Author Archives: Pete Riddell

Fathers and Sons

Keeping time ….

Was saddened to learn of the recent passings of a couple humans who were both significant figures in my musical growings up … Bob Mascia and Ralph Bill. Sending love and condolences to their families and to all that loved them and will miss them.  

They both influenced a ton of young musicians, having both served as band directors at Brownsville High School. I believe Bob may have actually followed Ralph in the role. 

I was not one of their band students. 

And I only really knew them for a fraction of my life, which was even a smaller fraction of theirs. But though I hadn’t seen either in decades, knowing them was — and will always remain — meaningful.

As does the fact that I’m writing this on an otherwise nameless summer Sunday afternoon.  

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I was 13 years old and standing in the kitchen after school one day while Mom was getting dinner ready. 

When Dad came home from Sherwin Williams, walked in the kitchen and promptly informed me — outta nowhere — that he’d signed me up for drum lessons. And that he’d already met with the teacher, and made it clear that I was to learn all styles of music, “not just rock,” (I can still hear Dad’s voice emphasizing those words) … including waltzes, bossa novas, cha-chas, rhumbas, tangos, and of course, jazz and swing. 

The specificity with which he relayed his expectations made it all feel like a foregone conclusion. But I was an agreeable kid, and drums were cool … so my reaction was along the lines of, “Ok.” 

Bob was my drum teacher. He graduated high school with my older sister Missy (she reminded me that Bob played the lead in the high school musical their senior year – The Music Man — while she played piano).

At the time of Dad’s kitchen conversation, Bob was playing steady in a local rock band and filling in with a few others, including the group my Dad played with — Sammy Bill’s Orchestra. 

Gave drum lessons on the side downtown at Ellis’ Music Store.  

First thing I learned?  

Drums don’t start cool.

I got a pair of sticks and a rubber pad the size of a piece of Texas Toast. 

Was informed that I had to learn snare drum before I’d be allowed anywhere near a set. For my parents, it was like a stay of execution. 

Bob taught me how to read music, how to count quarter notes, eighths and sixteenths, what triplets were, how to bounce my sticks for open rolls. Graduated me to Charles Wilcoxin’s rudiments … paradiddles, drags and ruffs, and rolls of every dynamic, shape and size: fives, sevens, nines, seventeens, with an odd eleven and thirteen thrown in for good measure(s). 

I was always somewhere between good and bad, never quite religious in my practicing.

But I stuck with it.  

And a couple years into lessons, Dad surprised with the best Christmas present I’d ever receive — a set of Pearl drums from Ellis’.

I began alternating my weekly lessons with Bob between set and snare. 

I remember my very first lesson on set, Bob teaching me the building blocks of how to assemble a couple basic beats. 

Eighth notes on the hi-hat with my left hand (I’m a lefty), backbeat on two and four with my right on the snare, opening the high hat with my right foot on the ‘and’ of one and closing it on ‘two.’ Gave me two variations for the bass drum — four on the floor, and an alternate where the kick drum hit on “one” and “three-and.”

I still remember the exhilaration of the first time getting all four limbs to hold a groove. 

It was a teenager’s equivalent of pedaling a bike under your own power for the first time. The inexpressible freedom that comes from being responsible for your own locomotion in the world. I can tell you the feeling’s the same whether the locomotion is physical or sonic. The Big Bang it was to me.

At last, drums were cool. 

Occasionally I’d arrive a few minutes early for my Saturday morning lesson, climb to the top of the steps and find Bob just messing around on the kit. 

Oh, was he a monster. 

Every time I heard him play, from the first time to whenever the last may have been, I was in awe.

Got to hear him play once with Sam’s band. Though he held back for the kind of dance music they performed, he still couldn’t help overflowing the banks with his prowess. 

It’s hard to keep a Ferrari tame. 

__

Fast forward to the summer after ninth grade. 

I was in the kitchen on an otherwise nameless Sunday afternoon, Mom fixing an early dinner since Dad had a gig that night. They played every third Sunday at the Moose in Perryopolis, three easy hours for an always appreciative crowd. Dad always loved that gig. 

It had rained all afternoon, torrential summer thunderstorms … the kind that percussively pummeled and waterfalled rain on the aluminum awning on our tiny front porch.

The phone rang and I remember walking from the kitchen to answer it. It was Sam, calling to let my Dad know that the Moose had lost power from the storms and that the gig was cancelled. 

I remember Dad being bummed, but also relieved to get his Sunday night back so he could prep for work the next day. 

About 45 minutes later, we were eating dinner at the table when the phone rang again. It was Sam calling back to say that the power had come back on at the Moose … so the gig was on.

So Dad resumed his gig-prep ritual, getting a shower, doing his teeth (which took a good 30-45 minutes. I’m not sure there was ever a trumpet player more meticulous about his teeth), laying out his suit, his mute bag, etc.

No big deal. 

Until the phone rang for a third time. Sam again. He’d gotten a hold of everyone except Bob. In the age before cel phones, when answering machines were still a novelty, you either got a hold of someone or you didn’t. Sam figured that Bob must’ve gone out to eat or something after learning that the gig was off.

“Tell Pete to get ready, just in case Bob doesn’t call me back,” Sam told my Dad.

Upon which I promptly started freaking out.

I’d tagged along on a couple of my Dad’s gigs, had listened to a couple cassette tapes of the band he’d given me, so I wasn’t completely unfamiliar with the music. But my drums had never left my practice room. I didn’t even have cases for them. I remember taking them apart that afternoon for the first time, afraid I wouldn’t remember how they went back together. When I wasn’t freaking out, I was praying that Sam would call back saying he’d gotten a hold of Bob. 

Alas, a fourth call never came.

The rain had long since stopped by the time Mac came to pick us up. I remember carrying my cymbal stands out one by one, gingerly laying them down in the back of his Chevy Suburban, covering them with blankets so they wouldn’t be tempted to roll.

When we were done loading the truck, Mac commented, “They look like dead bodies.”

Not the encouragement I was looking for.

When we got to the Moose, Dad helped me set things back up and bought me a Pepsi to calm my nerves. Sam loaned me an oversized tux jacket, and a gratuitously large, velvet, clip-on black bow tie that wore crooked.

I’ll never forget his only instruction to me, which he delivered with his signature calmness: “As long as you begin and end with the rest of the band, you’ll be fine.”

By the time everybody tuned up and gathered on the bandstand, I was in full panic. I gave my full attention to Sam’s every word and gesture, locking into the tempos as he counted off the tunes. 

But once a tune shoved off from shore, one person became my life preserver — Ralph, Sam’s son, who played keyboard. I hyper-focused on Ralph’s left hand, which he used to play the bass lines. Ralph’s left hand told me everything I needed to know about each tune … whether it was a foxtrot, a jump tune, a bossa nova, cha-cha … on down the line. 

I remember little else about that evening other than surviving the longest three hours of my life … thanks to a constant stream of advice and encouragement from Alice (our singer) and the guys in the band.

When it was over, I gratefully collected their smiles and handshakes, and then collected myself before turning my full attention to trying to remember how to tear my drums back down.
Then Sam came over to me. Asked me to put out my hand.

Into which he put $25 … my share of the evening’s take.

I still can vividly recall my 15-year-old self’s feeling of surprise and exhilaration as I stared at the money in my hand. It felt like a million bucks to me.

In that humble transaction, I went from being a scared-shi*tless 15-year-old to being a professional musician. 

I remember Bob making a point of that during my next lesson.

“No, I’m not,” I tried to quickly dismiss. 

“You were paid for your services … that makes you a professional,” Bob informed me, setting the record straight.

Sam paying me was only the second most significant thing he did that night, though. 

He asked if I’d be his regular drummer.

He said he was looking for someone who could make all the gigs. Bob sometimes played with other groups, forcing Sam to find subs. He wanted someone steady.

I can tell you with 100% certainty that there was nothing in my performance that evening that earned me the invitation. And I never grew to be more than one-tenth the drummer Bob was.
But I never gave Sam a chance to reconsider his offer. 

And, you know what? Bob never said a single word about my displacing him. 

So, for the next 13 years, I got to share a bandstand with my Dad.

And with Ralph, too.

__

When I think of Ralph, I think of how much fun he had while playing music. When his hands weren’t on the keys, he kept the band in stitches telling jokes. From the moment we’d arrive at a hall through set-up. Between sets. While we were tearing down and loading up. How he loved making people laugh. 

And, oh how he loved good food, too. The more unpretentious the surroundings, the better, as far as he was concerned. I can still hear Ralph saying, “You can’t eat atmosphere,” a line that I still quote to this day whenever I find myself enjoying delicious food in less than fancy surroundings. I credit Ralph every time I quote him. 

__

As I was driving Route 40 towards Brownsville a couple Wednesday’s ago to pay respects at Ralph’s visitation, I found myself thinking of all the New Year’s Eve gigs we played together. After playing Auld Lang Syne at midnight, the band would stand up and we’d shake hands. I always set my drums up next to Ralph’s keyboard, so Ralph’s was usually the first hand I’d shake in the new year. I can say as I write this I now consider that an honor.

When I got to the funeral home, I spent a few minutes looking at the old photos they had placed around the room, mostly of Ralph’s life in music and love of family. There were a couple pictures of Sam’s old bands, one from the very early days, and a later one from when we played together. Sam in the front row in his white tux, Ralph smiling from behind the keyboard. Dad in the middle of the trumpet section, and me in crooked bow tie and glorious mullet. 

“So many of them are gone, now,” Ralph’s wife Hillary said of the photo, when I offered my condolences. “Sam, now Ralph, your Dad … Roger … Diz.”

It’d been about 25 years since we’d last seen each other. Hillary used to come on some of the gigs. I invited Karry on a couple New Year’s Eves and they’d keep each other company. 

“I remember the first time you played,” Hillary recalled. “You wrapped your drums in blankets.” 

I told her that Ralph’s left hand was pretty much responsible for getting me through that first gig. And how much I treasured those times. 

On my way out, I signed the registry, taking note of the names of some of the guys I was fortunate enough to play with all those years ago. 

I didn’t stay long. 

Just long enough to be reminded of days of Auld Lang Syne, and what good days those were.

Learning of Bob’s passing barely a week later … I was reminded that none of those days would have even been possible without Bob’s presence in my life … and his absence one rainy Sunday afternoon.

There’s no such thing as a nameless Sunday.

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Postcards

It’s still good ….

Sunday morning I’m downstairs at my desk when my wife pulls in the driveway, back from picking up groceries after church. 

She likes going to the early service. 

I stay behind and write. 

Both reverent in our pews, attentive to the divine.

Hearing the garage door, I walk out to help her carry in. 

Find her sitting in her car, windows up. 

“You on the phone?” I mouth, making a telephone gesture with my left hand. 

She rolls down the passenger window. 

“I wish you could see your Dad right now,” she says. “His boxers are sticking out above his pajama bottoms.”

She has our daughter on speaker. 

“ ‘Thank you for helping carry in the groceries,’  is what she means to say,” I interject, loud enough for the bluetooth to pick up.  

“And his t-shirt’s too small. Belly’s sticking out.” 

I’m provoked into issuing a statement.  

“I will not be shamed for operating in Cozy Mode on a Sunday morning,” I enter into the record. 

“It’s almost noon,” my daughter chimes in on speaker.

I almost miss being a target of their pile-ons. 

“And, let it be known that Cozy Mode may remain in effect for the next several hours,” I add, which is simultaneously the most defiant threat I can think of, and quite possibly the most pathetic utterance of my life. 

“He looks ridiculous,” my wife adds, grossly overstating the obvious.

Or, overstating the gross obvious.  

“OK, I’ll go in and change, and you can carry in the groceries,” I fire back. 

Was pretty proud of that one. I’m usually not that quick. 

“And I’ll take back the salami I picked up for you.”

She is always that quick. 

Caught me flat-footed. I didn’t see the salami coming. 

Night before, she’s putting finishing touches on the grocery order. Asks if there’s anything I want to add. 

I think for a couple seconds.  “Ooh … do we have any ….”

“Don’t even say ‘salami,’”

In legal terms I believe her asking me the question is what’s known as ‘entrapment,’ but I digress. 

I braced a second too late for what I knew was coming next. 

“I’ve thrown out the last three bags you asked me to get.”

This is true. Not sure I even opened ‘em. 

“I’m not getting it again to have to throw it away.”

Totally understand. So wasteful. 

I feel remorse for requesting salami that I habitually ignore.

I’m not sure why I do this. 

I genuinely like salami. I mean, in between two slices of bread with some yellow mustard? Perfection. Makes salads instantly, you know, fancy. Rolled up with a slice of provolone … it’s like Cozy Mode on a plate.

I have it in my head that salami keeps for a long time. Takes weeks to cure, doesn’t it? You always see ‘em hanging from wooden ceilings on TV. 

So I feel no sense of urgency with salami. Assume it’s always going to be there.

I’m surprised when she throws it away. 

Every time she does, part of me thinks, “It’s still good.” 

I realize I may not be in full command of the facts on the topic.   

Maybe I should start treating it like an avocado. 

Clock’s always tickin’ on an avocado. Doesn’t give you a chance to take it for granted. 

Or … maybe I just like the idea of salami more than, you know, consuming it.

Regardless, the way she kiboshed my request before I could even make it the night before left me convinced I’d have a lot of time to ponder the mystery while living out the rest of my salami-free days.

A punishment fitting the crime.

But … she added it to the order. 

Awwwww.

“She still loves me,” I thought.

At least enough to give me another chance.

I may or may not have placed my hand over my heart after she said it. 

Or, you know, over my t-shirt that’s at least one size too small. 

I mean, she got me salami. 

I’ve come to appreciate that such tiny graces are the wobbly cobblestones that give a marriage a chance to find its fragile footing.

“It’s still good,” I thought.

The fact that I only became aware of her kind gesture when she threatened to take it back was not lost on me.

Clock’s always tickin’ on an avocado. 

“We are such an old married couple,” I said, loud enough for the Bluetooth to hear.

For the record, I was praising us, not shaming us.

Love looks different at 54 then it did at 24.

Says the guy whose boxer shorts are peeking out over his drooping pajamas past noon on a Sunday.

Sometimes you have to put on your cheaters to notice how beautiful it still is. 

I went around back to grab the grocery bags.

Still attentive to the divine.

 

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Postcards

Paying. Forward ….

Friday morning I took my car in for scheduled maintenance.

“You gonna wait?” check-in-guy asked me. Said there was only one car in front of me. Shouldn’t be that long. 

Found myself a quiet nook at the dealership. Grabbed a coffee from the machine. Hopped on their wifi, started into my work day.

About 15 minutes later, check-in guy rolls up. 

He: We can’t open your hood.

Me:  I’m sorry … what? 

He: Yeah … problem with the latch release. Hood won’t pop. 

Me: I put in washer fluid a week ago. Worked just fine.

He: Yeah, there’s no tension in the cable. Nothing happens when you pull the release. So we gotta diagnosis it. It’ll take about an hour … so it’ll be an additional $160 (on top of the maintenance costs I’d already signed up for.). 

Me: I’m sorry … for what? 

He: To diagnosis what’s wrong.

Me: I thought you said the hood won’t open. 

He: Yeah. 

Me: Isn’t that what’s wrong? (coffee was still kickin’ in)

He: Yeah, but we have to diagnose what’s causing it.

Figuring it’s hard to do maintenance without, you know, opening the hood, I was like … whatever.  

My residual head-shaking was only starting to ebb, when check-in guy rolls up again.

Holding papers. 

He: Yeah, so the latch release cable needs replaced. We have to order the part. Also … it’s hard to get to, and there’s a chance, worst case, that we’ll have to bust the grill to get access to open the hood. So, worst-case, we’d have to replace the grill and the badge, too. 

Proceeds to show me the ‘best’ case … pointing to a really large dollar amount on the paper. 

“And here’s the worst case,” he says … pointing to another really large number for the ‘grill-busting special,’ which would be in addition to the first large number, which is on top of the $160.

So they can do the scheduled maintenance, which will have to be rescheduled. 

Metaphorically, it’d be like going to the dentist for a cleaning, only for them to inform you, “First … we’re going to have to punch you really hard in the face, which may cost you your front teeth, which we would, of course, then have to replace. None of which can happen today … so you’re going to have to leave and come back on Face-Punching Wednesday. After which, you know, the cleaning.”

In literal terms, while still waiting for the dealership coffee to take effect, I learn that it might cost me north of a thousand dollars to open my hood. 

Lemme just say … it’s one of those things that’s hard to say ‘Yes’ to in the moment.

I gave myself a few seconds to let the absurdity of it dig its toes into the sand before externalizing a response … which manifested in me laughing out loud. 

Not at the hood. 

At the week. 

I was only a day removed from having a plumber out to snake the downstairs drain under the driveway out into the backyard … which failed to address the smell coming from our shower. Only a couple hours removed from making arrangements for him to come back next week with “The Thing,” which will cost insert large sum here. 

Only two days removed from the knob on our old dryer going kaput … so now, the dryer just runs constantly … so we have to unplug it between loads. 

And four days removed from ordering a new air conditioner, the cost of which we deliberated long and hard about before deciding to pull the trigger before May decides to summer. 

All of which to say … my laugh had a running start as check-in guy waited patiently for me to take his pen.

I mean … nice work, universe. 

I told check-in guy I’d call him next week … which would gift me the weekend to temporarily indulge one of my favorite past times … ignoring problems hoping they go away. 

___

I woke up Saturday morning still shaking my head at the week’s accumulations … when I gathered my things and headed uptown to the tiny coffee shop where I like to write my weekend medicine.

While waiting in a short line, I remembered another bill I was overdue in repaying.  

Couple weeks ago I invited a friend out to a storytelling event in the city. We hadn’t seen each other in I don’t know how many years. Used to work together. We’d gotten back in touch earlier this year, trading texts and even chatting on the phone. For some reason I’d thought of him that morning so shot him a text asking if he’d be interested in joining me, and was thrilled when he said yes. My son was working in the city that day, so I invited him as well. 

It turned out to be a wonderful evening.

When we arrived, I tossed my name in the hat, from which they would select the evening’s eight storytellers. I’d never done that before. I won’t call it an act of bravery because I did it as quickly as possible so the voice in my head didn’t have time to weigh in. I figured my odds were low, anyway, as the house was packed.

The evening’s first three storytellers could not have been more different in tone and topic, which is what makes such events invariably magical. When the host reached into the hat for the fourth storyteller, I heard my name called. I was so lost in enjoying the company, and leaning into my chair at the other storytellers, it jarred me. And in the few seconds it took to stand up and walk through the full house to the side of the stage, my anxiety went from zero to 60. But, I stepped out … and told a story that I was aching to tell … to the most gracious audience you could imagine.

At the end of our wonderful night, my friend insisted on picking up the tab for our sandwiches, despite Peter and my protestations. 

I promised to him I’d pay his kindness forward.  

Which I remembered just as I was about to order Cortado #1. 

“Big plate, tiny cup?” Sydney the barista asked … which cracked open my weekend’s first smile like a fresh breakfast egg. 

For context … some lost Saturday ago, I’d asked for a saucer to put under a really full cortado she’d made. She went in the back, returned a few seconds later, holding a regular plate. “This is all we have,” she said. 

“Oh, that’s perfect,” I said, as I slid the ridiculously large ‘saucer’ under the tiny cup. As I did I noticed that the plate had a few chips out of it … which made it even more perfect. 

“My life very much needs a generous splash radius.”

I remember telling her before I left that day that I may just insist on the big plate moving forward. 

Now, I don’t even have to ask. 

Big plate, tiny cup. 

Every time Sydney sets it in front of me, it makes me think of all the humans and things in this world that catch the mess of me and crowd surf me through my days. 

Like my friend Jason who met us in the city and insisted on buying beers and sandwiches. 

So after I ordered, I asked Sydney if she could do a pay-it-forward, mentioning my friend Jason by name.

Of course, she said. 

After which I sat down, tuned my earbuds to my favorite jazz station (KCSM, which streams from the college of San Mateo, CA), scribbled my weekly postcard to my daughter, and cracked open my old laptop to sift the week for its treasure. 

I lost myself in the above like I sometimes do, so a good couple hours passed before I returned to the counter for Cortado #2, which must be referred to by its given name — “Portal to Invincibility.” 

Sydney’s co-worker took my order. 

I pulled out my card to tap my payment. 

She waved me off. 

“It’s already paid for,” she said. 

I looked at her quizzically. 

“Someone paid for your order,” she explained. 

Took me a second before the morning’s second smile broke across my face.

“It was him,” Sydney said, coming up beside her colleague to explain, before turning to me. “People have been keeping it going.”

“Really?” I asked.

The coffee shop had filled and turned over a good coupla times in between my first and second order.

And in full disclosure … I hadn’t put all that much on the counter. 

Humble pebbles on the scale, compared to all I owe.

But after a week of major appliance failures, stanky clogs, and a stubborn hood refusing to open — the numbers from which have yet to stop spinning — it wobbled me.

I mean, just the tender reminder that our kindness comes back to us.

The reminder that, even when all the evidence suggests otherwise, the world is still capable of surprising us.

Sometimes it just needs a nudge.

Like us.

I mean … nice work, universe.

I took a couple seconds to let all that sink in.

To give my response a running start.

I set the record straight … that my friend Jason started it, not me.

“Keep it going,” I said, tapping my card. 

Sydney returned a minute later.

Put it down in front of me. 

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Excursions

Sit, stay ….

Went for a walk over lunch the other day in the industrial park near our office. 

Note to self — take more walks over lunch. 

Figured I’d go 15 minutes out and double-back. 

I followed the concrete sidewalk as far as the giant fenced cell tower behind one of the Mitsubishi buildings. 

In the 20 years I’ve worked here, I’ve never gone farther than the big tower.

Was about to turn around … just as a person happened to be coming the other way, earbuds in.

“Excuse me,” I said. 

Asked him where the rest of the trail goes.

“If you keep going straight through the woods, it comes to a park.”

Said he believed there might be a left and a right, too, but he’d never done those. 

His response made me curious enough to break my routine and keep going.

Two minutes later I found myself under a fairy-tale-worthy canopy of trees … when I happened upon this.

 

The plastic bag’s what got me to stop. 

And smile autonomically. 

I can’t remember if I actually said, “Awww,” or … just felt it.

My heart immediately filled thinking of the tender deliberateness of whoever thought to take the photo.

And get it printed so small … at the perfect size to invite a closer look.

Then framed. 

And come back … to give the world passing by … a reason to stop … and autonomically smile.

I wondered at what point the thoughtfulness occurred to put it in a plastic bag … to give it a chance against the elements.

Wondered if they brought the pup when they placed it.

Wondered if they said anything.

I wondered if they knew how much it might mean to a stranger out for a walk over lunch … to be reminded that such gentle souls exist in this world. 

I just stood there for a few minutes … and danced with a million questions I will never know the answer to.

If the photographer knew Kyle. 

Family maybe? 

Kyle’s dog? 

They go for walks here? 

Or maybe it was a stranger who just noticed the bench and thought Kyle’s memory might want some company.

Considering the possibility that there might be such people in the world was enough for me.

Faith, hope and love … all wrapped up in a tiny plastic bag left loose on a bench.  

I wished on the spot for it to remain there forever. 

Though I knew it was just as likely that it might be gone by my next walk.

I’ll let you know.

Just in case … I wanted to wrap it all up … to protect it from the elements … and leave it here for you to stumble upon and smile … and wonder while the world passes.

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Excursions

Aliveness

Met my friend Jeff after work Friday at the Allegheny Elks on the North Side.

For their legendary fish fry. 

Got there a few minutes before he did, so took my place — reverently — at the end of the long line already hugging the side of the building.

While waiting for Jeff to arrive, I took in the majesty of the people standing in front of me, Friday shining under a perfectly Pittsburgh grey sky, the kind that’s never far from rain. 

Curly haired babies, old bald heads and everything in between, seasoned with splashes of black and gold even though all our teams pretty much suck.

It’s the rarest kinds of lines. 

The kind you actually don’t mind waiting in. 

Perfect for catching up with good friends at the end of a long week. 

Imbued with the purest of expectations, for a payoff that’s as close to a sure thing this broken world offers. 

The kind of line that, even if it was longer, you’d be OK with it.

At least I would. 

Jeff joined me after just a few minutes, our big, multi-second hug officially christening my weekend.

We fell into catching up … 

“Happy Anniversary!” 

“Mary says hello …”

“Going to see …”

“Food was uh-mazing …” 

You know, the important stuff.

Didn’t care how long it took us to gain entrance, but when we did ….

The warmth and aromas greeted us like a gentle kiss on the forehead. 

Perfectly preserved as if by pickling, the interior of any Elks Club worth its salt. 

The vestibule adorned with framed photos going back to black and white decades of past Exalted Rulers and their fellow leaders. An old stand-up sign with white magnetic letters highlighting the current crop, including the name of the lodge’s organist. 

I bet she throws down. 

The hand-written menu presenting you with the most important choices you will make this Friday. No possibility of a wrong answer. Neighbor in line said they even have a friend who swears by the stewed tomatoes. I take her word, knowing I’ll never find out as long as mac and cheese, french fries and cole slaw are headlining.

The line inside is also perfectly timed … to allow proper deliberation over your two sides and which of the holy (lower case ’t’) trinity gets voted off stage.

It’s cash only. 

Perfectly priced platters that, regardless of the domination you break, leave you with some singles to choose an individually wrapped, $1 each home made chocolate chip cookie (or two … or three) from the basket in front of the ladies settling you up. 

Even that’s so much better than automatically factoring a cookie into the price. 

There will never not be magic to putting your hand in the cookie jar. 

After paying you leave with your number to forage for a seat. 

We found a couple at the bar. 

Cue angel chorus.

Glorious wide oval, three bartenders persistently bantering and pouring like jazz musicians having a good night, one of ‘em wearing a Chico’s Bail Bonds t-shirt that hi-fived our childhoods. 

Just like waiting in line, waiting for our food was pure gift, zero inconvenience.

From our seats at the bar, we had an open site line to the Allegheny Elks’ house band — members of the Pittsburgh Banjo Club. Accompanied by a bass player and a trumpet player, they strummed old-timey songs as joyfully as you can imagine. 

For me, I equate seeing the Pittsburgh Banjo Club at the Allegheny Elks during Lent akin to seeing Sinatra at the Sands with Count Basie on New Year’s Eve. 

Took me back to when I was six or seven years old, sitting next to my sister Missy on the black piano bench in the living room while she played old songs from a thick songbook. We’d sing the corniest songs — poorly, but with gusto — together as she played.

Waiting for our fish sandwiches, I swear I knew the words to just about every tune the PBC was laying down (“Hello, my baby, hello my honey, ” … “I”m lookin’ over, a four-leaf clover,” … “By the light … of the sil-ver-ee moon ….”). 

Um, polkas included …. zing, boom, tararrel. 

I only wished Missy was there to sing along with me. 

Being the next-to-last Friday before Easter, the place was poppin’ … so it took a long time for the food to come … not that we noticed or even cared.

Gave us time to secure enough provisions to line the bar in front of us with tiny filled cups of Heinz, tartar, malt vinegar, along with packets of hot sauce … 

… and clink glasses of cold beer straight from the tap.  

By the time the food arrived, I was quoting Kurt Vonnegut quoting Fats Waller. 

“Somebody shoot me while I’m happy.” 

For the fish sandwich, they put the empty big bun on top of the ridiculously wide fish, leaving it for you to assemble. 

That’s a glorious bit of experience design right there, giving the audience the satisfaction of placing the final piece of the puzzle. 

You have about twice as much fish as surface area on the bun, which is, of course, somehow, the perfect proportions.

Though you are hungry, though you’ve waited a long time in line and sitting at the bar … you take your sweet time.

You savor.  

You chat between bites. 

You go back for more malt vinegar. 

You smile maybe your week’s widest grin when the bartender asks you if you’re ok if he uses the same glass when you switch over to Yuengling for your second beer.

Your smile gets wider when he says, “I knew you were a good people,” when you answer Yes. 

You ask the female bartender if anyone ever orders the grilled fish, and she testifies that, yes, people do, and yes it’s quite good, and really, she’s not BS-ing, and to validate her testimony, mentions that she’s sleeping with the grill guy.

You bless their unborn children. 

You let yourself fall back in love with the world for a moment when the lady waiting for her pitcher next to you comments that, at first, she mistook your clear plastic cup of malt vinegar — stacked three high on top of its empties — for Jack Daniels … thinking I was already three shots deep and not even halfway through my sandwich.

You politely correct her while confessing, “But, I like the way you think.”

And by the time you’re calling it, with just a couple bites left on the plate, you’re already re-thinking some of the major decisions you’ve recently made in your life. 

“Next time, I think I’m going mac and cheese for both of my sides,” said Jeff, as the universe joined me in silently nodding in agreement. 

You peel yourself off your stools, taking a last deep glorious inhale and a good look around before you backwash out the bar, through the dining area and vestibule, and back out outside to the long sidewalk …

… where the grey sky has gone dark, and the temperature has dipped a few more degrees to remind you that you are alive on the North Side on a Friday night … 

… and a multi-second hug goodbye later — the satisfying last piece in a perfect puzzle — that you were in good company. 

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Postcards

A mad dash of humanity ….

Met a friend for lunch Tuesday while attending a conference in Austin.

He kindly let me check my roller bag to his room at the conference hotel so I wouldn’t have to schlep it.

After lunch I had a couple work calls. Last one finished up right before I had to leave for the airport.

Perfect timing. 

Called an Uber.

Traffic to the airport was starting to choke a bit, but I’d left myself plenty of time.

Thirty minutes into my ride, just as we were pulling into the exit for Departing Flights, I got the sickest feeling in my the pit of my stomach …

… accompanied by the biggest Oh Shit moment.   

Sheepishly I asked the driver, “Um, excuse me … Did I put a bag in the trunk?”

He eyed me quizzically in the rear view mirror.

Shook his head no.

“No bag,” he said.

I forgot to retrieve my checked bag before leaving for the airport.

Yep, I did that.

As an onset of panic claimed my extremities, I asked the driver if he could return me to the hotel. 

Shook his head no again. 

He’d already accepted another fare. 

I didn’t have time to ride back and get my luggage myself, anyway.

So he dropped my bagless ass off at the curb. 

I thought for a second.

Looked up the hotel. 

Realized that, not only had I not stayed at the hotel, the bag was in my friend’s name, not mine. 

Got bounced around until they connected me to the service manager, Clarissa.

I explained my situation, trying to sound as un-sketchy as possible while completely freaking the eff out.  

She thought for a second, before suggesting I try calling another Uber to the hotel to ‘just’ pick up my bag and bring it to me at the airport.

“Can you do that?” I asked.

Through the phone I could almost hear her shrugging her shoulders in “Uh … beats me?” uncertainty.

So I hung up and tried calling an Uber to the hotel to pick up my bag.

The app asked me to double confirm myself as the passenger, since it could tell my phone was, um, already at the airport.

I lied and confirmed that the ride was indeed for me, since there wasn’t an option for “You’re not going to believe how large of an idiot I am.” 

Surprisingly. 

I immediately called Clarissa back to give her the name of my driver (Daimir), his make and model (black Chevy Traverse) and his arrival time (5 minutes). 

“Ooh. Let me run to the front desk to get your bag. Then I’ll take it down to valet and explain the situation to them,” she said, suggesting I also give the driver a heads up on what to expect … before he arrived.

In the app I could see Daimir’s progress to the hotel.

I waited until he got close-ish (out of fear my unusual request might make his skittish) before I messaged him (Daimir prefers messages, according to the app) to let him know he’ll be scooping up just, you know, a bag.

I hit send and prayed.

Watched the dancing dots … indicating he was messaging me back.

Held my breath.

“I got you,” he said.

Exhale.

My flight was scheduled to leave at 5:50 p.m.

It was on-time.

Of course it was.

Made me shake my head since all three of the family’s Sunday flights from Orlando (me to Austin, Karry & Peter to Pittsburgh and Emma back to Philly) got totally hosed. Em’s got canceled and re-booked for the next morning, while the rest of us arrived hours after we were supposed to. 

Meanwhile, Tuesday’s flight? 

Runnin’ like goddamn clockwork.

When I ordered the Uber, it showed an arrival time of 5:12 p.m. … which felt like just enough time for get through security and find my gate.

Then Daimir’s arrival time started dancing.

Rush hour.

Holding my fate in my hands, I watched helplessly as time began to slip. 

5:17.

5:21. 

5:27. 

5:30.

It, along with the pit in my stomach, bottommed out at 5:32 … when I walked over to the Southwest Help Desk near baggage claim.  

Explained my situation … asked when the doors close on a 5:50 p.m. flight.

First person said, “15 minutes before.”

My heart sank. 

But then she said, “Let me double-check with the boss,” and turned to the person at the next kiosk. 

“Doors close 10 minutes before departure.” 

First person did the math for me. 

“So, 5:40 …,” she said, and then, smiling, added … “So you’re saying there’s a chance.” 

Cracked herself up with that one. 

I refreshed the app … Daimir’s arrival hovered at 5:31 p.m. … which would give me 9 minutes to make it through the security and find my gate. 

I messaged Daimir with my flight info, said I’d be waiting at the curb. “Too much excitement! (ha),” I texted. 

“I got you,” he reaffirmed. 

I hiked over to the TSA Pre-Check entrance, asked the agent where Gate 12 was in relation to security.

“Other end of the terminal.”

Of course it was.

I can’t begin to describe how excruciating it was to watch my fragile fate fluctuate while stress-watching Daimir’s real-time progress.

He was still 15 minutes out when I knew I had to occupy my mind somehow. 

Cracked open the New York Times on my phone … randomly scrolled to an interview .. discussing the premise that over the past few decades, social media has exacerbated the erosion in society, particularly among youth, of anything approaching a shared moral order.

At one point in the interview … the subject said that, while imperfect, systems like religion provide value in the form of a shared moral order or system. 

The absence of such shared systems, the interviewee said, can result in an untethered, individualistic, self-oriented society, which can then become a breeding ground for fear, anxiety and aloneness. 

It was an INTOITW moment for me. (“I never thought of it that way.”)

Fearful, anxious and alone, I clicked out of the article before I got to the end of the interview. Candidly, I was afraid to learn of the expert’s predictions for our future  … since me and my bag’s prospects of making it home were being held together by the frayed tether of a shared moral order. 

I checked Daimir’s progress … saw he’d messaged me.

He asked me to provide a specific landmark so he could bullseye my precise location.

Thoughtful, I thought. 

I snapped a pic of the overhead sign I’d be standing under, said to look for the skinny guy in glasses wearing a black, short-sleeved t-shirt hopping up and down trying in vain to hold his shit together. 

“Got it,” he replied. 

“Doing the best I can,” he added. “Traffic is so bad! [ha]”

The [ha] meant everything.

For the record, my world is duct-taped together by such tiny gestures of humanity.

His arrival time ebbed back a bit to 5:27.

“Go Daimir!” I rooted in my head.

When his arrival dwindled under a minute, I looked up from my phone … and started scouting the glut of arriving cars dropping off.  

When I caught sight of a black Chevy Traverse, I initiated pretty much the dictionary definition of “gesticulating.” 

When the car got close enough for me to register the windshield, I could see Daimir already waving recognition to me. 

At precisely 5:27 … he eased the Traverse to the curb, hopped out the driver’s seat and met me at the back so he could lift my bag out for me.

“Daimir, I would give you the biggest hug right now … but I gotta run.”

“I got you,” he smiled back.

Dashed inside with my roller to the pre-check line. Asked a couple nice ladies if they minded if I went ahead of them, gave them the short version of my circumstance.

After throwing my bags on the belt, I turned and asked their names.

“Tessa.”

“Cara.”

I repeated their names back to them … thanked them for being awesome and promised I would pay their kindness forward.

After passing through the security arch, I looked back to see the TSA agent responsible for scanning just as he began eyeballing my bags. 

Dude was thorough.

A genuine credit to his profession, I tell ya. 

He screen was angled such that I could see what he was seeing. He paused the belt for both my roller and my backpack.

Kept switching between the views … 

Up.

Down.

From the side.

The other side.

Zoomed in.

Back out.

Back in again.  

Doing the phuck out of his job … while I’m on the verge of an embolism.

5:31 tumbled to 5:32.

I start jumping up and down … a by-product of volcanic stress and the practical desire to stretch out my legs for my forthcoming roller bag 400 meter sprint. 

When I realized I was suddenly Jumpy Guy Going Through Security.

Not a good look.

Fortunately, screening guy was so locked in on his monitor to not even register my hyperventilating calisthenics, eventually bestowing his blessing upon my bags, which I snatched from the belt like Olympic relay batons before breaking into my first airport sprint … in decades.  

I was reminded that Austin’s Southwest terminal is really well-designed. 

Super traveler-friendly. 

Lots of hospitality and retail acreage between gates. 

Art installations, too … such as the “Interimaginary Departures Gate,” sandwiched right after Gate 14.

It’s meant to provide a smile and a moment of whimsy to anxious travelers … where you can actually print a ticket to destinations like “Narnia,” among 120 fictional locations … while overhead, a speaker announces imminent departures to Hogwarts and Terabithia and the like. 

It’s genuinely wonderful. 

I’ve cited it often in my work as an exquisite example of context-aware, extraordinary experience design.

And I grenade launched at least a dozen eff bombs at it while cursing it to the depth of Hades for adding an extra 20 meters or so to my mad dash. 

[ha]

I was on fumes and audibly wheezing by the time I caught a glimpse of Gate 12 in front of me. 

Saw passengers still in line. 

Exhaled for the first time since I received Damir’s confirming message. 

Looked down at my phone. 

5:39. 

Found my place and politely wedged myself in, Sweaty-Middle-Aged-Guy-Heavily-Panting-style.

After beeping my ticket, I cracked open the app. 

Gave Daimir 5 Stars. 

And a tip befitting a life saver. 

Called Clarissa back to let her know I made it and to thank her for being awesome. 

“I’m so glad you called,” she said. “I was wondering. I’m so glad you made it!”

I promised to pay her kindness forward, too. 

Which I had the great honor of doing this morning.

As I did so … I made a point to mention them all by name.

Clarissa. 

Daimir. 

Tess and Cara. 

My friend Tim for letting me check my bag in his name. 

I even mentioned thorough TSA screening guy, too. 

For taking his job so seriously.

For doing his best to keep us all safe.

I pray blessings upon them all … and everyone who might read this. 

For crowd surfing me home on the soft shoulders of their kindness. 

A tiny but mighty shared moral order.

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Postcards

Eternal light …

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.

Betty’s eternal light.  

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Postcards

Best seat in the house …

I got to tell a tiny story last night. 

On a tiny stage. 

In a tiny theater. 

About people I love. 

We laughed.

I cried (just a little). 

It was so weird and wonderful. 

The best part? 

In the front row were friends I grew up with. 

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 …

… and who are still showing up for me …

… well.

Forgive me if I cry a little.  

That’s no tiny story. 

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The Girls

All I Want …

The scene outside my window where I’m writing this. 

They visit every morning on their walk from the cemetery to the woods. 

It’s 10 degrees outside.

They’re hungry. 

But they’re not alone.

They stay together.

They’re giving each other baths right now.

It’s just the loveliest thing.

How they know to take care of each other. 

Sometimes I think they visit just to remind us how to be human.

Always makes me think of Joni Mitchell singing, “I want to shampoo you.”

Just right after, “All I really want our love to do is to bring out the best in me and you too.” 

From the view outside my window, it doesn’t seem like too much to ask for in this world. 

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Postcards, saturdays

Arriving ….

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. 

The loveliest little moment of aliveness. 

Cue angel chorus.

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