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.
I remember the place goin’ absolutely nuts. I’d been covering sports for a few years by then, and had not experienced anything like it up to that point. Probably wasn’t going to last, but the 17,000 strong in the Civic Arena on March 14, 1997, especially the two newlyweds sitting back left of the visitor’s basket, halfway up the bowl, were going to ride it for as long as they possibly could.
A #15 seed who had never won an NCAA tournament game, was going absolutely toe-to-toe with the #2, among the favorites that year to win the whole thing.
The emotional experience of it is remarkable, when you think about it. The only strong feeling I could claim when we took our seats for tipoff was for my nachos, and the small mountain of jalapenos I had gratuitously spooned between the two sidecars of melted cheese.
Allegiance, emotion, that must be earned. Like steaming hot nacho cheese, it is not to be squandered.
The process is both a methodical and fragile one.
You go from mere detached observing, not really caring, to an objective acknowledging — “… ooh, nice pass …,” “… good D.”
Stack enough of those together “… ooh, he’s feelin’ it ….” … then the pilot light kicks on.
You start to lean in.
“All right, let’s go ….”
It is at this point you formally place your wager … in the form of your heart.
It’s not that you necessarily believe … yet. That’s not the point. You know going in that the odds are not in your favor.
But now you got somethin’ to root for.
And isn’t that really what you show up for in the first place?
Karry and I were absolutely caught up in it. Sitting in seats I’d won — for a term paper I’d written for my Sports Marketing class at Duquesne University, which just happened to be hosting the opening rounds of March Madness, a first for the city in 1997.
For us it was a rare outing. About six months removed from our I-Dos, she was working full-time while I was taking a full load of graduate classes on top of research assistantship while also working part-time evenings at the newspaper in Washington. We’d sandwiched our attendance into an afternoon before my Friday evening shift at the paper. I remember feeling like a big shot using my Duquesne parking pass at the school’s garage to avoid the insane prices around the arena, yielding me a little extra nacho money in the process.
I don’t remember much about the early games themselves, which (refreshing my memory with a quick Googling) largely went according to script. Sixth-seeded Louisville held serve over #11 UMass, #3 New Mexico eeked out a win over #14 Old Dominion, while #10 Texas scored a modest upset over #7 Wisconsin.
What I do remember is delighting in how much Karry was into it. She wasn’t much of a basketball fan before we met, but had started to pick up some of the game’s nuances through osmosis. I remember we had barely settled into our seats for the first game when she commented, “That’s one of those rolling pick … things.”
I remember hi-fiving my co-pilot.
We calculated we could stay until about midway through the first half of the night cap, which would give me enough time to drop her off at our tiny apartment before heading in to work. Remember thinking we may not even want to stay that long.
Coppin State, a 15-seed, took the court as a 30-point underdog to #2-seeded South Carolina, which would’ve been a #1 seed had it not lost in the SEC Championship game that year. Not only had the Eagles never won an NCAA tournament game, their conference – the MEAC – had never won a game in the history of the tournament.
We knew nothing about Coppin State.
First thing that caught our attention, during the team introductions, was that their coach was named “Fang.”
And in the first couple minutes, that they came to play some defense.
Objective acknowledgement.
And, while their offense was cool early, their guard Danny Singletary was stacking enough shots to keep ‘em close. You could tell he was feelin’ it.
Midway through the first half, at the point where we should’ve been getting up to leave, the pilot light kicked on.
We started to lean in.
“Stay ’til halftime?”
While the Eagles continued to ignore the spread, Coach Fang grew more impossible to ignore on the sidelines, his animated antics casting spells over his team, and, slowly, over the portion of the 17,000 of us not from South Carolina.
It’s a singular experience to be amongst thousands of strangers without a rooting interest as they find common ground behind an underdog, and slowly swell into a unified crescendo.
To go from not caring to caring deeply.
We placed our wager.
At the half, the score was knotted at 34.
“All right, let’s go ….”
Getting up from our seats I remember telling Karry that a #15 never beats a #2, that we’d already seen the best part. South Carolina was too good to get beat by an unknown.
Whistling in the graveyard I was.
She gave me a wary look. She did not want to leave. In retrospect, she probably would’ve called my ass an Uber if such had been around at the time.
We were running late by this point, so I remember she just dropped me off at work.
The rest is history.
Coppin State became only the third #15 to upset a #2 in the tournament’s history, and the first to win by double-digits (78-65). I just read that they just released a new documentary on that game this week, such has their legend remained.
And we missed it.
Karry was pissed.
I remember I did get a decent column out of it … likening my pride in growing Karry into a genuine basketball fanatic to that of Dr. Frankenstein creating life itself. Still remember my closing line, “Although I bet Dr. Frankenstein didn’t have to sleep on the couch.”
Shoulda called in sick.
__
Last Monday my son texts me, “Opening Round in Columbus Friday?”
Me: This has bad decision written all over it. You should totally look into it.
I sanity check with Karry. She gives us the green light.
I search Air BnB for Friday night in Columbus. Find a spot a few miles from the arena. In the meantime, he scores us tickets for both Friday sessions.
Game on.
Monday night I come home from work and report a tickle in my throat.
“Heck, I’ll go if Dad can’t make it,” Karry chimes in without anyone having to ask.
By Wednesday my head is pouring from both my eyes and my nose. Wednesday night I spend in chills under multiple blankets. Thursday morning I can’t get out of bed. Manage a shower at noon, and lug myself to Med Express, where they confirm me positive for flu.
This time I had no choice but to call in sick. I was too ill to even complete my brackets.
I break the news to my son, ask him to confirm if Karry is still up for being his wing man.
Affirmative.
I inform our Air BnB host of the substitution to our starting lineup.
They leave for Columbus Friday morning, while I am still flat on my back.
__
Games started at 12:15.
I sent a couple of texts around noon.
Things were not going well.
After a 10-minute walk in the rain from the parking lot to the entrance, Karry was forced back to the car by security, who wouldn’t let her carry her purse-backpack into the arena. After getting soaked trudging back and forth, she had to make the near vertical climb to the top bowl at Nationwide Arena, where she pledged to remain firmly bolted through the entire first session, such is her fear of heights.
The early games played out mostly as expected, #7 Michigan State holding serve over #10 USC, #2 Marquette dispatching #15 Vermont.
I traded texts with Karry as they settled into their seats for the second session.
She: This is a lot for me, in case you did not know that.
Me: Yes, I knew it would be.
She: Mentally and physically exhausting.
Me: And you will never forget it.
From my bed I found the live stream of the game. It had the makings of a blowout. #1 seed Purdue was favored by 23.5 points.
I knew nothing about Farleigh Dickinson. During the intros the announcers mentioned that they were the smallest men’s team in the entire tournament. I concluded that the Knights, and therefore my co-pilot and wing man, were in for a long night.
FDU knocked down a couple shots early on.
And watching their swarming defense, it was obvious they had a definite game plan, such as it was, for Purdue and their 7-4 center Zach Edey.
Objective acknowledgement.
Every time Purdue sank a basket, the pesky Knights seemed to have an answer. They kept things close through most of the first half. I refrained from texting my wife and son. Didn’t want to jinx things.
Pilot light kicked on, though.
During halftime I switched channels to watch Kentucky play, and kept an eye along the top of the screen while the scores of all the other games updated. Saw that Purdue quickly pulled ahead by five at the start of the second half. This is where the #1 team reminds the #16 team who’s #1, I figured.
Couple minutes later FDU had tied it up, though. They weren’t going away. You allow an underdog to hang around long enough and they start to believe.
I switched back to watch. Made my wager.
I had somethin’ to root for … specifically, my co-pilot and my wing man.
Kept waiting for Purdue to remember who they were, but the Knights didn’t give ‘em the chance. They were too busy reminding themselves who they were. With under a minute and a half left, Sean Moore, playing the game of his life in his hometown, hit a dagger three-pointer from the top of the key to put FDU up five and I finally text my co-pilot.
Me: How we doin’ …?
The rest is history.
This time, I didn’t miss it.
Best of all, Karry was there to see it live.
I celebrated with a shot of Nyquill, and wished my home team a goodnight.
Karry and Peter still had one more game to go, the nightcap between Memphis and Florida Atlantic.
In the morning I asked Karry if they stayed until the end.
“You think your son would leave early?”
__
I always think about Coppin State this time of year. Coach Mitchell stalking the sidelines, casting spells.
Think about earning tickets for us to the Big Dance, tickets we couldn’t otherwise afford.
Think about the whirlwind of getting married … going back to school … carving out a life from our tiny apartment.
Formally placing our wager, I guess you could say.
It wasn’t that we necessarily believed … yet. We knew going in that the odds were not in our favor. But we were going to ride it for as long as we possibly could.
When you’re underdogs, you don’t take things for granted.
I think about how good those nachos tasted.
Think about having to leave when it was just getting good … because there was work to be done.
Was thinking about all that Friday night … lying in bed and feeling like crap, my co-pilot sitting next to our oldest high above it all.
Twenty-six years later and counting, and still an unapologetic sucker for a good Cinderella ending.
There is a lot to be said for having somethin’ to root for.
Early for a Saturday afternoon grocery pick-up, Karry suggests a quick lunch. I offer Panera, among the few destinations one of us likes and the other at least tolerates.
En route the big hat catches her eye, and in a spasm of poor decision making, she audibles.
“What about Arby’s? You’re always talking about it.”
This is true. I talk a lot about Arby’s. Even though it’s been years since I visited one.
I don’t give her the opportunity to reconsider, and we almost screech tires into the parking lot.
We. Are. Home. — my adolescent brain whispers.
Note: I don’t keep my adolescent brain tucked away somewhere, like, in a box in the attic, next to my before-and-after middle school orthodontic molds. No, my adolescent brain has its mail delivered to my middle-age skull, much like a man-child still living at home with his parents. Incidentally, I don’t keep my before-and-after orthodontic molds in the attic, either. I keep them on my bookshelf that leads upstairs.
Karry makes me put them away every time we have company.
Spent the past seven days in isolation after realizing, embarrassingly after the fact, that my taste and smell had abandoned me. I was sitting around a fire in our backyard when it occurred to me I couldn’t smell the fire. Was really taken aback that it took me that long to notice. Then it occurred to me in retrospect that I couldn’t remember tasting my dinner. I think I was tricked by my stuffed nose to believe congestion was the culprit. A positive test the next morning sobered me to the reality.
__
I spent most of the day after my positive test sitting alone in one half of our garage, isolating. I’d backed out my car for space so I could sit and catch some fresh air from the gray rainy Sunday. Set up a little white folding table and the red camp chair the kids had gotten me for Father’s Day. Lawn equipment and our overstuffed garage pressing in on either side of me. Couldn’t help but think what a sad spectacle I made. I could see through to the woods between our parked cars in the driveway. Spent the entire afternoon in the garage, first listening to the rain, then when it got dark, the crickets. I was listening contentedly to their Sunday night chorus when I caught a glimpse of the damndest thing — a lone lightning bug dancing in front of the woods. Couldn’t believe my eyes. Here it was October, and there he was. Still had some business to tend to, yet and still. Both of us all by our lonesome. One of us oblivious to the other. The other suddenly caring about nothing else in the world.
Made me remember the time I dragged Emma to a theater performance of a Sherlock Holmes play being hosted on Pitt’s campus. I remember little about the production itself (it was pretty awful). What I recall is Emma, in her theater best, spending the entire intermission chasing lightning bugs across the lawn outside the hall as the fireflies danced among the old oak trees. We were both so enchanted I remember us cursing the building’s flashing lights that beckoned us back to our seats when it was time for the second act.
All alone in my red camp chair peeking out from our overstuffed garage, all I had was time.
So as long as the season’s last lightning bug wanted to dance to the crickets, I was staying for the entire encore.
Not comprehensive, or in any particular order … just what comes to one’s mind upon being gifted approximately 18,250 sunrises ….
That, when I was a desperate for a date to a fraternity party, she said yes. And the subsequent circles we danced to Meat Loaf (if I recall), and the subsequent goodnight kiss, and the Johnny Walker Red that may or may not have been responsible for the courage behind that kiss, and, indirectly, the subsequent 29 years.
That I got to be on the same stage with my Dad when he’d close his eyes and shred Harry James’ opening solo on Two O’Clock Jump. The numbers of all the good charts we used to play (#95, #39, #124, #20, #209, #93, #117).
Gathering with my best childhood friends every Christmas to decorate a tree, sip some Old Crow, and bear witness.
A big sister who let me pick out my first rock n’ roll record at the National Record Mart.
A daughter who still says yes when I ask her to read with me, and who savors a good turn of phrase as much as her old man.
A sister who sends me a card, cartoon, or clipping every week to let me know she’s thinking of me.
A son who asks me to hit golf balls with him even though I am beyond redemption. And on the grander scale, a gracious soul who forgives me for having tried way too hard.
Running under all those perfectly aimed and timed fly balls Dad launched just within the waffle-pocket reach of the oversized, Reggie Jackson model Rawlings he bought with the best $25 he ever spent.
Em’s Saturday morning omelets with toast (oh, and while I’m there, her home made mac-n-cheese doused with Red Hot in the manner of holy water).
An older brother who, like the good offensive lineman he was, wore down my parents’ resistances to allow me a clean running lane through my teenage years.
Roger Khan, Roger Angell, John Updike, Myron Cope, Gene Collier, David Halberstam, Roy Blount Jr. and all the others who taught me that good sports writers were just good writers who happened to write sports.
The small graces … squeezing toothpaste on her toothbrush in the morning … walking down the driveway together after taking out the garbage … standing at the sink doing dishes …. blowing kisses to the window while leaving for work in the morning.
My favorite Sunday night Oldie’s DJ.
A sister who raised two beautiful souls on her own and now gets to enjoy her grandchildren, and the occasional glass of wine with her baby brother.
A neighborhood that knew the best recipe for growing adults was to let kids be kids.
Preserving the capacity to be awed.
A mom who saved everything, including the before-and-after-orthodontic molds of my teeth, the BEFORE sample prompting my daughter to re-coil, “That looks like it’s from a North American primate,” which is pretty much exactly what the girls in middle school thought, too.
That holding hands still makes everything OK.
Parents who gave me time and space to figure stuff out.
Chicken wings from Drovers, two with everything and fries with gravy from Shorty’s, a Poorboy without tomato, small fries and a Pabst draft from Potter’s.
Charlie Watts proving that eighth notes and a bemused smile are all one needs to build a pocket big enough to fit an entire world (translation: more is not always better).
Gerard Manley Hopkins writing his arse off for an audience no bigger or smaller than God herself.
Laurel Highlands Class of ’88.
Jazz on a rainy day and blistering guitars ‘neath a starry sky.
Our only family vacation growing up … to Gettysburg and Valley Forge during the Bicentennial. The sound of pee hitting a coffee can in the backseat on our no-stop drive to the middle of the state.
The bewitching crackle of a campfire.
The 1-4-5 progression.
How the very specific scent and feel of crisp late summer Southwestern PA mornings always makes me think of high school band camp.
The old, tiny teacher’s desk from Areford that mom salvaged and refinished … that makes me think of where I came from every time I sit down to write at it.
The best days in my life, summed up in eight words. “I do / It’s a boy / It’s a girl”
Remembering to look up.
Making her laugh so hard she cries.
When they were small enough to carry.
Knowing it’s in as soon as it leaves your hand.
That little dip in our neighborhood that breezes you five degrees cooler like a kiss on the cheek when you’re running down its hill
Ray Charles singing America the Beautiful.
A dry Kettle One martini and/or listening to Paul Desmond (same thing)
Every letter I’ve received in the mail and kept.
Riding in Dad’s Sherwin Williams van on Sunday afternoons looking for a playground hoop with a good net.
Being Santa Claus. Until you’re not.
Winning the in-law lottery.
Peter’s brown-sugar, oven-baked, banana ‘recipe’ he fashioned when he was seven years old, that, when properly muddled with vanilla ice cream, is the key to the universe.
How the smell of second hand smoke always makes me think of Mom.
City Lights Bookstore.
The sound of rain on a metal awning.
Nieces and nephews who made great daughters and sons, better sisters and brothers, and even better mothers and fathers.
All the encouragers.
That I remembered to write most of the good stuff down, to remind me when I forget about the good stuff.
A couple weeks ago Karry was violently cleaning out out the dining room, rooting through old drawers, filling garbage bags with stuff she didn’t want to think twice about. Of the two of us, she is, by far, the most qualified for the task. My wife is not the sentimental type. I, on the other hand, ensure that my wife will always have drawers to clean out. But in the midst of her editing, something gave her enough pause to seek me out downstairs. She tossed an envelope on my desk. “Yeah, you probably forgot about that one.”
On the outside of the envelope, my handwriting:
To: Peter
From: Dad
Christmas 2001
Inside, a letter. From me to my baby boy. Days before our first Christmas together.
Buried treasure.
I have no recollection of doing this.
Which is exactly why I did it.
I learned quickly during those eight months that time was no longer to be fucked with. From the moment Dr. Bulseco announced, “It’s a Boy,” we became unwitting passengers on a turbo steamroller, and would spend as much time under it as in the cab.
So, early on I made a point to mark time whenever I could steal a moment. Scribbles in a journal. Postcards from the road. Notes on a computer.
I will too soon miss the taste of Christmas cookies at 3 in the morning.
— Dec. 24, 2014
Pete: what’s that?
Peter (with his hand behind his back): Dad, I found something that I know you love.
Peter: Chicklets (placing two on the desk where I’m working).
Pete: (noticing that they were a little faded) Um, where did you find them?
Peter: In a drawer.
Pete (inspecting the Chicklets a little more closely): Um, how long do you think they’ve been there?
Peter: (thinking) Year, year and a half?
Pete: Thank you for thinking of me.
Peter: There’s still a yellow one up there.
Pete: Save that one for later.
–Oct. 20, 2012
Six words you don’t want to hear from a 10-year-old: “Boy, this carpet is super absorbent.”
–Oct. 18, 2012
My wife, to me, moments ago: “You have this … magnet of weirdness about you.”
–Aug 6, 2012
At the breakfast table this morning, my 10-year-old gives a complete weather forecast for the next five days, including temperature, and chance of rain. After a few seconds of me staring blankly at him, he says, “What? I’m crazy with the doppler.”
–July 24, 2012
My wife just came home and ordered my son to go grab the radio and join her on the patio to listen to the Pirate game outside. Savoring summer like a ripe plumb.
–June 9, 2011
Scientists researching hair growth should study our black lab, who has consistently shed 5-6 Luis Tiant mustaches a day for going on 12 years.
–May 20, 2011
So, passing by the living room, I hear my ten-year-old son say to his six-year-old sister over the TV, “Yes, I know you’ve been very patient … and for that I’m grateful.”
My first reaction was that my wife had laced dinner with LSD. I fought the urge to enter the living room for fear of seeing my son petting a rainbow-farting unicorn, which would’ve ruined the hallucination.
–April 6, 2011
So, midway through Valentine’s Day dinner last night (which the kids helped set the table for and prepare), my 9-year-old son rises from his chair, cups his hand over my ear and whispers, “Bust a move.” I pull back, and we stare at each other for about 4 seconds in silence … until he nods in Karry’s direction. The sad part is that I think he had a better sense of what he was talking about than I did.
–Feb 15, 2011
(Super Bowl) So, as the Packers lined up for the extra point, my six year old daughter asks, “So, how does a baby get inside a girl’s belly?”
I can’t handle this.
–Feb 6, 2011
Just watched my 5 year old conduct one of her “experiments.”
Step 1: unwrap 5 tootsie rolls
Step 2: put on plate & microwave on high while you go into the living room & watch a few minutes of iCarly.
Step 3: (my favorite) put on a rubber glove (right hand only)
Step 4: with glove hand, spoon the microwaved tootsie roll onto a piece of bread.
Step 5: place bread in plastic bag
Step 6: finish watching iCarly.
–Nov. 16, 2010
Over lunch ….
Dad: I’m a good dancer.
Peter: Let’s just say no one dances quite like you.
–Sept 6, 2010
Yard sale dialogue:
Pete: You really need to work on your positivity.
Karry: It’s difficult when you say dumb things.
–June 12, 2010
So, my son (9), home from school, fires up the Guitar Hero. I walk in, he’s just finished shredding Iron Maiden, and he’s sipping Mellow Yellow from a martini glass.
That’s more rock n’ roll than I’ve ever been in my life.
–June 3, 2010
After polishing off her mac n’ cheese, my daughter lets out a less-than-dainty burp at the dinner table. Seizing the opportunity, her older brother admonishes, “Emma! Do you see anyone laughing … other than me?”
–May 15, 2010
Five-year-old telling me about her visit to the park.
She: “Dad, I cut my foot,” holding it out for me to see.
Me: “How’d you do that?”
She: “I’m not sure … I wasn’t there when it happened.”
–April 6, 2010
My wife’s last words, before she left for the airport for her four day girl’s weekend? “Don’t even think about putting anything in the washing machine.” Then she did that thing where she kept her eyes fixed on me for several seconds without saying anything, to allow me to imagine the potential consequences.
–Nov. 6, 2009
This morning, I put on School House Rock when the kids got up. When “Lolly, Lolly, Lolly Get Your Adverbs Here” came on, my son actually said, “I gotta put down the PSP for this.”
So it arrived, like clockwork, as it always does, the Friday after Thanksgiving, humble and nestled amidst the mailbox-clogging catalogs and circulars who are under the complete misapprehension that the responsibility of heralding the season to come belongs to them.
And the smile broke across my face, as it always does, before I even made it back to the front door.
I sat down at the table, and opened it expectantly (think kid at Christmas), and read Patty’s annual hand-written Christmas card, which for (gosh, I guess) over 20 years now, has served as the Official Harbinger of the Holiday Season (TM) of the Riddell household.
I met Patty through her husband John, whom I met when we were both invited to join a new (at that time) 10-piece group, the Brass Knuckles Band (‘Our Sound Will Knock You Out’ – still wince-worthy after lo these many years … ha.). John was the trumpet player in the group’s four-piece horn section (think Wilson Pickett, Temps, etc. We also played a lot of cheesy wedding music, which is why I would prefer you think Wilson Pickett, Temps, etc.).
As perhaps THE most inconsequential-at-the-time footnote to the experience, I added each band member’s address to my Christmas card list. It was probably around 1993 or 1994 that I first received a holiday card from Patty, which immediately distinguished itself by (1.) arriving the day after Thanksgiving, (2.) being the only lonely Christmas card among an otherwise unread pile of capitalism, and (3.) her accompanying hand-written note.
And every day after Thanksgiving since, I’ve enjoyed a smiling walk back to the front door.
Letters for Maggie 