I’d just finished writing my last coffee shop letter of 2025 when I remembered we were out of envelopes at home.
Opted for a surgical strike at Shop N’ Save, as I also needed shampoo (ran out a couple days ago) and ginger beer (just in case New Year’s Eve called for Moscow Mules). It’s right down the road from the coffee shop, saving me a trip to Wal-Mart or Target, which I try to avoid at all costs.
The lot was pretty full with folks picking up New Year’s provisions.
Walking in to the vestibule with the shopping carts, I saw the gentleman from the Salvation Army tucked in the corner keeping his kettle. Delighted me to see he had his banjo with him. I see him often when I visit, though not always with his banjo. He plays softly, not too fast. Sounds like folk music to me, possibly songs from his native country, but I’m not sure. He and his kettle used to sit inside the store where it’s warm, but awhile ago he told me they don’t like him playing inside, so when he brings his banjo he sets up shop in the vestibule … where it’s not warm. The majority of folks coming in and out pass right by him.
The feeling I get seeing him with his banjo in the wintertime is the same one I get seeing lightning bugs in my back yard in the summertime.
Feels like a gift.
Since I never know where to look for my stuff, I walked through the main body of the store, past the deli and the prepared foods counter. Caught a conversation just as someone said, “I’m playing at the President’s Pub Sunday … from 11 to two.” I turned to see a local musician I recognized, a jazz guitarist, talking to a person in a wheel chair.
I kept on walking for a couple seconds … before turning back around.
Found the guitarist by the apples.
“Excuse me,” I said.
He looked up.
“Did I hear you say you’re playing at the President’s Pub on Sunday?”
Yeah, he said … confirming the time.
“Oh, wow,” I replied. “I didn’t know they had jazz there anymore.”
Yeah, he said. “They have music every Sunday. It’s not always jazz, though.”
It’s been years since I visited the President’s Pub on a Sunday morning.
Remember going there the Sunday after my Dad’s funeral, listening to jazz and spilling a couple glorious tears into an Old Fashioned … and buying one for the pianist who took my request for Stardust.
Not sure I’ve been back since.
I turned the corner past the bread just as two older ladies bumped into one another. They hadn’t seen each other in a while and fell into a big hug with their winter coats on. Asked each other if ‘everybody’ was all right and doing well. I didn’t have to know them to know how much they meant it.
As they wished each other Happy New Years, I went to walk around them, but an older guy with a shopping court was moving with purpose, so I paused to let him pass.
“No, go ahead,” he said.
He had right-of-way so I deferred.
“No … please,” he insisted.
It was a small thing, but I got the sense he was looking for a place to put some New Year’s Eve kindness, so I accepted his invitation.
I didn’t even make it to the envelope aisle before I saw a different version of the scene I’d just witnessed — two other ladies who hadn’t seen each other in a while. They actually ‘whooped’ when they recognized each other.
More winter coat hugs and Happy New Years.
And behind me, I again heard the music of the older man who let me pass inviting another stranger to go in front of him.
He and his cart were on a roll.
And as I took the scenic route to find my envelopes, shampoo and ginger beer, I thought of Kurt Vonnegut.
Who liked to tell the story of a time he went out for envelopes.
How his wife thought him foolish.
“Oh, she says well, you’re not a poor man,” Vonnegut said in a version of the story he told to PBS.
“You know, why don’t you go online and buy a hundred envelopes and put them in the closet? And so I pretend not to hear her. And go out to get an envelope because I’m going to have a hell of a good time in the process of buying one envelope.
“I meet a lot of people. And, see some great looking babies. And a fire engine goes by. And I give them the thumbs up. And ask a woman what kind of dog that is.
“And, of course, the computers will do us out of that. And, what the computer people don’t realize, or they don’t care, is we’re dancing animals. You know, we love to move around. And, we’re not supposed to dance at all anymore.”
After going through the self-check out, I did a quick inventory of the treasure I collected during my surgical strike …
… a serenade from a kettle keeper who would rather be cold … as long as it meant he could keep his fingers dancing …
… an older person out shopping for someplace to put his kindness …
… the joy of New Year’s Eve winter coat hugs between old acquaintances.
The Shop N’ Save’s usually good for reminding me of things I forget I need.
Though I didn’t see any babies, I had a helluva good time buying the envelope for my letter to my daughter.
On my way out I made sure to say thank you to the kettle keeper for playing me back out into the cold.
And as I tried to remember where I parked my car in the crowded lot, I was already thinking of Sunday …
… and whether the guitarist shopping for apples might know Stardust.
Spill a little mustard on your shirt for Franktuary, which sunsetted its brick and mortar a few years back, but still operates a food truck here and there I hear.
Reverently prepared hot dogs.
Peter and I used to pilgrimage to their Lawrenceville location for boys day out Saturday lunches.
And like the great philosophers of antiquity, we’d spend the purgatory between our ordering and our munching engaging in spirited, hangry debates over the universe’s cosmic questions.
Does ketchup belong on a hot dog?
Answer: as you will consistently find across both your meat-eating eastern and western religions, the creator intended ketchup for hamburgers, mustard for hot dogs.
Are Franktuary’s fresh cut fries with garlic aioli better than Shorty’s fries with gravy?
Answer: What, in life, is truly objective? Just as Plato and Kant tussled with that hot potato across centuries … Peter and I staged “The Great Potato Debate” across many a table over the years. He was unequivocally Team Frankturary. Me? I was polytheistic on the matter. For the ultimate answer … ask God next time you see her.
Without irony, I believe that you can test the mettle of a good cathedral by the questions and conversations it engenders.
Once, while Peter and I were debating metaphysics, Heidegger, and the nature of being — by which I mean whether honey mustard was a salad dressing (Peter) or a condiment (me) — a father and young son, both dressed in Pirates jerseys, sat down at a booth across from us.
No sooner had they taken their seats when the son, maybe eight or nine, asked his Dad, “Who’s your favorite baseball player of all time?”
Which settled the question of God’s existence for me once and for all.
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
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.
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.
Was saddened to learn of the recent passings of a couple humans who were both significant figures in my musical growings up … Bob Mascia and Ralph Bill. Sending love and condolences to their families and to all that loved them and will miss them.
They both influenced a ton of young musicians, having both served as band directors at Brownsville High School. I believe Bob may have actually followed Ralph in the role.
I was not one of their band students.
And I only really knew them for a fraction of my life, which was even a smaller fraction of theirs. But though I hadn’t seen either in decades, knowing them was — and will always remain — meaningful.
As does the fact that I’m writing this on an otherwise nameless summer Sunday afternoon.
__
I was 13 years old and standing in the kitchen after school one day while Mom was getting dinner ready.
When Dad came home from Sherwin Williams, walked in the kitchen and promptly informed me — outta nowhere — that he’d signed me up for drum lessons. And that he’d already met with the teacher, and made it clear that I was to learn all styles of music, “not just rock,” (I can still hear Dad’s voice emphasizing those words) … including waltzes, bossa novas, cha-chas, rhumbas, tangos, and of course, jazz and swing.
The specificity with which he relayed his expectations made it all feel like a foregone conclusion. But I was an agreeable kid, and drums were cool … so my reaction was along the lines of, “Ok.”
Bob was my drum teacher. He graduated high school with my older sister Missy (she reminded me that Bob played the lead in the high school musical their senior year – The Music Man — while she played piano).
At the time of Dad’s kitchen conversation, Bob was playing steady in a local rock band and filling in with a few others, including the group my Dad played with — Sammy Bill’s Orchestra.
Gave drum lessons on the side downtown at Ellis’ Music Store.
First thing I learned?
Drums don’t start cool.
I got a pair of sticks and a rubber pad the size of a piece of Texas Toast.
Was informed that I had to learn snare drum before I’d be allowed anywhere near a set. For my parents, it was like a stay of execution.
Bob taught me how to read music, how to count quarter notes, eighths and sixteenths, what triplets were, how to bounce my sticks for open rolls. Graduated me to Charles Wilcoxin’s rudiments … paradiddles, drags and ruffs, and rolls of every dynamic, shape and size: fives, sevens, nines, seventeens, with an odd eleven and thirteen thrown in for good measure(s).
I was always somewhere between good and bad, never quite religious in my practicing.
But I stuck with it.
And a couple years into lessons, Dad surprised with the best Christmas present I’d ever receive — a set of Pearl drums from Ellis’.
I began alternating my weekly lessons with Bob between set and snare.
I remember my very first lesson on set, Bob teaching me the building blocks of how to assemble a couple basic beats.
Eighth notes on the hi-hat with my left hand (I’m a lefty), backbeat on two and four with my right on the snare, opening the high hat with my right foot on the ‘and’ of one and closing it on ‘two.’ Gave me two variations for the bass drum — four on the floor, and an alternate where the kick drum hit on “one” and “three-and.”
I still remember the exhilaration of the first time getting all four limbs to hold a groove.
It was a teenager’s equivalent of pedaling a bike under your own power for the first time. The inexpressible freedom that comes from being responsible for your own locomotion in the world. I can tell you the feeling’s the same whether the locomotion is physical or sonic. The Big Bang it was to me.
At last, drums were cool.
Occasionally I’d arrive a few minutes early for my Saturday morning lesson, climb to the top of the steps and find Bob just messing around on the kit.
Oh, was he a monster.
Every time I heard him play, from the first time to whenever the last may have been, I was in awe.
Got to hear him play once with Sam’s band. Though he held back for the kind of dance music they performed, he still couldn’t help overflowing the banks with his prowess.
It’s hard to keep a Ferrari tame.
__
Fast forward to the summer after ninth grade.
I was in the kitchen on an otherwise nameless Sunday afternoon, Mom fixing an early dinner since Dad had a gig that night. They played every third Sunday at the Moose in Perryopolis, three easy hours for an always appreciative crowd. Dad always loved that gig.
It had rained all afternoon, torrential summer thunderstorms … the kind that percussively pummeled and waterfalled rain on the aluminum awning on our tiny front porch.
The phone rang and I remember walking from the kitchen to answer it. It was Sam, calling to let my Dad know that the Moose had lost power from the storms and that the gig was cancelled.
I remember Dad being bummed, but also relieved to get his Sunday night back so he could prep for work the next day.
About 45 minutes later, we were eating dinner at the table when the phone rang again. It was Sam calling back to say that the power had come back on at the Moose … so the gig was on.
So Dad resumed his gig-prep ritual, getting a shower, doing his teeth (which took a good 30-45 minutes. I’m not sure there was ever a trumpet player more meticulous about his teeth), laying out his suit, his mute bag, etc.
No big deal.
Until the phone rang for a third time. Sam again. He’d gotten a hold of everyone except Bob. In the age before cel phones, when answering machines were still a novelty, you either got a hold of someone or you didn’t. Sam figured that Bob must’ve gone out to eat or something after learning that the gig was off.
“Tell Pete to get ready, just in case Bob doesn’t call me back,” Sam told my Dad.
Upon which I promptly started freaking out.
I’d tagged along on a couple of my Dad’s gigs, had listened to a couple cassette tapes of the band he’d given me, so I wasn’t completely unfamiliar with the music. But my drums had never left my practice room. I didn’t even have cases for them. I remember taking them apart that afternoon for the first time, afraid I wouldn’t remember how they went back together. When I wasn’t freaking out, I was praying that Sam would call back saying he’d gotten a hold of Bob.
Alas, a fourth call never came.
The rain had long since stopped by the time Mac came to pick us up. I remember carrying my cymbal stands out one by one, gingerly laying them down in the back of his Chevy Suburban, covering them with blankets so they wouldn’t be tempted to roll.
When we were done loading the truck, Mac commented, “They look like dead bodies.”
Not the encouragement I was looking for.
When we got to the Moose, Dad helped me set things back up and bought me a Pepsi to calm my nerves. Sam loaned me an oversized tux jacket, and a gratuitously large, velvet, clip-on black bow tie that wore crooked.
I’ll never forget his only instruction to me, which he delivered with his signature calmness: “As long as you begin and end with the rest of the band, you’ll be fine.”
By the time everybody tuned up and gathered on the bandstand, I was in full panic. I gave my full attention to Sam’s every word and gesture, locking into the tempos as he counted off the tunes.
But once a tune shoved off from shore, one person became my life preserver — Ralph, Sam’s son, who played keyboard. I hyper-focused on Ralph’s left hand, which he used to play the bass lines. Ralph’s left hand told me everything I needed to know about each tune … whether it was a foxtrot, a jump tune, a bossa nova, cha-cha … on down the line.
I remember little else about that evening other than surviving the longest three hours of my life … thanks to a constant stream of advice and encouragement from Alice (our singer) and the guys in the band.
When it was over, I gratefully collected their smiles and handshakes, and then collected myself before turning my full attention to trying to remember how to tear my drums back down. Then Sam came over to me. Asked me to put out my hand.
Into which he put $25 … my share of the evening’s take.
I still can vividly recall my 15-year-old self’s feeling of surprise and exhilaration as I stared at the money in my hand. It felt like a million bucks to me.
In that humble transaction, I went from being a scared-shi*tless 15-year-old to being a professional musician.
I remember Bob making a point of that during my next lesson.
“No, I’m not,” I tried to quickly dismiss.
“You were paid for your services … that makes you a professional,” Bob informed me, setting the record straight.
Sam paying me was only the second most significant thing he did that night, though.
He asked if I’d be his regular drummer.
He said he was looking for someone who could make all the gigs. Bob sometimes played with other groups, forcing Sam to find subs. He wanted someone steady.
I can tell you with 100% certainty that there was nothing in my performance that evening that earned me the invitation. And I never grew to be more than one-tenth the drummer Bob was. But I never gave Sam a chance to reconsider his offer.
And, you know what? Bob never said a single word about my displacing him.
So, for the next 13 years, I got to share a bandstand with my Dad.
And with Ralph, too.
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When I think of Ralph, I think of how much fun he had while playing music. When his hands weren’t on the keys, he kept the band in stitches telling jokes. From the moment we’d arrive at a hall through set-up. Between sets. While we were tearing down and loading up. How he loved making people laugh.
And, oh how he loved good food, too. The more unpretentious the surroundings, the better, as far as he was concerned. I can still hear Ralph saying, “You can’t eat atmosphere,” a line that I still quote to this day whenever I find myself enjoying delicious food in less than fancy surroundings. I credit Ralph every time I quote him.
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As I was driving Route 40 towards Brownsville a couple Wednesday’s ago to pay respects at Ralph’s visitation, I found myself thinking of all the New Year’s Eve gigs we played together. After playing Auld Lang Syne at midnight, the band would stand up and we’d shake hands. I always set my drums up next to Ralph’s keyboard, so Ralph’s was usually the first hand I’d shake in the new year. I can say as I write this I now consider that an honor.
When I got to the funeral home, I spent a few minutes looking at the old photos they had placed around the room, mostly of Ralph’s life in music and love of family. There were a couple pictures of Sam’s old bands, one from the very early days, and a later one from when we played together. Sam in the front row in his white tux, Ralph smiling from behind the keyboard. Dad in the middle of the trumpet section, and me in crooked bow tie and glorious mullet.
“So many of them are gone, now,” Ralph’s wife Hillary said of the photo, when I offered my condolences. “Sam, now Ralph, your Dad … Roger … Diz.”
It’d been about 25 years since we’d last seen each other. Hillary used to come on some of the gigs. I invited Karry on a couple New Year’s Eves and they’d keep each other company.
“I remember the first time you played,” Hillary recalled. “You wrapped your drums in blankets.”
I told her that Ralph’s left hand was pretty much responsible for getting me through that first gig. And how much I treasured those times.
On my way out, I signed the registry, taking note of the names of some of the guys I was fortunate enough to play with all those years ago.
I didn’t stay long.
Just long enough to be reminded of days of Auld Lang Syne, and what good days those were.
Learning of Bob’s passing barely a week later … I was reminded that none of those days would have even been possible without Bob’s presence in my life … and his absence one rainy Sunday afternoon.
Em’s reply when asked if she wanted signed up for the New Year’s Day Resolution 5K we ran last year.
“Yes … a tradition!” I enthused.
To be clear, she detests running. Didn’t have her newer tennis shoes at home. Had to borrow my old hoodie.
When Peter asked her goal for race day, she answered: “To not cry the entire time.”
“Me too!” I replied, holding up a hi-5 which she promptly ignored.
In this year’s sequel, I took note of a few differences from our maiden voyage.
For starters we arrived early.
In the 23 years I’ve been a parent, we’ve never been early for anything.
Like, ever.
We had ample time to get our bibs, pee, stretch.
I actually peed a second time … because I knew I may never be this early again.
To be fair, last year was a totally spur of the moment affair. In a spasm of poor decision-making, I signed us up on New Year’s Eve — the day before the race — whilst slightly north of my second Moscow Mule of the evening. Was genuinely surprised they both said yes. It was their first 5K.
This year was Em’s second.
Her brother, on the other hand ….
Peter’s actually taken a keen interest in running over the past year. Much more serious than mine. Minds his times and distances. Actually had a New Year’s Race Day goal in mind.
Meanwhile, I held fast(-ish) to mine from last year: not puking.
With the aforethought that comes with pre-planning, I strategically managed my New Year’s Eve race prep.
Stayed away from Moscow Mules.
Opted for margaritas instead.
Was coming off an uneven night’s sleep when we took our place among the mass of humanity at the starting line. Didn’t feel like I had much in the tank.
So I was grateful to find a person shortly after the start to hitch my wagon to, so to speak. From the back, the guy looked middled-aged and mis-matched … seemed to be wearing a collared shirt over another shirt (?), along with shorts, dark socks and a ballcap. Temperature was in the 30s, which made his incongruous ensemble read as either brazen or ironic — both of which I found oddly appealing.
He seemed like a poorly informed tourist from another country trying too hard to blend in … or exactly how I’ve felt in every race I’ve ever participated in.
His pace was reasonable, though. Determined without trying to prove too much … which, I reminded myself, was the same criteria I used for picking my middle school cologne.
Managed to keep him in my sights the first mile. The trail was puddled in places, which made it a little challenging for me to keep up, but not too off-putting.
After I hit the mid-point turnaround, I was greeted by a winter wind bent on smacking me in the face the whole rest of the way (rude). Over the second mile, my pacer lengthened his lead, but I did my best to keep from falling too far behind.
I find once one crests a race’s midpoint, one’s playlist becomes really important. You need that voice in your head to take your mind away from the realization that, if it wasn’t for your poor decision-making, you could be home right now under a weighted blanket on the couch, binge-watching Murder She Wrote while sipping hot cocoa.
My playlist was on shuffle, so up popped a slow ballad I love by a melancholic Pittsburgh band from the 90’s, whose singer began to croon, “This world will be the death of me,” which convinced me I should maybe outsource the curation of my hype music to the algorithms.
Stole a glance down at my phone to hit skip, trading “… satchel full of broken hopes … ” (wtf?) for “Heroes” by Bowie (universe balance = restored), and noticed I had just under a half-mile left. Took a quick inventory of my legs, breath and bowels and, confirming stasis, looked up and noticed I’d gotten a little closer to Dark Sock Ironic Collar Guy.
This is the point in the proceedings where one starts thinking about one’s finishing kick, which for me, consists of trying not to giggle slash pee oneself.
The lesson of the TBPPD (Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Dude) from a year ago slow-jogged through my mind as I considered my strategy. The previous night’s margaritas suggested … a conservative approach.
So I waited ’til the three mile mark, and then, you know, called down to engineering to fire up the old warp core.
Once engaged I passed DSICG with all the urgency of a middle-aged man on the cusp of the morning’s third pee … in the process resisting the temptation to look over my shoulder to see if my backdraft caused the collar on his shirt to at all flutter.
Hubris eventually comes for us all.
Pushed as hard as I could as I crossed the finish line.
But after catching my breath on the other side, I sought out my pacer.
“Excuse me, sir,” I called out.
He turned around, whereupon I noticed that (a.) he was a bit older than me, and (b.) his collar was actually a neck-warming device (pro move). I also saw the front of his shirt for the first time, which commemorated a Boston Marathon he’d previously conquered decades ago.
Respect.
I congratulated him on running a great race. Told him he was my North Star, and thanked him accordingly.
He confessed he hadn’t run in two months, so wasn’t sure what his body was going to give him. From where I stood, he did more than OK.
I sought out Peter and Em in the post-race hubub, and we headed back indoors to warm up and so Peter could check out the results.
He found his name on the printout they taped to the wall by the awards table. Finished top 25, third in his age group, shaving a whopping two minutes-plus per mile from a year ago.
What a difference a year can make.
So we hung around for the awards.
They went oldest to youngest, announcing the winners in the 70-and-above category first.
A familiar figure walked up to claim first place.
Dark socks. Shorts.
Dude was in his 70s.
Um … brazen, it turns out.
As far as North’s Stars go, I chose wisely.
Probably went home and spent the afternoon chopping wood.
Needless to say, I found the experience of smoking a stone cold septuagenarian down the home stretch very satisfying.
We waited through the other age groups until they got to the 20-29s.
Announced females first.
When we heard third place finished just above 30 minutes, Em and I had the same thought.
She turned to me, “Wait, if she was third … then I might have ….”
We were both giggling by the time she finished the sentence, just as they were calling her name for winning her age group.
In the ironic category.
I had a fresh hi-5 waiting for her by the time she returned to her seat … which she promptly ignored.
I informed her that she was now bound by honor to come back next year and defend her crown.
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.
Letters for Maggie 