Full-time deep thinker for life, part-time (i.e. 60+ hrs / week) engager in things necessary to live. Blogger, writer for the sheer enjoyment of sharing the experiences and vibrations of life.
Pretty much a whole day wasted on bills, errands, to-dos, and miscellaneous, mindless meddling in necessary life’s mundane activities. One planned trip around a corner branched off into two more “why not since here?” scurries to other “whys?” in the road where, of course, another destination awaited.
It’s not those payments, plans, and preparations didn’t need to be done. Today, however, wasn’t the day designated for such fun. It was to be hours of relaxation after a short commitment this morning at a local school. We are to be the masters of our time, not the other way around?
Convenience took over. I know of no other explanation. A “why not?” theme took over my symphony of serenity. I stepped up to the podium expecting to conduct one small errand. Considering the well orchestrated list of bills and preparations on a list – well scored in my portfolio sitting quietly to my right – I had no choice but to lift the convenience baton and begin directing.
All my players were close and within cooperating distance. So, “why not?” … without regard to the time it was going to take. This was, in retrospect, not a little minuet as it turned out. More at hand an extended, multi-movement opus including multiple stops, some electronic communications, busy traffic, many players of varying expertise, and time … lots of time. A rather complicated score to handle with little preparation.
For one who was only prepared for calm and relaxation, quite a change.
As the coda came to a close around six-thirty this evening, a curtain of relief came down on the stage. The orchestra quieted down to a welcomed silence. No more traffic. No more time. Done.
And so nothing like getting no relaxing in … and nothing like that feeling of getting a lot done when not expecting to.
Is this a paradox? So says google: “A situation that appears self-contradictory or illogical at first, but actually reveals a hidden or deeper truth.” I thought so at first, but not really.
Nothing happened I wanted to do, but a lot got done I didn’t want to do … but am glad got done – after all was done.
Maybe it falls along that procrastination fine line? You know you “should” do a thing … keep putting it off … glad it’s done when finally finished?
Don’t want to read too much into all this. Find it mildly entertaining I spent valuable time being slightly irritated – giving into impulses to satisfy non-urgent obligations … only to be happy about it later. The self-diagnosing psychiatrist in me would simply like to know what condition this is.
If there isn’t one, that’s fine. I’ll just go back to the refrigerator, crack open a pack of chocolate chip cookies and a diet soda. Life can be more easily understood under a sugar high, anyway.
Good news. The next few days I have less bills to pay, less planning to do, and just a little prep. work for next week’s partial work schedule and hopeful relaxation carve-out.
After all, if Bernstein and Karajan were allowed breaks from their prestigious podiums, I should be given respite from my life’s directorial responsibilities once in a while, too.
It was a Konnor Griffin night at the Altoona Curve ballpark Sunday. Granted, a rehab assignment for the star Pittsburgh Pirates shortstop, but an important fan event locally. Over 7,000 fans packed People’s Natural Gas field to see this phenom swing a bat and field a few ground-outs before his expected return to the steel city. It’s expected to be a short stint here. Thus, the excitement.
Between a few bites of my Curve burger, I got up – noticing Konnor was up to the plate. Previous plate appearances had my torso jammed in a seat up in the third tier level … not real good for even a, err, new camera phone. Down in the first level concourse food court? Much better!
Ok, so the safety net is between us. Still not a bad picture. The only better ones I have are rookie photos graded and signed in my baseball card collection. Hey, for an amateur on a semi-burger binge – navigating a maze of hungry humanity – not bad, I say.
My scorecard began with swings and misses.
Going to the game at 5:30 was expected. Turning the corner off a major highway, coming back from an out of town trip and running into major traffic jams, was not expected. Traffic backed turning into an avenue leading to the stadium was horrendous. As that moment, I knew something was up. Not knowing Konnor Griffin’s appearance was the reason, frustration took root.
We had little time to spare. A side trip home was necessary (and planned ahead) before coming to the game. Passing by available parking wasn’t only a tough pill to swallow – that pill never came out of the bottle. Twenty minutes later upon our return, available lots were nearly full. Konnor elation in full swing.
By this time, pregame festivities were being broadcast on the radio, so I knew what was on base.
One lonely space became available waaay down in a lot seldom used during any other game. I suppose the walk up did me some good? Needed to burn off some calories ahead to help absorb the anticipated soda, Curve burger with cheese, chips, and soft pretzel w/nachos cheese I never can say never to …
There IS something to a local minor league baseball game. The 50/50 drawing I never win. Seeing a lot of people from the neighborhoods around who say, “hi”. Inter-inning games our Curve staff put out on the field. Fireworks almost every night. Pretty good food for only “slightly” higher prices than what would be paid outside of the stadium. A chance for kids to get an autograph of future MLB stars in rehab assignments or just coming up through the system. So much here for a nice evening.
When expected, I guess.
The traffic wasn’t. No real complaints. Just a half hour of “what are we going to do if there’s no parking?”… Be creative, I suppose. I’ve never gone to a Curve game where parking was a problem. The catch? Meeting friends who had free tickets for us. Just didn’t want to disappoint them by bailing. It’s why we made a special trip back from an activity an hour away.
Didn’t expect Konnor or the traffic. Knew it was going to be nice weather and wonderful friends to finish off a busy weekend.
Most times, Life isn’t 100% the way we expect. All kinds of “traffic” gets in our way.
In the end, most if it works out. After a longer than normal walk, we find our way through it to something enjoyable. Probably.
At least this is what I learned when Konnor stepped up and didn’t do real well at the plate. So he had an off night? On average, I believe he’ll be fine.
One night doesn’t define goodness. A little unexpected traffic didn’t ruin an evening, either. It was surprising, for sure. Glad one space was available and the opportunity was there, at the very least, to eventually relax.
Our hometown team lost. It hasn’t been a fantastic year. Westward by two hours, our Pirates aren’t that great. Both teams struggle. Can’t be sure. Could be ownership, management, player development, … I certainly don’t know. My life-lane doesn’t intersect at all with professional sports teams except in the card collecting area. Average minor league attendance per game here isn’t close to what it was Sunday night.
All I know – or care about – is: I enjoy the games in Altoona. The food and the atmosphere.
Wouldn’t mind the traffic all the time. This means they are playing well. Bumper to bumper would be expected. Now, that would be a home run on my scorecard.
This is a wonderful arrangement of, “How Great Thou Art”. Mark Hayes has to be one of my favorite writers / composers of piano music. His ability to transfer musical ideas into playable, albeit moderate to advanced, finger-fun keyboard merriment is nearly unmatched. I search out his works. My library is stuffed full of well-creased, loosely stapled, worn arrangements accredited to his exceptional musicianship.
These books are of a religious persuasion, of course. I guess I need to say this. From every season of faith, he extracts melodies, harmonies, and rhythms appropriate for services from traditional to contemporary. Pentecostal to Brethren to Lutheran to Catholic… and beyond. Really, any gathering focused on a sensibility beyond our daily go-get ’em grind, … our yo-yo self schedule of daily ups and downs … is a good suit to fit on his body of music.
Specifically for me as an organist/pianist … any weekend collection of human worshipers inside a sanctuary wears well. I thoroughly enjoy the space I occupy behind any keyboard requiring my presence. Mark Hayes isn’t the only partner with me, of course, but on a most recent occasion … he was.
Thus the “Fine Line” of which I write.
The arrangement above is, well, so much fun to play. I’ve had it “under my fingers” a long time. As solo piano hymn music goes, it probably qualifies as “advanced” with some tricky octave passages, “showy” broken chord cadenza-type measures, and nice flowery arpeggios. To the non-music people, let’s just say, “a lot of fluff”. If a hymnal was opened to, “How Great Thou Art”, singing along with Mr. Hayes’ version wouldn’t be possible without a little imagination …
I played this as a Prelude. Here’s the “Fine Line”. It was an emotional dance played mentally in my head – even as notes began their arc into the sanctuary space. (By the way, not just with this piece, but with others as well). “Is this appropriate? Should a wonderful piece like this be played as a vessel to help congregants focus? Or, are they really listening, anyway? Is this about me, or their needs? Am I doing this just for my enjoyment as an artist? Why am I even concerned … Just play it and move on to the rest of the service”.
These, and other similar second-guessing, time consuming, energy draining, brain drain thoughts circle around and around … before, during, and after.
Problem is … I simply enjoy playing. Period.
All the arrangements I have … and there’s a generational ton going back through my grandmother and mother … are literally at my fingertips. Classical, romantic, baroque, modern, Christian. Over the decades, I’ve used them all. Funerals, weddings, solo recitals, special music events, a lot of specific services, accompanying soloists, and on… it’s almost always a question, for me, of appropriateness. What music fits the occasion, … the audience.
And the congregation as well.
They are not an audience; however, when I play a piece like “How Great”, an unimagical, unfantastical transformation happens before my very imagination. This wonderful “fluff” becomes a show piece I never intended it to be … converting a congregation of worshipers into an audience.
I know. I know. It’s what happens in my gray matter. Nobody, I repeat, nobody has ever mentioned a thing. I, alone, have created this hurricane of hazy hymnody.
It’s the fine line of what is, and is not, appropriate.
Even after decades of doing the dance, enjoying this line is a challenge. Play what’s not exciting or an arrangement I don’t find particulary engaging – to appease a prelude space? Or, fill that time with something intriguing to hear, play, and engage everyone’s aural senses, but risk tilting that imaginary spotlight in my direction?
There’s no real answer here. I suppose if I wore my black speckled rhinestone jacket, then someone “may” say a word, or two, to our Pastor. An 1970’s electronic color wheel on the organ could work, probably? For a minute – at least, or until an usher unplugged it. Small, dancing scarfs? A tall piano hat? Elton John glasses? These would be, clearly, an issue. Cause for a ministerial meeting, a personal pastoral interventional inquest.
The beauty in all of this? Music speaks so many languages to so many people. I’ve learned these tiny dots on a manuscript, regardless of what I play, do mean something to someone. On balance, my selections are varied. It’s my own personality creeping in when arrangements of this level present themselves on my music rack.
Heck, I’m just one piano player who worries more than I should. Ten fingers, eighty-eight keys and endless combinations of melodious merriment should be enough for me.
If only my fingers weren’t connected to a brain over-thinking too much instead of just enjoying the “Fine Line” I’ve created for myself.
It’s being human. It’s being a musician, maybe. It’s being alive at the same time as Mark Hayes and being massaged with his genius every time I open one of his books. He’d probably tell me to let the music speak for itself and don’t worry about anything else.
I’ll try to do better with all of it, Mark. My words … and my personal prelude piano problem.
It’s not uncommon to see a family of deer in our neighborhood. Usually four – a mom, dad, and two fawns. They wander about in back yards, a local graveyard, grassy areas surrounding evening walkabouts, and an elementary playgrond. During this particular evening, an after dinner stroll was, apparently, necessary near our high school. The “kids” were playing with each other as mom and dad paid particular attention to slow moving dusk traffic. I was part of that as my Mitsubishi took a u-turn up a block to make a return trip. A wooden fence provided just enough of a photo distraction between my parked car and these cervid creatures to avoid any nervous movement from them for a few seconds. Within a minute, it was time for another family adventure across the way … and they were gone.
Like I mentioned, this encounter isn’t unique for our neighborhood. Within a four block radius (+/-), deer are spotted on the regular. Sometimes there can be an octet of brown beast-ettes roaming lawns, minding their lives. Nobody really pays a bother. Once in a while, a garden takes notice as one of its vegetable or flower residents is, unfortunately, relieved of its residency. Such goes the “neighborhood”.
What do we expect when eighty years ago one lonely house stood alone four blocks away? This deer family’s ancestry had free, unobstructed reign over acres of land. Before two schools and dozens upon dozens of houses were built, this area was, yes, a bit swampy … but it was their home. Now they are still free, yes; however, dodging hundreds of over the speed-limit cars, skirting over paved roads, and avoiding as much human interaction as possible…
… even those pesky Mutsubishi pull-overs who insist on that one “please hold still” picture. The comment, “They’re so little, little”,… came across from my passenger side. I laughed. A much needed smile.
Why bother mentioning, right? Well, I needed it. Sorry, cute deer family. You were needed.
Seven hours of unnecessary, frustrating, aggravating, over-the top technological indignation precipitated this deer, oh so dear, encounter.
My phone died during lunch while I finished off a left-over Subway sub from the day before. It just went blank. No warning. No. “Hey, Doug .. guess what? I’d like the rest of my life off now. Please make sure you have everything in order. Let me know when it’s a good time for you and then I’ll sign off…”. Yeah, no.
You’d think a trip to the phone store – in the middle of an already $%*&^ busy three days – would be easy?
“Hey, my phone decided to check out…ideas?”… I felt was a timely, honest question to ask the sales representative who inquired why I stopped in.
“There’s one customer ahead of you now. Would you mind waiting?” I’ve had no issues before, so, no. Thirty minutes later finally at the service desk, the system doesn’t recognize my pin number I’ve AWLAYS used to reach my accout. I, obviously need a new phone. (Data storage – or some such conflagrational contraption corruption is the issue) … They can’t access my account. One more attempt, I’m toast. So off to a corporate store to use picture ID.
Corporate. Wait forty-five minutes to be told ID can’t access a business phone. Yeah, me!! They need to call another corporate line for voice authorization. The representative was kind, however, her tablet had spinny circle unkind issues going on and couldn’t connect IN AN INTERNET PHONE STORE (to add emphasis to my rising blood pressure issue at this particular time). In the mean time, two older church ladies in line behind me – who waited just as long – were anxious to get to a church function. I graciously allowed them to take my spot because God didn’t want me to stay in this situation any more… I am very sure of this.
Back to store #1. Stuck. Suggested I go back home to my PC email. That I do. Second floor, through the garage up the steps. My sales rep. wanted to send an email verification to that email, but IT wanted to send a verification code to my PHONE. Why? Because at this most unfortunate of times, my email decided to log out. In order to log in, of course, it wanted to send a two-step verification code to my freakin’ PHONE! Locked out of email. Locked out of my phone.
Locked out of any sense of sanity.
Oh, and everytime I come into the house now, I have to take off my shoes because there’s new carpet. This is a separate issue. Never mnd.
George Gobel once said, on the Tonight Show, “Did you ever get the feeling the world was a tuxedo and you were a pair of brown shoes?”. I felt that way in the middle of all this yesterday. Unconnected with the world. No cell. No email. No help. No texting…. And, this is sad, angry, and kinda upsetting at the same time. Something for all of us to look into. So connected to our electronics. Ugh.
Anyway.
I had to navigate through a zero-sum gain for over seven hours. Tried an office computer away from the house where, apparently, they changed the password?… No luck. It was an afternoon where an additional cell phone “could” have helped to coordinate codes, but it was tied up at, ironically, a funeral. I finally got into my email through another cell phone four hours later, called store #1 to re-send an access approval code, and walked out with a new phone. That process was an hour.
Another battle has ensued since with all downloads, password changes, email configurations, and just old guy problems with new technology. Yesterday was ridiculous. I know it became necessary. A pin number couldn’t open my account. Four simple little digits turned into multiple trips and a stir pot of frustrated stew. I, truly, had better things to do yesterday. Unfortunately, this is where all of us are. Technology in our hands. I need a phone.
These phones are getting better and faster. My new one has twice the memory. Couldn’t get a trade value for the old one. Not sure why? At this point, don’t really care. Has little, little value to me now. After all, it is dead to me.
It isn’t possible to write every detail from yesterday. I am fortunate no medical team was necessary to assist in my hours-long ordeal. I, truly, didn’t know we had so many masons capable of building that many brick walls so quickly in our small community. Gives me hope for the trades around here.
They’re so little, little in the long run. These problems. At the time, boy do they seem monumental. I guess this is the lesson from yesterday. Seeing that family – and the comment which followed – forced me to think. Was I over-reacting? Probably. Yet, the situation required frustration. I could only stay patient for so long. I didn’t yell at anyone who was trying to help. That’s completely unnecessary. When it comes to technology, I guess they only did what they can do. If a button says, “do this”… that’s all they can do. Step A has to happen before step B?
My multiple car-alone conversations yesterday, however, …well. Let’s say they weren’t sermon material and leave it go at that. I do hope my church ladies made it to their event and the little, little ones had a pleasant evening with their family.
As for me, I hope to the deer, dear heavens I don’t need another new phone any time soon. If I do, hide all the bricks, please.
Driving for most of all forty-five years since giving up my skateboard at age sixteen – as most sexagenarians – I’ve been successful at staying in my own lane. Save a few miles of mishaps and minor ticket travesties, vehicular events have been .. well .. uneventful and mundane. Here to there. Leave place A, arrive at place B.
Ordinary. Brick, pavement, dirt, and concrete roads leading to entertainment, work, or errand destinations. Every day. Thousands upon thousands of signal lights, signs, and road markings dictating our every move. Sounds from road noise can lull us into a mental hypnotic haze as cruise control takes over during longer trips.
With all that, a full bucket of paying attention while operating a vehicle is floating on wheels. As it should be. “Defensive driving”, as I was always taught. Not 100% fool-proof, but the best blueprint for effective, safe traveling two blocks or three-hundred miles. Dad said that two word phrase to me from the passenger side of a brown manual shift Pinto decades ago. Seems ironic, looking back, “safe”, and “Pinto” crossed lanes in my life about the same time … err, never mind.
My guess would be most of us practice safe driving, right? So, this can’t be just me. It can’t be. The past year (give or take a few weeks) the same thing has been happening on the regular. Today – once again – this specific strange occurrence visited my driving experience.
Leaving a Subway sub shop shouldn’t have had anything to do with it? Now, I did order a completely different sandwich. A wrap instead of the bread. Lest, I digress here.
So many different places I’ve pulled out into traffic. Slowly. Carefully.
I have two eyes, a relatively good rotation of my head, … and (counting the windshield and all windows) eight different ways to see all traffic coming in all directions. Once a decision is made to advance my life, my car, my day … forward, … the gods of traffic do this really weird thing.
…and, to repeat myself AGAIN… it can’t be just me.
There’s no traffic anywhere. I look. I double look. Up, down, left, right, … even those fortunate (or unlucky) enough to be in my passenger side confirm my eyesight evaluation. I trust but verify whenever possible. Always.
I think you have to know where this is going.
The second I am in my lane choice, there’s a person closer to the back end of my car than my proctologist was at my last exam. To make the situation worse, apparently these particular individuals are late on their way to an emergency White House meeting. I do believe they enter through a universal worm hole to irritate the living yield out of me.
Honestly, from where do they come? It used to be only the crotch rockets. Those super-hyped, over 120 mph cycles we can’t see, yet two seconds later they are on us flying by as a blaring blur of dangerous daredevily.
I get the normal tailgaters. We’ve all had those for years. If truth be traveled freely here, I must admit bumper stickers have been easily read by this writer on occasion as well; however, defensive driving 101 is almost always anticipating what the other drivers sharing the road will do.
Pulling out onto a road .. I’d be more than happy to anticipate what a driver would do – If that driver was actually ON the road.
More and more cars on the road now than back years ago, of course, when I sat in a (very) used Pinto learning how to shift without stalling the engine. The enjoyment faded, somewhat, after that day when I realized a car was needed for the jobs after school. The car meant more responsibility. As they say, a right of passage. I went with it.
Probably everyone’s attitude changed since then? We weren’t as anxious. As much in a hurry? We went with what life gave us.
A lot more cars with a lot more human stress behind the wheel now, … and so many additional distractions.
Pretty sure the road is always clear as is my mind. Passengers confirm it. It’s not a mirror coincidence this has been happening. Until I am satisfied with a real world answer, I’m going with my alien/worm hole theory.
If I look back one day and see a vintage brown Pinto tailgating me, however, …
… then I’ll give up and simply go back to my skateboard.
Dad has a difficult time finding the right words most times. “It’s just not coming to me…”, so often mutters within his struggling conversations with me. Questions or comments in his direction trigger this reply a lot.
This is a symptom of the underlying disease of dementia, of course. Patience rules the moments. I try to get information. “How was your day?”. “Tell me about how you feel now.”. “Are you glad to get out for a little bit?”. I don’t know – even after years – if these are good, or appropriate, questions? All I want to do is stay connected to him as long as I can.
As I struggle to find connecting questions on this journey with dad, I find my inner voice saying, as well, … “it’s not coming to me”. What’s right and proper? A brain, aware and alert most of the time, finds it difficult to locate a quizicle query … an interesting issue to trigger dad’s synaptic senses.
This, probably, is a common frustration for those in my circle of known, and unknown, friends holding mental hands with dementia suffering loved ones. Has to be common? Communication. Conversation. What was once normal, everyday who, where, and why, … is now one way remembrances as blank stares and misplaced whats disguised as whos dominate discussions.
Yet, we love them the same. Even more, I would argue.
My point of all this is … why write it? Why briefly point out dad’s unique, but common, response restraint? Problem finding the right words – the correct, perfect reply.
I know my dad. He’s a perfectionist. Even with his life’s setback now, this trait is still deeply embedded. I do believe he may want to answer the best way he can. “It” may just be that perfect word he can’t process anymore. That perfect word isn’t coming to him.
A son, laughingly must admit, carries the same gene … not to a fault, however. I allow some things to slip by.
What couldn’t get by me was that perfect word this evening. Truly, “it wasn’t”, yes, “coming to me”. This was a moment I felt a connection to dad and he wasn’t even around. Ironically, we planned on his attendance, but scheduling prevented it.
Simply stated, a guest pastor was in attendance at our evening service. I had a moment beforehand to mention how much I enjoyed his remarks at a funeral a few weeks past. As the organist at many a funerals, I heard many eulogies. At this particular service, his words were, well, ….
… and here’s where I got stuck. The pastor and I could have easily been dad and I mired in traffic for a few awkward moments -with a few glaring differences, of course. No dad and son. One pastor and organist. Both, supposedly of sound mind.
However, still one blankly staring back at his friendly guest pastor thinking, “it’s not coming to me..” What’s the proper and right word to compliment a pastor on his exceptional message on the death of a beloved friend, pastor to us all?
As I spoke a few wiggly words, none seemed appropriate. Each worse than one prior. The pastor’s kind, but confused smiles confirmed my suspicions. It was a “good” message? I “enjoyed’ what you said? None lifted itself on angel’s wings, for sure. “Nice job”? As the few minutes swooped into mild embarrassment, we parted ways with no damage done. We’ve been friends a long time. He knows … I know. A little lighthearted banter before worship in his mind.
For me, not so much.
A chance to be dad. To understand how he must be. “Be” in a moment where the right word/phrase isn’t processing. I can’t imagine living in that space 24/7 … especially when in a car being asked questions you KNOW you should be able to answer … just can’t find the words. Or, remember.
It’s been eight hours now. You know, I STILL don’t know what, exactly, to say. It was a lovely funeral. Of all memorials I’ve played, his words are in the top 10%. This is what I ended up saying to him.
That’ll have to suffice. I’m not happy with it. Doesn’t seem enough. What he said about our dear friend was amazing, poignant, caring, and compassionate. With those, I am not satisfied. They’re not what I want to say.
Maybe dad has it right, after all. It may be best to just admit, “it’s not coming to me”, and move on.
Well, in any case, having that connection moment with dad was kinda cool. Dementia has its unique set of problems. It’s nice to know we can share these little problems together.
Together in spirit, that is.
Next time in the car, in a grocery store, or at one of his favorite ice cream stops, … we’ll have another, “it’s not coming to me” moment in person.
It’s anyone’s guess as to which one of us will be waiting for a reply. All good as long as the connection is maintained.
From where I stand, this is one view of our local Norfolk Southern rail yard. Off in the distance is the Rose Yard. It’s where hundreds, if not over one-thousand men worked at one time. Building, painting, repairing cars for transport all over the USA. I haven’t come across any employee – retired or current – who isn’t proud of earned sweat from a day’s wage.
A few weeks ago, the Big Boy steam engine came rolling through on its nationwide tour. Definitely a treat for those employees and all train enthusiasts locally. My vantage point to see it at the Rose Yard – not as an enthusiast, but as a fortunate food vendor – was spectacular. (Much different than it would have been as if I was standing where I am currently).
Yes, a Big Boy. Thousands upon thousands across America waited for hours to see it rumble through their two-stop sign towns. If only for a few seconds, it became a story they can pass on to their grandkids. Videos swarmed Facebook and other social media sites. “Where to see it..” maps and guides were posted on dedicated websites. In its own way, the Big Boy months-long event was a bring-America together spectacle for all to see and experience.
I live in a railroad city. Altoona, Pa. was known as one of the major manufacturing hubs for rail car building. This is why Norfolk Southern chose us to host one of their two-day events for the Big Boy. Huge daily turnouts to meet and greet the steel-wheeled celebrity, political photo-ops, employee appreciation rallies, and merchandise give-aways … all to enhance the engine’s allure and historical stamp on our country’s railroad heritage.
I mention all this simply because had I not been invited to be a caterer for one of the events, this engine would have steam-rolled through me with little consideration. None. I had no interest in seeing it. With this said, shame on me.
Yes, shame on me for not wanting to – at the very least – TRY to get a ticket for viewing. A once in a lifetime thing like this … and I treated it like an order at McDonald’s. What’s the big deal, right?
Noticing all the pre-press and hubaloo sirening down from afar, I could have suffered from social media fatigue, I guess? Too many “same perspective” videos of this engine being welcomed into multiple towns of various sizes, colors, and shapes? Locals here complaining of pre-ticket mis-management, maybe? Whatever the reason, I couldn’t get off the platform and board the excitement train.
All this changed. That moment Big Boy came barreling down into the Rose Yard, I was my nine-year old Christmas morning, pajama wearing, pumped boy once again. There was something happening inside. Just pure joy. All the lethargy disappeared. Yes, my camera phone video saved is almost exactly the same as all the others, however, for me it frame a different perspective on my life.
… On how not to be so quick to judge.
Something unique about seeing this special train that evening. As someone who knows nothing about these metal mechanical machines, I flipped from steam stupor to Big Boy bliss within seconds. All the locomotion finally made sense surrounding its arrival. The engine enthusiasts weren’t that crazy after all.
I pre-judged the event and the folks who were excited about its arrival. Not in a bad way, of course. A better word would be, “dispassionate”, I suppose. But, this is on the same track. Every time a conversation, article, newscast, or social media pop-up feed came, warning light arms dropped down and my caring car came to a halt.
That car in which I traveled did make its way to the Rose Yard. Yes, It was a concession van, but nonetheless a vehicle. Norfolk Southern corporate staff couldn’t have been nicer, as an aside here, and the employee event went off without a hitch. As I remained behind to clean and organize for a multi-day event coming up, all the tah-dah had dispatched, few people remained, and Big Boy sat almost alone on a track only two minutes walk from where I stood. The timing was perfect. Just me and a huge machine. History along with a guy who plays the piano and sells food. Quite the contrast, I suppose. This was the moment I regretted ever questioning those who spent weeks anticipating its arrival.
They weren’t wrong.
Look, I’m in my last third of life … if things work out. It’s highly likely I will continue to make judgements about people, places, and things. We don’t make life changes and stop our own huge personal engine (at least at this point) on the spot. We can only try to learn as we barrel down our life’s track.
One small detail I did find out. This engine was getting assistance from two other diesels connected behind. Kinda makes sense. It was built in the early 1940’s, so for a machine running eighty-six years, …. quite understandable.
For us as well. We don’t make any changes in life without support from good friends and family behind us – encouraging us to be the best we can be. It’s not easy, … especially as age and habits set in.
There won’t be another Big Boy event in Altoona – at least in my lifetime for sure. I am so glad my business afforded me the opportunity to learn a little life lesson. Without that chance six weeks ago, I would have missed being a little boy again … if only for a few minutes.
We need moments like those. Win-wins. Small life lessons coupled with happy experiences.
Here’s hoping the next “Big” thing to come down the social track is met with a little less skeptical short-sightedness on my part. Can’t guarantee it, however I can at least try to be more accepting and give myself a chance to be surprised.
Big Boy wanted this to be an awesome experience for all of us. After all, this is what its whole national tour was designed to do.
Minutes disappear. Hours melt into days. Weeks and months become unrecognizable. Whatever the current year is – in a life previously filled with work, family, church, and hobbies – it isn’t relevant anymore. No time, or date, is vital to my dad’s day-to-day life now.
He has dementia. As you may know from previous posts, this condition is his reality.
What’s important to him are multiple calls, every day, to me from the activity room phone. “Just me. Calling to see if anything is going on today. Ok.”, he says then hangs up. Usually this is the message on voicemail. I can’t pick up a majority of the time due to my schedule. Thankfully, this message comes in on the other end of a redial button. I have my doubts dad would have recall to pull out a ten-digit cell number from his shrinking brain.
I am grateful for these messages. So thankful. Even though they overload my queue, when deleting messages, I always keep his last message. Always. One never knows what dozen, or so, words will be his last.
Returning a call is difficult. The facility number rings not only to that hand-held, but also to other phones as well. Besides, even if I call back immediately, his mind would have him take a u-turn back towards the dining hall, or back a hallway within seconds from hanging up. No matter, it’s good.
Always good to hear his voice. Only a matter of a day or so before I get in to see him. My minutes and hours are noticeable and very regulated by a tight schedule – one shared within a few seconds after dad sees me enter his room.
“OH, hey! Nice to see you…”, as his eyes light up , posture straightens, and arms immediately move toward lacing a worn pair of sneakers. “You want to go somewhere? What have you been up to?”
“Hey, dad”, .. as I scan the room for anything out of place … any irregularities from a man who is very, very meticulous about his pens, hats, chapstick, clothes, belt clip, and toiletries. “I’ve been getting your messages. Sorry I haven’t been available to answer.”
“I’m sure I’ve called you. Just don’t know how many times. Was it today at all? Where are we going?”,
By this time, those worn sneakers on his feet need a destination. So, a walk from his room down a long, ornate hallway begins as does a wonderful conversation between a father and son. Details about my work. The experiences in my daily wheres and whens have to be passed to him. He enjoys hearing of my successes and failures. My ups and downs. I know these don’t process in a normal way, however, he connects to me. To my experience, my life, as he needs to during the three minutes we walk in that hallway.
Finally ending in an entrance/exit, we depart. Final destination: somewhere. Could be a dollar store, hobby shop of my choosing, quick lunch, or simple walk through a grocery store for ginger ale and cookies. Wherever we go, my goal is his experience. His glance at new faces, new places. Fresh air and sunshine. Minutes, possibly an hour, or two, away from his norm to shake off a few old days and put new ideas into a brain stressed with anxiety, stress, and confusion.
“Stop sign sentences”, as I like to call them, are so enjoyable. Every jaunt around town, the same one is repeated each time. Meaning, when one is started as we leave his facility, it is often repeated at most of the stop signs. Usually in the form of a question answered once – yet asked again, … and again .. and again, I find myself challenged to answer differently. It’s a puzzle to be solved for me. For dad, just another intersection in his brain where logic and memory take a left turn.
These short trips always come to an end. Confusion usually follows our return, unfortunately. Life, for dad, is simple yet complicated. No responsibility. Everything is looked after.
Complicated in the worst way possible because nothing makes sense … and he kinda knows it still.
The phone messages are so nice for me to hear, yet I know he is struggling with what to say. He is trying to stay connected. I love this. Like before, I always want this and don’t want it to stop.
“It’s just me.” will be silent some day, however. This is the nature of dementia.
It’s my nature to keep up with what he needs as best I can. In as much as he needs connected to me, I need this from him. As to me … “Just me”?… I need him to add value to my life – to still be interested in what I am doing even if it’s only for a few fleeting seconds. That connection is so important.
… and I’m perfectly fine with both of us staying in touch with each other the best way we know how.
He can push redial as many times as he wants. Yes, it will go to voicemail most likely. At least it’ll be a few more seconds I can save in the archives for a later time…
… when the phone stops ringing and a very important voice in my life is silenced by a disease nobody should ever have to endure.
I’m not one to complain. Really. And, as life goes, this isn’t a big deal. A meal. A simple meal. Or, so I thought.
If a meal isn’t up to standards, so be it. My choices at local restaurants are always the same, anyway. I don’t order calamari or sushi. Avocado never graces my lips – can’t stand the texture. Steak, chicken, or haddock with a salad and/or pasta side. Maybe, just maybe grilled shrimp. Chinese szechuan sauce is cool, Korean chicken on a stick at any food truck festival 👍, and cold Thai yellow tea … all personal favorites.
Simple tastes.
Oh, and pizza on Sunday. Need to have 1/2 mushroom, 1/2 pepperoni, slightly over done, with a diet soda after 6pm on Sunday. This started decades ago and must continue. For the sake of all my dearly departed relatives, this tradition can never stop. Used to be after “Dallas” and our local Friday night football game – when my mom whipped together batches of Chef Boyardee paper thin pizza. You know, that yeast-by-the-can treat that was only edible after a loving mother added her special recipe ingredients.
I never complained. After a long halftime show with a very uncomfortable wool band uniform on – and general disinterest in the game itself – I was glad to be home. As well, any other time, the food placed in front of me was to be eaten, regardless. I learned to be thankful … even for meat pie, stewed tomatoes, and tapioca pudding. Ugh. No complaining.
That was as a child growing up. I’m positive you were taught the same life lesson.
As an adult, pretty much the same. Ninety-percent of the time. Save last Wednesday at a restaurant I frequent more than any other.
Did you ever know, just know, things weren’t going to go your way? Winning two rather cute stuffed animals in the claw machine while waiting for three friends to arrive felt normal. It happens frequently. Not to brag, but some day I’m going to get dragged into a back room and questioned under dim lights. The claw machine toughies are going to questions my tactics, prowess, perhaps a level of skill a bit beyond the norm? … without even considering just dumb luck: which it is. My odds are much higher than most because … wait for it … I play the darn thing coming and going each time. Two chances for one dollar. In my case, ten chances for five dollars 😆.
This is when normal stopped. “My normal”, that is.
Same meal, same drink ordered. Nothing new. Except the waitress.
This wasn’t (maybe) her fault? I blame the electronic, hand-held ordering thingy’s order takers have to tap on more and more. She fought with it, slowly. Distracted as she seemed to be, it was almost like a Tesla was being ordered online with a full interior package and every extended warranty available.
Please understand, at this point I am not upset … just relaxed and placing my normal order of an unsweetened tea, salad, lemon pepper fish, and a side of macaroni & cheese. No menu necessary.
My tea arrives. I sweeten it with two packs – one pink, one white. One sip and my over-sweetened alarm bells go off. After taste-testing from others, clearly the tea wasn’t unsweetened to start. Not the best start to a meal. Making the evening worse, our waitress came across as being slightly less-attentive to our table as we had been accustomed. Nice girl. Polite and respectful. Just didn’t come back soon enough to address my tea situation.
Yes, a first world problem. I get it. Sometimes, however, after the two weeks I’ve had prior … I looked forward to a nice dinner out with friends.
Didn’t take long for our dinners to arrive. Usually doesn’t at this restaurant. I addressed the tea problem with our waitress and she was glad to fix it immediately while I started my meal.
Ah, the meal. Lemon pepper has a way of going bad, apparently. “Maybe the claw machine guys finally got to the cook and made a deal to end my lucky streak?”, I silently mused to myself. A replacement tea came as I hadn’t the heart to tell our waitress my fish tasted like a brown, stale, ten-weeks old piece of veal – not that I would have ANY idea what the flavor of THAT would be?
I did have enough thirst to mention to her, once again, the second tea was as sweet as the first prior to my two-packet OCD addition. With an expected surprised look, she returned to the kitchen – second iced tea in hand.
Sweetened iced tea and horrible fish – 3, Doug – 0. Oh, btw, my salad and macaroni & cheese were both so-so at this point…
The manager I went to at the front desk – one who is familiar with my frequency – accepted my fish frustration with kindness after I explained the problem. He offered to personally go back and oversee my lemon pepper replacement. Good to go.
Yep. Good to go. Good. To. Go.
While sitting in baited anticipation for my fish, a third iced tea arrived! Woohoo! It’s unsweetened. Our waitress mistakenly switched pots/kettles in the back when cleaning. Problem identified. Problem fixed. I give her credit for, at least, recognizing the issue. My mood and expectations didn’t match up with it, however.
The manager hand delivers my lemon pepper fish. “Ah,..”, my mind sighs,”.. looks great!.. slightly darker than normal. Yellow-ish with good texture. I’m finally going to enjoy my meal”.
Slightly darker really meant extra pepper. When I type, “extra pepper”, I really should type what was going though the mind of whomever was over the grill. Phrases like, “He wants extra pepper …. I’LL give him extra pepper … grrrr..” and, “He thinks the LAST fish I grilled was bad … hmffph….” are most appropriate. I needed the whole third glass of tea after only two bites of fish. So much pepper … soooo muuuuch. I even took all the unused lemon wedges from our table to help suffocate the seasoning.
Hunger overtook the evening. I choked it down. Scraping after scraping, the fish went down with enough tears to fill any reservoir full of fish. As finally explained, the first plate of fish was seasoned with garlic .. that’s why. The seasonings got confused. Actually, they didn’t 😆, the cook grabbed the wrong one.
Again, with all that’s wrong in our beautiful world, this one meal – tea and fish – is so small and insignificant. I had food. I had friends to share time with. I had the money to pay for it. I had a few minutes to play a game and win prizes.
.. And a kind manager who didn’t charge me for the meal.
During the whole incident, no angry words were exchanged. Tears were shed because of a pepper error, not words. Things were a lot sweeter, albeit unnecessarily so, and stayed that way due to calmer heads prevailing. Throughout the meal, five adults had a wonderful time, yes, at the expense of one who had some difficulty getting ahead with his meal.
It was, truly, just tea and fish at the end of the day. Just like mom’s meat pie which I dislike to this day, if need be … I would eat it, be blessed, and fortunate to have it in front of me without complaint.
This evening, dad will be joining us for a dinner out if it works in the schedule. If you’ve been following lately, you know his struggle. It would be my honor to share an iced tea with him while I still can.
Sweetened, or not.
There are never any complaints when out with dad. Sharing a meal with someone who can’t process a menu anymore or understand the simple act of ordering, is never the time to complain. It’s a time to sit back and enjoy a meal regardless what season of life it is for someone who struggles every day, yet takes peace in the reality that’s his to cherish.
Pepper, or not.
And with that healthy serving of what is really valuable to all of us, the little inconveniences of too much pepper or sugar shouldn’t ever get in the way. Besides, there’s always a chance at more happy, cute animals just around the corner no matter what happens in life … unless I get there before you do.
A call came. Not unlike any other from the facility at seven o’clock as the morning sun snuck through my bedroom drapes. An aide from Dad’s place spoke of his distress as I listened with partial attentiveness – not from lack of compassion, however. The five days prior exhausted most of my gas tank. This Friday morning was to be rest. Simply, … sleep. Recuperation. Body repair.
I, truly, didn’t need this distinctive ring.
It was a responsibility call. The aide was asking for guidance. She, clearly, met dad at a medical crossroad – as often happens considering the road on which he travels. Dementia requires navigational assistance. Assistance defined as caring people who help guide the way and clear out as many obstacles as possible.
He had, what appeared to her, a medical issue. “We needed to ask you what you’d like us to do… ?, as she continued to explain his troubles. I realized his situation required my personal attention. Ten minutes later, I found myself – once again – making the very familiar trip on rt. 36 north toward Altoona.
No more than an hour later, we were in an emergency department bay. This time, not as critical as other days, but nonetheless, there. Dad and me … talking over, and over, the recent moments’ events. The hows and whys that suddenly escaped his memory, needing to be repeated to soothe an anxious mind, passing the minutes which turned into two hours. As he finally drifted into a calm sleep, I took the time to slip out. The mid-morning sunlight was a welcome relief on this tired set of bones.
Slowly turning a corner around the ER, I noticed a statue off to my right. On more than one occasion I’ve passed by this way as the ER department isn’t easily accessible from the main lobby. “That’s odd …,” I thought, “… I don’t remember seeing this before”. Sure as the sun was a relief on my weary shoulders and my body was exhausted, this statue didn’t just magically appear.
It’s “The Healer’s Touch”. Rather than try to write summarize what it represents, here is the plaque:
I am not a descendant of the Shona tribe. This, probably, goes without typing. Traveling to Zimbabwe isn’t in my plans and I don’t have any friends who are remotely connected to that area of our world. Up to that moment, my only tie-in to Zimbabwe was a world map hanging in the front of a seventh-grade geography classroom.
A bond did happen at that moment, however. Not the words I read, but from the statue itself. That shiny object caught my eye after all. It was meant to. Not just me … but everyone who walked past. It’s meant for reflection and, of course, to honor the nurses who care for all in need.
For me, who is clearly not a nurse or Shona healer, I stood there – bonded to this statue: one body larger than the other … connected to each other by arms that are, by all indications, hard to see where they begin or end. The artists from this tribe know how to reach into the heart of compassion and caring. In its simplicity, there is no separation. As one suffers and hurts, so must the caregiver meet the patient in that space.
And so it is with Dementia. I needed this reminder. Self-care is important, of course. The old saying, “One can’t do another’s care if not taking care of oneself.”, is important to remember. When call comes in during the early morning hours however, my needs become secondary. When sitting by his ER bedside and the conversation circles back to the same five sentences every eight minutes, my needs become secondary. As he stares blankly at me wondering why the ambulance didn’t take him to his house, my needs become secondary.
Dad was still sleeping when I returned to the ER bay fifteen minutes later. It wasn’t soon after then, attendants took him for CT scans and other testing. Standard procedure for his distress, I assume.
Fortunately, nothing serious came of this visit. We’ll check it off as a fortunate medical mis-step with a mental ramp exit. He received excellent care for about five hours and arrived back in familiar surroundings just in time for a late lunch.
This was one of many he and I have experienced together. During the many visits though, I’ve missed seeing this particular statue. Odd, since my catering business has served the employees there multiple times as well.
This was the moment, the morning, to stop and be reminded of my role in his life I guess…
… and for all us in this role as caregivers to be part of the Shona tribe. Healer’s, possibly, a world away, but seamlessly connected together to each other and to our loved ones struggling with Dementia.
We have an important job to do. They need our affection, compassionate communication, and silence when appropriate. Let’s strive to be their statue. Have your never ending arms rest on their heavy burdened shoulders.
