Axes and Ohs

Brian extended a very kind gesture toward me today. “Who’s Brian?”, you ask. He owns a local axe throwing house close by. I met him eight months ago during a casual hour of moderately sharp tool-tossing after a five-minute introductory session. Underhanded, over-toss, … certainly not sideways, and – for sure – the forbidden backward mistake throws were all covered by his trainers. In front of me stood the forbearing circles of unproven manhood I was to carefully consider without stepping beyond lines at my toe tips. The only caveat was allowing axes to be thrown by all before retrieving mine. As an aside here, I’ve had knives in my back, figuratively, but would know to wait … (darn insurance company regulations require the disclaimer, probably). Oh, and did I mention alcohol is allowed as well? Yes, BYOB in an axe-throwing building.

Alcohol and axes. Local Paul Bunyons and their Big Barcelo Rums chasing the blues away in a small city block building close to a set of railroad tracks near Altoona, PA. Brian runs his business quite well. It’s as professional as any I’ve seen – for this type. Granted, how many mildly-blunt forestry implement flinging establishments have I been in? One. His. Every precaution has been taken for the safety of his guests. There’s sign-in ahead with call-in appointments recommended and professional staffing from entrance to exit.

Two weeks prior to my visit, Brian stopped by my concession stand to introduce himself. Why not, right? At that time, I was only a few blocks away and surely scents dancing on air – from the finest sausage grease and hamburgers in town – caught his nose-tice. Simple marketing. Meet-and-greet as we used to say pre-internet. Being not overbearing or abrasive, he became an instant friend of mine. I didn’t pretend, or assume, we’d immediately start to attend family goldfish burials together or send holiday cards back and forth, however. It wasn’t a bromance in the brew pot … just a real nice guy.

As the weeks continued on from there, I would look out my concession window and see Brian order two hot dawgs once a week – no onions. “Hey, how’ve you been?” moments in passing … hoping each one of us respond with positive reports. We did, then moved on with our next six days or so.

Today I noticed his company vehicle pull up – which, of course, wasn’t unusual. I knew fresh hot dawgs were grilled up ready to go with his favorite chili-cheese steaming in the cooker. Before I had a chance to ask how things were, he set a hefty box on the cold serving counter just outside my window.

“Here, Doug. This package is for you!”, he gleamingly gave voice to his benevolent demeanor. Stunned, I noticed a rather plain box with the words: Exterior String Lights, 49 Feet.

He continued, “A buddy and I came by the other night and measured the exterior of your trailer. There are enough lights to go around here …”, he continued, pointing excitingly to the far left side, “…all the way across the front, around the end then behind. All the sides cars will see you in the dark. Those nights when you are open, hopefully these will help you get some increased business, right?”. I, in a breathless manner, replied, ” Uh, yeah …”

“I’m sorry, Brian. I’m at a loss for words. Thank you so much. Let me pay you for these”.

“Absolutely not. And we’ll let it go at that.”

“Ok. At least allow me to give you these two dawgs for free?”. He agreed.

I was taught to accept gifts with gratitude and compliments with grace. Both, when done with sincerity, are given from a kind and gentile place. Brian, in that moment, exemplified his kindness toward me. I accepted – with a little push-back, of course, because I’m Doug.

Two weeks ago, Brian came by – at night – and apparently made a mental note that my exterior trailer space is dark. Save a few small lantern lights setting on the very shelf he placed his wonderful gift today, the customer experience after sundown is less than ideal. I have certain priorities – exterior lighting hasn’t been one of them. My casual friendship to Brian was a priority to him during this past week and I am indebted to his goodwill. He lit up my emotional small 160 square feet footprint today.

In a few days, I’ll be able install these lights. For now, Axes and Ohs go out to you, Brian. You threw one and hit dead center today, my friend.

Sensational Swashbuckling, 2021

2020 was not, for sure. 1954 – the backdrop year of this surprisingly wonderful film – was for a few characters … especially Bengy Stone, who was assigned the unenviable task of looking after swashbuckling matinee idol Alan Swann. Thirty-six years removed from the previous pandemic (in movie time) and directed by Richard Benjamin thirty-nine years behind this current masking society (in real time), “My Favorite Year” is close to my favorite slice of time so far in 2021.

I first met Richard Benjamin during a Tonight Show re-run a few nights ago. He was, in a word, delightful. His appearance came a few months prior to the release of this film, of course … as all appearances by actors and directors dutifully promoting their wares – sitting to the right of the King of Late Night – did at the time. One mention of Peter O’Toole is all it took for me to begin Netflixing my way through movie queues soon thereafter. A few dollars later, there it was. A movie, previously unknown to me, now beginning as a young Mark Linn-Baker carries a cardboard cutout of Alan Swann through the heavy pedestrian traffic of NYC toward 30 Rockefeller Center. A New York City full of life, energy, and humor.

Bengy is who you would expect him to be – a young, energetic fellow who has quirky, humble comedic tilts in his personality. As a writer among others supporting a one hour t.v. Comedy Hour, he’s under pressure to be funny, yet sympathetic to the bigger egos in the room. None bigger than the soon to be inserted Mr. Swann who, we are quick to learn, has a leaning toward wine and women, – both of which cause highly predictable delays in morning arrivals. This being the case, Bengy volunteers to be a swashbuckler’s man-nanny for the week, guaranteeing safe travels within the city and promptness at all rehearsals.

As with all movies that keep our attention and are entertaining, there are sub-plots and curves here. A small romance, a mafia tie-in that culminates in a “hit” at the end, and charming individual character flaws all come together to make this movie really fun to watch.

Obviously, I’m not a professional movie reviewer. I wouldn’t even qualify to carry the briefcases of Siskel & Ebert from their limo to the Oscars if they were alive today. How to accurately convey the pleasure I got out of watching a thirty-nine year old movie without giving away most of the surprise? I don’t know. Peter O’Toole was wonderful. The story wasn’t campy or overplayed by anyone. The premise wasn’t too far reaching … it could actually be true and believable should an actor relay such a story in an autobiography.

What I kept thinking after the movie credits was: How ironic the title.

Nine days into 2021, and I’ll go back to my first line … 2020 was not, for sure. Maybe I simply needed a 1 1/2 hour hero to jump out of the screen and save me from the bad news of last year. A surprise visitor. Someone different with a message I hadn’t heard in a while – even if it was a fantasy. A swashbuckler slaying all the badness one by one.

I related so well to Bengy. Maybe that’s it. Trying to get through with a bit of quirkiness, dealing with egos much greater than I … making it work, somehow.

That’s what most of us are doing. We don’t have a say beyond our own words. Too many have platforms and audiences greater than ours … probably.

I can’t say 1954 was my favorite. Pre-birth years don’t qualify. Now, 1982 does have significance – it set me on my life’s journey after high school. Not my favorite, though. Up to now, I don’t have one, really. Should I?

Should you? When Norman Steinberg and Dennis Palumbo wrote the story for My Favorite Year, I wonder if 1954 was theirs? Marilyn Monroe married Joe DiMaggio, the Oscar Mayer hotdog car was patented, and Rock Around the Clock was recorded by Bill Haley and the Comets that same year. If you were to write a movie, what year would you pick?

Tell you what year I wouldn’t pick. 2020. Unless the horror genre is your thing, I wouldn’t recommend it for you either. The only advice I will give you is: find a few moments aside to watch this movie. Yes, it’s 39 years old. Sure, there are better “made” movies that will sparkle your special-effects fantasies. However, for a refreshing start to your 2021, sit back and go back sixty-seven years to a NYC full of life, liberty, happiness, joy, …. and most of all – humanity.

As Siskel & Ebert would lovingly say, “See you at the movies!”

Mother Hubbard is Crackers

This morning’s breakfast fare started with two Full Circle Market Organic Classic Round crackers … and, as of this point in time, ended there. I’m out of options with my favorite hotel cafe closed on Saturdays and Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboards open, but as the poem goes, “the poor Doug has none”.

Anticipating no baker, fruiterer, alehouse, or undertaker in my future … no tailer, cobbler, sempstress, or hosier, the remaining three hours of my day before opening my business look to be quite cravingly mad. Throw me a bone here, please. I’ll take anything.

Sarah Catherine Martin, to whom that poem is attributed, could walk through my office doors at this moment. Unless she’s carrying a tray full of bacon, rye toast, … a chocolate Clif bar, two over-easy eggs, and two glasses of iced tea, I’m not interested in what a two-hundred and fifty-two year old woman has to say. Granted, it’d be nothing short of a Guinness World Record miracle to have such a bicentennial-plus moment here in my humble hovel, however, I need food in my groveling belly.

I’ll survive. As they say, “such a first world problem”. A small trip down the road to one of many grocery stores – full to the ceiling with food – would work all this out. My beat up Honda doesn’t have to disengage as I have the option to casually drift through a drive-thru as well. Both of these choices, unfortunately, require I step out. Step out of very comfortable material surroundings such as the cotton garments keeping my apologetically happy appendages warm at the moment. Twenty-five degrees with a slight breeze outside. Yes, I’m not one to step out into that weather at the moment.

There was a time when cold and hunger didn’t matter. Youth and inexperience colored in the pictures – between the lines drawn by warmth and the need for nutrition. Days without a nugget or morsel tapping around in my belly were common. By choice, mind you, I pushed forward motivated by the words of Zig Ziglar and Earl Nightingale. These men didn’t advocate starvation as a means to an end, of course. I was busy making sales calls, talking to prospects, enjoying my work … that’s all. Youthful exuberance shuffling along with a fantastic company environment. Ah, the late-twenties and mid-thirties in our lives, right?

Enter Old Mother Hubbard in the winter of 2021. Bifocal nose-sliding syndrome is upon me as we speak, the back tweak has returned after a two day respite, my arms are sore after yesterday’s 7-hour work day, and quite honestly, I’ve had just about enough of this year already … with 357 days to go. I’ve gained three pounds since January 1st and since unfollowed a lot of folks on Facebook. Engaging, enlightening political conversations with friends and family aren’t happening anymore and eggshells are strewn everywhere I trod. Looking down at the slight pudge below, my core may be labeled certifiably, organically classic round … just like the box says. “Perfect for Entertaining”?, well … don’t know about that.

The local and national world I live in is crackers. I’m just one of many varieties. Organic classic round as it turn out to be. Tomorrow? Who knows. Would love to be Ritz. Hey!! Speaking of that, I bought a Mega-Millions ticket last night. Better go check the numbers. Odds are pretty good I didn’t win and will be sitting here tomorrow, again, in my cotton clothes wondering if Sarah Catherine Martin ever considered a career in food service. She’d make a great cracker salesperson.

Find Your Light

“The breeze inside isn’t a warm summer facial this time of year. As I stand in between two open windows preparing the day’s food, this concession trailer reminds me what its version of comfortable means. Ventilation is required as burgers, sausage, and dawgs fill the inside air with smokey droplets that need an escape. As much as I need an escape from life’s troubles these days, these little white buggers need it more. With that, I must endure being uncomfortable for a time as the winter breeze cuts across my grill watching face.”

That paragraph was constructed inside my head hours ago. I now sit – past the hours of a lunch rush crowd pushed against one of those windows – within the eight feet expanse where there’s no longer a breeze. Windows shut. Heaters on. No more smoke … for now.

If you had a chance to look in my wordpress queue, however, you’d find plenty of drafts. Thirty-eight to be exact. Three of them enlisted within the past two days. Not-so-a-musings I decided not to publish because there’s too much negativity out here in opinion land. They were stilted on two very unsteady subjects these days: politics and religion. The amens and amen-dments we were told to stay away from … with good reason. I felt horrible energy flow through my body simply typing in the words.

One post did get through, however. “It Can Be So Simple” was my response to a rather nasty comment directed at me through social media. That done, I’m over it like melted cheese on a juicy, hot angus burger. No more bitter apples to chew on while getting hooked into someone else’s can of worms. I’m done.

I care about lighter things. Jokingly, but not dismissivly, puppies and rainbows have been outflowing from my mouth lately, figuratively speaking (true magic would be the only other way). Happy, non-human delicious things of this world are capturing my attention.

Thinking, two-legged, top-of-the-food -chain breathers – like me – well, we’re not doing ourselves a whole heap of good these days. Heavy, laboring diatribes … expected to move mountains of opposing opinions … are only echoing in the valleys of similar ones. To argue for arguments sake is the tag line of every Facebook post headline. Lighten up, I say. Only a suggestion.

Fo me, I’d rather look up … and see the light.

Glenn Davis, Photographer – with my thanks to the Mishler Theater, Altoona, PA as well

Isn’t this magnificent! Take a minute, or two, and … just … look at it.

Only ten minutes drive from where I sit, and a few feet above where I sat as music director for shows in this spectacular, historic landmark, … this! A brilliance I don’t want to describe too much due to your imagination being foremost in my mind. Let the limited dimension of that picture take you to unlimited, non- political, a-theistic universes where no judgements upon you will be administered. You are allowed that space … and time.

Why? Last year was a mess. The past seven days of 2021 haven’t done any of us any favors either. Those aren’t negative words (as I promised I wouldn’t write), they’re simply facts – truths to support why we need puppies, rainbows, and a lot more light in the world right now.

The Misher has been dark for a while due to covid restrictions. My friend, Glenn Davis, gave me permission to post his photograph because he’s a kind man … a light among men. A human who, in the midst of all this, saw that light and shared it with the world.

Find your light and share it. If it’s a candle, however, beware of any draft. They’re nasty this time of year.

It Can Be So Simple

It could have been so simple. A private message from this now-unfollowed, blocked non-human person on Facebook would have settled the matter. Instead, she decided a personal attack was the best route toward understanding … a destination where she had no intention of meeting me. Adult, mature conversations, apparently, aren’t part of her world.

I was wrong. Posting an opinion, I guess. Sure, it was opposite her view. Yes, the issue at hand was – and still is – a rather hot potato still rapidly transfering between millions of satirists and social media warriors. Today, as thousands protested in Washington, was not the day for me to postulate. ‘My bad.

Emotions are high. Reason and logic? Way down on the list of to-do’s for those not only in our nation’s capital, but also the keyboard strokers who are, themselves, marching ahead toward justice through their words. In my haste, I joined in ever so briefly. One comment.

A mistake in timing … and also in fact. I meant to type in one thing, however, another ended up so unfortunately being posted. By the time I realized my error, that comment above meteorically flamed in. Adulting as one would, I quickly replied back to her my intentions assuming I had time to, then, go back and correct the errors. Her second reply solidified my future unfollowing: “I stand by my opinion!” …

See, here’s where we are. An attack on one’s character is so easy anymore. To consider an opposing point of view and respond in a mature way is so 2019 (skipping over 2020 for obvious reasons). I’m not so sure we were too together back then, but certainly closer than we are now. In an effort to bridge the gap between my over-expectations now and the reality back then, I posted the following this evening:

“I postulated an opinion that – as it turns out – was in error. My facts were wrong. Before having a chance to correct myself, this (insert above) was immediately placed under my comment. I replied in an adult manner, still thinking I was correct, of course. This person, in reply, stood by her comment. I lost my cool and sent additional words I immediately regretted then deleted. Giving her a pass I shouldn’t do by deleting her name, I sure hope your disagreeing with an opinion doesn’t also turn into a direct insult on someone’s character. Yes. Today is a tough day. This still doesn’t warrant any personal attacks – especially on a social media forum. Call them in person or take a stand in front of them face to face. Have an adult conversation. “I was wrong.” are the greatest words in our language. These six words below (you are actually so freakin stupid) get us nowhere. I choose the three now and always because they are most honest at times. The latter? … I don’t own.”

Do I believe I’m stupid? Nope. Not at all. The adverb, “actually” when used can mean something written that is surprising. Yes, I was surprised by the quickness in her so obvious knee-jerk reaction and callous regard for introspection and foresight. She didn’t even have the bravery to type (with my apologies ahead here) fucking – resorting to “freakin”, a lady like choice of appellation … so sarcastically uncharacteristic of her true, obvious classy self. Polishing off the retort with stupid. Really? THAT’S the chosen word? Not slow-witted, foolish, or ignorant?

Why did she stomp on my 3rd to last left over 2020 nerve tonight? Because she doesn’t care to know my back story … my life. Nobody really knows anyone’s real story anymore. In fairness to her that she doesn’t deserve, I don’t know hers either. If she, in some repentant form, shows up at my doorstep some calm evening, I will talk with her side by side. I will neither give her permission to talk down to me, nor insult my intelligence with six additional words of attempted humiliation. It could be adulting 101 – something 2021 may have in the curriculum.

These pages are usually reserved for puppies and rainbows. For two minutes tonight, as I found myself tossed among the newsfeed and poked-political commentary concerning the Electoral College voting in the Senate, my pages on Facebook distracted me away from happy colors and purring pets. Sadly. Fingers typed anxious thoughts – in error – into a small cellular device causing my stomach to swirl just as it did decades ago. Words spoken in haste and error from someone who loved me, yet continually told me I was … “stupid”.

Those resurrected feelings are lifetime deal-withs. Tastes and smells a man never forgets. A man older, now, than the man who said that word back then. This man who has a wonderful relationship with his dad because forgiveness is a tremendous attribute. That forgiveness is real. He knows it. I know it.

Just so happens, the Forrest Gump syndrome runs up my emotional lane and “stupid is as stupid does” irrationality deposits itself on my heart. When mistakes happen, I can’t correct them in time, and then am insulted … the person who abuses me with words can be unfriended.

This simple click vanishes them from my virtual life, for sure. It’ll take a few days for the dust to settle otherwise because I am who I am. Understanding myself – even over a goofy post – is huge in living a balanced life.

Know your backstory well. Also, if available, get to know someone else’s story before deciding to make a judgement call on their character. Sure, disagree with them based on their opinions (maybe stay away from politics right now …) and talk recipes, restaurants, or kangaroos. Really, this is loving your neighbor – not shouting out to the social warriors you’re convinced they’re “actually so freakin stupid”.

None of us are “in this together” as claimed if all we do is make the divides already here larger. It can be so simple.

Welcome Back, Mom

I’ve been at this a short time. Since October of 2019, to be more precise. Millions of other bloggers dutifully write words of greater depth on this day and have done similar, marvelous posts on days going back further than that. Year over year, they tell their individual stories. I walk along side some of them as they silently speak of their beautiful journeys. They are we-blog folks. Simple people who have something special to say on a particular day.

At the time of this post, there are an estimated 500 million blogs. Logging on the web, back in 1994, was a portal for Justin Hall and Peter Merholz who became quasi-household names to all the bloggers yet to come. Pioneers are they. The former considered the “founding father” of personal blogging and the latter who coined the term, “blog”. Technological credits aside – available for anyone willing to do the additional research – I’m simply amazed – after fifteen months of experimental digitry on my Dell keyboard and Samsung phone, primitive observational photographic skills, and basic grasp of grammar rules – I have followers of one kind or another. Either through email or a simple follow button, there are those of you out there in the blogosphere who enjoy reading my words.

We don’t say “thank-you” enough these days. Out of half-a BILLION blogs, you’ve chosen this one to read. Thank-you.

…and thank you, 2021. What for? Returning a little bit of normal to me I thought I lost months ago during a tempestuous, emotional 2020.

We didn’t lose mom in 2020. She died in 2012. Part of what she left behind was her music. Not just all the piano music I get a chance to play, but also her iPod Shuffle and various other devices with music downloaded she listened to while undergoing chemo treatments. I’m not sure my siblings, or my dad, miss mom the same way I do. We’re all different. We mourn her loss differently – even eight years, four days later. Pianistic connections are hard to let go between a son and mother. Duets played side by side, deeply felt, are not easily let go – and shouldn’t be. Remembering hearts entwined, while playing thousands of pinochle hands on cold winter evenings, trump this sad feeling of not having her around to help me deal with her absence across the table from me.

Facing another year without someone like her is hard. If you’re sitting with me, you know the fondness without the company of that person. A mom, dad, son, daughter, friend …they’re all so uniquely important to us. A memory just isn’t enough most times. We can pretend a sign from above is enough – and it is for the moment. But when that person is no longer here in person to give us a hug, or tell us they love us no matter what, we feel less-full, less-complete. Holidays, especially, are tough. Mom’s cookies. Dad’s Christmas traditions … all so important to us, right?

Here is 2021. Geesh, are we glad it’s here, or what? The election season was anfractuous. Yes, anfractuous, and as of this day, still hasn’t settled into a direct line toward a calm inauguration. The pandemic, of course, virtually split everything into parts previously unknown for a century. Racial tensions pulled apart our country. What a mess we were … and continue to be. How about we simply acknowledge a lot happened we weren’t too happy about and, privately, mourn our losses? If you suffered a tragedy, please accept my sincere condolences. 2020 wasn’t kind. “Happy New Year!”, I guess.

Mom didn’t need to be alive for any of this. It’s fortunate she isn’t around. There are too many people to hug and not enough time in the day for her. Distancing away from her family would be too much – as it is for so many other families – and not being able to be her wouldn’t be any kind of life.

Cancer sucks. The day she died, however, was one of my best days. I’ve said this since that sad March day in 2012. My biggest crutch in life was kicked out from under me. I had to grow up and become an adult on that very day. Losing her earbuds last year still hurt, however. Listening to music through her ears since she died was one of my connections. When they went missing, I lost a part of my mom. Last year took so much from so many, yet misplacing a simple pair of earbuds, to me, was living the 14th floor of UPMC Altoona’s palliative care wing all over again.

The connection was lost. I lost a small part of mom. Efforts to find failed. Drawers, closets, cars, clothes, etc … nowhere to be found. With regret and sadness, I gave up. Times of late night music sessions only for my ears silenced. I didn’t want to buy a replacement. There was no other. I know this sounds goofy, perhaps a bit featherbrained, but tickle my fancy and go with the emotional-logic here: there IS no emotional-logic. Replacing the earbuds meant I was, in a mystifying way, replacing my dear mom.

I don’t believe in signs from above. If there’s a divine being up there, I think there’s a better way to send us signals than birds and cloud shapes. I don’t know what I don’t know, so I’m always open to learning, however. Whatever urged these wonderful little earbud-dies of mom’s to show back up in my life yesterday … thank-you. Yes, they were jammed under the sofa … no surprise there because I probably hobbled them under there a while back flirting around doing something else.

As I type, for the first time in months, music flows again through my ears. Mom lives again. I’m listening to the top hits of 2020. Everything’s back to normal. Kinda. Still have a way to go because hanging close by are six masks and a schedule adjusted for semi-lockdowns and virtual teaching.

I’m thankful and grateful I can write along with my 500 million friends … and have something special to say on this particular day. Unique, to me, of course because of all the problems in the world lately, I may have been the only one who lost his earbuds within the past 6 months. Small in comparison to others’ tremendous losses this past year, my experience was, nevertheless, real to me … and heartfelt.

As I close, “Memories” by Maroon 5 finishes up on the playlist. Again, no pointing upward or sideways to a divine interventionist. I’m simply going to stop typing, sit back, and listen to the words. Thankful, for one last time, mom is talking to me again. Welcome, 2021.

Froliday

Love or hate. Toss portmanteaus aside into mental bins where other words you don’t use reside; or, embrace them everywhere you see such words as brunch and spork. Two separate becoming one new. A concept once reserved for marital bliss also now used for stabbing peas and scooping mashed potatoes. Marvelous.

My portmanteau for this season is froliday. The urban dictionary defines it as a merging of friendship and holiday. That is, a recurring, significant date between friends. I don’t agree. Especially now, the day after January 1st – a Friday – when this particular 24 hour span seems like a Sunday, but is a Saturday. The same weirdo Serling event happened last week as the Christmas holiday fell on Friday, the 25th. These Friday holidays mess everything up. Chief among them, my weak-end mind.

These every-so-often Frolidays are not right. Frankly, of all the laws Washington should consider, I’d be in favor of them passing a “No Holidays on Friday” bill. I’m not twisting a Scrooge-screw here or waving a white flag, … just move the days July forth or back to another day so I can get my Saturdays straight in my head. Certainly you can get behind me here?

C’mon now. As sure as I type, didn’t you once think, “What day is it?” today? Maybe said it out loud into the mirror as you shaved Christmas and New Year’s stubble off your face, or ran ruby red lipstick around once cookie ravaged lips? Holidays, in general, mess us up. Gets us all off our routines, anyway. Hygiene, diets, school, work, … all of it off the rails – and THEN we have to smoosh in remembering a day-after Saturday?

Too much, I say. Weekday holiday, then another weekday after? Yep. Good to go. This three-syllable, gobsmack day after, twice happening letdown that happens roughly twelve percent of the time has to be removed … permanently. How and by what means other than an act of Congress, I’m not sure.

Very few things I’m sure of lately, that’s for sure. How about you? Two days into a new year and to quote one of my favorite comedians “You’re doin’ good!”. Tom Papa nails it. We’re hanging in there with what we’re dragging into this new year. Nothing really changed except the date. If we have a few extra pounds flipping us out, they’re still here. Goofy co-workers sit close by, possibly virtual, and can be just as annoying as they were only days ago. Looking back to the 2020 work-a-day world a few breaths back, I see nothing different today, really.

Not to say we can’t have hope, however. We are doing good if we have hope in what this year will bring. Not false hope. Going back to the moon or becoming a movie star does not a bucket list make. Hope that a hug from someone you love will finally arrive at your doorstep. Hope for a better job you’ve been working hard to get. Hope for small, measurable upticks in your healthy lifestyle so well deserved from early morning jogs and disciplined eating. These are doable, wonderful hope-for soul stuffers.

It’s all what we work and hope for that makes all the difference. If we remember we’re doin’ good – new year or not – we’ll be just fine.

I hope to never again have a Froliday (as I believe it to be) in my life, yet I know this will never be a reality. I must begin to agree with the times and seek out a friend with whom I can have a significant, urban, holiday date. Whoever this happens to be, I hope said individual understands if our anniversary falls on a Friday, I will be understandably absent from the celebration. Saturday following is iffy as well due to my believing it is a Sunday. It’s all messed up, you see.

So glad I have a portmanteau to keep it all straight. Or, do I?

Guys Who Cook

I run a concession stand, but don’t really cook. Sure, every week there are quarts upon quarts of very fine chili sauce marinating upon my stove – though I don’t consider that cooking. Anyone can mix up their grandmother’s tomato base, special spices, ground beef, and onions recipe in a stainless pot … turn the burner dial to medium/low heat, … to free the simmer-scent from its previously packaged existence. Right? One of my good days, casually placing meat on a grill, or condiments in a bun, doesn’t top off a Gordon Ramsay measuring cup bad day. There are guys who cook-cook, and then there’s … me.

I’m not a guys’ guy, either. In the outdoors checklist of life, there’s empty boxes beside camping, fishing, hunting, hiking, mountain biking, llama-sighting excursions, white-water rafting, or rock climbing. I have one vice in storage we found in my grandfather’s toolshed when cleaning out his estate; therefore, you can accurately assume no tobacco or alcohol products have danced across my lips (save the one drag at age twelve and once a year if that wine cooler). It’s a life.

To be honest here, I do give in to a risk/reward obsession. This is the one clamp around my personality I call a life. Casinos, pre-pandemic, and more than occasional stops to the local convenience store – during our viral experience these days – is what checks my boxes. Yep, there are way too many slips of paper and cardboard squares in my past with losing numbers on them. It’s my go-to for semi-validation, probably, and entertainment. All of us do what we do every day … week … to get by. Understanding ourselves is the key. Let’s not do a nasty on our back and pretend it’s a nice spring rain. This was my 2020. It was, I’m sure, a lot of our 2020’s.

I’ve known about my tilt into financial risk taking. I survive by taking those chances. Some work out, some don’t. They’re calculated, yet chancy, and I don’t ever place anyone in harm’s way. Nearly two-thirds the way through a life of wonderful experiences, I’m still here celebrating on the first day of a new year. You are still surviving a life you choose to live, too – with your faults and vices in tow as well.

Maybe you’re cooking today. I’m not. Guys that can are dutifully carving up delicious meats and smiling over stew pots as evidenced by my social media feed pictures. I am envious. I sit here writing words while friends internally glance over memorized recipes in their manly brains. Seasoned pork, shrimp skewers, taters my mom wouldn’t even try, silvery cutlery embedded in meatloafs and pies … all reaching out, yet ungrabable by me. A semi-opened bag of nacho chips within reach here my only friend at the moment. Wanting more is risky. A risk even I cannot take due to the, now, beginning icy road conditions and, additionally, I have some – but no exacting idea – where any of these culinary masters live. (As an aside, the uninvited issue wouldn’t bother me. Maybe them. Not me.).

The early afternoon hours of a new year bring renewed thoughts of community. A time of honesty about ourselves, others, and where we are, especially beginning in 2021, seems so appropriate.

I saw a quote run through the comment section of a friend’s post this morning: “How uncomfortable are you willing to be, so that someone else can feel comfortable?”. This gets right to the point of us – together – as a community. If we’re to be honest with ourselves, are we doing what we need to do for the benefit of someone else? What risks are we willing to take on to benefit someone else? Is unease an ingredient we’re willing to mix in to our recipe of compassion for others?

All pretty deep questions during a day when empty bottles are still rattling around on the table and paper party hats hang from lamp shades even now calmly warm from early morning festivities. Gangs of loved ones celebrating the end of a simple December day. None of us know what this new year will bring. We want nothing special from the fourth digit flip of a zero to a one, other than no more pain and suffering in the lives of those we love. Belonging to us is the hope of a new year crowded with hugs and smiles in person – not millions of 1’s and 0’s transmitting faster than a Covid-19 virus in an empty grandparent’s holiday home or local family restaurant.

The purpose here isn’t to unmask any answer. I don’t have the Gordon Ramsay magic and, thankfully, his colorful language to shock you into a new way of thinking. No meme, cute saying, or puppy/santa picture (although I do have one queued up) elegantly inserted here will either erase your memories of last year, or have you take the next happy exit ramp. Today is Friday, January 1st, 2021. “One day at a time.” is about all I can drop into the party, unannounced.

…which is really what I’d like to do soon as I’m getting hungry and there’s at least a dozen guys who can cook close by. Ah, but I do have a few other options. Friends. Friends who UberEats. I’ll allow them the pleasure through “contractual risk transfer” – despite the possibility that they’ll never know a contract exists. A simple knock and a nod blocks away by a friend could return pork and shrimp back to me. I have ways of finding addresses previously unknown. Little risk / yummy rewards. Well, I may lose a friend in the process, which would be sad. I have to think how uncomfortable I am willing to be … in order … “. Oh man! The trap we set by our own words. How about I simply invite my friends over soon to my concession trailer for a burger, or cheese-steak? At least I know I can cook those.

Start this new year knowing who you are and who you can help. Two really cool commodities that may serve you well going ahead into a time of perfect uncertainty. Level off your measuring cup and stay calm. If you’re a guy who can cook, hat’s off, my friend. Please post pictures for me to see with an address to avoid my searching google maps and, by all means, leave the front door open. I don’t want to lose any friends.

New Year’s Derby Hats

As a part-time writer – and one who doesn’t claim to remember all the grammar rules from, let’s say, a few years ago while sluffing back in a hard plastic school chair – I’m fascinated by what comes out of my fingers sometimes. Just me, though. You don’t need to be. Only because I never paid a gnat’s attention to the instructions given out by well-qualified teachers … that’s why. Chief among them, my dad. He was on staff at the high school where I attended, but I never had him for English or Literature class. I would have traded forty minutes, five days a week for the constant gerund, lie-lay, dangling modifier meerkat, eye-rolling moments he flinged at us around the dinner table. Moments I remember only because the rest of us at the table dug our utensils deeper into mom’s daily casserole every time dad dissected dinner dialect.

It wasn’t just over peas and carrots, or noodle dishes prepared ahead. Breakfast presented its own paternal parental problems, parenthetically writing, here. Dad had a schedule. Of course he did. Up out of bed at 5:50 a.m. … and so forth. Mom, deciding early on not to accept a teaching job within the same school district in order to raise three little angels, was expected to prepare oatmeal, a glass of O.J., coffee, and toast. Mixing it up once in a while with some Raisin Bran cereal, mom really didn’t mind. Routine. Both of them in that comfortable space where dad had expectations and mom, being her wonderful self, went along with the plan.

Pre-dawn problems made an appearance along side angelic Doug. I, the ever-so non-agreeable child of the three, couldn’t stand routine. Well, let’s play all the flash cards here. By the time middle school came into my life, dad decided work came first – not studies … not music … not girls … not fun, etc … I respected my dad and pushed forward with all his wishes. Anything to make a buck – in his eyes – I labored on. Tiring as it was, I dad-did. As any young boy-man would wish to do, I rebelled. Not in a nasty way, of course. To this day, that’s not my nature. I’m a pianist, musician, and as much as I have an aversion toward the phrase, “people person” … that duo best describes me – and it sooo fit my mom. We were two of the same.

Dawning on me, mornings had to change. I didn’t want to go to school anymore. The days and weeks were wearing me down with work. I had work-a-day syndrome before my eighteenth birthday. Life wasn’t fun anymore. Mom looked bored doing the same thing over … and over. That same brick building, only a ten minutes walk away, could just disappear in the fog it always had lingering over it when mom drove me there. Yes, I insisted she drive me even though I could walk. Tired. Just exhausted. And, looking back, she was to. Routine, for us, was exhausting. Work. Rules. Wearisome.

So, the derby hats had to come out. Were these her idea, or mine? Not sure, but I do know we did the routine prior to their appearance on dad’s morning stage. Laurel & Hardy. Mom & I. Ironic, this use of routine. We turned the situation around to our benefit. We had to.

Leading up to this dramatic moment, dad stayed focused on his breakfast fare. His routine needed to be steady, predictable … as was his life to that moment. Staying on schedule is what we love about him to this day, actually. Since March, he’s done remarkably well being tossed about in an ocean of unpredictability. Without mom since 2012, he’s been through another death of a wife, some health issues, and as an octogenarian, is experiencing the usual mental issues associated with that decade of life. All that aside, a cantankerous teenager and his brilliant, bored mom didn’t look ahead that much. What we saw was a overly-grammared, stressed, casserole-killing, breakfast-timetable teacher who needed some shaking up. We were the perfect cereal killers for the moment.

Upon our heads sat the derbys a bit askew. “I don’t, Stanley.” … “What do you think, Ollie?”, began our routine as we entered the off-color, late 70’s styled kitchen where dad sat at the head of a slightly oblong, wobbly table. Not lifting his head even one, we got multiple degrees worth of grammatical tongue lashings from a guy who – by my best guess here – wasn’t in any mood for such shenanigans. Oh, and I think all the subjects and verbs agreed, btw. I don’t know what was worse: his language, or not recognizing our fine derby hats. We knew the routine well – having rehearsed it during leisure times prior. Fine tuning with the hats was a mere inconvenience. Adding the breakfast show for dad’s expected pleasure was a bonus feature. Yep. All work, no play.

Mom drove me to school that day. The school barely peeked through the dense fog once again. Dad was already in his classroom. He walked every day from our house – down the narrow, paved path through a wooded area – making sure to be one of the first teachers in his classroom. On schedule. I, of course, ran late into the band room late with my trombone case in hand, unfinished homework under my arm, and most likely a bad attitude. Life as an overworked teenaged who wasn’t having any fun.

It’s the last day of 2020 and I bet this is another day in the life of US. We’re upset teenagers who just haven’t had any fun lately because of a 2020 parent. Every day I get up anymore, I expect to see that dad of my teenage years sitting at my breakfast table. What’s he going to make me do today that I don’t want to do? What schedule am I going to be glued to prohibiting me from having joy in my life? Why did the parent I loved so much and connected with have to die? Where is that happiness and derby hat routine?

I WANT IT ALL BACK AGAIN!!

Another year is coming to a close. 365 days of missing my mom. Those derby hat days – and moments with her – are gone. It was only 30 seconds during a mundane, routine morning when we tried to break up another boring day. We understood the importance of work and responsibility. We also knew how important it was to have fun. To relax. To play. To throw pie in the face of stress and realize present progressive tense isn’t a state of being – it’s just a grammar rule.

Dad stops by my concession trailer almost every day and sits off to the side. I ask him grammar questions as I … work. Can’t avoid work. Ironic, huh? Forty years later, … in a kitchen of my own choosing, dad is relaxed, I’m stressed trying to fill orders to stay on a schedule. Maybe the lessons my dad tried to teach me – outside the classroom I never sat in – made sense after all. Nonetheless, I avoid lie-lay and who-whom as much as possible and any discussions about dangling participles are off limits.

Just the other day, dad said, “It’s my choosing, not me choosing…” to a customer. Fortunately, this was a good friend of mine. Rules and routines keep dad going. I’m so fortunate these two words supported him this year. They’ll serve him well as the calendar flips over tonight into a new year. My new year will begin as this one ends – missing mom and our derby hats.

It’s not just those hats. It’s everything about her and a life overflowing with fun, joy, and happiness. I know this year’s been tough on all of us with the rules. Our routines turned out to be one big mess as we meandered through lockdowns and virtual unrealities. Some did well, some struggled. A really hard year.

To say a simple turn-over of a calendar will bring this all to an end would be a fool’s promise. We have some work to do before 2020 can be behind us. As optimistic as my mom was, even she would admit two simple derby hats and a 5-minutes routine wouldn’t tamp down the long-term tension built up to this point. What she would do, however, is give us each a hug – one by one – and say, “It’s going to be o.k.”, smile, and ask if we want a chocolate chip cookie baked fresh with Crisco … followed up with a game of Trivial Pursuit.

Then she’d invite all of us to a humbly decorated, streamer basement to welcome in the new year. A new 2021 she won’t be here to enjoy, once again. I’ll put on an invisible derby hat in her honor and say, “What do you think, Ollie?” then call dad to wish him a Happy New Year.

Beside Rusty Roads

Best guess is a late 1940’s Chevrolet panel truck, thanks to my good friend Joel. Beyond any spit and polish for next summer’s picnic outing, a happy heap caught my eye. It sat only a few feet back from a two-lane road heading south from a bustling intersection where folks jammed their modern machines bumper-to-bumper at a McDonald’s drive-thru lane. A crossroads just a few minutes drive away from a lot where one could park their automobile and wait, … and wait, for a loved one to be discharged from the small local hospital. The waits are, indeed, longer now that 2020 has been in our lives. Normal time stopped being normal back around March, … here in Western PA.

Bumps, bruises, and scrapes still happen in this borough. Little ones are being born while others are saying their final good-byes in the same, small, white, one-story building known as the Conemaugh Nason Medical Center. It’s where my mother – thirteen years ago – began her five year cancer journey with the discovery of a little, stage three shadow. Her wait ended in 2012 while resting comfortably in less intimate surroundings. Time was kind to her. Happy as life was, she didn’t live long enough to see us 6 feet apart without hugging each other, or smiling behind masks. Yes, this is a time when she wouldn’t need to see the 2020 things I see – except, maybe, the really cool things like this:

I think it’s on private property – comfortably far enough away from the residence sitting yards back from the road where I pulled off the highway. Definitely not far from a shotgun’s range, however, had the owner been so inclined to aim my way during the 30-second’s time I was snap-happy with my camera phone. Hey, to get a Time Magazine worthy photo like this, one must take risks, right? Honestly, though, driving by – headed south on my way to an appointment – I made a mental note to stop on my way back through an hour, or so, later. “On the left in the woodsy patch … past the white farm house, green road sign, with the two hay bales by a rusty tractor … and three cows (if they haven’t moved) – in reverse”, firmly embedded in my mind. A lot for this mid-50’s mental confusionaire to remember, mind you, but certainly doable under the day off circumstances. And so, I did – less than an hour later. Remembered … and done.

Time, certainly, is a great word for this jalopy. What pandemic? Do you think masking and distancing bothers this guy? I drove the remaining twenty minutes to my home thinking about how slowly time progressed for him since the shiny days when life was new. Bumpers fresh, hood up and down without a squeak in earshot, hubcaps clicked in on rubbery black-mirrored tires, and 30-cents per gallon gas filled up to the top of his tank. Oh the pleasures that must have crowded into the secretive section past the front third of the, now, rusty vacated engine block? What hidden tales are still there as of yet discovered?

Seventy years. Seven decades of life breathed into this metal structure … most years sitting by the road, I suspect. In all probability, used functionally until the mid-to-late 60’s then set aside. Benefit of the doubt here: Forty years out of commission. Two scores unused, done; However, appreciated and admired more now than before – if not by others, me.

Thousands of cars drive by. This is a busy road … one of the busiest in PA – a two lane highway on the way to our Turnpike and a couple major interstates. One could find alternate routes, but time and money are valuable resources, so travelling this road is easiest and most convenient. How many passengers in Prii, Hondas, and Fords – myself included – have whizzed by over the years without noticing such wonderful friends beside the road? You’ve done it in your borough, town, and state as well. The everyday sights are so, … well, everyday, we develop an immunity to the appreciation of all that’s around us.

We look at it casually, but don’t see it for what it is. I fear this happens when we look at others, too. Those who are aged, perhaps, or less fortunate. Some who don’t look like us – sitting by the road, a bit rusty around the edges, hollowed out by a life that left them years ago when gas was more affordable for them. This is not a summons for us to appear in court for crimes against our neighbors. It is simply a typed reminder to myself, and possibly others, that responsible compassion toward others should be something we need to keep in our minds.

I drove the remaining twenty minutes simply replacing that 40’s Chevrolet with two gentleman in my neighborhood. How many times do I drive by? A lot. Can I stop every time? No. What should I do for them, especially now, when we’re in the middle of a pandemic at worse, or a really bad flu epidemic at best? I don’t know. They do have some advantages over a fragile, rusty Chevrolet. Social safety nets are in place to help the unfortunate, however, weather hasn’t been kind to them – 70-year old cars, or sidewalk folks with, seemingly, no hope, food, or family. If either are pushed, they may crumble. It’s a definite conundrum.

Whatever the look-ahead scenarios may be, we’re not excused from seeing what it is. The reality has to be noticed as it is and addressed. It starts with compassion. Responsibly recognize their bumps, bruises, and scrapes in life and help out when and where you can. I’m not advocating giving irresponsibly, or being taken advantage of by someone who doesn’t want to be helped. My Uncle always said, “You can’t push a rope” … and this is so appropriate here. Volunteer at a food bank, donate money, give of your time to a cause helping the needy … I don’t know what else may be available in you community.

This rusty guy in the picture above had some life way back when. Maybe, as I type and think, “he” maybe was a “she”? The owner loved her so much, possibly the barely legible letters once read, “Foxy lady” on the side. Last thing I wanted to do was walk up a muddy path to ask. I suspect the original owner isn’t alive to ask, anyway. The thirty-seconds along side a busy road was enough time to hop out of my Honda, take a Pulitzer-prize winning photo, then leave. My appointment went well, the bottle of tea I bought two hours prior was warm, and ten minutes ahead I had to face the memories of mom, once again, being told – for the first of many times – “cancer is your new normal”. Just ahead, Nason Hospital.

Just ahead for us? More of the same, no doubt, but with a few changes. Some vaccines will give us a light. A change in Washington coming – a slight one, perhaps, as the same old gridlock in Congress gives me little hope for reform. Some financial relief for Americans, save the billions in pork spending. Another time, another day for that.

For now, let’s keep looking – and seeing – the rusty wonders around. Be giving and compassionate toward those you see along your path. Busy road, or solitary journey, you can make a difference in their lives I’m sure.