Author Archives: Pete Riddell

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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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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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. 

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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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Postcards, Righteous riffs

Blanket Drop …

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.

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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.

Lights, please.

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Excursions

Turning Point …

Did a couple brave things Tuesday night. 

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!” 

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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.  

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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.

I could have been perfect. 

I would much rather be human.

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Postcards, Righteous riffs

Heroes ….

“So, we’re making this a tradition, huh?” 

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.

Ah … traditions.  

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Righteous riffs

The Greatest Tribute (Ode to Jim)

A letter arrived yesterday from my friend Jim.

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.

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