to a quick hot shower after running in the cold and wet at the track after sunset
to air-frying the steak quesadilla Peter made last night and set aside for me … and savoring it standing up in the kitchen
to sailing down Green Tree hill and through the tunnels to receive a weathered city that only glistens at night
to having a pick of parking spots next to the park where people are still pickleballing under the lights
to the luminous marquis of the old Garden Theater standing as proud reminder to never let our past define our possibility
to walking into Alphabet City and finding it full, just as the mighty Alexis was preambling the evening’s program
to grabbing the last seat at the bar, left open because it couldn’t see the stage … but it could see the drummer, which is exactly what you came to see
to a septet breaking into Perdido breaking like a fresh egg over your week’s bowl, seeping down and through all the way to the bottom
to the drummer excusing everyone but the piano, bass and guitar, leaving them to Nat King Cole the shit outta’ Stompin’ at the Savoy, painting life so beautiful in black and white
to the trombone player’s tone on I Can’t Get Started, as full and warm as the bourbon in my second Soothsayer
to the piano player pouring himself Body and Soul, exploring till he found that chord he knew was in there, causing the sax player bowing her head to smile around her mouthpiece … and look up and over to him and nod
to the in-betweens of the bandleader preaching sermons on St. Norman Granz and Jazz at the Philharmonic
to listening with an irrepressible smile of my own to 90 minutes of combinations, educations and improvisations orchestrated as neatly as a bento box, leaving me not full just satisfied
to driving back home in reverie in no great hurry
to pulling in the driveway pushing 9:30 and finding the outside light on and Peter shooting hoops
to stepping into a rebound and dishing his layup
to settling into old familiar rhythms
to knowing it’s in when it leaves your hand
to feeding him in stride and him splashing one after another after another
to seeing your November breath while staying out way past dark on a school night
to calling it, but not before each ending on a make
Left the house yesterday morning to meet my sister for coffee.
There are few more lovely reasons to leave the house on a Saturday morning.
Figured I’d swing by the post office first to pick up some stamps.
Planned to write my daughter her weekly postcard after having coffee with my big sister.
No line when I got inside.
Saw Maria standing behind the counter … which made me smile.
Maria’s worked at the post office for 28 years, if I remember correctly.
She told me last time I picked up a lasagna from her.
Not at the post office.
At her tender restaurant A la Maria’s, on LeMoyne, where she spends her weekday evenings … lovingly making her Mom’s old Italian recipes.
Maria’s place holds a special place in my heart.
When Karry and I got married and moved into the World’s Tiniest Apartment in East Washington, Maria’s mother ran a restaurant out of the basement of her home a couple blocks from us.
In our early Kraft-Mac-and-Cheese-Can-of-Peas-for-Dinner days, Paesano’s was our one monthly splurge.
Saturday night.
If the weather was nice we’d walk.
It was BYOB so we made a ritual of picking up a $10 bottle of wine.
Made sure we were in our seats by 7 o’clock, so we could watch X-Files re-runs on the big TV that hung in the dining area …
… while slow savoring food made with love from an Italian mother’s kitchen.
We’d take our time walking our full bellies back home — the next day’s leftover lunch in my left hand, Karry’s hand in my right.
Everything my Saturday night could ever want back then.
Maria’s lasagna is perfection.
Architectural is the best way to describe it.
Sharp corners. Rectilinear. Towering.
Don’t know how she does it.
Every lasagna we’ve ever made at home comes out of the pan (deliciously) gloopy.
Maria’s could serve as a tornado shelter.
Comes with about a 1/2 inch of standing red sauce pooling in the bottom of the to go container.
Every time I get home and crack open the styrofoam box, Pavarotti sings ‘La donna è mobile’ in my head.
Comes with two thin slices of Italian bread, essential sponges for sopping up every last drop from the plate when you’ve sadly run out of lasagna.
When I put my sopped-clean-post-lasagna plate in the dish washer, the other dishes are like, “I think you meant to put this back in the cabinet.”
So it should come as no surprise how it made me smile to see Maria behind the counter at the post office yesterday morning.
“Miss Maria,” I greeted.
“Mr. Riddell.”
“Postcard stamps?” I asked.
“Cleaned out. Election folks bought ‘em all up.”
“Awwww. Really?”
Asked her when they might get more in. She said they’re on order, from Kansas.
“They send them regular mail … so, who knows?”
Coming from a post office person, the “Who knows?” struck me as funny.
She said I could try the McMurray store. They have everything there.
I thanked her for letting me know, and exhaled defeatedly, as I didn’t have the time nor inclination for a special trip.
Was just about to say out loud that my visit wasn’t in vain, though, since I got to see her …
… when Maria interjected.
“Otherwise, you’d have to go two busses and some grapes.”
“Uh …. I’m sorry, what?”
“To make up the 61 cents,” she said.
Pre-caffeinated, I wasn’t following at all.
She pulls out her drawer, takes out a couple packs of stamps.
Starts to do math.
Explains the busses are 28 cents …
“So two of those …. plus a five cent stamp,” she says, holding up a pack of grape stamps.
“So you’d need a lot of stamps,” she chuckled.
“Wait …,” I said. “Postcard stamps are 61 cents?”
“Yep. Regular stamps are 78 cents, post cards are 61.”
I had no idea.
In my mind I thought postcard stamps were like 19 cents.
Sixty-one cents … for such little real estate.
I felt dumb … for having hundreds of post cards at home.
She started to put the booklets back in her drawer, when I interjected.
“I’ll take the busses and grapes,” I said.
“Oh, you want to do that?” she asked.
“Just to get me through today,” I said.
What I meant was that I’d just take a booklet of each as an interim solution.
“Oh, so you just want enough for one?” she asked.
I didn’t think you could do that.
I smiled at the smile on her face as I watched her tearing off a postcard’s worth of individual stamps from their booklets.
“I guess I’m going to have to write smaller,” I said out loud.
She broke apart the three I needed, laid them loose on the counter.
Then an idea popped into her head.
“Here’s what you do ….”
I watched her pick up a bus, peel it off, and carefully lay it across the other bus.
Wasn’t sure what she was doing … maybe just consolidating onto one piece rather than sending me out with three loose stamps?
Then she peeled the grape and surgically laid it across the second bus.
“There …. That’s what you do,” she said.
Proudly.
“Leaves you more room to write,” she said.
Oh.
“So you can lay them across each other like that on the post card?” I asked.
“Yep,” she said. “Only the ‘USA’ needs to be showing.”
And I giggled out loud … like a five-year-old who’d just seen an adult perform magic.
You should see what she does with a lasagna, I’m tellin’ ya.
In the town where I live, there’s a person who will not only let a clueless, pre-caffeinated little brother cobble together a postcard’s worth of stamps … but will take the time to bunch ‘em as tight as the law allows … so he has as much room as possible to write to his daughter about how much he misses her.
__
And after just the loveliest visit with my big sister …
… I took out my favorite pen …
… and the postcard I’d plucked special from my massive, impractical inventory …
… took my time writing small and neat …
… doing my best to make every word count …
… with all the reverence I could muster …
… as I imagined a mother might …
… writing down her favorite recipes for posterity.
Ten years later I came along … and surprised all involved parties.
My three sisters and brother are all between 10 and 15 years older than me.
I grew up … looking up.
To a person they held up their ends of the big sibling bargain.
Kim bought me my first album at the National Record Mart. Let me pick it out myself. Still remember the words to every song.
Laurie didn’t shoo me away when she’d invite her pretty friends over (swoon).
Kenny would take me with him on his pilgrimages to WVU when he was teaching there. Always let me pick out some Mountaineer gear at the bookstore.
Missy taught me my letters, numbers and punctuation marks by drawing them in soap on my back during bath time and having me guess what she drew. When my kids were little, I employed the Missy Method.
As a bonus … I knew all the cuss words before my friends did. As I remember it, Kim and Kenny did the heavy lifting there.
At home the five of us were spread across the three upstairs bedrooms.
Kim, the oldest, had a small bedroom to herself. Laurie and Liss shared the big bedroom across the hall. My brother took me in during the expansion draft of 1970.
After graduating high school, Kim joined the Marines (um, as one does). Laurie, popular with the boys, got married a couple years after she graduated.
Kenny went away to college when he graduated, which left just me and Liss at home.
I had just turned seven.
Towards the end of the summer Kenny went away to school, Liss spent a week of vacation away from home (with my aunt, I think).
It was the first time I had to sleep upstairs by myself.
I couldn’t do it.
Scared me.
The wooden floors creaked.
And it was really dark in my room.
There was a light in the hall but it was too bright to keep my door open, so I’d have to close it tight. I could only see a sliver of light between the bottom of the door and the floor. I was always afraid I’d see shadows of footsteps in the hall … like I saw on a scary TV show once.
There were two, big deep closets in my bedroom. I had clothes in one, the other one I was told not to open. Always imagined monsters lived in that one.
Dad was on ‘tuck-in’ duty that summer.
It was also the summer he taught me the Our Father.
I remember us taking turns with the lines.
Me: Our Father, who art in heaven …
He: … hallowed by thy name.
etc.
Once I had it down, I’d vary the line breaks.
He’d pick up where I left off.
Me: Thy will …
He: … be done.
Me: Give us this day our daily …
He: … bread.
Kept us payin’ attention.
I’d follow it up with the requisite “God Blesses,” starting with “Mom, Dad, Lissy, Laurie, Kimmy and Kenny,” and work backwards from there.
It’s funny the things we remember.
The first night Liss was away, after trading lines and tucking in, Dad went back downstairs.
I lasted maybe 10-15 minutes with the creaky floors, the light under the door … whatever was lurking in the closet.
Got outta bed and trudged back down the 14 steps.
Told my parents that I missed Liss and was too scared to sleep upstairs by myself.
I think I lobbied to sleep on the couch in the living room … unsuccessfully.
I remember Dad walking me back up.
Tucking me in again.
Closing the door behind him.
And going only as far as the tiny hallway, which was really just a landing.
Sat down on the top step.
He’d brought his Bible with him.
Cracked it open and read under the hall’s bright light.
I couldn’t see him.
Even if I left the door open, the top of the steps were parallel to my room, hidden from my view.
So I’d call out … to make sure he hadn’t gone back downstairs.
“Still there, Dad?”
“Yep,” he’d reply.
“Still here.”
Even though I couldn’t see him, just knowing he was there … made things better.
I liked his chances against the monster lurking in my closet.
I don’t know how long he stayed that first night.
Until I fell asleep is all I know.
I had trouble falling asleep every night Missy was away.
After we’d “Our Father,” Dad would close the door behind him, go sit on the top step and read his Bible.
There were at least a couple of nights — maybe all of ’em — I couldn’t fall asleep right away.
I was a big worrier back then.
On those nights I’d test the emergency broadcast system more than once.
Sometimes a few times.
“Still there, Dad?”
“Yep … Still here.”
No matter how late it got.
No matter how many times I asked.
Each time … “Still here.”
Not sure how long I made him sit there.
Several chapters worth is my best guess … which is more Bible ground than I’ve covered in a while.
Until I fell asleep is all I know.
__
Last Sunday would have been Dad’s 98th birthday.
My sisters and brother were blowing up the group chat all morning.
We’re about 50 years removed from our last sleepover.
To a person they are still holding up their ends of the big sibling bargain.
I think of my Dad every day.
When I hear certain tunes.
When I retell the same stories.
When the world gets scary.
When I remember to say the Our Father and God Blesses in my head before bed.
I can still hear him finishing the lines sometimes.
When I can’t fall back asleep.
I can’t see him.
But I know he’s there.
In my mind he’s sitting on the top step reading his Bible under the bright light.
I don’t remember if it fell across a couple years, or just one.
Don’t remember exactly how old we were. Early 20’s I think.
Don’t remember how often, or how many instances of it there were.
I just know that when Bill would drop Taco Night on the calendar …
… some of us would fast like it was Ramadan.
Mrs. Sochko makin’ tacos.
I remember the first time I attended … popping into the kitchen to say hello and thank you, and noticing she was pan frying the tortillas.
In our house we just opened the box and took the shells out of the plastic bag.
I remember thinking, “What is this sorcery?”
I can’t even remember who all would show up.
Just that there was always a table-full: Bill, his older brother Danny, and Mr. Sochko in their assigned seats, and the rest of us filling in the others.
Looking back I can’t fathom the amount of provisions she must’ve secured in advance.
I mean, the Sochko men and a table full of post-teenage boys.
I don’t remember her ever cutting us off.
If we were still eating, she’d keep making.
The tacos were just the best.
Mortals like me would fill ourselves full and tap out after seven or eight.
Matt was usually good for a couple more.
Bill, Danny and John?
In another league.
I remember one night in particular.
Somewhere north of double digits Bill called it quits.
Danny and John, though, kept goin’.
Defending home court I think Danny took it as a point of pride.
John, skinny as a rail, was simply enjoying himself.
I think Danny tapped out around 14 or so.
Meanwhile John just kept going … and going.
I don’t remember how high he climbed that night.
The number in my head is jumbled, like the way the older boys at Areford playground would keep track of their home runs back in a day.
I only know that John’s performance that night cemented his Taco Night legacy for all time.
__
For the record, Taco Night was one of two truly epic happenings hosted at the Sochko residence.
The other: Trivial Pursuit.
With Mr. Sochko.
While all of us enjoyed hanging out with each other, Mr. Sochko was the main attraction whenever we played. Big B we called him (he was a Bill, too).
Though it’s been more than 30 years, mention “TP with Big B,” to any of us post-teenagers and watch the smiles conquer our faces.
It wasn’t just that Mr. Sochko was the wisest person any of us knew.
Oh my gosh he knew so much.
It was how he delighted in knowledge.
The best part of our games was when he’d expound on the answers. I can still picture him peering over his glasses and smiling as he’d elucidate on a topic.
His was the kind of smile that made you lean in as you listened.
The kindest of smiles.
And we were as ravenous for Big B’s wisdom as we were for Mrs. Sochko’s tacos.
Big B kicked our asses pretty much every time.
I mean, he was a wizened citizen of the world playing with boys who didn’t yet know all they didn’t know.
But as I recall his record wasn’t undefeated.
What made that more special was that Mr. Sochko delighted as much in seeing one of us win (for the record, I’m not sure I ever won). In his congratulations he’d share the same generous smile as when he was sharing wisdom.
There’s a wisdom in that, too, now that I think about it.
To win a game of Trivial Pursuit when Big B was at table? Not sure our neighborhood offered higher accomplishment.
For me the common thread between Taco and Trivial Pursuit nights was that, in those moments I knew enough to know that I was in the best company.
My friends.
Bill’s family.
I mean, the best company.
And that knowledge — that wisdom — is as alive and nourishing to me now as when we gathered around Bill’s dining room table.
I know some post-teenage boys — who now know what they don’t know — who would say the same.
And though Mr. and Mrs. Sochko aren’t with us anymore, in my heart it will always be a short walk to Connor Street … to lingering a couple seconds on the front porch before knocking, just to take in the scent of tortillas frying in the pan.
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.
Where others might commission tattoos, I have … t-shirts.
I fall in love with too many things and am way too scrawny to commit to tattoos.
I can be pretty much summed up by and/or reduced to the Billy Collins’ poem, “Aimless Love.”
“But my heart is always propped up in a field on its tripod, ready for the next arrow.”
Much to the chagrin of my wife (and my closet), I find t-shirts inexhaustible objects for my affections.
While shopping local a couple months ago, I stumbled upon the most wonderful creation, whose artist happened to choose a t-shirt for their canvas.
The above captures Forbes Field’s manual scoreboard the moment right before Bill Mazeroski cemented his baseball legacy on Oct. 13, 1960 — the second before his Game7-World-Series-winning home run off the Yankees’ Ralph Terry in the bottom of the ninth inning.
For me it was love at first sight.
So I was bummed when, the day after I ordered, I got an email from Wild Card in Lawrenceville, informing me they were out of larges … and asking me if I’d be interested in a medium instead.
But then I noticed a second email from Wild Card in my in-box. From the same person. Mentioning that if I wanted to try the medium, she’d send me a self-addressed return envelope in the slim (ha) chance it didn’t fit.
Who does that? Wild Card in Lawrenceville does.
Turns out, the medium suited me as kindly as Ralph Terry’s high fastball did Maz.
First time I wore it, I thought of a kindred spirit who would appreciate it.
Texted a pic of my proud torso to my friend Jeff.
His reply reeked of pure Pittsburgh serendipity.
Get this: turns out I actually know the person who designed the shirt.
Not only that, it was Jeff who introduced us a few years ago.
How’s that for a confluence?
Jeff shot me the number of his good friend, Nick, who I texted immediately, informing him of the wellspring of exponential Pittsburgh joy presently emanating from my torso.
“Ha … I think that’s my favorite, too,” Nick replied all the way from LA, where he now lives with his acclaimed-author-and-TV-writing- wife and family.
He summed up the inspiration for the design so perfectly and profoundly.
“Next pitch changes everything.”
Wow.
__
I’ve been walking around with Nick’s words in my pocket ever since our serendipitous exchange.
They keep grabbing me by my collar and shaking me awake.
We are all always only a pitch away from everything changing.
For the better … if you happened to be wearin’ black and gold on Oct. 13, 1960.
Or for worse, if you were wearin’ pinstripes.
Our existence is nothing but precious and fragile.
Yet always pregnant with possibility.
Which makes the choice of putting good into the world — even in something as temporal as a t-shirt — a sacred act.
As sacred as any kindness requiring intention … a self-addressed return envelope just in case, as an example.
If it wasn’t for the kind gesture of the person at Wild Card, I may not have ordered the shirt, and wouldn’t have thought of Jeff, wouldn’t have learned that I knew the designer, would never have sent Nick my gratitude, and would have gone a lifetime missing out on the golden wisdom he drew from Mazeroski’s heroic act.
Our tiniest gestures can be oxygen for campfires … that remind us that we’re connected in ways we can’t even imagine.
So last Saturday afternoon … my wife, son and I are sweating in the shade underneath our backyard deck, after triple-teaming the mowing and trimming in the high heat.
They ask me to come up with something fun for the evening.
This never happens.
They usually don’t trust me with The Decisions.
Admittedly, my track record’s … spotty.
Heat must’ve been fogging their judgement.
Sensing a fleeting moment, I brainstormed in earnest.
Found a movie I thought might fit the Venn diagram of our disparate interests — low-stakes, light-comedy with slapstick potential … no heavy themes or deep thinking required.
Showing in Squirrel Hill at their delightful, restored (and air-conditioned) downtown theater none of us had ever been to.
5:30 showing.
About an hour’s drive away from where we were sitting and sweating at 3:30 in the afternoon.
Gave us a good hour to get cleaned up.
Ran the idea past the committee, along with a suggestion for dinner afterwards.
No violent objections.
“Want me to buy tickets?”
Nods.
“We’ll have to leave by 4:30. Everybody good with that?”
Before locking it in, I made each of them give me a verbal … like they do for exit rows.
So four-thirty comes.
I’m showered, dressed and ready.
Karry, too.
I look out the window and see my son standing in the driveway.
Changing his oil.
I do a double-take.
Initiate seething protocols.
Walk outside.
Say the dumbest thing I can think of.
“You’re not changing your oil,” I say to the grown adult standing in front of me … holding a jug of oil.
Which prompts the following exchange
He: Be done in a minute.
Me: It’s 4:30.
He: It’s not going to take us an hour to get there.
Me: (clenching jaw, taking several seconds to locate the shit in my mind that I am losing … before temporarily regaining the power of speech) There are few things I hate more than missing the start of a movie. Just sharing the fact of that with you.
I turn and go back inside.
Seething level: roiling boil.
I can’t help myself.
The prospect of being late while waiting for others has always made me spiral.
When my oldest was younger, I spent a lot of time spiraling.
Oh, was he a dawdler.
Among the greatest of his generation.
No amount of yelling or cajoling could ever make him move any faster.
He kept time according to his own internal clock. Remarkably, he never let it stress him, either … no matter how much or how loudly it stressed those around him.
Pretty much grew out of it by college, though.
I hadn’t seen any evidence of it for years.
So … finding him in the driveway changing his oil at Agreed-Upon-Go-Time … reminded me how awfully I used to deal with it when I was a younger parent.
I knew (and remembered) enough to know that if I let Seething Protocols reach Def Con Hot Magma, the evening would not turn out well for anyone ….
And I could kiss any future contributions to The Decisions goodbye.
It was at that moment that Jim’s letter caught my eye, lying on the dining room table.
Had come in the mail that day.
It’d been weeks since I’d since I’d heard from him, since I’d last sent him something I’d written.
Knowing he’s in his 90s, and having come to expect his prompt (and extraordinarily wonderful) replies, I feared that maybe he’d been having health issues.
So when I saw his familiar hand-writing on the front of the envelope while fishing the day’s mail from the box, it immediately sparked both relief and joy.
Accompanying his letters are always recent poems he’s written. He writes them all out by hand, in near-calligraphic quality. Sends me photo copies.
I keep them all in an overflowing manilla envelope in the top drawer of the desk where I’m typing this.
He writes so beautifully and unflinchingly about his long life, about growing old. His verse bursts with both aliveness and ache, his words suffused with such wise noticings.
I hope to someday write as well as Jim does in his 90s.
While walking back from the mailbox, I decided on the spot to wait to open his letter … to give my Sunday something to look forward to.
But seeing it lying on the dining room table while feeling the minutes tick further and further past our agreed-upon departure, I could think of no better way to invest whatever time it would take for my son to shower and get dressed.
So I reached for Jim’s letter like it was a life preserver.
Which it was.
In every sense of the words.
I was right … he had had a health scare.
He wrote me from his bed at Washington Hospital, where he’d spent the previous four days in the care of doctors working to reduce the fluid in his lungs from his weakening heart.
“Many tests, few new answers, long-time problem.”
He was hoping to go home on the day he was writing me.
Yet, as he always does in his lovely letters, he described the beauty he was finding in the world around him.
Started by telling me how much he was enjoying the quality and variety of food they served him. And how grateful he was for the care and the company of the staff.
And then, this …
“Jesus, talks of ‘The least of these,’ … helping, dealing with, the least, lowest of these.
Allie, hospital pusher of wheelchairs, lowest of lowest hospital staff, pushing me today … 30-33 years old, plain, drab reddish color uniform.
My inquisitiveness, ‘Is Allie a short version of your full name?’
‘Yes.”
Silence.
‘Is your full name Alicia?’
‘Yes! You are the first person in my life to guess my full name!’
Amazed smile, new relationship … between lowly patient, and lowly pusher.
And another blessed, new friend today, to share my 91 years — of God’s gifts!”
The weakening but still beating heart of a humbled soul still fully alive and leaning his flickering candle to the world around him.
His words immediately reminded me of my Dad, who, even when — especially when — he was at his most vulnerable, would go out of his way to make the people around him feel good.
“Boy you’re good at this,” I remember him saying to the hospice caregiver while she was changing the sheets in his bed with him still in it.
“You sure know your way around this place,” I remember him saying to the orderly whisking him in his wheelchair during one of his frequent hospital visits.
To remain fully present to the world around you when forces are conspiring against you, even when you are at your most vulnerable?
Well, let’s just say that there’s a lot to be learned from the Jims and Neal Riddells of the world.
And from all those who keep time according to their own internal clocks.
Jim’s words convicted me.
Doused holy water on my Seething Protocols.
Reminded me that there are far more dire circumstances than being a few minutes late to a movie.
And, most importantly, reminded me to appreciate the blessings of our days.
Of triple-tag-teaming the yardwork.
Sitting and sweating in the shade.
Getting to choose.
Watching the Greatest Dawdler of All Time … still perfecting his craft.
By the time Jim’s Saturday sermon finished reading me, I was as grateful as an old army chaplain for the variety of hospital food he would soon be missing.
For the record, it was 4:43 when we locked the back door behind us.
As I spied Peter’s car in the corner of the driveway, I pointed to the empty bottle of motor oil resting on the ground in front of its grill.
Said to my son what I imagined my Dad would’ve said.
“Boy, you’re pretty good at taking care of your car.”
No heavy themes or deep-thinking required.
Thirty-nine minutes later … we walked into the darkened and wonderfully air-conditioned Theater #4 at the Manor.
Letters for Maggie 