Where others might commission tattoos, I have … t-shirts.
I fall in love with too many things and am way too scrawny to commit to tattoos.
I can be pretty much summed up by and/or reduced to the Billy Collins’ poem, “Aimless Love.”
“But my heart is always propped up in a field on its tripod, ready for the next arrow.”
Much to the chagrin of my wife (and my closet), I find t-shirts inexhaustible objects for my affections.
While shopping local a couple months ago, I stumbled upon the most wonderful creation, whose artist happened to choose a t-shirt for their canvas.
The above captures Forbes Field’s manual scoreboard the moment right before Bill Mazeroski cemented his baseball legacy on Oct. 13, 1960 — the second before his Game7-World-Series-winning home run off the Yankees’ Ralph Terry in the bottom of the ninth inning.
For me it was love at first sight.
So I was bummed when, the day after I ordered, I got an email from Wild Card in Lawrenceville, informing me they were out of larges … and asking me if I’d be interested in a medium instead.
But then I noticed a second email from Wild Card in my in-box. From the same person. Mentioning that if I wanted to try the medium, she’d send me a self-addressed return envelope in the slim (ha) chance it didn’t fit.
Who does that? Wild Card in Lawrenceville does.
Turns out, the medium suited me as kindly as Ralph Terry’s high fastball did Maz.
First time I wore it, I thought of a kindred spirit who would appreciate it.
Texted a pic of my proud torso to my friend Jeff.
His reply reeked of pure Pittsburgh serendipity.
Get this: turns out I actually know the person who designed the shirt.
Not only that, it was Jeff who introduced us a few years ago.
How’s that for a confluence?
Jeff shot me the number of his good friend, Nick, who I texted immediately, informing him of the wellspring of exponential Pittsburgh joy presently emanating from my torso.
“Ha … I think that’s my favorite, too,” Nick replied all the way from LA, where he now lives with his acclaimed-author-and-TV-writing- wife and family.
He summed up the inspiration for the design so perfectly and profoundly.
“Next pitch changes everything.”
Wow.
__
I’ve been walking around with Nick’s words in my pocket ever since our serendipitous exchange.
They keep grabbing me by my collar and shaking me awake.
We are all always only a pitch away from everything changing.
For the better … if you happened to be wearin’ black and gold on Oct. 13, 1960.
Or for worse, if you were wearin’ pinstripes.
Our existence is nothing but precious and fragile.
Yet always pregnant with possibility.
Which makes the choice of putting good into the world — even in something as temporal as a t-shirt — a sacred act.
As sacred as any kindness requiring intention … a self-addressed return envelope just in case, as an example.
If it wasn’t for the kind gesture of the person at Wild Card, I may not have ordered the shirt, and wouldn’t have thought of Jeff, wouldn’t have learned that I knew the designer, would never have sent Nick my gratitude, and would have gone a lifetime missing out on the golden wisdom he drew from Mazeroski’s heroic act.
Our tiniest gestures can be oxygen for campfires … that remind us that we’re connected in ways we can’t even imagine.
Sunday morning I’m downstairs at my desk when my wife pulls in the driveway, back from picking up groceries after church.
She likes going to the early service.
I stay behind and write.
Both reverent in our pews, attentive to the divine.
Hearing the garage door, I walk out to help her carry in.
Find her sitting in her car, windows up.
“You on the phone?” I mouth, making a telephone gesture with my left hand.
She rolls down the passenger window.
“I wish you could see your Dad right now,” she says. “His boxers are sticking out above his pajama bottoms.”
She has our daughter on speaker.
“ ‘Thank you for helping carry in the groceries,’ is what she means to say,” I interject, loud enough for the bluetooth to pick up.
“And his t-shirt’s too small. Belly’s sticking out.”
I’m provoked into issuing a statement.
“I will not be shamed for operating in Cozy Mode on a Sunday morning,” I enter into the record.
“It’s almost noon,” my daughter chimes in on speaker.
I almost miss being a target of their pile-ons.
“And, let it be known that Cozy Mode may remain in effect for the next several hours,” I add, which is simultaneously the most defiant threat I can think of, and quite possibly the most pathetic utterance of my life.
“He looks ridiculous,” my wife adds, grossly overstating the obvious.
Or, overstating the gross obvious.
“OK, I’ll go in and change, and you can carry in the groceries,” I fire back.
Was pretty proud of that one. I’m usually not that quick.
“And I’ll take back the salami I picked up for you.”
She is always that quick.
Caught me flat-footed. I didn’t see the salami coming.
Night before, she’s putting finishing touches on the grocery order. Asks if there’s anything I want to add.
I think for a couple seconds. “Ooh … do we have any ….”
“Don’t even say ‘salami,’”
In legal terms I believe her asking me the question is what’s known as ‘entrapment,’ but I digress.
I braced a second too late for what I knew was coming next.
“I’ve thrown out the last three bags you asked me to get.”
This is true. Not sure I even opened ‘em.
“I’m not getting it again to have to throw it away.”
Totally understand. So wasteful.
I feel remorse for requesting salami that I habitually ignore.
I’m not sure why I do this.
I genuinely like salami. I mean, in between two slices of bread with some yellow mustard? Perfection. Makes salads instantly, you know, fancy. Rolled up with a slice of provolone … it’s like Cozy Mode on a plate.
I have it in my head that salami keeps for a long time. Takes weeks to cure, doesn’t it? You always see ‘em hanging from wooden ceilings on TV.
So I feel no sense of urgency with salami. Assume it’s always going to be there.
I’m surprised when she throws it away.
Every time she does, part of me thinks, “It’s still good.”
I realize I may not be in full command of the facts on the topic.
Maybe I should start treating it like an avocado.
Clock’s always tickin’ on an avocado. Doesn’t give you a chance to take it for granted.
Or … maybe I just like the idea of salami more than, you know, consuming it.
Regardless, the way she kiboshed my request before I could even make it the night before left me convinced I’d have a lot of time to ponder the mystery while living out the rest of my salami-free days.
A punishment fitting the crime.
But … she added it to the order.
Awwwww.
“She still loves me,” I thought.
At least enough to give me another chance.
I may or may not have placed my hand over my heart after she said it.
Or, you know, over my t-shirt that’s at least one size too small.
I mean, she got me salami.
I’ve come to appreciate that such tiny graces are the wobbly cobblestones that give a marriage a chance to find its fragile footing.
“It’s still good,” I thought.
The fact that I only became aware of her kind gesture when she threatened to take it back was not lost on me.
Clock’s always tickin’ on an avocado.
“We are such an old married couple,” I said, loud enough for the Bluetooth to hear.
For the record, I was praising us, not shaming us.
Love looks different at 54 then it did at 24.
Says the guy whose boxer shorts are peeking out over his drooping pajamas past noon on a Sunday.
Sometimes you have to put on your cheaters to notice how beautiful it still is.
Friday morning I took my car in for scheduled maintenance.
“You gonna wait?” check-in-guy asked me. Said there was only one car in front of me. Shouldn’t be that long.
Found myself a quiet nook at the dealership. Grabbed a coffee from the machine. Hopped on their wifi, started into my work day.
About 15 minutes later, check-in guy rolls up.
He: We can’t open your hood.
Me: I’m sorry … what?
He: Yeah … problem with the latch release. Hood won’t pop.
Me: I put in washer fluid a week ago. Worked just fine.
He: Yeah, there’s no tension in the cable. Nothing happens when you pull the release. So we gotta diagnosis it. It’ll take about an hour … so it’ll be an additional $160 (on top of the maintenance costs I’d already signed up for.).
Me: I’m sorry … for what?
He: To diagnosis what’s wrong.
Me: I thought you said the hood won’t open.
He: Yeah.
Me: Isn’t that what’s wrong? (coffee was still kickin’ in)
He: Yeah, but we have to diagnose what’s causing it.
Figuring it’s hard to do maintenance without, you know, opening the hood, I was like … whatever.
My residual head-shaking was only starting to ebb, when check-in guy rolls up again.
Holding papers.
He: Yeah, so the latch release cable needs replaced. We have to order the part. Also … it’s hard to get to, and there’s a chance, worst case, that we’ll have to bust the grill to get access to open the hood. So, worst-case, we’d have to replace the grill and the badge, too.
Proceeds to show me the ‘best’ case … pointing to a really large dollar amount on the paper.
“And here’s the worst case,” he says … pointing to another really large number for the ‘grill-busting special,’ which would be in addition to the first large number, which is on top of the $160.
So they can do the scheduled maintenance, which will have to be rescheduled.
Metaphorically, it’d be like going to the dentist for a cleaning, only for them to inform you, “First … we’re going to have to punch you really hard in the face, which may cost you your front teeth, which we would, of course, then have to replace. None of which can happen today … so you’re going to have to leave and come back on Face-Punching Wednesday. After which, you know, the cleaning.”
In literal terms, while still waiting for the dealership coffee to take effect, I learn that it might cost me north of a thousand dollars to open my hood.
Lemme just say … it’s one of those things that’s hard to say ‘Yes’ to in the moment.
I gave myself a few seconds to let the absurdity of it dig its toes into the sand before externalizing a response … which manifested in me laughing out loud.
Not at the hood.
At the week.
I was only a day removed from having a plumber out to snake the downstairs drain under the driveway out into the backyard … which failed to address the smell coming from our shower. Only a couple hours removed from making arrangements for him to come back next week with “The Thing,” which will cost insert large sum here.
Only two days removed from the knob on our old dryer going kaput … so now, the dryer just runs constantly … so we have to unplug it between loads.
And four days removed from ordering a new air conditioner, the cost of which we deliberated long and hard about before deciding to pull the trigger before May decides to summer.
All of which to say … my laugh had a running start as check-in guy waited patiently for me to take his pen.
I mean … nice work, universe.
I told check-in guy I’d call him next week … which would gift me the weekend to temporarily indulge one of my favorite past times … ignoring problems hoping they go away.
___
I woke up Saturday morning still shaking my head at the week’s accumulations … when I gathered my things and headed uptown to the tiny coffee shop where I like to write my weekend medicine.
While waiting in a short line, I remembered another bill I was overdue in repaying.
Couple weeks ago I invited a friend out to a storytelling event in the city. We hadn’t seen each other in I don’t know how many years. Used to work together. We’d gotten back in touch earlier this year, trading texts and even chatting on the phone. For some reason I’d thought of him that morning so shot him a text asking if he’d be interested in joining me, and was thrilled when he said yes. My son was working in the city that day, so I invited him as well.
It turned out to be a wonderful evening.
When we arrived, I tossed my name in the hat, from which they would select the evening’s eight storytellers. I’d never done that before. I won’t call it an act of bravery because I did it as quickly as possible so the voice in my head didn’t have time to weigh in. I figured my odds were low, anyway, as the house was packed.
The evening’s first three storytellers could not have been more different in tone and topic, which is what makes such events invariably magical. When the host reached into the hat for the fourth storyteller, I heard my name called. I was so lost in enjoying the company, and leaning into my chair at the other storytellers, it jarred me. And in the few seconds it took to stand up and walk through the full house to the side of the stage, my anxiety went from zero to 60. But, I stepped out … and told a story that I was aching to tell … to the most gracious audience you could imagine.
At the end of our wonderful night, my friend insisted on picking up the tab for our sandwiches, despite Peter and my protestations.
I promised to him I’d pay his kindness forward.
Which I remembered just as I was about to order Cortado #1.
“Big plate, tiny cup?” Sydney the barista asked … which cracked open my weekend’s first smile like a fresh breakfast egg.
For context … some lost Saturday ago, I’d asked for a saucer to put under a really full cortado she’d made. She went in the back, returned a few seconds later, holding a regular plate. “This is all we have,” she said.
“Oh, that’s perfect,” I said, as I slid the ridiculously large ‘saucer’ under the tiny cup. As I did I noticed that the plate had a few chips out of it … which made it even more perfect.
“My life very much needs a generous splash radius.”
I remember telling her before I left that day that I may just insist on the big plate moving forward.
Now, I don’t even have to ask.
Big plate, tiny cup.
Every time Sydney sets it in front of me, it makes me think of all the humans and things in this world that catch the mess of me and crowd surf me through my days.
Like my friend Jason who met us in the city and insisted on buying beers and sandwiches.
So after I ordered, I asked Sydney if she could do a pay-it-forward, mentioning my friend Jason by name.
Of course, she said.
After which I sat down, tuned my earbuds to my favorite jazz station (KCSM, which streams from the college of San Mateo, CA), scribbled my weekly postcard to my daughter, and cracked open my old laptop to sift the week for its treasure.
I lost myself in the above like I sometimes do, so a good couple hours passed before I returned to the counter for Cortado #2, which must be referred to by its given name — “Portal to Invincibility.”
Sydney’s co-worker took my order.
I pulled out my card to tap my payment.
She waved me off.
“It’s already paid for,” she said.
I looked at her quizzically.
“Someone paid for your order,” she explained.
Took me a second before the morning’s second smile broke across my face.
“It was him,” Sydney said, coming up beside her colleague to explain, before turning to me. “People have been keeping it going.”
“Really?” I asked.
The coffee shop had filled and turned over a good coupla times in between my first and second order.
And in full disclosure … I hadn’t put all that much on the counter.
Humble pebbles on the scale, compared to all I owe.
But after a week of major appliance failures, stanky clogs, and a stubborn hood refusing to open — the numbers from which have yet to stop spinning — it wobbled me.
I mean, just the tender reminder that our kindness comes back to us.
The reminder that, even when all the evidence suggests otherwise, the world is still capable of surprising us.
Sometimes it just needs a nudge.
Like us.
I mean … nice work, universe.
I took a couple seconds to let all that sink in.
To give my response a running start.
I set the record straight … that my friend Jason started it, not me.
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.
Waking up, thinking of saints this Sunday morning.
Yesterday, Karry mentioned in passing that it would have been her Mom’s 90th birthday.
I confessed that over the past couple of days I found myself registering the month and days, sifting my brain as if there was a birthday I should be remembering, but coming up empty.
Betty passed way too early, at 71, from colon cancer. Can’t believe it’s been 19 years. Peter and Emma were so young.
There’s a photo we keep on the mantle in the dining room.
I can’t remember the exact circumstances, but I think it was the first time we visited her house after her passing.
I just remember it was a photo that demanded to be taken.
On the day I remember entering the house through the garage door (as we almost always did) … taking the stairs up to the main floor … and coming to the top of the steps.
Instinctively looking left.
When Peter was young and we’d visit, Gram would always leave a present for Peter in the window in the dining room.
Usually a little Matchbox car or truck.
Once loosed from the car, he’d tear up the steps, expectant … look left and make a beeline to the window to see what treasure she had left him.
She never forgot. He never even had to ask. Even when we’d show up unannounced, there was always something waiting for him in the window.
I always thought that the ritual of that was just the most perfect summing up of Karry’s mom.
While I hid my enthusiasms better than Peter, I always came up those steps, expectant, too.
You knew there would always be a simple kindness waiting for you.
A sweet tea.
An egg sandwich.
Something from the garden.
And, if it was Sunday, a feast for the ages.
Oh, how she threw down on Sundays.
On the day we visited after her passing, I remember looking left and seeing the window sill empty.
But instead of feeling the emptiness of that, I registered the sight of the sun’s morning rays blasting through the window, bathing the sill in the most wonderful light.
As if the heavens were conferring their eternal special blessing on that tender, sacred space.
It struck me in the moment, as it still does these 19 years later, as the perfect embodiment of Betty’s love and kindness.
The promise of a present always waiting in the window.
In the back row were friends I met at Waynesburg College.
We went for tacos after.
Sitting next to my first college roommate, he reminded me that he’d met my friend John a couple times before.
First time at my wedding.
Last time … at my Dad’s funeral.
After the show had ended … and I walked into the lobby and saw John and Lisa, Matt and Jenn, Scott and Aline, Mike and Laura, and Mike #2 (who had Kelly drop him off) … all of ’em standing there … waiting to greet me … the first thought I had was how rare and precious a thing it is to have friends from different seasons of your life together in the same room.
Pretty much weddings and funerals, as my first college roommate validated.
So to get to share a tiny theater and some tacos with humans responsible for crowd surfing me through my youth …
My friend Doug texted me Thursday, which triggered the following exchange.
I was grateful to Doug for giving me something to look forward to.
Actually, two things.
First and foremost, the delight of his company … the gift of picking up the conversation we began when we met as drummers our freshman year at Waynesburg College.
Secondly, for the gift of the arriving.
Ever since April who cuts my hair closed her shop on High Street, I’ve missed driving to Waynesburg every fourth Saturday morning.
I miss driving through Washington just as it’s just waking up and hopping on Interstate 79.
I don’t take 79 the whole way to Waynesburg, though.
I fall in love at the Ruff Creek exit.
By the time I see the sign announcing two miles to Ruff Creek, I am almost giddy. After the exit’s abrupt stop sign, I ease past the gas station on the left and the Church on the right where the cop sat that one time.
Confirming the coast is clear, I politely punch it and take the two-lane roller coaster climb of a hill as if it’s the roller coaster itself, my one and only chance to clear any slow pokes content with letting life and me pass them by, so that by the top … the only thing in front of me are two lanes irresistibly wide open and waiting … the juiciest Jane Mansfield stretch of swerves and curves in all of Greene County.
Cue angel chorus.
Three sets of gently undulating left and right curves carved in an incline … tempting me and the GTI to a little Saturday morning orneriness.
At the first left, I leave the right lane and visit the passing lane, following the arc of the bend, and, as long as there are no other cars in sight, swing all the way back into the right as the road snakes.
Since the hill’s not quite done, I keep my foot on the gas so I can feel the pull into the curve until it releases me into the next left … and then gently back again into the far right.
By the third left, the sequence is doing the good work of my morning coffee. All of it taking less than a minute.
The loveliest little moment of aliveness.
The only-every-four-week sequence made it precious. Something to look forward to.
Something I’ve missed.
__
Saturday’s reminder of which was almost but not quite as good as the big bear hug Doug and I greeted each other with, before hunkering down in our cushy red booth.
After sharing my gratitude with Doug for his invitation, for the delight of his company, and the gift in the pilgrimage, we were deep into catching up on family, music, and books when he interrupted me.
He: “Still looking for your pay it forward?”
Me: “Yes!”
He: “An older couple just came in and sat down.”
We called our server over, who was more than happy to conspire with us.
“I’m going over to take their order right now.”
I stole a glance out of the corner of my eye.
Older married couple out for Saturday breakfast.
Late 60’s, maybe 70s. I’m a bad guesser.
I overheard the husband order Double Meat for his breakfast platter, which made me smile.
A man after my Dad’s quadruple-bypassed heart, I thought to myself.
I confessed to Doug that something about older couples always melts me.
Told him about being at the coffee shop last Saturday as a couple regulars I’ve seen before took the table next to me. It was freezing outside, so they were all bundled up. Kept their toboggans on the whole time.
They were adorable.
I wasn’t eavesdropping, but sitting next to them, I couldn’t help but notice.
They talked the whole time.
Genuine conversation.
Asked questions of the other.
Not a phone in sight.
Made each other laugh on more than one occasion.
When they left, I asked Nicole, who does the baking and who I heard call them by name, whether they were just friends or ….
“They’re married,” she confirmed. “They are just the sweetest.”
I said aloud how I hoped to live long enough to be an old couple who keeps their toboggans on while sipping their Saturday morning coffee.
I shared the above with Doug as we resumed losing ourselves in the swerves and curves of our conversation.
Asking questions of the other.
Making each other laugh on more than one occasion.
‘Til it was time to get on with our Saturdays.
When we got to the register to pay our bills, another customer was waiting for a to go order. I noticed she was wearing a Dairy Queen shirt.
I also noticed that the older couple had gotten up to leave, too, and were heading in our direction.
The wife had a lot of difficulty walking, so they were taking their time, her husband gently holding her arm as they made their way.
They chatted while they took the time she needed.
I apprehended that it wasn’t an easy choice for them to decide to go out for breakfast.
They probably don’t do it as often as they used to.
Which maybe made it something they looked forward to this week.
I imagined that their years together have taught them something of arrivings, too.
I melted in place.
When they got near the register, we and the DQ person stepped aside to let them pass between us — a humble Saturday morning honor guard — as the husband helped his wife to the restroom.
It took a minute for them to pass between us. Enough time for the husband to notice the DQ logo on the girl’s shirt, too.
“Peanut buster parfait,” he said, and smiled as he went past.
I hi-fived him in my head.
That was Dad’s favorite, too.
Standing in line with my friend at the register, waiting to pay our bills at the Bob Evans on a Saturday morning.
Re-watched all of my favorite holiday movies this season.
Except one.
A Charlie Brown Christmas, which we never got around to.
Destination TV when the kids were younger, though.
I mean, Linus droppin’ the mic at the end?
Puts a lump in my throat every time.
It was only this year that I was made aware of something I’d never noticed in all my previous watchings.
He drops the blanket, too.
In the climactic “Light’s, please” scene, right before he says, “Fear not …” Linus drops his blanket.
All those years I watched it, I never noticed it.
When a friend mentioned it to me, I got chills.
A sermon hidden in plain sight.
Looked it up online.
Yep.
Apparently, the Internet’s known about this for some time.
I asked my family if they were aware.
Nope.
Once I became aware, though, I couldn’t stop geeking out about it, asking friends. Sharing with those, who like me, were uninitiated.
Immediately thought of my high school buddy, Bob, an animator, who grew up a connoisseur of comics and cartoons.
I shot him a note … said I assumed he knew about this, but I couldn’t risk him not knowing.
He, of course, knew about the scene.
Shared the wisest reply.
“I did know about the dropped blanket thing, but I never really attached any significance to it.
“I always looked at it from an animation perspective, where I think Linus does a lot of arm gesturing during that scene and instead of animating a blanket moving around wildly with his arms, they just had him drop it and then pick it up again when he was done talking. I think the reason I thought that was because when Charlie Brown is talking to him right before Linus goes off, Charlie Brown drops his coat right before talking with his hands. Again, I assumed that was for animation purposes.”
Brilliant insight, which Bob’s always been good for.
At first his reply hit me like a splash of cold water.
“A Charlie Brown Christmas.” (Peanuts Worldwide)
So … a practical animation choice.
No sermon intended.
Nothing to see here.
Hmm.
But just because Charles Schulz may have been more interested in easing his animating burden doesn’t mean there’s not a sermon to be found.
Just because something isn’t true, or as intended, doesn’t mean it can’t be meaningful.
Otherwise myths wouldn’t exist.
Or religions, some might say.
We live in a world that would rather know how the trick is done than believe in magic.
Not me.
I’d rather be (open to being) awed.
I’ve learned to keep my antenna up for magic and meaning … even where it’s not supposed to exist.
Who says a perfect sermon can’t be found in a practical choice?
Even Bob in his wisdom agrees.
“But I guess in the big picture, it’s a much better story and makes more sense to say that Linus didn’t need security during that moment.”
We can let the blanket drop … without letting it get wet.
__
Sitting in my usual seat at my favorite coffee shop where I’m typing this, I watched an older woman, bundled head to toe for the cold, walk in to warm herself for a few minutes before catching her Saturday morning bus.
As she was trudging back to the door with 12 warm ounces in her hand, already bracing for the cold on the other side, a familiar downtown face came in, and seeing her, stepped to the side, and with his right arm, backhanded the door open for her.
Not the biggest fellow, he had to bend over a bit to muster the strength to brace the door open with just his one arm.
But from where I sat, his forced hunch read as a bow, imbuing his humble act with an added reverence.
Allowing the older woman catching her bus to pass through the door regal as a queen, nobly enrobed in her winter coat, her toboggan pulled tight like a crown.
She nodded thanks to him as she exited.
As if to a loyal subject.
It was a scene that neither would likely think of ever again.
She, a bus to catch.
He, cold hands to warm at the fireplace.
Me, a lump in my throat for the gift of bearing witness.
It was a scene I’m likely never to forget.
His bow. Her nod.
A sermon hidden in plain sight.
A sweet and simple reminder to be kind where we can to those we encounter along the way.
To humble ourselves to allow the strangers we meet to walk in dignity in an otherwise cold world.
If he’d have been holding a blanket in his right hand, he might have made the practical choice to drop it, too.
Letters for Maggie 