the right direction for 30 years and counting.
So I got myself turned around. Limped back onto I-79.
Kept going.
Sent a text letting ‘em know I was on my way, but was gonna be 15 or so minutes late.
“That’s OK. You’re on last!”
__
On a whim the week before I submitted something for Story Club Pittsburgh’s monthly live gathering.
Something about the theme — Turning Point — caught my eye. Made me think of something I’d written but never shared before.
The following day Kelly their (awesome) producer emailed me back, “The Spotlight slot’s yours if you want it.”
Eesh.
After I said yes Kelly informed me that the stories had to be under seven minutes.
Over the next few days, violent editing ensued.
By the time I’d gotten in my car Tuesday to drive into the city, I still hadn’t quite limbo’d my story under the bar.
Crawling along the interstate afforded me some extra practice time in the car. Must’ve run through it a half dozen times trying to find places where I could chop a few more seconds … without having to rush it.
And praying I’d remember my edits.
Seven minutes seemed like both forever and not nearly enough time.
As I drove I reminded myself I was last, so I’d have some time once I got there if I needed it.
Arrived while the emcee was still on stage and before the first storyteller.
Other than the spotlight slot at the end, the proceedings are open mic. Anyone who wants to tell a story drops their name in a hat — from which they pick seven names to go on stage.
As I grabbed a chair, the voice inside me said I owed the brave humans on stage my full attention … the same gift I would soon be asking from them.
The greatest gift in the world as far as I’m concerned.
They made it an easy gift to give.
The first person shared a brave and beautiful story about a person they stayed in a relationship way too long with, and what their hopeful but misplaced optimism had taught them. An older gentleman spoke about losing a best friend in high school and how he’s tried to live for both of them since. Another person relayed an amazing daisy chain of grace and kindness from law enforcement that allowed him to essentially walk on water all the way from New Jersey to Pittsburgh. There was a story about a rat in an apartment and another about a snake on a trail. And a lawyer told a tale of tracking down a client who met him not with a handshake, but a shotgun pointed at his chest.
Before I knew it, the emcee was calling my name.
By which point a good 90 minutes had passed since I’d taken my seat.
Since I’d last thought about my story.
I’d been picked as a Spotlight Storyteller once before, about a year ago. But I got sick and couldn’t be there in person. Made arrangements to share virtually from home. Had my notes on a second screen just in case, which made it easy.
This time, it was just me.
No notes.
The lights made it hard to see the faces of the people in the audience.
As I started in from memory, my mouth felt dry.
Was about a minute in … when I felt my words sliding to the tip of my tongue.
Got a little over halfway through.
And lost my way.
In the spotlight.
Alone on stage.
In front of a pretty full house.
With the clock ticking.
Stuck.
But then …
… something amazing happened.
A few people in the audience started snapping.
A couple clapped encouragement.
And a wonderful soul in the front row … one of the few faces I could see in the lights … repeated the last couple of lines I had said back to me.
A roomful of humans that was already offering me their greatest gift, did their best to point me in the right direction.
Took me a moment, but I got myself turned around.
Limped back on the interstate.
Kept going.
Crawled the rest of the way.
Until I made it.
__
On my drive back home, I thought of Patti Smith, and the time she forgot the words to “A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall” while performing in front of the King of Sweden and the royal family at Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize ceremony in Stockholm.
And how beautifully and humanly she wrote of her experience. Of the kindness shown her afterwards by some of the Nobel scientists in attendance, who shared their appreciation for her very public struggle. “I wish I would have done better, I said. No, no, they replied, none of us wish that. For us, your performance seemed a metaphor for our own struggles,” she wrote so movingly in The New Yorker.
It occurred to me that, had I spent those 90 minutes before I stepped on to the stage going over my story, I would likely have avoided my embarrassment and delivered a better performance for the audience I was there to serve.
But that would have come at the expense of giving my full attention to all the other wonderful storytellers that came before me.
It would have required withholding my most valuable gift in the world.
So I refuse to regret my choice.
I accept my stumbling as a fair price to pay … for the gift of bearing witness to their stories.
Maybe even a bargain.
Because had I not stumbled, I would not have experienced an audience of strangers reaching out to steady me.
And the traveler writing these words would be much the poorer for that.
Em’s reply when asked if she wanted signed up for the New Year’s Day Resolution 5K we ran last year.
“Yes … a tradition!” I enthused.
To be clear, she detests running. Didn’t have her newer tennis shoes at home. Had to borrow my old hoodie.
When Peter asked her goal for race day, she answered: “To not cry the entire time.”
“Me too!” I replied, holding up a hi-5 which she promptly ignored.
In this year’s sequel, I took note of a few differences from our maiden voyage.
For starters we arrived early.
In the 23 years I’ve been a parent, we’ve never been early for anything.
Like, ever.
We had ample time to get our bibs, pee, stretch.
I actually peed a second time … because I knew I may never be this early again.
To be fair, last year was a totally spur of the moment affair. In a spasm of poor decision-making, I signed us up on New Year’s Eve — the day before the race — whilst slightly north of my second Moscow Mule of the evening. Was genuinely surprised they both said yes. It was their first 5K.
This year was Em’s second.
Her brother, on the other hand ….
Peter’s actually taken a keen interest in running over the past year. Much more serious than mine. Minds his times and distances. Actually had a New Year’s Race Day goal in mind.
Meanwhile, I held fast(-ish) to mine from last year: not puking.
With the aforethought that comes with pre-planning, I strategically managed my New Year’s Eve race prep.
Stayed away from Moscow Mules.
Opted for margaritas instead.
Was coming off an uneven night’s sleep when we took our place among the mass of humanity at the starting line. Didn’t feel like I had much in the tank.
So I was grateful to find a person shortly after the start to hitch my wagon to, so to speak. From the back, the guy looked middled-aged and mis-matched … seemed to be wearing a collared shirt over another shirt (?), along with shorts, dark socks and a ballcap. Temperature was in the 30s, which made his incongruous ensemble read as either brazen or ironic — both of which I found oddly appealing.
He seemed like a poorly informed tourist from another country trying too hard to blend in … or exactly how I’ve felt in every race I’ve ever participated in.
His pace was reasonable, though. Determined without trying to prove too much … which, I reminded myself, was the same criteria I used for picking my middle school cologne.
Managed to keep him in my sights the first mile. The trail was puddled in places, which made it a little challenging for me to keep up, but not too off-putting.
After I hit the mid-point turnaround, I was greeted by a winter wind bent on smacking me in the face the whole rest of the way (rude). Over the second mile, my pacer lengthened his lead, but I did my best to keep from falling too far behind.
I find once one crests a race’s midpoint, one’s playlist becomes really important. You need that voice in your head to take your mind away from the realization that, if it wasn’t for your poor decision-making, you could be home right now under a weighted blanket on the couch, binge-watching Murder She Wrote while sipping hot cocoa.
My playlist was on shuffle, so up popped a slow ballad I love by a melancholic Pittsburgh band from the 90’s, whose singer began to croon, “This world will be the death of me,” which convinced me I should maybe outsource the curation of my hype music to the algorithms.
Stole a glance down at my phone to hit skip, trading “… satchel full of broken hopes … ” (wtf?) for “Heroes” by Bowie (universe balance = restored), and noticed I had just under a half-mile left. Took a quick inventory of my legs, breath and bowels and, confirming stasis, looked up and noticed I’d gotten a little closer to Dark Sock Ironic Collar Guy.
This is the point in the proceedings where one starts thinking about one’s finishing kick, which for me, consists of trying not to giggle slash pee oneself.
The lesson of the TBPPD (Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Dude) from a year ago slow-jogged through my mind as I considered my strategy. The previous night’s margaritas suggested … a conservative approach.
So I waited ’til the three mile mark, and then, you know, called down to engineering to fire up the old warp core.
Once engaged I passed DSICG with all the urgency of a middle-aged man on the cusp of the morning’s third pee … in the process resisting the temptation to look over my shoulder to see if my backdraft caused the collar on his shirt to at all flutter.
Hubris eventually comes for us all.
Pushed as hard as I could as I crossed the finish line.
But after catching my breath on the other side, I sought out my pacer.
“Excuse me, sir,” I called out.
He turned around, whereupon I noticed that (a.) he was a bit older than me, and (b.) his collar was actually a neck-warming device (pro move). I also saw the front of his shirt for the first time, which commemorated a Boston Marathon he’d previously conquered decades ago.
Respect.
I congratulated him on running a great race. Told him he was my North Star, and thanked him accordingly.
He confessed he hadn’t run in two months, so wasn’t sure what his body was going to give him. From where I stood, he did more than OK.
I sought out Peter and Em in the post-race hubub, and we headed back indoors to warm up and so Peter could check out the results.
He found his name on the printout they taped to the wall by the awards table. Finished top 25, third in his age group, shaving a whopping two minutes-plus per mile from a year ago.
What a difference a year can make.
So we hung around for the awards.
They went oldest to youngest, announcing the winners in the 70-and-above category first.
A familiar figure walked up to claim first place.
Dark socks. Shorts.
Dude was in his 70s.
Um … brazen, it turns out.
As far as North’s Stars go, I chose wisely.
Probably went home and spent the afternoon chopping wood.
Needless to say, I found the experience of smoking a stone cold septuagenarian down the home stretch very satisfying.
We waited through the other age groups until they got to the 20-29s.
Announced females first.
When we heard third place finished just above 30 minutes, Em and I had the same thought.
She turned to me, “Wait, if she was third … then I might have ….”
We were both giggling by the time she finished the sentence, just as they were calling her name for winning her age group.
In the ironic category.
I had a fresh hi-5 waiting for her by the time she returned to her seat … which she promptly ignored.
I informed her that she was now bound by honor to come back next year and defend her crown.
My normal custom for an early-in-the-week Jim letter is to save it to open on Saturday morning.
To give myself something to look forward to.
And to make sure I have the space — temporal, physical, soulful — to savor the treasure inside.
My friend Jim’s a wonderful poet. His letters are always accompanied by a few of his recent poems.
He happens to be in his 90s now.
When I grow up, I hope to someday write as well as Jim does in his 90s.
At his age he senses the nearness of death. As a former pastor he also senses the nearness of being called Home.
Having lived so long, having lost his wife, Mary, to dementia a couple years ago … he keenly appreciates the preciousness of days and time.
And stares it all down with a poet’s heart.
Has made a practice of sifting the everyday for meaning and for magic.
And somehow makes it all rhyme … figuratively and literally.
“Poetry is persistently plaguing me at night, and when, half asleep, I kick off the covers, I force myself to get up, write down a phrase, or a line or two, so precious that I just can’t chance to let it wander away.”
For the record, I’m a little over half Jim’s age, and when I kick off the covers at night, it’s to get up to pee, not scribble down epiphanies.
Jim inspires me so much, in both the act and the substance of his letters and poems.
We’ve carried on a correspondence for a few years now.
I’ve noticed a common refrain in his letters. A lament.
He’s always longed for his poetry to be published … so it can be remembered.
In a post-Thanksgiving letter, he wrote, “Doggerel, following me like a lost puppy, and when on Google yesterday, I found a host of famous lines of Tennyson … I asked, ‘Will anyone remember even one of mine?’ as if I’ll care after my death.”
But only a line later … “Sunday morning sun brightens the tarnished attitude I bring to life on these usual dull winter days.”
I can attest that Jim’s poetry is beyond worthy.
When I wrote him back, I asked him if he would mind if I shared his poems with friends.
And for once, when his reply arrived in the mail, I didn’t wait until Saturday morning to open it.
Something about the urgent pause of a New Year’s Eve suggests a break with custom.
“YES, you may share whatever comes from me. That is the greatest tribute that I know of … of my attempts at poetry … to be liked enough to share.”
In thinking how I might best serve your precious attention in this moment … I can’t think of any better gift to share with you than Jim’s gifts shared with me. Of his noticing in a sparrow’s visit a kindred spirit. His allowing a newborn sun to surround in warmth all that’s old in him.
So in this space between the holidays, between our no longers and our not yets, may we greet whatever lies ahead as if it were a Sunday morning sun.
May we approach it with the wisdom, persistence and awe of a 90-year-old poet still sifting this broken world for its good light.
May we ever be so alive to what moves us that we have no choice but to kick off the covers and call it by name, so we can share our magic words with the world around us.
May we always (always) have something to look forward to.
If you are so moved, you have Jim’s permission to like, share and comment. I promise to reflect your good light back to him.
When Karry was pregnant with Emma, people would ask Peter, who was three at the time, whether he wanted a little brother or a little sister.
His answer was always the same.
“No.”
That one still cracks me up.
I mean, for a three-year-old … that’s a glorious comeback, right there.
And when I called Karry’s Mom from the hospital to let her know it was, in fact, a girl … and Betty, in turn, informed Peter (who she was watching while we were at the hospital), he made a beeline for the kitchen sink, climbed in the space underneath it, and shut the door behind him.
Years later, whenever people would ask me about our kids, I’d find myself saying, “My son’s ____ (16 … 18 … 20, etc.) , and he’s still getting used to the fact that he has a little sister.”
All of the above, true.
So … to be gathered around the table last night in our tiny dining room, surrounded by all our Christmas and life clutter …
… the four of us slow-savoring every bite of the by-request chocolate meringue flourless cake big brother made his little sister for her 20th birthday …
… listening to them geeking out with each other about the cake’s cross section …
… him sharing with her how the recipe’s author discovered how to do the marbling on top, and how he was meticulous in following the directions … for fear of all the inherent gluten-free and dairy-free landmines …
… how he’s never been one to follow directions … a proud by-product of the Fordyce stubborness he comes by honestly …
… getting to bear witness to a big brother’s pride in receiving his little sister’s approval.
Forgive me if it’s gonna take me awhile to get used to that fact.
I mean, that he wanted to get it just right for her.
Let’s just say … such sweetness is worth the wait.
Letters for Maggie 