Tag Archives: driving

Postcards, saturdays

Arriving ….

My friend Doug texted me Thursday, which triggered the following exchange. 

I was grateful to Doug for giving me something to look forward to. 

Actually, two things. 

First and foremost, the delight of his company … the gift of picking up the conversation we began when we met as drummers our freshman year at Waynesburg College. 

Secondly, for the gift of the arriving. 

Ever since April who cuts my hair closed her shop on High Street, I’ve missed driving to Waynesburg every fourth Saturday morning.  

I miss driving through Washington just as it’s just waking up and hopping on Interstate 79. 

I don’t take 79 the whole way to Waynesburg, though. 

I fall in love at the Ruff Creek exit.  

By the time I see the sign announcing two miles to Ruff Creek, I am almost giddy. After the exit’s abrupt stop sign, I ease past the gas station on the left and the Church on the right where the cop sat that one time. 

Confirming the coast is clear, I politely punch it and take the two-lane roller coaster climb of a hill as if it’s the roller coaster itself, my one and only chance to clear any slow pokes content with letting life and me pass them by, so that by the top … the only thing in front of me are two lanes irresistibly wide open and waiting … the juiciest Jane Mansfield stretch of swerves and curves in all of Greene County. 

Cue angel chorus. 

Three sets of gently undulating left and right curves carved in an incline …  tempting me and the GTI to a little Saturday morning orneriness. 

At the first left, I leave the right lane and visit the passing lane, following the arc of the bend, and, as long as there are no other cars in sight, swing all the way back into the right as the road snakes. 

Since the hill’s not quite done, I keep my foot on the gas so I can feel the pull into the curve until it releases me into the next left … and then gently back again into the far right. 

By the third left, the sequence is doing the good work of my morning coffee. All of it taking less than a minute. 

The loveliest little moment of aliveness. 

The only-every-four-week sequence made it precious. Something to look forward to. 

Something I’ve missed. 

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Saturday’s reminder of which was almost but not quite as good as the big bear hug Doug and I greeted each other with, before hunkering down in our cushy red booth.

After sharing my gratitude with Doug for his invitation, for the delight of his company, and the gift in the pilgrimage, we were deep into catching up on family, music, and books when he interrupted me. 

He: “Still looking for your pay it forward?” 

Me: “Yes!”

He: “An older couple just came in and sat down.” 

We called our server over, who was more than happy to conspire with us. 

“I’m going over to take their order right now.”

I stole a glance out of the corner of my eye. 

Older married couple out for Saturday breakfast. 

Late 60’s, maybe 70s. I’m a bad guesser. 

I overheard the husband order Double Meat for his breakfast platter, which made me smile. 

A man after my Dad’s quadruple-bypassed heart, I thought to myself.  

I confessed to Doug that something about older couples always melts me. 

Told him about being at the coffee shop last Saturday as a couple regulars I’ve seen before took the table next to me. It was freezing outside, so they were all bundled up. Kept their toboggans on the whole time. 

They were adorable.

I wasn’t eavesdropping, but sitting next to them, I couldn’t help but notice. 

They talked the whole time. 

Genuine conversation. 

Asked questions of the other. 

Not a phone in sight. 

Made each other laugh on more than one occasion. 

When they left, I asked Nicole, who does the baking and who I heard call them by name, whether they were just friends or ….

“They’re married,” she confirmed. “They are just the sweetest.”

I said aloud how I hoped to live long enough to be an old couple who keeps their toboggans on while sipping their Saturday morning coffee.  

 I shared the above with Doug as we resumed losing ourselves in the swerves and curves of our conversation.

Asking questions of the other. 

Making each other laugh on more than one occasion.

‘Til it was time to get on with our Saturdays.

When we got to the register to pay our bills, another customer was waiting for a to go order. I noticed she was wearing a Dairy Queen shirt. 

I also noticed that the older couple had gotten up to leave, too, and were heading in our direction. 

The wife had a lot of difficulty walking, so they were taking their time, her husband gently holding her arm as they made their way. 

They chatted while they took the time she needed. 

I apprehended that it wasn’t an easy choice for them to decide to go out for breakfast.

They probably don’t do it as often as they used to.

Which maybe made it something they looked forward to this week.

I imagined that their years together have taught them something of arrivings, too.  

I melted in place. 

When they got near the register, we and the DQ person stepped aside to let them pass between us — a humble Saturday morning honor guard — as the husband helped his wife to the restroom. 

It took a minute for them to pass between us. Enough time for the husband to notice the DQ logo on the girl’s shirt, too. 

“Peanut buster parfait,” he said, and smiled as he went past. 

I hi-fived him in my head. 

That was Dad’s favorite, too.

Standing in line with my friend at the register, waiting to pay our bills at the Bob Evans on a Saturday morning. 

The loveliest little moment of aliveness. 

Cue angel chorus.

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Excursions

Turning Point …

Did a couple brave things Tuesday night. 

For starters I drove through the snow into the city. Roads were awful. Slid into a bank trying to make the left onto Maiden Street.

Traffic on the interstate slowed to a sloppy crawl just before Canonsburg. Google told me I should peel off the exit, so I listened.

Called home to let Karry know my circumstances. 

Candidly, part of me was hoping she’d tell me to just come back home. 

Give me an excuse not to go through with the second brave thing.

“You should stay on the interstate. It’s gonna be better than the side roads.” 

She is so much better than Google.

It was the wisest counsel … from the person who’s been pointing in the right direction for 30 years and counting.  

So I got myself turned around. Limped back onto I-79. 

Kept going. 

Sent a text letting ‘em know I was on my way, but was gonna be 15 or so minutes late. 

“That’s OK. You’re on last!” 

__

On a whim the week before I submitted something for Story Club Pittsburgh’s monthly live gathering.

Something about the theme — Turning Point — caught my eye. Made me think of something I’d written but never shared before. 

The following day Kelly their (awesome) producer emailed me back, “The Spotlight slot’s yours if you want it.”

Eesh. 

After I said yes Kelly informed me that the stories had to be under seven minutes.

Over the next few days, violent editing ensued.

By the time I’d gotten in my car Tuesday to drive into the city, I still hadn’t quite limbo’d my story under the bar. 

Crawling along the interstate afforded me some extra practice time in the car. Must’ve run through it a half dozen times trying to find places where I could chop a few more seconds … without having to rush it. 

And praying I’d remember my edits. 

Seven minutes seemed like both forever and not nearly enough time.  

As I drove I reminded myself I was last, so I’d have some time once I got there if I needed it. 

Arrived while the emcee was still on stage and before the first storyteller. 

Other than the spotlight slot at the end, the proceedings are open mic. Anyone who wants to tell a story drops their name in a hat — from which they pick seven names to go on stage. 

As I grabbed a chair, the voice inside me said I owed the brave humans on stage my full attention … the same gift I would soon be asking from them. 

The greatest gift in the world as far as I’m concerned. 

They made it an easy gift to give. 

The first person shared a brave and beautiful story about a person they stayed in a relationship way too long with, and what their hopeful but misplaced optimism had taught them. An older gentleman spoke about losing a best friend in high school and how he’s tried to live for both of them since. Another person relayed an amazing daisy chain of grace and kindness from law enforcement that allowed him to essentially walk on water all the way from New Jersey to Pittsburgh. There was a story about a rat in an apartment and another about a snake on a trail. And a lawyer told a tale of tracking down a client who met him not with a handshake, but a shotgun pointed at his chest.

Before I knew it, the emcee was calling my name. 

By which point a good 90 minutes had passed since I’d taken my seat. 

Since I’d last thought about my story. 

I’d been picked as a Spotlight Storyteller once before, about a year ago. But I got sick and couldn’t be there in person. Made arrangements to share virtually from home. Had my notes on a second screen just in case, which made it easy. 

This time, it was just me. 

No notes. 

The lights made it hard to see the faces of the people in the audience. 

As I started in from memory, my mouth felt dry. 

Was about a minute in … when I felt my words sliding to the tip of my tongue.

Got a little over halfway through. 

And lost my way. 

In the spotlight. 

Alone on stage.

In front of a pretty full house. 

With the clock ticking. 

Stuck. 

But then … 

… something amazing happened. 

A few people in the audience started snapping.

A couple clapped encouragement. 

And a wonderful soul in the front row … one of the few faces I could see in the lights … repeated the last couple of lines I had said back to me. 

A roomful of humans that was already offering me their greatest gift, did their best to point me in the right direction. 

Took me a moment, but I got myself turned around. 

Limped back on the interstate. 

Kept going. 

Crawled the rest of the way.

Until I made it.  

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On my drive back home, I thought of Patti Smith, and the time she forgot the words to “A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall” while performing in front of the King of Sweden and the royal family at Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize ceremony in Stockholm. 

And how beautifully and humanly she wrote of her experience. Of the kindness shown her afterwards by some of the Nobel scientists in attendance, who shared their appreciation for her very public struggle. “I wish I would have done better, I said. No, no, they replied, none of us wish that. For us, your performance seemed a metaphor for our own struggles,” she wrote so movingly in The New Yorker.  

It occurred to me that, had I spent those 90 minutes before I stepped on to the stage going over my story, I would likely have avoided my embarrassment and delivered a better performance for the audience I was there to serve. 

But that would have come at the expense of giving my full attention to all the other wonderful storytellers that came before me. 

It would have required withholding my most valuable gift in the world. 

So I refuse to regret my choice. 

I accept my stumbling as a fair price to pay … for the gift of bearing witness to their stories.

Maybe even a bargain. 

Because had I not stumbled, I would not have experienced an audience of strangers reaching out to steady me. 

And the traveler writing these words would be much the poorer for that.

I could have been perfect. 

I would much rather be human.

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Excursions

Take Me, I’m ready ….

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.

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Letters for Maggie, The Girls

Speed Dating 25 ….

I figured we had about an hour’s drive to make our 7:15 reservations. 

I had the car out of the garage and air-condition-cooling by 6 p.m. 

Married twenty-five years, she knows how much I hate to be late. 

I hold the car door and she lowers herself into her seat … at promptly 6:35 p.m. 

Married twenty-five years, I know she’s never ready on time. 

She: Wait a minute. Forgot my cheaters. Can’t read the menu without ‘em. 

I get back out to hold the door a second time, and give the bridge of my nose a deep tissue massage until she returns and floats once again into her seat. 

As we pull out of the driveway, we Google Map our drive to check traffic. 

ETA: 7:37 p.m. 

My chest tightens. 

“Don’t drive like a maniac or you’ll make me sick.” 

Ah, the sweet nothings of anniversary date night. 

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