Visited Longwood Gardens (just south of Philly) with Karry and Emma last Saturday. It’s in the category of places I would never choose to visit of my own volition, so am grateful to be carried along in the current of their enthusiasms. It may be the most beautiful place I’ve ever visited. I know this to be true based on the number of times I said WOW as an involuntary response. Been thinking since about how the WOWs were exactly the same size whether I was stepping back to look up at a sinewy redwood gathering to its greatness, leaning in to inhale a climbing rose’s secrets, or riveted in place listening to a catbird singing Saturday morning opera.
The place is sprawling, and there was a moment where Karry and Em headed to the conservatory (and its greenhouse of a thousand WOWs), while I went to track down a waterfall we’d seen only at a distance. Traced a canopied path (WOW) to a small landing a few feet from the middle of the waterfall, where I found an empty rocking chair.
So I sat and listened for a hundred years, by which I mean almost long enough.
Twenty-four hours later I’d exchanged the rocking chair for my backseat nook in Karry’s Jeep, where I was comfortably crammed for the long pilgrimage home so Em could finally begin savoring her summer. We’d either grossly over-estimated the Jeep’s storage capacity, or grossly under-estimated our daughter’s belongings. Or both. On our way outta town, they paused so I could enjoy a Father’s Day bagel and lox for the ride. I tuned into a radio program just as the interviewees were referencing Harry James, who was my Dad’s inspiration on trumpet growing up. The Universe’s serendipity game is indeed strong.
I was as comfy and content as a rocking chair by a waterfall.
Just wanted to bookmark a Father’s Day weekend that pretty much perfectly summed up the gig.
Carried on the current of their enthusiasms to places beyond my capacity to even imagine. Involuntary WOWs everywhere, if you only remember to look up, lean in, and listen. Grateful for the small wedge still reserved for me in the back seat of their adventures.
It’s pushing past noon when I hear my son, upstairs and recently awake, deftly float a question to his mother.
“If I went to Shorty’s, would you want me to bring you one back?”
It was an exquisite ask. The phrasing, brilliant.
He didn’t ask if she wanted to go to lunch. He didn’t say that he was even going. And he didn’t ask “Do you want anything from Shorty’s?”
He served the proposition on a platter, and in so doing, made it irresistible.
I couldn’t hear Karry’s response, but after he and I made a successful post office drop just before their 1 p.m. close, we found ourselves parallel parking into the one open spot along West Chestnut Street.
Couldn’t tell you the last time we hit up Shorty’s on a Saturday afternoon. Actually, I could if I looked at my camera reel. Which is funny when I think about it, because we get exactly the same thing every time. The only thing that changes in my photo documentation is whether the plates are sitting on the counter or — if no open seats there — a table. Makes me think of that time at the newspaper when the fellas in the sports department gave grief to the guy who’d laid out the section’s cover page the day before. To accompany a preview of the Kentucky Derby, the guy included the head shots of all the horses. Which, when you think about it, is ridiculous … since all the horses’ faces pretty much look the same.
But, is it any more ridiculously logical than taking the same photo of hot dogs again and again … and again?
Point is, it’d been a minute since we jingled Shorty’s door open on a Saturday afternoon, pausing a beat to acknowledge the Grill Guy at the Window before surveying the, um, untouched-by-time, interior for an open seat.
Can I just say?
Depositing one’s keister atop a stool at Shorty’s lunch counter on a Saturday afternoon is one of life’s great capital “A” Arrival-ings.
It’s an exhale.
An unburdening.
A ‘We Made It’ through the week.
A We Are Here Now.
There will likely be fist bumps.
Because you know.
You know that within a minute of sitting down, one of the waitresses will float in front of you and ask if you’re ready to order.
You know exactly what you’re going to say. Sh*t … you knew the moment you made the conscious choice to gift your Saturday. The only decision requiring any deliberation is whether you and your co-pilot are feeling trusting enough to share a large fry with gravy, or go with two smalls to guarantee a 50-50 split.
You know that, seconds after your order, your waitress will yell loud enough for both the Grill Guy at the Window and the Guy Dunking Fries in the Kitchen to hear.
You know that the sound of her voice will register to your ears the way you imagine some folks hear opera.
You know that within 90 seconds, your plated dogs will be placed in front of you.
For me, two with everything. For the boy, one every, one ketchup and onions. In Shorty’s parlance “everything” does not connote gratuitousness (i.e. the kitchen sink), but, rather, sufficient-ness, lacking of nothing — finely (and I mean, finely) diced onions, a squirt of yellow mustard, and a slather of their no-beans-just-a-bit-of-ground-beef chili. Cue angel chorus.
You know that your fries with gravy will trail just a minute behind, since you asked for them to be well-done, which is how the pros do it, FWIW.
You know that you will wait for everything to arrive before you and your co-pilot make ceremony of your respective first bites.
You know that you will allow a couple extra beats for your co-pilot to lightly crop dust the fries with a sprinkle of salt and then as many morocco shakes of the pepper as it takes to ensure thorough coverage across the plate.
You know that it will be perfect, and not in any kind of throwaway sense.
During our reverie I found myself conjuring a passage I copied into my journal a year or so ago. I poorly paraphrased it for Peter, but gave him enough to catch my drift, and nod in affirmation.
The passage is from a tribute that Joe Posnanski wrote back in 2020 upon the passing of the writer Roger Khan. Appearing in The Athletic, Posnanski wrote of how Khan’s masterwork, “The Boys of Summer,” changed his life. The piece struck me in the moment and has stuck with me since for two reasons. “The Boys of Summer” changed my life, too. It was the first book I remember reading for pleasure in college, the summer after my junior year. A book that taught me that good sportswriters were just good writers who happened to write sports. A book that, looking back, was among a small handful of cosmic forces that spat me into giving sportswriting a shot after graduation. The second reason was the exquisite language Posnanski used when describing Khan’s chronicle of his beloved Brooklyn Dodgers. I looked it up in my journal so I could get it right here.
“The Boys of Summer” might not be the best book I have read, just like “The Princess Bride” might not be the best movie I have seen and spaghetti and meatballs might not be the best meal I have had and Stevie Wonder’s “Sir Duke” might not be the best song I have heard and chocolate cake might not be the best dessert I’ve eaten. But it is, to me, the most perfect book, just as the rest are the most perfect examples of joy.
Those might not be the best lines I’ve scribbled into my journal. But, to me, they are the most perfect lines.
And capture exactly how I feel about Shorty’s on a Saturday afternoon. The only reason Posnanski didn’t mention Shorty’s by name in his enumeration is that he’s obviously never tried to find a parking spot on West Chestnut Street on his lunch hour.
“This is perfect,” I actually said aloud to Peter when swabbing the last fry across the bottom of our plate to soak as much of the remaining gravy as its absorptive properties would allow. He’d gifted me the last few on the plate after realizing the significant dent he’d put in the pile.
We shoulda gone two smalls.
A second later our waitress set down the brown to-go bag containing Karry’s go-to — one with ketchup, mustard and onions.
Asks us if we need anything else.
The question always begets a hesitation. Born of both respect and serious consideration.
You know you could totally go for a third, no problem. You’ve done it in the past with zero regrets. There was also that one time you may or may not have gone for a fourth.
But you remind yourself that the experience is not about gratuitousness but, rather, sufficient-ness.
So Peter settles up with the grill guy at the window, who doubles as the cash-only cashier.
And we backwash out the door, appreciating the gift of the slight downhill walk back to the car and the little bit of sun peeking through the clouds …
Slept in this morning, which never happens. When it does though, it leaves me in a fog. Operating system has like a half second lag to it. Takes me a bit, but I manage to get the majority of my shit together and out the door.
On an inspired whim I drive uptown to pop into Table for an espresso. Haven’t been in a while. Always good vibes to be had there. Park across the street and look left for traffic before crossing. Outta the corner of my eye, though, I spy a car parked in front of Joe’s Bakery. It’s pushing 9:30, which as any Saturday sinner will tell you, is pushing it for Joe’s.
On my morning’s second whim, I reroute and take the catty corner of Main and Chestnut, catch the Open sign still hanging on the door. Walk in and look left. See one lonely sugar donut in the case, waiting for me. Joe’s at the register finishing with a coupla customers before he walks over.
“I’ll take your last sugar donut.”
“There’s a cinnamon twist left, too if you want that,” he says, gesturing to the other end of the tray.
I’m not so foggy to understand that this is not a multiple choice question.
Ask him to throw in a sugar twist so the three of us are covered.
“Just put $3 on the counter,” he says. “You’re my last customer.”
An honor and a blessing, I say, knowing that under the wire is more than any of us deserve.
As he hands me the bag, he says, “Best donuts in town you got right there.”
… leaving me no choice but to say, “Amen.”
“When you see good, praise it,” Alex Haley once wrote, though I imagine he wasn’t thinking of donuts at the time.
Or, you know, maybe he was.
By the time the bells on the door finish jingling behind me, I am convinced that I just might be their corresponding angel. Walking to the corner I see that the new deli that just opened is open. Whereupon I invest the morning’s third whim.
Order a $2 coffee and take a seat at the long counter by the window overlooking Chestnut that, turns out, was made for writing Saturday morning postcards.
I write to tell her how I am rolling sevens, as my tall cup slowly burns off the fog,
After addressing the envelope, “Kindly deliver to ….” which is also the invisible note that I pinned to my shirt when I left the house, I cross the street and finally make it to Table.
Sit down with my cortado and crack open Jack Gilbert so he can further melt my morning.
And say thank you to and for the lag in my operating system.
Sometimes on weekends when I wake up at the usual time, I’ll briefly fall back asleep for 15 minutes or so. I call it my second-wind sleep. Its defining characteristic is how vividly I dream during the interval. When I awake for the second time, I’m usually coming directly from dreaming.
Saturday morning I dreamt I was arriving at some sort of pre-graduation gathering. The parking lot was filling up, but I found a place on the loop near the entrance with ample space for me to park the white Econoline van my dream-self was rocking. While it ‘felt’ like it was high school — something about the loop — all recognizable personnel were from my college experience.
Once inside the building and entering the room where (whatever) the gathering (was) was being held, I saw a face my dream self hadn’t seen in a while.
“Dave!” I called out to a guy I played some music with in college. I remember making some awful noise one summer shedding with Dave and a couple other guys in the TKE house basement.
In the dream Dave was wearing a Star Trek-like uniform, but in the colors of our alma mater. He mentioned he was just finishing a musical project, and was holding the physical master or some recording of the final product in his hands. He interrupted my congratulating him with a question.
“What did it sound like?” he asked me.
I wasn’t sure what he meant.
Asked him to explain.
“Your drums … what did it sound like to you?”
Deep question.
He said he wanted to mention me in his liner notes of the project he’d just finished. How super cool of him, I remember my dream-self thinking. We hadn’t played together for a couple years.
I ascribed a genuine weight to his question.
What did it sound like?
But just as I began to think about how I might answer, the proceedings began.
I never got around to giving him my reply.
Dave, who played guitar (and bass), was there to accompany a choir-ish group (hence the Star Trek uniforms) providing music for the occasion. Singers harmonized a lyric, “It’s been a long time comin’ …,” and were nailing it, understanding both the assignment and the substance of the material.
As I listened to the music, my dream self was thinking back to how cool it was that there were people like Dave in this world who care about liner notes.
It was at that point I woke up from my second wind sleep.
I had a morning haircut, so quickly showered and got dressed. But before heading out I felt compelled to jot down all the details I could remember of my dream and email them to my good friend Doug.
I had no idea what motivated me to share my dream with him.
The dream itself made no sense. It was barely a fragment. And it wasn’t even interesting. Immediately after hitting send I considered following it up and apologizing to Doug for my dream spam.
But before I could do so Doug replied, telling me that my timing was perfect, and added a few words intimating why. I mentioned I was coming to Waynesburg and could I buy him breakfast? He said he already had breakfast plans with his youngest son and grandson, but would shoot me a note after, if I was still around.
He did, and I was.
And so we met at a place on High Street.
Seeing him walk in brought its usual smile and our big hug was medicine to my Saturday morning.
And as soon as he grabbed the chair across from me, we jumped in to the conversational jazz we’ve been playing ever since we met as freshmen in the band room at Waynesburg College. The kind that just makes time melt. We took chorus after chorus after chorus … catching up and comparing notes: on family, on things we think the other might appreciate (Have you heard … ? Have you read …?), as well as the day-to-day smudge and scuff that more and more keeps us up at night (whither sleep?). Our friendship has always made space for all of it, even the messy stuff. There’s music to be found there, too. A long way from freshmen we are.
As always we could’ve sat and talked forever, but we knew it was time when it was time. Before going our separate ways, Doug mentioned a new coffee shop around the corner that opened up across from where Scott’s Delight used to be. I asked him if it was worth checking out, and he said it was.
Though my caffeine tank was full to brimming I stopped by on my way out of town. Ordered something sweet and carried it into the adjacent room with the tables. The interior was warm and coffee-shop cozy, the walls adorned with local art, photography and ephemera.
Something on the wall immediately caught my eye. On a hunch I walked over to take a closer look.
It couldn’t be.
Ha … it was.
Our record.
Well, Doug’s record.
The one he bootstrapped, wrote, and paid for the recording, pressing and distribution (such as it was) of a couple months after we graduated. He poured his full heart and bank account — everything he had at the time — into it.
I played drums.
Technically speaking I sang backup, too. In actuality, I monotoned on the chorus. So committedly, in fact, that by the end of the session I had earned myself a nickname: The Drone.
The A and B sides were rock-a-billy homages to the music Doug loved and loves to this day. Of and from a time when three chords were as sufficient and sustaining to us as ramen.
After the recording and pressing of the 45s, we got some local airplay, and, according to ‘official’ documentation Doug received from the record company, we briefly trended in one of the Scandinavian countries. I remember seeing a photo copy of some paperwork Doug received that testified that, at our peak, we were charting just north of Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven” in Sweden, I think. I got the second biggest kick out of that. The biggest kick was the occasional photocopies Doug sent me of the modest royalty checks he’d get in the mail.
Those were the liner notes that came to mind as I stared at a relic from more than 30 years ago, framed and hanging on a wall in a tiny coffee shop in the town where we met.
I imagine Doug’s youngest son was behind its placement.
I thought to myself how cool it was that there were still people in this world who cared about such things.
Pondering the morning’s serendipity as I stared at our old 45, it suddenly all made sense to me.
I knew why I’d shared my morning dream with Doug.
Because he’d shared his with me three decades ago.
And I also think that, deep down, I had a hunch that we’d make some music of it somehow.
I think our morning’s conversational jazz qualified.
Same chords as always. Different changes these days.
As I drove the back roads home, I mentally made plans to turn in early that night.
To give myself room for a second wind sleep, in hopes that I might bump into Dave again.
And get back to him with my answer for his liner notes.
Took the hotel elevator downstairs to forage for far-from-home Monday coffee and a bite before heading out for an afternoon workshop with a Jedi High Council of new clients. Been stressing for days about the gathering, which represented our one and only opportunity to make a good first impression with about a dozen higher ups.
Grabbed a plain black coffee (did the trick) and a yogurt from their cooler (not that great), and went back to toss my empties in the garbage, when I spied a small bowl of bananas on the counter behind the person working. Likely owing to my pre-caffeinated state, I’d not seen the bowl when I’d ordered.
“Ooh, may I have a banana, please?” I asked the person who’d waited on me a couple minutes ago, explaining unnecessarily that I’d not seen them when I’d first ordered. She turned, walked over to the bowl and reached to grab one.
Then she pulled her empty hand back.
On second thought …
“I’ll let you pick,” she said.
Idabeen fine with whatever she’d picked, but, um, OK.
So I walked around the corner of the counter to where the bowl sat. Sized up the options, grabbed the biggest one automatically, figuring that hotel bananas come at a price and all cost the same, so bigger was the best choice. Really didn’t give it a second thought.
In the couple seconds while I was sizing up the options in the bowl, the person behind the counter said, “Some people prefer smaller ones, some bigger. Where I come from the smaller ones are much sweeter.
“In Sudan, we let the monkeys have the bigger ones.”
“Really?” I asked, as the corners of my mouth propped themselves into a curious smile.
“Yes … the smaller ones are sweet … like candy,” she said, as her face registered a memory of the taste. “We rush to pick the small ones before the monkeys can get to them. But we leave the bigger ones, and let the monkeys have those.”
In my life I have never bothered to consider any distinction of taste in the relative size of a banana.
“I assume they are a different variety than what we have here,” I said. She said she didn’t know for sure as she asked me my room number to apply the charge. I didn’t either, but found myself needing to know, so later looked it up. Turns out that the dwarf cavendish is the primary banana grown in Sudan (among the 50 varieties that grow there), which is, in fact, smaller than the commercial variety we are used to here.
She began to list the myriad ways they cook with bananas back home … frying, roasting, baking. “Oh, and the plantains,” she continued.
As she allowed herself a few small seconds of reverie, I found myself walking over to the bowl again.
I put the big one back in exchange for a smaller one.
“Ah, Mr. William … you were just here,” she said, looking at her screen and seeing my previous order. I could read on her face she was pausing for another second thought before deciding on something.
“I give you the banana,” she said.
Of course, she simply meant the smaller one I had already started to peel.
But, as I’ve thought about it, the true gift was in the form of her language. In the brief span of an otherwise mundane transaction that barely lasted a minute — one of the hundreds each of us would encounter in our unfolding day — she had re-presented the whole idea of something that I had heretofore taken for granted.
I give you … the banana.
Since she had addressed me by name, I asked hers in return. “Yoo-me” she said, spelling it for me: U-M-I.
I thanked her for her generosity, by which I meant her spirit.
As I walked from the counter I knew that I would never look at a banana the same way again. And that when I do, I’ll think of Umi.
And how she made my world bigger by sharing from hers.
I mean, much, much bigger in ways that I am only beginning to appreciate.
Like the convicting possibility that my default OS may be born of a scarcity mindset … whose first instinct is to grab for the biggest and the most for me … rather than what might actually be for the best for reasons that may be far beyond my limited understanding. Me and the monkeys are gonna need some time chewin’ on that big banana.
In the meantime … I will content myself with the wisdom inherent in Umi’s simple act of kindness.
That the scale of far-from-home Mondays is indeed relative.
And that there is a sweetness to be found in small things.
Bananas, yes … and in the tiniest of moments, buried deep in the otherwise mundane bowls of our everyday encounters.
“I’ve got some good friends, now. But I’ve never seen their parents’ back porch.”
Add that to the big pile of lines I wish I’d written.
Curse you, Ben Rector.
That’s just one of the, like, gajillion heart haymakers packed into his song and video for “Old Friends,” which I’ve been walking with like a fanny pack since a couple kindred spirits serendipitously made me aware of its existence.
But that line in particular.
Been using it as a sorting hat of sorts over my morning coffee. Of all the neighborhood saints I grew up with, there’s really only a handful whose back porches that I can conjure, even in hazy outline. Four, by my inexact count.
Three of ‘em were more portal than destination, gateways to backyard magic, owing to their functional humbleness.
But, standing on them now and looking out …
Amy
Just the tiniest back porch … barely enough room for a lawn chair or two — overlooking a yard as modest as all ours were, fenced in … in their case mainly for the dogs. Always dogs. Ginger was the first one I remember … shaggy in the way that made you long to pet her if she wasn’t always barking at you (ha). As I recall, the back porch invariably bore the muddy smudge of Amy and (little sis) Jodi’s canine du jour. I’m sure we contributed our fair share of mud prints, too. Though the yard was modest in size, its fence automatically qualified it for birthday party kickballing (before they put the pool in, yes?), while also mandating that one of us had to run like hell if a foul escaped along the third base line … as it was all downhill from Seventh Street for a few blocks. I also remember that anything that cleared the fence in back brought the very real possibility of getting yelled at by Mr. Wyda (scary) during the retrieval process. Oh, and I remember that glorious ‘metal detector summer,’ when our Moms would go foraging together. The magical signaling hum as Mrs. Hawkins waved it over her back yard with the seriousness of a mystic at a seance. Oh, and I distinctly remember being in their small kitchen whose screen door looked out on the back yard, as Mrs. Hawkins scooped french fries from the basket of what my eight-year-old self remembers as the first deep fryer in the neighborhood (cue angel chorus), which instantly made her kitchen my favorite restaurant on the planet.
Jerry
Jerry’s small backyard was packed with awesome, hosting a hoop, their magical pull-behind camper (perfect sleepover vessel), and, perhaps best of all, open access to a quiet alley that provided secret, safe, bike passage on both sides. My remembrance of Jerry’s back porch is irresistibly biased by one moment in particular. I believe it occurred early in the evening of a summer camper sleepover … when Mrs. Rehanek emerged on the back porch, which stood off from the kitchen, carrying freshly made ice cream cherry sodas, which proceeded to blow my nine-year-old mind. And which immediately certified Mrs. Rehanek as a bona fide sorceress and, which still ranks as the most magical potion I ever experienced in my childhood, and possibly in my lifetime. Summer as God intended … spooned fizzy from a glass.
Jeff
Jeff’s back porch was a bit bigger than Amy and Jerry’s, but, like theirs, sat right off the kitchen … overlooking a yard shaded by their glorious big tree that unevened the ground with its roots … but which never daunted us from wiffleballing. Ample room for bases … and a fence that gave us home runs to shoot for, though the tree played center-right field better than we could, snagging as many of our big flies as ever cleared the fence. And any line drives to right whose vector was lower than the tree line ran the risk of landing near their old dog Butchie, who pretty much hated everybody, except Jeff (sometimes). Anything Butchie got a hold of = automatic ground rule double.
Danny
Danny’s back porch was the one destination among the bunch.
Awning covered shade and cushioned chairs on top of astroturf … perfect for resting when we needed a break from running amok elsewhere. It’s where we’d take our summer popsicles, and where we’d towel off from his perfectly-sized-for-tiny-human-Marco Polo-above-ground-pool that barely squeezed alongside his house … before going inside to catch Lost In Space on Channel 10, that one summer’s destination TV.
Danny’s back porch is also where we all gathered and ate pizza the night we graduated high school. Open to whoever wanted to stop by. I remember our friends from outside the neighborhood coming and going while the rest of us just hung out. I also seem to recall some of our parents walking down to join for a bit. By then we weren’t the same friends we were growing up (middle school and high school can do that to a person) but I think we kinda had a sense that, despite everything, we’d always know each other as neighbors.
I don’t know how the rest remember it, but I remember graduation pizza on Danny’s porch as the most perfect coda on our growing up together.
__
Sitting here in desperate need of re-filling my morning, middle-age cup, it’s good to know that I can still find my way back to our parents’ back porches. And conjure fresh the taste of Mrs. Hawkins’ french fries, Mrs. Rehanek’s ice cream cherry sodas (forever The Bomb), and all those summer popsicles from Mrs. Hoff’s downstairs freezer chest (tie between lime and banana as my forever favorites). Oh, and an honorable mention to Mrs. Hughes’ birthday party homemade hamburger pizza. Not gonna lie, a bit of an acquired taste (ha).
“I’ve got some good friends, now. But I’ve never seen their parents back porch.”
And in case you’re wondering … from memory I can still dial their house phones.
“What time should we leave?” Emma, the organized one, asked me the night before, whereupon I did the math in my head, which family history has proven time and time again really means, “a slight majority of the math.” Looked up the drive on Google, which placed it around 30 minutes. Should be good if we leave by 10, I guesstimated. “I’ll set my alarm for 9:50,” my son informed me, which prompted me to suggest, unsuccessfully, we leave by 9:45. Which means we left at 10:10, which got us there at 10:45, which left us just enough time to park, pick up our bibs, and evacuate any remaining bodily fluids before taking our place at the back of the pack of already stretched and warmed-up humans massed at the starting line.
Our tight window robbed me of sharing the signature element of my pre-plannning. For motivation I was going to play Kurt Russell’s Herb Brooks’ “Miracle” speech before we got out of the car. Remind them that they were, you know, born to be hockey players. Alas.
To be fair … it’d been four years since the last time I’d participated in an organized race, so was a bit out of practice. And to be honest, I never really was what one would call ‘in practice.’ In the handful of 5 and 10Ks I’d begrudgingly participated in the couple years before the pandemic, I was never in charge of any of the planning. All of that fell to my ‘running buddy,’ Jason, whose default is to subjugate every detail to his monarchical rule. He’d prompt our registration, then spec our departure time and the ensuing directions. My race day responsibilities were limited to a light stretch followed by (a.) watching the back of Jason’s jersey get smaller and smaller in the distance, and then (b.) concentrating all of my energies on not puking down the front of me while maintaining operating control of my bowels until the whole unpleasantness was over.
It was the memory of one such episode that prompted me this New Year’s Eve to casually mention to Peter that I’d seen that there was a “Resolution 5K” run in Oakdale on New Year’s Day. Five New Year’s Eve’s ago, as I was a couple Moscow Mules into my evening, Jason texted me a link to that year’s race, accompanied by, “You in?” I remember convincing myself that my third Moscow Mule was spiritually akin to the training montage in Rocky IV where Stallone is carrying a felled tree on his shoulders while trudging through the Russian winter. From what I recall, my next day’s performance was, in fact, a fair simulacrum of an overmatched, middle-aged man carrying a felled tree on his shoulders while trudging through the Russian winter.
I hadn’t really asked Peter if he was interested in this year’s version, so was surprised when he responded to my dissemination of the fact with, “I’ll do it.” Nor was I expecting Emma’s response after I informed her that I’d signed Peter and me up. “Sign me up, too.” Neither had ever done a 5K before.
Seconds after doing so, apparently in the throes of what science calls a “runner’s high,” I wandered into the dining room and informed Karry of our New Year’s Day plans and asked if she wanted to ride with us and, you know, cheer us along. Which prompted the following exchange.
So it was ‘just’ the three of us standing in the light snow in 30-degree weather seconds before the start of the race, whereupon Peter asked if we’d be running together or just doing our own thing.
“Do your own thing,” I advised, since I wasn’t quite sure what any of our things were.
Since we were waaaaaayyyyyy in the back of the pack, I spent the first couple minutes maneuvering around participants either walking or easing into things (whose better judgement qualified every single one of them to be my Life Coach). Managed to carve out some space and was settling into a rhythm when a guy runs up along side me and asks me what my pace is. I hadn’t thought to consider that data point prior to his asking. I looked at my phone and saw I was matriculating at a 7:43 clip. Had I been sipping a Moscow Mule at that moment I would’ve reacted with my first spit take of the New Year. From what I could remember that was about a minute faster than my pre-pandemic pace. The voice in my head immediately channeled my Inner Karry — “[emphatic decline employing surprisingly colorful verbiage].”
“That’s my pace, too!” he said enthusiastically. “My name’s Jason,” he said cheerfully. (Apparently I’m a magnet for Racin’ Jasons.) “Do you have a target today?” he asked. Since we’d just met I couldn’t give him my honest answer — “Not pooping my pants” — instead opting for a simple “No.” Undaunted, he asked me if I intended to maintain my pace the rest of the way.
I took a deep breath and replied: “Look, before we get too far into this relationship, I’m not who you think I am. I’m living a lie right now. If I keep up this charade one of us is going to end up on the side of the trail bleating like a heifer giving birth to triplets before we hit the turnaround. You look like a nice enough fellow, but this … this is never going to work. The best thing for you to do right now is to leave me. Forget we ever met. Go, just go. Go live a life. And whatever you do … promise me you will never, ever look back.”
All of which came out of my mouth as, “Nope,” as I knew I would need all my breaths for the foreseeable future.
As I found an odd reassurance in watching New Jason’s jersey get smaller and smaller in the distance, I began to recall my previous race experiences. Turns out that running is just like riding a bike, except way harder … and with lots more awful running involved. I was reminded that the first mile is always further than it seems. “Surely I’ve run a mile by now,” I think to myself about a quarter of a mile in.
And the second mile is always The Worst. I refer to it as the “Seriously, what were you thinking?” mile. It’s just mean. Apparently it had a difficult upbringing. Probably overbearing parents. Most likely a bed wetter. Even when I’m running longer distances, the second mile just mercilessly taunts me.
Nevertheless, I managed to make it to the turnaround, and shortly thereafter, my phone let me know I’d made it two miles … upon which I convinced myself that this would all be over soon. Found someone just slightly ahead of me that was ambling at a reasonable pace and settled in behind them.
Stole a glance at my phone when I was about 23 minutes in. Figured I only had about three-ish minutes left to go. At which point my endorphins began to ask me my thoughts on a potential finishing kick.
“Good one,” I responded before realizing that my endorphins, much like my wife, are not kidders.
I hadn’t reached three miles yet, so was in no great hurry to make any rash decisions.
Then all of a sudden this very tall, bearded dude zooms past me. In full gallop. Like, really going for it, Kentucky-Derby-style. Sizing him up I figured he was likely in my age group. I was genuinely impressed. “Wow,” I thought. Clearly he had a plan that involved more than just maintaining a good grip on his bowels. “Good luck with … all that,” I mentally saluted as he sped past.
A couple minutes later, my phone tells me I’m at three miles. And when I look up, I see that I’m actually gaining on Tall Bearded Dude, who was now visibly scuffling down the home stretch. Looked like his bowels wanted a word with him. Kicked a little too early, evidently.
Hubris.
Which my endorphins and I discovered is apparently contagious in men of my age group.
“We’re taking this f*cker down!” my endorphins exclaimed.
“Language!” I scolded in reply, before putting my metaphorical pedal to the metal, which reacted with all the responsiveness of my parents’ 1980 Mercury Monarch that I learned to drive on.
“OK, give us a minute here,” my body replied … before marshaling all my remaining faculties into a barely perceptible acceleration, which catapulted me past Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Guy in a turn of events that surprised me almost but not quite as much Brigette Nielsen when Rocky drew blood from Ivan Drago.
As the finish line came into view up ahead, I somehow managed to keep TBPP Guy in my wake while retaining a majority of the bodily ingredients I’d started with, including a teensy measure of pride.
After catching my breath I sought out Peter and Emma and found them upright and in tact as well. We made our way to the community center for some water, and to steal a glance at the posted results just for funsies. Both Peter and I finished sixth in our respective age groups (even more impressive for him, as he was fighting a bit of a chest cold), while Emma finished third in her female age group, earning a tiny medal. Not bad for a coupla first timers.
Driving home in a car redolent with the aroma of our respective Ks, I was reminded of what I used to appreciate about participating in races. They’re invariably mini exercises in aliveness. Of the conscious choice to sign up. Of the sacred act of pulling a shirt over your head and lacing your shoes. Of stretching to give your body its best chance. Of seeking out your place amongst kindred spirits at different places along their respective journeys. Of watching the backs of jerseys getting smaller and smaller in the distance. Of humbling second miles where your inner voice gains the upper hand. Of appreciating that there will always be folks faster than you, and folks content with taking their own good time, and many lessons to be learned from both. And that you are probably both of those things to those around you, too. Opportunities to push yourself a little harder than you otherwise might … and seeing what happens. Heck, if it were up to me I’d give a tiny medal to Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Guy — for not waiting until he was ready to give it all he had. Better late than never, you know?
Summing the math on the above — or at least the slight majority of the math — aliveness is the blessing of the Racin’ Jasons and Peters and Emmas in my life … people who both ask and answer questions that I don’t always have the courage to ask myself, and who push me to see how fast and far I might be able to go.
And who make me want to be a little bit better next time.
I was driving back from Philly on Monday after dropping Emma off at school. Was a couple hours in when I hit the stretch of turnkpike that cuts through the mountains. Where it’s nothin’ but up and down big hills and forest on either side … for miles and miles.
I’m ok driving as long as I can see ‘civilization’ on either side of me (i.e. houses, farms, buildings, roads, etc.). But when it’s just me and the hills and forest … it effs me up sometimes. For real. Like panic attack stuff.
Reminds of a nightmare I had as a kid … where I was in a car hurtling down this large mountain straightaway, darkness on either side. And as I’m descending I can see this big hill in front of me that climbs steeper and steeper and steeper until it’s pitching 90 degrees straight into the air before it just … ends. In the nightmare I remember knowing I didn’t have enough speed to climb the hill, and no way to stop. I knew I was only gonna get so far and then just … drop. I woke up right before free falling. I can still picture the dream to this day.
On Monday when I hit that three-lane mountain stretch on the turnkpike, 18-wheelers whizzing past me on both sides, I felt myself starting to unravel. My mind began racing, my heart started pounding, and before I knew it, my hands were sweating on the wheel. I recognized the feeling. Years ago while driving home through the mountains at night, I got so overwhelmed I had to pull over and have Peter drive the rest of the way.
On Monday, though, I had no co-pilot.
I kick the air conditioning on full blast. Pull into the far right line and try and draft behind the slower-moving semis. Turn on the radio to try and keep myself together … anything I can think of to try and stave off a full-blown panic attack.
My bluetooth catches a playlist from my phone.
“Learning to Fly,” by Tom Petty kicks on.
As my eyes scan the information on the screen, I say automatically …
“Save me, Tom Petty.”
Which was a line … from a song that Jesse Lowry wrote when we were in a band together in the mid-1990’s.
A song that I had not thought of — let alone heard — in, I dunno, 25 years.
And, autonomically … I start singing …
“Save me Tom Petty … you got me goin’ home in spite of the weather … make it all better, as you show me who you are.”
Under attack by evil forces, my mind reached for the best weapon it could find.
That song.
I sang it without a conscious thought. My mind just put it on my tongue.
Twenty-five words, from 25 years ago, that could not have been more precisely suited to my present situation.
A tourniquet to staunch my bleeding.
And when my conscious self registered not just the lyric, but its substance, I yelled, “Fuck yes!” … as if I had just seen the goddamn calvary coming over the hill.
“Save me, Tom Petty …”
I sang it as a prayer.
My hands strangling the wheel, I found the first verse.
“Take me I’m ready. You had me rollin’ when my roller was broken. Take me home steady … as you show me who you are.”
Hugging the far right lane, crawling up and down hills, pumping my breaks on the descent so I could claim some measure of control over my spiraling situation, I was rollin’ with a busted roller. Just trying to make it home.
In immediate supplication to whatever higher power might be taking calls on the afternoon shift.
I quickly shut off the radio.
The chorus …
“Sing all the songs my minstrels taught you … bang on the door, I’ll let you in ….”
Took the song’s advice. Sang and banged with whatever I had in my tank.
“ … make it all better.”
Over … and … over … everything I could remember of it … as an incantation.
“How about a kiss for the poor man? Can’t you hear the sympathy in his beg?”
Yes.
“I must admit my love is strong … locked in this chest and woven with a tear.”
Over … and over … and over … and over … and over ….
Jesse was so prolific in his songwriting in our band days. When it came to lyrics, he was like a wind chime (as I heard Tom Wolfe once described). As if he was just channeling what the universe was giving him. I don’t think he intended the lyrics to ‘mean’ anything other than (perfectly) communing with the music he wrote.
In the moment, though, they meant everything I needed them to mean …. were both my sword and shield.
I don’t even remember the song’s name. I do remember I loved playing it. I think we all did. It started with a simple groove, funky and understated. Began quiet. We knew where it wanted to go, though. The chorus hit like a punch in the face. After which we brought it back down to a barely contained simmer on the second verse. And in the end for no good reason the song broke into a 7/8-5/8 crescendoing instrumental riff until the battle was won.
When he wrote that song 25 years ago, he had no idea that he’d written a gift for his drummer’s future self.
The universe did, though. And you won’t convince me otherwise.
To be opened at exactly 2:12 p.m. in the afternoon on Monday, November 27, 2023.
Music, you know?
I crawled and crawled (banged and banged) until I finally saw signs for the next rest stop and pulled my sorry ass over. Eased myself into an empty spot. Bowed my head on the wheel before exiting my car.
Went inside, splashed some water on my face. Grabbed a Cherry Coke and some Aleve. Sat down in a chair with my back to the window to shield me from all those 18-wheelers speeding past.
Was in no great hurry to get back in the car.
But knew I had no choice.
Let the winter air register on my face as I backwashed through the parking lot. Deep breathed as I turned the key. Found a break between the whizzing semis and limped back on the turnkpike. As I hugged the far right lane I found that nothing had changed.
It was all there waiting for me.
The hills. The forest. The wave I couldn’t control, licking its lips. Over a hundred miles left to go.
I sang a couple more choruses, but my mind knew that the elixer wasn’t going to last me the rest of the way. But then a sign came into view … next exit two miles. I neither knew nor cared where it headed. I’d figure it out. The off-ramp received me like a warm blanket. Houses here and there. Buildings. Precious few 18-wheelers. Civilization. I knew I’d be fine.
I let Tom Petty — and the “you” who had showed me who it was — know that I could take it from here.
Ended up taking bunch of back roads the long way home the last 120 miles … in 7/8 and 5/8 time, so to speak.
Got up the next morning and sent the most heartfelt capitol “T” Thank You I’d written in a long time.
To let Jesse know that a song he’d written 25 years ago had pretty much saved me. For real.
And that both his drummer and Tom Petty had listened well.
This is why people linger. Sometimes a place asks you to stay, to not rush anywhere, that it’s warm, and there’s the tap dancing water, and the powder blue sky, and they had the second floor to themselves. Josie felt that if anyone else came up there she would drive them away, she would throw a knife. This was now their home.
Heroes of the Frontier, Dave Eggers
Upstairs, the counter area is still very much holiday bustling, dense with people small business Saturday shopping, come for their caffeine. So sardine packed when I arrived, I had to stand in the other room while waiting for Emma to make me her perfect Saturday morning cappuccino. Upon collecting her offering, I walked through the crowded main room, all the way to the back, unlatched the gate, and went downstairs … which (exhale) I found empty and alone as a secret, as it usually is on Saturday mornings. All old stone walls and tables perfect and patiently waiting for customers who either don’t know they exist, or give the latched gate too much respect, or are just content with the quite content-able upstairs. I drop anchor in my favorite booth, the third one to the right along the wall. Put in my earbuds and summon Keith Hines on KCSM, just coming on for his 6 a.m. shift from the Bay Area, to quiet the din of upstairs and the world at large. Plug in my laptop. Pull out my journal and the Dave Eggers book that I have fallen madly in love with since Thanksgiving plucking it from the full City Lights brown paper bag that sits like a treasure chest on my bookshelf. Take a picture, which is to say a prayer, in reverence, commemorating the blessed gift of a Saturday coffee shop morning in the good company of jazz, a perfect book, and the blank page. Slow draw that first glorious sip, which is to say Amen, feeling it warm all the way down ….
Letters for Maggie 