Righteous riffs

The Greatest Tribute (Ode to Jim)

A letter arrived yesterday from my friend Jim.

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.

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Fathers and Sons, The Girls

23 & 20 ….

When Karry was pregnant with Emma, people would ask Peter, who was three at the time, whether he wanted a little brother or a little sister. 

His answer was always the same.

“No.”

That one still cracks me up.

I mean, for a three-year-old … that’s a glorious comeback, right there. 

And when I called Karry’s Mom from the hospital to let her know it was, in fact, a girl … and Betty, in turn, informed Peter (who she was watching while we were at the hospital), he made a beeline for the kitchen sink, climbed in the space underneath it, and shut the door behind him. 

Years later, whenever people would ask me about our kids, I’d find myself saying, “My son’s ____ (16 … 18 … 20, etc.) , and he’s still getting used to the fact that he has a little sister.”

All of the above, true.  

So … to be gathered around the table last night in our tiny dining room, surrounded by all our Christmas and life clutter …

… the four of us slow-savoring every bite of the by-request chocolate meringue flourless cake big brother made his little sister for her 20th birthday … 

… listening to them geeking out with each other about the cake’s cross section …

… him sharing with her how the recipe’s author discovered how to do the marbling on top, and how he was meticulous in following the directions … for fear of all the inherent gluten-free and dairy-free landmines …

… how he’s never been one to follow directions … a proud by-product of the Fordyce stubborness he comes by honestly …

… getting to bear witness to a big brother’s pride in receiving his little sister’s approval.

Forgive me if it’s gonna take me awhile to get used to that fact.

I mean, that he wanted to get it just right for her.

Let’s just say … such sweetness is worth the wait. 

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Postcards

Grace

Last time I was here, I asked for a saucer 

for my morning cup 

you know, in case I spil

l. 

They were out, so the person behind the counter

put a

BIG PLATE

under my

tiny cup, 

Which made me fall in love 

with the world 

all over again 

for a moment 

it was so perfect. 

My life needs 

a generous splash radius. 

Now every time I come in 

I ask for a large plate. 

The one they gave me today 

had a couple chips, 

which made it even more perfect. 

I told the person behind the counter 

that in my head, I was imagining a plate

 so

LARGE

I could sit on top of it while sipping from my

tiny cup. 

To catch every last

drop

of 

my 

mess love.

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Postcards

Going through the heart again …

Last week a co-worker came down with the flu. She’s been with us almost a couple years now. Was a middle school teacher before that. 

She was out only one day when she messaged us to let us know that her husband had tested positive for the flu, too. 

As did their one-year-old. 

All three of ‘em, down for the count right before the holidays.  

Found myself thinking about them on my long Wednesday commute, when a warm memory popped into my head (I find that sometimes my memories eavesdrop on my thoughts). 

From kindergarten through third grade, I went to Areford Elementary. It was a neighborhood school (which were more common back then), just a few blocks from my house. We all got to walk to school. 

For second-grade I had the most awesome teacher, Mrs. Schifbauer. 

Mention her name to my kids, and they will roll their eyes and say, “The bee’s knees.” 

Which is what I always say when I mention Mrs. Schifbauer. 

Seriously, to my second grade self, she was the bee’s knees.

I remember she had the most beautiful handwriting. 

To this day I can still conjure both the image and sounds of her writing our spelling words on the chalk board (with the good teacher’s chalk). It was all so mesmerizing to me. She’d write all the numbers on the board first. Oh, the way she’d swoop her 2s. (swoon). When she’d get to double digits, she’d start putting periods after the numbers. I would so look forward to the percussive punctuation of her chalk stabbing periods on the board. Twelve was my favorite … you’d get a swoop with a stab chaser (ha). 

It’s funny, the things we remember.   

After second grade they switched some of the teacher assignments, so I got to have Mrs. Schifbauer for third grade, too. It was like winning the teacher lottery. 

The specific memory that visited me on my commute was the time in third grade when my friend Jerry got really sick and had to miss school.  I remember it was wintertime. I don’t remember the specific circumstances of Jerry’s illness, just that he missed a bunch of days in a row.

And that Mrs. Schifbauer did the most remarkable thing.

She had our entire class grab our winter coats, and proceeded to shepherd us outside. Along with Mrs. Fisher (the other third grade teacher), she walked us down Eggleston Street, where we made the left onto 7th, and then the right onto Connor, where Jerry lived. Had one of us climb the steps onto Jerry’s big porch and knock on the front door. I remember Mrs. Rehanek (who, for the record, made the most awesome cherry floats in the history of the universe) coming to the door, seeing us all, and then ducking back in to summon Jerry. 

I don’t remember specifically what happened from there … if Mrs. Schifbauer said anything, or had us say or do anything.  I only remember that she just wanted Jerry to know how much we all missed him … and that we couldn’t wait for him to feel well enough to come back to school. 

If it wasn’t for a vague remembrance I have of a photo that Mrs. Rehanek took from the porch that day … I’m not sure I would even trust my memory. 

I mean, can you imagine such a thing happening today? 

__

Recently, I learned that the Italian verb “to remember” is ricordare, (similar to the Spanish recordar). The etymology is Latin — Re meaning ‘to go backwards,’ and cordis meaning ‘heart.’ 

Or put another way … ‘to go through the heart again.’ 

Isn’t that just the loveliest thing? 

Why am I telling you this? 

Because when the memory of Mrs. Schifbauer and her kindness went through my heart again on my Wednesday commute … I actually imagined such a thing happening today.

And thought of a couple teachers who might also appreciate such imagining. 

One of ’em … Jerry.

Who I haven’t seen or talked to in maybe 30 years. He’s a teacher in Maryland these days. 

I messaged him and asked him to fact-check my remembering. 

He hit me back almost immediately. 

Yep. 

Matter of fact … 

“I think I have a photo somewhere. I can text it to you if you wanna see the pic.” 

__

Went out for lunch Wednesday. It was a good day for soup, so I chose a deli not far from work, where they make it from scratch. 

On a whim, on my way out I asked the person behind the counter if their to go soups come hot or cold. 

Both, he said. 

Ordered a cold quart of chicken noodle to go. 

For a certain former teacher I know. 

Who’s been home from work with the flu all week with her husband and baby boy. 

__

Found myself driving to her house after work. 

Pulled outside.

Put on my winter coat.

Marched up the steps. 

And though I was by myself, I wasn’t alone. 

Jamie was there. Tonya and Tracy, too. Ricky and Danny. Scott poking his head between Jodi and Gretchen. Amy, Joy and Susan. Blaine and his kind smile way in the back.

All of us.

And a smiling Mrs. Schifbauer standing next to Mrs. Fisher. 

The bees knees I’m tellin’ ya.  

I didn’t ring the bell, though. 

Just left the soup. 

Along with a note recounting all of the above.

Shot Sydney a text as I was driving way, letting her know I’d put something on her porch. 

And that we all missed her … and that we couldn’t wait for her to feel well enough to come back to the office. 

Told her it was from Mrs. Schifbauer’s third grade class. 

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The Girls

Ripening …

I walked into the kitchen and saw one banana pulled apart from the bunch … set aside and ripening.

Smiled.

Emma’s home.

Went back a couple minutes later and she was there, fixing herself a bowl of cereal at the sink. Still in her pajamas. Wearing her glasses, too.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her in her glasses. Felt what I feel sometimes glancing out the window just as the sun is waking up through the trees … a riot of itself and all its possibilities.

The unearned gift of catching the fleeting moment just before it assumes its responsibilities for a day that will all but take it for granted.

For some reason, seeing her in her glasses has always melted me.

How they’ve always framed a face that holds all the world can become.

She’s only herself in the morning … all poor eyesight and barefoot … and an abiding love for Lucky Charms.

Her glasses bring her into focus for me, and for a fleeting moment, I catch a glimpse of all her younger selves. The ones she doesn’t like being reminded of because she’s too busy looking forward.

It’s for me to look back.

I find myself wanting to keep her in her glasses in the kitchen for as long as I can.

So I mention the bananas … not just the ripe one set aside, but all the ones in the bunch, which have been pulled apart from each other and are starting to brown in the basket.

“I didn’t pull all those apart,” she corrected me.

I just assumed she had.

“Wasn’t me,” she confirmed.

“And that’s not how you ripen bananas, anyway. You keep the bunch together and put a ripe banana beside them.”

Oh.

“Ripe bananas release ethylene. It’s a gas … which breaks down cell walls and converts starch into sugar, eliminating the acid … which causes the other bananas to ripen.”

When she finished, the sophomore biomed major used her index finger to straighten the right side of her glasses, unconsciously.

A riot of herself and all of her possibilities.

Turned around and went back to her old room to savor her Lucky Charms.

I stood in the kitchen for a moment … in the still warm space between her presence and her absence.

Neither looking back nor looking forward … just awed by the sunrise.

Ripening, I guess.  

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The Girls

Old Lonelies

Was fishing clean socks from a basket

in the laundry room Monday morning

when the purple in Emma’s sweater

caught my eye

washed, hung and left behind

the same way it did

Sunday morning as she was wearing it

leaving for Church

while I stayed behind

said hello to it this morning

— commiserating old lonelies now —

a frame painting a purple smile

on a sad wall

to help me remember

what Sunday going to Church looked like

as we both wait empty

for her return

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Postcards

Finding Whitman ….

Saturday, November, 16, 2024, 12:44 p.m.

While waiting for Nicole to deliver the first of her always luminous — and my requisite two — Saturday morning cortados at the tiny, tender coffee shop on North Main (which you should totally visit), I was perusing the small packs of Commonplace Coffee for sale near the counter, whose blends are always intentionally dedicated (they have one inspired by WYEP — a sonic apothecary of Pittsburgh’s airwaves for the past 50 years — called ‘Morning Mixtape’ [swoon]). Commonplace Coffee is a tender haven in its own right nestled in Pittsburgh’s North Side (which you should totally visit).

Unbeknownst to me, on the back of every one of Commonplace’s coffee packs is a Walt Whitman poem, evidently the inspiration for their name.

Stumbling upon such treasure was as much medicine for my morning as Nicole’s perfect cortados.

And too good not to share with kindred spirits.


Here’s to waiting / and finding Whitman waiting patiently / weighty on the backs of packs / whispering across centuries / seashell words washed ashore / waiting for waiting travelers willing to bow their heads / for a little light / to lighten their loads 

To solid ground for all. 

*raises cup to meet the morning light

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Postcards

Foregrounding things ….

Got outta bed after a long night of bad dreaming.

Forecast called for rain. Looked like maybe a little pocket this morning before the skies open. Threw on a ballcap and sweats and drove myself to the cemetery. Parked in the usual spot. 

I love visiting on Sundays. It’s so genuinely, and evolvingly, beautiful. 

Quiet enough to hear the crows. 

So many deer — to make clear it’s a shared space. 

Enough hills of varying lengths and grade to afford options. 

Impossible to ignore the seasons.

Took a couple sips of water before locking up the car and easing into my route.

Which starts with a gentle downhill into a left turn with a short, steep climb that takes you up and around a corner. Elevates your heart rate — a good, early systems check to let you know what you might have in the tank — before gifting you a little downhill to catch your breath. Spits you into a roundabout that sometimes I’ll lap a few times for some easy distance before backwashing into a long straightway that takes me back to the crematorium — or as my daughter likes to call it, the “E-Z Bake” — near where my car’s parked.

I circle the parking area a couple times before heading up a nice, easy grade that drops you down to one of my favorite parts — a sloping hill of the cemetery that’s reserved for military veterans.  

On days when my tank’s full, I’ll loop here a few times before continuing on and finishing my first full lap somewhere around three miles. 

This morning … I paused, despite the rain on the way. Was only a couple miles into things.

The flags always get me. 

The hill’s persistent breeze tends to keep them waving.

If the flags weren’t there, I would just look beyond the gravestones to whatever’s beyond. 

So I’m grateful for the flags for reminding me to think of those buried below them.

And their sacrifices, both in the act and substance of their serving. To things bigger than themselves — whether troop, platoon, buddy, family, hometown, country.

Like the deer, the flags remind me that this is a shared space, and by that I mean the cemetery. And the world. 

The flags remind me to listen for what those who are no longer … might have to say to our Now.

To inform our Not Yet. 

I imagine some genuine characters are buried here. Imagine a lot of strong, colorful and varying perspectives represented. Imagine all made their share of mistakes. Imagine that they learned some things along the way that they tried to pass on. Probably saw some things differently at the end than they did at the beginning. Probably were buried with some messy regrets, just as we will be buried with ours.

This morning the leaves got me, too. 

Foregrounding things. 

A reminder that that this, too, is but a season. 

No more and no less. 

As ever.

The bare tree in the background, a reminder, too. 

That in our falling, we only fall so far from where we start. 

Pretty much the whole mystery of it all, right there.

Quiet enough to hear the crows. 

And long enough to hear them fading in the distance. 

After just a couple minutes, I took a deep breath and continued on.

Going as far as I could until the skies finally opened. 

Finished where I started, not far from the E-Z bake. 

Took note of the fact of that, too. 

Kept the windows down on my short drive back home. 

So I could smell the rain on the pavement.

And be reminded that the rain gets us all wet just the same.

By the time I got back home, I was hearing the words of Kurt Vonnegut.

Wondered if he, a veteran of the firebombing of Dresden, was spending this gray Sunday buried under a waving flag somewhere. 

How he pretty much summed up all of the above some sixty some years ago in a couple lines from Cat’s Cradle. 

“Life is a garden, not a road. We enter and exit through the same gate. Wandering, where we go matters less than what we notice.” 

Clear as the crows.

Only took him 25 words. 

Took me 800 to try and say the same thing.  

Sometimes I take the scenic route.

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Letters for Maggie

Free Refills ….

Wednesday, Nov. 6, 2024 6:28 a.m. 

Got up yesterday morning feeling … untethered. Outside, the sun was coming up on an unseasonably warm November day. The kind of sunshine we almost don’t deserve. I was feeling the heaviness of everything.

All the noise would soon be coming to its unnatural conclusion. I’d just poured my ritual 10 Tuesday ounces into my Thermos, but my cup still felt empty. 

So I got in my car and drove towards the small coffee shop on North Main Street. The one where I like to write my daughter postcards on Saturdays. It’s quiet. One room. Handful of tables, small counter on which is perched a little clear case with baked goodies made by Nicole, one of the kind staff there. Reliably chill playlist. 

I didn’t need a coffee. Just some humanity.

So, halfway up Main Street, I peeled off into the drive through at the bank. Got some cash from the machine. Humble pebbles for the scale, I told myself. 

Got to the coffee shop right as it opened at 8. Parked across the street, and followed a woman in the front door. She was friends with the barrista on duty, and they dove right into easy conversation. Marissa, the barrista, paused their conversation to wait on me. I ordered my cortado, paying with my Darth Vadar credit card. Added a small tip. 

After placing my order, I asked Marissa if they still did Pay It Forward. She nodded. I handed over what I’d withdrawn from the machine. 

She thanked me, and I took a seat by the counter while she prepared my to go order. 

When in walked a middle aged man in a ballcap. Kinda scruffy. Came in chatty. 

Asked Marissa, “What’s the strongest coffee you have?” He went on to say that he’d been nine years sober, mentioning the exact number of months and days for good measure. “So coffee’s a very important thing in my life.” 

After Denise informed him of the dark roast of the day, he asked what sizes they had. 

“How much is in a large?” he asked. Twenty ounces, she replied.

He asked her how much refills were. They’re free, Marissa said. 

From my chair I apprehended that maybe he didn’t have much on him. Probably didn’t have anywhere in particular to be. Interested in how far and for how long his dollars might stretch.

The stories we tell ourselves about the world around us. 

He ordered his 20 ounces, asked her what he owed. 

She told him not to worry about it. 

“I’m sorry?” he said. 

I tensed up a bit. I didn’t want to be around to watch anything. 

I just came in to put a few pebbles on the scale and be on my way.

“It’s taken care of,” was all she said. 

I exhaled.  

“Wow,” he said. “Really? Um, thank you.” 

He paused a beat. 

“When I came in, I could tell that you had a really kind face.” 

I smiled from my chair, because I think I said those exact words to Marissa the last time I was in. It occurred to me that was also the day I dropped off my mail-in ballot at the county’s voter registration office. 

I needed some humanity that day, too. Marissa’s gesture unlocked his. 

“You know, I was always a big egomaniac. I hurt a lot of people with my ego. But one of the biggest things they teach you is humility.

“A big part of learning humility is that receiving kindness is just as important as giving kindness. It’s not easy … but I’ve learned how to receive kindness.”

He asked Marissa her name so he could thank her by it. Gave his in return.

Strong coffee in hand, he started to make his way to a table. Then he paused.

Turned back to Marissa. 

“Now I’m going to just have to find someone to pay your kindness forward,” he said. 

He sees me sitting in my chair. 

I met his gaze just in time to see his eyes alight.  

“Can I buy you a coffee?” he asked me. 

The best sermons are the ones you don’t see coming. 

I thanked him profusely for giving me what I woke up needing from the world. What I’d hoped to find driving up Main Street not needing a coffee.

The way it came out was, “Already got one on the way. But, next time I see you, maybe we can have one together.” 

He asked me my name. Gave his in return. 

“God bless you, Pete,” he said. 

“Backacha,” was all the lump in my throat would allow. 

Pebbles on the scale.

Marissa parked my cortado on the counter. I got up from my chair and met her at the register. 

Exchanged fist bumps, and received the warmest smile from her kind face.  

The kind of sunshine we most certainly deserve.

There are saints all around us. Most are hidden in plain sight. Sometimes they don’t look like you or me. 

We need to humble ourselves to see them.

So we can receive their kindness. 

So that when our own cups are empty, we can be reminded that refills are free.

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Fathers and Sons

Sunday morning mix tape ….

Things That Got Me Through My First 10-Mile Run

EQT 10 Miler – 11.3.24

The fortuitous timing of turning back the clocks gifting us an extra hour to make an 8:30 a.m. start time at Station Square. 

Karry’s words before I left the house:  “Enjoy your time with your son.” Until she said them, my mind was anxious about whether or not I had 10 miles in me (the odds far from guaranteed). Her six words melted my anxiety on the spot, reminding me that the morning in front of me was not to be measured by distance. A reminder that I can’t hear often enough: that what we do is not what we are doing. That it’s not about arriving. It’s about being resident.

Being among the first Sunday morning passengers on the T at South Hills. Watching and listening to it fill up, stop by stop … all shapes, sizes, colors and ages. A crescendo of expectation. By the time we arrived at Station Square, it was filled to overflowing. Spilling out onto the sidewalk to make the pilgrimage over to Highmark Stadium. The loud music and announcer calling us from a distance. The feeling of being part of a summoning.

Shortly after starting, going across the West End Bridge and looking right to see Pittsburgh glistening under the clearest, crispiest blue sky. A lone boat had the confluence all to itself, its wake billowing behind, regal as a queen’s robe. The sun and the scene conspiring to almost make me cry it was so Sunday morning beautiful.

About 2 miles in, I caught Peter on a slight down hill somewhere on the North Side. I stayed just behind him, careful to remain outside of his peripheral vision. I didn’t want to risk him seeing me and feeling compelled to slow down his pace on my behalf. Content to just let him be my pacer for a little bit. What Grace to have lived long enough to follow in my son’s footsteps. 

My playlist serving up the best medicine exactly when I needed it. Three miles in, Frank Sinatra crooning, “Nice and Easy,” me hearing Frank’s finger snaps in the mix for the first time. He couldn’t resist … the band was swinging so much. By the last choruses, I couldn’t either. Me and Frank in the rocking chair as it were. Ol’ Blue Eyes subsequently passing the baton to Pancho Sanchez, Rage Against the Machine, Lauryn Hill, AC/DC, Levon and The Band, Morgan Harper Nichols, Indigo Girls and a chorus of other encouragers. One of my best mixtapes ever, if we’re bein’ honest here.  

The cheerleaders, mascots, DJs, cow-bell ringers, kids, friends, significants, seniors, families and neighbors who came to root. Especially the two drumlines throwing down. When I saw they had their hands full, I made sure to applaud them.

About six miles in, passing under an archway that read, “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.” Proly woulda cried at that point, too, if I hadn’t been holding on to my tears for miles 9 and 10.  

Between miles 7 and 8 we ran on Penn Avenue through the Strip District. It was as close as I’ll ever come to imagining what Stallone had in mind running Rocky through the streets of Philadelphia.  Penn Avenue’s melting pot holding down the Strip’s legacy while the world squeezes in on all sides. 

Pretty much over the whole endeavor by mile 8, but also knowing I’d run too far to give up. Muscling through the last two on fumes and a blistered and calloused right foot. Accepting every hi-5 offered by folks encouraging from the sidewalk. A thousand bonus points to the saints holding the Mario-inspired “TOUCH FOR POWER BOOST” signs down the home stretch.

Encouragers, never underestimate yourselves.

 

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