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.
__
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.
__
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
In the sobering light of the new year, we’ve forced ourselves to begin reckoning with our clutter. Less a resolution than a survival tactic, more akin to scooping water from a sinking ship.
Karry catches the rising sun spotlighting the frost on the trees, says I’d appreciate, implying more than her, she hates all of winter … but as the sun continues to rise, she thaws, and is broken by its beauty, how the backlit frost glows, how the trees just glisten, like the sun has cast the morning in moonlight, and for an unspoiled moment we just stand awed in our old kitchen and stare at an older sun we’ve never seen before kissing the backs of the bare trees good morning.
In my imagination, this is where we are tonight ….
Walking into Potter’s, glancing left and finding enough open, old, red stools at the bar to accommodate us (whoever’s available, whoever wants to come), their acquisition by our keisters a confirmation, the most formal, capital “A” Arrival I can think of right now, the granting of official permission to leave everything else outside for Here … Now … the simple This.
In my imagination Robert, the forever bartender, towel over his shoulder, who spent contented decades pouring and washing, fills our glasses full of Pabst — all that our thirst has required here since 21.
Yes, we make a point to clink each other’s glasses. There may be toasts, but everything that has ever needed said is whispered in full measure by just our being together.
There is no clock on the wall.
If we’re lucky an old regular may shuffle in on cue to check the daily number off the TV, letting us know it’s seven. In the right company, in the right place, such a sun dial is sufficient.
We don’t bother with the menu, remembering it like we recall the Gettysburg Address Mr. Landman made us memorize in 8th grade history.
Everyone orders their regulars … there may be a cheeseburger, maybe wings, maybe a Greek Western, maybe a Double Giant Whammy Doodle.
For me, it’s a Poor Boy (what Potter’s calls their grilled ham and cheese topped with lettuce and mayo) without tomato on a hoagie roll. Unostentatious and perfect, the sandwich and the setting. Small salad (with beets, because, you know, Uniontown) tossed in their homemade Italian whose taste is worth any indigestion later, and their legendary fries sprinkled with seasoned salt, to share.
But the nourishment I come for is not on the menu.
It’s to hear everyone’s laughter again. Bill throwing his head back in full cackle. Tom’s revving up and going silent in high gear. Matt’s high-pitched giggle. Homer, ready with his quick squirrel chuckle. Andy’s shoulders heaving when he gets going. Chris, fighting through his laugh to throw more logs on the fire. Wolfie just shaking his head.
We go a little quieter when the food comes, order seconds of Pabsts, and are in no great hurry once the bill comes, carrying on the conversation we started here as teenagers.
Letters for Maggie 