Tag Archives: kindness

Postcards, saturdays

Arriving ….

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

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

Actually, two things. 

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

Secondly, for the gift of the arriving. 

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

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

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

I fall in love at the Ruff Creek exit.  

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

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

Cue angel chorus. 

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

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

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

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

The loveliest little moment of aliveness. 

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

Something I’ve missed. 

__

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

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

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

Me: “Yes!”

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

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

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

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

Older married couple out for Saturday breakfast. 

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

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

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

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

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

They were adorable.

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

They talked the whole time. 

Genuine conversation. 

Asked questions of the other. 

Not a phone in sight. 

Made each other laugh on more than one occasion. 

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

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

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

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

Asking questions of the other. 

Making each other laugh on more than one occasion.

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

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

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

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

They chatted while they took the time she needed. 

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

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

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

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

I melted in place. 

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

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

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

I hi-fived him in my head. 

That was Dad’s favorite, too.

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

The loveliest little moment of aliveness. 

Cue angel chorus.

Standard
Postcards, Righteous riffs

Blanket Drop …

Re-watched all of my favorite holiday movies this season. 

Except one. 

A Charlie Brown Christmas, which we never got around to. 

Destination TV when the kids were younger, though.

I mean, Linus droppin’ the mic at the end? 

Puts a lump in my throat every time. 

It was only this year that I was made aware of something I’d never noticed in all my previous watchings. 

He drops the blanket, too.

In the climactic “Light’s, please” scene, right before he says, “Fear not …” Linus drops his blanket. 

All those years I watched it, I never noticed it. 

When a friend mentioned it to me, I got chills.

A sermon hidden in plain sight. 

Looked it up online. 

Yep. 

Apparently, the Internet’s known about this for some time. 

I asked my family if they were aware.

Nope.

Once I became aware, though, I couldn’t stop geeking out about it, asking friends. Sharing with those, who like me, were uninitiated. 

Immediately thought of my high school buddy, Bob, an animator, who grew up a connoisseur of comics and cartoons. 

I shot him a note … said I assumed he knew about this, but I couldn’t risk him not knowing. 

He, of course, knew about the scene.

Shared the wisest reply. 

“I did know about the dropped blanket thing, but I never really attached any significance to it. 

“I always looked at it from an animation perspective, where I think Linus does a lot of arm gesturing during that scene and instead of animating a blanket moving around wildly with his arms, they just had him drop it and then pick it up again when he was done talking. I think the reason I thought that was because when Charlie Brown is talking to him right before Linus goes off, Charlie Brown drops his coat right before talking with his hands. Again, I assumed that was for animation purposes.”

Brilliant insight, which Bob’s always been good for. 

At first his reply hit me like a splash of cold water. 

“A Charlie Brown Christmas.” (Peanuts Worldwide)

So … a practical animation choice. 

No sermon intended.

Nothing to see here.

Hmm. 

But just because Charles Schulz may have been more interested in easing his animating burden doesn’t mean there’s not a sermon to be found. 

Just because something isn’t true, or as intended, doesn’t mean it can’t be meaningful. 

Otherwise myths wouldn’t exist. 

Or religions, some might say.

We live in a world that would rather know how the trick is done than believe in magic. 

Not me. 

I’d rather be (open to being) awed.

I’ve learned to keep my antenna up for magic and meaning … even where it’s not supposed to exist.

Who says a perfect sermon can’t be found in a practical choice?  

Even Bob in his wisdom agrees. 

“But I guess in the big picture, it’s a much better story and makes more sense to say that Linus didn’t need security during that moment.”

We can let the blanket drop … without letting it get wet.

__

Sitting in my usual seat at my favorite coffee shop where I’m typing this, I watched an older woman, bundled head to toe for the cold, walk in to warm herself for a few minutes before catching her Saturday morning bus. 

As she was trudging back to the door with 12 warm ounces in her hand, already bracing for the cold on the other side, a familiar downtown face came in, and seeing her, stepped to the side, and with his right arm, backhanded the door open for her. 

Not the biggest fellow, he had to bend over a bit to muster the strength to brace the door open with just his one arm. 

But from where I sat, his forced hunch read as a bow, imbuing his humble act with an added reverence.  

Allowing the older woman catching her bus to pass through the door regal as a queen, nobly enrobed in her winter coat, her toboggan pulled tight like a crown.

She nodded thanks to him as she exited. 

As if to a loyal subject. 

It was a scene that neither would likely think of ever again. 

She, a bus to catch. 

He, cold hands to warm at the fireplace. 

Me, a lump in my throat for the gift of bearing witness.

It was a scene I’m likely never to forget. 

His bow. Her nod. 

A sermon hidden in plain sight.

A sweet and simple reminder to be kind where we can to those we encounter along the way.

To humble ourselves to allow the strangers we meet to walk in dignity in an otherwise cold world. 

If he’d have been holding a blanket in his right hand, he might have made the practical choice to drop it, too.

Lights, please.

Standard
Postcards

Grace

Last time I was here, I asked for a saucer 

for my morning cup 

you know, in case I spil

l. 

They were out, so the person behind the counter

put a

BIG PLATE

under my

tiny cup, 

Which made me fall in love 

with the world 

all over again 

for a moment 

it was so perfect. 

My life needs 

a generous splash radius. 

Now every time I come in 

I ask for a large plate. 

The one they gave me today 

had a couple chips, 

which made it even more perfect. 

I told the person behind the counter 

that in my head, I was imagining a plate

 so

LARGE

I could sit on top of it while sipping from my

tiny cup. 

To catch every last

drop

of 

my 

mess love.

Standard
Postcards

Going through the heart again …

Last week a co-worker came down with the flu. She’s been with us almost a couple years now. Was a middle school teacher before that. 

She was out only one day when she messaged us to let us know that her husband had tested positive for the flu, too. 

As did their one-year-old. 

All three of ‘em, down for the count right before the holidays.  

Found myself thinking about them on my long Wednesday commute, when a warm memory popped into my head (I find that sometimes my memories eavesdrop on my thoughts). 

From kindergarten through third grade, I went to Areford Elementary. It was a neighborhood school (which were more common back then), just a few blocks from my house. We all got to walk to school. 

For second-grade I had the most awesome teacher, Mrs. Schifbauer. 

Mention her name to my kids, and they will roll their eyes and say, “The bee’s knees.” 

Which is what I always say when I mention Mrs. Schifbauer. 

Seriously, to my second grade self, she was the bee’s knees.

I remember she had the most beautiful handwriting. 

To this day I can still conjure both the image and sounds of her writing our spelling words on the chalk board (with the good teacher’s chalk). It was all so mesmerizing to me. She’d write all the numbers on the board first. Oh, the way she’d swoop her 2s. (swoon). When she’d get to double digits, she’d start putting periods after the numbers. I would so look forward to the percussive punctuation of her chalk stabbing periods on the board. Twelve was my favorite … you’d get a swoop with a stab chaser (ha). 

It’s funny, the things we remember.   

After second grade they switched some of the teacher assignments, so I got to have Mrs. Schifbauer for third grade, too. It was like winning the teacher lottery. 

The specific memory that visited me on my commute was the time in third grade when my friend Jerry got really sick and had to miss school.  I remember it was wintertime. I don’t remember the specific circumstances of Jerry’s illness, just that he missed a bunch of days in a row.

And that Mrs. Schifbauer did the most remarkable thing.

She had our entire class grab our winter coats, and proceeded to shepherd us outside. Along with Mrs. Fisher (the other third grade teacher), she walked us down Eggleston Street, where we made the left onto 7th, and then the right onto Connor, where Jerry lived. Had one of us climb the steps onto Jerry’s big porch and knock on the front door. I remember Mrs. Rehanek (who, for the record, made the most awesome cherry floats in the history of the universe) coming to the door, seeing us all, and then ducking back in to summon Jerry. 

I don’t remember specifically what happened from there … if Mrs. Schifbauer said anything, or had us say or do anything.  I only remember that she just wanted Jerry to know how much we all missed him … and that we couldn’t wait for him to feel well enough to come back to school. 

If it wasn’t for a vague remembrance I have of a photo that Mrs. Rehanek took from the porch that day … I’m not sure I would even trust my memory. 

I mean, can you imagine such a thing happening today? 

__

Recently, I learned that the Italian verb “to remember” is ricordare, (similar to the Spanish recordar). The etymology is Latin — Re meaning ‘to go backwards,’ and cordis meaning ‘heart.’ 

Or put another way … ‘to go through the heart again.’ 

Isn’t that just the loveliest thing? 

Why am I telling you this? 

Because when the memory of Mrs. Schifbauer and her kindness went through my heart again on my Wednesday commute … I actually imagined such a thing happening today.

And thought of a couple teachers who might also appreciate such imagining. 

One of ’em … Jerry.

Who I haven’t seen or talked to in maybe 30 years. He’s a teacher in Maryland these days. 

I messaged him and asked him to fact-check my remembering. 

He hit me back almost immediately. 

Yep. 

Matter of fact … 

“I think I have a photo somewhere. I can text it to you if you wanna see the pic.” 

__

Went out for lunch Wednesday. It was a good day for soup, so I chose a deli not far from work, where they make it from scratch. 

On a whim, on my way out I asked the person behind the counter if their to go soups come hot or cold. 

Both, he said. 

Ordered a cold quart of chicken noodle to go. 

For a certain former teacher I know. 

Who’s been home from work with the flu all week with her husband and baby boy. 

__

Found myself driving to her house after work. 

Pulled outside.

Put on my winter coat.

Marched up the steps. 

And though I was by myself, I wasn’t alone. 

Jamie was there. Tonya and Tracy, too. Ricky and Danny. Scott poking his head between Jodi and Gretchen. Amy, Joy and Susan. Blaine and his kind smile way in the back.

All of us.

And a smiling Mrs. Schifbauer standing next to Mrs. Fisher. 

The bees knees I’m tellin’ ya.  

I didn’t ring the bell, though. 

Just left the soup. 

Along with a note recounting all of the above.

Shot Sydney a text as I was driving way, letting her know I’d put something on her porch. 

And that we all missed her … and that we couldn’t wait for her to feel well enough to come back to the office. 

Told her it was from Mrs. Schifbauer’s third grade class. 

Standard
Letters for Maggie

Free Refills ….

Wednesday, Nov. 6, 2024 6:28 a.m. 

Got up yesterday morning feeling … untethered. Outside, the sun was coming up on an unseasonably warm November day. The kind of sunshine we almost don’t deserve. I was feeling the heaviness of everything.

All the noise would soon be coming to its unnatural conclusion. I’d just poured my ritual 10 Tuesday ounces into my Thermos, but my cup still felt empty. 

So I got in my car and drove towards the small coffee shop on North Main Street. The one where I like to write my daughter postcards on Saturdays. It’s quiet. One room. Handful of tables, small counter on which is perched a little clear case with baked goodies made by Nicole, one of the kind staff there. Reliably chill playlist. 

I didn’t need a coffee. Just some humanity.

So, halfway up Main Street, I peeled off into the drive through at the bank. Got some cash from the machine. Humble pebbles for the scale, I told myself. 

Got to the coffee shop right as it opened at 8. Parked across the street, and followed a woman in the front door. She was friends with the barrista on duty, and they dove right into easy conversation. Denise, the barrista, paused their conversation to wait on me. I ordered my cortado, paying with my Darth Vadar credit card. Added a small tip. 

After placing my order, I asked Denise if they still did Pay It Forward. She nodded. I handed over what I’d withdrawn from the machine. 

She thanked me, and I took a seat by the counter while she prepared my to go order. 

When in walked a middle aged man in a ballcap. Kinda scruffy. Came in chatty. 

Asked Denise, “What’s the strongest coffee you have?” He went on to say that he’d been nine years sober, mentioning the exact number of months and days for good measure. “So coffee’s a very important thing in my life.” 

After Denise informed him of the dark roast of the day, he asked what sizes they had. 

“How much is in a large?” he asked. Twenty ounces, she replied.

He asked her how much refills were. They’re free, Denise said. 

From my chair I apprehended that maybe he didn’t have much on him. Probably didn’t have anywhere in particular to be. Interested in how far and for how long his dollars might stretch.

The stories we tell ourselves about the world around us. 

He ordered his 20 ounces, asked her what he owed. 

She told him not to worry about it. 

“I’m sorry?” he said. 

I tensed up a bit. I didn’t want to be around to watch anything. 

I just came in to put a few pebbles on the scale and be on my way.

“It’s taken care of,” was all she said. 

I exhaled.  

“Wow,” he said. “Really? Um, thank you.” 

He paused a beat. 

“When I came in, I could tell that you had a really kind face.” 

I smiled from my chair, because I think I said those exact words to Denise the last time I was in. It occurred to me that was also the day I dropped off my mail-in ballot at the county’s voter registration office. 

I needed some humanity that day, too. Denise’s gesture unlocked his. 

“You know, I was always a big egomaniac. I hurt a lot of people with my ego. But one of the biggest things they teach you is humility.

“A big part of learning humility is that receiving kindness is just as important as giving kindness. It’s not easy … but I’ve learned how to receive kindness.”

He asked Denise her name so he could thank her by it. Gave his in return.

Strong coffee in hand, he started to make his way to a table. Then he paused.

What he did next … I will never forget.

He turned back to Denise. 

“Now I’m going to just have to find someone to pay your kindness forward,” he said. 

He sees me sitting in my chair. 

I met his gaze just in time to see his eyes alight.  

“Can I buy you a coffee?” he asked me. 

The best sermons are the ones you don’t see coming. 

I thanked him profusely for giving me what I woke up needing from the world. What I’d hoped to find driving up Main Street not needing a coffee.

The way it came out was, “Already got one on the way. But, next time I see you, maybe we can have one together.” 

He asked me my name. Gave his in return. 

“God bless you, Pete,” he said. 

“Backacha,” was all the lump in my throat would allow. 

Pebbles on the scale.

Denise parked my cortado on the counter. I got up from my chair and met her at the register. 

Exchanged fist bumps, and received the warmest smile from her kind face.  

The kind of sunshine we most certainly deserve.

There are saints all around us. Most are hidden in plain sight. Sometimes they don’t look like you or me. 

We need to humble ourselves to see them.

So we can receive their kindness. 

So that when our own cups are empty, we can be reminded that refills are free.

Standard
Postcards

Colophon: Saturday, April 22, 2023

Things that got me through the week, in no particular order, and mostly in spite of myself ….

Dialing up an episode of 99% Invisible, which turned out to be Roman Mars’ recent appearance on another podcast — Dear Hank and John, whose John is John Green, who I can say without an ounce of irony nor hyperbole I super love, whose Anthropocene Reviewed podcast was among the many, many, little, golden things that got me through the Pandemic, literally and persistently whispering into my ears on my walks and slow jogs that there is still yet much in this world to fall in love with.

Discovering that John and his brother, Hank, have done like 370 episodes of Dear Hank and John, whose premise is answering reader’s questions with dubious advice, which, for me, is the equivalent of that recurring dream I have where I’m in a house I’ve been living in for some time, and I go downstairs, where I discover (or am reminded, I’m not sure which) that there are many additional, large, unused rooms in it, and I’m like, whoa, more rooms … awesome.

Roman Mars’ laugh, when he is coaxed into a giggle, which, I swear, is one of the best sounds in the world.   

Noticing that hot coffee in the morning sometimes makes me sweat. Anyone else? Should I be concerned? 

Making time in the mornings, before diving into the day’s work pile, to step outside into the driveway and listen to the birds. Noticing one I’d never heard before, whose song is three notes, the second and third lower than the one before. Grateful that she decided to sit in with the band and take a few choruses.

The sound of the wood pecker off to the left in the woods behind our house, going to town on what sounds like a perfect piece of dead tree (which, I swear, is one of the best sounds in the world), probably the woodpecker equivalent of discovering the all-you-can-eat-peel-and-eat shrimp station on the buffet. 

Thinking of a friend whom I hadn’t corresponded with in a couple weeks, and taking a couple early Tuesday morning minutes to send a message in a bottle email, sharing something I thought he’d appreciate while confessing the week had the upper hand on me, and his reply, in essence, conveying, “I’m here for you.” The many lessons of the simple that. 

How, for some reason, the meaty sound of Mr. Woodpecker reminding me of exactly how it felt to barrel a Wilson Comet rubber-coated baseball (worth the $2 at Dice’s Sporting Goods) with my 28” wooden Adirondack bat that one time we played the long field (home plate near the swing sets) on the asphalt on Areford Playground during my 9-year-old summer, which went for a ground-rule double, the closest I ever got to a home run that summer. To this day, nothing like finding the sweet spot.

Receiving a letter in the mail Tuesday from my friend, Jim. Deciding on the spot to wait until Saturday to open it to give me something to look forward to, which I plan to do right after this.

Getting to the track Tuesday night right when a high school meet was letting out, and about 20 minutes before the Tuesday night youth program convenes, allowing me some quiet moments of lugging myself around the loop. Emma making the two of us breaded pork chops for dinner that night, upon which we drained our bottle of Red Hot dry. Both events could not have been more perfectly timed. 

Having new variations of my ongoing, recurring series of “unprepared” dreams, one of which involved what I think was a violent lobster that had gotten loose, and me grabbing ahold of it while it ‘bit’ (they don’t bite with their claws, I know, but ‘pinched’ doesn’t sound violent enough) me so hard and often my hands were pouring out blood, and (the next night) me wandering into a dream version of one of the newspapers I used to work for, and having one of the editors remind me of that evening’s shift (which I was not expecting or prepared for), and being unable to find the ‘second’ newsroom where my desk was, and also freaking out because I no longer remembered how to format stories or do layout. Grateful, I suppose, for the unambiguity of my dream life.

Trudging downstairs after getting outta bed every morning and finding Viktor (one of the cats who live in our house), sitting in the dark, ‘meditating’ (as I refer to it), patiently waiting until I sat down at my desk, so he could hop up for our morning conversations while shedding seemingly inexhaustible plumes of fur all over me and my desk, which I receive as my morning armor.

Giving Karry her hardest laugh of the week, when my son, who is on a mission to trade in his car for something, um, up-leveled, texts me his discovery that “the bank won’t finance cars more than 10 years old” … and me, waiting a beat before replying, “oh … we have something in common, then.” Being reminded that Karry’s laugh is the best sound in the world. 

 Sipping a single adult beverage with my wife and our oldest on an ‘almost there, not sure we’re gonna make it’ Thursday night while trying out a new-for-us pizza place. Spoiler alert: we made it. 

Upon discovering “Dear Hank and John,” discovering that John Green is also a prolific You Tuber, and stumbling upon this, which pretty much sums up all of the above, and is worth four, glorious, minutes of your precious time. There is still so very much in the world worth falling in love with. 

Whoa, more rooms … awesome.

Standard
Letters for Maggie

The Picture of Kindness ….

Got to chat with my oldest sister yesterday morning … something we’ve been making more time for on our Saturdays the past few months. We’re not religious about it, but it’s something I think we’ve both grown to appreciate a lot (I know I have). We catch up on each other’s worlds and weeks, compare notes on what we’re both reading or watching, recent updates on our other siblings, our occasional health dust-ups, our erratic sleep habits, etc. Yesterday she mentioned looking into a volunteer program (she’s done a ton of volunteering over the past several years) that visits with veterans, just to listen and chat, and, if they’re up for it, to have them share their stories. I told her she’d be perfect for that program. She’s a veteran herself, having joined the marines out of high school, which to this day makes me so proud and in awe of her. And she’s always had a heart for spending time with older people. This past week she visited with the mom of one of her oldest friends to help with eye drops for cataracts. As has become part of our conversational ritual, I had a smile on my face by the time we said our good byes and I Love Yous. 

I was running errands when she called me, and as we wrapped our conversation I pulled into a parking spot outside the tiny little coffee shop off North Main Street. I’ve been dropping in Saturday mornings for a here’s-to-the-weekend espresso, and the accompanying smile and kind word from whoever’s working behind the counter. When I walked in, an older gentleman with a Hemmingway beard was warming himself by the fire with a tall to-go cup of coffee. A shopping cart with his belongs sat next to him. After placing my order I sat down at the table across from where he was, taking the chair near the wall, putting the table and its other chair between us. 

He let me know I could move his cart if it was in my way. 

“Totally fine,” I said. 

“I refer to it as my portable RV,” he said, with a soft laugh. 

After a couple seconds, he added, “Sometimes in life it’s important to know how to improvise,” and, after a few more seconds, “One thing I’ve always believed is that you never stop learning, no matter how old you get.” 

For the record I am awkward and awful at small talk in all its forms, and generally avoid it at all costs. So much so that in my prior visits to the coffee shop I’ve carried a book with me to fill the few minutes it takes for the barista to make my to go order. Yet ….

Continue reading →
Standard