Tag Archives: life

Excursions

Time, an appreciation ….

“But if you really learn how to pay attention, then you will know there are other options. It will actually be within your power to experience a crowded, hot, slow, consumer-hell type situation as not only meaningful, but sacred, on fire with the same force that made the stars: love, fellowship, the mystical oneness of all things deep down. Not that that mystical stuff is necessarily true. The only thing that’s capital-T True is that you get to decide how you’re gonna try to see it.” — David Foster Wallace, “This is Water,” Commencement Speech to Kenyon College, 2005

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Walked into the post office yesterday morning carrying the hand-written card and extra copy of Dave Eggers’ “The Captain and the Glory” I was sending to a best-friend for his January birthday. After picking out and addressing a padded envelope, I went to take my place in line … just as a mom and her young son were walking in. 

The boy, maybe eight, was carrying a package at least half as tall as he was. Could barely peek over its top. Based on the way he was waddling, the contents had some heft. 

Carrying the lighter of our respective loads, I let ‘em go in front of me.

The post office people behind the counter were in the process of switching shifts — logging in and out and whatnot — so our patience was, um, appreciated.

Mom told the boy he could put the package down while they waited.

“I’m holding it,” he said, defiantly, standing on one leg for a sec so he could adjust his grip.

I smiled at such innocence.

Obviously, his first time waiting in line at the post office. 

Within a few seconds he was grunting.

Mom moved her suggestion from the interrogative to the imperative. 

He remained a stubborn helper. 

However, his strength timed out before the glacial logging in process. 

He put the box down. 

Looked around and noticed the floor-standing carousel of gift cards strategically placed near where the line begins. 

Asked Mom if he could have a dollar for a Roblox gift card. 

Upon which she proceeded to explain the business concept of disintermediation to her child. 

Told him it was ‘cheaper’ to just purchase credits from the site, rather than going through a middle man. 

She wasn’t merely patient. She was generous.

You could tell they spent a lot of time together for how easy their conversation was. 

Reminded me how much I enjoyed conversing with our kids when they were young. 

How much I learned from the way their minds worked. 

“Thank you for your patience, can I help the next customer?” 

The son cupped his hands back under the box. 

Hoisted. 

Waddled over to the counter and heaved it up there himself. 

“I see you brought your helper,” the freshly logged-in person behind the counter said to the mom. 

The boy answered for them both.

“She can’t lift with her one arm, so I have to carry things,” he said. 

He was brimming with “the happiness of being called upon,” as I heard it described once. 

Over the next couple minutes of the transaction, the adults left space for the boy’s participation, which he filled to overflowing.

He complemented the clerk on her gift cards, relaying how he wanted a dollar one, but his Mom said it was better to buy credits online.

“Have you ever gotten a gift card before?” the clerk asked, as she processed the postage for the box. 

“Yes,” he said. “Sometimes my Mom gets me one … when I do good things.”

I inferred from the small sample size I was witnessing that he had a few credits in the bank. 

Meanwhile, a line began to form behind me, headed by a white-haired, tightly-coated, tightly-lipped older woman. 

Who was out of both stamps and patience.

As the boy elucidated on his upcoming birthday and that one time he was late for football practice, the woman’s huffs under her breath were oddly comparable to the boy’s grunts under the box.

I made smiling ‘what-are-you-going-to-do?’ eye-contact with her a couple times to give her frustration a chance to froth over. 

She returned a couple huffy head shakes and an unsmiling eye roll. 

In these moments I like to remind myself that the exact same experience is experienced differently by the folks experiencing it. 

The reasons for a tightly-coated elder’s impatience can be just as valid as a Mom’s inexhaustible well. 

The post office can sure test both. 

Sandwiched in between — both me and time standing still — I saw life flash in front of me. 

And over my shoulder. 

Before me … a Mom doing her best to teach her boy how the world’s supposed to work, while protecting him from how it actually does with her one good arm.

Behind me …  the world’s grumpy restlessness to just get on with it.

“Thanks for your patience … Can I help the next person in line?”

I waited an extra second so I could watch the boy reach for his Mom’s hand as they left the counter.

What to the world looks like an eight-year-old’s obliviousness to time … the 55-year-old knows is, in fact, the keenest appreciation.

 

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Excursions

Dancing with Vonnegut ….

I’d just finished writing my last coffee shop letter of 2025 when I remembered we were out of envelopes at home. 

Opted for a surgical strike at Shop N’ Save, as I also needed shampoo (ran out a couple days ago) and ginger beer (just in case New Year’s Eve called for Moscow Mules). It’s right down the road from the coffee shop, saving me a trip to Wal-Mart or Target, which I try to avoid at all costs. 

The lot was pretty full with folks picking up New Year’s provisions. 

Walking in to the vestibule with the shopping carts, I saw the gentleman from the Salvation Army tucked in the corner keeping his kettle. Delighted me to see he had his banjo with him. I see him often when I visit, though not always with his banjo. He plays softly, not too fast. Sounds like folk music to me, possibly songs from his native country, but I’m not sure. He and his kettle used to sit inside the store where it’s warm, but awhile ago he told me they don’t like him playing inside, so when he brings his banjo he sets up shop in the vestibule … where it’s not warm. The majority of folks coming in and out pass right by him. 

The feeling I get seeing him with his banjo in the wintertime is the same one I get seeing lightning bugs in my back yard in the summertime.

Feels like a gift. 

Since I never know where to look for my stuff, I walked through the main body of the store, past the deli and the prepared foods counter. Caught a conversation just as someone said, “I’m playing at the President’s Pub Sunday … from 11 to two.” I turned to see a local musician I recognized, a jazz guitarist, talking to a person in a wheel chair.

I kept on walking for a couple seconds … before turning back around. 

Found the guitarist by the apples. 

“Excuse me,” I said. 

He looked up. 

“Did I hear you say you’re playing at the President’s Pub on Sunday?” 

Yeah, he said … confirming the time.  

“Oh, wow,” I replied. “I didn’t know they had jazz there anymore.” 

Yeah, he said. “They have music every Sunday. It’s not always jazz, though.”

It’s been years since I visited the President’s Pub on a Sunday morning. 

Remember going there the Sunday after my Dad’s funeral, listening to jazz and spilling a couple glorious tears into an Old Fashioned … and buying one for the pianist who took my request for Stardust. 

Not sure I’ve been back since.

I turned the corner past the bread just as two older ladies bumped into one another. They hadn’t seen each other in a while and fell into a big hug with their winter coats on. Asked each other if ‘everybody’ was all right and doing well. I didn’t have to know them to know how much they meant it.

As they wished each other Happy New Years, I went to walk around them, but an older guy with a shopping court was moving with purpose, so I paused to let him pass. 

“No, go ahead,” he said. 

He had right-of-way so I deferred. 

“No … please,” he insisted.

It was a small thing, but I got the sense he was looking for a place to put some New Year’s Eve kindness, so I accepted his invitation.

I didn’t even make it to the envelope aisle before I saw a different version of the scene I’d just witnessed — two other ladies who hadn’t seen each other in a while. They actually ‘whooped’ when they recognized each other. 

More winter coat hugs and Happy New Years. 

And behind me, I again heard the music of the older man who let me pass inviting another stranger to go in front of him. 

He and his cart were on a roll. 

And as I took the scenic route to find my envelopes, shampoo and ginger beer, I thought of Kurt Vonnegut. 

Who liked to tell the story of a time he went out for envelopes. 

How his wife thought him foolish. 

“Oh, she says well, you’re not a poor man,” Vonnegut said in a version of the story he told to PBS. 

“You know, why don’t you go online and buy a hundred envelopes and put them in the closet? And so I pretend not to hear her. And go out to get an envelope because I’m going to have a hell of a good time in the process of buying one envelope.

“I meet a lot of people. And, see some great looking babies. And a fire engine goes by. And I give them the thumbs up. And ask a woman what kind of dog that is.

“And, of course, the computers will do us out of that. And, what the computer people don’t realize, or they don’t care, is we’re dancing animals. You know, we love to move around. And, we’re not supposed to dance at all anymore.”

After going through the self-check out, I did a quick inventory of the treasure I collected during my surgical strike …  

… a serenade from a kettle keeper who would rather be cold … as long as it meant he could keep his fingers dancing … 

… an older person out shopping for someplace to put his kindness … 

… the joy of New Year’s Eve winter coat hugs between old acquaintances.

The Shop N’ Save’s usually good for reminding me of things I forget I need. 

Though I didn’t see any babies, I had a helluva good time buying the envelope for my letter to my daughter.

On my way out I made sure to say thank you to the kettle keeper for playing me back out into the cold. 

And as I tried to remember where I parked my car in the crowded lot, I was already thinking of Sunday … 

… and whether the guitarist shopping for apples might know Stardust. 

 

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Excursions

The 12 Days of T-Shirts Intermezzo / Torso at the Crossroads

We made it, and yet we haven’t made it … yet. 

For 13 days straight we celebrated a different treasure from my — chooses adjective carefully — “consequential” T-shirt collection. 

But it’s still 11 days before Christmas, not to mention 17 until the calendar turns over, which means over 400 hours left in our present fast where — in a fit of hubris mixed with a spasm of poor decision-making — I pledged to Karry that I could make it the rest of 2025 without buying another t-shirt. 

Or what the supportive members of my family have dubbed the “You’ll Never Make It” Tour.

As the supportive members of my family are quick to attest, the act of my setting out to accomplish something and actually accomplishing it … is no small accomplishment.

Outside of the bags of frozen Reese’s Cups I deplete on a regular and consistent basis (which is EXACTLY what eight-year-old Pete imagined adulthood looking like), my track record for finishing tasks within specified parameters is what the historians would call ‘pock-marked.’

Since the odds of future goal-setting-and-accomplishing suggest betting the Under, we thought it appropriate to seize this rare ‘mission-accomplished’ vantage point for a reflective moment, much like we do in the sugar high afterglow following double-digit Reese’s consumption.  

I think it’s fair to say alchemizing my t-shirt affection through a retrospective lens has proven successful, at least in the recent modest sample size, in curbing my appetites for acquisition. 

So my torso and I find ourselves at a Crossroads.

A.) Keep the retrospective going

(B.) Declare myself ‘cured’ and — for the next 17 days — trust in my newfound ability to resist the algorithms massing at the gates of my feeds hurling temptations like so many flaming projectiles launched from medieval trebuchets

(C.) Give in and hit ‘launch’ on my 2026 T-shirt Registry, which is almost-but-not-quite-as-full as my closet

(D.) Empty a bag of frozen Reese’s trees while we decide

(E.) Both A & D, with possibly a C chaser. 

When you put it like that, is it even a question?

Gauntlet thrown. 

By which we mean Japanese cat tribal warrior t-shirt added to the ’26 registry, bitches.

Can we keep the streak going? 

Can we perpetuate the momentum? 

Can we make it to ’26? 

What will run out first … my will power in the face of great odds? The number of clean t-shirts in my closet? The Reese’s currently in my freezer? 

As we step out in faith into uncharted territory towards an unexplored map with unknown temptation and peril waiting at every turn, we look — as all great explorers do — to Ernest Shackleton, famed leader of three expeditions to the Antarctic,  for inspiration. 

*Adds to ’26 registry.

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Excursions

Introducing: The 12 Days of T-Shirts (Man Of Action edition)

Couple weeks ago we’re in the kitchen when Karry asks me about a charge on our credit card that looked suspicious. 

Read aloud the name of a company she didn’t recognize. 

“No, that’s me,” I said. 

Was kinda’ hoping that would end her curiosity. 

Had the opposite effect … like most of my good intentions.

“What did you buy?” she asked.

“It’s … a surprise.” 

As an aside … that’s pretty good for me as far as comebacks under pressure go.  

But it was late October. She knows I’m not that proactive with my holiday shopping. 

“What did you buy?” she repeated.

“A t-shirt,” I confessed. 

She: You bought a $35 t-shirt? 

While it might seem like a yes or no question, the answer … was nuanced. 

Me: No, I bought a $28 t-shirt.

She: (silence) 

Me: Seven bucks for shipping.

Karry tends not to put on her cheaters to appreciate nuance. 

For context, I love t-shirts. 

My family prefers the word ‘addiction.’

It’s my only one. 

Yep, T-shirts and postcards. 

And, um, books.

T-shirts are among the reasons I don’t get tattoos. 

I’m too easily seduced. 

I fall in love too frequently … and fleetingly. 

I mean, just when you see a design of a badass skull made up of tiny cats ($28 + $7 shipping), your feed serves up a silhouette of a man’s arm coming into frame to fist-bump a similarly silhouetted cat who looks like one of the cats who live in your house (Viktor).  

The family staged an intervention a few years ago. 

Unbeknownst to me, they harvested a bunch of t-shirts from my closet and had them made into a blanket … like parents do when their kids leave for college. 

They were sneaky. Did it under the guise of my birthday and presented it as a ‘gift,’ … which forced me to suppress my immediate reaction, which was along the lines of, “You did  … what ???!!!”  

Some (most) of the shirts were still in regular rotation … including one of my all-time favorites: the orange GI Joe “Man of Action (With Lifelike Hair)” number that I found in a comic book store in Houston, Texas many years ago. 

Joe’s head on the t-shirt had the same life-like hair as the action figure doll I had in the 70’s. 

Glorious. 

Over the years many wide-eyed smiles and fist-bumps from kindred spirits, most (all) middle-aged men, most (all) of whom proceeded to lose their sh*t when I pointed out that Joe’s coiffe was, in fact, life-like. 

At night, when I am under the blanket, I can sometimes hear Joe softly sobbing.

Since the thoughtful-birthday-gift-slash-intrusive-intervention (still stings), we’ve operated under an uneasy detente.

For any new t-shirt I bring into the collection, I must remove one from my closet.   

So I felt cornered when Karry called me out in the kitchen on my latest acquisition. 

“It’ll be my last one of the year,” I blurted. 

She: Yeah, right. 

Me: No, seriously, last one of the year. 

She: (silence)

Me: It’s only, like, two months. I can make it.

She: (silence)

While acknowledging that historical precedent would suggest, shall we say, an uphill climb, I pointed out that a little encouragement would, you know, go a long way.

She: You’ll never make it.

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Couple weeks later, I’m downstairs when I hear yelling from the laundry room.

“Wait, did you get another t-shirt?”

While it seems like a yes or no question, the answer was … nuanced. 

At the storytelling thing in the city I went to the night before, Jacob the producer gave me the t-shirt I won a couple months ago. They were out at the time. 

I hadn’t bought it, so therefore had not violated the embargo. 

I assured her that my t-shirt fast was still holding strong. 

Then she did the thing she does sometimes … where she held her gaze a couple extra seconds without saying a word … letting me know she’ll be keeping an eye on me … until midnight strikes on Dec. 31.

Which I received as, you know, encouragement.  

Recognizing that I still have about four weeks to go in my fast — which, let’s be honest here, will be brutal for the holiday algorithms ramping up to tempt me at every turn — I thought it’d be healthy to channel my energies away from my feeds and towards counting my blessings, by which I mean the treasures hanging in my closet.

Which history suggests are only ever a stealthy intervention away from being permanently removed from circulation.

So I’m here today to officially launch the TWELVE DAYS OF T-SHIRTS … a celebratory ‘greatest hits’ retrospective befitting, you know, a man of action with life-like hair. 

The ones that bring me joy.

The ones that keep me in Cozy Mode as I clumsily navigate the world around me. 

The ones that I impulse bought in spasms of poor decision-making somewhere between my second and third Moscow Mules. 

Each one with its own story to tell.

Full disclosure: knowing that the odds of my following through to 12 are only marginally better than my resisting t-shirt temptation for the next four weeks … I will be receiving any and all feedback (including silence) as encouragement. 

Tomorrow: #1 Tuscan Serenade

Apologies in advance. 

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Fathers and Sons

Prayers Before Bed ….

Thursday night, Nov. 21, 2025 

Just saying Amen …

to a quick hot shower after running in the cold and wet at the track after sunset 

to air-frying the steak quesadilla Peter made last night and set aside for me … and savoring it standing up in the kitchen

to sailing down Green Tree hill and through the tunnels to receive a weathered city that only glistens at night

to having a pick of parking spots next to the park where people are still pickleballing under the lights 

to the luminous marquis of the old Garden Theater standing as proud reminder to never let our past define our possibility 

to walking into Alphabet City and finding it full, just as the mighty Alexis was preambling the evening’s program 

to grabbing the last seat at the bar, left open because it couldn’t see the stage … but it could see the drummer, which is exactly what you came to see 

to a septet breaking into Perdido breaking like a fresh egg over your week’s bowl, seeping down and through all the way to the bottom

to the drummer excusing everyone but the piano, bass and guitar, leaving them to Nat King Cole the shit outta’ Stompin’ at the Savoy, painting life so beautiful in black and white

to the trombone player’s tone on I Can’t Get Started, as full and warm as the bourbon in my second Soothsayer

to the piano player pouring himself Body and Soul, exploring till he found that chord he knew was in there, causing the sax player bowing her head to smile around her mouthpiece … and look up and over to him and nod 

to the in-betweens of the bandleader preaching sermons on St. Norman Granz and Jazz at the Philharmonic

to listening with an irrepressible smile of my own to 90 minutes of combinations, educations and improvisations orchestrated as neatly as a bento box, leaving me not full just satisfied

to driving back home in reverie in no great hurry

to pulling in the driveway pushing 9:30 and finding the outside light on and Peter shooting hoops 

to stepping into a rebound and dishing his layup 

to settling into old familiar rhythms

to knowing it’s in when it leaves your hand

to feeding him in stride and him splashing one after another after another

to seeing your November breath while staying out way past dark on a school night 

to calling it, but not before each ending on a make

because that’s the rule

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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. 

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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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Postcards

Page’s

We pull in to the packed lot

tuck the Jeep between two parked

with their hatches open,

occupants saying “Ah,”

legs dangling like fishing lines over a dock

kicking lazy with life

we attach ourselves to the end of the long line

— last but not for long —

hugging three sides of the building

before unfurling

free

for ever and ever like a kite string

the longer the better

always the perfect length

for the moment’s the day’s the summer’s biggest decision

the choosing and unchoosing

and choosing, waffling, going back, entertaining, dismissing

granting ourselves wishes and permishes to change our mind

all of us, in all our shapes and seasons

every flavor of the same love

equal and equals in our expectancy

all of us, standing

under an ugly bridge upon cracked pavement

ice cream sandwiched between used car lots and abandoned buildings

a stop light and every so often

some poor motherfucker trying to make a left across a double line

coaxing occasional grace

but mostly impatient car horns and angry curse words out the window

from a world holding them accountable to knowing better

even though they are soooooooo close

until finally

we gain sight of the two windows in front

— the Swirly Gates —

and then …

it is

Time.

and despite 40 minutes in the car

and another 40 to decide

we still ask the young girl

we hope will always be here

for as long as there is a summer

to help us pick

between the extra large banana

or the large chocolate chip cookie arctic swirl

the oreo we had before

or the turtle we’ve never tried

and even after he makes his choice,

he hedges …

asks if it’s too late to change

— it’s not. It’s never too late here —

and so goes for the Large Marge Sundae

fuck yes he does

and we step back and wait

for the girl who took our order to make it herself

that’s how they do it here

she can take as long as she needs

take her own sweet time … we’re good.

Everybody here is good.

When she calls from the window our orders back to us

the kids in all of us spring forward, say thank you

and one-hand snap a few extra napkins for everybody

for the mess we always make

and for a few minutes we linger out in front

with the others still waiting, and us spooning,

just to be amongst

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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.

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