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 / and finding Whitman waiting patiently / weighty on the backs of packs / whispering across centuries / seashell words washed ashore / waiting for waiting travelers willing to bow their heads / 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.”
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.
__
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.
__
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.
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.
Things that got me through the week, in no particular order, and mostly in spite of myself ….
Dialing up an episode of 99% Invisible, which turned out to be Roman Mars’ recent appearance on another podcast — Dear Hank and John, whose John is John Green, who I can say without an ounce of irony nor hyperbole I super love, whose Anthropocene Reviewed podcast was among the many, many, little, golden things that got me through the Pandemic, literally and persistently whispering into my ears on my walks and slow jogs that there is still yet much in this world to fall in love with.
Discovering that John and his brother, Hank, have done like 370 episodes of Dear Hank and John, whose premise is answering reader’s questions with dubious advice, which, for me, is the equivalent of that recurring dream I have where I’m in a house I’ve been living in for some time, and I go downstairs, where I discover (or am reminded, I’m not sure which) that there are many additional, large, unused rooms in it, and I’m like, whoa, more rooms … awesome.
Roman Mars’ laugh, when he is coaxed into a giggle, which, I swear, is one of the best sounds in the world.
Noticing that hot coffee in the morning sometimes makes me sweat. Anyone else? Should I be concerned?
Making time in the mornings, before diving into the day’s work pile, to step outside into the driveway and listen to the birds. Noticing one I’d never heard before, whose song is three notes, the second and third lower than the one before. Grateful that she decided to sit in with the band and take a few choruses.
The sound of the wood pecker off to the left in the woods behind our house, going to town on what sounds like a perfect piece of dead tree (which, I swear, is one of the best sounds in the world), probably the woodpecker equivalent of discovering the all-you-can-eat-peel-and-eat shrimp station on the buffet.
Thinking of a friend whom I hadn’t corresponded with in a couple weeks, and taking a couple early Tuesday morning minutes to send a message in a bottle email, sharing something I thought he’d appreciate while confessing the week had the upper hand on me, and his reply, in essence, conveying, “I’m here for you.” The many lessons of the simple that.
How, for some reason, the meaty sound of Mr. Woodpecker reminding me of exactly how it felt to barrel a Wilson Comet rubber-coated baseball (worth the $2 at Dice’s Sporting Goods) with my 28” wooden Adirondack bat that one time we played the long field (home plate near the swing sets) on the asphalt on Areford Playground during my 9-year-old summer, which went for a ground-rule double, the closest I ever got to a home run that summer. To this day, nothing like finding the sweet spot.
Receiving a letter in the mail Tuesday from my friend, Jim. Deciding on the spot to wait until Saturday to open it to give me something to look forward to, which I plan to do right after this.
Getting to the track Tuesday night right when a high school meet was letting out, and about 20 minutes before the Tuesday night youth program convenes, allowing me some quiet moments of lugging myself around the loop. Emma making the two of us breaded pork chops for dinner that night, upon which we drained our bottle of Red Hot dry. Both events could not have been more perfectly timed.
Having new variations of my ongoing, recurring series of “unprepared” dreams, one of which involved what I think was a violent lobster that had gotten loose, and me grabbing ahold of it while it ‘bit’ (they don’t bite with their claws, I know, but ‘pinched’ doesn’t sound violent enough) me so hard and often my hands were pouring out blood, and (the next night) me wandering into a dream version of one of the newspapers I used to work for, and having one of the editors remind me of that evening’s shift (which I was not expecting or prepared for), and being unable to find the ‘second’ newsroom where my desk was, and also freaking out because I no longer remembered how to format stories or do layout. Grateful, I suppose, for the unambiguity of my dream life.
Trudging downstairs after getting outta bed every morning and finding Viktor (one of the cats who live in our house), sitting in the dark, ‘meditating’ (as I refer to it), patiently waiting until I sat down at my desk, so he could hop up for our morning conversations while shedding seemingly inexhaustible plumes of fur all over me and my desk, which I receive as my morning armor.
Giving Karry her hardest laugh of the week, when my son, who is on a mission to trade in his car for something, um, up-leveled, texts me his discovery that “the bank won’t finance cars more than 10 years old” … and me, waiting a beat before replying, “oh … we have something in common, then.” Being reminded that Karry’s laugh is the best sound in the world.
Sipping a single adult beverage with my wife and our oldest on an ‘almost there, not sure we’re gonna make it’ Thursday night while trying out a new-for-us pizza place. Spoiler alert: we made it.
Upon discovering “Dear Hank and John,” discovering that John Green is also a prolific You Tuber, and stumbling upon this, which pretty much sums up all of the above, and is worth four, glorious, minutes of your precious time. There is still so very much in the world worth falling in love with.
Letters for Maggie 