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.
Em’s reply when asked if she wanted signed up for the New Year’s Day Resolution 5K we ran last year.
“Yes … a tradition!” I enthused.
To be clear, she detests running. Didn’t have her newer tennis shoes at home. Had to borrow my old hoodie.
When Peter asked her goal for race day, she answered: “To not cry the entire time.”
“Me too!” I replied, holding up a hi-5 which she promptly ignored.
In this year’s sequel, I took note of a few differences from our maiden voyage.
For starters we arrived early.
In the 23 years I’ve been a parent, we’ve never been early for anything.
Like, ever.
We had ample time to get our bibs, pee, stretch.
I actually peed a second time … because I knew I may never be this early again.
To be fair, last year was a totally spur of the moment affair. In a spasm of poor decision-making, I signed us up on New Year’s Eve — the day before the race — whilst slightly north of my second Moscow Mule of the evening. Was genuinely surprised they both said yes. It was their first 5K.
This year was Em’s second.
Her brother, on the other hand ….
Peter’s actually taken a keen interest in running over the past year. Much more serious than mine. Minds his times and distances. Actually had a New Year’s Race Day goal in mind.
Meanwhile, I held fast(-ish) to mine from last year: not puking.
With the aforethought that comes with pre-planning, I strategically managed my New Year’s Eve race prep.
Stayed away from Moscow Mules.
Opted for margaritas instead.
Was coming off an uneven night’s sleep when we took our place among the mass of humanity at the starting line. Didn’t feel like I had much in the tank.
So I was grateful to find a person shortly after the start to hitch my wagon to, so to speak. From the back, the guy looked middled-aged and mis-matched … seemed to be wearing a collared shirt over another shirt (?), along with shorts, dark socks and a ballcap. Temperature was in the 30s, which made his incongruous ensemble read as either brazen or ironic — both of which I found oddly appealing.
He seemed like a poorly informed tourist from another country trying too hard to blend in … or exactly how I’ve felt in every race I’ve ever participated in.
His pace was reasonable, though. Determined without trying to prove too much … which, I reminded myself, was the same criteria I used for picking my middle school cologne.
Managed to keep him in my sights the first mile. The trail was puddled in places, which made it a little challenging for me to keep up, but not too off-putting.
After I hit the mid-point turnaround, I was greeted by a winter wind bent on smacking me in the face the whole rest of the way (rude). Over the second mile, my pacer lengthened his lead, but I did my best to keep from falling too far behind.
I find once one crests a race’s midpoint, one’s playlist becomes really important. You need that voice in your head to take your mind away from the realization that, if it wasn’t for your poor decision-making, you could be home right now under a weighted blanket on the couch, binge-watching Murder She Wrote while sipping hot cocoa.
My playlist was on shuffle, so up popped a slow ballad I love by a melancholic Pittsburgh band from the 90’s, whose singer began to croon, “This world will be the death of me,” which convinced me I should maybe outsource the curation of my hype music to the algorithms.
Stole a glance down at my phone to hit skip, trading “… satchel full of broken hopes … ” (wtf?) for “Heroes” by Bowie (universe balance = restored), and noticed I had just under a half-mile left. Took a quick inventory of my legs, breath and bowels and, confirming stasis, looked up and noticed I’d gotten a little closer to Dark Sock Ironic Collar Guy.
This is the point in the proceedings where one starts thinking about one’s finishing kick, which for me, consists of trying not to giggle slash pee oneself.
The lesson of the TBPPD (Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Dude) from a year ago slow-jogged through my mind as I considered my strategy. The previous night’s margaritas suggested … a conservative approach.
So I waited ’til the three mile mark, and then, you know, called down to engineering to fire up the old warp core.
Once engaged I passed DSICG with all the urgency of a middle-aged man on the cusp of the morning’s third pee … in the process resisting the temptation to look over my shoulder to see if my backdraft caused the collar on his shirt to at all flutter.
Hubris eventually comes for us all.
Pushed as hard as I could as I crossed the finish line.
But after catching my breath on the other side, I sought out my pacer.
“Excuse me, sir,” I called out.
He turned around, whereupon I noticed that (a.) he was a bit older than me, and (b.) his collar was actually a neck-warming device (pro move). I also saw the front of his shirt for the first time, which commemorated a Boston Marathon he’d previously conquered decades ago.
Respect.
I congratulated him on running a great race. Told him he was my North Star, and thanked him accordingly.
He confessed he hadn’t run in two months, so wasn’t sure what his body was going to give him. From where I stood, he did more than OK.
I sought out Peter and Em in the post-race hubub, and we headed back indoors to warm up and so Peter could check out the results.
He found his name on the printout they taped to the wall by the awards table. Finished top 25, third in his age group, shaving a whopping two minutes-plus per mile from a year ago.
What a difference a year can make.
So we hung around for the awards.
They went oldest to youngest, announcing the winners in the 70-and-above category first.
A familiar figure walked up to claim first place.
Dark socks. Shorts.
Dude was in his 70s.
Um … brazen, it turns out.
As far as North’s Stars go, I chose wisely.
Probably went home and spent the afternoon chopping wood.
Needless to say, I found the experience of smoking a stone cold septuagenarian down the home stretch very satisfying.
We waited through the other age groups until they got to the 20-29s.
Announced females first.
When we heard third place finished just above 30 minutes, Em and I had the same thought.
She turned to me, “Wait, if she was third … then I might have ….”
We were both giggling by the time she finished the sentence, just as they were calling her name for winning her age group.
In the ironic category.
I had a fresh hi-5 waiting for her by the time she returned to her seat … which she promptly ignored.
I informed her that she was now bound by honor to come back next year and defend her crown.
Last week a co-worker came down with the flu. She’s been with us almost a couple years now. Was a middle school teacher before that.
She was out only one day when she messaged us to let us know that her husband had tested positive for the flu, too.
As did their one-year-old.
All three of ‘em, down for the count right before the holidays.
Found myself thinking about them on my long Wednesday commute, when a warm memory popped into my head (I find that sometimes my memories eavesdrop on my thoughts).
From kindergarten through third grade, I went to Areford Elementary. It was a neighborhood school (which were more common back then), just a few blocks from my house. We all got to walk to school.
For second-grade I had the most awesome teacher, Mrs. Schifbauer.
Mention her name to my kids, and they will roll their eyes and say, “The bee’s knees.”
Which is what I always say when I mention Mrs. Schifbauer.
Seriously, to my second grade self, she was the bee’s knees.
I remember she had the most beautiful handwriting.
To this day I can still conjure both the image and sounds of her writing our spelling words on the chalk board (with the good teacher’s chalk). It was all so mesmerizing to me. She’d write all the numbers on the board first. Oh, the way she’d swoop her 2s. (swoon). When she’d get to double digits, she’d start putting periods after the numbers. I would so look forward to the percussive punctuation of her chalk stabbing periods on the board. Twelve was my favorite … you’d get a swoop with a stab chaser (ha).
It’s funny, the things we remember.
After second grade they switched some of the teacher assignments, so I got to have Mrs. Schifbauer for third grade, too. It was like winning the teacher lottery.
The specific memory that visited me on my commute was the time in third grade when my friend Jerry got really sick and had to miss school. I remember it was wintertime. I don’t remember the specific circumstances of Jerry’s illness, just that he missed a bunch of days in a row.
And that Mrs. Schifbauer did the most remarkable thing.
She had our entire class grab our winter coats, and proceeded to shepherd us outside. Along with Mrs. Fisher (the other third grade teacher), she walked us down Eggleston Street, where we made the left onto 7th, and then the right onto Connor, where Jerry lived. Had one of us climb the steps onto Jerry’s big porch and knock on the front door. I remember Mrs. Rehanek (who, for the record, made the most awesome cherry floats in the history of the universe) coming to the door, seeing us all, and then ducking back in to summon Jerry.
I don’t remember specifically what happened from there … if Mrs. Schifbauer said anything, or had us say or do anything. I only remember that she just wanted Jerry to know how much we all missed him … and that we couldn’t wait for him to feel well enough to come back to school.
If it wasn’t for a vague remembrance I have of a photo that Mrs. Rehanek took from the porch that day … I’m not sure I would even trust my memory.
I mean, can you imagine such a thing happening today?
__
Recently, I learned that the Italian verb “to remember” is ricordare, (similar to the Spanish recordar). The etymology is Latin — Re meaning ‘to go backwards,’ and cordis meaning ‘heart.’
Or put another way … ‘to go through the heart again.’
Isn’t that just the loveliest thing?
Why am I telling you this?
Because when the memory of Mrs. Schifbauer and her kindness went through my heart again on my Wednesday commute … I actually imagined such a thing happening today.
And thought of a couple teachers who might also appreciate such imagining.
One of ’em … Jerry.
Who I haven’t seen or talked to in maybe 30 years. He’s a teacher in Maryland these days.
I messaged him and asked him to fact-check my remembering.
He hit me back almost immediately.
Yep.
Matter of fact …
“I think I have a photo somewhere. I can text it to you if you wanna see the pic.”
__
Went out for lunch Wednesday. It was a good day for soup, so I chose a deli not far from work, where they make it from scratch.
On a whim, on my way out I asked the person behind the counter if their to go soups come hot or cold.
Both, he said.
Ordered a cold quart of chicken noodle to go.
For a certain former teacher I know.
Who’s been home from work with the flu all week with her husband and baby boy.
__
Found myself driving to her house after work.
Pulled outside.
Put on my winter coat.
Marched up the steps.
And though I was by myself, I wasn’t alone.
Jamie was there. Tonya and Tracy, too. Ricky and Danny. Scott poking his head between Jodi and Gretchen. Amy, Joy and Susan. Blaine and his kind smile way in the back.
All of us.
And a smiling Mrs. Schifbauer standing next to Mrs. Fisher.
The bees knees I’m tellin’ ya.
I didn’t ring the bell, though.
Just left the soup.
Along with a note recounting all of the above.
Shot Sydney a text as I was driving way, letting her know I’d put something on her porch.
And that we all missed her … and that we couldn’t wait for her to feel well enough to come back to the office.
Told her it was from Mrs. Schifbauer’s third grade class.
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.
Letters for Maggie 