Last week a co-worker came down with the flu. She’s been with us almost a couple years now. Was a middle school teacher before that.
She was out only one day when she messaged us to let us know that her husband had tested positive for the flu, too.
As did their one-year-old.
All three of ‘em, down for the count right before the holidays.
Found myself thinking about them on my long Wednesday commute, when a warm memory popped into my head (I find that sometimes my memories eavesdrop on my thoughts).
From kindergarten through third grade, I went to Areford Elementary. It was a neighborhood school (which were more common back then), just a few blocks from my house. We all got to walk to school.
For second-grade I had the most awesome teacher, Mrs. Schifbauer.
Mention her name to my kids, and they will roll their eyes and say, “The bee’s knees.”
Which is what I always say when I mention Mrs. Schifbauer.
Seriously, to my second grade self, she was the bee’s knees.
I remember she had the most beautiful handwriting.
To this day I can still conjure both the image and sounds of her writing our spelling words on the chalk board (with the good teacher’s chalk). It was all so mesmerizing to me. She’d write all the numbers on the board first. Oh, the way she’d swoop her 2s. (swoon). When she’d get to double digits, she’d start putting periods after the numbers. I would so look forward to the percussive punctuation of her chalk stabbing periods on the board. Twelve was my favorite … you’d get a swoop with a stab chaser (ha).
It’s funny, the things we remember.
After second grade they switched some of the teacher assignments, so I got to have Mrs. Schifbauer for third grade, too. It was like winning the teacher lottery.
The specific memory that visited me on my commute was the time in third grade when my friend Jerry got really sick and had to miss school. I remember it was wintertime. I don’t remember the specific circumstances of Jerry’s illness, just that he missed a bunch of days in a row.
And that Mrs. Schifbauer did the most remarkable thing.
She had our entire class grab our winter coats, and proceeded to shepherd us outside. Along with Mrs. Fisher (the other third grade teacher), she walked us down Eggleston Street, where we made the left onto 7th, and then the right onto Connor, where Jerry lived. Had one of us climb the steps onto Jerry’s big porch and knock on the front door. I remember Mrs. Rehanek (who, for the record, made the most awesome cherry floats in the history of the universe) coming to the door, seeing us all, and then ducking back in to summon Jerry.
I don’t remember specifically what happened from there … if Mrs. Schifbauer said anything, or had us say or do anything. I only remember that she just wanted Jerry to know how much we all missed him … and that we couldn’t wait for him to feel well enough to come back to school.
If it wasn’t for a vague remembrance I have of a photo that Mrs. Rehanek took from the porch that day … I’m not sure I would even trust my memory.
I mean, can you imagine such a thing happening today?
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Recently, I learned that the Italian verb “to remember” is ricordare, (similar to the Spanish recordar). The etymology is Latin — Re meaning ‘to go backwards,’ and cordis meaning ‘heart.’
Or put another way … ‘to go through the heart again.’
Isn’t that just the loveliest thing?
Why am I telling you this?
Because when the memory of Mrs. Schifbauer and her kindness went through my heart again on my Wednesday commute … I actually imagined such a thing happening today.
And thought of a couple teachers who might also appreciate such imagining.
One of ’em … Jerry.
Who I haven’t seen or talked to in maybe 30 years. He’s a teacher in Maryland these days.
I messaged him and asked him to fact-check my remembering.
He hit me back almost immediately.
Yep.
Matter of fact …
“I think I have a photo somewhere. I can text it to you if you wanna see the pic.”
__
Went out for lunch Wednesday. It was a good day for soup, so I chose a deli not far from work, where they make it from scratch.
On a whim, on my way out I asked the person behind the counter if their to go soups come hot or cold.
Both, he said.
Ordered a cold quart of chicken noodle to go.
For a certain former teacher I know.
Who’s been home from work with the flu all week with her husband and baby boy.
__
Found myself driving to her house after work.
Pulled outside.
Put on my winter coat.
Marched up the steps.
And though I was by myself, I wasn’t alone.
Jamie was there. Tonya and Tracy, too. Ricky and Danny. Scott poking his head between Jodi and Gretchen. Amy, Joy and Susan. Blaine and his kind smile way in the back.
All of us.
And a smiling Mrs. Schifbauer standing next to Mrs. Fisher.
The bees knees I’m tellin’ ya.
I didn’t ring the bell, though.
Just left the soup.
Along with a note recounting all of the above.
Shot Sydney a text as I was driving way, letting her know I’d put something on her porch.
And that we all missed her … and that we couldn’t wait for her to feel well enough to come back to the office.
Told her it was from Mrs. Schifbauer’s third grade class.
I walked into the kitchen and saw one banana pulled apart from the bunch … set aside and ripening.
Smiled.
Emma’s home.
Went back a couple minutes later and she was there, fixing herself a bowl of cereal at the sink. Still in her pajamas. Wearing her glasses, too.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her in her glasses. Felt what I feel sometimes glancing out the window just as the sun is waking up through the trees … a riot of itself and all its possibilities.
The unearned gift of catching the fleeting moment just before it assumes its responsibilities for a day that will all but take it for granted.
For some reason, seeing her in her glasses has always melted me.
How they’ve always framed a face that holds all the world can become.
She’s only herself in the morning … all poor eyesight and barefoot … and an abiding love for Lucky Charms.
Her glasses bring her into focus for me, and for a fleeting moment, I catch a glimpse of all her younger selves. The ones she doesn’t like being reminded of because she’s too busy looking forward.
It’s for me to look back.
I find myself wanting to keep her in her glasses in the kitchen for as long as I can.
So I mention the bananas … not just the ripe one set aside, but all the ones in the bunch, which have been pulled apart from each other and are starting to brown in the basket.
“I didn’t pull all those apart,” she corrected me.
I just assumed she had.
“Wasn’t me,” she confirmed.
“And that’s not how you ripen bananas, anyway. You keep the bunch together and put a ripe banana beside them.”
Oh.
“Ripe bananas release ethylene. It’s a gas … which breaks down cell walls and converts starch into sugar, eliminating the acid … which causes the other bananas to ripen.”
When she finished, the sophomore biomed major used her index finger to straighten the right side of her glasses, unconsciously.
A riot of herself and all of her possibilities.
Turned around and went back to her old room to savor her Lucky Charms.
I stood in the kitchen for a moment … in the still warm space between her presence and her absence.
Neither looking back nor looking forward … just awed by the sunrise.
While waiting for Nicole to deliver the first of her always luminous — and my requisite two — Saturday morning cortados at the tiny, tender coffee shop on North Main (which you should totally visit), I was perusing the small packs of Commonplace Coffee for sale near the counter, whose blends are always intentionally dedicated (they have one inspired by WYEP — a sonic apothecary of Pittsburgh’s airwaves for the past 50 years — called ‘Morning Mixtape’ [swoon]). Commonplace Coffee is a tender haven in its own right nestled in Pittsburgh’s North Side (which you should totally visit).
Unbeknownst to me, on the back of every one of Commonplace’s coffee packs is a Walt Whitman poem, evidently the inspiration for their name.
Stumbling upon such treasure was as much medicine for my morning as Nicole’s perfect cortados.
And too good not to share with kindred spirits.
Here’s to waiting / to find Whitman waiting patiently / scribbled on the back of packs / whispering across centuries / reaching like seashells washed ashore / for humble travelers bowing their heads / searching for a little light / to lighten their loads
Forecast called for rain. Looked like maybe a little pocket this morning before the skies open. Threw on a ballcap and sweats and drove myself to the cemetery. Parked in the usual spot.
I love visiting on Sundays. It’s so genuinely, and evolvingly, beautiful.
Quiet enough to hear the crows.
So many deer — to make clear it’s a shared space.
Enough hills of varying lengths and grade to afford options.
Impossible to ignore the seasons.
Took a couple sips of water before locking up the car and easing into my route.
Which starts with a gentle downhill into a left turn with a short, steep climb that takes you up and around a corner. Elevates your heart rate — a good, early systems check to let you know what you might have in the tank — before gifting you a little downhill to catch your breath. Spits you into a roundabout that sometimes I’ll lap a few times for some easy distance before backwashing into a long straightway that takes me back to the crematorium — or as my daughter likes to call it, the “E-Z Bake” — near where my car’s parked.
I circle the parking area a couple times before heading up a nice, easy grade that drops you down to one of my favorite parts — a sloping hill of the cemetery that’s reserved for military veterans.
On days when my tank’s full, I’ll loop here a few times before continuing on and finishing my first full lap somewhere around three miles.
This morning … I paused, despite the rain on the way. Was only a couple miles into things.
The flags always get me.
The hill’s persistent breeze tends to keep them waving.
If the flags weren’t there, I would just look beyond the gravestones to whatever’s beyond.
So I’m grateful for the flags for reminding me to think of those buried below them.
And their sacrifices, both in the act and substance of their serving. To things bigger than themselves — whether troop, platoon, buddy, family, hometown, country.
Like the deer, the flags remind me that this is a shared space, and by that I mean the cemetery. And the world.
The flags remind me to listen for what those who are no longer … might have to say to our Now.
To inform our Not Yet.
I imagine some genuine characters are buried here. Imagine a lot of strong, colorful and varying perspectives represented. Imagine all made their share of mistakes. Imagine that they learned some things along the way that they tried to pass on. Probably saw some things differently at the end than they did at the beginning. Probably were buried with some messy regrets, just as we will be buried with ours.
This morning the leaves got me, too.
Foregrounding things.
A reminder that that this, too, is but a season.
No more and no less.
As ever.
The bare tree in the background, a reminder, too.
That in our falling, we only fall so far from where we start.
Pretty much the whole mystery of it all, right there.
Quiet enough to hear the crows.
And long enough to hear them fading in the distance.
After just a couple minutes, I took a deep breath and continued on.
Going as far as I could until the skies finally opened.
Finished where I started, not far from the E-Z bake.
Took note of the fact of that, too.
Kept the windows down on my short drive back home.
So I could smell the rain on the pavement.
And be reminded that the rain gets us all wet just the same.
By the time I got back home, I was hearing the words of Kurt Vonnegut.
Wondered if he, a veteran of the firebombing of Dresden, was spending this gray Sunday buried under a waving flag somewhere.
How he pretty much summed up all of the above some sixty some years ago in a couple lines from Cat’s Cradle.
“Life is a garden, not a road. We enter and exit through the same gate. Wandering, where we go matters less than what we notice.”
Got up yesterday morning feeling … untethered. Outside, the sun was coming up on an unseasonably warm November day. The kind of sunshine we almost don’t deserve. I was feeling the heaviness of everything.
All the noise would soon be coming to its unnatural conclusion. I’d just poured my ritual 10 Tuesday ounces into my Thermos, but my cup still felt empty.
So I got in my car and drove towards the small coffee shop on North Main Street. The one where I like to write my daughter postcards on Saturdays. It’s quiet. One room. Handful of tables, small counter on which is perched a little clear case with baked goodies made by Nicole, one of the kind staff there. Reliably chill playlist.
I didn’t need a coffee. Just some humanity.
So, halfway up Main Street, I peeled off into the drive through at the bank. Got some cash from the machine. Humble pebbles for the scale, I told myself.
Got to the coffee shop right as it opened at 8. Parked across the street, and followed a woman in the front door. She was friends with the barrista on duty, and they dove right into easy conversation. Denise, the barrista, paused their conversation to wait on me. I ordered my cortado, paying with my Darth Vadar credit card. Added a small tip.
After placing my order, I asked Denise if they still did Pay It Forward. She nodded. I handed over what I’d withdrawn from the machine.
She thanked me, and I took a seat by the counter while she prepared my to go order.
When in walked a middle aged man in a ballcap. Kinda scruffy. Came in chatty.
Asked Denise, “What’s the strongest coffee you have?” He went on to say that he’d been nine years sober, mentioning the exact number of months and days for good measure. “So coffee’s a very important thing in my life.”
After Denise informed him of the dark roast of the day, he asked what sizes they had.
“How much is in a large?” he asked. Twenty ounces, she replied.
He asked her how much refills were. They’re free, Denise said.
From my chair I apprehended that maybe he didn’t have much on him. Probably didn’t have anywhere in particular to be. Interested in how far and for how long his dollars might stretch.
The stories we tell ourselves about the world around us.
He ordered his 20 ounces, asked her what he owed.
She told him not to worry about it.
“I’m sorry?” he said.
I tensed up a bit. I didn’t want to be around to watch anything.
I just came in to put a few pebbles on the scale and be on my way.
“It’s taken care of,” was all she said.
I exhaled.
“Wow,” he said. “Really? Um, thank you.”
He paused a beat.
“When I came in, I could tell that you had a really kind face.”
I smiled from my chair, because I think I said those exact words to Denise the last time I was in. It occurred to me that was also the day I dropped off my mail-in ballot at the county’s voter registration office.
I needed some humanity that day, too. Denise’s gesture unlocked his.
“You know, I was always a big egomaniac. I hurt a lot of people with my ego. But one of the biggest things they teach you is humility.
“A big part of learning humility is that receiving kindness is just as important as giving kindness. It’s not easy … but I’ve learned how to receive kindness.”
He asked Denise her name so he could thank her by it. Gave his in return.
Strong coffee in hand, he started to make his way to a table. Then he paused.
What he did next … I will never forget.
He turned back to Denise.
“Now I’m going to just have to find someone to pay your kindness forward,” he said.
He sees me sitting in my chair.
I met his gaze just in time to see his eyes alight.
“Can I buy you a coffee?” he asked me.
The best sermons are the ones you don’t see coming.
I thanked him profusely for giving me what I woke up needing from the world. What I’d hoped to find driving up Main Street not needing a coffee.
The way it came out was, “Already got one on the way. But, next time I see you, maybe we can have one together.”
He asked me my name. Gave his in return.
“God bless you, Pete,” he said.
“Backacha,” was all the lump in my throat would allow.
Pebbles on the scale.
Denise parked my cortado on the counter. I got up from my chair and met her at the register.
Exchanged fist bumps, and received the warmest smile from her kind face.
The kind of sunshine we most certainly deserve.
There are saints all around us. Most are hidden in plain sight. Sometimes they don’t look like you or me.
We need to humble ourselves to see them.
So we can receive their kindness.
So that when our own cups are empty, we can be reminded that refills are free.
The fortuitous timing of turning back the clocks gifting us an extra hour to make an 8:30 a.m. start time at Station Square.
Karry’s words before I left the house: “Enjoy your time with your son.” Until she said them, my mind was anxious about whether or not I had 10 miles in me (the odds far from guaranteed). Her six words melted my anxiety on the spot, reminding me that the morning in front of me was not to be measured by distance. A reminder that I can’t hear often enough: that what we do is not what we are doing. That it’s not about arriving. It’s about being resident.
Being among the first Sunday morning passengers on the T at South Hills. Watching and listening to it fill up, stop by stop … all shapes, sizes, colors and ages. A crescendo of expectation. By the time we arrived at Station Square, it was filled to overflowing. Spilling out onto the sidewalk to make the pilgrimage over to Highmark Stadium. The loud music and announcer calling us from a distance. The feeling of being part of a summoning.
Shortly after starting, going across the West End Bridge and looking right to see Pittsburgh glistening under the clearest, crispiest blue sky. A lone boat had the confluence all to itself, its wake billowing behind, regal as a queen’s robe. The sun and the scene conspiring to almost make me cry it was so Sunday morning beautiful.
About 2 miles in, I caught Peter on a slight down hill somewhere on the North Side. I stayed just behind him, careful to remain outside of his peripheral vision. I didn’t want to risk him seeing me and feeling compelled to slow down his pace on my behalf. Content to just let him be my pacer for a little bit. What Grace to have lived long enough to follow in my son’s footsteps.
My playlist serving up the best medicine exactly when I needed it. Three miles in, Frank Sinatra crooning, “Nice and Easy,” me hearing Frank’s finger snaps in the mix for the first time. He couldn’t resist … the band was swinging so much. By the last choruses, I couldn’t either. Me and Frank in the rocking chair as it were. Ol’ Blue Eyes subsequently passing the baton to Pancho Sanchez, Rage Against the Machine, Lauryn Hill, AC/DC, Levon and The Band, Morgan Harper Nichols, Indigo Girls and a chorus of other encouragers. One of my best mixtapes ever, if we’re bein’ honest here.
The cheerleaders, mascots, DJs, cow-bell ringers, kids, friends, significants, seniors, families and neighbors who came to root. Especially the two drumlines throwing down. When I saw they had their hands full, I made sure to applaud them.
About six miles in, passing under an archway that read, “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.” Proly woulda cried at that point, too, if I hadn’t been holding on to my tears for miles 9 and 10.
Between miles 7 and 8 we ran on Penn Avenue through the Strip District. It was as close as I’ll ever come to imagining what Stallone had in mind running Rocky through the streets of Philadelphia. Penn Avenue’s melting pot holding down the Strip’s legacy while the world squeezes in on all sides.
Pretty much over the whole endeavor by mile 8, but also knowing I’d run too far to give up. Muscling through the last two on fumes and a blistered and calloused right foot. Accepting every hi-5 offered by folks encouraging from the sidewalk. A thousand bonus points to the saints holding the Mario-inspired “TOUCH FOR POWER BOOST” signs down the home stretch.
Lydia and I met as freshman English majors at Waynesburg College. Had a bunch of classes together. Worked on the newspaper. Lydia was editor our senior year. I wrote a silly column trying too hard to be Dave Barry. Lydia was in charge of things.
Anyone who knows Lydia will not be surprised by this.
She expected a lot of herself, and of the world around her. I remember once she got so fired up upon learning that a classmate had been cheating in one of our classes.
“Pete! It’s just not fair! He’s not doing any of the work and he’s going to get the same grade as us!”
As an aside … she was being generous in including me in the ‘us’ part of the grade-getting.
“Doesn’t that make you mad?!?”
I remember answering her that what other people did didn’t bother me much. That maybe what mattered more was what we were learning … what we were getting out of the class … what we might take with us. I remember telling her that I wasn’t sure that the grade even mattered all that much.
Needless to say, I was unsuccessful in litigating that case with Lydia … who went on to be our class’s valedictorian, and graduate from law school after that.
I think our friendship was forever forged in Dr. McEwen’s Research Writing class. To say that Dr. McCewen was exacting would be an understatement. The entire semester was dedicated to writing a research paper. We would meet to work on it at Lydia’s sister’s apartment in downtown Waynesburg (quieter than the dorms).
Lydia was the organized one. She kept us on task. Made sure we hit our deadlines and turned everything in on time, if not early.
None of the above were among my superpowers.
In a spasm of poor decision making, Lydia let me choose the topic for our research paper. I remember wanting to look at different periods of history to see what given societies found funny, as reflected in their drama and literature. Like, what was funny in Shakespeare’s time? And to what degree did comedy stay the same or evolve across centuries and societies?
It looked good on paper.
It didn’t look good in our paper.
We’d be on like, draft 7, and Dr. McEewen would return it just bleeding red ink from his infamous pen. Lydia would get so stressed out. As the semester progressed, she doubled-down on editing our drafts before we had to re-submit. She had this big blue thesaurus. She would pull it out and make suggestions when we were stuck on something. This is one of the few things we clashed on. I’ve always hated thesauruses. Have always considered them a sign of weakness. Whenever she would bust out the thesaurus, I’d rebel. Ignored all of her suggestions. Told her we weren’t trying hard enough and would figure it out.
Aside from that, if I brought anything to our partnership, I think I helped keep things light … helped us from taking ourselves too seriously.
I think Lyd found me amusing … much the way one is amused watching a dog chasing its tail.
I could always make her laugh.
The LYDIA laugh.
It was glorious. More of a cackle, technically speaking.
And one, that for as long as I knew her, she never cut short for room or circumstance.
__
Our interactions during Dr. McEwen’s class would remain the hallmarks of our friendship after college.
Lydia remained the organized one, always taking the initiative in our remaining in touch. She’d send cards and thoughtful letters recounting her travels abroad and life updates. Which I would return weeks, sometimes months, later. She was meticulous about sending cards around the holidays. My birthday card from her would invariably arrive a couple days early.
By contrast, while I knew her birthday was in February, I could never remember the exact day. She’d always give me shit when it arrived days, or sometimes weeks, late. I remember once asking her to remind me when it actually fell. Her response, “I’m not telling you. You should know.”
She expected a lot of the world around her.
It got to the point where, when I’d see February approaching, I’d immediately send her a note, making a point of calling out how proactive I was being.
She didn’t buy it.
__
But there is one date that I know I will never, ever forget — Friday, June 7, 2024.
We had made plans earlier in the week to talk. She’d warned me in advance. “Brace yourself, Pete … it’s not good.”
When I picked up and told her I was driving, she said it was probably good that I was sitting down.
And for the next couple minutes, she — unflinchingly, unblinkingly, remarkably — let me know that it took her doctors three biopsies before they figured out what it was. That it was not the recurrence of breast cancer she and they first believed it to be. That it was worse. A rare form of cancer. Only 200 cases. And that it had spread all through her body. That she likely had a month to live. With treatment, maybe three months. Maybe a little longer.
She told me that I was the last person she planned to have this conversation with. That it was just so impossibly hard. That she was done recounting it all.
I mean, what do you say to that?
You start with what’s true.
I told her that I received both the act and substance of what she shared with me … as an honor … as a gift … as a blessing.
That she has always had such a light about her … and that light was as bright in this moment as it had ever been.
And that I would always do my very best to reflect her good light back to her, and to the world at large.
And you both cry a little bit, but not much. She’d done the crying.
So you do what you’ve always done for as long as you’ve known each other.
You just catch up.
You talk about Waynesburg. Old classmates. Dr. McEwen. Other professors.
In our reminiscing, I mentioned to her that I have few regrets, but I do regret that I was never able to go back and have an adult conversation with Dr. Bower, who was another larger-than-life character in our college experience. To talk about all the seeds he planted … his knowing we weren’t equipped in the moment for them but planting them anyway. I wished I could’ve told him what some of those seeds had come to mean for me.
When Dr. Bower passed away, Lyd and I went in on a memorial donation to the library in his honor.
In response to my ruminating, Lydia said the most remarkable thing.
She said, “I’d wish for the exact opposite.
“I’d just like to go back and have one day at college. Not even a special day. I’d just like to walk campus. Sit in on a boring class. Hang out in the dorm talking about nothing.
“Go to Scott’s Delight … get an Everyday Special.”
Scott’s was an unassuming greasy spoon down the road from campus. A counter with stools directly in front of you as you entered, and a few booths on either side of the entrance. The Everyday Special = legendary. You could get a burger, fries and a coke for like $1.85. Cup of nacho cheese to dip your curly fries would set you back another 45 cents. That’s how the pros did it, anyway.
It wasn’t great. But it was perfect.
An Everyday Special.
It was just the most golden thing for Lydia to say.
I was still letting it sink in when she continued.
“Oh, there’s something else I wanted to tell you.”
She said that she was hoping to surprise me, but she wasn’t sure she would get the chance, so she wanted to tell me just in case.
She asked me if I remembered seeing a few months ago that the college (I know it’s a fancy University now, but it will never be anything other than Waynesburg College to me) was doing a fundraiser for an Alumni Walk.
Um, I hadn’t seen it … to which she was not surprised.
She let me know that she made a donation … to which I was not surprised.
Until she added …
“I got us each of us a brick, Pete.”
Oh my gosh, I said aloud, pulling one hand off the steering wheel and placing it on my heart.
I mean, what do you say to that?
She said it for us.
“So we’ll always be together on campus.”
I was speechless.
I don’t remember what we chatted about after that.
I only remember one thing, actually.
At some point … I made her laugh.
Don’t remember what I said … most assuredly something dumb, like always.
But there it was.
The Lydia laugh.
Her singular cackle.
The one she never cut short — even in this impossible moment — for room or circumstance.
Undiminished. Resplendent.
__
Days later I found myself downstairs at my desk … still reflecting on our remarkable conversation … when it hit me.
I remembered something I hadn’t had occasion to think about for 35 years.
The kind of detail that Lydia was notorious for remembering … the kind I never could recall.
I remembered the title of our research paper.
And it about knocked me out of my chair.
In the shadow of our remarkable conversation, it was infused with a poignancy that I cannot adequately put into words.
The title of our paper was inspired by a story we’d come across in our research. The story is believed to be apocryphal, its exact source lost to history.
But the gist of it is this.
A famous actor was lying on their deathbed, being attended by family and friends come to pay their last respects. A former colleague was at the bedside, looking at the frail actor in their failing health. Piteously, the colleague said, “This must be so difficult for you.”
To which the actor opened their eyes and said in reply …
“Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.”
The memory hit me at the very moment I was thinking of the sound of Lydia’s laughter … from the last conversation we would ever have.
Lydia took the thesis from our paper and pretty much made it the thesis for a full life, well-lived. One she never stopped researching.
In the end she was litigating my case back to me. That when all was said and done … the grade didn’t matter after all.
__
I had the great honor to attend Lydia’s celebration of life a couple weeks later. Got to see her sister Karen for the first time in decades. She kindly invited me to stop by the luncheon they were hosting after the service, said that Lydia had something for me. When I did, Karen handed me a bag … said that Lydia had written me a note, but that she had so wanted to revise it (always the editor). Had asked Karen if maybe she could type a revision for her, but Karen told her that she was certain it would mean more in her own handwriting.
Of course she was right.
I waited until I’d driven the four hours back home from Mechanicsburg before I looked in the bag and fished out the letter.
__
This is me keeping my promise to my friend. To do my best to reflect her good light back to her, and to the world at large.
While I recalled above how our friendship was forged in Dr. McEwen’s research writing class, Lydia had a finer point to put on the forging.
“For me, our lifelong friendship was sealed on September 17, 1990. While battling my first round with cancer, I called to wish you a happy birthday. The summer of 1990 was beyond challenging for me — battling Hodgkin’s Disease while attempting to carry on as though all was well. During our call, you said, ‘I miss you, Lyd.’ Nearly 34 years later, your simple sentiment brings tears to my eyes. You were so sincere, and it was just what I needed to hear. Thank you, my friend.”
Of course Lydia would remember the exact date.
Of course she would think to call me on my birthday while she was battling her first round with cancer.
Of course she would remember what I said.
If you only knew that about Lydia Hack, you would know enough.
But there was more in her note. Her gift.
“I’m not sure if you recognize this. Do you recall the role it played during our Senior Thesis? This tattered reference has traveled with me throughout my career (both legal and nanny). When I was cleaning out my office, I thought you should have it.”
I placed her letter inside the cover. To make sure I would have an excuse to crack it open every now and again.
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In a spasm of poor decision making, I let my son talk me into signing us up for the Waynesburg Homecoming 5K, which was held early yesterday morning on campus.
I’d never participated in the race before. The course looped through campus and spilled a little beyond. Past Martin Hall … our freshman dorm. Up the hill past the bottom of Buhl Hall … where all our English classes were held. Made a left at the corner where Scott’s used to be before it was torn down way too soon so many years ago.
Aside from a few alumni starting to mill about, it was just a regular day on campus.
I took note of that.
With one notable exception.
When we’d arrived early before the race I saw a sign listing the schedule of events for Homecoming weekend.
Where I learned that they were dedicating the Alumni Walk at 9:45 a.m. … not far from where the race finished up.
Of course they were.
While Peter waited in the gym after the race for the awards to see how he did in his age group (he won), I walked over to the space between Miller and Hanna halls just as the ceremony was beginning.
Sorting through the dozens of bins that my Mom lovingly slash compulsively stuffed with just about every artifact from my childhood — Andy Warhol style — I was recently reminded of my one and only foray (so far) into running for public office.
My campaign for Safety Captain in the fourth grade.
From the forensic evidence, it looks like I had my sights set on the presidency, but was forced to pivot at the 11th hour. Not sure if I lost in the primary, or received insider info that I didn’t have the votes, but it seems forces conspired to turn my attention to a high-ranking cabinet position instead.
Also from the forensic evidence, apparently “safety” was not on Miss Barkett’s spelling list that week.
Not sure what motivated me to land on Safety Captain as my Plan B, but I am retrospectively impressed by my 4th grade resiliency. This may have been my first exposure to the adage, “When one door closes on one’s quest for world domination, another one opens up.”
Apparently I ran a successful grassroots campaign.
Looks like I took great care in drafting my platform.
Like Lincoln tweaking his famous address on the train ride to Gettysburg, the last couple lines added in pencil suggest a deliberate approach. I imagine myself scribbling between classes, or ruminating after getting eliminated in dodgeball.
Didn’t waste a word, though.
The 54-year-old typing this only wishes his aim was so true.
I must’ve worn the object on the right as a button, as it looks like there are a couple pin holes up top. Didn’t skimp on the professional head shot.
Ahem.
I think (?) I may have won. Hatfield Elementary alum please fact check me on this.
For all I know I may have run unopposed, but I’d like to believe my sincerity counted for something.
From what I recall I served a fairly uneventful term.
To say it was a simpler time would be an understatement.
And by that, I don’t mean pre-puberty, though that proly also helped make the execution of my responsibilities a little easier.
Initiating the excavation of our attic a couple weekends ago (there be dragons), I was forced to reckon once again with all the plastic storage tubs in which Mom lovingly slash compulsively packed away just about every artifact from my childhood. The dozen or so tubs which I’ve been methodically sifting and editing ever since we emptied the old house a few years ago.
Recently I cracked open one tub particular that made me giggle out loud — a container of books from my elementary school years. The vast majority of which were procured during all those epic (epic, I say) Scholastic Book Fairs of yore. I can still conjure the feeling of exhilaration of slow-browsing the tables on Book Fair days and having the agency to choose my own adventures.
It was such a genuine feeling of capitol “T” Treasure hunting.
The archeological evidence suggests that, through grades 1-6 I trafficked exclusively in four genres: sports, monsters, dinosaurs, and these beauties.
Hello old friends.
My younger self memorized each and every one of these. Front to back, cover to cover.
What a gift it was (is?) to be reminded.
I don’t think my younger self loved anything more than making people laugh, with the possible exception of the Six Million Dollar Man (the two-part Bigfoot episode? SWOON.)
These books were my training wheels before I graduated to committing my brother’s Steve Martin albums to memory. (Cruel Shoes, anyone?).
Digging deeper into the tub, I was reminded that those books were also responsible for me landing my first and only stand-up gig — in the 6th grade.
I remember Mrs. Shaffer summoning me to her room over lunch one day. Though I didn’t have Mrs. Shaffer for class, I was among the quivering majority that was profoundly afraid of her. She had a booming, eviscerating yell that echoed in the hallways of Hatfield Elementary, easily traveling across the hall to strike second-hand fear into those of us in Mr. Gibel’s class.
Duly summoned, I remember knocking on her classroom door, and she motioning me to stand next to her desk.
Gulp.
First thing outta her mouth … “People say you’re funny.”
I mean, what does a sixth-grader do with that?
Impatient with my stunned silence, she phrased it in the form of a question: “Are you funny?”
Mrs. Shaffer didn’t play.
I remember managing a sheepish, “Depends on who you ask, I suppose.”
Heck … all I knew was that I loved aiming at the target … had never paused to consider how good I was at hitting it.
I loved bringing fresh caches of knock-knocks to the dinner table, loved trading jokes with Dad while riding around in his Sherwin Williams van (his humor veered heavily towards cornball), loved practicing Steve Martin bits when no one else was around.
I’m not sure there was any greater music to my young ears than laughter produced from thin air (aside from maybe the theme from the Six Million Dollar Man).
Mrs. Shaffer went on to explain that she was planning a country and western theme for her big annual spring musical. For context, Mrs. Shaffer wasn’t the Busby Berkley of Hatfield Elementary. Busby Berkley was the Mrs. Shaffer of musicals. She then revealed the reason for my summoning: she was looking for someone to tell jokes — ‘Hee-Haw’-style — in between the numbers. (It was the 70’s y’all.)
I’m pretty sure she didn’t really ask me so much as assigning it like homework — one didn’t say no to Mrs. Shaffer. All I know is that, upon the asking I was all-in.
First order of business was to pick a partner. I went with my heart and picked Dan — my first best friend — as my straight man. It would be our first appearance on stage since we performed an avant garde rendition of “Rhinestone Cowboy” before our kindergarten class, during which Dan strummed the guitar he didn’t know how to play, which helped distract the class from our forgetting most of the words. I am still in proud possession of the vivid memory of us walking home from Areford that afternoon on a cloud. I remember turning to Dan — his six-string still loaded on his back — and saying, “We’re gonna make it BIG.”
Alas … if such was ever to be our elementary school destiny, it would be in comedy, rather than song.
Next came the work of crafting our set list. This is what I’d trained for. I meticulously culled troves — troves, I say — of comedic gold from my vast library of joke books, sourcing supplemental material from teachers, family and friends.
A sample forever etched in memory:
Pete: You ever been to a hula dance?
Dan: What’s a hula dance?
Pete: It’s when they put one crop of hay in the front field, and one crop of hay in the back field. And when the music starts … they rotate the crops.
Ahem.
We prepped a program’s worth of such material (which Mom, of course, saved) …
… which we unleashed on an unsuspecting audience while standing between corn stalks in front of the stage where classmates offered their pre-pubescent renditions of Hank Williams’ “Hey Good Lookin’’ and Johnny Cash’s “North to Alaska.” As an aside, my favorite number was the Anne Murray banger, “Could I Have this Dance?” … where I won the lottery by being paired up with Julia Pudowkin (DOUBLE SWOON), who lost her side of the lottery by having to hold my sweaty hand for three minutes and 17 seconds .
While I do recall having to leave some of our best material on the cutting room floor (f*cking 6th grade censors), I remember some of our stuff killed. Remember the indescribable feeling of making an entire room full of adults laugh. Can still conjure the sound of it echoing in our booming cafeteria with the basketball hoops wheeled to the corners. To this day I can hear it as clearly as Miss Shaffer’s booming voice across the hall.
And even when the jokes fell flat, I remember instinctively dead-panning or double-taking to coax laughs from the ashes. Thanks to Steve Martin for teaching me a thing or two about timing.
While my vague recollection of our performance brings to mind the old Dennis Miller line, “I haven’t seen choreography that stiff since the Lee Harvey Oswald prison transfer,” I don’t think we were all that bad for a couple of 11-year-old Rhinestone Cowboys.
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A question that often gets asked — I’ve often asked it of others — is, “If you could go back, what advice would you give your younger self?”
While a worthy question, it’s based on the assumption that our older selves have the market cornered when it comes to wisdom.
But there’s another question that maybe doesn’t get asked as often as it should.
“What advice would your younger self give present day you?”
Having spent the better part of the last couple weeks in conversation with my younger self, I have a pretty good idea what elementary school Petey would tell grown-up Pete.
Which I actually thought about a couple weeks ago … when everybody was happy around the table, pushing nine o-clock on a Thursday night, after Karry blew out the chubby #1 birthday candle Peter had improvisationally fished from the drawer behind him and balanced on the heavenly angel food cake that she’d brought back from work a couple pieces light … after she paused for a couple good seconds to ensure she got her wish just right, making me smile that she took the time … after Peter revealed how he’d picked the eau de parfum he’d gotten her — the way he said PAR-fooooom — from the locked case at Marshalls, scent unseen because “the Internet said it smelled good ….”
When in that moment … I made everyone laugh … the spark catching the kindling perfectly … oxygenating everyone’s genuine cackles … their hands-off-the-wheel-let-go laughs … their heads-back-I’m-gonna-pee-myself laughs …
… which left me savoring the sounds like white icing from my fingers … as Karry wiped tears before turning to her next gift as I received hers … in the reminder that there is no greater feeling on earth than being responsible for coaxing her glorious and singular Only Karry laugh from thin air.
That feeling.
And in the ashes of that moment, I caught a glimpse of my younger self … walking home from Areford on his kindergarten cloud.
Finally caught up to him, I should say.
Tapped him on the shoulder and let him know that I’d been listening. Told him I hope he didn’t mind my eavesdropping.
Letters for Maggie 