Went to a storytelling thing in the city a few weeks ago.
Flew solo … something I normally don’t do.
Usually my inner voice prepares a convincing list of reasons it’d be better for us to stay on the couch.
Something about the event’s theme — Bridges — made me think of a small story that might be worth telling.
I’m never really sure of such things.
Inner voice likes to remind me I could be full of shit.
Might be a story only I want to hear.
Which is among the reasons I appreciate the event’s drop-your-name-in-the-hat approach.
Lets the universe decide.
Was late peeling off work.
Got there about 10 minutes before it started. Place was pretty packed.
I made a beeline to the front to see if they were still taking names. Saw Jacob, the event’s producer. He asked if I wanted to tell a story.
“Thinking about it,” I said.
“Awesome. We only have two people so far, so you’re guaranteed a spot.”
Gulp.
Didn’t expect the universe to decide so quickly.
But then, Jacob did this thing.
He looked me in the eyes, put his hand over his heart, and said, “And I’d consider it a personal favor if you could shake the bushes and get a few more people on stage.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I was flying solo … and that I didn’t know a single other soul in the place.
Not to mention the event was starting in like five minutes.
“And don’t forget that you’re a socially awkward introvert,” my inner voice chimed in.
Yeah, that too.
But, there was just something about the way he asked me.
Heard someone describe it once as “the happiness of being called upon.”
I had just enough time to grab a beer before things started.
While waiting for the bartender’s pour, I noticed a person at the other side of the bar chatting with some friends.
I don’t know if this makes sense, but have you ever seen someone smile … and, just by the way their smile lives on their face, you can tell they’re a character?
So I notice such a smile, and then a second later, hear the owner saying to her friends, “You know, I’ve been coming to these things for two years … and I have yet to put my name in the hat.”
A second later we make fleeting eye contact.
And I blurt out from across the bar, “TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT!”
My inner voice does a spit take … “What the fuck are you doing?”
And I’m like, oh … what the fuck am I doing?
“Sorry,” I say. “Um, don’t mean to intrude … but you should totally do it.”
And she says aloud to herself, as much as to her friends (and, um, me I guess), “You know, I was actually thinking of something …
“ … but I don’t have it worked out or anything.”
“Don’t overthink it,” I volleyed back across the bar. “They’re actually looking for storytellers. I think tonight’s the night.”
“I … I’m not prepared,” she said. “I’d have to be prepared …”
But then … she reached into her pocket. Pulled out her phone.
“I’d at least have to put some bullets down … to see if I even have enough.”
I grabbed my beer and went to find a seat.
As I passed behind her, I said, “No pressure … but just so you know, I’m preparing myself to witness history.”
The place was pretty packed. Saw a couple open rows in the back.
Spotted a guy sitting on the aisle, also flying solo. I asked if I could sit next to him.
“You look familiar,” he said. “Have you told a story before?”
We got to chatting. I learned that he was a friend of Jacob the producer.
“Have you ever gotten on stage?” I asked.
Nah, he said. Shook his head for emphasis.
Let a couple seconds pass.
“You know, I was kinda’ thinking of something on the way over,” he said.
“Dude … you should totally do it,” I replied. “I think tonight’s the night.”
“Ah …” he started walking it back in his head.
I wasn’t going to let him off the hook.
“They’re actually looking for storytellers. Jacob told me … they don’t have enough.”
“Really?”
“Don’t overthink it,” I said.
“Ah … I’ll decide at the intermission,” he said. “See how things are going.”
“Wise move,” I said … following it up with one last, “But you should totally do it.”
So, the event starts. First storyteller gets up on stage (and is amazing), then the host goes to pull the second name.
And I see the person who I’d last seen at the bar jotting down bullets into her phone … strolling to the stage.
My heart leaps.
I elbow my next chair neighbor and whisper, “We’re about to witness history.”
And I was right.
Her smile totally gave her away. She had a light, for sure.
In fact, her kindling of that light was the topic of her story.
That she didn’t wait to have it all figured out before stepping into the spotlight … was every bit as inspiring as the words that tumbled from her tongue.
What a gift to bear witness.
When she finished (to raucous applause), I exhaled.
My work is done here, I thought in my head.
The intermission comes. Host goes to pull the next name from the hat, and … my next chair neighbor get up.
Not sure if you’re keeping score here, but … I’m two for two.
And his story?
Epic.
A love story … which he chased across states … countries … years … before it all ran aground.
At the moment of their breakup, they had to decide who got to keep the German Shepherd they’d raised together.
He had rescued it as a puppy.
He loved the dog so much.
Knew he’d take better care of it than she would.
And he let her keep it.
And I’m wiping tears.
That wasn’t even the end of the story, which ended poignantly on a bridge in Pittsburgh, tying back to the event’s theme like Simone Biles sticking the landing in a floor exercise.
It was note perfect, I tell you. Like, one-man-show material.
He gets back to his chair … I’m like, “Dude,” held out a fist for bumping, since the lump still in my throat kept me from saying more.
Then, I hear the host call my name.
I’m still a bowl of soup from my neighbor’s tale.
But I get up and tell my tiny story.
About a scruffy saint I encountered in a coffee shop who reminded me — in both word and deed — that receiving kindness is every bit as important as giving kindness.
I wobbled in a couple places.
I pretty much wobble everywhere I go anymore.
But I told the story that I needed to hear.
At the end of the event, they bring everybody back on stage.
Then it’s over.
Under the best of circumstances, I’m bad at exits.
Flying solo in a roomful of strangers, after being vulnerable on stage for six minutes, I just wanted to get out of there.
But I had to say thank you.
Saw Jacob at the front of the stage.
I told him I fulfilled the mission.
He returned a quizzical look.
“Two of ‘em were mine,” I said.
You should have seen how the smile lived on his face.
“I’m proud of you,” he said.
Receiving those words made me put my hand over my heart.
The happiness of being called upon.
I turned to make a beeline for the door.
Didn’t get very far before someone stopped me.
“I just wanted to let you know that your story made me glad I came,” she said.
Oh my gosh, I replied.
So, it wasn’t only a story that I needed to hear.
Almost started crying again.
Then, she did the kindest thing.
“Can I give you a hug?” she asked.
Our stories?
Bridges indeed.
__
Ever since that night, I keep coming back to the same four words.
Four words that I’ve come to realize are a magic spell … for experiencing awe.
“If it wasn’t for ….”
Wherever you are … whenever you are, say those four words, then fill in the blank with the things responsible for this … whatever this is.
Keep filling. You don’t have to go very far before you strike awe, which is merely a bridge … to profound gratitude.
If it wasn’t for Jacob’s Great Commission …
… I’m not sure I notice the way a smile lives on someone’s face … I don’t interrupt a conversation from across the bar … she doesn’t pull out her phone … punch in the bullets that give her the confidence to make history for herself, and do a thing she’d never done in two years of showing up …
… I don’t fist bump a next chair neighbor for exponentially expanding my understanding of humanity’s capacity for grace (he let her have the dog for cryin’ out loud).
If it wasn’t for the theme of the night, I don’t think of a story and spend six minutes wobbling on stage, so I can be reminded yet again by a stranger that …
… it’s just as important to receive kindness as it is to give kindness …
… that we should never be shy about sharing our stories, because they just might be somebody else’s bread …
… that even when we’re flying solo, we’re not necessarily alone.
And perhaps most importantly, I don’t discover this encouraging, bush-shaking voice that I didn’t even know was inside of me … that’s pretty fucking good at its job.
And that is making its debut on the page here to tell you that I would consider it a personal favor, if you would promise me …
… to never underestimate your capacity for being awesome. To be generous with your invitations, your smiles, your encouragements, your hugs, your stories. To never forget that we can’t change anything, but we can influence everything.
No pressure, but just so you know, I’m preparing myself to witness history.
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.
My normal custom for an early-in-the-week Jim letter is to save it to open on Saturday morning.
To give myself something to look forward to.
And to make sure I have the space — temporal, physical, soulful — to savor the treasure inside.
My friend Jim’s a wonderful poet. His letters are always accompanied by a few of his recent poems.
He happens to be in his 90s now.
When I grow up, I hope to someday write as well as Jim does in his 90s.
At his age he senses the nearness of death. As a former pastor he also senses the nearness of being called Home.
Having lived so long, having lost his wife, Mary, to dementia a couple years ago … he keenly appreciates the preciousness of days and time.
And stares it all down with a poet’s heart.
Has made a practice of sifting the everyday for meaning and for magic.
And somehow makes it all rhyme … figuratively and literally.
“Poetry is persistently plaguing me at night, and when, half asleep, I kick off the covers, I force myself to get up, write down a phrase, or a line or two, so precious that I just can’t chance to let it wander away.”
For the record, I’m a little over half Jim’s age, and when I kick off the covers at night, it’s to get up to pee, not scribble down epiphanies.
Jim inspires me so much, in both the act and the substance of his letters and poems.
We’ve carried on a correspondence for a few years now.
I’ve noticed a common refrain in his letters. A lament.
He’s always longed for his poetry to be published … so it can be remembered.
In a post-Thanksgiving letter, he wrote, “Doggerel, following me like a lost puppy, and when on Google yesterday, I found a host of famous lines of Tennyson … I asked, ‘Will anyone remember even one of mine?’ as if I’ll care after my death.”
But only a line later … “Sunday morning sun brightens the tarnished attitude I bring to life on these usual dull winter days.”
I can attest that Jim’s poetry is beyond worthy.
When I wrote him back, I asked him if he would mind if I shared his poems with friends.
And for once, when his reply arrived in the mail, I didn’t wait until Saturday morning to open it.
Something about the urgent pause of a New Year’s Eve suggests a break with custom.
“YES, you may share whatever comes from me. That is the greatest tribute that I know of … of my attempts at poetry … to be liked enough to share.”
In thinking how I might best serve your precious attention in this moment … I can’t think of any better gift to share with you than Jim’s gifts shared with me. Of his noticing in a sparrow’s visit a kindred spirit. His allowing a newborn sun to surround in warmth all that’s old in him.
So in this space between the holidays, between our no longers and our not yets, may we greet whatever lies ahead as if it were a Sunday morning sun.
May we approach it with the wisdom, persistence and awe of a 90-year-old poet still sifting this broken world for its good light.
May we ever be so alive to what moves us that we have no choice but to kick off the covers and call it by name, so we can share our magic words with the world around us.
May we always (always) have something to look forward to.
If you are so moved, you have Jim’s permission to like, share and comment. I promise to reflect your good light back to him.
In no particular order … an incomplete, un-edited, accounting of the stuff that got me through the week:
Monday afternoon, inviting some student leaders from BYU’s Experience Design program to our team’s weekly meeting. Co-creating the agenda with Michaela, a senior in the program. Her showing up prepared with some custom slides to guide the menu we’d discussed (she, a badass). Their team giving us a prompt for our Story Circle, “How did you get here?” Every answer a window into each other’s Story. Me, choosing not to overthink it, confessing how I am here in spite of myself, and (still) basking in awe at that fact.
Not getting back to sleep Monday night and instead of the obligatory trying in vain to doze, getting outta bed and going downstairs to write, finishing something for Karry to read on her late morning work break.
Getting a hand-written letter in the mail from my niece on Monday, and saving it until Wednesday morning, when I knew I would need it most. Walking outside to tear the envelope so I could savor it while listening to the chattering birds whispering their reminders that today matters.
That letter filling my cup full, and me needing every ounce of it on a Wednesday that drained it to the dregs.
Leaving the office late, depleted, for home and Peter texting me asking about dinner. Said I was thinking pasta since I assumed I’d be solo. Five minutes later, he shooting me a recipe he found and a shortlist of ingredients to pick up on my way home.
Getting home a few minutes before him, filling the pasta pot, getting out the cutting board, peeling the garlic, making us salads. He coming home from his Wednesday classes and commencing to chef up the new recipe. Calling new tunes for me to hear (he’s digging Ghost these days). While he worked and I sipped from a freshly cracked Malbec, our easy conversation the best Wednesday medicine. Filling our plates full and watching Duquesne in the A-10 tourney. While the Dukes lost, Peter’s delicious dish earning an automatic bid to our future family dinner bracket. Coming this close to crushing an entire box of pasta between us. Sun-dried tomatoes … who knew?
In my Friday morning feed, a jet-lagged Patti Smith, from her tender room, her cat Cairo in her lap, honoring John Cale, her late-husband Fred Smith, and her kindred spirit Robert, on the anniversary of the latter’s day of passing, reading just the most beautiful passage from their story, Just Kids, the product of a promise kept, nine years in the making.
Staying up late Thursday night putting slides together for a Friday client meeting that I really wanted to slay. Rising early Friday morning on little sleep but with an epiphany. Scrap my slides. Tell a story. On my 45-mile commute into work, randomly tuning in a random episode of a podcast I’d only dipped toes in, and the episode the perfect pre-presentation pump up, had me literally clapping and shouting affirmations at the stop light into the industrial park, drawing the most curious stares from the car next to me. Clicking into my client meeting shot out of a cannon and fully caffeinated, naked of slides, armed only with a (glorious) story. Me OK with whatever the outcome, knowing I served their curiosity and attention as best I could, and gave them the best possible window into my humble offering. Authenticity over polish.
My Friday work week ending on the highest of notes with my monthly connection with my P.S.F. (Professional Serendipity Friend), and listening to her gloriously effervescing hours after returning home with her husband from a sacred return pilgrimage to New Orleans. Us feverishly making notes of treasures to share with the other. Our conversational jazz making time melt (like all good jazz does).
Karry calling me on my way home, confessing the weather too gray and cold to go back out in (me agreeing), and she calling in a takeout order from the Catholic Church Lenten fish fry across town, me picking it up, and us sitting lights out in the living room in the glow of Friday night whatever’s on, communing over church kitchen cole slaw, fries, hushpuppies and Heinz-baptized cod.
Saturday morning, listening to Miles Davis’ In A Silent Way, steaming coffee in my favorite Saturday mug, my antenna still up … and typin’.
On a Saturday morning last September, I went across the street to the high school track for a run.
It was my birthday.
“Run” is a generous term for the act. I prefer the more accurate “periodic reminder of how out of shape I am.”
I enjoy going to the track at the high school, its rubberized surface forgiving on the knees. I’ve been periodically reminding myself for years now, long enough to recognize some of the track’s recurring characters. There’s Gray-Bearded Yellow Hoodie Guy, who runs leaning forward with just the smoothest gait … and just smokes me. There’s Power-Walking Curly Headed Lady (very intense), who, over months, seemed to be re-habbing a hip injury and now bears little trace of favoring her one side. There’s Elite High School Cross Country Star, who’s always there with her Dad. She flat out fuh-lies. I’ve literally jumped when she passes me because she comes up so fast. Last winter when the track was snow covered, I saw her running laps around the school’s parking lot, which had been plowed clear. Inspired by her example, I took a few of those laps myself instead of returning home.
I am not religious about the days and times that I visit. But when I go on Saturday mornings, there is often an older gentleman already there when I arrive. I’m awful at guessing ages, but I assumed he had a good 5-10 years on me (he shaves his head, so there are fewer clues). He takes his time doing laps, his gait slow but knowing. I figure he paces himself only because that’s just part of his workout. After he does his laps, he moves to the infield, where he does a separate regimen of squats, push-ups and stretches. His approach is disciplined, methodical. It’s all I can do to lug my keister around the loop a few times, so I steal a glance occasionally when my tank is running low. Makes me want to push a little harder.
On the Saturday morning of my birthday he was there when I arrived, doing his thing. Had just wrapped his laps and was doing push ups on the side. He finished as I was slow-lapping around the track. Even though I’d seen him numerous times, we’d never spoken. But, for some reason I couldn’t resist calling out to him. Call it birthday courage.
“Sir … excuse me…,” I called out. I never talk to anybody, so am not sure of proper track etiquette.
He paused and turned around.
“I just wanted to say … you inspire me.”
He couldn’t resist a smile as he replied, “Well, I’m 82 years old.”
Stopped me cold in my tracks.
Note: it wasn’t like it broke me out of a full sprint or anything. Rather, imagine a bumper car easing to a stop after they turn the juice off.
“Your are kidding me.” Again, I thought the guy had, like, 10 years at the MOST on me.
“Yep, had my birthday in April.”
OK, I said. Thirty years his junior and having to play mind tricks to coax my keister another half lap around the track, I had questions.
“So, what’s your secret?”
His smile was as knowing as his routine.
“Well, I’ve always just tried to take care of myself,” he began.
“I’ve worked out all my life. Was an athlete when I was younger. Try to get plenty of sleep. Don’t smoke. Don’t drink …”
“ … except for a beer on Sundays if I’m watching the Steelers.”
Understandable. The Steelers will make a person drink, I said.
He laughed, then continued….
“You watch the NFL, huh? My grandson plays for the Colts.”
What?
“Yeah, Rodney Thomas.”
Told me he was a second year player, working his way up the depth chart. I asked him where his grandson went to college.
“Yale,” he said.
Whoa.
“Number 25,” he said. “Keep an eye on him.”
We exchanged names, shook hands.
I thanked him for the conversation. Told him it was my birthday and that he’d already made it memorable.
__
Couple months later. Another Saturday morning. Forecast called for rain. I checked my phone, which indicated that the weather was only gonna get worse as the day wore on. So I pulled on my hoodie and lugged myself over to the track. Mr. Thomas was already there, getting after it. We waved to each other as I broke into my slow jog. After a couple miles I opted to walk and stretch a bit. Whenever I do this I turn around and go the opposite direction of the one I’m running. As I passed Mr. Thomas he asked me how I was doing. I stopped so we could chat for a minute. It was raining by this point.
He couldn’t resist sharing the big news.
“My grandson’s making his first start this Sunday night … against the Steelers.”
Me: “No way.”
“Yeah, the starting cornerback is a Pro-Bowler. My grandson was fifth on the depth chart as a rookie. He made second string this year. And this week in practice, the starter had an ankle injury.
“Rodney called me this week and said, ‘Pops, make sure you tune in, I’m starting.’ I’m so proud of him.”
I’d been meaning to ask Mr. Thomas about another Thomas I remember covering years ago when I worked for the local newspaper — Travis Thomas, who I remember went to Notre Dame on a football scholarship. Any relation?
Mr. Thomas said he and Travis’ dad are first cousins. Travis got injured at Notre Dame, which slowed down his football career, but is doing well in Indiana these days. Talked to him just last month. Said Travis was just so proud of Rodney, remembering when Rodney was little and running all over the fields at the Brownson House (a venerable sports facility here in Washington, PA). How, even at that young age, he had his sights on the NFL.
“Travis said he was just so proud of how hard Rodney’s worked his whole life.”
“The key is just getting after it,” I say to the 82-year-old taking Saturday morning December laps in the rain.
Mr. Thomas smiled. “Doesn’t matter what it is. Anything worth doing is worth doing well.”
I wished him well. Thanked him for the conversation. Thanked him again for the inspiring example. Told him I’ll be watching.
“Keep an eye on him,” he said to me again, as he had in our first encounter.
Monday morning I scanned the box score of the game, saw a couple tackles next to Rodney’s name.
I couldn’t help but imagine how good Proud Grandfather beer must taste.
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Couple weeks ago, my wife sends me a text, along with a link. “You see this?”
Rodney Thomas driving 100 miles in the middle of the night to be at the side of his good friend.
“I had a goal,” Thomas said Jan. 4, via Colts.com. “I knew where I was going, so I just got on the road and I just went. Laser-focused.”
Rodney Thomas working hard at his craft, and working harder to make sure it counts.
Anything worth doing is worth doing well.
“Keep an eye on him,” his grandfather said to me in the birthday gift of our first conversation.
I now realize he wasn’t referring to any stat line in a box score.
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I’ve learned a lot over the years lugging my keister over to the track.
Primarily, I’ve learned the importance of stealing a glance around us for inspiration when our tanks are running low. Doesn’t matter what shape you’re in.
And that inspiration is everywhere and can come from anywhere.
From those faster than us … who give us something to chase.
From those slower than us … who remind us that the important thing, if not the only thing, is just getting out there and putting one foot in front of the other.
From those younger than us … who remind us that time is precious and sneaks up on you fast when you’re not paying attention.
And from those older than us … who have logged miles and miles (and miles) of experience and wisdom. And who carry stories that none of us can even begin to imagine…
… unless we take the occasional breath … muster up a little birthday courage when needed … thank them for their example … and periodically remind ourselves that we’re all just momentarily sharing the same track.
One of the sweet bits of sanity and humanity I look forward to this week between the holidays is lunch with a friend I met our freshman year in college.
No matter how long it’s been since the last time, it always seems like yesterday. The timing is never not perfect.
He leads the kind of life I hold in the highest esteem. Centered on family, simplicity, love, and music.
When my Wired Magazine comes in the mail each month, I immediately flip to the back to the Colophon, where the parties responsible list the sacred little things that helped them lug that issue to press (a wonderful reminder that the end result’s best stories reside in all that comes before ….)
Saturday mornings being a perfect time for caffeinated reflection, here’s what got me through the cold, gray week, in no particular order …
I’d like to thank Billy Collins for writing Aimless Love (you should totally look it up) and Ben Folds for saying, “At its most basic, making art is about following what’s luminous to you and putting it in a jar, to share with others. ”
Meeting My Brother For Saturday Lunch
I choose the scenic route along Route 40,
though the interstate toll road is so much quicker,
because slow driving the small towns along the National Road is worth a savor,
passing the new donut shop at the light in Beallsville that’s supposed to be really good
Letters for Maggie 