619

During these early morning hours, when I’m awake and find my words a little more accessible than later in the day, strange – but comforting – things usually happen. Strange defined as “unexpected, unpredictable phenomena appearing before my eyes”, and “comforting” meaning, “I don’t jump out of my semi-wrinkled, now-blemished skin” when they happen.

These happenstances are really quite the cool factor in my life. Perhaps you have them in your life as well? Petite surprises jump-starting your day. I love them. My eyes – and by extension, my crazy brain juices – seem to thrive on finding miniature nuggets of fascinating frolics when opening for the first time in the morning.

This second day of August, 2020 is no exception … a pleasant, cool morning in the 8th month of what is turning out to be a ridiculously fascinating year. A year when everything seems to be going south. Now, seeds from China. Geesh.

Well, I saw a number on my clock and it was wonderful: 619

Why? Three digital digits on a clock face shouldn’t be that exciting. Am I plainly weird? Is my sanity compass pointing to a different magnetic pole? Are the rumors of my particular peculiarities among the populous really accurate? No. And, yes.

I must admit, as any person in his sound mind would, none of the above assertions are kinda true. Yes, I do have oddities, but that makes me, me. You are you as well … and we make the world go ’round which is why 619 is so wonderfully wacky. Take it for what it’s worth. I worked a long day yesterday, didn’t eat much until a Taco Bell Quesarito went marching down my gullet late last night, and I slept quasi-ok under a fuzzy blanket on the sofa. So, three numbers on a tv clock ARE going to be captivating. Glad to be participating in life as another fine dawn appears over the window air conditioner to my left. Aah, 21st century wonders.

619. Less absorbing are the three syllables used up saying it. Six-one-nine. Ten letters … s.i.x.o.n.e.n.i.n.e.? Not very interesting either, right? Additionally, adding them up gets us to a sweet 16 birthday party I’m not so sure any teenager even celebrates anymore, so we can cross that off the strange, but comfortable list I proposed at the beginning.

Let’s do a 180-degrees turn together and you’ll see why I find this number so appreciatively appropriate for us as we begin our trip into the last five months of 2020.

It is still 619.

So many people are throwing 619’s at us. Wanting us to change who we are … What we believe, … What we are to do with our lives, …Who we trust, … When we go where and do what.

They are asking us to do a “180”, in essence, without realizing when we do, we are simply returning back to what we already are. Nothing much will have changed except our disdain and resentment toward them for asking us to do something we didn’t want to do in the first place.

However, if on your own accord, you decide to rotate your 619 because you feel the process is for your benefit, by all means … go for it. THAT process can be life changing. You’ll still rotate back to the same position, but feel and act differently.

Point being, “You can’t push a rope” – one of my favorite expressions. This masking, Covid-19, mandated culture we are experiencing now is a brutal, opinionated, Fauci-fact-quasi, who knows world right now. For every yes there is a no, … every right a wrong, every wall an opening. We’re being pushed to rotate our 619 lives without the nudgers realizing we’re only going to end up back where we started.

“A person convinced against his will … is of the same opinion still” – accredited to Mary Wollstonecraft, but original source unknown

And, there’s the rub. Few, if any, are changing their minds about any of this. Politics, religion, now Covid …. the three no-gos in discussions around dinner tables that aren’t even happening anymore, anyway. It’s all arguing about numbers and stats, data points, and charts. A big rotating rotisserie of roasting grumpiness where opinions spatter outward toward patrons with upright forks in hand … waiting to chomp on the fat of misinformation and slanted media bias.

But, back to my early morning fare. The sun is higher in the sky now. I must begin my day. I’m not angry or beset by what’s going on in the world. Quite the opposite. My 619s are pretty good these days. Yours are as well, I’m sure.

Lollipops, unicorns, and pots of gold. Maybe tomorrow morning will present one of these instead of three innocent little numbers. Who knows. For sure, I’ll roll out from under a blanket, open my eyes, and begin a new day with whatever comforting and strange nicely nuggets appear before me.

Hopefully it isn’t a compass pointing due south. Now that would be just plain strange.

…and quite uncomfortable.

It’s Quiet Now

So quiet. This porch.

Save the distant barking of a distressed dog and an occasional tweet of the natural kind – not electronic twitching of opinions, this time brings me such peace. After a long and confusing week, I find sitting here … now … nicely nice. There are a few visually annoying sight lines avoided by simply closing my eyes. Even the smell of grass – cut earlier by a fine crew of hard working young men – still has that fresh smell of greenness attached to the air casually blowing under my nose.

Yes, this is really nice now. Now is a nice place to be. How wonderful is at the moment?

Here, now, is all we have. It is said too often, but not appreciated enough, that we have only moments to live our lives. The hours and days only exist on the canvas because the minutes prop them up on the easel. One stroke at a time, using beautiful blues, reds, and yellows of curiosity and grace, we paint what others see in us. And it renews – over and over again – when we value now.

Simple traffic noise in the near, distant space is far enough away to filter through the few trees between us. It is a mere swaddled sound as it reaches my ears.

The distressed barking has stopped for the moment. Something, or someone has calmed the canine concern. Birds continue their songs in the trees, however, as I expect they should. Nested little ones need to eat, husbands and wives must communicate, and predator warnings are necessary. These are neighborhood nows that continue forward without the recognition of self-reflection …as I sit in a recliner on this shady, comfortable porch. They move their miracles forward, regardless. I am simply another brush of color on their palate of life.

So many shapes and sizes around. I can close my eyes and see a variety of not only physical beings, but also ideas as well. From big and tall notions changing the world – like vaccines for pandemic viruses – to small proposals such as smiles, hugs, and handshakes. Both are connections to the world outside ourselves and so important to the now we are experiencing together.

I have little to taste now except for the Arby’s roast beef sitting casually by my side. In all likelihood, it is less fresh than it was a few minutes ago when I first entertained the idea of sliding it over my lips. Fortunately, one was already consumed prior, so this second sandwich is not a tragedy. The diet Pepsi is flat, unfortunately, so I am slightly disappointed in my beverage choice. Humidity is less drippy compared to days past and I get the impression folks around these parts are settling into a late summer / early-August routine.

This is now. Now is Covid-19, masking, the last day in July of a ridiculously crazy, little over three months from an election, out of one’s mind, take a deep breath, … 2020.

We have to keep our senses about us, right? I have mine. Today is all about what I see, hear, smell, taste, and … can say to you.

Enjoy the now. You are special. The now is here for you to have, hold, and cherish. Pull up a chair next to me on my porch.

It’s quiet.

What In Carnation!

We ain’t in River City and I certainly ain’t Harold, but we got trouble … right here. With a capital “T”. Granted, I don’t own the rights to the song or the musical itself (disclaimer out of the way), however, permission to use every synonym associated with the 18th century word tarnation is hereby assigned. Trouble, as well sung in the musical as it is, isn’t close to filling the lead role, although it is in the supporting cast of synonymous players.

Shall I begin with censure, criticism, or denunciation? Perhaps castigation is best? Maybe bewilderment or anger best describes your mood when tarnating someone – if that’s even a thing. Two centuries ago, damnation – the origin of this word under examination – meant an eternity of fire and misery. Today? Just two weeks in isolation with someone who won’t shut up about their position opposite yours on masking, politics, or salt on fruit.

I settled on “Oh, pfft … what the … dagnabit … What in carnation!” when I spied what I spied.

Walking out of a big box store the other morning, what do I see? …

One solitary stem-a-sight-a-licious on the hot pavement. Who in tarnation leaves one beautiful red flower behind and drives off? “Who?” I write. WHO? What in carnation is this world coming to?

Certainly … hopefully … this act of abandoning wasn’t intentional (for to leave such a beauty behind on purpose would be upsetting to even the least of the forbearing, floral gods). Imagined said customer in all likelihood possessed a bouquet of bounteous beauties and was in too much of a hurry to arrive at his/her next port of call. Out of hands this one dropped gently to the ground.

Perhaps even more romantic is the notion of one noticing my slightly greasy, flavorful white Ford van with cart in tow exhaustively exhaling next to gravel-stricken yellow painted lines on over-heated pavement. I being not the only one exiting my vehicle overheated at the notion of masking once again to enter another store once again … this time to momentarily pass an underpaid nice young security lady at the door handing out single-use masks and sanitizer wipes to those so inclined to receive these gifts of Covid-19 invisibility. I declined with whispers behind my cute cloth Dalmatian mask. Back to my fantasy…

One saw this scent-of-a-van and, upon my absence, placed one fine flower next to it as one would gently settle a rose on the casket of a lost loved lover. Thinking, “Oh, I must meet this person to whom this vehicle belongs. I see a sign on the cart, ‘Doug’s Dawgs’ … He must, must be inside. I shall not wait because I am in a hurry. Maybe some day … someday…”, my imaginary friend walked away leaving only a lonely stemmed memory behind.

There was space in my life for a 10 inches long gift to present itself at my feet. Where it came from is known: a big box store full of masked, slightly confused, doing the best-we-can, cart pushing, life-getting through extended neighbors of mine. How it arrived? This is a mystery I am entirely comfortable not knowing. For someone like me who needs to ask why? and have an answer all the freakin’ time, this is off my-OCD game a bit … however, knowing I’ll never be close to the truth, I can let it go.

We still have trouble my friends. Right here in (any) city, don’t we! Ugh. That very day, I ambled out of the store with a cart full of goods not knowing – until hours later – that the very item I went in to buy was missing. I simply forgot to buy it … and needed it for my business. The day before some of my product spoiled without any chance of replacing … and had a large order including that product I couldn’t fulfill. I’ve dropped customers orders on the ground this week, handed out wrong change/under-charged folks, made wrong sandwiches with incorrect toppings, and … my back hurts more than normal. It’s been a week.

What in Carnation is happening! We’ve been asking this since Mid-March, right? All of us.

This flower is currently on the dashboard of my overcrowded van. It rests in an overworked, reliable, friendly automobile as a reminder to those – including me – who don’t take enough time to do the same during these troubling times. At some settled time, this flower will fade out and lose color, but not its significance. The consequence of seeing it lay at my feet that day does not dim with the passage of time, however, as each opportunity to be happy in the midst of trouble is a flower in and of itself.

We’re going to be at this virus-thing for a while, it seems. I’m no doctor, although I could be, in some imaginary t.v. afternoon soap opera universe, be ascribed the moniker “Dr. Doug” (but, I digress …), so, try to find a small flower at your feet that a stranger leaves for you. A smile. Spare change for a free cup of coffee. A $5 lottery ticket. Time away for a few minutes you wouldn’t normally get. I don’t know what it’ll be. Only the perky little parking lots in life will be able to provide the answers for you. There’s something out there that will make perfect scents for you, I’m sure.

I am willing to keep looking myself. On stage with Harold Hill I’m not. Just a simple guy with simple ideas tripping over little flowers left behind by who-knows bodies. I am aware that I must continue forward living life the best I know how in the midst of this goofy time – as all of us must. Covid be damned … err … Darnation, anyway!

Specifically, I am looking forward to change – especially the correct amount in return to my customers as I hand over the proper sandwiches with the exact toppings ordered, not dropped on the ground (which I wouldn’t serve anyway, just to clarify), and all without grimacing and moaning quietly behind my face covering due to my achy-breaky back. That is, if I remembered to pick up what I needed in the first place.

Back to the store again sometime soon. Say, “Hi!” if you see me there. I’ll be the one handing out invisible carnations disguised as a smile behind my mask. We’re all on stage together. It certainly isn’t River City, but it’s home.

Find your flowers.

Log On It!

It was to be a nice late evening meal for a few smaller than small critters. A family of about seventy or so, by my imagination. What kind of critters? Who knows. For sure, they were tiny and resting up from a busy day of dirt-dalying among the various clumps and mini crags in the front yard. Mom, dad, Uncle Frater, the ten kids and various cousins … all around for dinner …

Then … WHAM!

Not to be a Dougie-downer, but critter catastrophes happen. These events are common because ants walk on a busy human byways and flies are swatted during lazy summer evenings. Just so happens, on this past Saturday’s eve, an odd, innocent insecta-sidal incident occurred which, unfortunately, caused the envisioned demise of seventy little non-human dinner guests. An aged tree branch fell on all of them. Unexpected. Sudden. I’m sure there was no pain.

Now I’m left to figure out what to do with all this.

Oh, not the family of imagined critters. They’re imaginary. I think I’m simply a guy awake enough to write a little, but just on the edge of goofy-groggy to dial up a “we had a massive log drop on us this past March”. Now what! Unexpected, sudden. Log on it, anyway!!

As for the log in my yard, I propped it up against the tree from whence it came. This feat of festive propping took me two days to accomplish after looking at it a few dozen times. You wooden 😁 think so, but I’m a guy and this is how we roll. Now I have a tree triangle the neighbors will have to enjoy all winter … and possibly impress my Junior High math teacher during a drive-by – provided he is still aware enough to pound an extra long chalkboard eraser or finger-flex a ten pound pocket calculator. At present, the hypotenuse being the log, earth as one leg, and the host tree the other: an example of triangulation configuration at its finest. At least I think so…

We couldn’t prop the Covid against a tree and then go about our lives, could we? When it landed on us, the virus crushed a lot of our ambitions for 2020. There we were … simply eating dinner one evening with friends and family then …. WHAM!!

Life hasn’t returned to normal. I know this. You know this. After over four months of living behind the new air we’ve been breathing, I fear we are having a difficult time remembering what normal used to be. As the grass under this immovable log continues to be denied the sunshine of a new day, we are losing the ability to know what fresh air and new ideas taste like.

The air is becoming old and stale with devisive, bitter arguments about masking and mold is growing around each crevasse of political divide. We are communicating, but in a strange way. There seems to be a quietness afoot. “Suspicious” is probably a better word … perhaps even “cautious”. Nobody knows what to say anymore … moreover, to whom, or when to say it. So, I fear we are becoming a collection of “what-to-do-or-say” people scurrying about under our huge log.

There are those outspoken among us, to be sure. Their voices ring and bounce between the bark. We hear them loudly proclaim their truth as they see themselves portrayed in the sliver of light peeking through the perceived darkness they see in others. It is an overly-opinion filled new normal nudge all of us are engaged in at an accelerated pace due to this Covid log we are under.

We don’t need to be all this and a heaping pile of mulch, though.

As much as this looks dire and can be sour to the sights, let it not bug you. There is a definite, determined upside to all the doom-inisticism I offered above. There is light at the end of my word-spitter, now heard, critter fancy.

…and that light is YOU. You, me, and everyone else.

The Covid log fell on all our dinners this past March. Those eating McDonald’s and friends snacking on caviar did not escape the wrath of wham from distances we’ve yet to determine. With all respect to our loved ones lost, most have survived thus far and we are pushing forward, right? Numbers, percentages, cases, etc ….all of these keep going regardless how we feel, individually, about all of it. We just keeping going forward doing what we believe is correct.

Here’s what we need to do. Together, we need to lift this log off of us. It’ll take a Herculean effort, I know, but we can do it. It means agreeing on a half-way point about masking, perhaps … or, not being so stubborn about our views on this doctor or that politician. We can’t all be right about everything we believe all the time. There needs to be some give and take here.

We need to stop being so judgemental towards others. Our four months social media immunology education isn’t enough to warrant an opinion about why Mary Doe isn’t wearing a mask, or why she is. Cloth, surgical, mosquitos through a chain link fence, droplets, drywall dust, N95, – all the masking arguments I’ve heard are getting pedantic and old. This sounds harsh … and it is directed as much towards me as anyone. I think and reflect upon what I see on Facebook. What is mandated? What isn’t? A law? Not a law? Again, it isn’t all that clear, but we can talk talk it out and try to find a middle ground here.

The gray areas are brutal now. Not just masking, but business requirements to remain open in PA are as clear as muck … oh, and testing for Covid. Geesh. False positives, delays, changing stats, ups/downs, percentages, comparative analysis … on and on.

Comfort groups on social media with fringe followers calling out marginal issues. Again, there needs to be a compromise somewhere. Hardliners taking a stand on masking and gloving where science and common sense have stalemated.

If we rely on the politicians, media, or any social construct to solve this for us, that’s not going to happen. They don’t have a crane large enough to lift this burden off of us and, ironically, they’re sitting on the log anyway, adding to weight we must lift.

So it’s up to us if we want to enjoy a normal, fun dinner in the future without the worry of another unpredictable log falling from the sky. We need to shed this current worrisome woodiness from our lives. When all has settled, we can then watch another family of Uncle Fraters enjoy their summer meal without worry themselves.

How nice it will be to talk among ourselves. Talk about what once was the Covid. All the battle-barking going on right now will be the old normal we will not miss. The log on it we will finally lift off ourselves together – unified as one voice.

Words of a Feather

More than one happily danced on the sidewalk the other morning when I went to work. Back home hours later, I saw this single feather look up at me without any hope of returning to normal. It seemed lost. Although detached from a gracious host hours – possibly days – earlier, familiarity among its peers that morning must have provided some hope. Now? Alone on a sidewalk.

Where did the other friends go? One can guess with the wind. This would be a logical assumption as much needed rain has been pushing through the area lately … and with it, breezy heat-relieving cooling sensations. Today, light rain continues. It is another early morning quiet and that beautiful feather has been tickling my imagination since I carefully stepped over it yesterday.

Words of a feather … stuck together in my mind since that chance meeting. Why now? Why this small, almost weightless object before my eyes on a semi-hot, light breezy day in July?

It is a symbol of things. What else could it be? A representation, a reflection, a return. A “What R we trying to get back to in the midst of all this confusion?” kind of thing.

This feather, alone, with very little guidance save the occasional kind puff of freshness passing by to urge it forward. A breath of fresh air that will, most assuredly, not return it to the very similar looking friends nestled around from its youth. That innocence is gone as are all the familiar long-looking gray, black, and white ideas holding hands with it.

I do not know why this feather detached from its host. Perhaps tragedy or a simple act of nature? What I can gather from my amateur detective senses, is … it looked like a crime scene. Maybe a larger preditor – perhaps a neighborhood cat – was involved? I simply don’t know.

This is our story as well in 2020. We, simply, don’t know.

We are simple feathers.

This is a time we represent a separation from what we knew as normal. Our ordinary lives shed us like yesterday’s news and replaced moments with masks, unknown futures, and closed minds. We reflect back to a time when our friends friended us on Facebook without bias or preconceptions about race, gender, or religious beliefs. A return to normals like feeling comfortable in our favorite cafe or caring for a stranger by a gentle, “I’m here for you” hand on his shoulder is desired by many.

We R the simple feather now, representing our individual lives the best way we know how. Replacing old normals with new ones while trying to reflect recently matured views about how society should be … as birds of one United feather, we need to stick together. Gray, black, white and all colors in between. On all the sidewalks in every neighborhood … in every city, town, and borough.

My words are simply those … words. Predatory forces are out there willing to separate us from our friends and family, beliefs, ideals, and fantastic individual strengths. Stand strong with more than words – together, 6-feet apart if necessary – and live the new normals with renewed energy.

The early morning rain hasn’t dampened my spirit as I will head out to see if that special feather is still there. If so, picking it up to eventually place it among the reminder/knick-knacks at my desk is so much a possibility.

Possibilities are all we have, right? Remind yourself of them frequently. “Tickle your fancy” with an imaginary feather once in a while. And, if you’re lucky enough to find one at your feet during an early morning walk, remember: words of a feather stick together.

No Bucket List

Seems like when I sit somewhere lately, my wondering eyes catch a glimpse of something extraordinarily normal. This object must be an everyday noun nature places within the very scope she gave me to notice, register in my brain, and process over … and over … until I decide I’ve enough information to share.

So, I sat for a few moments while considering one specific thing. Never mind where I sat, or, why it was necessary for me to be where I was at the time (instincts provide me with enough information to know the specific details are completely unnecessary and unbefitting a gentleman). The hour came. The moments arrived.

It was, by all measures, an early moment – 12:36 a.m. to be precise – and my overly tired, Coca-Cola dilated eyes weren’t available for proper sleep. Slurping that bubbly drink to take my twice-daily pills ten minutes before retiring the night before wasn’t my best decision of the day. They recommended plenty of water. I chose Coca-Cola. It isn’t an often choice, but after working close to twelve hours and eating a tuna salad sandwich, I took the advice of my counsel … it was soooo good. Still, not my best ruling from the bench.

No amount of rubbing, tweaking, pinky finger-flicking, or body bending at that hour can make even the moments themselves bestir. One sits and muses over the most mundane of whatsits sitting around because there’s nothing else to do. Magazines could not be read yet again through eyes unfocused, tired, and honestly unwilling to re-read the same Reader’s Digest jokes over again, anyway.

Once my eyes began to sharpen, the object same into focus: A bucket. A double-bucket to be correct. The kind of double-pail with a spinner in one side. To be even more unambiguous, the bucket I’ve never used. It wasn’t so much the blue bucket that caught my drained out attention span as it was the orange handle hugging the sides and extending across the middle. Twenty-two wee little slats molded into the handle’s center section spanning across an open, deep double-bucket. Most likely it would be half an oblong shape if continued to its complete form around, by my best guess. Lil’ Bo Pip would be proud of her two little pips on either end who hold the whole operation together.

Coca-cola decision aside, better to focus on the handle.

Why the handle and not the bucket? “Certainly the bucket’s use without a handle is a finer philosophical foray than the handle’s use with out a bucket?”, you may ask. To which I answer, “Yes, toting a handle alone about town would seem quite odd and useless; whereas, a bucket alone without its handle is still useful for many a tasks. For purposes of deeper meaning in life, and satisfying this writer’s need for tying the extraordinarily normal to same, a double-bucket handle is more important. Besides, lack of sleep, combined with 39g of sugar in a can of Coca-Cola and over four months of Covid Crazy all call for extraordinary efforts to remain calm through words.”

…And the words I choose to use today are simple. We all find ways to handle what we need to deal with during our day-to-days. I pick out things, ideas, people and think about them … a lot. These are very broad categories. I recognize this fact and also deal with too many zings and zips in my brain because of it. Focusing on considerable amounts of those above while accomplishing many things has been … and continues to be … my life’s motto to some finish line as of yet determined. Type A? Probably. I handle it in ways I need to by writing, working, and wresting my way through problems.

What do you do? How do you handle your day-to-days?

The sight and sound experiences in a public food space every day give me some idea. I see scrap haulers, trash folks, tire sellers, educators, retirees, politicians, garage mechanics, retailers of all products, dentists, martial artists, security workers, police, doctors, hospital maintenance workers, RNs, etc … who shuffle up to my street cart. They have buckets full of issues, I’m sure, but are handling their lives quite well. Sure, I bet their issues are equal to any others and not one is better or worse than another. Every so often, my cart is a bartender’s elbow rest … and I don’t mind if I’m not busy. I’m Doug, … and I’m listening.

We’re handling all this pretty darn good. The news may suggest otherwise … however, I believe that’s the bigger bucket of worms we can’t do much about. Right now is the right now. Here is our space. How we handle where we are – even if we sit and ponder the moment – can change who we are if what we are is in need of change. For now though, I think we’re all doing quitely fantastical.

This bucket, however, isn’t in its right mind and is in need of change. This I’ve determined. Double-buckets, especially, are a nuisance, … a persistent pestilence upon Doug-drowsy peepers.

Ironically, I’ve a problem. Without the bucket, I have no handle. With no handle, no subject about which to write. Well, that’s not entirely true. I could start a bucket list. Hey … a Double-Bucket List!! Nah. I’d never get around to doing anything on it. Too busy sitting around looking at extraordinarily normal things all the time – especially during these early morning hours when I should be sleeping. Too much Coca-Cola. I knew better but gulped it down anyway. Geesh.

Shades of Opinion

Yes, it’s a shameless plug for my business at the lower right edge, but I get to determine what goes and what doesn’t. This is my blog. My opinion, sarcastically written while a smirky, snarky corner smile reroutes sweat over my 95-degree, 85-percent humid, tired-pump heated face. Yes, my opinion is valuable … if only to me.

I sit on an uncomfortable metal chair waiting for customers to arrive. It’s another day of food sloshing. I don’t mind my customers at all, rather, they’re quite amusing. Attitudes can vary from an extreme euphoria on one end to a deep, cavernous malaise on the other … and all colors of “What the hell am I doing?” in between.

I’ve witnessed these various viewpoints as I stand in Doug puddles behind the grill. Varieties of opinions not only are expressed from my customers, but also live in my inward, laser-like unfocused, mind – where ideas disguised as shaded, nuanced ambiguities live. Back and forth we volley semi-words like “uhm” and “eh” in response to queries equally perplexing such as “wah?” and “meh?”. It’s a world I’m used to these days. The heat pounding off the earth is driving me insane. As well, forcing my body to stand erect hours on end – behind the ever-present bubbling steam table and grill contraption I designed for income-producing pleasure – is adding to my hotness (wow … did I just write that word as a descriptor for myself …?)

This moment of respite I shall take. A well deserved frozen moment in clock stoppage. No customers at the ready. Food in warmers. Sodas on ice. Flags waving a welcoming “hello” to passers-by. I am sincerely hoping – to the dismay of my accountant and checkbook – customers take their time considering whether or not to stop. I need this time to chill … literally.

This isn’t a normal time, to be sure. A one-hundred year pandemic is certainly bigger than my gripe about a few hours behind the meat monster grill cart. This isn’t my first hot summer and, hopefully, not my last stand under a catch-22, heat-holding, sun-blocking, sail-to-any-wind canopy. It requires four ratchet tie-downs as does my recent attitude … as if you couldn’t tell. I’m not at all angry. That’s not a word in my vocabulary. A jilted peddler, perhaps? Left behind at the peaceful alter of seller sanity? Who knows? I’m married to my profession – that’s a given – and I love what I do, so heat be damned! I sit here contemplating. Thinking. The metal chair is melting my attitude a bit … my thoughts go toward one word: SHADE.

S FOR SITS in life. The time to sit here and think. I am untroubled about the woes in our world. You shouldn’t be either. Be passionate about where you stand … absolutely. Live for what you believe. Breathe in the knowledge you have gained by being you. Give generously to others through what you have been given. All of these wonderfuls have enriched my life in the middle of being misunderstood, maligned, or mistreated. You have so much when it seems like you have so little.

H FOR HARMONY in life. Be happy. Nature wants us to be in harmony with her by being happy. So overused, but so true. I’ve heard it said it takes more muscles to frown than to smile. Whether this is correct, I’ve never confirmed … who cares, right? Twice last week, customers thanked me for the conversations at my cart. Not sure they could remember details if pressed, but I bet they remember being happy when they left. Emotions are strong motivators. This is why happy people perform better and are healthier. (I kinda want to debate this as I happily stuff my face, weekly, with pizza, sno-cones, burgers, and bacon). Force yourself to be happy those times when a tire is so inconveniently flat, a schedule is way out of whack, or your dog is up a tree. An insincere smile is always better than a sincere frown.

A FOR APPLES in life. Growing up, I never understood why eating a fresh, crisp apple after being outside playing always pulled me back from a fog. Fancy words didn’t suffice then, only, “I have to stop now …” echoing inside my head meant to head inside. The cold juice running down my chin signaled the beginning of a return to normalcy from what seemed to be a lull of neurological function. After a few minutes, the dizziness stopped, my mind cleared up, and life headed forward. Never knowing the cause other than a possible recurring drop in sugar, I went forward in life. We have these apples saving us every day. Small semi-lifeboats keeping us going. Kind words from friends, a special nod from a stranger, … finding a dollar or two in a pair of pants (preferably our own – don’t go random-reaching into other folk’s pockets) … these are small returns to normalcies we need to be on the lookout for daily. You have them. Keep looking.

D FOR DIGGING in life. Want to know more? Start digging into it. We have a local radio show featuring daily trivia questions. I love ’em! When I call in, I use the name my mom called me when we played trivia games together – as a way to remember our time pushing little game pieces around a board. Sports, Movies, Politics, etc … all subjects are covered while levels of difficulty vary as well. I won’t call in unless I’m Trebekian-sure of my answer for two reasons. #1) I am absolutely sure someone would recognize my voice ONLY if I got the answer wrong, and #2) I would feel guilty wasting the host’s time doing it any other way. Give or take a few condiment answers slipping off dawg questions, I’ve been pretty accurate. One step I always take is confirming my answer via research. I dig into the question … if time allows. If I can’t confirm my sneaking-suspicions, then it’s a no-go. Period. There’s the small treasure I’ve found. Whatever you want to know, or already know but want to know more about, find value in researching and confirming. Do the digging. It can be dirty work along the way and you may not get on the air, but the new information in your life is so worth it.

E FOR ENTERTAINMENT in life. My dad’s best expression, although he doesn’t know it, is “Here we go…”. The eye roll starts it. This is the best three-word phrase he could ever find in a vat of English words to say as a reaction to my reaction when something strikes my fancy in public. There’s no intention to embarrass my dad in public. He simply assumes the role of dad-as-chief-embarrassed when I openly, but respectfully, begin to speak my mind. Humorously, mind you, and always either self-reflecting or about the matters at hand. Never would I ever speak of others around or make light of the misfortunes of those less advantaged. My intent is to entertain those near and dear to me … including dad. He’s never entertained, though, and I don’t know why. One level, I suppose: serious. Or, he imagines my level of crazy and can’t relate. Whatever the case, I won’t stop because he needs conversational rabbits and magic hats in his life. Be open to entertainment or be that magician for someone. Amazing things can happen.

It looks like time has passed by … so much so I had to finish this comfortably sitting in my office chair at home. Problem being, I know in less than eight hours I must repeat the stainless-slamming once more in the heat.

It all sounds so depressing and I mean no disrespect to my business. Like I said, Doing the doing is hard in this environment. Heat, covid, masking issues, food, supply issues, rolls going bad, change shortages, on and on … all of the sludgery-buldudgery can get burdensome on this guy once in a while. The sit by the shade was a good thing today. Glad it happened due to it not happening very often. Darn customers making me get up all the time!

Go ahead … roll your eyes. Detect the sarcasm? Entertainment value only. I love my customers and will continue to be happy as each and every one of them lean on my cart for their food-stuffs. Sweating this out is a small price to pay for their happiness in a bun. Oh, and the conversations and attitudes will always be weird as nobody – including me – knows what the hell we are doing most of the time.

That’s ok. I think most everyone else doesn’t know either. In that light, we should all meet in the shade together and talk out our problems, … “eh?”

Ping-Pong Pandemic

This virus confirmed my suspicions.

We live in an openly free country. With that comes the opportunity to stand in the midst of any need-to-be-right crowd … shouting down any opposing idea or solution to a problem facing the very country in which we live. We can absolutely live our lives believing we are right about any cause and justify that belief any way we choose.

On that basis, we have a viral problem of need-to-be-righters in America. A group of people who, under normal, daily life, would have a nearly nice, neighborly discussion with anybody. A few weeks into this pandemic, I suspect they turned. I’m approaching this from the side of belief (emotion/feeling), not knowledge (science/data) … Emotions are driving the masking debate.

I often asked these folks, “Where, and how, does this end?”. There’s been no clear answer. All of us believe something about masking, but our hidden smiles are the middle not the end. Most of the stringent/hard-core ones I try to talk to are not-so-quietly saying, “Here’s my line in the sand.”. Without realizing it, any real human conversations with them bounce off my once open ears and fall into the closed-minded, need-to-be-right quicksand beneath their feet. Their end is only theirs: an individual conviction. For us remaining on the edge? A sinking feeling. A no answer morass as we are still lost in the jungle of unanswerable questions about a virus still sitting on top of the canopy.

I believe taking a stand on issues is important. This isn’t a treatise on rolling over to every oppression and wrong in America. Certainly fight for what is worth fighting for …

… But this masking “thing” is confirming my suspicions about conforming to a larger societal problem. What to do about our pandemic and a large number of Americans who Just. Need. To. Be. Right. is concerning to me.

I am addressing those shaming and chastising others with opposing views on masking. Others are content doing their daily life’s chores and successes – believing what they believe and acting accordingly … those are not the ones about whom I am concerned.

Let’s simply put aside the politics. That’s a real messy stew. Who did and didn’t do what and when isn’t going to help the meat or veggies go down any better here.

Masking.

I said no science, but some has to be stated: We have 330 million Americans, roughly. I am assuming we have a pandemic and the testing accuracy is 70/30 to the good. We have numbers similar to the flu, however, the infection rate (spread) is worse and symptoms are not similar. We currently have no vaccine.

…And, a complete lock-down will never, ever happen.

What I am assuming above is amateur level stuff based on my own digging … nothing more. No MSNBC, FOX or media bias scoping. Just me, myself, and I asking around and reading a few articles.

That said, back to my question. How do we get out of this? … and here’s where I can give myself, and you, an answer I believe satisfies the need-to-be-righters and everyone else who is tiring of all the gray area blast-bickering.

Emotions drive the masking debate, so let’s attack it there. Want to be happy about your position … or, have a chance to be proven right? Let’s do it.

Carve out 10% of our populous who won’t mask, period … i.e the most stubborn among the stubborn, or those with legitimate medical issues. Since the remaining 300 million – that’s us, folks – probably (presumably) will never agree to a complete lock-down, all of us either mask or don’t mask for forty days. What’s 40 days, right? We get to the end of August and see what happens.

This mask or no mask fence-sitting cannot continue. It’s ripping us apart. These hawkishly leering positions need to be sling-shotted off their perches of righteous indignation and proven right, or wrong. At least in the short-term, let’s get some answers.

Option #1) NO MASKING Now, obviously, no masking could end up ridiculously bad. The virus takes hold and does its thing among the elderly, immuno-compromised, and otherwise susceptible. If not, those need-to-be-righters not masking can claim victory. I really, really hope this never happens, btw.

Option #2) MASKING All of us mask, and see what the numbers tell us in 40 days. No changes in infection spread would mean the masks did not work and we are, as a country, forced into another plan of action. If the numbers go down significantly, those need-to-be-righters who are masking can claim victory.

For my life and the lives of my loved ones, this is the only way we are going to find out where the end is. Existing in a society where this-and-thats keep going back and forth about masking is the ping-pong pandemic that will never end. Two people, needing to be right all the time, hold opposing paddles of emotion while whacking a little opinion ball back and forth, trading points, and voicing vitriolic volleys are getting us nowhere. The umpire’s useless, the referee’s retreating, and spectators are not-so surprisingly sendentarily stupified.

My vote is option #2. Why can’t the 300 million of us come together and simply mask for forty days and see what happens? Be Americans. Quit the fighting about who is right or wrong, left or right, Republican or Democrat, cute or ugly, tall or short, funny or dull. I want to see some kind of results somewhere … not just keep playing some game at the net.

If we don’t soon unite as a county, this pandemic is not going to end. Both sides can’t be right at the same time. And, it’s not just a virus. The divide along all lines – politics, race, economics, gender, religion, etc – is going to expand and we’ll never recover IF we can’t find some common, acceptable ground upon which to stand.

The mask hanging in the picture belongs to someone who cares.

Be that someone, please. If you are outside and can social distance, don’t wear your mask if you don’t want to. I don’t. (Caveat: I work outside behind a grill – and it’s hot – so, there’s that … also, inside every business I do wear a mask). Inside? I’d recommend it because that’s what the experts want us to do. Avoid large crowds, wash your hands, and if you’re not feeling well at all … stay home.

I don’t need to be right about anything. I’ve been wrong about more things than the Inspector has gadgets. This virus has confirmed my suspicions, however, about too many needing to be right at the cost of possibly being wrong in the long run.

That cost is too much for me to pay. I’ll continue to mask. Maybe 299,999,999 other Americans will join me and we’ll meet up again August 31st, 2020 to celebrate a ZERO on the ping-pong pandemic scoreboard.

Mother, Daughter, Connections to Us

When a picture speaks, limited words on a page suffice. Mother and daughter. Friends of mine. Mother, a student in my music-life circle a long time, and her young daughter.

Out of my geography for a few years, but never out of my heart. Her family is my family. This happens when music ties once unknowns together through teacher-student connections. I love this family. Mother, her sister and brother … parents. All of them. They are musical, kind, generous, warm, productive, open, and giving.

Daughter, sweet and dancy – with a “d”. Fancy, with an “f”, places her in a box of stuffiness … among elites and noseys. She does not belong in there. She dances between daisies, bounces on sunbeams, and feeds on happiness.

Picture her eyes above. Few words necessary from me. This connection – from her to us – pushes through the internal biases and filters in your head as you consider her life. She is pure and innocent and her eyes are exposing our different messages being sent to her generation.

She is not unaware of the world around her. Look at her eyes. Look away.

Then look again.

She’s not going away. We are accountable … not to our ourselves, but to her and her friends.

Her words are few, as are mine today. My eyes aren’t as fresh or aware anymore because my mountains have been climbed and my biases possibly tainted. Glasses I wear are bifocals and my crow’s feet are starting to show.

Fresh and alive are her eyes. Bright and beautiful is her future.

Pay attention to her message. It’s in her eyes.

Yacht To Sea This

Just a few minutes ago, our Governor Wolf announced a return to six on my non-normal grading system … in a weird way. Normal around these parts hasn’t been seen since early March, so I measure typical on a non-normal scale. One being slightly above McDonald’s not having BBQ sauce for our McNuggets, or a freakishly fabulous forty-four degree day for our fourth of July picnics. An abduction by absolutely adorable, astute, astronomically ambidextrous aliens ranking an extreme ten on the other side of my normalcy division. Everything imaginable in between – our banged up toes on strange concrete pylons appearing out of nowhere, politicians with actual good ideas, tv shows about a family losing millions but starting over in an obscure Ontario town, long lines at bank drive-ups, meteors burning up in the atmosphere, global-warming, successful rube goldberg machines, Rose Apothecary purchases, on … and … on. My non-normal grading system application, when properly applied, could rival even the most strident of systems.

Take Politfact for example, since I mentioned Governor Wolf. Well, let’s backtrack for a minute. Today, he announced a return to a 25% capacity on restaurants (from 50%), closing of bars, and stricter business limitations – all in response to our state populous (as a whole) not doing a good job of masking and distancing. Without assuming my political or socio-economic position, just go with me here. This is moving from one non-normal number on my scale to another. We were at a marginal four-ish, now back to a solid six. Sliding away from Honey-Mustard and closer to Mars.

Back to the “Gov.”. According to http://www.fivethirtyeight.com, “First, some quick notes on how PolitFact works and a few words of warning. PolitiFact reporters, researchers and editors grade each statement as true, mostly true, half true, mostly false, false or “pants on fire”. This is a six-point system I’d gladly stand against on my scale – it’d be worth the weight. They are on a slippery-scale of opinion, whereas, I am fundamentally sound on solid ground of normal thought. Who’s to say what is a “half-truth, or mostly false”? “Half” and “mostly”, applied to abstracts like truth and false, are subject to interpretation. I’m half crazy, right? Define that in terms of my mostly sane existence … see what I mean?

Nobody – alas NOBODY – thinks where we are right now is anywhere close to normal! I’m simply applying a numerical value to the non-normal space of this time. We understand numbers so much more than words when grasping scalability. Mt Everest is 29, 029 feet high. The Grand Canyon is 277 miles long. There are over 7 trillion nerves in the human body … any one capable of being the last one some unfortunate schlep will step on within my existence by week’s end. THAT’S normal!

What wasn’t normal – and has a rather large million dollar number assigned to it – is this yacht – auto social-distancing its way through my hometown. Ten miles per hour, being sluggishly towed along by one very large semi, escorted to the future prom by plenty of local law enforcement officers eager to make sure there was no inappropriate touching, this handsome tug-hug was on its way to Lake Erie via Altoona, Pa. Pennsylvania Electric (Penelec) was in bucket form to raise all necessary lights/wires because Ms. Million-dollar stood tall atop her multi-wheel hull-carrier. She was the Queen of the moment. A traffic stopper – out of necessity and wonder.

Where we stood was normal to our everyday space. What was IN our space was anything but. How often does one see a multi-million dollar gargatron lumber through an intersection, hundreds of miles from any body of water necessary to float a yummy-yielding yacht of this stature? My guess? “Never”, and I yield the floor to PolitFact to grade this answer as “True” (even though “not normal” still applies).

We stand a firm six now. Ugh. I had a nice “at a marginal four-ish” Lemonade and Life lunch today before coming home to see the news about Governor Wolf’s decision. My customers were beautiful today. A very nice couple started a business lately and were excited to tell me about it. Another charming lady experienced loss a few years ago, but came back strong and I suspect great things in the future … for her and her boys. My space wasn’t normal as usual … a great non-normal for me, though.

For all of us, however, the non-normals in our collective space with all this aren’t peachy-keen as we’d like them to be, right? My scale of 1-10 is the social, all-of-us scale I apply to the situation. It is the big picture frame I use to help me understand my place as the extremely small pixel located in that small dot of color down by the lower left corner.

It’s not the non-normals for us – as individuals – that are driving us crazy. We can deals with hangnails, kids and kool aid spills, dog poop, and overcooked macaroni. The non-normals imposed upon our collective space are causing us to take notice of our place and our stance. “Yacht to pay attention to this virus in this way (pick any variation of masking, distancing, droplets, ICU beds, Fauci, Birx, … true, mostly true, half true, etc…)” … is the message slowly crossing through our intersections of reason and emotion every … single … day. It’s no wonder we have no sense of normal anymore… Our wires are being crossed and there’s no help ahead to make sure damage is mitigated. We’re headed to an Erie place.

…And, it’s why Governor Wolf probably reinstated the restrictions today. He’s going to get grief, I can guarantee it just as easy as I can assure you my chocolate milk is waiting in the ‘fridge for my enjoyment in about fifteen minutes.

Not all bad, folks. Pay attention to your color. Your place in the whole picture. You have color. You have life. You have a non-normal that contributes mightily to your experience and your space. This isn’t selfish or self-serving to pay heed to your space and your time. Yeah, we haven’t seen normal since mid-March …but, then again, we never saw a million-dollar yacht dry-surfing through multi-lanes of traffic on its way to a lake.

If I ever come across Martians eating McNuggets at the Rose Apothecary however, something is very wrong with the Universe. Unless, of course, David and Patrick rented Mariah Carey’s yacht for all the fans of Schitt’s Creek … then, maybe, non-normal could be put on hold for a few days.