Speaks Volumes

Our common core, long before the insanity of diagrammatic digital black holes, is “Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness” guaranteed by the Declaration of Independence. Freedom from British rule and, back in 1776, an alliance with the French government to assist in the war against Great Britain. Pretty simple, right? A lot easier than the “new” way kiddos are asked to, well, do math these days. Imagine powdered wig dust flying in frustration – attached to additive inverses, box plots, and dilations – as the original 13 colonies found their way on to recycled rags, instead of what actually happened …

Our founding fathers using common sense. Common. Every day. Sense.

I liked math in school. Actually, loved is a better verb. English, history, Geography? Eh, not so much. Math and Music were the sweetness in my nine-period jelly donut. I ate both up. Notes looked like numbers when I practiced , er… played, diligently behind the keys and digits sat as quadratic equations, transforming into beautiful music in front of my very eyes. Solving for X could not have been any more exciting. Oh, and then there’s: V=1/3Bh ! Do you remember this formula?

Finding the Volume of a Square Pyramid, it is! Are you getting excited? Capital B is the area of the base (LxW) times the height, then divide the product by 3. Simple. Common sense.

I could do some advance detective work – with the assistance of the great Pythagoras and his mathematical theorum – to determine the actual volume of this particular stone structure, however, the monument above speaks volumes on its own.

Passing by every evening on the way home, my mind isn’t usually focused on it. Today, being a day off, was worth the stop. Seventy-seven years ago, the Woodrow Wilson Civic Association erected this monument to honor “Our Boys and Girls” who served. Yes, “boys and girls” spectacularly engraved on either side of the words, “Honor Roll”. I did some public google-digging and found only one source for the W.W.C.A. in America:

WOODROW WILSON CIVIC ASSOCIATION NONPROFIT

Company Number 392011

Status Active Company Type Non-Profit

So, it’s a “thing”, apparently. The address (I chose not to post) is listed and coordinates nicely with the very street, a few blocks down, where I turn to head back out to the main route. The roundabout where the monument sits is back from a very busy intersection which coordinates nicely with the 28th, two-term, Presidential log. He helped craft the Treaty of Versailles, did what he could do to see us through World War One, and was instrumental in the League of Nations, a precursor to the United Nations. He died in 1924 – only three years after leaving the White House – and is generally considered one of the better, busy, men to sit in the Oval Office.

Why 1943 to build this monument? Why “Boys and Girls”, not “Men and Women”?, I don’t know. It speaks volumes … What’s inside the outside stone cover is up to the observers to appreciate on their own …

THAT is the “Life and Liberty” we are guaranteed. THIS is why monuments such as these exist. Not to define what we should believe, but to show the ultimate sacrifice of a few or many, and let it up to us, as individuals, to acknowledge and confirm an inner belief to ourselves. To, then, leave behind a possible tear to honor those who served and make every effort to right the wrongs they fought to change … in pursuit of Happiness they didn’t get a chance to live out.

Most members, if not all, of the W.W.C.A. are not with us. Maybe. A 21-year old back then would be ninety-eight now. IF I could find someone to talk to who was around when the monument was erected, it’d be worth exploring … AND if I could find some old, dusty paperwork in a trunk along with maps, all this may start to add up.

OH, wouldn’t that be awesome for a math geek like me!

One Day

The Ohio river flows 981 miles from the southern edge of lake Erie to its mouth on the great Mississippi river, passing through – and by – two hall-of-fame sports cities along the way: Pittsburgh and Cincinnati. Combined, the two have 19 championships as follows: Steelers – 6, Penguins – 3, Pirates – 5, and Reds – 5. Unfortunately, the Bengals are one of a few NFL modern era teams yet to score a Lombardi, but hey, there’s time.

In 1975, nicknames were flowing for the Superbowl winning Steelers and World Series Champion Reds. For the Reds and Steelers, these nicknames were off the tongues and typewriters of sports writers … fluently-friendly they were – these words with the heft of a linebacker and the grace of a finely tuned, well-executed fast ball. The “Big Red Machine” including Bench, Rose, Morgan, Pérez, Concepción, Foster, Griffey, and Gerónimo took care of business pretty much the whole decade, not just that year. The “Steel Curtain” nickname came easy as well for the quartet of the Steeler’s defensive front four, L.C. Greenwood, Joe Greene, Ernie Holmes, and Dwight White.

Yep, 1975 was a year to celebrate the Ohio river’s glory. “La Belle Riviere”, as this magnificent body is so aptly nicknamed, has outlasted – and will continue to – the hoorays and cheers of those years. Forty-five years and millions of heart-breaking moments later, we have memories and, maybe, a few autographs and game day programs. The players are retired, coaching, or, well, … dead. This applies to many of us, too – the fan base who held on to our dads’ hand while walking into a stadium for the first time as a deep, rich announcer’s voice echoed throughout.

1975. Ohio river and two teams. Also the year a sit-com taught us one really valuable lesson. Not through really bad acting (which there was), or quite mundane script writing (which there was) or, kinda bad wardrobe choices (which there was), or my complete disdain for Bonnie Franklin (which there was), or my wish that the writers would never develop a plot around Mackenzie Phillips (which they never honored), or my sincere love toward Valerie Bertinelli (which WAS honest and for true 😍)… It was the title: ONE DAY AT A TIME.

This is a saying I toss back and forth once in a while with a wonderful friend of mine. Certainly not an original phrase, it has been twisted, turned, modified, memed, run up and down the motivational speaker pole, and shouted from the pulpits of every denominational oratoty. I claim no originality in posting it here. “One day at a time” has no greater meaning than it does today, or any day for that matter … especially in 2020.

My friend, with whom I transfer this glorious pentaword phrase, sometimes approaches her days cautiously, but even then, undaunted with silent resolve is she. Under the black light of a pandemical petri dish as all of us are, she’s a survivor’s survivor.

When we were born, the maker of our forms placed a timer on our spans. The width between coming and going we don’t know. All we’re guaranteed is that it’s significantly shorter than 981 miles and less important, overall, than the Ohio river to our great American society. Yes, collectively, we add up to a great team if we played as one; However, if 2020 has taught us anything, we ‘ain’t all wearing the same jersey, are we? Each one if us, simply, were given one-day-at-a- timers and it’s up to us to use them.

Those timers are the other people in our circle who make a difference and can help us when we need help. Friends who we reach out to with a text saying, “I’m sad today and here’s why …”, or “My job is frustrating me. Can we talk for a few minutes?”. These co-breathers, especially now, are the real champions in our lives. They go to bat for us. They stay under center when we seem to be running all over the field.

We have no fancy nicknames for these heroes in our lives, nor are there hall-of-fame buildings erected in their honor. Timers must suffice for now. No sit-coms will ever come close to script the lines, fashionably drape a cast, or hire a lead actress that will ever gratify my need to priviledge the timers in my life. I’m so ok with that truth.

Heading down one of the greatest unknown rivers in the past 100 years, we need all our friends to help us stay afloat right now. Reach out to a champion. Our world is not a bell-bottomed, steel curtained, big red machine forty-five years later, for sure. We have each other, though, and also one day at a time.

Both, together, make any show worth watching and walking into a stadium with a dad, for any day’s game, a championship moment.

Psychic Flames

This is the back window view from my concession trailer, the wonky-winky sticker added virtually to protect the proprietor; although, she knew that was going to happen, I suspect, if she’s worth every ounce of crystal in the ball resting comfortably on her velvety red table. I see this sign every day when firing up my propane tank on that side of my business and always wonder: Is there an external, psychic force – unbenounced to any living concessionaire – applying positive or negative energy to me?

Usually unanswered, this query goes. Usually. Today, I felt the force. It came quickly in the form of a short, blue flash of light. A propane brightness followed by a stench of burnt hair. This is not uncommon to me. I should have seen it coming. Rather, SHE should have seen it and warned me … somehow, through a telepathic, psychic foodie, synaptic sensory system. Twice this has happened in the fifteen years I’ve been twisting tubers on a grill. “What?”, you ask. Step #1) Hook up propane tank and turn on the nozzle, Step #2) Walk into warm trailer, Step #3) Not remember that I didn’t turn off the griddle the previous evening, aaaand Step #4) stick a long handle ez-lighter in the hole while, subsequently, clicking on the flame … score: four-burner chamber 1, Doug 0.

At that point, it just was. No sense arguing the point with any universe willing to listen. I raised a few eyebrow hairs I had remaining and tilted my head. Fortunately, two days prior I shaved. Also, most head hair was covered with a ball cap and arm follicles, similarly, with my hoodie sleeves. Save a few back of the hand stragglers gone the way of hair-burn obscurity, all was well.

All was well … everything except the remaining smell of hair torched by irresponsibility. Boy, does that linger, or what? Not only the smell, but the fact I walked through steps #1 through #4 without thinking. Shhh (🤫) .. it happens, right? No getting around accidental mishaps and misdemeanor maladies. The bothersome bugger to me is the always lingering, “Why?”.

“Why” didn’t I turn off the burner last night? I always do. “Why” didn’t I check to make sure the burner was off before lighting?

The “Why didn’ts?” and “Why dids?” in life. No wonder Ms. Medium across the lot fascinates my opening minutes so much. Problem is, she predictably predicts – or portends to – know the future, but can’t explain the whys of our past. No finely swathed clairvoyant can. It’s up to us to put the pieces together. We have to look at the tarot cards of our own printing, the crystal ball polished by our attitudes, and the palms exposed in the hands we were dealt at birth.

Why did my mom die from cancer after five years of the best treatment this area could offer her? Why didn’t the Covid-19 virus remain dormant – somewhere deep – so it wouldn’t affect millions of people around our beautifully populated world? These are two unanswerable “whys” in my tank as I sit here after seeing a blue, red, and yellow flash of light … a light I’m glad I wasn’t walking heavenly toward eight hours ago. I can’t Uber you to a Psychic hoping she will look into your eyes and find whys, brilliant answers to your questions right now. Depending on what you believe, an afterlife may, or may not, be that eternal flame of forever findings – the place where mom, possibly, is finishing Schubert’s Symphony and understanding why ovarian cancer has a mind of its own.

So, today ends where it started. Is there an external, psychic force – unbenounced to any living concessionaire – applying positive or negative energy to me? … or, by extension to you?

If you believe there is … sure! If not, perfectly fine by me as well – not that my approval or disapproval makes any difference in your life.

We make our decisions and move forward. Chance happens. Luck pops up. Possibility, probability, … fluke, fortuity, friends, and foes all are constantly flowing through the gas lines of our lives.

Just be careful where you stick your flame.

Sticks and Stones May Break …

… but the names I called this limb probably hurt someone’s ears.

Just sayin’

To the unknown cart pushers who casually walked by with eggs, ramen noodles, and an over-supply of T.P., I sincerely offer my apologies. You didn’t need to hear my words. Yes, I valiantly tried to dislodge this protuberance a few times and it finally came undone, but not before looser language freely flowed, carte blanche, from my mouth.

Apparently, I traveled many a mile unaware of my wooden hitchhiker dragging its sorry stick-self along for the ride. Don’t know where I picked it up, or how it found its way in and around the fine Michelin tire. One of four taking me to breakfast, Sam’s Club, the bank, storage, Sunoco, home and Weis Market almost every day … including today.

Those poor Weis customers. I’m sure the language wasn’t unfamiliar. Any sailor in their family would say the same, I’m sure. Now, to be clear, I didn’t know the severity of limb vs. tire situation. Clearly, it wasn’t too bad, just a bit twisted …

The surprise in these moments is always the worst part. I had eight six-packs of soda in my unplanned trip to Weis cart. Running late, as usual, my mind was on the next hour … not on playing a round of log-in-wheel.

The previous time in my morning was filled with news I didn’t want to hear. Most of it, I didn’t hear – I saw on this little bearer of words known as a smart phone. Texts sent with sentences I was hoping not to see. No fault of the senders … much appreciation and care to them. Both of them know my thoughts.

If you’re guessing covid-related, you’d be correct.

In a few short paragraphs, I’m now a cart pusher of thoughts while my senders spent their morning twisting larger emotional and medical logs out of their tired, sore, drained selves. Moments of surprise to me. Not so much to them as they battle valiantly through their situations.

… Sticks and stones may break, but words can never hurt me…right?

We fought bullies and generational wars. The latter I never experienced first hand, but the former I’ve hand a hand in. None compare to this year’s Covid virus … all of it. The opinions, science, politicization, familial strains, financial stress, business shut-downs, … every last word spit out through masks of different ideologies.

I know we can’t live in a world where nobody gets hurt. There will always be branches stuck in someone’s tire. There will always be these surprises catching us, well … by surprise.

Just today, for some reason, the texts weren’t good surprises and the usual first log post of the day was jammed in the back wheel of my van – not happily typed here. This Covid is a bully. Period.

I’m confident everything will work out for those I was in touch with this morning. Secondarily, my van tire is fine and that stupid branch is now resting comfortably on the cart return rack at Weis for them to deal with later today.

We have a way to go. How far? I just don’t know. One day at a time. Bullies can’t handle that plan, so how about it? What’s the good word? I say: HOPE.

Hang in there. If I can get a stupid log out of my tire, there’s hope for all of us.

Not Just An Ordinary Joe

Today’s category for our local call-in radio show was “Famous Joes”. Intermixed among the possible nominees presented by callers were stumpers asked by the host, Dr. John. He puts a lid on political cantankerousness and pot-stirring to lighten the satirical stew on Thursdays. Stumpers are an every weekday event. Some easy, others classified as “Mona Lisa Stumpers”, intended to challenge the highly intelligent among us – myself not included; although, I do manage to answer most correctly given enough time to get my thoughts together.

This morning, I punched in the seven digit number with my nominees: Joseph, the adoptive father of Jesus, and Joey Bishop … bypassing the first stumper of the day. After a few minutes contemplation, I called back (asking permission to speak a second time not knowing if there is a rule prohibiting such). Dr. John, gracious host that he is, allowed the secondo with his premio.

I had to. This is in my nature. Unfinished mental issues are the hanging chads on the ballot that is my personality. As soon as the aggressive left thumb on my hand pushed that round button, … this happened:

Of course!! JOE camel … and he’s playing the piano – as I was in that picture, uhm, over 40 years ago. My submission was graciously listened to and formally rejected. In the time it took me to hang up the first time and redial, J.F. (a trivial rival) called in and nominated Sir. Camel during his first (and only, I might add) call of the day. I casually offered up a second nominee – a baby kangaroo, joey – as a runner-up. Lightly accepted and happily-hopped onto the list it was, so I felt better.

Ah, but the duet continued. Dr. John, seizing the moment, proffered a Mona Lisa stumper on the spot. I quickly answered Jackie Gleason only to realize, thirty seconds later, I left a massive hanging chad on another ballot with no third call available. Joseph Levitch was the answer. These moments bother me. It’s over two hours later, I’m in my concession trailer, should have my mind on delicious food, but nooooo.

“Famous Joes”, right? Ah, but the question was framed as a Mona Lisa Stumper which makes one think about the possibility of an overlap. One who should have been thinking – like me, perhaps – could have answered correctly. He asked the question quickly, in haste, hoping to catch me off guard … which he did quite nicely.

The call ended. My angst did not. I sit here with Jerry Lewis – the face behind both Ms. Lisa and Joe – casually by my side. He was the comedian Dr. John wanted as the answer … not Jackie Gleason. What was I thinking?

Of course!!, once again. It’s been a day of second guesses, I guess.

There’s some relief, however. When ballot ballyhoo and quick, unsure decision drops rain down from the why-sky, tinybuddha.com gives us some insight:

Like a friend of mine likes to say, “Life is a hard hat zone. We are always under construction.”

You are not who you were yesterday and you are not who you will be tomorrow. So, make peace with that. Life is full of second chances. We are always in a state of evolution.

In learning how to walk, you had to crawl first, and maybe you wobbled and skinned your knees a few times. But eventually, you found your bearings and trusted your stability. As tiny as you were, you were able to stand straight and put one foot in front of the other as you moved forward.

Not so far off from what it’s like as an adult.

Quite the words when I look at where I was years ago, staring into a keyboard with glasses and clothes fit for for the times.

I think it’s about second chances, not second guesses.

The overall Mona Lisa, or picture – as it is – in our lives, is not how many questions we answer correctly. It’s how many times we call in and try. We’re not going to ever answer all of life’s questions correctly or tear off all the chads cleanly, are we?

This isn’t an easy lesson for me to learn in my sixth decade of life. Just like those piano lesson early on, I will fight my stubbornness to the bitter end just as I, most assuredly, will enjoy the fruits of my hard work – pushing through the challenges of who I am.

… the person who will eventually forget the answer was Jerry Lewis, an extraordinary entertainer, philanthropist, and star.

We may not be all that but you and I are unique, special, and not the average Joe by any measure. If 2020 has a reason, it is to teach us life has other plans. Average, normal, and sameness aren’t hanging around much these days. I don’t need to repeat the big three, but I will. If Dr. John asked for them, you would be able to rattle off Masking, Distancing, and Hand-Washing, right? Through all of this, we’ve maintained our unique selves. Don’t think so? Just look at all the opinions scattered about on the windows of every computer screen.

2021 will be about chances … and I believe we may also be able to guess our decisions, too. Hopefully, the former overrides the latter. I purposely left out the obvious word because I want you to second the motion in your heart.

Remember, you’re not just an ordinary Joe, or Josephine, or JoEllen, or Jo. Be you – whoever you need to be.

For me, I’ll just be here honeymooning in my misery with Art, Audrey, and Joyce.

May I Bend Your Ear?

My van’s last gasp – when sputtering – is satisfied very few places. F’uel pardon the sensitivity, I believe my tow vehicle has feelings. It creaks and moans when distressed and, other times, hums beautiful monotones as we travel together down a lonely highway … maintaining a safe, legal speed, of course.

I know where to go during the low gasp times. I’ll go out of my way to drift into Sunoco riding the fumes of prior days’ negligence. Not just any Sunoco, of course. If this was the case, there would be no reason to write a blog today, right? But, there IS a reason!

The Sunoco at the corner of Allegheny Street and Penn (Rt. 36) in Hollidaysburg, Pa. If you read my post yesterday, this friendly, convenient station is a chess knight’s move northeast from Best Way Pizza. Two by one blocks will get you and yours to Raj and Nick’s Sunoco sitting peacefully across from our local Post Office. If you’re mood is sputtering – not just your mode of transport, stop by.

Today’s reason isn’t just because their business is nice, or the gas is cleaner and better for my sit-in friend. The machines pump one full of information. As well, they transport needed gas to the soon to be full metal and plastic alloy friends driven into the station.

There’s a little screen on the pump, about eye level for a 6′ guy like me, that has a few ads – of course – then up pops a “word of the day”. It’s such a nice, educational easement sitting among the barricades of busyness standing in our way every day. Ten seconds to stop and pay attention … not only to the ticking of $2.49 a gallon flowing out of my wallet, but also to one word and its definition: “ductile” – able to be deformed without losing toughness; capable of being stretched out without breaking, as it were. The best example I was able to find was gold possibly being formed into wire.

I have few reasons to believe vapors from the nozzle were effecting my thoughts as I considered what that word meant – truly meant. “Bend, but not break”, rushed through my mind as I watched the rubber hose twist in the pre-winter, 35-degree wind. How appropriately stamped is that phrase in the letters U.S.A. sent to us through generations past? Wars, depressions, once in a hundred years plague a century ago, terrorism, etc … all bent our collective consciousnesses but didn’t break us.

Enter 2020 and two deformed, socially punches to our gut: A hotly contested Presidential election and, of course, COVID-19. Hand-in-hand, the overlapping viral ideas and opinions continue to stress the strongest bonds among families, friends, and workplace associates.

We saw the former coming. I assume we did, anyway. It was four years of a radical turn away from what we knew as normal White House policy and procedures marginally voted in by a distressed, disgruntled populous wanting change. As the newest red hat society, far from ladies in their 50’s and above looking for a recess from day-to-day stressors, this cap wearing MAGA community rode their hero into town and stayed dutifully on the horse. To this day, the reigns are still tight, held by the faithful few. White knuckled are they … hoping for a ride into the sunset of defeat or victory on a stubborn horse refusing to whoa-fully admit it may be the end of the ride.

COVID-19 came out of nowhere. Yeah, ok … Wuhan. Sure, let’s go with that. Back it up a bit from there. Out of “know where” is better. We didn’t know what to do. March 13th, friday, was the day everything stopped in Pennsylvania. Governor Wolf, for all intents and purposes, shut us down. This was during the wave of shutdowns coming across the country and we knew this was inevitable. Colors of green, yellow, and red splashed across Facebook pages as friends posted Pa. maps coded county by county. Store shelves, wiped clean of toilet paper, sanitizer, and canned goods, sat empty testifying loudly to the world that my fellow Blair Countians were afraid of the future. Nobody knew the road ahead. Masking, social distancing, Dr. Fauci, and any hint of a vaccine were concepts, people, and hopes unknown to any of us.

The following nine months were gestationally brutal. March through this past November 13th – nearly 270 days – saw us have the most incredibly difficult time as a nation. And, it’s not over, is it?

This pregnancy is going into overtime.

Which gets me back to why my van sputtered at the pump this morning. I was almost out of gas. Almost.

As Americans, it seems we are almost out of gas. The election and COVID-19 has kicked the living crap out of us this year. Hand-in-hand, these two events, by themselves, would have been enough. Together, they’ve been brutal. The economic, social, medical, and emotional strain pulling at both ends of our family and friends’ relationships is heartbreaking. Just the masking opinions alone drive a wedge between people these days, regardless of the science.

I stopped for ten seconds in the cold to fill my tank at Sunoco and saw a single, simple word: ductile. This gives me hope and I wanted to share it with you. We can believe things happen for a reason, or not. I’m just a guy who sees wonderful words, pictures, or people and wants to pass them on to you.

This word, ductile, in itself is seven letters. What it means, however, is so much more to us. We bend, but don’t break. No more complicated than that.

2020 will be not be remembered as our best year, for sure. President Biden, presumably at this time (I guess 🤦🏻‍♂️), President Trump’s lame duck time remaining, the Senate (or anything in Washington for that matter), COVID-19 vaccines, stats and charts, etc… will all be in front of us for the remainder and into 2021. We can’t escape into some Wonka world and eat candy until things get all right with the universe. There will be smudges on the glass and everlasting gobstoppers to deal with for some time.

Until then, remember we’re resilient, ductile people who know diversity. We see ugly and make it pretty. We see sad and do our best to make it happy. We work our butts off go help those who don’t help themselves.

In ten seconds, I was reminded of this. Thankfully, there’s a friendly gas station in town. A place where a distressed van sat for a few minutes guzzling a gallon or two of premium fuel. Beside it, a guy very grateful to live in a country that never gives up. Never breaks.

That’s what makes America great in the first place. No red hat needed.

“Dare to be Square”

Before diving in, I must give proper credit. The above tag line hangs below – and is, most likely, registered to – one of my favorite sauce, cheese, pepperoni, and dough places in town: Best Way Pizza.

It’s been a family stop of ours for decades. Today, during a busy run-around day off, I find myself here enjoying an extra slice of restful time. Lines at grocery stores and pharmacies, advertising signs blown over from last night’s Pentecostal winds, and messages on my phone all demanding my attention earlier have been tamed. I’m the only one here. Humming soda machines keep me company … no human contact save the occasional really nice employee wiping down the counter over to my right. Expected for the 2:50 p.m. off-lunch, pre-supper time.

This was my pleasurable view only minutes ago. Not so now. I’ve wiped my hands clean of the grease that remains from what is now marching to my heart (thanks, Drew Carey, for your bit on Johnny Carson years ago!). There’s more ice than Pepsi left in the plastic cup and a few less pepper flakes to carry back in the shaker. Over and over this cycle of inhumanity toward my health has been repeated throughout the decades of my life. The pattern of plastic predictability won’t be officially complete until I top off the cup with more empty calories on my way out.

It’s just hunger satisfaction without tofu, veggies, or soy. That’s all. Easy-peasy. Their soda machine calibration is spot-on, by the way … 👌

“Dare to be square”, right? My parent’s generation probably used the word “square” in the 40’s/50’s to mean “not hip”, or outside the cool crowd – a sort-of conventional dude who went about life inside the accepted borders, following all the rules, obeying the laws, driving the speed limit in the family car while just pulling out of the white picket fence lined driveway.

Square could also mean getting right with someone – settling a debt, perhaps. “Don’t worry about it, we’ll square up later.”, I see as a variation of usage. Does this make the person square? Eh, who knows? Just an idea.

As any of this relates to really good pizza, example #1 most likely is what the LeCrones mean. The original owners, in a twisted way, dare us to be normal by eating pizza that is square … in a “pizza is cool only in triangles” world. Maybe they were convinced, decades ago, we were destined for black eyes in dark alleys by going against conventional circles cut into triangles … in square boxes as the popular memes on social media purport?

Geometrically speaking, the above meme is funny. Three shapes in one Friday night, teenager driven delivery. Best Way doesn’t deliver. If memory serves me right, they were one of the first in the area to offer drive up service years ago as a pizza business. Innovation with simplicity. Quite a success story. As of today, they have multiple locations and franchises in numerous counties surrounding and including Blair County.

May I suggest every writer of a blog and, by extension, every reader of every blog could write a similar story of their favorite pizza joint? Yep. My short break today isn’t that unique to anyone else’s American story.

If you told me back in the 80’s I’d be doing this today, … well, pretty sure you’d get a different response than, “In 2020, during a pandemic, I’ll have a day off from my concession business and be typing out my blog entry for the day inside a Best Way”. I didn’t have a 40 minute plan let alone a 40-year plan just getting out of high-school.

What I was sure of? … my hometown was always a place to love, family was here … and we always had Best Way Pizza on Friday night if we could. Later in life, it became a Sunday night tradition.

I’m a professional pianist … sell hot dawgs and food out of a trailer, and write on a blog. So far, I haven’t been beaten up, so all is good. I must be cool in a square kind of way.

The pizza was really good … as usual. Next time you’re in Hollidaysburg, Pa. stop by. Dare to be square yourself.

Yellow Lines

Truth outside my concession window right now: parallel yellow lines. A few less east/west than north/south. It’s raining, again. This is another fact easily seen from my vantage point. To cap off a very apparent trilogy, today is Sunday, I bought a dozen bourbon wings from the local grocery store on my way here, and our 8-0 Steelers play at 4:30 EST.

Most times, facts are facts. I didn’t do very well in science class where mixing certain chemicals, as instructed, led to predictable outcomes … every time. I did, however, succeed in knowing how dad would react to my behavioral misappropriation … every time. I stated my case, my claims, in support of said behavior – all for naught. Fact: rules were rules and I broke (some of) them.

He had his hands full, to use an overly used expression. I may add, parenthetically, that he was a great provider. We lacked nothing. Presents at the holidays, medical care, food, vacations, shelter, clothing, education access, … foundationally, a pretty good middle-class, single-income upbringing. Mom hung emotional necklaces around our every sad and happy moments while dad pushed us forward into economic opportunities that he felt we needed for our pre-income earning years – if that makes any sense.

Yep. Facts are facts. At least they are until one decides to post something on Facebook. During a pandemic. In 2020. While electing, deciding on, confirming, a SCOTUS nominee and President. East is no longer east and yellow may no longer be recognized as a basic color on any elementary art teacher’s wonderful wheel of fascination.

My parallel yellow opinion lines representing – under normal conditions – a fair middle-of-the-road opinion between extreme Covid responses elicited over the line swerves. Near misses of automatic triggers came in within hours and commentual arguments ensued. A one word reply, “bullshit”, came back to me – which has since been tamed (we worked it out).

Two friends argued over mask/oxygen saturation which I didn’t even know was a “thing”. Articles came in as tags supporting both sides. Sourcing debates. Who said what and experiences trump experts, I guess? Who are the experts and what makes them so …? Is Dr. Fauci more of an expert now that he is, possibly, out from under President Trump’s shadow? Where is Dr. Birx?

I did use the phrase, “ridiculously low” and shouldn’t have. It was an insensitive phrase in light of 245,000 deaths. The fact still remains. That number is .075% of our total population in America. ALSO, to be very, very clear … I care deeply about every one who has been – and continues to be affected by this horrible virus. This is why I mask and social distance everywhere I can inside and wherever possible.

The point of my post on Facebook yesterday was to say one person can be in the middle of the debate. He can say, “The fact is, a low % of Americans – compared to the overall population – have died, but there’s overwhelming evidence that we should be extremely careful going forward because we don’t know what we don’t know.”

Yes, the economic impact of this has been disastrous. In addition, and significantly more important, there are lingering consequences for families who’ve suffered loss of loved ones. Our healthcare workers are tired, sore, drained, overworked, stressed, and missing their families.

Our country is really, really, hurting. Some suggest taking a hard line east, west, north, or south is the answer. From what I’ve seen, I don’t think so.

We should all shut off our loud automobiles, meet in the middle of the road, and talk like adults. I’m standing here trying not to get run over. Two wrong turns don’t make anything right.

That’s a fact.

Self-Motivation

What is it? What’s the key that turns on the engine of self-determination?

I think it’s just craziness. Period. Out-of-the-box nuttiness – this self-motivation thing compared to simple urgings from a Rocky movie or one-time kiss. The get-up and go, every moment of every day pulsing in one’s veins to accomplish, perhaps, the impossible regardless of the odds, obstacles, or objections of others.

Self-drive in the business environment? Internal forces pushing tired legs out of bed at 3 a.m. – after three hours sleep – to work another day full of 18 hour’s worth of problems to solve and goals to reach. Shoving aside the already rocky societal and economic barriers, self-determiners barrel ahead over the Niagra-type falls hoping to survive another wave of unsure times as they cascade down into a foggy financial mist of loans, credit lines, and liabilities over assets. In short, we hope to survive.

Some make it, most don’t. Self-motivation, alone, isn’t enough. Luck has to be a part. So does discipline, respect, courtesy, fairness, life-work balance, health, etc …

I spent a decade in direct, full-commission sales. Loved it. One of the main connections to enjoying it was my time spent listening to motivational tapes in the car between sales calls. Zig Ziglar, Brian Tracy, Earl Nightingale, and my favorite, Jim Rohn, always found their way into my cassette player in the car. Never were there silent moments as I traveled down a highway … five minutes or five hours. Wind up a few sentences even now, twenty-two years later, and I could probably finish them from any cassette – any side, any speaker.

What those guys did for me was help me develop a self-confidence I didn’t have prior. The sales techniques, presentation knowledge, book-stuff was easy … however, knocking on a door, or sitting down with a corporate CEO was another novel idea all to it’s own. They helped me internalize my own self-worth. I started to get up every morning being self-motivated, believing I could. Zig Ziglar said, “Whether you believe you can or you can’t, you’re right”. Now, whether he came up with that himself or was repeating it, I don’t know. From his mouth was the first time I heard it …

Seemed nutty to me at the time. And still does. When you grow up believing – and being told – a wildly weird idea that you’re not good enough, and then all of a sudden have these folks on the other side of a cassette player – who don’t know you – tell you that you are … that’s just messed up. That’s just messed up.

It was a wonderful career and had to end. The industry changed locally and I didn’t want to change with it. A great company with great, awesome people. Cassettes are passe as are packing arenas full with motivational speakers. Anthony Robbins isn’t my kind of guy and I don’t lean into any kind of religious urgings much as they relate to business. Cherishing my delicious decade with my guys is plenty nourishing to last a lifetime.

I’m a bit crazy. I outspend to indulge my business ideas … sometimes it works, sometimes not. I’m not a Gates, Jobs, or Iacoca. Who among us really are, right? Thank heavens I never decided to run for public office, be an astronaut (hate closed in spaces), or explore the poles (don’t like being alone). I’m just a self-motivated guy figuring my way through life.

… not to say I don’t buy a lottery ticket, uhm … every once in a while🤔. Well, maybe more frequent than that, because luck is a part of life, too.

Funny, though. Zig Ziglar never mentioned lottery tickets. Oh, well. Never said he was perfect.

Stay motivated wherever you can find the source. We have to keep going. All of us.

Oh, Wait!

You can’t tell from this picture. It’s an ugly day. I sit on my very familiar hard metal chair and look out the serving window at the driving rain. There are no customers to obstruct my view.

Cars slosh through Plank Road puddles 25 yards away while, behind me, I hear anxious autos screech to a stop on Rt. 36N not fully aware a red light – which has been there for years – just made it’s way from yellow. The hustle hasn’t stopped amid an early November rain storm. I may not see the hustle here at this very busy intersection today, however. So, I sit.

I sit and wait. It’s ok. Folks see my business differently in bad weather. They aren’t in a food-festive frenzy if the sun isn’t shining … especially when it comes to concession trailers, trucks, and carts. Seasonal is pretty much the best way to describe what we do … although, it’s somewhat limiting. We’re weatheral and crowdal more than seasonal. Give us foodies good weather and sizable crowds? … We’re stuffing our buns all the way to the bank.

That’s what makes today one of the “You’ll have days like this” days. “Suck it up, buttercup”, wet, damp, what-am-I-doing-here kind of slow tick-off the minutes slosh through days. Days when I can comfortably type off hundreds of words without looking up through a concession window – knowing I probably didn’t miss a hungry customer.

Enough about my waiting moments in the here and now. What I do now, and what I’ve done the past fifteen years, have always been for the future. Which makes me think about today … eight days after a very contested election. You remember … that whole Presidential thing we did last Tuesday?

We voted for the future we wanted. We wanted something to change OR for what we liked to stay the same. In either case, it was for the future of America. Nominees Biden and Harris were change and incumbents Trump and Pence were same. Pretty close to half our country voted one way, the other half voted opposite. Without getting into the weeds here, that was what the little bubbles on the ballot were for and, eight days later – for the most part – we have our answer.

… and that answer is:

We spent months, prior to November 3rd, looking out our political, ideological, philosophical, and spiritual trailers at some really nasty campaign weather … waiting for calm, sunny weather that we could take to the bank. Ideas that most of us – left and right, Democrat and Republican, Independent, Libertarian, Atheist and Christian – could deposit together on November 4th.

Instead, we have arguments about ballots, fraud, state tampering, Republicans squealing about election abuse that seemed to be o.k. four years ago, Democrats wanting unity after 4 years of nothing but the opposite, and a Congress, in general, that is as inept as my $0 balance in the register.

If you’re sensing my independent and stubborn streak here, welcome to the “Why is Doug looking at me that way?” club. I adore my friends and have a high level of respect for their opinions and beliefs. I’ll listen to other opinions and consider changing my mind. We have to co-exist. We need to get along. I’m a middle child as well with an older sibling who is a take-charge personality, and I have a younger sibling who is more stubborn than I. The appeasement gene is strong in my blood, too. I adapted early on.

All this to say, we’re going to be ok, but it’s not going to be easy for a bit here. For the next few months, all of us should be patient while we sit in an uncomfortable chair, looking out at some rather nasty political weather these early winter months. I thought, maybe, November 3rd the skies would clear, but they didn’t.

Here’s hoping January 20th will be sunny … and I’ll be looking out my concession window at a long line of hungry customers. Ain’t happening now.

Oh, wait!! … I see a customer!!