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.
Lydia and I met as freshman English majors at Waynesburg College. Had a bunch of classes together. Worked on the newspaper. Lydia was editor our senior year. I wrote a silly column trying too hard to be Dave Barry. Lydia was in charge of things.
Anyone who knows Lydia will not be surprised by this.
She expected a lot of herself, and of the world around her. I remember once she got so fired up upon learning that a classmate had been cheating in one of our classes.
“Pete! It’s just not fair! He’s not doing any of the work and he’s going to get the same grade as us!”
As an aside … she was being generous in including me in the ‘us’ part of the grade-getting.
“Doesn’t that make you mad?!?”
I remember answering her that what other people did didn’t bother me much. That maybe what mattered more was what we were learning … what we were getting out of the class … what we might take with us. I remember telling her that I wasn’t sure that the grade even mattered all that much.
Needless to say, I was unsuccessful in litigating that case with Lydia … who went on to be our class’s valedictorian, and graduate from law school after that.
I think our friendship was forever forged in Dr. McEwen’s Research Writing class. To say that Dr. McCewen was exacting would be an understatement. The entire semester was dedicated to writing a research paper. We would meet to work on it at Lydia’s sister’s apartment in downtown Waynesburg (quieter than the dorms).
Lydia was the organized one. She kept us on task. Made sure we hit our deadlines and turned everything in on time, if not early.
None of the above were among my superpowers.
In a spasm of poor decision making, Lydia let me choose the topic for our research paper. I remember wanting to look at different periods of history to see what given societies found funny, as reflected in their drama and literature. Like, what was funny in Shakespeare’s time? And to what degree did comedy stay the same or evolve across centuries and societies?
It looked good on paper.
It didn’t look good in our paper.
We’d be on like, draft 7, and Dr. McEewen would return it just bleeding red ink from his infamous pen. Lydia would get so stressed out. As the semester progressed, she doubled-down on editing our drafts before we had to re-submit. She had this big blue thesaurus. She would pull it out and make suggestions when we were stuck on something. This is one of the few things we clashed on. I’ve always hated thesauruses. Have always considered them a sign of weakness. Whenever she would bust out the thesaurus, I’d rebel. Ignored all of her suggestions. Told her we weren’t trying hard enough and would figure it out.
Aside from that, if I brought anything to our partnership, I think I helped keep things light … helped us from taking ourselves too seriously.
I think Lyd found me amusing … much the way one is amused watching a dog chasing its tail.
I could always make her laugh.
The LYDIA laugh.
It was glorious. More of a cackle, technically speaking.
And one, that for as long as I knew her, she never cut short for room or circumstance.
__
Our interactions during Dr. McEwen’s class would remain the hallmarks of our friendship after college.
Lydia remained the organized one, always taking the initiative in our remaining in touch. She’d send cards and thoughtful letters recounting her travels abroad and life updates. Which I would return weeks, sometimes months, later. She was meticulous about sending cards around the holidays. My birthday card from her would invariably arrive a couple days early.
By contrast, while I knew her birthday was in February, I could never remember the exact day. She’d always give me shit when it arrived days, or sometimes weeks, late. I remember once asking her to remind me when it actually fell. Her response, “I’m not telling you. You should know.”
She expected a lot of the world around her.
It got to the point where, when I’d see February approaching, I’d immediately send her a note, making a point of calling out how proactive I was being.
She didn’t buy it.
__
But there is one date that I know I will never, ever forget — Friday, June 7, 2024.
We had made plans earlier in the week to talk. She’d warned me in advance. “Brace yourself, Pete … it’s not good.”
When I picked up and told her I was driving, she said it was probably good that I was sitting down.
And for the next couple minutes, she — unflinchingly, unblinkingly, remarkably — let me know that it took her doctors three biopsies before they figured out what it was. That it was not the recurrence of breast cancer she and they first believed it to be. That it was worse. A rare form of cancer. Only 200 cases. And that it had spread all through her body. That she likely had a month to live. With treatment, maybe three months. Maybe a little longer.
She told me that I was the last person she planned to have this conversation with. That it was just so impossibly hard. That she was done recounting it all.
I mean, what do you say to that?
You start with what’s true.
I told her that I received both the act and substance of what she shared with me … as an honor … as a gift … as a blessing.
That she has always had such a light about her … and that light was as bright in this moment as it had ever been.
And that I would always do my very best to reflect her good light back to her, and to the world at large.
And you both cry a little bit, but not much. She’d done the crying.
So you do what you’ve always done for as long as you’ve known each other.
You just catch up.
You talk about Waynesburg. Old classmates. Dr. McEwen. Other professors.
In our reminiscing, I mentioned to her that I have few regrets, but I do regret that I was never able to go back and have an adult conversation with Dr. Bower, who was another larger-than-life character in our college experience. To talk about all the seeds he planted … his knowing we weren’t equipped in the moment for them but planting them anyway. I wished I could’ve told him what some of those seeds had come to mean for me.
When Dr. Bower passed away, Lyd and I went in on a memorial donation to the library in his honor.
In response to my ruminating, Lydia said the most remarkable thing.
She said, “I’d wish for the exact opposite.
“I’d just like to go back and have one day at college. Not even a special day. I’d just like to walk campus. Sit in on a boring class. Hang out in the dorm talking about nothing.
“Go to Scott’s Delight … get an Everyday Special.”
Scott’s was an unassuming greasy spoon down the road from campus. A counter with stools directly in front of you as you entered, and a few booths on either side of the entrance. The Everyday Special = legendary. You could get a burger, fries and a coke for like $1.85. Cup of nacho cheese to dip your curly fries would set you back another 45 cents. That’s how the pros did it, anyway.
It wasn’t great. But it was perfect.
An Everyday Special.
It was just the most golden thing for Lydia to say.
I was still letting it sink in when she continued.
“Oh, there’s something else I wanted to tell you.”
She said that she was hoping to surprise me, but she wasn’t sure she would get the chance, so she wanted to tell me just in case.
She asked me if I remembered seeing a few months ago that the college (I know it’s a fancy University now, but it will never be anything other than Waynesburg College to me) was doing a fundraiser for an Alumni Walk.
Um, I hadn’t seen it … to which she was not surprised.
She let me know that she made a donation … to which I was not surprised.
Until she added …
“I got us each of us a brick, Pete.”
Oh my gosh, I said aloud, pulling one hand off the steering wheel and placing it on my heart.
I mean, what do you say to that?
She said it for us.
“So we’ll always be together on campus.”
I was speechless.
I don’t remember what we chatted about after that.
I only remember one thing, actually.
At some point … I made her laugh.
Don’t remember what I said … most assuredly something dumb, like always.
But there it was.
The Lydia laugh.
Her singular cackle.
The one she never cut short — even in this impossible moment — for room or circumstance.
Undiminished. Resplendent.
__
Days later I found myself downstairs at my desk … still reflecting on our remarkable conversation … when it hit me.
I remembered something I hadn’t had occasion to think about for 35 years.
The kind of detail that Lydia was notorious for remembering … the kind I never could recall.
I remembered the title of our research paper.
And it about knocked me out of my chair.
In the shadow of our remarkable conversation, it was infused with a poignancy that I cannot adequately put into words.
The title of our paper was inspired by a story we’d come across in our research. The story is believed to be apocryphal, its exact source lost to history.
But the gist of it is this.
A famous actor was lying on their deathbed, being attended by family and friends come to pay their last respects. A former colleague was at the bedside, looking at the frail actor in their failing health. Piteously, the colleague said, “This must be so difficult for you.”
To which the actor opened their eyes and said in reply …
“Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.”
The memory hit me at the very moment I was thinking of the sound of Lydia’s laughter … from the last conversation we would ever have.
Lydia took the thesis from our paper and pretty much made it the thesis for a full life, well-lived. One she never stopped researching.
In the end she was litigating my case back to me. That when all was said and done … the grade didn’t matter after all.
__
I had the great honor to attend Lydia’s celebration of life a couple weeks later. Got to see her sister Karen for the first time in decades. She kindly invited me to stop by the luncheon they were hosting after the service, said that Lydia had something for me. When I did, Karen handed me a bag … said that Lydia had written me a note, but that she had so wanted to revise it (always the editor). Had asked Karen if maybe she could type a revision for her, but Karen told her that she was certain it would mean more in her own handwriting.
Of course she was right.
I waited until I’d driven the four hours back home from Mechanicsburg before I looked in the bag and fished out the letter.
__
This is me keeping my promise to my friend. To do my best to reflect her good light back to her, and to the world at large.
While I recalled above how our friendship was forged in Dr. McEwen’s research writing class, Lydia had a finer point to put on the forging.
“For me, our lifelong friendship was sealed on September 17, 1990. While battling my first round with cancer, I called to wish you a happy birthday. The summer of 1990 was beyond challenging for me — battling Hodgkin’s Disease while attempting to carry on as though all was well. During our call, you said, ‘I miss you, Lyd.’ Nearly 34 years later, your simple sentiment brings tears to my eyes. You were so sincere, and it was just what I needed to hear. Thank you, my friend.”
Of course Lydia would remember the exact date.
Of course she would think to call me on my birthday while she was battling her first round with cancer.
Of course she would remember what I said.
If you only knew that about Lydia Hack, you would know enough.
But there was more in her note. Her gift.
“I’m not sure if you recognize this. Do you recall the role it played during our Senior Thesis? This tattered reference has traveled with me throughout my career (both legal and nanny). When I was cleaning out my office, I thought you should have it.”
I placed her letter inside the cover. To make sure I would have an excuse to crack it open every now and again.
__
In a spasm of poor decision making, I let my son talk me into signing us up for the Waynesburg Homecoming 5K, which was held early yesterday morning on campus.
I’d never participated in the race before. The course looped through campus and spilled a little beyond. Past Martin Hall … our freshman dorm. Up the hill past the bottom of Buhl Hall … where all our English classes were held. Made a left at the corner where Scott’s used to be before it was torn down way too soon so many years ago.
Aside from a few alumni starting to mill about, it was just a regular day on campus.
I took note of that.
With one notable exception.
When we’d arrived early before the race I saw a sign listing the schedule of events for Homecoming weekend.
Where I learned that they were dedicating the Alumni Walk at 9:45 a.m. … not far from where the race finished up.
Of course they were.
While Peter waited in the gym after the race for the awards to see how he did in his age group (he won), I walked over to the space between Miller and Hanna halls just as the ceremony was beginning.
Sorting through the dozens of bins that my Mom lovingly slash compulsively stuffed with just about every artifact from my childhood — Andy Warhol style — I was recently reminded of my one and only foray (so far) into running for public office.
My campaign for Safety Captain in the fourth grade.
From the forensic evidence, it looks like I had my sights set on the presidency, but was forced to pivot at the 11th hour. Not sure if I lost in the primary, or received insider info that I didn’t have the votes, but it seems forces conspired to turn my attention to a high-ranking cabinet position instead.
Also from the forensic evidence, apparently “safety” was not on Miss Barkett’s spelling list that week.
Not sure what motivated me to land on Safety Captain as my Plan B, but I am retrospectively impressed by my 4th grade resiliency. This may have been my first exposure to the adage, “When one door closes on one’s quest for world domination, another one opens up.”
Apparently I ran a successful grassroots campaign.
Looks like I took great care in drafting my platform.
Like Lincoln tweaking his famous address on the train ride to Gettysburg, the last couple lines added in pencil suggest a deliberate approach. I imagine myself scribbling between classes, or ruminating after getting eliminated in dodgeball.
Didn’t waste a word, though.
The 54-year-old typing this only wishes his aim was so true.
I must’ve worn the object on the right as a button, as it looks like there are a couple pin holes up top. Didn’t skimp on the professional head shot.
Ahem.
I think (?) I may have won. Hatfield Elementary alum please fact check me on this.
For all I know I may have run unopposed, but I’d like to believe my sincerity counted for something.
From what I recall I served a fairly uneventful term.
To say it was a simpler time would be an understatement.
And by that, I don’t mean pre-puberty, though that proly also helped make the execution of my responsibilities a little easier.
Sometimes on weekends when I wake up at the usual time, I’ll briefly fall back asleep for 15 minutes or so. I call it my second-wind sleep. Its defining characteristic is how vividly I dream during the interval. When I awake for the second time, I’m usually coming directly from dreaming.
Saturday morning I dreamt I was arriving at some sort of pre-graduation gathering. The parking lot was filling up, but I found a place on the loop near the entrance with ample space for me to park the white Econoline van my dream-self was rocking. While it ‘felt’ like it was high school — something about the loop — all recognizable personnel were from my college experience.
Once inside the building and entering the room where (whatever) the gathering (was) was being held, I saw a face my dream self hadn’t seen in a while.
“Dave!” I called out to a guy I played some music with in college. I remember making some awful noise one summer shedding with Dave and a couple other guys in the TKE house basement.
In the dream Dave was wearing a Star Trek-like uniform, but in the colors of our alma mater. He mentioned he was just finishing a musical project, and was holding the physical master or some recording of the final product in his hands. He interrupted my congratulating him with a question.
“What did it sound like?” he asked me.
I wasn’t sure what he meant.
Asked him to explain.
“Your drums … what did it sound like to you?”
Deep question.
He said he wanted to mention me in his liner notes of the project he’d just finished. How super cool of him, I remember my dream-self thinking. We hadn’t played together for a couple years.
I ascribed a genuine weight to his question.
What did it sound like?
But just as I began to think about how I might answer, the proceedings began.
I never got around to giving him my reply.
Dave, who played guitar (and bass), was there to accompany a choir-ish group (hence the Star Trek uniforms) providing music for the occasion. Singers harmonized a lyric, “It’s been a long time comin’ …,” and were nailing it, understanding both the assignment and the substance of the material.
As I listened to the music, my dream self was thinking back to how cool it was that there were people like Dave in this world who care about liner notes.
It was at that point I woke up from my second wind sleep.
I had a morning haircut, so quickly showered and got dressed. But before heading out I felt compelled to jot down all the details I could remember of my dream and email them to my good friend Doug.
I had no idea what motivated me to share my dream with him.
The dream itself made no sense. It was barely a fragment. And it wasn’t even interesting. Immediately after hitting send I considered following it up and apologizing to Doug for my dream spam.
But before I could do so Doug replied, telling me that my timing was perfect, and added a few words intimating why. I mentioned I was coming to Waynesburg and could I buy him breakfast? He said he already had breakfast plans with his youngest son and grandson, but would shoot me a note after, if I was still around.
He did, and I was.
And so we met at a place on High Street.
Seeing him walk in brought its usual smile and our big hug was medicine to my Saturday morning.
And as soon as he grabbed the chair across from me, we jumped in to the conversational jazz we’ve been playing ever since we met as freshmen in the band room at Waynesburg College. The kind that just makes time melt. We took chorus after chorus after chorus … catching up and comparing notes: on family, on things we think the other might appreciate (Have you heard … ? Have you read …?), as well as the day-to-day smudge and scuff that more and more keeps us up at night (whither sleep?). Our friendship has always made space for all of it, even the messy stuff. There’s music to be found there, too. A long way from freshmen we are.
As always we could’ve sat and talked forever, but we knew it was time when it was time. Before going our separate ways, Doug mentioned a new coffee shop around the corner that opened up across from where Scott’s Delight used to be. I asked him if it was worth checking out, and he said it was.
Though my caffeine tank was full to brimming I stopped by on my way out of town. Ordered something sweet and carried it into the adjacent room with the tables. The interior was warm and coffee-shop cozy, the walls adorned with local art, photography and ephemera.
Something on the wall immediately caught my eye. On a hunch I walked over to take a closer look.
It couldn’t be.
Ha … it was.
Our record.
Well, Doug’s record.
The one he bootstrapped, wrote, and paid for the recording, pressing and distribution (such as it was) of a couple months after we graduated. He poured his full heart and bank account — everything he had at the time — into it.
I played drums.
Technically speaking I sang backup, too. In actuality, I monotoned on the chorus. So committedly, in fact, that by the end of the session I had earned myself a nickname: The Drone.
The A and B sides were rock-a-billy homages to the music Doug loved and loves to this day. Of and from a time when three chords were as sufficient and sustaining to us as ramen.
After the recording and pressing of the 45s, we got some local airplay, and, according to ‘official’ documentation Doug received from the record company, we briefly trended in one of the Scandinavian countries. I remember seeing a photo copy of some paperwork Doug received that testified that, at our peak, we were charting just north of Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven” in Sweden, I think. I got the second biggest kick out of that. The biggest kick was the occasional photocopies Doug sent me of the modest royalty checks he’d get in the mail.
Those were the liner notes that came to mind as I stared at a relic from more than 30 years ago, framed and hanging on a wall in a tiny coffee shop in the town where we met.
I imagine Doug’s youngest son was behind its placement.
I thought to myself how cool it was that there were still people in this world who cared about such things.
Pondering the morning’s serendipity as I stared at our old 45, it suddenly all made sense to me.
I knew why I’d shared my morning dream with Doug.
Because he’d shared his with me three decades ago.
And I also think that, deep down, I had a hunch that we’d make some music of it somehow.
I think our morning’s conversational jazz qualified.
Same chords as always. Different changes these days.
As I drove the back roads home, I mentally made plans to turn in early that night.
To give myself room for a second wind sleep, in hopes that I might bump into Dave again.
And get back to him with my answer for his liner notes.
In no particular order … an incomplete, un-edited, accounting of the stuff that got me through the week:
Monday afternoon, inviting some student leaders from BYU’s Experience Design program to our team’s weekly meeting. Co-creating the agenda with Michaela, a senior in the program. Her showing up prepared with some custom slides to guide the menu we’d discussed (she, a badass). Their team giving us a prompt for our Story Circle, “How did you get here?” Every answer a window into each other’s Story. Me, choosing not to overthink it, confessing how I am here in spite of myself, and (still) basking in awe at that fact.
Not getting back to sleep Monday night and instead of the obligatory trying in vain to doze, getting outta bed and going downstairs to write, finishing something for Karry to read on her late morning work break.
Getting a hand-written letter in the mail from my niece on Monday, and saving it until Wednesday morning, when I knew I would need it most. Walking outside to tear the envelope so I could savor it while listening to the chattering birds whispering their reminders that today matters.
That letter filling my cup full, and me needing every ounce of it on a Wednesday that drained it to the dregs.
Leaving the office late, depleted, for home and Peter texting me asking about dinner. Said I was thinking pasta since I assumed I’d be solo. Five minutes later, he shooting me a recipe he found and a shortlist of ingredients to pick up on my way home.
Getting home a few minutes before him, filling the pasta pot, getting out the cutting board, peeling the garlic, making us salads. He coming home from his Wednesday classes and commencing to chef up the new recipe. Calling new tunes for me to hear (he’s digging Ghost these days). While he worked and I sipped from a freshly cracked Malbec, our easy conversation the best Wednesday medicine. Filling our plates full and watching Duquesne in the A-10 tourney. While the Dukes lost, Peter’s delicious dish earning an automatic bid to our future family dinner bracket. Coming this close to crushing an entire box of pasta between us. Sun-dried tomatoes … who knew?
In my Friday morning feed, a jet-lagged Patti Smith, from her tender room, her cat Cairo in her lap, honoring John Cale, her late-husband Fred Smith, and her kindred spirit Robert, on the anniversary of the latter’s day of passing, reading just the most beautiful passage from their story, Just Kids, the product of a promise kept, nine years in the making.
Staying up late Thursday night putting slides together for a Friday client meeting that I really wanted to slay. Rising early Friday morning on little sleep but with an epiphany. Scrap my slides. Tell a story. On my 45-mile commute into work, randomly tuning in a random episode of a podcast I’d only dipped toes in, and the episode the perfect pre-presentation pump up, had me literally clapping and shouting affirmations at the stop light into the industrial park, drawing the most curious stares from the car next to me. Clicking into my client meeting shot out of a cannon and fully caffeinated, naked of slides, armed only with a (glorious) story. Me OK with whatever the outcome, knowing I served their curiosity and attention as best I could, and gave them the best possible window into my humble offering. Authenticity over polish.
My Friday work week ending on the highest of notes with my monthly connection with my P.S.F. (Professional Serendipity Friend), and listening to her gloriously effervescing hours after returning home with her husband from a sacred return pilgrimage to New Orleans. Us feverishly making notes of treasures to share with the other. Our conversational jazz making time melt (like all good jazz does).
Karry calling me on my way home, confessing the weather too gray and cold to go back out in (me agreeing), and she calling in a takeout order from the Catholic Church Lenten fish fry across town, me picking it up, and us sitting lights out in the living room in the glow of Friday night whatever’s on, communing over church kitchen cole slaw, fries, hushpuppies and Heinz-baptized cod.
Saturday morning, listening to Miles Davis’ In A Silent Way, steaming coffee in my favorite Saturday mug, my antenna still up … and typin’.
I love how my mother loved to write letters. She’d buy those long yellow notebooks by the packet and kept stacks of reserves on top of the kitchen fridge. She burnt through them almost as fast as the cigarettes she smoked when she curled up at the kitchen table to write, pen in one hand, lit Salem in the other, one foot on the chair, knee to her chest.
From what I recall, she mostly wrote to her sisters: her older sisters Ruth and Doris, and her younger sister Janet. (Mom was the sixth of seven kids … though the oldest baby died at childbirth).
____
As a kid I always held a special expectation at Christmas for the packages we’d get from my mom’s sisters Janet and Doris.
Their contents never had anything to do with whatever I’d petitioned Santa for. As a result, the annual postmarks from Coopersburg, PA (Janet), and Dayton, Ohio (Doris) always heralded a surprise or two.
ESPECIALLY Aunt Janet’s. Her boxes always contained the quirkiest, goofiest, orneriest stuff, which was very much in keeping with her personality. You never knew what you were going to get, and were never disappointed. It was stuff that always left you asking where on earth did she find that? The stuff that made you smile long after the Christmas glow had died to embers. Having to wait until Christmas morning to open Janet’s gifts was always excruciating.
By contrast, Aunt Doris’ stuff was usually a lot more austere, reflecting her personality. Doris was a business school graduate. I never saw her much, but I perceived her as pretty serious, worldly, super smart, professional (in the days when that was not what society necessarily expected of its women). Her holiday packages were always distinguished by a large can of Planter’s peanuts for Dad. Every now and then Dad would get a tall can of cashews. My childhood self registered this as lavish. Although Dad (and I) loved peanuts, we never splurged on them, never had them in the house. In my childhood memory I perceived cashews to be an extravagance beyond our means. It’s funny to think about now, but I always ascribed a special ‘fanciness’ to Aunt Doris’ annual cans of Planter’s. Overall, though, her gifts were practical, not spectacular. While always welcome, the arrival of her Christmas packages never registered the same high level of anticipation as Aunt Janet’s.
Until 1987 and the Christmas of my senior year of high school. In the annual package from Aunt Doris there was a surprise – a special gift for me. Last Christmas before college, I remember allowing myself high expectations for what was inside. It was big. Felt heavy in my lap. Too heavy for peanuts. I unwrapped it in earnest … to discover … a red, hardcover Webster’s College Dictionary, along with a note wishing me well in college. Really? A dictionary? I remember at the time putting it in the same category as getting a pair of socks. I considered it about the worst Christmas gift my 17-year-old self could imagine. She didn’t get me the way that Aunt Janet did, I remember thinking at the time.
Letters for Maggie 