Where others might commission tattoos, I have … t-shirts.
I fall in love with too many things and am way too scrawny to commit to tattoos.
I can be pretty much summed up by and/or reduced to the Billy Collins’ poem, “Aimless Love.”
“But my heart is always propped up in a field on its tripod, ready for the next arrow.”
Much to the chagrin of my wife (and my closet), I find t-shirts inexhaustible objects for my affections.
While shopping local a couple months ago, I stumbled upon the most wonderful creation, whose artist happened to choose a t-shirt for their canvas.
The above captures Forbes Field’s manual scoreboard the moment right before Bill Mazeroski cemented his baseball legacy on Oct. 13, 1960 — the second before his Game7-World-Series-winning home run off the Yankees’ Ralph Terry in the bottom of the ninth inning.
For me it was love at first sight.
So I was bummed when, the day after I ordered, I got an email from Wild Card in Lawrenceville, informing me they were out of larges … and asking me if I’d be interested in a medium instead.
But then I noticed a second email from Wild Card in my in-box. From the same person. Mentioning that if I wanted to try the medium, she’d send me a self-addressed return envelope in the slim (ha) chance it didn’t fit.
Who does that? Wild Card in Lawrenceville does.
Turns out, the medium suited me as kindly as Ralph Terry’s high fastball did Maz.
First time I wore it, I thought of a kindred spirit who would appreciate it.
Texted a pic of my proud torso to my friend Jeff.
His reply reeked of pure Pittsburgh serendipity.
Get this: turns out I actually know the person who designed the shirt.
Not only that, it was Jeff who introduced us a few years ago.
How’s that for a confluence?
Jeff shot me the number of his good friend, Nick, who I texted immediately, informing him of the wellspring of exponential Pittsburgh joy presently emanating from my torso.
“Ha … I think that’s my favorite, too,” Nick replied all the way from LA, where he now lives with his acclaimed-author-and-TV-writing- wife and family.
He summed up the inspiration for the design so perfectly and profoundly.
“Next pitch changes everything.”
Wow.
__
I’ve been walking around with Nick’s words in my pocket ever since our serendipitous exchange.
They keep grabbing me by my collar and shaking me awake.
We are all always only a pitch away from everything changing.
For the better … if you happened to be wearin’ black and gold on Oct. 13, 1960.
Or for worse, if you were wearin’ pinstripes.
Our existence is nothing but precious and fragile.
Yet always pregnant with possibility.
Which makes the choice of putting good into the world — even in something as temporal as a t-shirt — a sacred act.
As sacred as any kindness requiring intention … a self-addressed return envelope just in case, as an example.
If it wasn’t for the kind gesture of the person at Wild Card, I may not have ordered the shirt, and wouldn’t have thought of Jeff, wouldn’t have learned that I knew the designer, would never have sent Nick my gratitude, and would have gone a lifetime missing out on the golden wisdom he drew from Mazeroski’s heroic act.
Our tiniest gestures can be oxygen for campfires … that remind us that we’re connected in ways we can’t even imagine.
Was saddened to learn of the recent passings of a couple humans who were both significant figures in my musical growings up … Bob Mascia and Ralph Bill. Sending love and condolences to their families and to all that loved them and will miss them.
They both influenced a ton of young musicians, having both served as band directors at Brownsville High School. I believe Bob may have actually followed Ralph in the role.
I was not one of their band students.
And I only really knew them for a fraction of my life, which was even a smaller fraction of theirs. But though I hadn’t seen either in decades, knowing them was — and will always remain — meaningful.
As does the fact that I’m writing this on an otherwise nameless summer Sunday afternoon.
__
I was 13 years old and standing in the kitchen after school one day while Mom was getting dinner ready.
When Dad came home from Sherwin Williams, walked in the kitchen and promptly informed me — outta nowhere — that he’d signed me up for drum lessons. And that he’d already met with the teacher, and made it clear that I was to learn all styles of music, “not just rock,” (I can still hear Dad’s voice emphasizing those words) … including waltzes, bossa novas, cha-chas, rhumbas, tangos, and of course, jazz and swing.
The specificity with which he relayed his expectations made it all feel like a foregone conclusion. But I was an agreeable kid, and drums were cool … so my reaction was along the lines of, “Ok.”
Bob was my drum teacher. He graduated high school with my older sister Missy (she reminded me that Bob played the lead in the high school musical their senior year – The Music Man — while she played piano).
At the time of Dad’s kitchen conversation, Bob was playing steady in a local rock band and filling in with a few others, including the group my Dad played with — Sammy Bill’s Orchestra.
Gave drum lessons on the side downtown at Ellis’ Music Store.
First thing I learned?
Drums don’t start cool.
I got a pair of sticks and a rubber pad the size of a piece of Texas Toast.
Was informed that I had to learn snare drum before I’d be allowed anywhere near a set. For my parents, it was like a stay of execution.
Bob taught me how to read music, how to count quarter notes, eighths and sixteenths, what triplets were, how to bounce my sticks for open rolls. Graduated me to Charles Wilcoxin’s rudiments … paradiddles, drags and ruffs, and rolls of every dynamic, shape and size: fives, sevens, nines, seventeens, with an odd eleven and thirteen thrown in for good measure(s).
I was always somewhere between good and bad, never quite religious in my practicing.
But I stuck with it.
And a couple years into lessons, Dad surprised with the best Christmas present I’d ever receive — a set of Pearl drums from Ellis’.
I began alternating my weekly lessons with Bob between set and snare.
I remember my very first lesson on set, Bob teaching me the building blocks of how to assemble a couple basic beats.
Eighth notes on the hi-hat with my left hand (I’m a lefty), backbeat on two and four with my right on the snare, opening the high hat with my right foot on the ‘and’ of one and closing it on ‘two.’ Gave me two variations for the bass drum — four on the floor, and an alternate where the kick drum hit on “one” and “three-and.”
I still remember the exhilaration of the first time getting all four limbs to hold a groove.
It was a teenager’s equivalent of pedaling a bike under your own power for the first time. The inexpressible freedom that comes from being responsible for your own locomotion in the world. I can tell you the feeling’s the same whether the locomotion is physical or sonic. The Big Bang it was to me.
At last, drums were cool.
Occasionally I’d arrive a few minutes early for my Saturday morning lesson, climb to the top of the steps and find Bob just messing around on the kit.
Oh, was he a monster.
Every time I heard him play, from the first time to whenever the last may have been, I was in awe.
Got to hear him play once with Sam’s band. Though he held back for the kind of dance music they performed, he still couldn’t help overflowing the banks with his prowess.
It’s hard to keep a Ferrari tame.
__
Fast forward to the summer after ninth grade.
I was in the kitchen on an otherwise nameless Sunday afternoon, Mom fixing an early dinner since Dad had a gig that night. They played every third Sunday at the Moose in Perryopolis, three easy hours for an always appreciative crowd. Dad always loved that gig.
It had rained all afternoon, torrential summer thunderstorms … the kind that percussively pummeled and waterfalled rain on the aluminum awning on our tiny front porch.
The phone rang and I remember walking from the kitchen to answer it. It was Sam, calling to let my Dad know that the Moose had lost power from the storms and that the gig was cancelled.
I remember Dad being bummed, but also relieved to get his Sunday night back so he could prep for work the next day.
About 45 minutes later, we were eating dinner at the table when the phone rang again. It was Sam calling back to say that the power had come back on at the Moose … so the gig was on.
So Dad resumed his gig-prep ritual, getting a shower, doing his teeth (which took a good 30-45 minutes. I’m not sure there was ever a trumpet player more meticulous about his teeth), laying out his suit, his mute bag, etc.
No big deal.
Until the phone rang for a third time. Sam again. He’d gotten a hold of everyone except Bob. In the age before cel phones, when answering machines were still a novelty, you either got a hold of someone or you didn’t. Sam figured that Bob must’ve gone out to eat or something after learning that the gig was off.
“Tell Pete to get ready, just in case Bob doesn’t call me back,” Sam told my Dad.
Upon which I promptly started freaking out.
I’d tagged along on a couple of my Dad’s gigs, had listened to a couple cassette tapes of the band he’d given me, so I wasn’t completely unfamiliar with the music. But my drums had never left my practice room. I didn’t even have cases for them. I remember taking them apart that afternoon for the first time, afraid I wouldn’t remember how they went back together. When I wasn’t freaking out, I was praying that Sam would call back saying he’d gotten a hold of Bob.
Alas, a fourth call never came.
The rain had long since stopped by the time Mac came to pick us up. I remember carrying my cymbal stands out one by one, gingerly laying them down in the back of his Chevy Suburban, covering them with blankets so they wouldn’t be tempted to roll.
When we were done loading the truck, Mac commented, “They look like dead bodies.”
Not the encouragement I was looking for.
When we got to the Moose, Dad helped me set things back up and bought me a Pepsi to calm my nerves. Sam loaned me an oversized tux jacket, and a gratuitously large, velvet, clip-on black bow tie that wore crooked.
I’ll never forget his only instruction to me, which he delivered with his signature calmness: “As long as you begin and end with the rest of the band, you’ll be fine.”
By the time everybody tuned up and gathered on the bandstand, I was in full panic. I gave my full attention to Sam’s every word and gesture, locking into the tempos as he counted off the tunes.
But once a tune shoved off from shore, one person became my life preserver — Ralph, Sam’s son, who played keyboard. I hyper-focused on Ralph’s left hand, which he used to play the bass lines. Ralph’s left hand told me everything I needed to know about each tune … whether it was a foxtrot, a jump tune, a bossa nova, cha-cha … on down the line.
I remember little else about that evening other than surviving the longest three hours of my life … thanks to a constant stream of advice and encouragement from Alice (our singer) and the guys in the band.
When it was over, I gratefully collected their smiles and handshakes, and then collected myself before turning my full attention to trying to remember how to tear my drums back down. Then Sam came over to me. Asked me to put out my hand.
Into which he put $25 … my share of the evening’s take.
I still can vividly recall my 15-year-old self’s feeling of surprise and exhilaration as I stared at the money in my hand. It felt like a million bucks to me.
In that humble transaction, I went from being a scared-shi*tless 15-year-old to being a professional musician.
I remember Bob making a point of that during my next lesson.
“No, I’m not,” I tried to quickly dismiss.
“You were paid for your services … that makes you a professional,” Bob informed me, setting the record straight.
Sam paying me was only the second most significant thing he did that night, though.
He asked if I’d be his regular drummer.
He said he was looking for someone who could make all the gigs. Bob sometimes played with other groups, forcing Sam to find subs. He wanted someone steady.
I can tell you with 100% certainty that there was nothing in my performance that evening that earned me the invitation. And I never grew to be more than one-tenth the drummer Bob was. But I never gave Sam a chance to reconsider his offer.
And, you know what? Bob never said a single word about my displacing him.
So, for the next 13 years, I got to share a bandstand with my Dad.
And with Ralph, too.
__
When I think of Ralph, I think of how much fun he had while playing music. When his hands weren’t on the keys, he kept the band in stitches telling jokes. From the moment we’d arrive at a hall through set-up. Between sets. While we were tearing down and loading up. How he loved making people laugh.
And, oh how he loved good food, too. The more unpretentious the surroundings, the better, as far as he was concerned. I can still hear Ralph saying, “You can’t eat atmosphere,” a line that I still quote to this day whenever I find myself enjoying delicious food in less than fancy surroundings. I credit Ralph every time I quote him.
__
As I was driving Route 40 towards Brownsville a couple Wednesday’s ago to pay respects at Ralph’s visitation, I found myself thinking of all the New Year’s Eve gigs we played together. After playing Auld Lang Syne at midnight, the band would stand up and we’d shake hands. I always set my drums up next to Ralph’s keyboard, so Ralph’s was usually the first hand I’d shake in the new year. I can say as I write this I now consider that an honor.
When I got to the funeral home, I spent a few minutes looking at the old photos they had placed around the room, mostly of Ralph’s life in music and love of family. There were a couple pictures of Sam’s old bands, one from the very early days, and a later one from when we played together. Sam in the front row in his white tux, Ralph smiling from behind the keyboard. Dad in the middle of the trumpet section, and me in crooked bow tie and glorious mullet.
“So many of them are gone, now,” Ralph’s wife Hillary said of the photo, when I offered my condolences. “Sam, now Ralph, your Dad … Roger … Diz.”
It’d been about 25 years since we’d last seen each other. Hillary used to come on some of the gigs. I invited Karry on a couple New Year’s Eves and they’d keep each other company.
“I remember the first time you played,” Hillary recalled. “You wrapped your drums in blankets.”
I told her that Ralph’s left hand was pretty much responsible for getting me through that first gig. And how much I treasured those times.
On my way out, I signed the registry, taking note of the names of some of the guys I was fortunate enough to play with all those years ago.
I didn’t stay long.
Just long enough to be reminded of days of Auld Lang Syne, and what good days those were.
Learning of Bob’s passing barely a week later … I was reminded that none of those days would have even been possible without Bob’s presence in my life … and his absence one rainy Sunday afternoon.
Met a friend for lunch Tuesday while attending a conference in Austin.
He kindly let me check my roller bag to his room at the conference hotel so I wouldn’t have to schlep it.
After lunch I had a couple work calls. Last one finished up right before I had to leave for the airport.
Perfect timing.
Called an Uber.
Traffic to the airport was starting to choke a bit, but I’d left myself plenty of time.
Thirty minutes into my ride, just as we were pulling into the exit for Departing Flights, I got the sickest feeling in my the pit of my stomach …
… accompanied by the biggest Oh Shit moment.
Sheepishly I asked the driver, “Um, excuse me … Did I put a bag in the trunk?”
He eyed me quizzically in the rear view mirror.
Shook his head no.
“No bag,” he said.
I forgot to retrieve my checked bag before leaving for the airport.
Yep, I did that.
As an onset of panic claimed my extremities, I asked the driver if he could return me to the hotel.
Shook his head no again.
He’d already accepted another fare.
I didn’t have time to ride back and get my luggage myself, anyway.
So he dropped my bagless ass off at the curb.
I thought for a second.
Looked up the hotel.
Realized that, not only had I not stayed at the hotel, the bag was in my friend’s name, not mine.
Got bounced around until they connected me to the service manager, Clarissa.
I explained my situation, trying to sound as un-sketchy as possible while completely freaking the eff out.
She thought for a second, before suggesting I try calling another Uber to the hotel to ‘just’ pick up my bag and bring it to me at the airport.
“Can you do that?” I asked.
Through the phone I could almost hear her shrugging her shoulders in “Uh … beats me?” uncertainty.
So I hung up and tried calling an Uber to the hotel to pick up my bag.
The app asked me to double confirm myself as the passenger, since it could tell my phone was, um, already at the airport.
I lied and confirmed that the ride was indeed for me, since there wasn’t an option for “You’re not going to believe how large of an idiot I am.”
Surprisingly.
I immediately called Clarissa back to give her the name of my driver (Daimir), his make and model (black Chevy Traverse) and his arrival time (5 minutes).
“Ooh. Let me run to the front desk to get your bag. Then I’ll take it down to valet and explain the situation to them,” she said, suggesting I also give the driver a heads up on what to expect … before he arrived.
In the app I could see Daimir’s progress to the hotel.
I waited until he got close-ish (out of fear my unusual request might make his skittish) before I messaged him (Daimir prefers messages, according to the app) to let him know he’ll be scooping up just, you know, a bag.
I hit send and prayed.
Watched the dancing dots … indicating he was messaging me back.
Held my breath.
“I got you,” he said.
Exhale.
My flight was scheduled to leave at 5:50 p.m.
It was on-time.
Of course it was.
Made me shake my head since all three of the family’s Sunday flights from Orlando (me to Austin, Karry & Peter to Pittsburgh and Emma back to Philly) got totally hosed. Em’s got canceled and re-booked for the next morning, while the rest of us arrived hours after we were supposed to.
Meanwhile, Tuesday’s flight?
Runnin’ like goddamn clockwork.
When I ordered the Uber, it showed an arrival time of 5:12 p.m. … which felt like just enough time for get through security and find my gate.
Then Daimir’s arrival time started dancing.
Rush hour.
Holding my fate in my hands, I watched helplessly as time began to slip.
5:17.
5:21.
5:27.
5:30.
It, along with the pit in my stomach, bottommed out at 5:32 … when I walked over to the Southwest Help Desk near baggage claim.
Explained my situation … asked when the doors close on a 5:50 p.m. flight.
First person said, “15 minutes before.”
My heart sank.
But then she said, “Let me double-check with the boss,” and turned to the person at the next kiosk.
“Doors close 10 minutes before departure.”
First person did the math for me.
“So, 5:40 …,” she said, and then, smiling, added … “So you’re saying there’s a chance.”
Cracked herself up with that one.
I refreshed the app … Daimir’s arrival hovered at 5:31 p.m. … which would give me 9 minutes to make it through the security and find my gate.
I messaged Daimir with my flight info, said I’d be waiting at the curb. “Too much excitement! (ha),” I texted.
“I got you,” he reaffirmed.
I hiked over to the TSA Pre-Check entrance, asked the agent where Gate 12 was in relation to security.
“Other end of the terminal.”
Of course it was.
I can’t begin to describe how excruciating it was to watch my fragile fate fluctuate while stress-watching Daimir’s real-time progress.
He was still 15 minutes out when I knew I had to occupy my mind somehow.
Cracked open the New York Times on my phone … randomly scrolled to an interview .. discussing the premise that over the past few decades, social media has exacerbated the erosion in society, particularly among youth, of anything approaching a shared moral order.
At one point in the interview … the subject said that, while imperfect, systems like religion provide value in the form of a shared moral order or system.
The absence of such shared systems, the interviewee said, can result in an untethered, individualistic, self-oriented society, which can then become a breeding ground for fear, anxiety and aloneness.
It was an INTOITW moment for me. (“I never thought of it that way.”)
Fearful, anxious and alone, I clicked out of the article before I got to the end of the interview. Candidly, I was afraid to learn of the expert’s predictions for our future … since me and my bag’s prospects of making it home were being held together by the frayed tether of a shared moral order.
I checked Daimir’s progress … saw he’d messaged me.
He asked me to provide a specific landmark so he could bullseye my precise location.
Thoughtful, I thought.
I snapped a pic of the overhead sign I’d be standing under, said to look for the skinny guy in glasses wearing a black, short-sleeved t-shirt hopping up and down trying in vain to hold his shit together.
“Got it,” he replied.
“Doing the best I can,” he added. “Traffic is so bad! [ha]”
The [ha] meant everything.
For the record, my world is duct-taped together by such tiny gestures of humanity.
His arrival time ebbed back a bit to 5:27.
“Go Daimir!” I rooted in my head.
When his arrival dwindled under a minute, I looked up from my phone … and started scouting the glut of arriving cars dropping off.
When I caught sight of a black Chevy Traverse, I initiated pretty much the dictionary definition of “gesticulating.”
When the car got close enough for me to register the windshield, I could see Daimir already waving recognition to me.
At precisely 5:27 … he eased the Traverse to the curb, hopped out the driver’s seat and met me at the back so he could lift my bag out for me.
“Daimir, I would give you the biggest hug right now … but I gotta run.”
“I got you,” he smiled back.
Dashed inside with my roller to the pre-check line. Asked a couple nice ladies if they minded if I went ahead of them, gave them the short version of my circumstance.
After throwing my bags on the belt, I turned and asked their names.
“Tessa.”
“Cara.”
I repeated their names back to them … thanked them for being awesome and promised I would pay their kindness forward.
After passing through the security arch, I looked back to see the TSA agent responsible for scanning just as he began eyeballing my bags.
Dude was thorough.
A genuine credit to his profession, I tell ya.
He screen was angled such that I could see what he was seeing. He paused the belt for both my roller and my backpack.
Kept switching between the views …
Up.
Down.
From the side.
The other side.
Zoomed in.
Back out.
Back in again.
Doing the phuck out of his job … while I’m on the verge of an embolism.
5:31 tumbled to 5:32.
I start jumping up and down … a by-product of volcanic stress and the practical desire to stretch out my legs for my forthcoming roller bag 400 meter sprint.
When I realized I was suddenly Jumpy Guy Going Through Security.
Not a good look.
Fortunately, screening guy was so locked in on his monitor to not even register my hyperventilating calisthenics, eventually bestowing his blessing upon my bags, which I snatched from the belt like Olympic relay batons before breaking into my first airport sprint … in decades.
I was reminded that Austin’s Southwest terminal is really well-designed.
Super traveler-friendly.
Lots of hospitality and retail acreage between gates.
Art installations, too … such as the “Interimaginary Departures Gate,” sandwiched right after Gate 14.
It’s meant to provide a smile and a moment of whimsy to anxious travelers … where you can actually print a ticket to destinations like “Narnia,” among 120 fictional locations … while overhead, a speaker announces imminent departures to Hogwarts and Terabithia and the like.
It’s genuinely wonderful.
I’ve cited it often in my work as an exquisite example of context-aware, extraordinary experience design.
And I grenade launched at least a dozen eff bombs at it while cursing it to the depth of Hades for adding an extra 20 meters or so to my mad dash.
[ha]
I was on fumes and audibly wheezing by the time I caught a glimpse of Gate 12 in front of me.
Saw passengers still in line.
Exhaled for the first time since I received Damir’s confirming message.
Looked down at my phone.
5:39.
Found my place and politely wedged myself in, Sweaty-Middle-Aged-Guy-Heavily-Panting-style.
After beeping my ticket, I cracked open the app.
Gave Daimir 5 Stars.
And a tip befitting a life saver.
Called Clarissa back to let her know I made it and to thank her for being awesome.
“I’m so glad you called,” she said. “I was wondering. I’m so glad you made it!”
I promised to pay her kindness forward, too.
Which I had the great honor of doing this morning.
As I did so … I made a point to mention them all by name.
Clarissa.
Daimir.
Tess and Cara.
My friend Tim for letting me check my bag in his name.
I even mentioned thorough TSA screening guy, too.
For taking his job so seriously.
For doing his best to keep us all safe.
I pray blessings upon them all … and everyone who might read this.
For crowd surfing me home on the soft shoulders of their kindness.
Waking up, thinking of saints this Sunday morning.
Yesterday, Karry mentioned in passing that it would have been her Mom’s 90th birthday.
I confessed that over the past couple of days I found myself registering the month and days, sifting my brain as if there was a birthday I should be remembering, but coming up empty.
Betty passed way too early, at 71, from colon cancer. Can’t believe it’s been 19 years. Peter and Emma were so young.
There’s a photo we keep on the mantle in the dining room.
I can’t remember the exact circumstances, but I think it was the first time we visited her house after her passing.
I just remember it was a photo that demanded to be taken.
On the day I remember entering the house through the garage door (as we almost always did) … taking the stairs up to the main floor … and coming to the top of the steps.
Instinctively looking left.
When Peter was young and we’d visit, Gram would always leave a present for Peter in the window in the dining room.
Usually a little Matchbox car or truck.
Once loosed from the car, he’d tear up the steps, expectant … look left and make a beeline to the window to see what treasure she had left him.
She never forgot. He never even had to ask. Even when we’d show up unannounced, there was always something waiting for him in the window.
I always thought that the ritual of that was just the most perfect summing up of Karry’s mom.
While I hid my enthusiasms better than Peter, I always came up those steps, expectant, too.
You knew there would always be a simple kindness waiting for you.
A sweet tea.
An egg sandwich.
Something from the garden.
And, if it was Sunday, a feast for the ages.
Oh, how she threw down on Sundays.
On the day we visited after her passing, I remember looking left and seeing the window sill empty.
But instead of feeling the emptiness of that, I registered the sight of the sun’s morning rays blasting through the window, bathing the sill in the most wonderful light.
As if the heavens were conferring their eternal special blessing on that tender, sacred space.
It struck me in the moment, as it still does these 19 years later, as the perfect embodiment of Betty’s love and kindness.
The promise of a present always waiting in the window.
For starters I drove through the snow into the city. Roads were awful. Slid into a bank trying to make the left onto Maiden Street.
Traffic on the interstate slowed to a sloppy crawl just before Canonsburg. Google told me I should peel off the exit, so I listened.
Called home to let Karry know my circumstances.
Candidly, part of me was hoping she’d tell me to just come back home.
Give me an excuse not to go through with the second brave thing.
“You should stay on the interstate. It’s gonna be better than the side roads.”
She is so much better than Google.
It was the wisest counsel … from the person who’s been pointing in the right direction for 30 years and counting.
So I got myself turned around. Limped back onto I-79.
Kept going.
Sent a text letting ‘em know I was on my way, but was gonna be 15 or so minutes late.
“That’s OK. You’re on last!”
__
On a whim the week before I submitted something for Story Club Pittsburgh’s monthly live gathering.
Something about the theme — Turning Point — caught my eye. Made me think of something I’d written but never shared before.
The following day Kelly their (awesome) producer emailed me back, “The Spotlight slot’s yours if you want it.”
Eesh.
After I said yes Kelly informed me that the stories had to be under seven minutes.
Over the next few days, violent editing ensued.
By the time I’d gotten in my car Tuesday to drive into the city, I still hadn’t quite limbo’d my story under the bar.
Crawling along the interstate afforded me some extra practice time in the car. Must’ve run through it a half dozen times trying to find places where I could chop a few more seconds … without having to rush it.
And praying I’d remember my edits.
Seven minutes seemed like both forever and not nearly enough time.
As I drove I reminded myself I was last, so I’d have some time once I got there if I needed it.
Arrived while the emcee was still on stage and before the first storyteller.
Other than the spotlight slot at the end, the proceedings are open mic. Anyone who wants to tell a story drops their name in a hat — from which they pick seven names to go on stage.
As I grabbed a chair, the voice inside me said I owed the brave humans on stage my full attention … the same gift I would soon be asking from them.
The greatest gift in the world as far as I’m concerned.
They made it an easy gift to give.
The first person shared a brave and beautiful story about a person they stayed in a relationship way too long with, and what their hopeful but misplaced optimism had taught them. An older gentleman spoke about losing a best friend in high school and how he’s tried to live for both of them since. Another person relayed an amazing daisy chain of grace and kindness from law enforcement that allowed him to essentially walk on water all the way from New Jersey to Pittsburgh. There was a story about a rat in an apartment and another about a snake on a trail. And a lawyer told a tale of tracking down a client who met him not with a handshake, but a shotgun pointed at his chest.
Before I knew it, the emcee was calling my name.
By which point a good 90 minutes had passed since I’d taken my seat.
Since I’d last thought about my story.
I’d been picked as a Spotlight Storyteller once before, about a year ago. But I got sick and couldn’t be there in person. Made arrangements to share virtually from home. Had my notes on a second screen just in case, which made it easy.
This time, it was just me.
No notes.
The lights made it hard to see the faces of the people in the audience.
As I started in from memory, my mouth felt dry.
Was about a minute in … when I felt my words sliding to the tip of my tongue.
Got a little over halfway through.
And lost my way.
In the spotlight.
Alone on stage.
In front of a pretty full house.
With the clock ticking.
Stuck.
But then …
… something amazing happened.
A few people in the audience started snapping.
A couple clapped encouragement.
And a wonderful soul in the front row … one of the few faces I could see in the lights … repeated the last couple of lines I had said back to me.
A roomful of humans that was already offering me their greatest gift, did their best to point me in the right direction.
Took me a moment, but I got myself turned around.
Limped back on the interstate.
Kept going.
Crawled the rest of the way.
Until I made it.
__
On my drive back home, I thought of Patti Smith, and the time she forgot the words to “A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall” while performing in front of the King of Sweden and the royal family at Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize ceremony in Stockholm.
And how beautifully and humanly she wrote of her experience. Of the kindness shown her afterwards by some of the Nobel scientists in attendance, who shared their appreciation for her very public struggle. “I wish I would have done better, I said. No, no, they replied, none of us wish that. For us, your performance seemed a metaphor for our own struggles,” she wrote so movingly in The New Yorker.
It occurred to me that, had I spent those 90 minutes before I stepped on to the stage going over my story, I would likely have avoided my embarrassment and delivered a better performance for the audience I was there to serve.
But that would have come at the expense of giving my full attention to all the other wonderful storytellers that came before me.
It would have required withholding my most valuable gift in the world.
So I refuse to regret my choice.
I accept my stumbling as a fair price to pay … for the gift of bearing witness to their stories.
Maybe even a bargain.
Because had I not stumbled, I would not have experienced an audience of strangers reaching out to steady me.
And the traveler writing these words would be much the poorer for that.
Em’s reply when asked if she wanted signed up for the New Year’s Day Resolution 5K we ran last year.
“Yes … a tradition!” I enthused.
To be clear, she detests running. Didn’t have her newer tennis shoes at home. Had to borrow my old hoodie.
When Peter asked her goal for race day, she answered: “To not cry the entire time.”
“Me too!” I replied, holding up a hi-5 which she promptly ignored.
In this year’s sequel, I took note of a few differences from our maiden voyage.
For starters we arrived early.
In the 23 years I’ve been a parent, we’ve never been early for anything.
Like, ever.
We had ample time to get our bibs, pee, stretch.
I actually peed a second time … because I knew I may never be this early again.
To be fair, last year was a totally spur of the moment affair. In a spasm of poor decision-making, I signed us up on New Year’s Eve — the day before the race — whilst slightly north of my second Moscow Mule of the evening. Was genuinely surprised they both said yes. It was their first 5K.
This year was Em’s second.
Her brother, on the other hand ….
Peter’s actually taken a keen interest in running over the past year. Much more serious than mine. Minds his times and distances. Actually had a New Year’s Race Day goal in mind.
Meanwhile, I held fast(-ish) to mine from last year: not puking.
With the aforethought that comes with pre-planning, I strategically managed my New Year’s Eve race prep.
Stayed away from Moscow Mules.
Opted for margaritas instead.
Was coming off an uneven night’s sleep when we took our place among the mass of humanity at the starting line. Didn’t feel like I had much in the tank.
So I was grateful to find a person shortly after the start to hitch my wagon to, so to speak. From the back, the guy looked middled-aged and mis-matched … seemed to be wearing a collared shirt over another shirt (?), along with shorts, dark socks and a ballcap. Temperature was in the 30s, which made his incongruous ensemble read as either brazen or ironic — both of which I found oddly appealing.
He seemed like a poorly informed tourist from another country trying too hard to blend in … or exactly how I’ve felt in every race I’ve ever participated in.
His pace was reasonable, though. Determined without trying to prove too much … which, I reminded myself, was the same criteria I used for picking my middle school cologne.
Managed to keep him in my sights the first mile. The trail was puddled in places, which made it a little challenging for me to keep up, but not too off-putting.
After I hit the mid-point turnaround, I was greeted by a winter wind bent on smacking me in the face the whole rest of the way (rude). Over the second mile, my pacer lengthened his lead, but I did my best to keep from falling too far behind.
I find once one crests a race’s midpoint, one’s playlist becomes really important. You need that voice in your head to take your mind away from the realization that, if it wasn’t for your poor decision-making, you could be home right now under a weighted blanket on the couch, binge-watching Murder She Wrote while sipping hot cocoa.
My playlist was on shuffle, so up popped a slow ballad I love by a melancholic Pittsburgh band from the 90’s, whose singer began to croon, “This world will be the death of me,” which convinced me I should maybe outsource the curation of my hype music to the algorithms.
Stole a glance down at my phone to hit skip, trading “… satchel full of broken hopes … ” (wtf?) for “Heroes” by Bowie (universe balance = restored), and noticed I had just under a half-mile left. Took a quick inventory of my legs, breath and bowels and, confirming stasis, looked up and noticed I’d gotten a little closer to Dark Sock Ironic Collar Guy.
This is the point in the proceedings where one starts thinking about one’s finishing kick, which for me, consists of trying not to giggle slash pee oneself.
The lesson of the TBPPD (Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Dude) from a year ago slow-jogged through my mind as I considered my strategy. The previous night’s margaritas suggested … a conservative approach.
So I waited ’til the three mile mark, and then, you know, called down to engineering to fire up the old warp core.
Once engaged I passed DSICG with all the urgency of a middle-aged man on the cusp of the morning’s third pee … in the process resisting the temptation to look over my shoulder to see if my backdraft caused the collar on his shirt to at all flutter.
Hubris eventually comes for us all.
Pushed as hard as I could as I crossed the finish line.
But after catching my breath on the other side, I sought out my pacer.
“Excuse me, sir,” I called out.
He turned around, whereupon I noticed that (a.) he was a bit older than me, and (b.) his collar was actually a neck-warming device (pro move). I also saw the front of his shirt for the first time, which commemorated a Boston Marathon he’d previously conquered decades ago.
Respect.
I congratulated him on running a great race. Told him he was my North Star, and thanked him accordingly.
He confessed he hadn’t run in two months, so wasn’t sure what his body was going to give him. From where I stood, he did more than OK.
I sought out Peter and Em in the post-race hubub, and we headed back indoors to warm up and so Peter could check out the results.
He found his name on the printout they taped to the wall by the awards table. Finished top 25, third in his age group, shaving a whopping two minutes-plus per mile from a year ago.
What a difference a year can make.
So we hung around for the awards.
They went oldest to youngest, announcing the winners in the 70-and-above category first.
A familiar figure walked up to claim first place.
Dark socks. Shorts.
Dude was in his 70s.
Um … brazen, it turns out.
As far as North’s Stars go, I chose wisely.
Probably went home and spent the afternoon chopping wood.
Needless to say, I found the experience of smoking a stone cold septuagenarian down the home stretch very satisfying.
We waited through the other age groups until they got to the 20-29s.
Announced females first.
When we heard third place finished just above 30 minutes, Em and I had the same thought.
She turned to me, “Wait, if she was third … then I might have ….”
We were both giggling by the time she finished the sentence, just as they were calling her name for winning her age group.
In the ironic category.
I had a fresh hi-5 waiting for her by the time she returned to her seat … which she promptly ignored.
I informed her that she was now bound by honor to come back next year and defend her crown.
My normal custom for an early-in-the-week Jim letter is to save it to open on Saturday morning.
To give myself something to look forward to.
And to make sure I have the space — temporal, physical, soulful — to savor the treasure inside.
My friend Jim’s a wonderful poet. His letters are always accompanied by a few of his recent poems.
He happens to be in his 90s now.
When I grow up, I hope to someday write as well as Jim does in his 90s.
At his age he senses the nearness of death. As a former pastor he also senses the nearness of being called Home.
Having lived so long, having lost his wife, Mary, to dementia a couple years ago … he keenly appreciates the preciousness of days and time.
And stares it all down with a poet’s heart.
Has made a practice of sifting the everyday for meaning and for magic.
And somehow makes it all rhyme … figuratively and literally.
“Poetry is persistently plaguing me at night, and when, half asleep, I kick off the covers, I force myself to get up, write down a phrase, or a line or two, so precious that I just can’t chance to let it wander away.”
For the record, I’m a little over half Jim’s age, and when I kick off the covers at night, it’s to get up to pee, not scribble down epiphanies.
Jim inspires me so much, in both the act and the substance of his letters and poems.
We’ve carried on a correspondence for a few years now.
I’ve noticed a common refrain in his letters. A lament.
He’s always longed for his poetry to be published … so it can be remembered.
In a post-Thanksgiving letter, he wrote, “Doggerel, following me like a lost puppy, and when on Google yesterday, I found a host of famous lines of Tennyson … I asked, ‘Will anyone remember even one of mine?’ as if I’ll care after my death.”
But only a line later … “Sunday morning sun brightens the tarnished attitude I bring to life on these usual dull winter days.”
I can attest that Jim’s poetry is beyond worthy.
When I wrote him back, I asked him if he would mind if I shared his poems with friends.
And for once, when his reply arrived in the mail, I didn’t wait until Saturday morning to open it.
Something about the urgent pause of a New Year’s Eve suggests a break with custom.
“YES, you may share whatever comes from me. That is the greatest tribute that I know of … of my attempts at poetry … to be liked enough to share.”
In thinking how I might best serve your precious attention in this moment … I can’t think of any better gift to share with you than Jim’s gifts shared with me. Of his noticing in a sparrow’s visit a kindred spirit. His allowing a newborn sun to surround in warmth all that’s old in him.
So in this space between the holidays, between our no longers and our not yets, may we greet whatever lies ahead as if it were a Sunday morning sun.
May we approach it with the wisdom, persistence and awe of a 90-year-old poet still sifting this broken world for its good light.
May we ever be so alive to what moves us that we have no choice but to kick off the covers and call it by name, so we can share our magic words with the world around us.
May we always (always) have something to look forward to.
If you are so moved, you have Jim’s permission to like, share and comment. I promise to reflect your good light back to him.
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
Got up yesterday morning feeling … untethered. Outside, the sun was coming up on an unseasonably warm November day. The kind of sunshine we almost don’t deserve. I was feeling the heaviness of everything.
All the noise would soon be coming to its unnatural conclusion. I’d just poured my ritual 10 Tuesday ounces into my Thermos, but my cup still felt empty.
So I got in my car and drove towards the small coffee shop on North Main Street. The one where I like to write my daughter postcards on Saturdays. It’s quiet. One room. Handful of tables, small counter on which is perched a little clear case with baked goodies made by Nicole, one of the kind staff there. Reliably chill playlist.
I didn’t need a coffee. Just some humanity.
So, halfway up Main Street, I peeled off into the drive through at the bank. Got some cash from the machine. Humble pebbles for the scale, I told myself.
Got to the coffee shop right as it opened at 8. Parked across the street, and followed a woman in the front door. She was friends with the barrista on duty, and they dove right into easy conversation. Denise, the barrista, paused their conversation to wait on me. I ordered my cortado, paying with my Darth Vadar credit card. Added a small tip.
After placing my order, I asked Denise if they still did Pay It Forward. She nodded. I handed over what I’d withdrawn from the machine.
She thanked me, and I took a seat by the counter while she prepared my to go order.
When in walked a middle aged man in a ballcap. Kinda scruffy. Came in chatty.
Asked Denise, “What’s the strongest coffee you have?” He went on to say that he’d been nine years sober, mentioning the exact number of months and days for good measure. “So coffee’s a very important thing in my life.”
After Denise informed him of the dark roast of the day, he asked what sizes they had.
“How much is in a large?” he asked. Twenty ounces, she replied.
He asked her how much refills were. They’re free, Denise said.
From my chair I apprehended that maybe he didn’t have much on him. Probably didn’t have anywhere in particular to be. Interested in how far and for how long his dollars might stretch.
The stories we tell ourselves about the world around us.
He ordered his 20 ounces, asked her what he owed.
She told him not to worry about it.
“I’m sorry?” he said.
I tensed up a bit. I didn’t want to be around to watch anything.
I just came in to put a few pebbles on the scale and be on my way.
“It’s taken care of,” was all she said.
I exhaled.
“Wow,” he said. “Really? Um, thank you.”
He paused a beat.
“When I came in, I could tell that you had a really kind face.”
I smiled from my chair, because I think I said those exact words to Denise the last time I was in. It occurred to me that was also the day I dropped off my mail-in ballot at the county’s voter registration office.
I needed some humanity that day, too. Denise’s gesture unlocked his.
“You know, I was always a big egomaniac. I hurt a lot of people with my ego. But one of the biggest things they teach you is humility.
“A big part of learning humility is that receiving kindness is just as important as giving kindness. It’s not easy … but I’ve learned how to receive kindness.”
He asked Denise her name so he could thank her by it. Gave his in return.
Strong coffee in hand, he started to make his way to a table. Then he paused.
What he did next … I will never forget.
He turned back to Denise.
“Now I’m going to just have to find someone to pay your kindness forward,” he said.
He sees me sitting in my chair.
I met his gaze just in time to see his eyes alight.
“Can I buy you a coffee?” he asked me.
The best sermons are the ones you don’t see coming.
I thanked him profusely for giving me what I woke up needing from the world. What I’d hoped to find driving up Main Street not needing a coffee.
The way it came out was, “Already got one on the way. But, next time I see you, maybe we can have one together.”
He asked me my name. Gave his in return.
“God bless you, Pete,” he said.
“Backacha,” was all the lump in my throat would allow.
Pebbles on the scale.
Denise parked my cortado on the counter. I got up from my chair and met her at the register.
Exchanged fist bumps, and received the warmest smile from her kind face.
The kind of sunshine we most certainly deserve.
There are saints all around us. Most are hidden in plain sight. Sometimes they don’t look like you or me.
We need to humble ourselves to see them.
So we can receive their kindness.
So that when our own cups are empty, we can be reminded that refills are free.
Letters for Maggie 