Tag Archives: kindness

Postcards

Recipes ….

Left the house yesterday morning to meet my sister for coffee. 

There are few more lovely reasons to leave the house on a Saturday morning. 

Figured I’d swing by the post office first to pick up some stamps.

Planned to write my daughter her weekly postcard after having coffee with my big sister. 

No line when I got inside. 

Saw Maria standing behind the counter … which made me smile. 

Maria’s worked at the post office for 28 years, if I remember correctly. 

She told me last time I picked up a lasagna from her. 

Not at the post office.

At her tender restaurant A la Maria’s, on LeMoyne, where she spends her weekday evenings … lovingly making her Mom’s old Italian recipes.

Maria’s place holds a special place in my heart. 

When Karry and I got married and moved into the World’s Tiniest Apartment in East Washington, Maria’s mother ran a restaurant out of the basement of her home a couple blocks from us. 

In our early Kraft-Mac-and-Cheese-Can-of-Peas-for-Dinner days, Paesano’s was our one monthly splurge. 

Saturday night.

If the weather was nice we’d walk. 

It was BYOB so we made a ritual of picking up a $10 bottle of wine.

Made sure we were in our seats by 7 o’clock, so we could watch X-Files re-runs on the big TV that hung in the dining area …

… while slow savoring food made with love from an Italian mother’s kitchen.  

We’d take our time walking our full bellies back home — the next day’s leftover lunch in my left hand, Karry’s hand in my right. 

Everything my Saturday night could ever want back then. 

Maria’s lasagna is perfection. 

Architectural is the best way to describe it. 

Sharp corners. Rectilinear. Towering. 

Don’t know how she does it.

Every lasagna we’ve ever made at home comes out of the pan (deliciously) gloopy.

Maria’s could serve as a tornado shelter. 

Comes with about a 1/2 inch of standing red sauce pooling in the bottom of the to go container. 

Every time I get home and crack open the styrofoam box, Pavarotti sings ‘La donna è mobile’ in my head.

Comes with two thin slices of Italian bread, essential sponges for sopping up every last drop from the plate when you’ve sadly run out of lasagna.

When I put my sopped-clean-post-lasagna plate in the dish washer, the other dishes are like, “I think you meant to put this back in the cabinet.” 

So it should come as no surprise how it made me smile to see Maria behind the counter at the post office yesterday morning.

“Miss Maria,” I greeted.

“Mr. Riddell.”

“Postcard stamps?” I asked. 

“Cleaned out. Election folks bought ‘em all up.”

“Awwww. Really?”

Asked her when they might get more in. She said they’re on order, from Kansas.

“They send them regular mail … so, who knows?”

Coming from a post office person, the “Who knows?” struck me as funny. 

She said I could try the McMurray store. They have everything there. 

I thanked her for letting me know, and exhaled defeatedly, as I didn’t have the time nor inclination for a special trip. 

Was just about to say out loud that my visit wasn’t in vain, though, since I got to see her …  

… when Maria interjected. 

“Otherwise, you’d have to go two busses and some grapes.”

“Uh …. I’m sorry, what?”

“To make up the 61 cents,” she said.

Pre-caffeinated, I wasn’t following at all. 

She pulls out her drawer, takes out a couple packs of stamps. 

Starts to do math. 

Explains the busses are 28 cents … 

“So two of those …. plus a five cent stamp,” she says, holding up a pack of grape stamps. 

“So you’d need a lot of stamps,” she chuckled.

“Wait …,” I said. “Postcard stamps are 61 cents?”

“Yep. Regular stamps are 78 cents, post cards are 61.”

I had no idea. 

In my mind I thought postcard stamps were like 19 cents.

Sixty-one cents …  for such little real estate.  

I felt dumb … for having hundreds of post cards at home. 

She started to put the booklets back in her drawer, when I interjected. 

“I’ll take the busses and grapes,” I said. 

“Oh, you want to do that?” she asked.

“Just to get me through today,” I said. 

What I meant was that I’d just take a booklet of each as an interim solution. 

“Oh, so you just want enough for one?” she asked.  

I didn’t think you could do that.

I smiled at the smile on her face as I watched her tearing off a postcard’s worth of individual stamps from their booklets. 

“I guess I’m going to have to write smaller,” I said out loud. 

She broke apart the three I needed, laid them loose on the counter. 

Then an idea popped into her head.

“Here’s what you do ….” 

I watched her pick up a bus, peel it off, and carefully lay it across the other bus. 

Wasn’t sure what she was doing … maybe just consolidating onto one piece rather than sending me out with three loose stamps? 

Then she peeled the grape and surgically laid it across the second bus. 

“There …. That’s what you do,” she said. 

Proudly. 

“Leaves you more room to write,” she said. 

Oh. 

“So you can lay them across each other like that on the post card?” I asked. 

“Yep,” she said. “Only the ‘USA’ needs to be showing.” 

And I giggled out loud …  like a five-year-old who’d just seen an adult perform magic.

You should see what she does with a lasagna, I’m tellin’ ya. 

In the town where I live, there’s a person who will not only let a clueless, pre-caffeinated little brother cobble together a postcard’s worth of stamps … but will take the time to bunch ‘em as tight as the law allows … so he has as much room as possible to write to his daughter about how much he misses her.

__

And after just the loveliest visit with my big sister …

… I took out my favorite pen …

… and the postcard I’d plucked special from my massive, impractical inventory …

… took my time writing small and neat …

… doing my best to make every word count …

… with all the reverence I could muster …

… as I imagined a mother might …

… writing down her favorite recipes for posterity.

Everything my Saturday morning could ever want.  

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Postcards

Taco Night

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. 

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Righteous riffs

No Pressure ….

Went to a storytelling thing in the city a few weeks ago. 

Flew solo … something I normally don’t do. 

Usually my inner voice prepares a convincing list of reasons it’d be better for us to stay on the couch. 

Something about the event’s theme — Bridges — made me think of a small story that might be worth telling. 

I’m never really sure of such things. 

Inner voice likes to remind me I could be full of shit. 

Might be a story only I want to hear. 

Which is among the reasons I appreciate the event’s drop-your-name-in-the-hat approach.

Lets the universe decide.

Was late peeling off work.

Got there about 10 minutes before it started. Place was pretty packed. 

I made a beeline to the front to see if they were still taking names. Saw Jacob, the event’s producer. He asked if I wanted to tell a story. 

“Thinking about it,” I said. 

“Awesome. We only have two people so far, so you’re guaranteed a spot.” 

Gulp. 

Didn’t expect the universe to decide so quickly. 

But then, Jacob did this thing. 

He looked me in the eyes, put his hand over his heart, and said, “And I’d consider it a personal favor if you could shake the bushes and get a few more people on stage.” 

“I’ll do my best,” I said.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I was flying solo … and that I didn’t know a single other soul in the place. 

Not to mention the event was starting in like five minutes. 

“And don’t forget that you’re a socially awkward introvert,” my inner voice chimed in.

Yeah, that too. 

But, there was just something about the way he asked me. 

Heard someone describe it once as “the happiness of being called upon.”

I had just enough time to grab a beer before things started. 

While waiting for the bartender’s pour, I noticed a person at the other side of the bar chatting with some friends.

I don’t know if this makes sense, but have you ever seen someone smile … and, just by the way their smile lives on their face, you can tell they’re a character? 

So I notice such a smile, and then a second later, hear the owner saying to her friends, “You know, I’ve been coming to these things for two years … and I have yet to put my name in the hat.” 

A second later we make fleeting eye contact. 

And I blurt out from across the bar, “TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT!” 

My inner voice does a spit take …  “What the fuck are you doing?”

And I’m like, oh … what the fuck am I doing?

“Sorry,” I say. “Um, don’t mean to intrude … but you should totally do it.” 

And she says aloud to herself, as much as to her friends (and, um, me I guess), “You know, I was actually thinking of something … 

“ … but I don’t have it worked out or anything.” 

“Don’t overthink it,” I volleyed back across the bar. “They’re actually looking for storytellers. I think tonight’s the night.” 

“I … I’m not prepared,” she said. “I’d have to be prepared …” 

But then … she reached into her pocket. Pulled out her phone. 

“I’d at least have to put some bullets down … to see if I even have enough.” 

I grabbed my beer and went to find a seat. 

As I passed behind her, I said, “No pressure … but just so you know, I’m preparing myself to witness history.” 

The place was pretty packed. Saw a couple open rows in the back. 

Spotted a guy sitting on the aisle, also flying solo. I asked if I could sit next to him. 

“You look familiar,” he said. “Have you told a story before?”

We got to chatting. I learned that he was a friend of Jacob the producer. 

“Have you ever gotten on stage?” I asked.

Nah, he said. Shook his head for emphasis. 

Let a couple seconds pass.

“You know, I was kinda’ thinking of something on the way over,” he said. 

“Dude … you should totally do it,” I replied. “I think tonight’s the night.” 

“Ah …” he started walking it back in his head. 

I wasn’t going to let him off the hook.

“They’re actually looking for storytellers. Jacob told me … they don’t have enough.”

“Really?”

“Don’t overthink it,” I said. 

“Ah … I’ll decide at the intermission,” he said. “See how things are going.” 

“Wise move,” I said … following it up with one last, “But you should totally do it.” 

So, the event starts. First storyteller gets up on stage (and is amazing), then the host goes to pull the second name. 

And I see the person who I’d last seen at the bar jotting down bullets into her phone … strolling to the stage.

My heart leaps. 

I elbow my next chair neighbor and whisper, “We’re about to witness history.” 

And I was right. 

Her smile totally gave her away. She had a light, for sure. 

In fact, her kindling of that light was the topic of her story. 

That she didn’t wait to have it all figured out before stepping into the spotlight … was every bit as inspiring as the words that tumbled from her tongue.

What a gift to bear witness.

When she finished (to raucous applause), I exhaled. 

My work is done here, I thought in my head.

The intermission comes. Host goes to pull the next name from the hat, and … my next chair neighbor get up. 

Not sure if you’re keeping score here, but … I’m two for two. 

And his story? 

Epic. 

A love story … which he chased across states … countries … years … before it all ran aground. 

At the moment of their breakup, they had to decide who got to keep the German Shepherd they’d raised together. 

He had rescued it as a puppy. 

He loved the dog so much. 

Knew he’d take better care of it than she would. 

And he let her keep it. 

And I’m wiping tears. 

That wasn’t even the end of the story, which ended poignantly on a bridge in Pittsburgh, tying back to the event’s theme like Simone Biles sticking the landing in a floor exercise. 

It was note perfect, I tell you. Like, one-man-show material. 

He gets back to his chair … I’m like, “Dude,” held out a fist for bumping, since the lump still in my throat kept me from saying more.  

Then, I hear the host call my name. 

I’m still a bowl of soup from my neighbor’s tale.

But I get up and tell my tiny story. 

About a scruffy saint I encountered in a coffee shop who reminded me — in both word and deed — that receiving kindness is every bit as important as giving kindness. 

I wobbled in a couple places. 

I pretty much wobble everywhere I go anymore.

But I told the story that I needed to hear.  

At the end of the event, they bring everybody back on stage. 

Then it’s over.  

Under the best of circumstances, I’m bad at exits.

Flying solo in a roomful of strangers, after being vulnerable on stage for six minutes, I just wanted to get out of there. 

But I had to say thank you. 

Saw Jacob at the front of the stage.

I told him I fulfilled the mission. 

He returned a quizzical look. 

“Two of ‘em were mine,” I said. 

You should have seen how the smile lived on his face. 

“I’m proud of you,” he said. 

Receiving those words made me put my hand over my heart. 

The happiness of being called upon. 

I turned to make a beeline for the door. 

Didn’t get very far before someone stopped me. 

“I just wanted to let you know that your story made me glad I came,” she said.

Oh my gosh, I replied.

So, it wasn’t only a story that I needed to hear. 

Almost started crying again. 

Then, she did the kindest thing. 

“Can I give you a hug?” she asked. 

Our stories?

Bridges indeed.  

__ 

Ever since that night, I keep coming back to the same four words. 

Four words that I’ve come to realize are a magic spell … for experiencing awe.

“If it wasn’t for ….”  

Wherever you are … whenever you are, say those four words, then fill in the blank with the things responsible for this … whatever this is. 

Keep filling. You don’t have to go very far before you strike awe, which is merely a bridge … to profound gratitude. 

If it wasn’t for Jacob’s Great Commission … 

…  I’m not sure I notice the way a smile lives on someone’s face … I don’t interrupt a conversation from across the bar … she doesn’t pull out her phone … punch in the bullets that give her the confidence to make history for herself, and do a thing she’d never done in two years of showing up …

… I don’t fist bump a next chair neighbor for exponentially expanding my understanding of humanity’s capacity for grace (he let her have the dog for cryin’ out loud). 

If it wasn’t for the theme of the night, I don’t think of a story and spend six minutes wobbling on stage, so I can be reminded yet again by a stranger that … 

… it’s just as important to receive kindness as it is to give kindness … 

… that we should never be shy about sharing our stories, because they just might be somebody else’s bread … 

… that even when we’re flying solo, we’re not necessarily alone.

And perhaps most importantly, I don’t discover this encouraging, bush-shaking voice that I didn’t even know was inside of me … that’s pretty fucking good at its job. 

And that is making its debut on the page here to tell you that I would consider it a personal favor, if you would promise me …

… to never underestimate your capacity for being awesome. To be generous with your invitations, your smiles, your encouragements, your hugs, your stories. To never forget that we can’t change anything, but we can influence everything. 

No pressure, but just so you know, I’m preparing myself to witness history. 

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Postcards

Next pitch ….

I have few vices. 

Where others might commission tattoos, I have … t-shirts. 

I fall in love with too many things and am way too scrawny to commit to tattoos. 

I can be pretty much summed up by and/or reduced to the Billy Collins’ poem, “Aimless Love.” 

“But my heart is always propped up in a field on its tripod, ready for the next arrow.” 

Much to the chagrin of my wife (and my closet), I find t-shirts inexhaustible objects for my affections. 

While shopping local a couple months ago, I stumbled upon the most wonderful creation, whose artist happened to choose a t-shirt for their canvas.

The above captures Forbes Field’s manual scoreboard the moment right before Bill Mazeroski cemented his baseball legacy on Oct. 13, 1960 — the second before his Game7-World-Series-winning home run off the Yankees’ Ralph Terry in the bottom of the ninth inning.  

For me it was love at first sight. 

So I was bummed when, the day after I ordered, I got an email from Wild Card in Lawrenceville, informing  me they were out of larges … and asking me if I’d be interested in a medium instead. 

But then I noticed a second email from Wild Card in my in-box. From the same person. Mentioning that if I wanted to try the medium, she’d send me a self-addressed return envelope in the slim (ha) chance it didn’t fit. 

Who does that? Wild Card in Lawrenceville does.

Turns out, the medium suited me as kindly as Ralph Terry’s high fastball did Maz. 

First time I wore it, I thought of a kindred spirit who would appreciate it. 

Texted a pic of my proud torso to my friend Jeff. 

His reply reeked of pure Pittsburgh serendipity.

Get this: turns out I actually know the person who designed the shirt.  

Not only that, it was Jeff who introduced us a few years ago.

How’s that for a confluence? 

Jeff shot me the number of his good friend, Nick, who I texted immediately, informing him of the wellspring of exponential Pittsburgh joy presently emanating from my torso. 

“Ha … I think that’s my favorite, too,” Nick replied all the way from LA, where he now lives with his acclaimed-author-and-TV-writing- wife and family.

He summed up the inspiration for the design so perfectly and profoundly. 

“Next pitch changes everything.” 

Wow. 

__

I’ve been walking around with Nick’s words in my pocket ever since our serendipitous exchange. 

They keep grabbing me by my collar and shaking me awake. 

We are all always only a pitch away from everything changing. 

For the better … if you happened to be wearin’ black and gold on Oct. 13, 1960. 

Or for worse, if you were wearin’ pinstripes.

Our existence is nothing but precious and fragile. 

Yet always pregnant with possibility. 

Which makes the choice of putting good into the world — even in something as temporal as a t-shirt — a sacred act.

As sacred as any kindness requiring intention … a self-addressed return envelope just in case, as an example. 

If it wasn’t for the kind gesture of the person at Wild Card, I may not have ordered the shirt, and wouldn’t have thought of Jeff, wouldn’t have learned that I knew the designer, would never have sent Nick my gratitude, and would have gone a lifetime missing out on the golden wisdom he drew from Mazeroski’s heroic act. 

Our tiniest gestures can be oxygen for campfires … that remind us that we’re connected in ways we can’t even imagine.  

Next pitch changes everything.

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Postcards

Baptizing Summer …

The coffee shop didn’t have ice cream

and the ice cream shop didn’t have espresso 

but I … I had been dreaming 

so ordered a single scoop to go from Custard’s Last Stand 

carried it reverently ‘cross the street to the Ventnor Cafe,

where I asked for a double espresso 

and the young sun-kissed tattooed girl smiling summer 

wise beyond her years behind the counter 

picked up what I put down, and picked out 

the biggest mug they had 

transplanted my single scoop 

then poured me a double shot 

and paused — gloriously paused — 

to ask if I wanted to do the honors 

and for a few … good …  seconds 

I savored my not answering

because was it even or ever a question?

So she turned over my elements, 

big bowl, tiny pitcher 

and at my table, 

I slow poured over the ice cream

watching the espresso pool creamy at the bottom

rising lazy like lapping Jersey tides up the sides

just like me 

on a late Saturday morning …

baptizing Summer

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Postcards

Paying. Forward ….

Friday morning I took my car in for scheduled maintenance.

“You gonna wait?” check-in-guy asked me. Said there was only one car in front of me. Shouldn’t be that long. 

Found myself a quiet nook at the dealership. Grabbed a coffee from the machine. Hopped on their wifi, started into my work day.

About 15 minutes later, check-in guy rolls up. 

He: We can’t open your hood.

Me:  I’m sorry … what? 

He: Yeah … problem with the latch release. Hood won’t pop. 

Me: I put in washer fluid a week ago. Worked just fine.

He: Yeah, there’s no tension in the cable. Nothing happens when you pull the release. So we gotta diagnosis it. It’ll take about an hour … so it’ll be an additional $160 (on top of the maintenance costs I’d already signed up for.). 

Me: I’m sorry … for what? 

He: To diagnosis what’s wrong.

Me: I thought you said the hood won’t open. 

He: Yeah. 

Me: Isn’t that what’s wrong? (coffee was still kickin’ in)

He: Yeah, but we have to diagnose what’s causing it.

Figuring it’s hard to do maintenance without, you know, opening the hood, I was like … whatever.  

My residual head-shaking was only starting to ebb, when check-in guy rolls up again.

Holding papers. 

He: Yeah, so the latch release cable needs replaced. We have to order the part. Also … it’s hard to get to, and there’s a chance, worst case, that we’ll have to bust the grill to get access to open the hood. So, worst-case, we’d have to replace the grill and the badge, too. 

Proceeds to show me the ‘best’ case … pointing to a really large dollar amount on the paper. 

“And here’s the worst case,” he says … pointing to another really large number for the ‘grill-busting special,’ which would be in addition to the first large number, which is on top of the $160.

So they can do the scheduled maintenance, which will have to be rescheduled. 

Metaphorically, it’d be like going to the dentist for a cleaning, only for them to inform you, “First … we’re going to have to punch you really hard in the face, which may cost you your front teeth, which we would, of course, then have to replace. None of which can happen today … so you’re going to have to leave and come back on Face-Punching Wednesday. After which, you know, the cleaning.”

In literal terms, while still waiting for the dealership coffee to take effect, I learn that it might cost me north of a thousand dollars to open my hood. 

Lemme just say … it’s one of those things that’s hard to say ‘Yes’ to in the moment.

I gave myself a few seconds to let the absurdity of it dig its toes into the sand before externalizing a response … which manifested in me laughing out loud. 

Not at the hood. 

At the week. 

I was only a day removed from having a plumber out to snake the downstairs drain under the driveway out into the backyard … which failed to address the smell coming from our shower. Only a couple hours removed from making arrangements for him to come back next week with “The Thing,” which will cost insert large sum here. 

Only two days removed from the knob on our old dryer going kaput … so now, the dryer just runs constantly … so we have to unplug it between loads. 

And four days removed from ordering a new air conditioner, the cost of which we deliberated long and hard about before deciding to pull the trigger before May decides to summer. 

All of which to say … my laugh had a running start as check-in guy waited patiently for me to take his pen.

I mean … nice work, universe. 

I told check-in guy I’d call him next week … which would gift me the weekend to temporarily indulge one of my favorite past times … ignoring problems hoping they go away. 

___

I woke up Saturday morning still shaking my head at the week’s accumulations … when I gathered my things and headed uptown to the tiny coffee shop where I like to write my weekend medicine.

While waiting in a short line, I remembered another bill I was overdue in repaying.  

Couple weeks ago I invited a friend out to a storytelling event in the city. We hadn’t seen each other in I don’t know how many years. Used to work together. We’d gotten back in touch earlier this year, trading texts and even chatting on the phone. For some reason I’d thought of him that morning so shot him a text asking if he’d be interested in joining me, and was thrilled when he said yes. My son was working in the city that day, so I invited him as well. 

It turned out to be a wonderful evening.

When we arrived, I tossed my name in the hat, from which they would select the evening’s eight storytellers. I’d never done that before. I won’t call it an act of bravery because I did it as quickly as possible so the voice in my head didn’t have time to weigh in. I figured my odds were low, anyway, as the house was packed.

The evening’s first three storytellers could not have been more different in tone and topic, which is what makes such events invariably magical. When the host reached into the hat for the fourth storyteller, I heard my name called. I was so lost in enjoying the company, and leaning into my chair at the other storytellers, it jarred me. And in the few seconds it took to stand up and walk through the full house to the side of the stage, my anxiety went from zero to 60. But, I stepped out … and told a story that I was aching to tell … to the most gracious audience you could imagine.

At the end of our wonderful night, my friend insisted on picking up the tab for our sandwiches, despite Peter and my protestations. 

I promised to him I’d pay his kindness forward.  

Which I remembered just as I was about to order Cortado #1. 

“Big plate, tiny cup?” Sydney the barista asked … which cracked open my weekend’s first smile like a fresh breakfast egg. 

For context … some lost Saturday ago, I’d asked for a saucer to put under a really full cortado she’d made. She went in the back, returned a few seconds later, holding a regular plate. “This is all we have,” she said. 

“Oh, that’s perfect,” I said, as I slid the ridiculously large ‘saucer’ under the tiny cup. As I did I noticed that the plate had a few chips out of it … which made it even more perfect. 

“My life very much needs a generous splash radius.”

I remember telling her before I left that day that I may just insist on the big plate moving forward. 

Now, I don’t even have to ask. 

Big plate, tiny cup. 

Every time Sydney sets it in front of me, it makes me think of all the humans and things in this world that catch the mess of me and crowd surf me through my days. 

Like my friend Jason who met us in the city and insisted on buying beers and sandwiches. 

So after I ordered, I asked Sydney if she could do a pay-it-forward, mentioning my friend Jason by name.

Of course, she said. 

After which I sat down, tuned my earbuds to my favorite jazz station (KCSM, which streams from the college of San Mateo, CA), scribbled my weekly postcard to my daughter, and cracked open my old laptop to sift the week for its treasure. 

I lost myself in the above like I sometimes do, so a good couple hours passed before I returned to the counter for Cortado #2, which must be referred to by its given name — “Portal to Invincibility.” 

Sydney’s co-worker took my order. 

I pulled out my card to tap my payment. 

She waved me off. 

“It’s already paid for,” she said. 

I looked at her quizzically. 

“Someone paid for your order,” she explained. 

Took me a second before the morning’s second smile broke across my face.

“It was him,” Sydney said, coming up beside her colleague to explain, before turning to me. “People have been keeping it going.”

“Really?” I asked.

The coffee shop had filled and turned over a good coupla times in between my first and second order.

And in full disclosure … I hadn’t put all that much on the counter. 

Humble pebbles on the scale, compared to all I owe.

But after a week of major appliance failures, stanky clogs, and a stubborn hood refusing to open — the numbers from which have yet to stop spinning — it wobbled me.

I mean, just the tender reminder that our kindness comes back to us.

The reminder that, even when all the evidence suggests otherwise, the world is still capable of surprising us.

Sometimes it just needs a nudge.

Like us.

I mean … nice work, universe.

I took a couple seconds to let all that sink in.

To give my response a running start.

I set the record straight … that my friend Jason started it, not me.

“Keep it going,” I said, tapping my card. 

Sydney returned a minute later.

Put it down in front of me. 

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Excursions

Sit, stay ….

Went for a walk over lunch the other day in the industrial park near our office. 

Note to self — take more walks over lunch. 

Figured I’d go 15 minutes out and double-back. 

I followed the concrete sidewalk as far as the giant fenced cell tower behind one of the Mitsubishi buildings. 

In the 20 years I’ve worked here, I’ve never gone farther than the big tower.

Was about to turn around … just as a person happened to be coming the other way, earbuds in.

“Excuse me,” I said. 

Asked him where the rest of the trail goes.

“If you keep going straight through the woods, it comes to a park.”

Said he believed there might be a left and a right, too, but he’d never done those. 

His response made me curious enough to break my routine and keep going.

Two minutes later I found myself under a fairy-tale-worthy canopy of trees … when I happened upon this.

 

The plastic bag’s what got me to stop. 

And smile autonomically. 

I can’t remember if I actually said, “Awww,” or … just felt it.

My heart immediately filled thinking of the tender deliberateness of whoever thought to take the photo.

And get it printed so small … at the perfect size to invite a closer look.

Then framed. 

And come back … to give the world passing by … a reason to stop … and autonomically smile.

I wondered at what point the thoughtfulness occurred to put it in a plastic bag … to give it a chance against the elements.

Wondered if they brought the pup when they placed it.

Wondered if they said anything.

I wondered if they knew how much it might mean to a stranger out for a walk over lunch … to be reminded that such gentle souls exist in this world. 

I just stood there for a few minutes … and danced with a million questions I will never know the answer to.

If the photographer knew Kyle. 

Family maybe? 

Kyle’s dog? 

They go for walks here? 

Or maybe it was a stranger who just noticed the bench and thought Kyle’s memory might want some company.

Considering the possibility that there might be such people in the world was enough for me.

Faith, hope and love … all wrapped up in a tiny plastic bag left loose on a bench.  

I wished on the spot for it to remain there forever. 

Though I knew it was just as likely that it might be gone by my next walk.

I’ll let you know.

Just in case … I wanted to wrap it all up … to protect it from the elements … and leave it here for you to stumble upon and smile … and wonder while the world passes.

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Postcards

A mad dash of humanity ….

Met a friend for lunch Tuesday while attending a conference in Austin.

He kindly let me check my roller bag to his room at the conference hotel so I wouldn’t have to schlep it.

After lunch I had a couple work calls. Last one finished up right before I had to leave for the airport.

Perfect timing. 

Called an Uber.

Traffic to the airport was starting to choke a bit, but I’d left myself plenty of time.

Thirty minutes into my ride, just as we were pulling into the exit for Departing Flights, I got the sickest feeling in my the pit of my stomach …

… accompanied by the biggest Oh Shit moment.   

Sheepishly I asked the driver, “Um, excuse me … Did I put a bag in the trunk?”

He eyed me quizzically in the rear view mirror.

Shook his head no.

“No bag,” he said.

I forgot to retrieve my checked bag before leaving for the airport.

Yep, I did that.

As an onset of panic claimed my extremities, I asked the driver if he could return me to the hotel. 

Shook his head no again. 

He’d already accepted another fare. 

I didn’t have time to ride back and get my luggage myself, anyway.

So he dropped my bagless ass off at the curb. 

I thought for a second.

Looked up the hotel. 

Realized that, not only had I not stayed at the hotel, the bag was in my friend’s name, not mine. 

Got bounced around until they connected me to the service manager, Clarissa.

I explained my situation, trying to sound as un-sketchy as possible while completely freaking the eff out.  

She thought for a second, before suggesting I try calling another Uber to the hotel to ‘just’ pick up my bag and bring it to me at the airport.

“Can you do that?” I asked.

Through the phone I could almost hear her shrugging her shoulders in “Uh … beats me?” uncertainty.

So I hung up and tried calling an Uber to the hotel to pick up my bag.

The app asked me to double confirm myself as the passenger, since it could tell my phone was, um, already at the airport.

I lied and confirmed that the ride was indeed for me, since there wasn’t an option for “You’re not going to believe how large of an idiot I am.” 

Surprisingly. 

I immediately called Clarissa back to give her the name of my driver (Daimir), his make and model (black Chevy Traverse) and his arrival time (5 minutes). 

“Ooh. Let me run to the front desk to get your bag. Then I’ll take it down to valet and explain the situation to them,” she said, suggesting I also give the driver a heads up on what to expect … before he arrived.

In the app I could see Daimir’s progress to the hotel.

I waited until he got close-ish (out of fear my unusual request might make his skittish) before I messaged him (Daimir prefers messages, according to the app) to let him know he’ll be scooping up just, you know, a bag.

I hit send and prayed.

Watched the dancing dots … indicating he was messaging me back.

Held my breath.

“I got you,” he said.

Exhale.

My flight was scheduled to leave at 5:50 p.m.

It was on-time.

Of course it was.

Made me shake my head since all three of the family’s Sunday flights from Orlando (me to Austin, Karry & Peter to Pittsburgh and Emma back to Philly) got totally hosed. Em’s got canceled and re-booked for the next morning, while the rest of us arrived hours after we were supposed to. 

Meanwhile, Tuesday’s flight? 

Runnin’ like goddamn clockwork.

When I ordered the Uber, it showed an arrival time of 5:12 p.m. … which felt like just enough time for get through security and find my gate.

Then Daimir’s arrival time started dancing.

Rush hour.

Holding my fate in my hands, I watched helplessly as time began to slip. 

5:17.

5:21. 

5:27. 

5:30.

It, along with the pit in my stomach, bottommed out at 5:32 … when I walked over to the Southwest Help Desk near baggage claim.  

Explained my situation … asked when the doors close on a 5:50 p.m. flight.

First person said, “15 minutes before.”

My heart sank. 

But then she said, “Let me double-check with the boss,” and turned to the person at the next kiosk. 

“Doors close 10 minutes before departure.” 

First person did the math for me. 

“So, 5:40 …,” she said, and then, smiling, added … “So you’re saying there’s a chance.” 

Cracked herself up with that one. 

I refreshed the app … Daimir’s arrival hovered at 5:31 p.m. … which would give me 9 minutes to make it through the security and find my gate. 

I messaged Daimir with my flight info, said I’d be waiting at the curb. “Too much excitement! (ha),” I texted. 

“I got you,” he reaffirmed. 

I hiked over to the TSA Pre-Check entrance, asked the agent where Gate 12 was in relation to security.

“Other end of the terminal.”

Of course it was.

I can’t begin to describe how excruciating it was to watch my fragile fate fluctuate while stress-watching Daimir’s real-time progress.

He was still 15 minutes out when I knew I had to occupy my mind somehow. 

Cracked open the New York Times on my phone … randomly scrolled to an interview .. discussing the premise that over the past few decades, social media has exacerbated the erosion in society, particularly among youth, of anything approaching a shared moral order.

At one point in the interview … the subject said that, while imperfect, systems like religion provide value in the form of a shared moral order or system. 

The absence of such shared systems, the interviewee said, can result in an untethered, individualistic, self-oriented society, which can then become a breeding ground for fear, anxiety and aloneness. 

It was an INTOITW moment for me. (“I never thought of it that way.”)

Fearful, anxious and alone, I clicked out of the article before I got to the end of the interview. Candidly, I was afraid to learn of the expert’s predictions for our future  … since me and my bag’s prospects of making it home were being held together by the frayed tether of a shared moral order. 

I checked Daimir’s progress … saw he’d messaged me.

He asked me to provide a specific landmark so he could bullseye my precise location.

Thoughtful, I thought. 

I snapped a pic of the overhead sign I’d be standing under, said to look for the skinny guy in glasses wearing a black, short-sleeved t-shirt hopping up and down trying in vain to hold his shit together. 

“Got it,” he replied. 

“Doing the best I can,” he added. “Traffic is so bad! [ha]”

The [ha] meant everything.

For the record, my world is duct-taped together by such tiny gestures of humanity.

His arrival time ebbed back a bit to 5:27.

“Go Daimir!” I rooted in my head.

When his arrival dwindled under a minute, I looked up from my phone … and started scouting the glut of arriving cars dropping off.  

When I caught sight of a black Chevy Traverse, I initiated pretty much the dictionary definition of “gesticulating.” 

When the car got close enough for me to register the windshield, I could see Daimir already waving recognition to me. 

At precisely 5:27 … he eased the Traverse to the curb, hopped out the driver’s seat and met me at the back so he could lift my bag out for me.

“Daimir, I would give you the biggest hug right now … but I gotta run.”

“I got you,” he smiled back.

Dashed inside with my roller to the pre-check line. Asked a couple nice ladies if they minded if I went ahead of them, gave them the short version of my circumstance.

After throwing my bags on the belt, I turned and asked their names.

“Tessa.”

“Cara.”

I repeated their names back to them … thanked them for being awesome and promised I would pay their kindness forward.

After passing through the security arch, I looked back to see the TSA agent responsible for scanning just as he began eyeballing my bags. 

Dude was thorough.

A genuine credit to his profession, I tell ya. 

He screen was angled such that I could see what he was seeing. He paused the belt for both my roller and my backpack.

Kept switching between the views … 

Up.

Down.

From the side.

The other side.

Zoomed in.

Back out.

Back in again.  

Doing the phuck out of his job … while I’m on the verge of an embolism.

5:31 tumbled to 5:32.

I start jumping up and down … a by-product of volcanic stress and the practical desire to stretch out my legs for my forthcoming roller bag 400 meter sprint. 

When I realized I was suddenly Jumpy Guy Going Through Security.

Not a good look.

Fortunately, screening guy was so locked in on his monitor to not even register my hyperventilating calisthenics, eventually bestowing his blessing upon my bags, which I snatched from the belt like Olympic relay batons before breaking into my first airport sprint … in decades.  

I was reminded that Austin’s Southwest terminal is really well-designed. 

Super traveler-friendly. 

Lots of hospitality and retail acreage between gates. 

Art installations, too … such as the “Interimaginary Departures Gate,” sandwiched right after Gate 14.

It’s meant to provide a smile and a moment of whimsy to anxious travelers … where you can actually print a ticket to destinations like “Narnia,” among 120 fictional locations … while overhead, a speaker announces imminent departures to Hogwarts and Terabithia and the like. 

It’s genuinely wonderful. 

I’ve cited it often in my work as an exquisite example of context-aware, extraordinary experience design.

And I grenade launched at least a dozen eff bombs at it while cursing it to the depth of Hades for adding an extra 20 meters or so to my mad dash. 

[ha]

I was on fumes and audibly wheezing by the time I caught a glimpse of Gate 12 in front of me. 

Saw passengers still in line. 

Exhaled for the first time since I received Damir’s confirming message. 

Looked down at my phone. 

5:39. 

Found my place and politely wedged myself in, Sweaty-Middle-Aged-Guy-Heavily-Panting-style.

After beeping my ticket, I cracked open the app. 

Gave Daimir 5 Stars. 

And a tip befitting a life saver. 

Called Clarissa back to let her know I made it and to thank her for being awesome. 

“I’m so glad you called,” she said. “I was wondering. I’m so glad you made it!”

I promised to pay her kindness forward, too. 

Which I had the great honor of doing this morning.

As I did so … I made a point to mention them all by name.

Clarissa. 

Daimir. 

Tess and Cara. 

My friend Tim for letting me check my bag in his name. 

I even mentioned thorough TSA screening guy, too. 

For taking his job so seriously.

For doing his best to keep us all safe.

I pray blessings upon them all … and everyone who might read this. 

For crowd surfing me home on the soft shoulders of their kindness. 

A tiny but mighty shared moral order.

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Postcards

Eternal light …

Waking up, thinking of saints this Sunday morning. 

Yesterday, Karry mentioned in passing that it would have been her Mom’s 90th birthday. 

I confessed that over the past couple of days I found myself registering the month and days, sifting my brain as if there was a birthday I should be remembering, but coming up empty.

Betty passed way too early, at 71, from colon cancer. Can’t believe it’s been 19 years. Peter and Emma were so young.

There’s a photo we keep on the mantle in the dining room. 

I can’t remember the exact circumstances, but I think it was the first time we visited her house after her passing.

I just remember it was a photo that demanded to be taken. 

On the day I remember entering the house through the garage door (as we almost always did)  … taking the stairs up to the main floor … and coming to the top of the steps. 

Instinctively looking left. 

When Peter was young and we’d visit, Gram would always leave a present for Peter in the window in the dining room. 

Usually a little Matchbox car or truck. 

Once loosed from the car, he’d tear up the steps, expectant … look left and make a beeline to the window to see what treasure she had left him. 

She never forgot. He never even had to ask. Even when we’d show up unannounced, there was always something waiting for him in the window.

I always thought that the ritual of that was just the most perfect summing up of Karry’s mom. 

While I hid my enthusiasms better than Peter, I always came up those steps, expectant, too. 

You knew there would always be a simple kindness waiting for you. 

A sweet tea. 

An egg sandwich. 

Something from the garden. 

And, if it was Sunday, a feast for the ages. 

Oh, how she threw down on Sundays. 

On the day we visited after her passing, I remember looking left and seeing the window sill empty.

But instead of feeling the emptiness of that, I registered the sight of the sun’s morning rays blasting through the window, bathing the sill in the most wonderful light.

As if the heavens were conferring their eternal special blessing on that tender, sacred space.

It struck me in the moment, as it still does these 19 years later, as the perfect embodiment of Betty’s love and kindness. 

The promise of a present always waiting in the window.

Betty’s eternal light.  

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The Girls

All I Want …

The scene outside my window where I’m writing this. 

They visit every morning on their walk from the cemetery to the woods. 

It’s 10 degrees outside.

They’re hungry. 

But they’re not alone.

They stay together.

They’re giving each other baths right now.

It’s just the loveliest thing.

How they know to take care of each other. 

Sometimes I think they visit just to remind us how to be human.

Always makes me think of Joni Mitchell singing, “I want to shampoo you.”

Just right after, “All I really want our love to do is to bring out the best in me and you too.” 

From the view outside my window, it doesn’t seem like too much to ask for in this world. 

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