Spill a little mustard on your shirt for Franktuary, which sunsetted its brick and mortar a few years back, but still operates a food truck here and there I hear.
Reverently prepared hot dogs.
Peter and I used to pilgrimage to their Lawrenceville location for boys day out Saturday lunches.
And like the great philosophers of antiquity, we’d spend the purgatory between our ordering and our munching engaging in spirited, hangry debates over the universe’s cosmic questions.
Does ketchup belong on a hot dog?
Answer: as you will consistently find across both your meat-eating eastern and western religions, the creator intended ketchup for hamburgers, mustard for hot dogs.
Are Franktuary’s fresh cut fries with garlic aioli better than Shorty’s fries with gravy?
Answer: What, in life, is truly objective? Just as Plato and Kant tussled with that hot potato across centuries … Peter and I staged “The Great Potato Debate” across many a table over the years. He was unequivocally Team Frankturary. Me? I was polytheistic on the matter. For the ultimate answer … ask God next time you see her.
Without irony, I believe that you can test the mettle of a good cathedral by the questions and conversations it engenders.
Once, while Peter and I were debating metaphysics, Heidegger, and the nature of being — by which I mean whether honey mustard was a salad dressing (Peter) or a condiment (me) — a father and young son, both dressed in Pirates jerseys, sat down at a booth across from us.
No sooner had they taken their seats when the son, maybe eight or nine, asked his Dad, “Who’s your favorite baseball player of all time?”
Which settled the question of God’s existence for me once and for all.
So last Saturday afternoon … my wife, son and I are sweating in the shade underneath our backyard deck, after triple-teaming the mowing and trimming in the high heat.
They ask me to come up with something fun for the evening.
This never happens.
They usually don’t trust me with The Decisions.
Admittedly, my track record’s … spotty.
Heat must’ve been fogging their judgement.
Sensing a fleeting moment, I brainstormed in earnest.
Found a movie I thought might fit the Venn diagram of our disparate interests — low-stakes, light-comedy with slapstick potential … no heavy themes or deep thinking required.
Showing in Squirrel Hill at their delightful, restored (and air-conditioned) downtown theater none of us had ever been to.
5:30 showing.
About an hour’s drive away from where we were sitting and sweating at 3:30 in the afternoon.
Gave us a good hour to get cleaned up.
Ran the idea past the committee, along with a suggestion for dinner afterwards.
No violent objections.
“Want me to buy tickets?”
Nods.
“We’ll have to leave by 4:30. Everybody good with that?”
Before locking it in, I made each of them give me a verbal … like they do for exit rows.
So four-thirty comes.
I’m showered, dressed and ready.
Karry, too.
I look out the window and see my son standing in the driveway.
Changing his oil.
I do a double-take.
Initiate seething protocols.
Walk outside.
Say the dumbest thing I can think of.
“You’re not changing your oil,” I say to the grown adult standing in front of me … holding a jug of oil.
Which prompts the following exchange
He: Be done in a minute.
Me: It’s 4:30.
He: It’s not going to take us an hour to get there.
Me: (clenching jaw, taking several seconds to locate the shit in my mind that I am losing … before temporarily regaining the power of speech) There are few things I hate more than missing the start of a movie. Just sharing the fact of that with you.
I turn and go back inside.
Seething level: roiling boil.
I can’t help myself.
The prospect of being late while waiting for others has always made me spiral.
When my oldest was younger, I spent a lot of time spiraling.
Oh, was he a dawdler.
Among the greatest of his generation.
No amount of yelling or cajoling could ever make him move any faster.
He kept time according to his own internal clock. Remarkably, he never let it stress him, either … no matter how much or how loudly it stressed those around him.
Pretty much grew out of it by college, though.
I hadn’t seen any evidence of it for years.
So … finding him in the driveway changing his oil at Agreed-Upon-Go-Time … reminded me how awfully I used to deal with it when I was a younger parent.
I knew (and remembered) enough to know that if I let Seething Protocols reach Def Con Hot Magma, the evening would not turn out well for anyone ….
And I could kiss any future contributions to The Decisions goodbye.
It was at that moment that Jim’s letter caught my eye, lying on the dining room table.
Had come in the mail that day.
It’d been weeks since I’d since I’d heard from him, since I’d last sent him something I’d written.
Knowing he’s in his 90s, and having come to expect his prompt (and extraordinarily wonderful) replies, I feared that maybe he’d been having health issues.
So when I saw his familiar hand-writing on the front of the envelope while fishing the day’s mail from the box, it immediately sparked both relief and joy.
Accompanying his letters are always recent poems he’s written. He writes them all out by hand, in near-calligraphic quality. Sends me photo copies.
I keep them all in an overflowing manilla envelope in the top drawer of the desk where I’m typing this.
He writes so beautifully and unflinchingly about his long life, about growing old. His verse bursts with both aliveness and ache, his words suffused with such wise noticings.
I hope to someday write as well as Jim does in his 90s.
While walking back from the mailbox, I decided on the spot to wait to open his letter … to give my Sunday something to look forward to.
But seeing it lying on the dining room table while feeling the minutes tick further and further past our agreed-upon departure, I could think of no better way to invest whatever time it would take for my son to shower and get dressed.
So I reached for Jim’s letter like it was a life preserver.
Which it was.
In every sense of the words.
I was right … he had had a health scare.
He wrote me from his bed at Washington Hospital, where he’d spent the previous four days in the care of doctors working to reduce the fluid in his lungs from his weakening heart.
“Many tests, few new answers, long-time problem.”
He was hoping to go home on the day he was writing me.
Yet, as he always does in his lovely letters, he described the beauty he was finding in the world around him.
Started by telling me how much he was enjoying the quality and variety of food they served him. And how grateful he was for the care and the company of the staff.
And then, this …
“Jesus, talks of ‘The least of these,’ … helping, dealing with, the least, lowest of these.
Allie, hospital pusher of wheelchairs, lowest of lowest hospital staff, pushing me today … 30-33 years old, plain, drab reddish color uniform.
My inquisitiveness, ‘Is Allie a short version of your full name?’
‘Yes.”
Silence.
‘Is your full name Alicia?’
‘Yes! You are the first person in my life to guess my full name!’
Amazed smile, new relationship … between lowly patient, and lowly pusher.
And another blessed, new friend today, to share my 91 years — of God’s gifts!”
The weakening but still beating heart of a humbled soul still fully alive and leaning his flickering candle to the world around him.
His words immediately reminded me of my Dad, who, even when — especially when — he was at his most vulnerable, would go out of his way to make the people around him feel good.
“Boy you’re good at this,” I remember him saying to the hospice caregiver while she was changing the sheets in his bed with him still in it.
“You sure know your way around this place,” I remember him saying to the orderly whisking him in his wheelchair during one of his frequent hospital visits.
To remain fully present to the world around you when forces are conspiring against you, even when you are at your most vulnerable?
Well, let’s just say that there’s a lot to be learned from the Jims and Neal Riddells of the world.
And from all those who keep time according to their own internal clocks.
Jim’s words convicted me.
Doused holy water on my Seething Protocols.
Reminded me that there are far more dire circumstances than being a few minutes late to a movie.
And, most importantly, reminded me to appreciate the blessings of our days.
Of triple-tag-teaming the yardwork.
Sitting and sweating in the shade.
Getting to choose.
Watching the Greatest Dawdler of All Time … still perfecting his craft.
By the time Jim’s Saturday sermon finished reading me, I was as grateful as an old army chaplain for the variety of hospital food he would soon be missing.
For the record, it was 4:43 when we locked the back door behind us.
As I spied Peter’s car in the corner of the driveway, I pointed to the empty bottle of motor oil resting on the ground in front of its grill.
Said to my son what I imagined my Dad would’ve said.
“Boy, you’re pretty good at taking care of your car.”
No heavy themes or deep-thinking required.
Thirty-nine minutes later … we walked into the darkened and wonderfully air-conditioned Theater #4 at the Manor.
My friend Doug texted me Thursday, which triggered the following exchange.
I was grateful to Doug for giving me something to look forward to.
Actually, two things.
First and foremost, the delight of his company … the gift of picking up the conversation we began when we met as drummers our freshman year at Waynesburg College.
Secondly, for the gift of the arriving.
Ever since April who cuts my hair closed her shop on High Street, I’ve missed driving to Waynesburg every fourth Saturday morning.
I miss driving through Washington just as it’s just waking up and hopping on Interstate 79.
I don’t take 79 the whole way to Waynesburg, though.
I fall in love at the Ruff Creek exit.
By the time I see the sign announcing two miles to Ruff Creek, I am almost giddy. After the exit’s abrupt stop sign, I ease past the gas station on the left and the Church on the right where the cop sat that one time.
Confirming the coast is clear, I politely punch it and take the two-lane roller coaster climb of a hill as if it’s the roller coaster itself, my one and only chance to clear any slow pokes content with letting life and me pass them by, so that by the top … the only thing in front of me are two lanes irresistibly wide open and waiting … the juiciest Jane Mansfield stretch of swerves and curves in all of Greene County.
Cue angel chorus.
Three sets of gently undulating left and right curves carved in an incline … tempting me and the GTI to a little Saturday morning orneriness.
At the first left, I leave the right lane and visit the passing lane, following the arc of the bend, and, as long as there are no other cars in sight, swing all the way back into the right as the road snakes.
Since the hill’s not quite done, I keep my foot on the gas so I can feel the pull into the curve until it releases me into the next left … and then gently back again into the far right.
By the third left, the sequence is doing the good work of my morning coffee. All of it taking less than a minute.
The loveliest little moment of aliveness.
The only-every-four-week sequence made it precious. Something to look forward to.
Something I’ve missed.
__
Saturday’s reminder of which was almost but not quite as good as the big bear hug Doug and I greeted each other with, before hunkering down in our cushy red booth.
After sharing my gratitude with Doug for his invitation, for the delight of his company, and the gift in the pilgrimage, we were deep into catching up on family, music, and books when he interrupted me.
He: “Still looking for your pay it forward?”
Me: “Yes!”
He: “An older couple just came in and sat down.”
We called our server over, who was more than happy to conspire with us.
“I’m going over to take their order right now.”
I stole a glance out of the corner of my eye.
Older married couple out for Saturday breakfast.
Late 60’s, maybe 70s. I’m a bad guesser.
I overheard the husband order Double Meat for his breakfast platter, which made me smile.
A man after my Dad’s quadruple-bypassed heart, I thought to myself.
I confessed to Doug that something about older couples always melts me.
Told him about being at the coffee shop last Saturday as a couple regulars I’ve seen before took the table next to me. It was freezing outside, so they were all bundled up. Kept their toboggans on the whole time.
They were adorable.
I wasn’t eavesdropping, but sitting next to them, I couldn’t help but notice.
They talked the whole time.
Genuine conversation.
Asked questions of the other.
Not a phone in sight.
Made each other laugh on more than one occasion.
When they left, I asked Nicole, who does the baking and who I heard call them by name, whether they were just friends or ….
“They’re married,” she confirmed. “They are just the sweetest.”
I said aloud how I hoped to live long enough to be an old couple who keeps their toboggans on while sipping their Saturday morning coffee.
I shared the above with Doug as we resumed losing ourselves in the swerves and curves of our conversation.
Asking questions of the other.
Making each other laugh on more than one occasion.
‘Til it was time to get on with our Saturdays.
When we got to the register to pay our bills, another customer was waiting for a to go order. I noticed she was wearing a Dairy Queen shirt.
I also noticed that the older couple had gotten up to leave, too, and were heading in our direction.
The wife had a lot of difficulty walking, so they were taking their time, her husband gently holding her arm as they made their way.
They chatted while they took the time she needed.
I apprehended that it wasn’t an easy choice for them to decide to go out for breakfast.
They probably don’t do it as often as they used to.
Which maybe made it something they looked forward to this week.
I imagined that their years together have taught them something of arrivings, too.
I melted in place.
When they got near the register, we and the DQ person stepped aside to let them pass between us — a humble Saturday morning honor guard — as the husband helped his wife to the restroom.
It took a minute for them to pass between us. Enough time for the husband to notice the DQ logo on the girl’s shirt, too.
“Peanut buster parfait,” he said, and smiled as he went past.
I hi-fived him in my head.
That was Dad’s favorite, too.
Standing in line with my friend at the register, waiting to pay our bills at the Bob Evans on a Saturday morning.
While waiting for Nicole to deliver the first of her always luminous — and my requisite two — Saturday morning cortados at the tiny, tender coffee shop on North Main (which you should totally visit), I was perusing the small packs of Commonplace Coffee for sale near the counter, whose blends are always intentionally dedicated (they have one inspired by WYEP — a sonic apothecary of Pittsburgh’s airwaves for the past 50 years — called ‘Morning Mixtape’ [swoon]). Commonplace Coffee is a tender haven in its own right nestled in Pittsburgh’s North Side (which you should totally visit).
Unbeknownst to me, on the back of every one of Commonplace’s coffee packs is a Walt Whitman poem, evidently the inspiration for their name.
Stumbling upon such treasure was as much medicine for my morning as Nicole’s perfect cortados.
And too good not to share with kindred spirits.
Here’s to waiting / to find Whitman waiting patiently / scribbled on the back of packs / whispering across centuries / reaching like seashells washed ashore / for humble travelers bowing their heads / searching for a little light / to lighten their loads
This is why people linger. Sometimes a place asks you to stay, to not rush anywhere, that it’s warm, and there’s the tap dancing water, and the powder blue sky, and they had the second floor to themselves. Josie felt that if anyone else came up there she would drive them away, she would throw a knife. This was now their home.
Heroes of the Frontier, Dave Eggers
Upstairs, the counter area is still very much holiday bustling, dense with people small business Saturday shopping, come for their caffeine. So sardine packed when I arrived, I had to stand in the other room while waiting for Emma to make me her perfect Saturday morning cappuccino. Upon collecting her offering, I walked through the crowded main room, all the way to the back, unlatched the gate, and went downstairs … which (exhale) I found empty and alone as a secret, as it usually is on Saturday mornings. All old stone walls and tables perfect and patiently waiting for customers who either don’t know they exist, or give the latched gate too much respect, or are just content with the quite content-able upstairs. I drop anchor in my favorite booth, the third one to the right along the wall. Put in my earbuds and summon Keith Hines on KCSM, just coming on for his 6 a.m. shift from the Bay Area, to quiet the din of upstairs and the world at large. Plug in my laptop. Pull out my journal and the Dave Eggers book that I have fallen madly in love with since Thanksgiving plucking it from the full City Lights brown paper bag that sits like a treasure chest on my bookshelf. Take a picture, which is to say a prayer, in reverence, commemorating the blessed gift of a Saturday coffee shop morning in the good company of jazz, a perfect book, and the blank page. Slow draw that first glorious sip, which is to say Amen, feeling it warm all the way down ….
Got to chat with my oldest sister yesterday morning … something we’ve been making more time for on our Saturdays the past few months. We’re not religious about it, but it’s something I think we’ve both grown to appreciate a lot (I know I have). We catch up on each other’s worlds and weeks, compare notes on what we’re both reading or watching, recent updates on our other siblings, our occasional health dust-ups, our erratic sleep habits, etc. Yesterday she mentioned looking into a volunteer program (she’s done a ton of volunteering over the past several years) that visits with veterans, just to listen and chat, and, if they’re up for it, to have them share their stories. I told her she’d be perfect for that program. She’s a veteran herself, having joined the marines out of high school, which to this day makes me so proud and in awe of her. And she’s always had a heart for spending time with older people. This past week she visited with the mom of one of her oldest friends to help with eye drops for cataracts. As has become part of our conversational ritual, I had a smile on my face by the time we said our good byes and I Love Yous.
I was running errands when she called me, and as we wrapped our conversation I pulled into a parking spot outside the tiny little coffee shop off North Main Street. I’ve been dropping in Saturday mornings for a here’s-to-the-weekend espresso, and the accompanying smile and kind word from whoever’s working behind the counter. When I walked in, an older gentleman with a Hemmingway beard was warming himself by the fire with a tall to-go cup of coffee. A shopping cart with his belongs sat next to him. After placing my order I sat down at the table across from where he was, taking the chair near the wall, putting the table and its other chair between us.
He let me know I could move his cart if it was in my way.
“Totally fine,” I said.
“I refer to it as my portable RV,” he said, with a soft laugh.
After a couple seconds, he added, “Sometimes in life it’s important to know how to improvise,” and, after a few more seconds, “One thing I’ve always believed is that you never stop learning, no matter how old you get.”
For the record I am awkward and awful at small talk in all its forms, and generally avoid it at all costs. So much so that in my prior visits to the coffee shop I’ve carried a book with me to fill the few minutes it takes for the barista to make my to go order. Yet ….
Letters for Maggie 