In the years when we were legally adults, but intellectually and emotionally still ‘ripening,’ we cultivated what some of us consider an ‘abiding affection’ for Old Crow, while others of us, if they are feeling euphemistically generous, would acknowledge under oath as a ‘relationship.’
All I know is that during the dark ‘post-college-graduation-scuffling-by-on-part-time-jobs-with-no-real-prospects’ years, Old Crow’s firm place on the bottom shelf was an accessible and fortifying presence.
And ever since, we have reverently and dutifully honored Dr. James Crow for inventing the sour mash process.
There is a loose thread of American history (that we choose not to tug terribly hard at) that believes that Old Crow was indirectly responsible for winning the Civil War.
It was well-known that Ulysses S. Grant fancied himself a good tipple now and again. It was believed that Old Crow was a preferred part of his, um, medicinal regimen.
A story has sloshed around that critics of the general once complained about his drinking to Lincoln. To which the 16th president purportedly replied, “I wish some of you would tell me the brand of whiskey that Grant drinks. I would like to send a barrel of it to my other generals.”
We’ll drink to that.
Because sometimes it’s more about good memories than good memory.
Also, as anyone who has ever been brave, desperate, or just (like us) poor and dumb enough to send Old Crow down one’s gullet knows … it’s out for vengeance.
In his book “The Social History of Bourbon,” author Gerald Carson relates a tale that, during the Northern Army’s siege of Vicksburg, Grant enjoyed generous nightly nightcaps of Old Crow.
Served neat, of course. (autonomic sympathetic body shudder goes here)
And not to draw a parallel between the Union Army’s 47 days waiting out surrender and us waiting out the last of our adolescence enjoying Red-Hot-doused frozen taquitos from the microwave … but I find it hard not to wax nostalgic when it comes to Old Crow.
Its vague place in our country’s history.
Its humble yet consistent place on the bottom shelf.
Its proud place on this author’s torso.
And its hallowed place keeping us company while we figured — and continue to figure — our shit out.
I don’t remember if it fell across a couple years, or just one.
Don’t remember exactly how old we were. Early 20’s I think.
Don’t remember how often, or how many instances of it there were.
I just know that when Bill would drop Taco Night on the calendar …
… some of us would fast like it was Ramadan.
Mrs. Sochko makin’ tacos.
I remember the first time I attended … popping into the kitchen to say hello and thank you, and noticing she was pan frying the tortillas.
In our house we just opened the box and took the shells out of the plastic bag.
I remember thinking, “What is this sorcery?”
I can’t even remember who all would show up.
Just that there was always a table-full: Bill, his older brother Danny, and Mr. Sochko in their assigned seats, and the rest of us filling in the others.
Looking back I can’t fathom the amount of provisions she must’ve secured in advance.
I mean, the Sochko men and a table full of post-teenage boys.
I don’t remember her ever cutting us off.
If we were still eating, she’d keep making.
The tacos were just the best.
Mortals like me would fill ourselves full and tap out after seven or eight.
Matt was usually good for a couple more.
Bill, Danny and John?
In another league.
I remember one night in particular.
Somewhere north of double digits Bill called it quits.
Danny and John, though, kept goin’.
Defending home court I think Danny took it as a point of pride.
John, skinny as a rail, was simply enjoying himself.
I think Danny tapped out around 14 or so.
Meanwhile John just kept going … and going.
I don’t remember how high he climbed that night.
The number in my head is jumbled, like the way the older boys at Areford playground would keep track of their home runs back in a day.
I only know that John’s performance that night cemented his Taco Night legacy for all time.
__
For the record, Taco Night was one of two truly epic happenings hosted at the Sochko residence.
The other: Trivial Pursuit.
With Mr. Sochko.
While all of us enjoyed hanging out with each other, Mr. Sochko was the main attraction whenever we played. Big B we called him (he was a Bill, too).
Though it’s been more than 30 years, mention “TP with Big B,” to any of us post-teenagers and watch the smiles conquer our faces.
It wasn’t just that Mr. Sochko was the wisest person any of us knew.
Oh my gosh he knew so much.
It was how he delighted in knowledge.
The best part of our games was when he’d expound on the answers. I can still picture him peering over his glasses and smiling as he’d elucidate on a topic.
His was the kind of smile that made you lean in as you listened.
The kindest of smiles.
And we were as ravenous for Big B’s wisdom as we were for Mrs. Sochko’s tacos.
Big B kicked our asses pretty much every time.
I mean, he was a wizened citizen of the world playing with boys who didn’t yet know all they didn’t know.
But as I recall his record wasn’t undefeated.
What made that more special was that Mr. Sochko delighted as much in seeing one of us win (for the record, I’m not sure I ever won). In his congratulations he’d share the same generous smile as when he was sharing wisdom.
There’s a wisdom in that, too, now that I think about it.
To win a game of Trivial Pursuit when Big B was at table? Not sure our neighborhood offered higher accomplishment.
For me the common thread between Taco and Trivial Pursuit nights was that, in those moments I knew enough to know that I was in the best company.
My friends.
Bill’s family.
I mean, the best company.
And that knowledge — that wisdom — is as alive and nourishing to me now as when we gathered around Bill’s dining room table.
I know some post-teenage boys — who now know what they don’t know — who would say the same.
And though Mr. and Mrs. Sochko aren’t with us anymore, in my heart it will always be a short walk to Connor Street … to lingering a couple seconds on the front porch before knocking, just to take in the scent of tortillas frying in the pan.
Met my friend Jeff after work Friday at the Allegheny Elks on the North Side.
For their legendary fish fry.
Got there a few minutes before he did, so took my place — reverently — at the end of the long line already hugging the side of the building.
While waiting for Jeff to arrive, I took in the majesty of the people standing in front of me, Friday shining under a perfectly Pittsburgh grey sky, the kind that’s never far from rain.
Curly haired babies, old bald heads and everything in between, seasoned with splashes of black and gold even though all our teams pretty much suck.
It’s the rarest kinds of lines.
The kind you actually don’t mind waiting in.
Perfect for catching up with good friends at the end of a long week.
Imbued with the purest of expectations, for a payoff that’s as close to a sure thing this broken world offers.
The kind of line that, even if it was longer, you’d be OK with it.
At least I would.
Jeff joined me after just a few minutes, our big, multi-second hug officially christening my weekend.
We fell into catching up …
“Happy Anniversary!”
“Mary says hello …”
“Going to see …”
“Food was uh-mazing …”
You know, the important stuff.
Didn’t care how long it took us to gain entrance, but when we did ….
The warmth and aromas greeted us like a gentle kiss on the forehead.
Perfectly preserved as if by pickling, the interior of any Elks Club worth its salt.
The vestibule adorned with framed photos going back to black and white decades of past Exalted Rulers and their fellow leaders. An old stand-up sign with white magnetic letters highlighting the current crop, including the name of the lodge’s organist.
I bet she throws down.
The hand-written menu presenting you with the most important choices you will make this Friday. No possibility of a wrong answer. Neighbor in line said they even have a friend who swears by the stewed tomatoes. I take her word, knowing I’ll never find out as long as mac and cheese, french fries and cole slaw are headlining.
The line inside is also perfectly timed … to allow proper deliberation over your two sides and which of the holy (lower case ’t’) trinity gets voted off stage.
It’s cash only.
Perfectly priced platters that, regardless of the domination you break, leave you with some singles to choose an individually wrapped, $1 each home made chocolate chip cookie (or two … or three) from the basket in front of the ladies settling you up.
Even that’s so much better than automatically factoring a cookie into the price.
There will never not be magic to putting your hand in the cookie jar.
After paying you leave with your number to forage for a seat.
We found a couple at the bar.
Cue angel chorus.
Glorious wide oval, three bartenders persistently bantering and pouring like jazz musicians having a good night, one of ‘em wearing a Chico’s Bail Bonds t-shirt that hi-fived our childhoods.
Just like waiting in line, waiting for our food was pure gift, zero inconvenience.
From our seats at the bar, we had an open site line to the Allegheny Elks’ house band — members of the Pittsburgh Banjo Club. Accompanied by a bass player and a trumpet player, they strummed old-timey songs as joyfully as you can imagine.
For me, I equate seeing the Pittsburgh Banjo Club at the Allegheny Elks during Lent akin to seeing Sinatra at the Sands with Count Basie on New Year’s Eve.
Took me back to when I was six or seven years old, sitting next to my sister Missy on the black piano bench in the living room while she played old songs from a thick songbook. We’d sing the corniest songs — poorly, but with gusto — together as she played.
Waiting for our fish sandwiches, I swear I knew the words to just about every tune the PBC was laying down (“Hello, my baby, hello my honey, ” … “I”m lookin’ over, a four-leaf clover,” … “By the light … of the sil-ver-ee moon ….”).
Um, polkas included …. zing, boom, tararrel.
I only wished Missy was there to sing along with me.
Being the next-to-last Friday before Easter, the place was poppin’ … so it took a long time for the food to come … not that we noticed or even cared.
Gave us time to secure enough provisions to line the bar in front of us with tiny filled cups of Heinz, tartar, malt vinegar, along with packets of hot sauce …
… and clink glasses of cold beer straight from the tap.
By the time the food arrived, I was quoting Kurt Vonnegut quoting Fats Waller.
“Somebody shoot me while I’m happy.”
For the fish sandwich, they put the empty big bun on top of the ridiculously wide fish, leaving it for you to assemble.
That’s a glorious bit of experience design right there, giving the audience the satisfaction of placing the final piece of the puzzle.
You have about twice as much fish as surface area on the bun, which is, of course, somehow, the perfect proportions.
Though you are hungry, though you’ve waited a long time in line and sitting at the bar … you take your sweet time.
You savor.
You chat between bites.
You go back for more malt vinegar.
You smile maybe your week’s widest grin when the bartender asks you if you’re ok if he uses the same glass when you switch over to Yuengling for your second beer.
Your smile gets wider when he says, “I knew you were a good people,” when you answer Yes.
You ask the female bartender if anyone ever orders the grilled fish, and she testifies that, yes, people do, and yes it’s quite good, and really, she’s not BS-ing, and to validate her testimony, mentions that she’s sleeping with the grill guy.
You bless their unborn children.
You let yourself fall back in love with the world for a moment when the lady waiting for her pitcher next to you comments that, at first, she mistook your clear plastic cup of malt vinegar — stacked three high on top of its empties — for Jack Daniels … thinking I was already three shots deep and not even halfway through my sandwich.
You politely correct her while confessing, “But, I like the way you think.”
And by the time you’re calling it, with just a couple bites left on the plate, you’re already re-thinking some of the major decisions you’ve recently made in your life.
“Next time, I think I’m going mac and cheese for both of my sides,” said Jeff, as the universe joined me in silently nodding in agreement.
You peel yourself off your stools, taking a last deep glorious inhale and a good look around before you backwash out the bar, through the dining area and vestibule, and back out outside to the long sidewalk …
… where the grey sky has gone dark, and the temperature has dipped a few more degrees to remind you that you are alive on the North Side on a Friday night …
… and a multi-second hug goodbye later — the satisfying last piece in a perfect puzzle — that you were in good company.
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.
__
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.
Lydia and I met as freshman English majors at Waynesburg College. Had a bunch of classes together. Worked on the newspaper. Lydia was editor our senior year. I wrote a silly column trying too hard to be Dave Barry. Lydia was in charge of things.
Anyone who knows Lydia will not be surprised by this.
She expected a lot of herself, and of the world around her. I remember once she got so fired up upon learning that a classmate had been cheating in one of our classes.
“Pete! It’s just not fair! He’s not doing any of the work and he’s going to get the same grade as us!”
As an aside … she was being generous in including me in the ‘us’ part of the grade-getting.
“Doesn’t that make you mad?!?”
I remember answering her that what other people did didn’t bother me much. That maybe what mattered more was what we were learning … what we were getting out of the class … what we might take with us. I remember telling her that I wasn’t sure that the grade even mattered all that much.
Needless to say, I was unsuccessful in litigating that case with Lydia … who went on to be our class’s valedictorian, and graduate from law school after that.
I think our friendship was forever forged in Dr. McEwen’s Research Writing class. To say that Dr. McCewen was exacting would be an understatement. The entire semester was dedicated to writing a research paper. We would meet to work on it at Lydia’s sister’s apartment in downtown Waynesburg (quieter than the dorms).
Lydia was the organized one. She kept us on task. Made sure we hit our deadlines and turned everything in on time, if not early.
None of the above were among my superpowers.
In a spasm of poor decision making, Lydia let me choose the topic for our research paper. I remember wanting to look at different periods of history to see what given societies found funny, as reflected in their drama and literature. Like, what was funny in Shakespeare’s time? And to what degree did comedy stay the same or evolve across centuries and societies?
It looked good on paper.
It didn’t look good in our paper.
We’d be on like, draft 7, and Dr. McEewen would return it just bleeding red ink from his infamous pen. Lydia would get so stressed out. As the semester progressed, she doubled-down on editing our drafts before we had to re-submit. She had this big blue thesaurus. She would pull it out and make suggestions when we were stuck on something. This is one of the few things we clashed on. I’ve always hated thesauruses. Have always considered them a sign of weakness. Whenever she would bust out the thesaurus, I’d rebel. Ignored all of her suggestions. Told her we weren’t trying hard enough and would figure it out.
Aside from that, if I brought anything to our partnership, I think I helped keep things light … helped us from taking ourselves too seriously.
I think Lyd found me amusing … much the way one is amused watching a dog chasing its tail.
I could always make her laugh.
The LYDIA laugh.
It was glorious. More of a cackle, technically speaking.
And one, that for as long as I knew her, she never cut short for room or circumstance.
__
Our interactions during Dr. McEwen’s class would remain the hallmarks of our friendship after college.
Lydia remained the organized one, always taking the initiative in our remaining in touch. She’d send cards and thoughtful letters recounting her travels abroad and life updates. Which I would return weeks, sometimes months, later. She was meticulous about sending cards around the holidays. My birthday card from her would invariably arrive a couple days early.
By contrast, while I knew her birthday was in February, I could never remember the exact day. She’d always give me shit when it arrived days, or sometimes weeks, late. I remember once asking her to remind me when it actually fell. Her response, “I’m not telling you. You should know.”
She expected a lot of the world around her.
It got to the point where, when I’d see February approaching, I’d immediately send her a note, making a point of calling out how proactive I was being.
She didn’t buy it.
__
But there is one date that I know I will never, ever forget — Friday, June 7, 2024.
We had made plans earlier in the week to talk. She’d warned me in advance. “Brace yourself, Pete … it’s not good.”
When I picked up and told her I was driving, she said it was probably good that I was sitting down.
And for the next couple minutes, she — unflinchingly, unblinkingly, remarkably — let me know that it took her doctors three biopsies before they figured out what it was. That it was not the recurrence of breast cancer she and they first believed it to be. That it was worse. A rare form of cancer. Only 200 cases. And that it had spread all through her body. That she likely had a month to live. With treatment, maybe three months. Maybe a little longer.
She told me that I was the last person she planned to have this conversation with. That it was just so impossibly hard. That she was done recounting it all.
I mean, what do you say to that?
You start with what’s true.
I told her that I received both the act and substance of what she shared with me … as an honor … as a gift … as a blessing.
That she has always had such a light about her … and that light was as bright in this moment as it had ever been.
And that I would always do my very best to reflect her good light back to her, and to the world at large.
And you both cry a little bit, but not much. She’d done the crying.
So you do what you’ve always done for as long as you’ve known each other.
You just catch up.
You talk about Waynesburg. Old classmates. Dr. McEwen. Other professors.
In our reminiscing, I mentioned to her that I have few regrets, but I do regret that I was never able to go back and have an adult conversation with Dr. Bower, who was another larger-than-life character in our college experience. To talk about all the seeds he planted … his knowing we weren’t equipped in the moment for them but planting them anyway. I wished I could’ve told him what some of those seeds had come to mean for me.
When Dr. Bower passed away, Lyd and I went in on a memorial donation to the library in his honor.
In response to my ruminating, Lydia said the most remarkable thing.
She said, “I’d wish for the exact opposite.
“I’d just like to go back and have one day at college. Not even a special day. I’d just like to walk campus. Sit in on a boring class. Hang out in the dorm talking about nothing.
“Go to Scott’s Delight … get an Everyday Special.”
Scott’s was an unassuming greasy spoon down the road from campus. A counter with stools directly in front of you as you entered, and a few booths on either side of the entrance. The Everyday Special = legendary. You could get a burger, fries and a coke for like $1.85. Cup of nacho cheese to dip your curly fries would set you back another 45 cents. That’s how the pros did it, anyway.
It wasn’t great. But it was perfect.
An Everyday Special.
It was just the most golden thing for Lydia to say.
I was still letting it sink in when she continued.
“Oh, there’s something else I wanted to tell you.”
She said that she was hoping to surprise me, but she wasn’t sure she would get the chance, so she wanted to tell me just in case.
She asked me if I remembered seeing a few months ago that the college (I know it’s a fancy University now, but it will never be anything other than Waynesburg College to me) was doing a fundraiser for an Alumni Walk.
Um, I hadn’t seen it … to which she was not surprised.
She let me know that she made a donation … to which I was not surprised.
Until she added …
“I got us each of us a brick, Pete.”
Oh my gosh, I said aloud, pulling one hand off the steering wheel and placing it on my heart.
I mean, what do you say to that?
She said it for us.
“So we’ll always be together on campus.”
I was speechless.
I don’t remember what we chatted about after that.
I only remember one thing, actually.
At some point … I made her laugh.
Don’t remember what I said … most assuredly something dumb, like always.
But there it was.
The Lydia laugh.
Her singular cackle.
The one she never cut short — even in this impossible moment — for room or circumstance.
Undiminished. Resplendent.
__
Days later I found myself downstairs at my desk … still reflecting on our remarkable conversation … when it hit me.
I remembered something I hadn’t had occasion to think about for 35 years.
The kind of detail that Lydia was notorious for remembering … the kind I never could recall.
I remembered the title of our research paper.
And it about knocked me out of my chair.
In the shadow of our remarkable conversation, it was infused with a poignancy that I cannot adequately put into words.
The title of our paper was inspired by a story we’d come across in our research. The story is believed to be apocryphal, its exact source lost to history.
But the gist of it is this.
A famous actor was lying on their deathbed, being attended by family and friends come to pay their last respects. A former colleague was at the bedside, looking at the frail actor in their failing health. Piteously, the colleague said, “This must be so difficult for you.”
To which the actor opened their eyes and said in reply …
“Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.”
The memory hit me at the very moment I was thinking of the sound of Lydia’s laughter … from the last conversation we would ever have.
Lydia took the thesis from our paper and pretty much made it the thesis for a full life, well-lived. One she never stopped researching.
In the end she was litigating my case back to me. That when all was said and done … the grade didn’t matter after all.
__
I had the great honor to attend Lydia’s celebration of life a couple weeks later. Got to see her sister Karen for the first time in decades. She kindly invited me to stop by the luncheon they were hosting after the service, said that Lydia had something for me. When I did, Karen handed me a bag … said that Lydia had written me a note, but that she had so wanted to revise it (always the editor). Had asked Karen if maybe she could type a revision for her, but Karen told her that she was certain it would mean more in her own handwriting.
Of course she was right.
I waited until I’d driven the four hours back home from Mechanicsburg before I looked in the bag and fished out the letter.
__
This is me keeping my promise to my friend. To do my best to reflect her good light back to her, and to the world at large.
While I recalled above how our friendship was forged in Dr. McEwen’s research writing class, Lydia had a finer point to put on the forging.
“For me, our lifelong friendship was sealed on September 17, 1990. While battling my first round with cancer, I called to wish you a happy birthday. The summer of 1990 was beyond challenging for me — battling Hodgkin’s Disease while attempting to carry on as though all was well. During our call, you said, ‘I miss you, Lyd.’ Nearly 34 years later, your simple sentiment brings tears to my eyes. You were so sincere, and it was just what I needed to hear. Thank you, my friend.”
Of course Lydia would remember the exact date.
Of course she would think to call me on my birthday while she was battling her first round with cancer.
Of course she would remember what I said.
If you only knew that about Lydia Hack, you would know enough.
But there was more in her note. Her gift.
“I’m not sure if you recognize this. Do you recall the role it played during our Senior Thesis? This tattered reference has traveled with me throughout my career (both legal and nanny). When I was cleaning out my office, I thought you should have it.”
I placed her letter inside the cover. To make sure I would have an excuse to crack it open every now and again.
__
In a spasm of poor decision making, I let my son talk me into signing us up for the Waynesburg Homecoming 5K, which was held early yesterday morning on campus.
I’d never participated in the race before. The course looped through campus and spilled a little beyond. Past Martin Hall … our freshman dorm. Up the hill past the bottom of Buhl Hall … where all our English classes were held. Made a left at the corner where Scott’s used to be before it was torn down way too soon so many years ago.
Aside from a few alumni starting to mill about, it was just a regular day on campus.
I took note of that.
With one notable exception.
When we’d arrived early before the race I saw a sign listing the schedule of events for Homecoming weekend.
Where I learned that they were dedicating the Alumni Walk at 9:45 a.m. … not far from where the race finished up.
Of course they were.
While Peter waited in the gym after the race for the awards to see how he did in his age group (he won), I walked over to the space between Miller and Hanna halls just as the ceremony was beginning.
Sometimes on weekends when I wake up at the usual time, I’ll briefly fall back asleep for 15 minutes or so. I call it my second-wind sleep. Its defining characteristic is how vividly I dream during the interval. When I awake for the second time, I’m usually coming directly from dreaming.
Saturday morning I dreamt I was arriving at some sort of pre-graduation gathering. The parking lot was filling up, but I found a place on the loop near the entrance with ample space for me to park the white Econoline van my dream-self was rocking. While it ‘felt’ like it was high school — something about the loop — all recognizable personnel were from my college experience.
Once inside the building and entering the room where (whatever) the gathering (was) was being held, I saw a face my dream self hadn’t seen in a while.
“Dave!” I called out to a guy I played some music with in college. I remember making some awful noise one summer shedding with Dave and a couple other guys in the TKE house basement.
In the dream Dave was wearing a Star Trek-like uniform, but in the colors of our alma mater. He mentioned he was just finishing a musical project, and was holding the physical master or some recording of the final product in his hands. He interrupted my congratulating him with a question.
“What did it sound like?” he asked me.
I wasn’t sure what he meant.
Asked him to explain.
“Your drums … what did it sound like to you?”
Deep question.
He said he wanted to mention me in his liner notes of the project he’d just finished. How super cool of him, I remember my dream-self thinking. We hadn’t played together for a couple years.
I ascribed a genuine weight to his question.
What did it sound like?
But just as I began to think about how I might answer, the proceedings began.
I never got around to giving him my reply.
Dave, who played guitar (and bass), was there to accompany a choir-ish group (hence the Star Trek uniforms) providing music for the occasion. Singers harmonized a lyric, “It’s been a long time comin’ …,” and were nailing it, understanding both the assignment and the substance of the material.
As I listened to the music, my dream self was thinking back to how cool it was that there were people like Dave in this world who care about liner notes.
It was at that point I woke up from my second wind sleep.
I had a morning haircut, so quickly showered and got dressed. But before heading out I felt compelled to jot down all the details I could remember of my dream and email them to my good friend Doug.
I had no idea what motivated me to share my dream with him.
The dream itself made no sense. It was barely a fragment. And it wasn’t even interesting. Immediately after hitting send I considered following it up and apologizing to Doug for my dream spam.
But before I could do so Doug replied, telling me that my timing was perfect, and added a few words intimating why. I mentioned I was coming to Waynesburg and could I buy him breakfast? He said he already had breakfast plans with his youngest son and grandson, but would shoot me a note after, if I was still around.
He did, and I was.
And so we met at a place on High Street.
Seeing him walk in brought its usual smile and our big hug was medicine to my Saturday morning.
And as soon as he grabbed the chair across from me, we jumped in to the conversational jazz we’ve been playing ever since we met as freshmen in the band room at Waynesburg College. The kind that just makes time melt. We took chorus after chorus after chorus … catching up and comparing notes: on family, on things we think the other might appreciate (Have you heard … ? Have you read …?), as well as the day-to-day smudge and scuff that more and more keeps us up at night (whither sleep?). Our friendship has always made space for all of it, even the messy stuff. There’s music to be found there, too. A long way from freshmen we are.
As always we could’ve sat and talked forever, but we knew it was time when it was time. Before going our separate ways, Doug mentioned a new coffee shop around the corner that opened up across from where Scott’s Delight used to be. I asked him if it was worth checking out, and he said it was.
Though my caffeine tank was full to brimming I stopped by on my way out of town. Ordered something sweet and carried it into the adjacent room with the tables. The interior was warm and coffee-shop cozy, the walls adorned with local art, photography and ephemera.
Something on the wall immediately caught my eye. On a hunch I walked over to take a closer look.
It couldn’t be.
Ha … it was.
Our record.
Well, Doug’s record.
The one he bootstrapped, wrote, and paid for the recording, pressing and distribution (such as it was) of a couple months after we graduated. He poured his full heart and bank account — everything he had at the time — into it.
I played drums.
Technically speaking I sang backup, too. In actuality, I monotoned on the chorus. So committedly, in fact, that by the end of the session I had earned myself a nickname: The Drone.
The A and B sides were rock-a-billy homages to the music Doug loved and loves to this day. Of and from a time when three chords were as sufficient and sustaining to us as ramen.
After the recording and pressing of the 45s, we got some local airplay, and, according to ‘official’ documentation Doug received from the record company, we briefly trended in one of the Scandinavian countries. I remember seeing a photo copy of some paperwork Doug received that testified that, at our peak, we were charting just north of Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven” in Sweden, I think. I got the second biggest kick out of that. The biggest kick was the occasional photocopies Doug sent me of the modest royalty checks he’d get in the mail.
Those were the liner notes that came to mind as I stared at a relic from more than 30 years ago, framed and hanging on a wall in a tiny coffee shop in the town where we met.
I imagine Doug’s youngest son was behind its placement.
I thought to myself how cool it was that there were still people in this world who cared about such things.
Pondering the morning’s serendipity as I stared at our old 45, it suddenly all made sense to me.
I knew why I’d shared my morning dream with Doug.
Because he’d shared his with me three decades ago.
And I also think that, deep down, I had a hunch that we’d make some music of it somehow.
I think our morning’s conversational jazz qualified.
Same chords as always. Different changes these days.
As I drove the back roads home, I mentally made plans to turn in early that night.
To give myself room for a second wind sleep, in hopes that I might bump into Dave again.
And get back to him with my answer for his liner notes.
Letters for Maggie 