Took the hotel elevator downstairs to forage for far-from-home Monday coffee and a bite before heading out for an afternoon workshop with a Jedi High Council of new clients. Been stressing for days about the gathering, which represented our one and only opportunity to make a good first impression with about a dozen higher ups.
Grabbed a plain black coffee (did the trick) and a yogurt from their cooler (not that great), and went back to toss my empties in the garbage, when I spied a small bowl of bananas on the counter behind the person working. Likely owing to my pre-caffeinated state, I’d not seen the bowl when I’d ordered.
“Ooh, may I have a banana, please?” I asked the person who’d waited on me a couple minutes ago, explaining unnecessarily that I’d not seen them when I’d first ordered. She turned, walked over to the bowl and reached to grab one.
Then she pulled her empty hand back.
On second thought …
“I’ll let you pick,” she said.
Idabeen fine with whatever she’d picked, but, um, OK.
So I walked around the corner of the counter to where the bowl sat. Sized up the options, grabbed the biggest one automatically, figuring that hotel bananas come at a price and all cost the same, so bigger was the best choice. Really didn’t give it a second thought.
In the couple seconds while I was sizing up the options in the bowl, the person behind the counter said, “Some people prefer smaller ones, some bigger. Where I come from the smaller ones are much sweeter.
“In Sudan, we let the monkeys have the bigger ones.”
“Really?” I asked, as the corners of my mouth propped themselves into a curious smile.
“Yes … the smaller ones are sweet … like candy,” she said, as her face registered a memory of the taste. “We rush to pick the small ones before the monkeys can get to them. But we leave the bigger ones, and let the monkeys have those.”
In my life I have never bothered to consider any distinction of taste in the relative size of a banana.
“I assume they are a different variety than what we have here,” I said. She said she didn’t know for sure as she asked me my room number to apply the charge. I didn’t either, but found myself needing to know, so later looked it up. Turns out that the dwarf cavendish is the primary banana grown in Sudan (among the 50 varieties that grow there), which is, in fact, smaller than the commercial variety we are used to here.
She began to list the myriad ways they cook with bananas back home … frying, roasting, baking. “Oh, and the plantains,” she continued.
As she allowed herself a few small seconds of reverie, I found myself walking over to the bowl again.
I put the big one back in exchange for a smaller one.
“Ah, Mr. William … you were just here,” she said, looking at her screen and seeing my previous order. I could read on her face she was pausing for another second thought before deciding on something.
“I give you the banana,” she said.
Of course, she simply meant the smaller one I had already started to peel.
But, as I’ve thought about it, the true gift was in the form of her language. In the brief span of an otherwise mundane transaction that barely lasted a minute — one of the hundreds each of us would encounter in our unfolding day — she had re-presented the whole idea of something that I had heretofore taken for granted.
I give you … the banana.
Since she had addressed me by name, I asked hers in return. “Yoo-me” she said, spelling it for me: U-M-I.
I thanked her for her generosity, by which I meant her spirit.
As I walked from the counter I knew that I would never look at a banana the same way again. And that when I do, I’ll think of Umi.
And how she made my world bigger by sharing from hers.
I mean, much, much bigger in ways that I am only beginning to appreciate.
Like the convicting possibility that my default OS may be born of a scarcity mindset … whose first instinct is to grab for the biggest and the most for me … rather than what might actually be for the best for reasons that may be far beyond my limited understanding. Me and the monkeys are gonna need some time chewin’ on that big banana.
In the meantime … I will content myself with the wisdom inherent in Umi’s simple act of kindness.
That the scale of far-from-home Mondays is indeed relative.
And that there is a sweetness to be found in small things.
Bananas, yes … and in the tiniest of moments, buried deep in the otherwise mundane bowls of our everyday encounters.
“I’ve got some good friends, now. But I’ve never seen their parents’ back porch.”
Add that to the big pile of lines I wish I’d written.
Curse you, Ben Rector.
That’s just one of the, like, gajillion heart haymakers packed into his song and video for “Old Friends,” which I’ve been walking with like a fanny pack since a couple kindred spirits serendipitously made me aware of its existence.
But that line in particular.
Been using it as a sorting hat of sorts over my morning coffee. Of all the neighborhood saints I grew up with, there’s really only a handful whose back porches that I can conjure, even in hazy outline. Four, by my inexact count.
Three of ‘em were more portal than destination, gateways to backyard magic, owing to their functional humbleness.
But, standing on them now and looking out …
Amy
Just the tiniest back porch … barely enough room for a lawn chair or two — overlooking a yard as modest as all ours were, fenced in … in their case mainly for the dogs. Always dogs. Ginger was the first one I remember … shaggy in the way that made you long to pet her if she wasn’t always barking at you (ha). As I recall, the back porch invariably bore the muddy smudge of Amy and (little sis) Jodi’s canine du jour. I’m sure we contributed our fair share of mud prints, too. Though the yard was modest in size, its fence automatically qualified it for birthday party kickballing (before they put the pool in, yes?), while also mandating that one of us had to run like hell if a foul escaped along the third base line … as it was all downhill from Seventh Street for a few blocks. I also remember that anything that cleared the fence in back brought the very real possibility of getting yelled at by Mr. Wyda (scary) during the retrieval process. Oh, and I remember that glorious ‘metal detector summer,’ when our Moms would go foraging together. The magical signaling hum as Mrs. Hawkins waved it over her back yard with the seriousness of a mystic at a seance. Oh, and I distinctly remember being in their small kitchen whose screen door looked out on the back yard, as Mrs. Hawkins scooped french fries from the basket of what my eight-year-old self remembers as the first deep fryer in the neighborhood (cue angel chorus), which instantly made her kitchen my favorite restaurant on the planet.
Jerry
Jerry’s small backyard was packed with awesome, hosting a hoop, their magical pull-behind camper (perfect sleepover vessel), and, perhaps best of all, open access to a quiet alley that provided secret, safe, bike passage on both sides. My remembrance of Jerry’s back porch is irresistibly biased by one moment in particular. I believe it occurred early in the evening of a summer camper sleepover … when Mrs. Rehanek emerged on the back porch, which stood off from the kitchen, carrying freshly made ice cream cherry sodas, which proceeded to blow my nine-year-old mind. And which immediately certified Mrs. Rehanek as a bona fide sorceress and, which still ranks as the most magical potion I ever experienced in my childhood, and possibly in my lifetime. Summer as God intended … spooned fizzy from a glass.
Jeff
Jeff’s back porch was a bit bigger than Amy and Jerry’s, but, like theirs, sat right off the kitchen … overlooking a yard shaded by their glorious big tree that unevened the ground with its roots … but which never daunted us from wiffleballing. Ample room for bases … and a fence that gave us home runs to shoot for, though the tree played center-right field better than we could, snagging as many of our big flies as ever cleared the fence. And any line drives to right whose vector was lower than the tree line ran the risk of landing near their old dog Butchie, who pretty much hated everybody, except Jeff (sometimes). Anything Butchie got a hold of = automatic ground rule double.
Danny
Danny’s back porch was the one destination among the bunch.
Awning covered shade and cushioned chairs on top of astroturf … perfect for resting when we needed a break from running amok elsewhere. It’s where we’d take our summer popsicles, and where we’d towel off from his perfectly-sized-for-tiny-human-Marco Polo-above-ground-pool that barely squeezed alongside his house … before going inside to catch Lost In Space on Channel 10, that one summer’s destination TV.
Danny’s back porch is also where we all gathered and ate pizza the night we graduated high school. Open to whoever wanted to stop by. I remember our friends from outside the neighborhood coming and going while the rest of us just hung out. I also seem to recall some of our parents walking down to join for a bit. By then we weren’t the same friends we were growing up (middle school and high school can do that to a person) but I think we kinda had a sense that, despite everything, we’d always know each other as neighbors.
I don’t know how the rest remember it, but I remember graduation pizza on Danny’s porch as the most perfect coda on our growing up together.
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Sitting here in desperate need of re-filling my morning, middle-age cup, it’s good to know that I can still find my way back to our parents’ back porches. And conjure fresh the taste of Mrs. Hawkins’ french fries, Mrs. Rehanek’s ice cream cherry sodas (forever The Bomb), and all those summer popsicles from Mrs. Hoff’s downstairs freezer chest (tie between lime and banana as my forever favorites). Oh, and an honorable mention to Mrs. Hughes’ birthday party homemade hamburger pizza. Not gonna lie, a bit of an acquired taste (ha).
“I’ve got some good friends, now. But I’ve never seen their parents back porch.”
And in case you’re wondering … from memory I can still dial their house phones.
“What time should we leave?” Emma, the organized one, asked me the night before, whereupon I did the math in my head, which family history has proven time and time again really means, “a slight majority of the math.” Looked up the drive on Google, which placed it around 30 minutes. Should be good if we leave by 10, I guesstimated. “I’ll set my alarm for 9:50,” my son informed me, which prompted me to suggest, unsuccessfully, we leave by 9:45. Which means we left at 10:10, which got us there at 10:45, which left us just enough time to park, pick up our bibs, and evacuate any remaining bodily fluids before taking our place at the back of the pack of already stretched and warmed-up humans massed at the starting line.
Our tight window robbed me of sharing the signature element of my pre-plannning. For motivation I was going to play Kurt Russell’s Herb Brooks’ “Miracle” speech before we got out of the car. Remind them that they were, you know, born to be hockey players. Alas.
To be fair … it’d been four years since the last time I’d participated in an organized race, so was a bit out of practice. And to be honest, I never really was what one would call ‘in practice.’ In the handful of 5 and 10Ks I’d begrudgingly participated in the couple years before the pandemic, I was never in charge of any of the planning. All of that fell to my ‘running buddy,’ Jason, whose default is to subjugate every detail to his monarchical rule. He’d prompt our registration, then spec our departure time and the ensuing directions. My race day responsibilities were limited to a light stretch followed by (a.) watching the back of Jason’s jersey get smaller and smaller in the distance, and then (b.) concentrating all of my energies on not puking down the front of me while maintaining operating control of my bowels until the whole unpleasantness was over.
It was the memory of one such episode that prompted me this New Year’s Eve to casually mention to Peter that I’d seen that there was a “Resolution 5K” run in Oakdale on New Year’s Day. Five New Year’s Eve’s ago, as I was a couple Moscow Mules into my evening, Jason texted me a link to that year’s race, accompanied by, “You in?” I remember convincing myself that my third Moscow Mule was spiritually akin to the training montage in Rocky IV where Stallone is carrying a felled tree on his shoulders while trudging through the Russian winter. From what I recall, my next day’s performance was, in fact, a fair simulacrum of an overmatched, middle-aged man carrying a felled tree on his shoulders while trudging through the Russian winter.
I hadn’t really asked Peter if he was interested in this year’s version, so was surprised when he responded to my dissemination of the fact with, “I’ll do it.” Nor was I expecting Emma’s response after I informed her that I’d signed Peter and me up. “Sign me up, too.” Neither had ever done a 5K before.
Seconds after doing so, apparently in the throes of what science calls a “runner’s high,” I wandered into the dining room and informed Karry of our New Year’s Day plans and asked if she wanted to ride with us and, you know, cheer us along. Which prompted the following exchange.
So it was ‘just’ the three of us standing in the light snow in 30-degree weather seconds before the start of the race, whereupon Peter asked if we’d be running together or just doing our own thing.
“Do your own thing,” I advised, since I wasn’t quite sure what any of our things were.
Since we were waaaaaayyyyyy in the back of the pack, I spent the first couple minutes maneuvering around participants either walking or easing into things (whose better judgement qualified every single one of them to be my Life Coach). Managed to carve out some space and was settling into a rhythm when a guy runs up along side me and asks me what my pace is. I hadn’t thought to consider that data point prior to his asking. I looked at my phone and saw I was matriculating at a 7:43 clip. Had I been sipping a Moscow Mule at that moment I would’ve reacted with my first spit take of the New Year. From what I could remember that was about a minute faster than my pre-pandemic pace. The voice in my head immediately channeled my Inner Karry — “[emphatic decline employing surprisingly colorful verbiage].”
“That’s my pace, too!” he said enthusiastically. “My name’s Jason,” he said cheerfully. (Apparently I’m a magnet for Racin’ Jasons.) “Do you have a target today?” he asked. Since we’d just met I couldn’t give him my honest answer — “Not pooping my pants” — instead opting for a simple “No.” Undaunted, he asked me if I intended to maintain my pace the rest of the way.
I took a deep breath and replied: “Look, before we get too far into this relationship, I’m not who you think I am. I’m living a lie right now. If I keep up this charade one of us is going to end up on the side of the trail bleating like a heifer giving birth to triplets before we hit the turnaround. You look like a nice enough fellow, but this … this is never going to work. The best thing for you to do right now is to leave me. Forget we ever met. Go, just go. Go live a life. And whatever you do … promise me you will never, ever look back.”
All of which came out of my mouth as, “Nope,” as I knew I would need all my breaths for the foreseeable future.
As I found an odd reassurance in watching New Jason’s jersey get smaller and smaller in the distance, I began to recall my previous race experiences. Turns out that running is just like riding a bike, except way harder … and with lots more awful running involved. I was reminded that the first mile is always further than it seems. “Surely I’ve run a mile by now,” I think to myself about a quarter of a mile in.
And the second mile is always The Worst. I refer to it as the “Seriously, what were you thinking?” mile. It’s just mean. Apparently it had a difficult upbringing. Probably overbearing parents. Most likely a bed wetter. Even when I’m running longer distances, the second mile just mercilessly taunts me.
Nevertheless, I managed to make it to the turnaround, and shortly thereafter, my phone let me know I’d made it two miles … upon which I convinced myself that this would all be over soon. Found someone just slightly ahead of me that was ambling at a reasonable pace and settled in behind them.
Stole a glance at my phone when I was about 23 minutes in. Figured I only had about three-ish minutes left to go. At which point my endorphins began to ask me my thoughts on a potential finishing kick.
“Good one,” I responded before realizing that my endorphins, much like my wife, are not kidders.
I hadn’t reached three miles yet, so was in no great hurry to make any rash decisions.
Then all of a sudden this very tall, bearded dude zooms past me. In full gallop. Like, really going for it, Kentucky-Derby-style. Sizing him up I figured he was likely in my age group. I was genuinely impressed. “Wow,” I thought. Clearly he had a plan that involved more than just maintaining a good grip on his bowels. “Good luck with … all that,” I mentally saluted as he sped past.
A couple minutes later, my phone tells me I’m at three miles. And when I look up, I see that I’m actually gaining on Tall Bearded Dude, who was now visibly scuffling down the home stretch. Looked like his bowels wanted a word with him. Kicked a little too early, evidently.
Hubris.
Which my endorphins and I discovered is apparently contagious in men of my age group.
“We’re taking this f*cker down!” my endorphins exclaimed.
“Language!” I scolded in reply, before putting my metaphorical pedal to the metal, which reacted with all the responsiveness of my parents’ 1980 Mercury Monarch that I learned to drive on.
“OK, give us a minute here,” my body replied … before marshaling all my remaining faculties into a barely perceptible acceleration, which catapulted me past Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Guy in a turn of events that surprised me almost but not quite as much Brigette Nielsen when Rocky drew blood from Ivan Drago.
As the finish line came into view up ahead, I somehow managed to keep TBPP Guy in my wake while retaining a majority of the bodily ingredients I’d started with, including a teensy measure of pride.
After catching my breath I sought out Peter and Emma and found them upright and in tact as well. We made our way to the community center for some water, and to steal a glance at the posted results just for funsies. Both Peter and I finished sixth in our respective age groups (even more impressive for him, as he was fighting a bit of a chest cold), while Emma finished third in her female age group, earning a tiny medal. Not bad for a coupla first timers.
Driving home in a car redolent with the aroma of our respective Ks, I was reminded of what I used to appreciate about participating in races. They’re invariably mini exercises in aliveness. Of the conscious choice to sign up. Of the sacred act of pulling a shirt over your head and lacing your shoes. Of stretching to give your body its best chance. Of seeking out your place amongst kindred spirits at different places along their respective journeys. Of watching the backs of jerseys getting smaller and smaller in the distance. Of humbling second miles where your inner voice gains the upper hand. Of appreciating that there will always be folks faster than you, and folks content with taking their own good time, and many lessons to be learned from both. And that you are probably both of those things to those around you, too. Opportunities to push yourself a little harder than you otherwise might … and seeing what happens. Heck, if it were up to me I’d give a tiny medal to Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Guy — for not waiting until he was ready to give it all he had. Better late than never, you know?
Summing the math on the above — or at least the slight majority of the math — aliveness is the blessing of the Racin’ Jasons and Peters and Emmas in my life … people who both ask and answer questions that I don’t always have the courage to ask myself, and who push me to see how fast and far I might be able to go.
And who make me want to be a little bit better next time.
I was driving back from Philly on Monday after dropping Emma off at school. Was a couple hours in when I hit the stretch of turnkpike that cuts through the mountains. Where it’s nothin’ but up and down big hills and forest on either side … for miles and miles.
I’m ok driving as long as I can see ‘civilization’ on either side of me (i.e. houses, farms, buildings, roads, etc.). But when it’s just me and the hills and forest … it effs me up sometimes. For real. Like panic attack stuff.
Reminds of a nightmare I had as a kid … where I was in a car hurtling down this large mountain straightaway, darkness on either side. And as I’m descending I can see this big hill in front of me that climbs steeper and steeper and steeper until it’s pitching 90 degrees straight into the air before it just … ends. In the nightmare I remember knowing I didn’t have enough speed to climb the hill, and no way to stop. I knew I was only gonna get so far and then just … drop. I woke up right before free falling. I can still picture the dream to this day.
On Monday when I hit that three-lane mountain stretch on the turnkpike, 18-wheelers whizzing past me on both sides, I felt myself starting to unravel. My mind began racing, my heart started pounding, and before I knew it, my hands were sweating on the wheel. I recognized the feeling. Years ago while driving home through the mountains at night, I got so overwhelmed I had to pull over and have Peter drive the rest of the way.
On Monday, though, I had no co-pilot.
I kick the air conditioning on full blast. Pull into the far right line and try and draft behind the slower-moving semis. Turn on the radio to try and keep myself together … anything I can think of to try and stave off a full-blown panic attack.
My bluetooth catches a playlist from my phone.
“Learning to Fly,” by Tom Petty kicks on.
As my eyes scan the information on the screen, I say automatically …
“Save me, Tom Petty.”
Which was a line … from a song that Jesse Lowry wrote when we were in a band together in the mid-1990’s.
A song that I had not thought of — let alone heard — in, I dunno, 25 years.
And, autonomically … I start singing …
“Save me Tom Petty … you got me goin’ home in spite of the weather … make it all better, as you show me who you are.”
Under attack by evil forces, my mind reached for the best weapon it could find.
That song.
I sang it without a conscious thought. My mind just put it on my tongue.
Twenty-five words, from 25 years ago, that could not have been more precisely suited to my present situation.
A tourniquet to staunch my bleeding.
And when my conscious self registered not just the lyric, but its substance, I yelled, “Fuck yes!” … as if I had just seen the goddamn calvary coming over the hill.
“Save me, Tom Petty …”
I sang it as a prayer.
My hands strangling the wheel, I found the first verse.
“Take me I’m ready. You had me rollin’ when my roller was broken. Take me home steady … as you show me who you are.”
Hugging the far right lane, crawling up and down hills, pumping my breaks on the descent so I could claim some measure of control over my spiraling situation, I was rollin’ with a busted roller. Just trying to make it home.
In immediate supplication to whatever higher power might be taking calls on the afternoon shift.
I quickly shut off the radio.
The chorus …
“Sing all the songs my minstrels taught you … bang on the door, I’ll let you in ….”
Took the song’s advice. Sang and banged with whatever I had in my tank.
“ … make it all better.”
Over … and … over … everything I could remember of it … as an incantation.
“How about a kiss for the poor man? Can’t you hear the sympathy in his beg?”
Yes.
“I must admit my love is strong … locked in this chest and woven with a tear.”
Over … and over … and over … and over … and over ….
Jesse was so prolific in his songwriting in our band days. When it came to lyrics, he was like a wind chime (as I heard Tom Wolfe once described). As if he was just channeling what the universe was giving him. I don’t think he intended the lyrics to ‘mean’ anything other than (perfectly) communing with the music he wrote.
In the moment, though, they meant everything I needed them to mean …. were both my sword and shield.
I don’t even remember the song’s name. I do remember I loved playing it. I think we all did. It started with a simple groove, funky and understated. Began quiet. We knew where it wanted to go, though. The chorus hit like a punch in the face. After which we brought it back down to a barely contained simmer on the second verse. And in the end for no good reason the song broke into a 7/8-5/8 crescendoing instrumental riff until the battle was won.
When he wrote that song 25 years ago, he had no idea that he’d written a gift for his drummer’s future self.
The universe did, though. And you won’t convince me otherwise.
To be opened at exactly 2:12 p.m. in the afternoon on Monday, November 27, 2023.
Music, you know?
I crawled and crawled (banged and banged) until I finally saw signs for the next rest stop and pulled my sorry ass over. Eased myself into an empty spot. Bowed my head on the wheel before exiting my car.
Went inside, splashed some water on my face. Grabbed a Cherry Coke and some Aleve. Sat down in a chair with my back to the window to shield me from all those 18-wheelers speeding past.
Was in no great hurry to get back in the car.
But knew I had no choice.
Let the winter air register on my face as I backwashed through the parking lot. Deep breathed as I turned the key. Found a break between the whizzing semis and limped back on the turnkpike. As I hugged the far right lane I found that nothing had changed.
It was all there waiting for me.
The hills. The forest. The wave I couldn’t control, licking its lips. Over a hundred miles left to go.
I sang a couple more choruses, but my mind knew that the elixer wasn’t going to last me the rest of the way. But then a sign came into view … next exit two miles. I neither knew nor cared where it headed. I’d figure it out. The off-ramp received me like a warm blanket. Houses here and there. Buildings. Precious few 18-wheelers. Civilization. I knew I’d be fine.
I let Tom Petty — and the “you” who had showed me who it was — know that I could take it from here.
Ended up taking bunch of back roads the long way home the last 120 miles … in 7/8 and 5/8 time, so to speak.
Got up the next morning and sent the most heartfelt capitol “T” Thank You I’d written in a long time.
To let Jesse know that a song he’d written 25 years ago had pretty much saved me. For real.
And that both his drummer and Tom Petty had listened well.
This is why people linger. Sometimes a place asks you to stay, to not rush anywhere, that it’s warm, and there’s the tap dancing water, and the powder blue sky, and they had the second floor to themselves. Josie felt that if anyone else came up there she would drive them away, she would throw a knife. This was now their home.
Heroes of the Frontier, Dave Eggers
Upstairs, the counter area is still very much holiday bustling, dense with people small business Saturday shopping, come for their caffeine. So sardine packed when I arrived, I had to stand in the other room while waiting for Emma to make me her perfect Saturday morning cappuccino. Upon collecting her offering, I walked through the crowded main room, all the way to the back, unlatched the gate, and went downstairs … which (exhale) I found empty and alone as a secret, as it usually is on Saturday mornings. All old stone walls and tables perfect and patiently waiting for customers who either don’t know they exist, or give the latched gate too much respect, or are just content with the quite content-able upstairs. I drop anchor in my favorite booth, the third one to the right along the wall. Put in my earbuds and summon Keith Hines on KCSM, just coming on for his 6 a.m. shift from the Bay Area, to quiet the din of upstairs and the world at large. Plug in my laptop. Pull out my journal and the Dave Eggers book that I have fallen madly in love with since Thanksgiving plucking it from the full City Lights brown paper bag that sits like a treasure chest on my bookshelf. Take a picture, which is to say a prayer, in reverence, commemorating the blessed gift of a Saturday coffee shop morning in the good company of jazz, a perfect book, and the blank page. Slow draw that first glorious sip, which is to say Amen, feeling it warm all the way down ….
The Sunday morning lines at airport security weren’t too bad, I remember thinking.
Even though I made the rookie mistake of choosing the line with the young family strapped to the gills. Mom with a backpack on her back, baby strapped to her front. Dad, backpacks both front and back, diaper bag slung on his shoulder, pushing a young son in a stroller. Too early for coffee, I was pretty much on autopilot. I checked the time on my phone. Should still be good to get to my gate.
On the other side of the security line, as they all recombobulated, the Dad turned to the young son and handed him back a toy. Not their first rodeo, I remember thinking.
Made my way to the tram that takes you to the terminal. If the tram’s not already ready and waiting, I walk all the way to the front car, so I can be among the first ones off and hit the escalators, rather than swim with the masses. Despite being weighed down with so much cargo, the young family was a couple steps ahead of me.
Professionals, I thought.
When the tram arrives and the doors open, the son bolts from the stroller as if shot from a cannon. Dad calls after him once he gets the empty stroller into the car, “Over here!” At this the son, maybe three, stops and turns, and, suddenly magnetized, beelines to the bench at the front of the car. Hops up, legs and all, right in front of the big window that stares down the length of the track.
Glues his eyes as if he’s in a spaceship looking back at earth.
Even my uncaffeinated system cannot suppress a smile.
Couple seconds after the door closes …“Are we moving?” the boy asks rhetorically, as his body registers the rumble of the tram awakening to begin its straight line down the track.
And then, over the rumble .…
“Choo-choo …. choo-choo.”
Slowly at first as the tram picks up speed.
The boy’s voice isn’t “Too Early on a Sunday Morning” loud. And he’s not in “Hey Look At Me, Not the Baby,” mode.
He’s … conducting.
Chanting in his soft, room temperature voice, putting the perfect pause between the double-Choos.
Carrying the weight of their world, Mom sits down on the bench next to him. Smiles the smile of a mother watching her baby boy watch the world go zooming by. Dad, hands-free from the stroller, takes out his phone to grab a video of what I assume is his son’s first ‘train’ ride.
The whole scene unfolds in front of me like a flower from parched earth.
Two Sunday morning addled and saddled parents wanting to slow this train down and live in this moment forever.
And for a few luminous seconds, we all forget.
The weights on our backs.
Where we might be going next.
We’re just grateful passengers on his train.
In my enchantment my eyes dip down and notice something. The boy’s holding his left arm slightly behind him … resting his hand atop his toy … the one his father returned to him after security. I only now make out what it is …
… a shiny red train engine.
Of course it is.
And the thing is … he’s not squeezing it … not holding it tight at all. Just gently touching the top.
“Choo-choo.”
He’s the professional of the group …
… conducting in every sense of the word. … his entire being channeling pure, unadulterated imagining energy from his favorite toy … through the real-world vibrations of this magic vessel … through his eyes watching the world get bigger and closer right in front of him.
A conduit of Wonder.
A minute ago I was thinking about the closest bathroom to my gate … and now I’m beating back a lump in my throat and welling eyes.
Until the train begins slowing, slowing, and easing us to a stop. And the spell is broken by the boo hiss of the doors opening way too soon for whatever comes next.
Forcing us to gather ourselves.
Mom grabs the pole to help her to her feet.
Dad puts his phone away.
The boy climbs back in the stroller.
I wipe an eye with the back of my hand.
And my autopilot kicks back in. I leave the family in my wake, quick walk so I can be first on the escalator. After which I hit the Rite Aid for my ritual snacks and water, bracing for a day of connecting flights taking me across the country for a long week being away from home.
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Our routines, and the world at large, wage a war of attrition against our noticing.
Against our capacity to encounter things we’ve done before and still see them with, or sometimes through, fresh eyes … and lose ourselves in the moment.
Even the in-between moments.
Especially the in-between moments.
A boy in front of the big window, one hand resting gently on his favorite toy.
A Mom and Dad, backpacks, baby and all, hearing the universe’s whispering reminder that they’re on the most glorious ride of their lives.
An uncaffeinated, soggy eyed traveler reaching out for something just to steady his Sunday morning.
Choo-choo.
There is a profound difference between being childish and childlike.
Being childlike is a state of being awake to the magic that exists all around us … and realizing there is no such thing as an in-between moment.
I can still hear the sound … the vibrating clasps of his trumpet case, cracking open from the back room.
The ritual, reverberating release. A sound of dedication. I remember it clear as yesterday because I heard it so often growing up. Followed by him trudging dutifully downstairs, closing the basement door behind him … to disappear the world for a bit.
Scales on repeat. Low tones held long, the horn players’ equivalent of planking. After a good half hour or more woodshedding, he’d always save room for dessert. Whatever he was feeling in that moment on that day, always rubato so there was ample space for his spirit to move. Sometimes blues, sometimes Harry James, sometimes a classic … a la Mood Indigo.
The joy of each and every gig. From my drumset, from my best seat in the house, I’d look over to my right to catch him standing up a couple bars before a solo. He’d tip the mic up, limber his fingers for a microsecond, draw a deep inhale, bend his knees, lean back, close his eyes … and just blow. On occasion, he’d confess to me on break, “Got a good lip tonight.” When I heard that, I’d lo-key petition Sam the bandleader for something that featured a couple choruses … maybe “Woodchopper’s Ball,” or “Tuxedo Junction.” He prided himself on never playing the same solo twice … save when he’d pay respects to James’ sinister intro on “Two O’Clock Jump,” or signature sweetness on “You Made Me Love You” (game respects game). Writing the names … I can still conjure his heart and tone in notes long since gifted to the ether.
Even after age and the frictions of the late nights and travel nudged him to give up gigging, he’d still shed. Dutifully downstairs to his sacred space …. or to his bedroom when the basement steps became too much. For years and years. After his quadruple bypass. After the aneurysms. After heart failure. After each, he couldn’t wait to pick up his horn. Get back at it. Always gave him something to look forward to. In the hospital … he relished when they’d want to test his lungs, giving him this plastic apparatus to blow into, see how high he could make a red ball in the tube go, and for how long he could hold it there. He’d hand the thing back to the nurse afterwards like droppin’ a mic. “I’m a trumpet player,” he’d say with pride.
I remember once visiting with him at the kitchen table in the days after Mom passed, and him excusing himself … to practice … going back to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Then the sound of the clasps. The scales. Then … WIL-low weep … for me … WIL-low … weep … for me .… Mourning in rubato. Disappearing the world for a bit.
Even in his last years, even in his failing health, whenever I’d call or stop, he’d update me on his practicing. “I think I’m getting stronger,” he’d always say, referring to his lip and lungs. He was always looking forward.
When I got older, if I wasn’t able to visit him on his birthday, I’d call. “Hey, dad,” I’d say when he’d answer. Then …
“Peeeeeete!”
How his voice would pitch up a couple notes in excitement. Every time. I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t excited to hear from me. I don’t recall him ever saying it wasn’t a good time.
“Peeeete!”
I think I might miss that sound more than the sound of his horn.
It’s a very human and comforting thing to imagine what loved ones might be doing in the hereafter.
So, on what would’ve been his 96th birthday earlier this week, here is my imagining ….
After cringing through the angels and Mom serenading him “Happy Birthday,” (Mom always sang flat, he often lamented), taking his sweet time making his wish, extinguishing all the candles in one shot with his trumpet lungs, summarily housing an entire Bob Evans Banana Cream pie by himself, then washing it down with a Jamocha shake from Arby’s (bottomless, his appetite), and taking a good hour ‘doing his teeth’ as his belly settled …
Dessert.
… the glorious release of the reverberating claps on his case, shedding for a bit to get loose … then hopping on stage to jam with a proper upright bass player, a pianist who knows from fat, juicy chords, and a drummer laying it down … knees bent, eyes closed, leaning back, taking chorus after chorus after chorus on a B-flat blues, making time melt playing to the wee hours.
How I can hear the sounds.
Standing in the back row, middle … so much good music yet to come.
Is there anything better than autumn in Western PA?
Tho I don't speak cricket,
I'm pretty sure their answer is somewhere between
Amen and fuck no.
I step outside, the evening's bag of garbage in my hand ...
am about to drop it in
and walk the cans to the curb
for Friday morning's pickup
when it alarm clocks me --
the grass, the leaves, the crickets
all in chorus and floating
on the evening's cool crisp
like a magic carpet,
daring me a deep inhale,
a Times Square of smells, of spells,
equal parts riot and symphony,
fall's fulsome fragrance.
So ... (second breath)
... lush.
And not for the first time, it triggers
an autonomic response,
and I ask out loud, "How lovely is this?"
before I make it to the garbage can.
Earlier in the week, when they asked me where I might like to go for my birthday dinner, I replied, “Surprise me.”
They hate it when I do that.
So this is after a long week.
After Karry’s long Saturday shift.
After I came down with a cold earlier in the day that left me a leaky, and mostly miserable, cauldron.
After getting dressed for a nice, though not fancy, birthday dinner.
After arguing in the driveway about whether to make the long drive into the city in the rain or just cancel the reservation.
After loudly debating whether we were in any shape to even enjoy a nice meal in our diminished states.
After Karry got behind the wheel to adjudicate the decision.
After I barely said a word from the back seat the whole way in, sulking.
After we found an open spot on the street.
After Peter, without a word, went around to the back of the car and fished out the umbrella he’d retrieved from the garage before we left, and did this ….
This is after I, unconsciously, slowed my walk behind them, even though it was raining harder than when we’d left … just so I could soak it all in.
After thinking of the Japanese art of Kintsugi, of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with lacquer mixed with powdered gold, which makes the piece beautiful because of its cracks.
A son, holding his umbrella high, to shield his mom from the rain.
I’m not sure why, but this just melted me. For some reason, it made every bit of everything that came before worth it. Maybe even all of the past 53 years.
This is me in my diminished state, after receiving the best birthday gift I am not capable of even wishing for — the gift of bearing witness.
“Surprise me,” I said.
And to think, I almost let it slip through the cracks.
Letters for Maggie 