Was driving my daughter to the airport late last week, when we got behind a pickup truck pulling a porta-potty on a trailer.
As one does.
After a minute the porta potta began losing its sh*t.
Streams of toilet paper started emanating from the bottom of it.
I tried in vain to make sense of what was, um, unfolding in front of us.
“Wait … what is happening?” I said out loud.
At first they were like streamers.
It looked weirdly … festive.
Like a porta-party-potty … or something.
Then, the streamers started coming free.
I started screaming like a coed in a slasher flick.
My daughter, who was on a phone call with her doctor, turned and violently shushed me.
I pointed in front of us and whisper shouted, “This is the most awful thing I’m capable of imagining right now.”
But then the rational part of my brain grabbed the steering wheel from the fight-or-flight part, and reasoned that, if the paper is … billowing, then it’s … dry … so it’s probably just spinning off the roll(s) inside?
I’m not sure my driving brain has ever worked harder trying to connect dots.
Then the porta-potty just starts freely releasing toilet paper from its, you know, back end.
Hard not to see this as the metaphor for our times.
It was like Spider Man shooting webs I tell you.
Like the guy driving the truck was pressing a button on the dash or something.
When a speeding interstate porta potty starts rapid-fire releasing long strips of toilet paper directly in front of you that immediately catch the wind and fly every which way, the urge to dodge is … dangerously strong.
Couple hit my windshield and I almost lost my mind.
“This is not happening!” I yelled.
“Ewwwwwwwww!” Emma screamed in the phone to her doctor.
All around me toilet paper started catching on other vehicles … and sticking.
Wait … maybe it wasn’t dry?
I couldn’t even.
All of a sudden I found myself surrounded by an interstate posse of ‘just married’ honeymoonerpoopers.
The potty was letting long strips of TP go as generously as Vegas Elvis tossing scarves from the stage.
Except grosser.
Way, way grosser.
I just thought by sharing maybe I could, um, wipe the episode from my mind.
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.
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.
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.
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 wanted to be outside this morning, before things got too hot.
Chose the cemetery for a couple reasons.
Shade, for one. Lots of trees.
I like the ups and downs, too. Lets you choose your own adventure, depending on whatever ambitions you bring with you.
I’ve also found that it’s just a good space for reflection … remembering … reminding oneself.
I park in a small pull over that can fit three or four cars, depending. Was still stretching out when someone pulled in next to me. I saw it was an older fella. I was going to wish him a Happy Fourth, but he was taking his time getting out of his car, so I just set off.
The route I usually choose starts with a downhill (I like to be kind to myself), and then a short climb under a canopy of pines, from where it drops a little before flattening out to a roundabout, where I will just do some loops for some easy distance, before hitting a straightaway that takes me past where I parked.
Midway through my first loop, I saw the gentleman who had parked next to me. I’m bad at guessing ages, but based on his silver hair, I’d put him a bit north of 70. He’s shorter in stature, but solid.
He walks with two walking poles.
Not fast, but persistent.
I waved as we passed.
“It’s good to be outside on the Fourth of July isn’t it?” I said.
“Yes it is,” he said.
And then I did this thing that I do sometimes, when I’m out for a run and encounter elders doing their outdoor things.
It might be a by-product of the endocannabinoids that get released in my brain when I’m moving. I’ve noticed that they like to take over my broadcast system sometimes.
I turned back around and said, “I just have to say … you inspire me.”
He looked up at me and smiled, surprised.
“I just have walking sticks,” he said, somewhat sheepishly.
And I said the true thing that I say sometimes.
In so many words, that there is no such thing as ‘just.’
“Well, I hope to live as long and be as wise as you someday, and get to enjoy being outside on the Fourth of July.”
“Well, I am enjoying it,” he confessed.
Then, for good measure, my endocannabinoids bid him adieu with a, “God bless ya’ sir.”
And we went on our respective ways.
Continuing past where I parked, there’s a straightaway that passes in front of the cemetery’s crematorium — or what my daughter affectionately termed the “Easy-Bake” during our Covid walks — and up a hill where I like to take a right and descend to another small roundabout that overlooks the veterans’ cemetery.
In the lead-up to Memorial Day, they put flags on all the markers and gravestones, and leave them up through the summer. The flags catch the natural breezes of the hill, and are always fluttering, which I always find moving as I am moving.
Among the things I appreciate about the fluttering flags is how they invite your attention.
“Looky here,” they say.
Which reminds me that the flags’ stars and stripes aren’t meant to be the stars.
What’s sacred is the ground beneath them.
This past Memorial Day I remember pausing at the roundabout. For some reason I felt compelled to slowly scan from right to left across the field to try and register each one of the flags on each one of the headstones.
Felt like a respectful thing to do.
I’m not sure how many veterans are buried there … a couple hundred at least.
As I scanned, it occurred to me how the graves spanned across many generations, commemorating service personnel from different places, backgrounds and homes. Who all answered and honored the same call, each for their own reasons, if they had a choice. Whose lives were probably all changed in different and complicated and meaningful ways — some ended — by their experiences in uniform.
The flags always catch me the way the breeze catches them.
Passing by them this morning, I felt compelled to capture the scene … for posterity.
Felt like a respectful thing to do.
I was barely a couple seconds into filming when the sun peeked from behind a cloud and cast the large flag behind me that anchors the overlook.
And all of a sudden I was standing in the big flag’s shadow …
… overlooking a Veterans’ cemetery …
… in a small town named for the man who once referred to the country’s then-new government as “the last great experiment, for promoting human happiness,” …
… on the Fourth of July of that experiment’s 250th birthday.
Standing still in the shadow of all of that, I found myself deeply moved.
And so I did my best to reflect … to remember … to remind myself.
My hunch — and this might have been the endocannabinoids talking — was that not many of the souls buried in front of me spent a great deal of time patting themselves on the back. That, when their service was done, they likely appreciated that what they came back to — country-wise and life-wise — was still very much a work-in-progress. With just as much work to do as had been done.
I’m hoping that each one of ‘em at least took a measure of pride in having done their small part in keeping it going and giving the whole experiment a chance.
After taking a moment to pay my respects … I picked up my stride again … just grateful to all those who came before me for the gift of being outside on the Fourth of July before it gets too hot.
And I said the true thing that I say sometimes.
In so many words, that there is no such thing as ‘just.’
May this experiment live long enough to get to be as wise as our small town’s namesake and country’s first president.
May we re-commit to the goal of promoting human happiness for all and co-create a world that promises no more and no less than what a good cemetery does — all the ups and downs you want, but letting you choose your own adventure, depending on whatever ambitions you bring with you.
May we close the gap between the truths and unalienable rights that Jefferson knew were self-evident to our creator, but still very much work-in-progress to those of us standing in our creator’s shadow.
And even if we don’t live long enough to see its fullest manifestation, may we at least persist long and far enough to inspire younger striders with our walking sticks.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Letters for Maggie 