Tag Archives: noticing

Excursions, Postcards

Airing on the B-side of caution ….

Woke up Friday morning to … pestilence. 

Which comes from the Latin word pestilentia, meaning unhealthy or noxious, ICYI.  

Friday’s edition came from the wildfires in Canada, triggering some of the worst air quality ever recorded in these parts. 

Keeping in mind that these parts were once described as ‘hell with the lid off’ by journalist James Parton during the Industrial Revolution, one could say that noxious air is in our DNA.

And not mean it figuratively. 

Sigh. 

I planned to take Friday afternoon off. 

Last Christmas a friend’s wife (also a friend) messaged me that she was surprising her husband with tickets for a July concert, and asked if I’d go with him. 

I was touched that she thought of me.  

Then she mentioned that the band was Motley Crud.

Sorry, I let auto-correct do its thing there.  

I was never much of a Motley Crue fan growing up, though I was good friends with many who were.

In full disclosure I have zero desire to see Motley Crue in the Year of our Lord 2026.

But I told my friend’s wife the truth — that I appreciated her husband more than I detested the present vocal stylings of Vince Neil, and that I’d be honored to share in the light of her thoughtfulness. 

I had months to gird my loins for the darkness that is attending any concert at Star Lake Amphitheater. 

Which hasn’t been called that in proly 25 years, during which the venue has undergone a number of corporate sponsorship name changes, none of which anyone in my peer group acknowledges.

Why a company would pay money to put their name on something so awful remains a mystery to me. 

The worst part of the Star Lake experience is getting in and out of the venue, which, for big draws, can mean waiting in a line of cars for several hours on either side of a show. 

It’s unequivocally awful. 

All that said, heading into this week, I was looking forward to seeing my friend Mike.  

And if I allowed myself to squint at things, the idea of being outside with a good friend on a summer Friday night, in proximity to thirst-slaking beverage, even with ‘music-adjacent’ sounds wafting in the air… holds great appeal to me. 

But I can’t do pestilence.

On Friday I unplugged from work around 1 p.m., and left the house to run a couple errands. 

Stepping outside was awful. Just walking into the post office and back to my car was misery. At the bank I tried in vain to hold my breath from the parking lot to the front door. 

When I got home I called Mike and told him the truth — that while I was genuinely looking forward to spending time with him, I was genuinely dreading the idea of standing outside for several hours in the noxious pestilence. 

By which I meant the wildfire smog … not Vince Neil’s vocal stylings. 

I had to tap out. 

It broke my heart to tell him.

But Mike totally understood, his grace triggering the best exhale I would enjoy on Friday. 

I spent my unexpectedly open afternoon chipping away at the herculean task that is cleaning out our garage. 

A few hours later I came upstairs and asked Karry if she was up for grabbing a bite. 

After a long week she didn’t want to go far or be out long. 

There aren’t many good choices close to us.

We made the cardinal error of getting in the car without first choosing a destination.

Which we will never — ever — do again.  

For reasons I cannot explain but will forever regret, we ended up in the Olive Garden parking lot. 

Before getting out of the car, Karry cautioned that we should skip the salad. 

For the record, aside from the post-meal Andy’s Candies, the bottomless salad is the only thing I enjoy at Olive Garden.

I suggested we consult the Internet. 

So for the evening’s amuse bouche, we scrolled the interwebs for a pre-dinner primer on the diarrhea-causing parasite cyclospora, which appeared to be confined to a supplier of Taco Bells.

“Internet seems to think we’re OK here,” I reported. 

We exited the car and I walked to the front door breathing into the crook of my arm like a capeless Dracula. 

As we waited to be seated, a staff person approached. 

“Just so you know, we’re out of lettuce,” she said. 

Sigh.  

They sat us in a corner booth. Server took our drink order. Karry ordered an iced tea with lemon. 

“We’re out of lemons.” 

I was going to order a water with lemon. 

When life gives you lemons, it’s hard to make lemonade … when life takes away your lemons. 

While perusing the menu at Olive Garden, I may have set a world record for the longest uninterrupted exhale during a Code Maroon air-quality alert.

“Can I get you some soup?” our server asked after bringing our lemon-less beverages. 

I always go for the salad, but remembered that Olive Garden has a wedding-soup-adjacent option that’s not on the menu, and asked for that. 

Karry likes their chicken gnocchi soup. 

When our server returned with our bowls, she asked if we’d like grated cheese. 

I’m conditioned to always answer that Olive Garden question in the affirmative. 

I love cheese on my bottomless salad. 

And on my pasta. 

I said yes out of habit. 

Whereupon I discovered that God did not intend the meatballs in their wedding-soup-adjacent soup to be cheesed. 

It was just … wrong.

Karry noticed the involuntary rictus conquering my face. 

Incidentally, I think Involuntary Rictus may have been Motley Crue’s opener at Star Lake.

Not that I looked. 

“Is it OK?” 

“It’s awful,” I said, dropping my spoon in the bowl. 

I realize that it proly didn’t help that I still had diarrhea-causing parasites on my mind.

“Can I get you something else?” our server asked when she returned to take our meal orders. 

Though I was still reeling, my brain remembered how much I enjoy saying the syllables “pah-stuh-fah-ZOOL,” which splashed some metaphorical lemon-less water on my face. 

Karry went with eggplant. I went lasagna. 

I swear it only seemed like two minutes before our server returned with our entrees. 

“Careful, these are hot,” she said as she gingerly put our plates down in front of us. 

“Would you like some cheese?” 

Even in the recent wake of the fouling of my soup, there’s only one answer to that question. 

“Bring it,” said the voice in my head as I nodded.

I let her pile a small ebenezer of grated cheese atop my smokin’ hot lasagna. 

“That was fast,” Karry said after our server left and we stared at our steaming dishes. 

Startlingly so.

I noticed that the sauce had been baked dry on both our plates in their apparently impressively and insanely powerful ovens. 

All eight corners of our two dishes were a little scorched. 

Not awfully so … just a couple exits north of gooey. 

Seemed on point in a world where everything seems on blast these days.  

“At least they’re done,” Karry said.

My wife possesses a subtle gift for matching dry times with dryer humor.

Not sure she’s trying to be funny … but I appreciate it nonetheless. 

Just like I appreciate how OG does its best to create ambience with a playlist overly reliant on Dean Martin. 

In my experience there are few circumstances in life that cannot be made less grating by sprinkling some aged Rat Pack on it.

Listening to Dean-o crooning “a love as warm as wine” to his Innamorata made me appreciate sitting in a corner booth on a Friday night, across from the person whose hand I love to hold more than anyone else’s in the world.

I mean, if you squint at it, it was almost a classic scene from an Italian-adjacent restaurant.  

“We should’ve gone to Angelo’s,” my Innamorata said a couple minutes later. 

Angelo’s is a local institution, and everything you want in a family-run red-sauce cathedral. 

Only like five minutes from our house. 

Last time we went we were delightfully reminded/surprised how good it was.

Which is why we will never — ever — get in the car again without locking down a destination first. 

After bringing Karry a to-go box to re-plant her eggplant, our server asked if we wanted any dessert.

I shook my head no.

“Do you like the candies?” she asked. 

“I have been saving room for dessert,” said the voice in my head as I nodded. 

She dropped a fistful on the table along with our check. 

It was the only time all night she didn’t ask me if I’d like some cheese.

Make no mistake … I would’ve said yes.

Karry took one mint and let me have the rest. 

I’m not saying that unwrapping a fistful of Andy’s Candies and popping them in my mouth like Percocet made me forget all about diarrhea-causing parasites, rictus-triggering cheese soup, scorched corners, and the noxious pestilence awaiting us outside.

It would take more than all the lemons that Olive Garden didn’t have to make lemonade out of that. 

I’m just saying that sitting in a corner booth Friday night staving off existential crisis, I had a lot of feelings. 

And I proceeded to eat all of them. 

“You ready?” Karry asked. 

And as we got up and walked to the front door, I raised my right arm to re-crook my nose as Dean Martin was forced from the stage by the evening’s headliner … involuntary rictus. 

But if I allowed myself to squint at things, what propelled me forward as I tried in vain to hold my breath on the way back to the car was a lyric from, if not my favorite, my least-detested Motley Crue song of all time. 

I’m on my way … I’m on my way … home sweet home. 

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Fathers and Sons

Soft distances …

While in Richmond for some family medical appointments, I talked my son into getting up and going for a run along a trail close to where we were staying.  

We negotiated an 8 a.m. departure. It was still drizzling when we parked the car and walked over to the trailhead. 

“You want to run together or do our own thing?” he asked. 

I appreciate that he always asks, even though we both know the answer. 

Much faster than me, he typically targets a pace when he runs. 

Anymore I pray in soft distances.

“Do our own thing,” I replied as always, never wanting to hold him back. 

Over the next couple minutes, I watched the back of his shirt get smaller and smaller until it disappeared into the trail’s twisting curves. 

So I was surprised when, about 10 minutes later, I came upon him again — stopped and holding his phone in front of him. 

“What’s up?” I asked, pausing the podcast in my ears. 

“It’s my favorite bird,” he said. 

I didn’t know he had a favorite bird, let alone …

“Wood thrush,” he answered, before I could ask. 

I realized he was recording, not taking photos. 

“Listen ….” 

His one-word invitation disappeared the static of the world … and let the pure signal reach my parched ears. 

And for a good half minute, we stood next to each other in silence.

Rapt and enraptured. 

Alive in our tracks.

By a small invisible thrush in a vast forest. 

Singing its natural anthem … over a whispering drizzle as cool and coaxing as brushes on a snare drum.

“He’s going through all his tunes,” Peter said, just as I caught the crispest “Ee-oh-lay” — the trilling, thrilling middle and most recognizable of the three-part hymn ‘common’ (in name only) to the male of the species.

The whole time I was mindful that we were simultaneously inconsequential to the proceedings and possibly the most grateful audience he’ll ever perform for. 

After his last note, I held my breath a couple extra seconds — the same greedy and hopeful feeling I always feel after the last firework — just in case he felt like taking another chorus. 

Exhaling broke the spell.  

And we gathered ourselves … as if after a benediction. 

Peter put his phone away. 

I put my podcast back in my ears. 

He took off in front of me. 

And I watched the back of his shirt get smaller in the distance before disappearing once again in the twists of the trail.

As I followed him at a soft distance, I was still warm from having received something significant … the gift of standing next to my son while listening to his favorite bird singing arias in the rain. 

And I prayed the futile and selfish prayer I sometimes pray after a good sermon  — that I will remember this … and cling to it … when the noisy world comes hard for my heart.

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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, also a 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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Postcards

Small Things ….

Paused for a coffee on my way to a morning medical appointment. 

Got in line behind a guy in the middle of picking out a bunch of stuff. 

“Gimme a couple of those, and one of those,” he said, pointing at the pile of yesterday’s pepperoni rolls they keep on the counter, and the breakfast burritos warming in a case next to the register. 

Looked to me like he was being spontaneously thoughtful. Like it had just occurred to him to pick up some goodies to surprise whoever his peeps were.

I’m a sucker for spontaneous thoughtfulness. 

After confirming that he meant ‘two’ for ‘a couple,’ the young person behind the counter reached for the pepperoni rolls.

After she picked one up, I heard her say softly to herself, “Oh, that one’s small,” then watched as she put the pepperoni roll she had in her hand back … and pull another out from the bottom of the pile.

The guy didn’t see her do it. 

Had already skooched to the side to wait for his stuff.

Struck me as both the smallest thing and the biggest thing.  

When it was my turn in line, I told her I appreciated how she put the small one back. 

She smiled. 

“Yeah, I can’t help it,” she said. “I always think about what I’d want, you know?”

I wanted so much to say, “Me too!” 

Because that’s how I think about things … though I don’t sell yesterday’s pepperoni rolls for a living.  

“Even when I pick something out of the case, I try and look for the ‘good’ ones,” she added.

What I loved about how she put it is that I knew exactly what she meant, without having any idea exactly what she meant.

Just that it had nothing to do with whether anybody else noticed.

I don’t know why something so small that wasn’t meant to be seen moved me so much. 

I mean … if they keep sellin’ like yesterday’s hot cakes, somebody might eventually get the pepperoni runt, … so does it even matter? 

I dunno. 

Maybe because it’s been my experience that how you do the small things is how you do the big things. 

Or maybe I just need reminded sometimes that there are others out there trying to look for the good ones, too. 

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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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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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