Tag Archives: life

Postcards

Hail to a prince …

Couple Saturdays ago I had to scuttle breakfast plans with my brother to take our cat Roman to the vet. 

Karry was working, which meant a solo mission. 

Which meant I was outnumbered. 

Cat transport is really a two-person affair. 

Once the boys see the cat carriers, it’s all over. 

If not first sequestered, they go full Jason Bourne. 

Could be days before we see them again. 

Between him and his brother, Roman’s the tougher customer. 

A lifelong anarchist, Roman rejects all systems of centralized authority in favor of personal freedom and self-governance. 

Which makes getting him in the carrier in direct conflict with his repudiation of involuntary hierarchies. 

Over the years, we’ve perfected the process. 

Not that the process ever works perfectly. 

Step one: solitary confinement. 

By which I mean locking Roman in the middle bathroom. 

I’d never been responsible for this step by myself before. 

I’m not good at holding cats. 

In my experience, they don’t want to be held. 

At least the way I hold them. 

I found him lounging by the window in the dining room. 

Scooped him up by his sides and held him out in front of me like a ticking bomb as I carried him down the hallway. 

I think I caught him by surprise. 

The look on his face was like, “What the f*ck?”

I made it to the bathroom, plopped him down on the floor and shut the door behind me. 

This allowed me to retrieve the cat carrier from the garage. 

I’ve never been solely responsible for getting Romain in the carrier by myself. 

I began by an overt show of respect for his superior intellect, appealing to his core anarchist sensibilities. 

Given his distaste for coercive states, I tried cooperation based on consent. 

By which I mean I put some treats inside the carrier and politely invited him in for snacks. 

He didn’t flinch.

I then initiated casual conversation, like they do in hostage negotiation scenes in the movies. 

By which I mean I essentially talked to myself for five minutes. 

Then I grabbed him by his sides and just sort of shoved him inside. 

Mercifully, he didn’t go down swinging.

I think he felt sorry for me and my inferior intellect. 

Carried him downstairs to the garage, and put him in my car’s backseat. 

I turned the carrier so he could see me and I could see him. 

He whined the whole car ride. I acknowledged each and every one of his whines to let him know I heard and understood. 

Checked him in at Banfield, where they put us in a room to wait. 

It was the most time Roman and I ever spent alone together. 

Karry is, by far — and understandably — his favorite. 

I’m much closer with his brother, Viktor. We chat downstairs pretty much every morning after Viktor finishes meditating. 

My relationship with Roman is much more transactional.

He comes in my room every morning to register his extreme displeasure for me being late with breakfast.

Doesn’t leave until he confirms my feet on the carpet, then he exits to the hallway, squawking in disgust the entire time. 

He gets about halfway down the hall and checks over his shoulder to make sure I don’t stop to pee along the way. 

“Oh for Chrissakes,” he whines every time I do. If he had hands he’d throw ‘em in the air in disbelief. 

He always beats me to the kitchen, and hops up on the counter because he doesn’t trust me to remember where we keep the food. 

Once on the counter, closer to eye level, he formally airs all of his grievances, pacing back and forth while giving me sauce for (a.) how long he’s been waiting, (b.) what a goddamn travesty it is, (c.) what a lazy buffoon I am for sleeping so late, and (d.) reminding me for the umpteenth time that if he’d only been born with opposable thumbs, he’d have no use for me and would have killed me in my sleep a long time ago. 

Et cetera. 

He does this every morning. 

Big fella gets hangry.  

Meanwhile, I fish two bowls from the cabinet, and pick out a selection from the rotation.  

I split a packet between the two of ‘em, making sure to give Viktor a little bit more in vain hope that he will decide to help Roman on his weight loss journey.  

If I take more than a minute, they get chippy with each other. Roman tends to instigate, and I try to break them apart before Viktor escalates and bites his brother on the ear. 

I put Viktor’s bowl down first on the little rug by the cabinet, and Roman’s by his water bowl, wishing them each a “Bon Appetite” by name as I do so. 

Viktor, a gentleman who savors, takes his time and patiently chews his food.

Meanwhile, Roman attacks his bowl like Joey Chestnut in front of a bin of hot dogs and a ticking clock. Finishes minutes before Viktor, then death stares at his brother until Viktor decides he’s had enough and walks away from his bowl. He never cleans his plate.

Whereupon Roman avails himself of second breakfast, hobbit-style.

Other than that, I’m pretty irrelevant to Roman’s days and nights. 

When I get home from work, sometimes he’ll hop on the dining room table to let me pet him a couple times, just to tie him over until Karry’s return. After about three pets, he tries to nip my hand to let me know we’re done here. 

All of which to say, I considered it a blessing to be able to keep Roman company while we waited for the vet to see him. 

While he whined I told him how much I appreciated what a good boy he was being, and how proud I was of him, and that we’ll be home soon. 

He was better for me than I deserved. 

When the doctor finally came and took him back for an X-ray, I prayed he’d be as good for them as he had been for me. 

Over the years he’s cultivated a reputation for being, um, feisty during vet visits.

It’s where he’s most forcefully expressed his disgust for oppressive forms of government. 

Rarely goes down without a fight, or a sedative. 

He took it easy on them this time, though.

When they brought him back to me in the waiting room, Roman immediately walked into the carrier of his own volition. 

He knew that was the shortest distance to home. 

Such a smart boy. 

The vet at Banfield gave us medicine to curb his vomiting, a liquid bandage to hopefully let his stomach lining heal, and a steroid for inflammation. Said the vomiting should stop within 24 hours. Didn’t seem overly concerned. 

On Monday morning I flew to Milwaukee for an all-week work function. 

Karry texted me when she got home from work that day that she found dark vomit on the carpet again. Said she was going to take Romain to the ER. 

Couple hours later she texted that they saw something troubling on the X-Ray from Banfield and wanted to do an MRI the next day. She said it broke her heart to leave Roman overnight, but that he was purring when she left him. 

The next morning the doctor called with the results. 

After listening to the options, Karry made the impossibly hard and right decision. 

He’d lived a good life without suffering, and she was determined to make sure it remained that way.

So she chose the shortest distance to … home. 

She said that Peter would go with her to say her goodbyes that afternoon. 

He’s a good boy, too. 

My heart broke for all of us.  

Karry texted me that afternoon when they got to the hospital. Asked me if I was available for a FaceTime. 

I wasn’t … but I stepped out from the meeting I was in. 

Got to see Roman one last time. 

Got to tell him I loved him. 

Got to tell him what a good boy he was. 

Got to tell Karry and Peter how proud I was of them … and how grateful I was to them both for calling me. 

After we hung up, I took a minute for a few deep breaths and then went back in and presented to our company’s leadership team with salty cheeks.

__  

That was 12 days ago. 

It all happened so fast. 

By which I mean the 72 hours between Roman being better for me than I deserved and me FaceTiming him goodbye. 

By which I mean the past 10 years. 

Got home from my work trip on a Thursday night, then left that Saturday for a few getaway days with Karry to celebrate our 30th anniversary. Got home late this past Thursday night. 

Been playing catch-up ever since. 

I was the first one up this morning. 

Out of habit I fished two bowls from the cabinet, and started to divvy up a packet of food, giving Viktor a little more. 

Started crying when I didn’t know what to do with the leftovers.

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Postcards

Upclycling …

After being gone all week for a business trip, I logged a half-day of work last Friday, which left only the afternoon and evening for errand-running before flying out early the next morning with Karry for a few getaway days. I had a gajillion things to do and space for just a few of them to get done.

Picked up a couple prescriptions at the pharmacy, popped into Auto Zone for a lo-beam replacement for my car, and stopped by Triple A for some maps. In between I made a run to the landfill to drop off some recycling. Our township doesn’t have a recycling program, and I didn’t want it piling up while we were away. 

The dropoff is about 15 minutes out of town. I followed a pickup truck into the landfill’s complex. The entrance is about a quarter mile straightaway before you right turn to climb a hill to where the big recycling bins are. Speed limit’s only 15 mph, as there are always garbage trucks coming and going. 

Towards the end of the straightaway, I noticed the pick-up truck slowed to a stop for no reason. There weren’t any cars in front of him or anything. I was paying attention and had ample time to stop, though I found it odd. It was like the way people will slow down if the car behind them is following too close. 

I’ll be honest, I didn’t think much of it. 

The truck made the right up the hill, and I followed. The recycling bins sit immediately on the left, next to the company’s office building. There are two big green bins, with room for cars to park in front of each. Beyond the building, if you keep going, there’s a big shed that always has big machinery and trucks around it. 

At the top of the hill, I went to make the immediate left into the first parking spot … when I noticed the pickup truck had stopped and started backing up. He didn’t use any turn signal or anything, not that I would expect someone to, since we weren’t on a main road or anything. 

Only when I saw him backing up did I pick up on the fact he was planning to pull in to the far left slot where I was already pulling in.

It was as if I sneaked in behind him. 

When he saw me do that, he stopped, pulled forward, and then turned his truck so he could take the far right spot. 

Immediately I was mortified, realizing I took the spot he was planning to back in to. 

I was out of my car by the time he backed in and already formulating my apology.

He didn’t give me the chance. 

He was cursing me before he made it to the back of his pickup truck. 

He was a big, bearded, ball-capped fella. 

Addressed me as an a-hole for tailgating him the whole way in and cutting in front of him. Asked me if I was asking for an ass-kicking for doing so. 

Decorated his vitriol with an avalanche of eff bombs.  

I apologized. Confessed that I didn’t expect him to back up, and that I realize I should have waited for him. Told him it was not my intention to cut behind him.

He was having none of my b.s. 

Got in a robust cardio workout exercising his adult vocabulary in ripping me a new one, or at least, you know, a recycled one. 

I have to say, even though he was calling me names and threatening retaliation, he did not intimidate me. His reaction was not upsetting to me. 

I was just deeply sorry. 

I knew I had made a mistake. I was probably distracted by all the things I didn’t have time to get done. I tried to let him know that it was not my intention to tailgate him. I apologized a couple times more while he spewed. 

Really, I just wanted to let him know that my stupid actions were not worth getting upset over. 

He was past a point of no return, though. 

Things quieted for a moment as we both emptied our recycling into our respective bins, me into the left one, he into the right. 

Protocol is to empty the contents of garbage bags into the bins, and then toss the bags into separate cans lined up on the side of the building. 

After emptying a big black garbage bag, I started to cross over to where the garbage cans were.

The guy sees me coming towards him and yells, “Don’t you f*cking get near my truck.” 

“Just throwing a bag away, sir,” I said, calmly. 

He was quiet for a couple seconds. I think he may have begun to notice that I was not interested in escalating things. 

But I also knew he was looking for any excuse to escalate things. 

“I’m happy to let you finish,” I said, and backed up a couple steps. 

“Yeah, you let me f*cking finish,” he said. 

In my head I so wanted to break the fourth wall and say, “Come on dude, we’re just a couple guys dropping off recycling. I may have done a stupid thing that upset you, but, trust me, I am not your enemy.” 

But I didn’t say it. 

Call it a hunch … but something told me that reminding him that we were both on Team Mother Nature would have only made things worse. 

I fully admit that I would’ve been jacked at me if I were driving his pickup. Though, if I was backing in my truck knowing someone was behind me, I probably would have taken the spot on the far right. 

And used my turn signal. 

But I realize I’m separating cardboard and plastic here.

I knew the best course of action was to stay quiet, let him be upset and hopefully get on with his day.

He got back into his truck and pulled back down the hill. I watched him make the left onto the straightaway that leads back to the main road.

After I tossed my empty bags,  I made sure to observe the speed limit on my way from the landfill to the rest of my gajillion things. 

I didn’t feel the sick feeling in my stomach I typically feel when experiencing people yelling at each other. I just felt bad that my actions contributed to someone getting angry at the world. 

I prayed that the person wouldn’t take it out on the rest of his day.

And while I know I’m incapable of ‘fixing’ things on that front, I felt compelled to re-balance the scales a little. 

This is me reminding myself that we always get to choose our response.

We get to choose when someone follows too close and takes our spot … or when a stranger goes off on us for taking theirs.  

Saturday morning while Karry and I were waiting to board our plane at the airport, having left a gajillion things undone, I took a few minutes and wrote the note below. We got back late last night. This afternoon I printed off a couple copies to stuff into envelopes. I handed one to Michelle, a kind waitress at Eat n’ Park who knows from making people’s days a little bit better. I asked her to find a customer who might appreciate a little light. Wrote Michelle’s name on the other one and left it on my table.

Dear lovely human,                                                                                                                                                         

Earlier today, I upset a stranger with my driving. 

I honestly didn’t mean to, I just made a mistake. 

There was no accident or anything, but the stranger got really angry at me. Called me names, swore at me, and asked me if I was trying to get my ass kicked.

 I told him it was totally my mistake, and I apologized. Multiple times. 

He was too angry to be interested in forgiving me, which I understand. He drove away just as mad at the world as he was at me. 

I wasn’t upset by his anger. I just felt bad that my actions contributed to a bad part of his day. 

While I know I can’t fix that stranger’s bad mood, I thought maybe I can at least make another stranger’s day a little better.

So I just wanted to remind you that sometimes we are unintentional catalysts for a person’s bad day. 

But we can also try to be intentional catalysts for someone’s good day, too. 

I also wanted to let you know that, even though we’ve not met, that I’m praying for you. 

Specifically, that if you ever make a mistake that upsets a stranger, that the other party offers you a bit of the grace you deserve. 

And conversely, if a stranger ever does something that upsets you, I’m praying for you for the patience of a few deep breaths to soften the harder edges of your anger into a bit more grace than maybe the other person deserves. 

Sometimes the best I can say for this broken world is that it sure gives us a lot of chances to participate in the flow of grace. If we’re lucky enough to live a full life, we find ourselves at either end at some point. 

So … in the spirit of all of the above, your visit’s on me. 

You and your day deserve it … and so much more. 

As long as you promise to remember that not all bad drivers are a-holes. 

At least not all of the time (ha).

Upcycling,

Pete 

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Excursions, Postcards

Using my words …

Was just about to take Thursday’s first sip at the coffee shop when a severe weather event rolled in to my right. 

“Tell your Dad what you want! We came here for breakfast!”

Enters, yelling.  

I turned and saw a young mother standing in the archway that splits the coffee shop’s seating area from the bakery where you place your order.

I couldn’t see the child. 

Only hear him. 

Wailing. 

In full froth.

Though decades removed from the child-meltdown days, I still fancy myself a bit of a connoisseur.

I try not to stare, but I can’t help myself. 

It’s like rubbing a hand over old scars tied to humbling stories.

I’m drawn by empathy, not schadenfreude. 

Mostly. 

It’s the kind of thing that can only be appreciated at a distance. 

The kid was producing these long, drawn-out whines — persistent and consistent — at impressive decibels. 

Without optics, I put it at about a category 4 meltdown. 

Likely not a microburst, based on context clues.

The store had just opened. They had just arrived. 

And mom’s patience tank was already on empty. She wasn’t even feigning appeasement. 

She was dead-ass yelling at her child from another room.

“Use your words!” she barked back towards him.

If I was a tornado hunter, I’da been buckling my seat belt and double checking I had back-up batteries for my camera. 

That both of them had already completely abandoned any sense of their surroundings suggested that the meltdown had begun well before their arrival. 

And also that the wailing child may have come by his gifts … honestly. 

Regardless, it was clear the situation had been brewing for as long as Thursday’s dark roast of the day. 

“We are never coming back here unless you stop!” 

Ooh, I thought. Seemed a bit premature to play the “We’re never doing this again!” card.

Few chess moves left on the board after that one. Pretty much just the nuclear options.  

A child in meltdown is among the most humbling things in the universe.

Second only to trying to get the goddamn wheels on a Pinewood Derby car to go straight, at least in my experience. 

The harder you try, the worse you make it. 

I mean, here was a mother — otherwise the most powerful being in all the universe — letting herself get drawn in to her child’s energy. She’d completely lost her footing in rationality. 

Might as well have been yelling at the rain. 

After her “Nevermore” threat, she executed an exquisite “I’m-done-with-it” 180 (9.8 from the judges), and took a seat by herself at a round table near the front of the room. 

Signifying that this was now Dad’s problem. 

Also known as “tappin’ in the B team.”

Poor motherf*cker, I thought. 

Minute later Dad comes in carrying their order with their son trailing behind him … still wailing. 

He promptly engaged “controlled burn” protocols. 

Gently placed his wife’s order in front of her — like a zookeeper feeding an alligator — and then sat down at an adjacent table, giving Mom’s magma some space to cool while limbering up for his shot at quelling the hellion.

I’m bad at ages but I pegged the kid between three and four.

At the ripe age when one recognizes one’s agency and power to make themselves seen and heard in the world. 

“Hang on to that kid,” I thought in my head.

“Hold my sippy cup,” he replied telepathically, as he refused Dad’s overture to join him and defiantly took a seat at one of the tables in the coffee shop’s window. 

Where he immediately began kicking his legs as if he was on a swing, percussively thumping his heels against the window. 

It was glorious. 

Like watching Da Vinci painting the Mona Lisa of meltdowns.  

Took dad all of four thumps to stand up, walk over to the window and grab the child by the hand. 

Exits, wailing. 

They left the building for some air, and to give mom some visual separation, even if her peace was completely out of the question by this point. 

A brick alley runs alongside the coffee shop. I think that’s where they went. 

I could still hear the boy yelling from a distance.

Sounded like the coyotes that screech in the cemetery at night. 

Meanwhile Mom silently nibbled at her muffin while scrolling her phone. 

Boys were gone for a couple minutes, during which I patched together a backstory in my head. 

I surmised the parents had planned a summer day off. Had thoughtfully put together a day of adventure — maybe a trip to the city — starting with a rare weekday breakfast outing at Mom’s favorite place.  

They were likely on a schedule. Perhaps had to leave the house at a certain time, which didn’t align with the kid’s morning agenda. Probably wasn’t a long drive to the coffee shop, just enough for the child to find a cadence for his displeasure, whereupon he set his pace for distance and duration. 

I finished my cortado and returned my cup to the counter, ordering one for the road. 

Stepping outside, I saw Dad hoisting the child off the ground while standing next to an SUV with the back door open. 

He wore the exasperated look of someone trying to figure out the geometry of how to fit a big Ikea box into the back seat’s un-rectilinear opening … if the box had legs and was simultaneously pushing in the opposite direction.  

Mom was silently seething on the sidewalk, holding a paper bag with the vestiges of their breakfast that she’d likely toss in the garbage as soon as she got home.

They had reached the inevitable conclusion that sooner or later comes for all parents with best laid plans: time to cut losses and abort the mission. 

AKA the nuclear option. 

But then, I witnessed the most glorious thing. 

In the midst of trying to stuff his uncooperative child into the backseat, Dad caught sight of the coffee shop’s sidewalk tables.

I actually saw the spark catch his eyes and wrinkle his forehead. 

“Or,” he said to his wife, “We could just sit outside?”

This was everything to me. 

Despite the fact that he was overmatched, outwitted, and soundly defeated by a three-year-old and a morning that could not have gone more to shit, there remained inside him a flickering spark that believed, “This is still salvageable.”

It wasn’t, but that was beside the point. 

“Hang on to that Dad,” I thought in my head.

Made me appreciate just how quickly the days of the never-ending meltdowns … eventually do end. 

I genuinely wanted to hug him. 

But not enough to risk getting mule-kicked by the spawn of Satan he was trying to wedge into the car like an uncooperative Lagkapten ($79 from Ikea, ICYI).   

The polite thing to do would have been for me to just put my head down and cross the street. 

Instead, I waited patiently for the kid to take a breath. 

And then I took Mom’s advice. 

I used my words. 

“Excuse me,” I said sheepishly. 

All three turned to look at me. 

“Um, I know the time is not now …” I began. 

“But I promise you that there will come a time … when you will miss even this.

“That time is not now,” I quickly repeated. “But I promise you.”

Holding his tear-drenched kid by his armpits two feet off the ground, Dad threw his head back and laughed. 

Mom, meanwhile, closed her eyes and allowed herself a self-effacing chuckle, the first slow step to remembering that she was, in fact, the most powerful being in the Universe.

Their smiles made all my scars tingle. 

“God bless you guys,” I said, raising my to-go cup. 

It’s the kind of thing that can only be truly appreciated at a distance. 

Exits, remembering.

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People / Places, Postcards

Moving Mountains …

Been making a humble Thursday morning practice of popping in the coffee shop down the road before work.

Just to stand in line for a cortado and sit for a few minutes.

In between the standing and sitting, I always seem to find something to fill my cup. 

This past Thursday there wasn’t much of a line, so I stepped to the front, ordered, and skooched to the left to wait. 

The waiting area’s directly in front of where the barista prepares the orders. 

I’m careful not to stare.

But I do try to catch a glimpse when they’re doing the pouring. 

I find all artful pourers mesmerizing. 

The person working Thursday is new-ish. 

Been there maybe a couple months. 

Didn’t know her name. 

Just her smile.  

She began with the requisite two shots of espresso. 

Then moved to the milk.

I’m always curious to see if a barista trusts in gravity and surface tension to do their jobs … and fills the cup beyond its edge.

It’s always magic to me to bear witness to how the molecules grab on to one another, and keep each other from flowing away and spilling.

I find a hope in that.

Like nature’s just waiting for us to learn from its example.   

I’ve noticed that some baristas favor the control of holding the cup in one hand to bring the spout closer … while others place the cup on the counter to keep a steady target. 

The delicacy of the draw gets me every time.

The mere idea of painting with a brush that only ever gets so close to its canvas. 

Seems prayerful to me. 

Any distance between source and vessel requires a measure of faith.

I’ve learned that the precise amount required has little to do with how great or small the distance.   

Hers was one fluid motion into the countered cup. 

But then, she did this thing. 

Post-pour, she reached for a spoon. 

I watched as she used it to gently skooch some of the foam where she wanted it to go. 

My immediate thought was that maybe things initially didn’t turn out the way she wanted.

As she skimmed the surface, she cupped her empty left hand parallel to her right … as if protecting a flickering match from the wind.

Her left hand had no practical purpose, other than maybe just to let the right know it was rooting for it. 

By which I mean it may have had the most important job of all. 

Satisfied, she put the spoon down and ushered my cup forward to let me know it was ready.

“I’ve never seen anyone do that … with the spoon,” I confessed. 

“I do it all the time,” she said. “That’s my move.”

So, she had made no mistake. 

She just wasn’t done moving mountains. 

I asked her her name. 

“Jaye,” she said.

“We’ll call it the ‘Jaye,’” I said. 

“Aww, thank you,” she smiled, her other signature move.

It was only then that I looked down … to see that she had used the spoon to crack a tiny heart open. 

By which I mean she used the spoon to crack my tiny heart open.

 

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Outside, Righteous riffs

Fools in the rain ….

Anymore spring just hits me to my core. 

Every bit of it. 

Watching the deliberate greening of the woods behind our backyard feels like having a front-row seat as a miracle unfolds in slow motion.

How it starts from the bottom and patiently works its way all the way up to the tops of the trees.  

—-

Thursday after work my son and I rode over to the high school track together.

Checking the weather I mentioned to him the rains on the way. 

He asked how long we would go if it started raining. 

“I imagine the question will answer itself,” I said.

On Thursdays a youth fitness program meets at the track. A few adults break the kids into groups, from teenagers down to elementary schoolers, and run them through exercises and drills. 

Was barely a lap in when it started raining. 

The rain picked up speed quicker than me, and soon was coming down pretty good. No thunder or anything, just a hard, heavy shower. 

I checked to see what the coaches would do with the kids. Figured I’d follow their lead. I assume they know more than me. 

It was raining so hard, I fully expected them to call it … maybe take the kids inside the school if not cancel out of an abundance of caution.

But they didn’t.

They proceeded to line ‘em up and on-your-marks’d ‘em. 

Made me smile while my nose dripped.

The rain kept up the whole time we were there, but the heavy part only lasted a few minutes. 

For the remainder … it was just a quintessential Southwestern Pennsylvania spring shower. 

I was glad for the kids … that they got to experience the gift of running in the rain. 

The kid in me was grateful to be reminded, too. 

By which I mean … the question answered itself.

___

Yesterday after work I went back to the track for some easy loops at the end of a long week. 

My running shoes were still soaked from the night before. 

It was pushing 7 p.m. on a Friday … and I was the only one there.

Only human, I mean.  

The track sits below the school, so you walk down a hill to get to it. 

On the grassy slope by the entrance, a robin was posted up … practicing her signature tune.

Robins are so common around here, sometimes I forget how beautifully they sing.

You catch one by herself, though, and God pulls up a chair. 

Her crisp song cut the still air so clearly.

Every time I circled back to where she was practicing, I slowed down and gushed compliments.

It was like being in the front row of an empty amphitheater while the evening’s soprano was dry-running her arias.

If I’da had flowers, I’da laid ‘em at her feet. 

All by herself singing a song she’s sung hundreds of times and singing it new for the first time again.

By which I mean … spring.

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Fathers and Sons, Righteous riffs

A whole new day ….

So, um, all of this happened.

Even if I had the time or inclination to squeeze it all into a smaller suitcase for you, I’m not sure I would. 

It’s just too damn good. 

Not the writing itself … just the events as they unfolded. 

This is me reminding myself that the most important choice is not this word or that word … it’s picking up the pen in the first place. 

__

Couple weeks ago when the big blizzard hit, I was supposed to be in Lexington with my oldest for a boys weekend I’d gifted him / us for Christmas.

Our annual-ish pilgrimage to Kentucky to see the Wildcats men’s basketball team play. 

Given the forecast I couldn’t see us making it back home on Sunday, which would’ve made a mess of Monday … which would’ve spilled all over the rest of the week. 

So the night before the Friday we were supposed to leave, I made the tough call to cancel. 

It was the responsible choice … even though it broke my heart.  

Got screwed on our Air BnB, as our host had sub-zero interest in even a partial refund. 

Lost out on our tickets, too, which weren’t at all cheap when I’d got ‘em at Christmas, and rendered all but worthless by the weather.

The heart-breaking part, though, was missing out on spending time with my son. 

He’s just good light to be around.  

Bummed and with nothing to do but wait for the snow that would require so much shoveling, I made a conscious choice.

I spent time imagining the weekend we might have had. 

What we might have done. 

Seen. 

Tasted. 

Noticed.

Wrote my imaginings down in my journal. 

In minute detail. 

Wasn’t the same, but it was warmer than wallowing. 

And it allowed me to lavish some of my ever-fraying attention on what I appreciate about the gift of spending time in my son’s good light.

For the rest of the weekend, when I wasn’t shoveling or snow-blowing, I was imagining. 

Treated it as if I was making myself a big ole’ pot of soup with no recipe.  

Had no intentions of doing anything with it. 

Just wanted to metaphorically stand in front of a boiling pot and inhale the steam while it all cooked down and the snow fell. 

Nothing more than an exercise to keep my attention productively occupied.

Until a couple days later, I remembered that I owed my friend Jim a letter. 

Had not sent him anything yet in the new year. 

I try to make my letters worthy of Jim’s attention. 

In reciprocity for the treasure he shares with me. 

Jim’s a gifted poet. 

In his 90’s. 

Health has been failing him as of late. 

Still writes. 

Often achingly, always beautifully. 

I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the act and the substance of what Jim shares with me. 

For starters, he hand writes everything … in wobbly but persistent, near-calligraphic penmanship. 

Sends me photocopies of his hand-written stuff. 

The intentionality of just that — let alone how he makes words dance — fills my heart. 

Our last correspondence was a golden phone call one evening a couple months ago, when he called just to let me know how much our correspondence means to him … and apologized that his short breath has kept him from going upstairs (where the printer is) to make me photo copies of his latest poems. The act of him, despite his circumstances, calling me … just to let me know that? 

Better than getting a letter in the mail, let me tell you. 

Though lately confined to the downstairs of his house, Jim’s aperture on the world remains wide.

He lets so much light in.  

Despite his body failing him from a long life’s wear, his poet’s eye, ear and heart remain undiminished. 

I find myself often saying aloud how I hope to someday write as well as Jim does in his 90’s.

In the days after the blizzard … seeing all the snow on the ground, I imagined that he probably felt even more cooped up than we did. 

I tried to think of something I could send him that he might appreciate, but nothing came to mind. 

I hadn’t written anything lately that I felt was worthy. 

Then it hit me. 

Maybe he’d appreciate some of the soup I’d been toiling over … about the weekend I never had.  

So I sloppily ladled some of it onto a page, stuffed it into an envelope, and dropped it into the mail. 

This is what I sent … 

__ 

“Thursday, Jan. 27, 2026 7:49 a.m. 

Dear Jim,

I hope this note finds you keeping warm. Karry just left for work, I think it’s one degree out. I am working remotely today so am anticipating a day of not having to leave the house, other than to walk to the mailbox and drop a postcard in the mail for Emma. 

Oh, the weather of the world. 

This past weekend Peter and I had planned to make our annual pilgrimage to Lexington to go see the Kentucky Wildcats play. We’ve done it for three or so years. Thursday night we decided to cancel our plans. I didn’t see us being able to make it back on Sunday, and we both needed to be home for work on Monday. The Air BnB host wouldn’t give us a refund, and we lost out on our tickets, but most of all, I just missed the experience of spending the weekend together with Peter. So, rather than wallow in disappointment, I decided to alchemize my circumstances … decided to write a story as if I was writing a journal entry commemorating the trip I imagined us having. Since I approached it as a journal entry, I allowed for the requisite frayed edges … 

A brief excerpt 

Saturday 

I’d be the first one up, maybe a small pot of coffee, a deep inhale from a half-full bag before scooping grounds, let myself be seduced by the slow, gurgling percolation … pour a half-cup into one of the host’s old mugs fished from the cabinets, scribble a few words at whatever desk or counter, a weekend post card from Kentucky to Em … coax Peter awake early enough for … a cold walk over to Stella’s, ceremonially donning our Big Blue gear before heading out, he lending me a jersey from his collection, I’d pick John Wall given the choice.

We’d wait for two together at the counter to open up, and I’d rub my hand over the old coin embedded in the worn and weathered wood … confirmation.  

Soak it all in like maple syrup … the tattoos and bleary-eyed chatter of the staff too young too early for a Saturday morning, listen for whatever they’re playing, maybe Tyler Childers … 

… scan the poems framed on the walls on the way to the bathroom, one about Fallingwater … catch clips of expectant, game-day banter buzzing from the tables as I pass through. 

Warm my hands around a mug of black coffee Kentucky straight from a fresh pot … 

… agonize with Peter over our day’s biggest decision … go with Stella’s Hot Brown – the work of the angels — or just eggs, bacon, home fries well-done and those biscuits I sometimes dream about … yeah, proly that, leave the Hot Brown to legend. 

He’d ask the girl about the steak and eggs … sometimes we’re just looking for someone in this world to help us say yes. 

After ordering, the expectation and my topped off cup enlivening our conversation, I’d ask him his top 5 favorite Wildcats of all-time, and he’d give the cosmic question the attention it deserves … Herro, SGA locks for him, me, I’d proly reach all the way back to my first favorite, Kenny “Sky” Walker, who used to glide so gracefully from on high when he’d throw ‘em down … we’d refine and adjust our lists like safe-cracking thieves listening for confirming clicks til our waitress returns to put our plates down in front of us. 

Us just staring like beggars for a couple respectful seconds … and before reaching for the salt and pepper … one of us would certainly say Grace out loud … and oh my gosh … is there anything better than first bites?

Couple years ago a wise person gifted me the notion that, wherever we are, whenever we are, it’s an opportunity to ask the question, “What’s for me here?” It’s baked in the idea that things don’t happen to us, they happen for us. That we always have agency despite our circumstances. That’s among the reasons I remain soooooo inspired and grateful for both the act and the substance of your writing, Jim. I remind myself that the most important choice that you make is not this word or that word … it’s picking up the pen in the first place. 

Keep writing, my friend …  “

__ 

Got home after 9 p.m. just this past Friday night, after meeting my wife and son for a comfort-food-filled dinner after a long Friday that dropped anchor on an already long week.

Proceeded upstairs, slow-dragging eff bombs across a few of the steps, sloppy-mop-style, as my right knee reminded me it is just not happy with me these days.  

But before trudging down the hallway to get ready for bed, I stole a glance at the dining room table to see if there was any mail. 

Saw an envelope on the place mat in front of my chair. 

Stepped close enough to see my name scrawled in Jim’s persistent near-calligraphic hand. 

Thanked the universe aloud for giving my Saturday something to look forward to.

Next day … I exercised monk-like restraint in waiting until I was sitting in the front seat of my car in the parking lot across the street from where I’d just finished a transcendent Saturday morning coffee date with my niece …  to pluck Jim’s letter from my bag.

Whereupon I melted in place. 

There were two pages in the envelope. 

They weren’t photocopies. 

They were the genuine articles, hand-written on notebook paper. 

First page was a letter, dated Feb. 4. 

With Jim’s permission, this is what he wrote to me. 

“Pete, 

Thanks, your letter of imagining, shaking me out of my accustomed lethargy. 

Eliciting an immediate response, to your creativity — woke me up today. 

Dull winter days, lasting forever chill, testing my old will to find something new and challenging to do. 

Friends, like you, willing to take the time, and energy, to remember, with compassion, a lonely old man, far away, appreciated greatly — as we wait the renewed spring of life’s productivity. 

I daily, nightly, pray for all your family, for love, God’s strength, to enliven your hopes and activity. 

Keep sharing, and God be ever with you all. 

Love and care, 

Jim”

The note itself, poetry. 

But the second page contained the poem. 

Signed, dated and … 

"Dedicated to Pete and Son's Imagined day,"

Imagine That!

I salute man's unique gift of imagining,

bringing life to an entirely new world, 

of what might have been, 

setting his feet on streets where he's never been, 

feeling an intimate touch of impunity, 

looking into eyes never meant for me. 

Imagining, escape from a world of set destiny, 

freedom to create, in god-like accuracy, 

people, places and things, 

of sheer, imagined fantasy, 

perfectly fashioned and enjoyed, if only momentarily

my own separate world of autonomy. 

The coffee is perfect, the eggs even better,

the son at my side, a co-conspirator, 

not hindered by time, or other places to be, 

we idle, an hour, in a diner's protective imagery, 

reality forever bypassed, in this freedom's play,

to make a day go entirely our way. 

Having had our opportunity, in spite of a short dismay, 

life always has a way of disappointing us, 

I have created a whole new day, 

paper and pen and who's to say, 

which of the two will last the longest, 

in our time-clouded memory?

__

Oh my gosh.

I hope to some day write as well as Jim writes in his 90’s. 

My heart was singing the entire 37-minute drive home from where I’d met my niece for coffee. 

Had to pee by the time I pulled in the driveway.

Climbed upstairs and made a beeline for the bathroom that sits off my bed room. 

On my way back through, I instinctively grabbed an old journal off my unmade bed. 

Cracked it open to some random page that, it turns out, wasn’t random at all, and read the words I’d been moved to scribble on a page on some forgotten day some years ago … with only a vague hunch that my someday heart might need them to help me make sense of a cold world. 

A quote from Rick Rubin. 

“We share our way of seeing in order to spark an echo in others. Art is a reverberation of an impermanent life. Enduring affirmations of existence.”

__ 

From the thaw of a weekend-ruining blizzard … a poem for this world that would have never otherwise existed … 

… If I hadn’t imperfectly imagined what was lost … and shared my way of seeing it like thrown together soup

… to warm an old poet’s heart … moving him to write and share spring once again.

Every bit of all of it … nothing more and nothing less than the reverberations of impermanent lives. 

Enduring affirmations of our existence.   

A whole new day, paper and pen and who’s to say … 

which of the two will last the longest?

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Postcards

Ink-stained elegy ….

Disclaiming that I’m operating sans coffee this morning (boil water advisory in Washington County, which is so on-brand for a week and a world that could use some disinfecting), so please forgive any typos and dissents into incoherent, rambling despair ….

Broke my broken heart this week to read that Bezos eliminated the sports department at the Washington Post.

Poof.

As a former second-rate sports writer who knew enough to know what good sports writing looked like, knew enough to know his Murrays from his Boswells from his Angells from his Alboms from his Colliers from his Jenkins, knew enough to know that fields of play give professionals and teenagers the same Shakespearean stage to live out most of life’s tragedies and comedies, sometimes fairly, sometimes unfairly, but always truly, and that in the hands of the right deadline saint, the record could show as much, who knew enough to clip, underline, asterisk, and scribble down golden turns of phrases like collecting seashells for keeping hoping some of it might rub off, who knew enough to know that when he read Roger Kahn’s Boys of Summer that one summer that good sports writers were just good writers who happened to write sports, who knew enough to know that the local versions of those deadline saints who I got to watch and read up close were (and are) just as great, and even greater for shining and reflecting their good light without big spotlights, who knew enough to inhale the scent of a new edition like bread come midnight fresh off the the press before proofing it for the later editions, who knew enough to know that the smudge on your fingertips after reading was what made for a sacred act, who knew enough to know that tomorrow those pages would be lucky to line bird cages before being tossed in the trash so don’t get too full of yourself, who knew enough to know that it was one thing to hit it out of the print park once, but could you do it again tomorrow? And what about the next day? Who knew enough to know that love and commitment are proven only in the act of showing up again and again and playing hurt to stare down a blank page and a deadline, who knew enough to know that to love something with your whole heart is to miss it with whatever’s left of your whole heart when it’s gone, who knew enough to know that when his mid-50s self stumbled into that Waynesburg coffee shop last summer and saw they had a take-one-leave-one book shelf, he reached for the cover-stained, out-of-print edition of Sports illustrated Great Baseball Writing like he was rescuing it from a burning building …

… which he was.

Who knows enough to know that it would be hypocritical this morning to ask if he knows anyone who subscribes to the Atlantic and would they mind sending him a PDF of Sally (who did it as well as any ever did) Jenkins’ elegy, “You Can’t Kill Swagger” published a couple days ago … and that, in the asking lies the blood, like ink stains on my hands for not wanting to scale the paywall for a whole damn subscription.

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People / Places, Postcards

An Incomplete List of Things That Got Me Through the Last Week of F*cking January, 2026

While scrolling my Monday in-box last week, I was gifted language for something I have felt but never had words for. 

When I stumble across such treasure, I try and make a point to write the word down in my journal.

I think of it like picking up seashells along a beach. 

The word came courtesy of Creative Mornings, whose January theme came courtesy of their Tehran chapter. 

I’ve copied their explanation here. Don’t think they’d mind. 

کورسو or Koorsoo (pronounced Koor·Soo) is a Farsi word meaning a glimmer of hope.

“In our darkest hours, when everything seems to have dimmed, sometimes a light remains—not bright, not certain, but real. That is Koorsoo—a faint glimmer of hope that dares to survive. Koorsoo is not about triumph or clarity; it is about the fragile yet unwavering light that keeps us going. A glance, a memory, a word—small things that prevent collapse. It represents the quiet resilience of those who continue in spite of the weight, who believe without guarantee. In a world that often normalizes despair, Koorsoo is a rebellion—soft, but profound. It reminds us: even the smallest spark matters.” 

My Monday morning — by which I mean my January — needed that reminder …  

… almost but not quite as much as I needed caffeine driving up Main Street Thursday morning before work. 

Anymore, I find my days need some back-up … which is among the reasons I collect seashells … metaphorically keep them in my pockets … so I can run my hands over their contour to remember, to remind myself.

Sometimes when I get to the small coffee shop when it opens, the sun’s still low enough in the sky to bathe the interior bright. 

After giving my eyes a couple seconds to adjust, I noticed their humble logo reflected on an interior wall, crisp as a projection.

A fragile yet unwavering light.  

I asked Fiona if they knew when they built the place that the sun would reflect like that, or if that was just a happy accident. 

She wasn’t sure, but said it’s her favorite thing. 

If we only knew how our light reflects sometimes.

After paying for my double cortado to go, I handed her a little extra cash for a pay-it-forward.

Spoke aloud the names aloud of a handful of humans who had recently reserved some kind thoughts in their day for me.  

If we only knew how our light reflects sometimes.

Sitting here with my Sunday morning … a new month turned over … still needing reminders … still collecting sea shells … still remembering the importance of sharing our koorsoo with the world around us. 

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Righteous riffs

Thinking of you ….

Was downstairs and at my desk early yesterday morning. 

Didn’t sleep much or well. 

I was up and asking Alexa for the time every 20 or 30 minutes all the way from 2 until I pulled myself outta bed in surrender at 5:48.

Headspace is a fragile thing when I don’t sleep. 

Vultures circle. 

Downstairs I cracked open my laptop as mechanically as if brushing teeth, with nothing on my mind or heart.

Just started typing ….

“Dried out and crispy, flicking flint on stone, desperate for a spark.” 

Then I received a text.

Was early for a text. 

“Can you chat this morning?” 

Old college roommate.

Seeing his name made me smile.   

Lives on the other side of the state, doing the work of the angels. 

We’ll sometimes schedule cup-filling calls on our respective morning commutes.

Don’t recall a chat ever being impromptu. 

It’d been a few months since our last one.

Didn’t figure myself for good company, but I called him right away. 

Me: On your commute? 

He: Already parked and walking for coffee. 

Me: Is it a London Fog morning? 

He’s a big fan of the London Fog — Earl Gray tea, steamed milk, vanilla, hint of sugar.

“Tastes like a warm hug,” to quote my old roommate quoting one of his office colleagues. 

Sometimes I find myself ordering one when I see it on the menu.

Always makes me think of him.  

He: Ha, yes! I’ve been trying to cut back, though.

Me: Everything in moderation … to quote Ben Franklin. 

He: I just walked past his grave, actually. 

He really did … he passes Christ Church in downtown Philly on his morning pilgrimages for Warm Hugs. 

Our conversation was as spontaneous as his text.  

We bounced across topics like skipping stones … sleep, dispiriting Eastern winters, kids, family, work … making our days count. 

During which I began to feel the gears of my heart start to loosen.

In passing I mentioned a friend’s recent retirement. 

He said he’s got his own date, about a year out. 

He spoke about ‘ending well.’

Said it’s something that’s been on his mind a lot.

He referenced one of our previous conversations that’s stayed with him.  

I’d forgotten about it ’til he reminded me. 

During one of our previously scheduled caffeinated commutes, I talked about how there’s a big difference between things that end, and things that have an ending. 

How there’s a whole school of thought on the topic … called “endineering.” 

How it’s an under-appreciated facet of experience design in my, um, experience. 

How there’s a sturdy body of research that posits that the way an experience ends disproportionally weights participants’ memories — what they take away, what they remember — about it. (look up “Daniel Kahneman” and “Peak-End Rule,” ICYI).

 And yet … most things in our lives just … end.  

Friendships. 

Marriages. 

Jobs.

He said he’s mindful of the legacy he wants to leave with the people he touches … for those that come after him.

Not for the first time, I found myself inspired by my old roommates’ example.  

We were about 15 or so minutes into our chat when I guesstimated he was on his way back to the office with his London Fog. 

He affirmed such was the case. 

So I made sure our conversation … ended well. 

I broke the fourth wall.

Told him how perfectly timed his text was.

Thanked him for thinking of me.  

Let him know his simple text had single-handedly re-directed the trajectory of the day I was headed for. 

Reminded him to never underestimate his capacity to be awesome. 

He made a point to remind me of the same.

___

I can’t overstate the power inherent in the simple act of letting folks know when you’re thinking of them.

You will be astonished by the flowers that bloom from parched earth.

Your timing will never not be perfect.

It scatters the vultures. 

At least long enough to give our Thursdays a fighting chance. 

I will go to my grave (while mentally walking past Ben Franklin’s) shouting it from the rooftops.

The work of the angels, it is.

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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

__

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 asked the boy if wanted to 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,” said the freshly logged-in counter person. 

“She can’t lift with her one arm, so I have to carry things,” said the boy, carrying the conversation as responsibly as he did the box.

Over the next couple minutes of the transaction, the adults left space for the boy’s participation.

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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