Ten and Two

I rolled over on the sofa the other morning because my back hurt. Something creative came out of that spinal soreness – at least from my point of view. This:

Now, you may not agree with my creative assessment, however, you’d be going against a few Facebook friends who found that post to be somewhat entertaining. Since I count myself among my friends, … happily hoping you are to you as well during this year of unpredictable, unprecedented, incredible instances in our lives, I offer the following:

Humor and originality, to get through the sludgery of this year, especially, have been my go-to. Those two streets have always been under my wheels, but never so road-ready as they’ve been in 2020 – paved with intentionality. They are mental representations of what I’ve always needed my life to be: Laughs, Escapes, Acceptances, Re-dos, and Normals. All of these, in both tough and easy times, help me L-E-A-R-N.

Within all five are my keys to lower blood pressure, easier breathing, and a general sense of better control over my life. If only people ahead of me in line at the local convenience store would quit insisting on rattling off every … single … lottery number to the clerk they scratched on their Denny’s napkin, I’d be close to perfectly calm … for a few seconds anyway.

Here’s the problem with my plan: I’m always having to get back into my emotional car, filling the tank with new material over and over, never quite getting out of town.

Why? I’m a difficult L-E-A-R-Ner. How about you? I can laugh, escape, accept, re-do and be normal, … but it’s a tough road figuring out a new path forward knowing something new.

… and that’s the problem we face in America today. Especially in 2020.

One of the expressions I hear a lot is, “I don’t know what I don’t know”, as it relates to this awful virus, masking, etc … So honest, yet so deceivingly scary, right? This opens us up to speculation, opinion, Facebook rants, politically driven drivel, bent blather from the media, on and on. We can’t shut our lives down, or off. We need contact with sources for good information … we need to learn our way through this with all the solid, trusted, data – both hands on the wheel. Ten and two.

The other 2020 problem, November’s election, I fear too many don’t want to learn about the other side. There’s hate, malaise, discontent, fear, blindness – all not-so disguised as roadblocks inside the minds of some who blindly drive only on one way streets. What if Hate Avenue is a dead end? Anger Alley could have a really delinquent mob hanging about near the back gate. It is all an unknown.

Some claim to know absolute truth. There seems to be more Facebook absolutes than molecules in Newton’s apple. For every left, a right …. every right a wrong, every Zuckerberg a Spielberg, ad infinitum mucho latte and a cherry.

I know very little except the first eight months of 2020 have been a freakin’ nightmare. Lives have been upended, suspended – or, sadly ended – because of a virus. In addition, an election coming up is so ridiculously overblown with hot, bloviated air to the point of being one pin prick away from political pop-in-stance. Lastly, I saw this in the news:

Deborah Rose, 64, of Thorold, Ontario, won a lottery jackpot of more than $750,000 using a set of lucky numbers that came to her in a dream. Photo courtesy of the Ontario Lottery and Gaming Corp. — (Awkward blank space here … sorry. I didn’t know how to fix it. So, I’ll just place a few random thoughts here to fill in the white block to make it pretty. We had rain today. Not much. Ate a veggie burger for supper with some Kraft mac and cheese. OK. Geesh there’s a lot of space to fill here. Oh well. Again, my apologies … The caption accompanying this picture is a few miles down.)

Aug. 26 (UPI) — An Ontario woman who scored a lottery jackpot worth more than $750,000 told officials her winning numbers came to her in a dream.

I sure hope the poor guy standing behind her in line at the local convenience store didn’t have to stand there for hours as she painstakingly pattered off her numbers. I must admit, though, Mrs. Deborah does have stunningly beautiful eyes. The pinky extensions make me think she’s a bit apprehensive holding a large moola check, so may I kindly suggest she send me some of that jack to lighten the load of my car a bit? I’ve a long road ahead – as all of us do.

I accept what is. Don’t really like a lot of it right now … don’t have to – and you don’t either. Take some time to laugh, be creative, be whatever normal looks like to you. America needs it now more than ever.

I should settle in for the night. Perchance to dream, I guess. Hey maybe a few lucky lottery numbers will slosh around in my head? One thing I do know for sure: my back will be sore in the morning – it always is. It’ll never learn, virus or not, but I’ll think of something creative to get myself going.

You do the same. ok? America needs to find its backbone again, too.

Where’s Chloe?

She didn’t intend to be Waldo. I have my doubts she even knows who Waldo is. I’m positive Martin Handford and Chloe never met, so, in my asking, “Where’s Chloe?”, there’s no chance Mr. Handford will answer, “There. Right there … snuggling in her pink doggie bed!”. His character Waldo (better known as Wally in North America) is a literary, spectacled success. I applaud the many hours, days, and perhaps years Mr. Handford invested developing his craft. Aspiring authors, painters, musicians, athletes, sculptors, designers, chefs, and inventors all … my best wishes for your success.

Chloe’s success is measured in smaller increments: pulling at socks while they’re only half way up my feet, eating ends off of papers in the trash, barking into closed doors … all the while refusing to pass through open ones, sneaking away with any shoe available, and crotch rocketing into my unsuspecting, shall I say, nameless part gentile. All of these a tiring day’s endeavors for a puppy of five months. Also, very exhausting for a neighbor willing to dog sit such an excitable little puggle. A neighbor who doesn’t have a cute little pink snuggle bed to rest away the stressors of the day.

Ah, but Chloe does … and isn’t that just perfect! (sarcasm). Good sarcasm … if that’s a thing.

Where’s Chloe? I’m constantly asking that question every day. There are moments it’s too quiet. You know what I mean. For a rug rattle consistent with puppy play to then disappear into silence means some paw-hankery is afoot. One certain Chloe is not considering her blessings, or reflecting upon the return of her owners. She’s usually up to something.

Today, the issue was a simple math problem. How to not keep jamming a simple blue racquetball into the corner seam of a sectional sofa … over and over again. Here’s the equation:

BALL + SEAM / SOFA = Doug’s Time × 4

I’m a busy guy these days, but my Waldo story is pretty easy. Facebook updates keep my datebook oars in the water with a pretty steady headwind. With that, my mornings stay predictable … unless there’s a little puggle under foot. Don’t mind the company. The occasional yip or brush against my leg is no more a distraction than the random thoughts bouncing around in my noggin.

When the blue ball comes kitchen knockin, however, it can’t be ignored. There’s traction in Chloe’s puppy play world and that ball will bounce an infinite number of times until it’s thrown back into another room. So again today, I obliged. I had to. This week, the lesser of the options between a set of big, brown eyes staring at me, and the paw-patter of feet across the wooden floor into our living room … until silence.

The deafening quiet when I knew she pushed the ball, somehow, up into the most remote corner of the sectional sofa. A crevasse so deep that her head – in combination with her extra long tongue – could not, under any law of physics, remove the deeply embedded ball. Silence.

I knew the dilemma. Fuzzy donuts, monkeys, head socks, bones, … none of these readily available toys within snouts distance were a sufficient replacement for the simple, old blue ball … in her mind. In my mind, why not, right? Any puppy mouth occupier that can keep me from interrupting my routine is gold. Not to be. Silence is too loud for my liking, so off I go to unjam the ball.

Oh, but this starts the game all over again. Cheery Chloe, with ball slightly larger than the very mouth it occupies, enters the kitchen once more – bringing with her a small shadow from the morning sun that beams through the window over the sink. It’s where I find myself looking down, again, at eyes I can’t resist. Three more times. Each time digging the same ball … out of the same seam … of the same sofa … for the same dog-ette.

… And then, later, she rests. After hours of other activities and fun frolicking – most of which I’m not aware. The working thing gets in the way of my Chloe time as she occupies her time with other humans. My time with her – as dog sitter – is limited to seven days now and will end in a few. Back to her true owners she’ll go and I’m sure she’ll be very, very happy to return.

I’ll be glad to hand her back, too. Not that I haven’t enjoyed her visit, mind you. Kinda like Grandparents “graciously”, and lovingly, handing over their grandkids back to the parents. Her owners are wonderful people, great neighbors, and terrific people-parents for Chloe.

For the next few days, I’ll suffer gladly through the minutes. Hopefully I won’t hear that silence too many more times. If I do, I’d like it to be less about a ball and more of her snuggled in a pink, warm bed.

At least then I would know the answer to “Where’s Chloe?”

The Lab, King

He’s a handful. A handsome one, according to my good friend, Joel. His outlook? I’m inclined to agree. A king in his lavish world. So much so, he’s named, “King”.

Not hard to imagine why his name is beautifully attached to royalty from any imagined canine country. Labrador-Latvia, Canine-Croatia, or Doggie-Denmark would each welcome his highness into their castle of splendor with one glance upon this magnificent pose. He’s begging the question … if he could ask with words, “If not me, then who?”

No doggy. Simply, no doggy I know at this time in my life. One paw down slightly compared to the other, a smokey white light glancing off his right snout, and that sneaky, ever-so-slender reflection coming at us from his right eye all give us a sense of puppy pompiness. The circumstance of this photo opportunity was, I’m sure, 50/50 impromptu/planned as Joel loves staged shots. I’m almost sure there are treats and teases behind the scene, but not 100% digesting the suggestion. Regardless of the motivation, King is the king of this moment.

Moments like this, right? Pets and their owners. Correction. Humans and their owners. Kings and subjects, queens and servants.

Variations of this frame, in all probability, have been clicked through many camera phones since I started tapping moments ago. Long haired hounds and short-tempered toy poodles wearing tiaras on their noggins. Setters sitting behinds against not-so worn carpet. Beagles – bellying up in front of windows without stained glass panels – posing proudly for their subjects. Sit-stay. Waaait. All verbal commands falling on the floppy ears of flighty, figity, yet finely furred monarchical masters of our happy expectations.

We truly are subject to their royalty. They own us…and I’m glad they do. We’d be lost within the kingdom of our minds if they weren’t ruling from their cozy corner beds and lazy, droopy eyes.

Not just dogs, of course. Queenly cats and joker gerbils qualify as well. Pets are princely no matter what form they take and we gladly let them assume the role.

I don’t see Joel much. A few times weekly as we meet for a breakfast chat with friends. King is never at his side during these morning moments. Frankly, even without Covid restrictions, there’d be no room for his beefy frame … King, that is.

Joel is lanky, has very large hands compared to his slim shoulders, and is an expert woodworker … not that this fact has anything to do with his cantankerous personality. The hair he sports appears unkempt as the middle part holds it all at bay. One glance, and you’d spot his uniqueness right away: a specific sway in his gate, articulate thoughts when he speaks to you, and an insistence you get to the point of your story.

His claim of not liking me very much is testament to the exact opposite. My words frustrate him, but he listens with attentive ears every time knowing the outcome. That end result being his complete understanding of “my” unique qualities opposite of his. I ramble on because I am me … I tell quality jokes because I am me … and I poke him with words, again, because I am me.

Enter King in Joel’s life. Joel’s respite from the likes of me. King sits and listens to his words without judgement. He accepts all while rejecting none. In doing so, being a king who pardons all the day’s troubles in a servant who is seen as an equal…

…Which puts the picture above in a whole new perspective. Joel admits King is handsome. I do wholeheartedly agree! This peppy puppy is, indeed, “The Lab, King” – a stately one; however, look again.

King is extending a hug – an invite to all of us, not just Joel. I want to curl up under his two paws and rest for a few minutes. A non-judgemental, kingly hug would be wonderful just about now for all of us.

All of our pets want to be here for us if we’d let them. I have a feeling we do, otherwise we wouldn’t have them. Today is simply a reminder, I guess.

So, they rule over our hearts and, at the same time, serve our emotional needs when we require that space be filled.

Hug a hamster, or search out solace from a salamander. Rest assured they won’t understand your words. Hey, Joel never understands mine, but he respects my friendship just the same. There’s hope and peace whether animal or human, so keep plowing ahead in your fields and knocking on the doors of the castle. The King is listening and will welcome you into his world someday for a hug.

What a wonderful day that will be.

Show Me Chloe

Ok. Since you asked. Here she is once again.

This past July 3rd, I introduced you to Chloe, the puppy. She’s still scampering about in our neighbor’s yard, tethered to – in her happy, anxious mind – a rather annoyingly short lead. If not, every whim and whisper nature provides would have her half way to China by now. This is her world. Her “I see Doug and want to give him something to think about now” universe.

“U” see, I am not one of those whims and whispers, supposedly. Considering I’m only that one letter off of being a dog myself, you’d think Chloe and I should be can-do, man-dog sypaticos. I think we are. She … well, … may think so. At this point, I’m not so sure. The occasional side belly rub gives me some puppy-cred and the special ball toy we play with at times sheds wonderful light into our friendship, however, one rather annoying habit of hers strikes a sour note across my heartstrings.

Being my canine neighbor across our not so well traveled avenue, she stares uninterrupted at me with her sad, wanting eyes. Beautifully calm, still, unwavering, she sits a few blades of grass from the edge of a driveway no more than 40 or so paces from my five trips back and forth on my property – loading the van for a day ahead. I always see her out of the cautious corner of either eye, depending upon which way I walk … careful to not make direct contact with the beast-ette. It is a dangerous game we play, for I would be tempted to smile uncontrollably at her insistence that I immediately approach – abandoning all my business needs at the moment.

One of any intelligence should assume, when finishing the task of loading said van with time to spare, this barely-out-of-puppydom would then welcome the very person to whom such pleas were advanced, right?

Uhm, wrong. That sounded too abrasive, so let me phrase it another way: Chloe wants me to come across and play a few minutes with her, then doesn’t, then does, then doesn’t, then …. you get my point.

If she wasn’t so damn cute and petable, I wouldn’t play this dog and mouse, “who wants to be a schmoozer the least” game at 7:30 in the misty morning. She sits there with her little butt barely on the grass, leash extended to its full length, … and brown marble eyes staring across like arrows lasered on my heart knowing full well I have a blue racquetball somewhere. Ah, the little, round rubber morning ball. It isn’t me she wants at all …

So, I walk “casually” over, pacing my step as if approaching a sleeping bear. Chloe’s tail wags a bit left and right and her, now, slightly larger than puppy body still does not move. Then, I’m only five steps away, a few seconds later, when she abruptly jumps a high-dee-ho, her leash gives a sigh, and back to the porch she runs … taking a path of zig-zags and look backs as if to say, “Ha! … gotcha again! .. Ya big sucker!”

There is no licky-lapy, jump into my arms, nice to see you moment. No Lassie found me alive in a well revelation. She runs from me the very moment I reach down – extending my arms to caress the very compassion and love she so wonderfully extended to me only seconds earlier. I, somehow, got a version of the smelly anti-dog plague in the four-point-six seconds it took to cross the street; OR, perhaps Chloe is playing a game, as usual.

It IS a game. A big freakin’ game I get sucked into almost every morning. Why? Because I’m me … and you’re you … and you’d do exactly the same thing, so don’t judge me.🤣

The lure of cuteness overload is exhausting sometimes. Chloe is sweet. I’ll continue to dance the dance. After a few minutes of rah-rah back and forth, she will settle and we’ll have some quality time as I sit on the stoop on her front porch. Ball-bouncy and side-scratchy morning time, as afforded by my nice neighbors, are important to Chloe, I guess. After all, she’s only a dog and I can only pretend to know what goes on inside her fuzzy little noggin’.

As for my brain, well, it’ll never change much. In about 45 minutes, the pleasure sensors will trigger puppy chemicals once again as I carry heavy coolers out from my commercial kitchen to the van. She’ll be sitting there … staring at me. Geesh.

I’ll not resist. Can’t. Show me Chloe and I’m done with all self-control. The best way to start any morning … on her terms, of course.

The dance begins …

Life is Grand in Small Pieces

It’s most likely the pianist in me. Eighty-eight keys arranged by white and black pieces, 52 + 36 = 88. Simple math. Ten little fingers gracefully stroking the correct ones – at precisely the correct moment – to create music directly from the Masters’ hearts is so special. A purely divine plan easily devised, but difficult to execute well.

Few rise to the level of international fame. More fall into mediocrity and just as many, if not more, succumb to scales and chords of lesser quality. As with any discipline, refined excellence of prodigious talent is really, really rare. Horowitz, Lang-Lang, and Rubenstein are perfect pianist pearls in an otherwise ordinary oyster world.

I fall into one of those categories. Into which one I descend is up to you to decide without hearing me stroke a single key. My dear mother had an opinion when she so diligently listened to my young digits squeak and squirm their way around the keys. Young as I was years ago, I did have an early affinity toward the mathematical 88. The piano/music connection always made sense to me. Middle C was to my brain as breathing was to my lungs, so mom decided early on THIS was to be the grand plan …

… Did you ever get the feeling someone else knew something you didn’t? Just asking. I should’ve finger-figured something was afoot.

Bless her heart, she tried. I didn’t. Call me stubborn … most do – even to this day many decades later. She recognized a gift I refused to open. I knew what I had in my hands was a unique quality … a special talent to play this wonderful, orchestral instrument capable of rich low and sweet high tones. One single vibration, or many clusters of dissonant sounds together at my sole discretion … all available with one twitch of a wrist. Yet, with that knowledge, I fought the less-than-valiant fight against the natural forces given to me at birth.

“Cantankerousistic tendencies” and the drive to be my own stubborn self. Period. End of self-analysis. I’ll send myself a bill.

Mom died eight years ago knowing all this; However, she did see me perform many times on stage both as a soloist, accompanist, and music director, etc… Music became a major part of my life and, aside from being a street vendor selling munchables, still is. I eventually decided to get serious about it after high school and have remained active in the arts community ever since. Mom saw that development in my adult years … yes, I did, kinda, grow up.

She’s so easy to write about and spatter great and wonderful words all over conversation. Her influence on me is immeasurable – in small parts.

Which makes my life so grand.

She saw the big picture for my life, but never pushed it on me. I was left to be me. Now, had I decided to be less of a pain in the ass and practiced more, she would have most likely influenced the “plan”. I didn’t. She didn’t. Instead, we laughed, played games together, colored, told jokes, went to stores and ate fast food, spent time with my brother and sister, ate meals together as a family with dad after he came home from work ….

All the small stuff in life she never ignored.

Wow. What a life lesson for all of us, right?

Big pictures and goals are great to have and to hold. No argument from me about life’s “go afters” that keep the wheels from coming off. None of us need to sit around drinking sodas, eating bbq chips, and watching cable news all day long. That’s definitely NOT worth the weight, correct?

Point being, relax and notice the small things that make you … you. Perhaps the stubbornness? (Ahem) … or the gift you have yet to develop. Maybe the gift in someone else who needs you to recognize and inspire? Could be a joke or game to share with a friend. Who knows?

My mom hasn’t been here for eight years. I’ll never see her again, nor will she hear me play one more time. It’s really ok. She’d always come up after any performance, give me a big hug and say, “How’d you do that? … it was wonderful!”. Now, I know in her heart she meant a heart-squeeze, but I also am aware I missed a c-sharp in the development of the second movement of the Beethoven Sonata and she knew this as well … “

I miss her on a grand scale. My heart heals every day in small pieces.

It’s all good. My ten fingers grace the keys today with almost as much grace as she blessed my life. It never mattered to her into which category I fell … and that, my friends, is a perfectly executed, divine plan.

Straight Turn from the Center Lane

This may be surprising to very few. I have friends on social media who complain. Politics, relationships, food, religion, … any and all subjects are spouted about sporadically – as the mood strikes – by ordinarily calm, peaceful folks in my life. My cell dings not-so-happy notices from the fingers of these upset pals and palettes who paint pictures of woe upon my wonderful wall. I don’t worry for, and about, them – knowing they’ll be ok, of course. Venting is healthy. So is chocolate, but that’s for another time.

Steve is my friend. I’ve known him for quite some time, however, not as long as some life-long friends. He’s more in the category of a customer/friend. One of those guys I see more often at my business than in other situational, about town run-ins or home visit type of things. He’s a lefty bowler – as am I – and, by my own admission, isn’t as accomplished at the finer art of that ten-pin, sixty feet skill. On the other hand, with no pun intended because both of us wouldn’t be right-handed, he’d be incredibly more accurate to point out his significantly higher skill level throwing darts. We are co-equals in life. Both rather sarcastic to/with one another. Respectful.

Why Steve? You’ll probably never meet this semi-balding, 5’10” guy who sports a sort-of beard most times and shuffles his approximate 180 pounds frame on two legs exhausted from a hard days work. Well, he threw up a complaint on my FB wonderwall yesterday.

The weather was humid. I was hot. Customers were, as always, very kind and plentiful … but after so many, they get to be too many. Not too many in numbers, just too many to wait on without a bit of a break. It’s my age, perhaps … or the virus, masking, grease all over my glasses, alignment of Venus, rattling of trucks idling nearby with three-thousand exhaust pipes popping out their roofs, or jerky little pom-pom cars with music so loud the windows rattled louder than a herd of rabid steer rambling over a field of broken dreams. Oh, and I was stinkin’ hot – in case I didn’t say that already – when I finally did get a moment to sit.

Diet Pepsi in hand, phone in the other, I opened the Facebook app … and there it was: Someone, sitting in the lane to his left, made a right turn from the left lane in front of Steve. Fortunately, there was no physical contact, meaning, no accident. He was, apparently, at a stop light and witnessed this violation. Illegal? Yes. I’ll advised? Absolutely! Complain-able? For sure!!

I give Steve full and complete permission to post-up words of frustration concerning this act of drivery-dissatisfaction. Complain he must! For to not do so does emotional harm only unto himself. Let it out, my man …. let it go!! We’re here for you.

This is social media this year – a vent stack for all that burns in the furnace of dissatisfaction.

Every Steve and Stephanie with a Covid complaint, especially, has this wonderful outlet to express his or her opinion on all virus related issues. Pick one among hundreds and go for it …

Educational articles have been tagged, shared, and discussed. Private and public groups are forming around specific interests. Humorous, viral-related memes are lightening the mood for some, and mask-making ideas glitter the sewing circles among seamstresses.

Life is about positive things in general. It’s never just about social media in the midst of a pandemic. We can take food to a neighbor, donate our time to a cause we believe in, simply be nice to someone who may be difficult to like …. all wonderful things.

For now, though, this virus is the lane we’re in … turning straight from the center lane is how we move forward. Any other option gets us off the road to recovery.

These are all what I call “turning straight from the center lane” things we can do:

-Don’t judge anyone. They are who they are because you are who you are.

-Try to understand. Be open to other possibilities. I’ve learned more about myself by understanding why other people believe what they do. Ask them – don’t assume anything.

-Work hard at your “now”. This pandemic requires us to be vigilant at all times. Believe, or not. Your choice, of course. Be mindful and work hard at staying true to you while respecting others.

-Listen to both sides of a broken record. An argument has two sides. Any cable news network has an equal and opposite network. Be balanced and fair to yourself when receiving news.

-Finally, please laugh… a lot!! I do – at myself constantly. I also yell, scream, bedangle, amazzel, frizzle, yellop, bloppel, and rackelpop myself twice a day as well.

All of these keep me centered as best I can be. The road forward is harder than the covid-concrete upon which we find ourselves these days, right? We’ve all kind o’ crazy drivers out there making illegal swings in front of us at every turn, so complain we must …

Steve had it right. No, wait, the other driver turned right. Whatever the case, he Facebook-filed a fabulously friendly complaint on my wall and I’m glad he did. It reinforced the “when properly used” puff-stack power of social media.

Y’all can blow off some steam once in a while. I’m at “Doug Rhodes Piano” on Facebook. Make sure to send your complaint at the height of a lunch rush, during a 95-degree plus, high humidity day. I’ll be sure to get right back with an appropriate reply. Don’t worry. Just remember, venting is healthy for me as well.

Now, go find some sweets. I hear dark chocolate is delicious when it’s melted.

S’pots and S’pans

I love how light bounces off these four lids. Yes, the kahlua bottle proudly standing in the background reflects an inner beauty as well, but I’m referring to “being lit” in a less colloquial sense. Literally, I love the way four identical scenes glide from one to the other on sleds of light … as the pan toppers gradually increase in size. Remarkable.

Reflecting back on my life, it has been a remarkable journey – as I’m sure yours has been as well. All of our forward steps stack up against each other’s timelines quite impressively … with none being better, or worse, than another. We are equal. The air we breath has no discrimination attached. The ground upon which we walk knows no color, race, or gender.

S’pots dot our past, as individuals – of course they do. We’ve made mistakes along the way. Our S’pan of time on this big, blue marble, thus far, has shown us when and where we could have done better. Hopefully we didn’t repeat those mistakes, but, if your experience(s) was/were like mine, I bet you did. It’s being human.

Life’s a big ‘ole pain in the butt most times – doing the same crazy little s’pots over and over again. The trick is not smooshing our thoughts around them so much as it is focusing on all the wonderful things we did right along the way.

First of all, you were born. If you weren’t, I find it highly unlikely you’d be reading these words. Birth is a remarkable process. This was something that went right in your life. Granted, YOU had nothing to do with the process and, perhaps, there was a bottle of kahlua emptied nine months prior. Regardless, the universe decided it was time to introduce you to grass stains on your knees, toes on table legs in the dark, and income taxes. Your S’pan began.

Friendships started to develop. Some of these you did inspire and have lasted breathful years so far. Maybe they started spontaneously over pre-school bright, colorful Crayola crayons sprayed over a large white swath of paper. You, as well as I, drew sticks with heads, trees with odd shaped leaves, and tilted roof houses while laughing crazily with other little gigglers, soon to be classmates twelve years hence.

Playground plays, elementary experimental years s’potted us a few scrapes and bruises to our Easy Reader brains. T’was all good. Friends stood by our side. Even Captain Kangaroo kept his promises while Sesame seeds sprouted good feelings along a very familiar Street where a happy grouch lived and a big yellow bird taught us to love one another.

Middle school push throughs prompted awkward s’pans. Friendships strained a bit. Parental controls turned up the heat under the s’pots previously resting comfortably on warm, gentle simmers. We s’lid into teenage years unaware of the hazards facing the young, specifically, as facial recognition software would have been so, so helpful to the cause. Yes, zit would have!!

Counting down to marvelous matriculation meant meandering through hallways with books under arms … passing by the very friends, met years ago, occupied by their own intelligences. Wasn’t ever anything to put a lid on, or hide under solitary expectations. Just pre-mature adulthood s’pots we worked through. Crayola crayons were replaced with more permanent markers for our lives as the normal for four years. The Freshness melted slowly into Soph-ness… Juniority would eagerly jump into Senior status. Then life changed.

Adulthood at the stoop of a door into college, trade school, the military, or directly into the work-a-day world. Finding a husband, or a wife … or a baby on the way.

Then we began the cycle for the next generation of crayon crunchers. All good for whatever filled the time routine offered us up until the “now”. All during our individual s’pans of time on this big blue marble, right? All of these things are good, right? Remarkable reflections when we take time to think about them and not the s’pots that dot our past.

Our lives glide from one experience to another … seamlessly, yet we remain the same. Just like the reflections on the lids – each experience different in size, one on top of another, day after day.

These lids do serve to cover up s’pots at times that happen in our s’pans – and that’s o.k.. We’re given the wonderful opportunity to be human; thus, the magic of a full kahlua bottle, available vessel, and soft music at times, I guess.

In the end, it is only four beautifully round, very functional pieces of stainless steel teaching one simple lesson to us all: We’re doing the best we can. Period.

Reflect upon that next time you see a lid with your beautifulness staring back at you. It’s quite remarkable.

Forks In My Drawer 2: Be a Fred

Having never been to Kansas, knowing any real spinning Dorothy, or nick-namingly connecting Dots in my life, I can say mid-western wind is nothing I’m all too familiar. It’s as strange as trying to properly place the word “with” in that last sentence. I have, however, been close to a fictitional Dorothy in my life.

I directed a local production of “Oz” a few years ago in an historically beautiful theater … on the musical side of the house. The cast was spectacular, talented, and quite charming.

Scarecrow scampered about, dripping brainless wit and sardonic straw on the audience of dreams. Our heartless, lovable Tin Man clanked and clampered. We had a fuzzy Lion in wait, as he humbly and without pride sat fearing the next moment of unexpected surprises.

Professor Marveled the audience evenings on end and Glinda glittered her way into their hearts. Em’s not all the cast and crew, to be sure. Our production team – including the pit orchestra – was spectacular. On and on I could go like a word twister twisting his words.

Alas, admittedly, I could not place even a brick in the wonderfully written word road L. Frank Baum wrote eighty-one years ago eventually going to the big screen losing in the best picture category to Gone With The Wind. Not a bad way to lose. Buckets of expressions behind my curtains of cute constructions here pale in comparison to his eventual cinematic creation.

Who, including me, writes of “Oz” without mentioning Margaret Hamilton? Nobody, I say…nobody. Her evilistic sneer chasing down a gulping shot of little children dread … with the pointy hat, black-hearted, now special adulting appreciation laughter she had is one role for the ages.

As wicked as the witch was, she was predictable – as always. Since the film debuted in 1939, and every flying monkey year since, eyes have been Toto-ally expecting her to melt her way into our hearts.

Just like Fred. A stretch? Allow me to explain.

Fred wasn’t in that production. I doubt he was ever in a stage play, although I do know he played the piano and drums. This from our brief encounters next to each other – I, the hot dawg, sausage dude, and he, the flatbread, pizza guy. We’ve had some “get to know one another chats” lately due to just meeting two weeks ago. Nice dough smasher and sauce spreader, he is. Just didn’t know how nice until this morning.

The evening before, house spinning winds wound through the lot where Fred, I, and others set up shop to sell our food-stuffs. I’ve been at this over fifteen years. Snow, wind, rain, lightening, hail, excessive heat and cold, .. whatever, I’ve been through it all. That said, I AM exaggerating by writing, “house spinning”. A little puppy breeze came through…(don’t judge me. It was a long week up to that point and I’m entitled to some big bloviating)…

…and since I neglected to tie down my “less than cheap almost brand new” canopy, this Kansas wind lifted up said tarp, threw it up against Fred’s truck, and finally allowed its final resting place to be ten yards behind my van, upside down, with a broken side bracket.

There aren’t enough words in “Oz” to describe the words I wanted to say out loud, but did utter in my pretty little dog head. Two customers, Fred, and I were obviously too late in holding down the hot-air balloon canopy lifting off for home as it gleefully, seemingly, gave me the Emerald City middle finger while flying by.

Enter professor Marvel Fred. A simple wardrobe switch of a pair of ruby red shoes for a tap welder and grinder. He came in a little early to repair my brain and canopy. Didn’t have to, but did. Took him all of about 1/2 hour to 45 minutes out of his busy prep morning to help me. Time I’m sure he could have spent with his new puppy at home, three kids, or wife.

Courage to help a friend … a heart to reach out … and the brains to know how. THAT’S Fred, a new friend on my personal yellow brick road.

Yesterday was another fork in drawer moment as I forgot to tie down my new, rather expensive, canopy. The wind was just enough to aargh the canopy, but more than enough to uplift my hope and faith in all the great possibilities living within people.

This is a weird time. We certainly need more Freds circling around our little towns. When the big scary winds stop, we can open our eyes and say in our own way: “Oh, Hunk, Hickory, and Zeke … you were there! … I knew you’d be! You helped me find the way forward. I knew the problem, but not the solution at the moment. Thank you.”

There truly is no place like home when you find someone who is willing to go out of their way to help you.

I like Fred. Maybe I can be more like Fred. Be a Fred for someone. Be Oz-some today even if for a moment. You never know whose life will be different when the winds suddenly change.

Fork In My Drawer

I sometimes live in a category titled, “Things I should think about before doing them”. In my mind, this could be akin to realizing I’m trying to eat tomato soup with a shiny fork …thinking this would be a good objective. Makes no sense at the moment of slurp, but would if the synapses were firing the ridiculously genius idea minutes earlier. Oh, what an imaginary delightful experience that would be … if ever true.

If verifiable by a witness, I’d need some counseling to be sure. Thankfully, I’m not there. Some may argue that point, but I’m quite sure the utensil drawer is safe from Campbell’s soup excursions into the drippy arena of runny-red tomato soup, fork encounters. For now.

However true, I am concerned about my lack of foresight when opportunities arise as one did the other day. This is a web-log and I am a blogger who wishes to log a Doug-does-a-didn’t-think-ahead moment on the web. So, here we go.

Enter two policemen, one rather inebriated young man, a car, one delightful afternoon at my cart, and me … an overly generous most of the time, kind person.

I didn’t hear any sirens. It was a quiet pull-over as the two police cars nestled the tan four-door vehicle over against the curb back to my left. A young man, approximately in his late-twenties, wearing a backwards white ball cap, nicely worn jeans and white shirt, slowly exited out of the car.

First glance at him, all seemed ok. A customer and I – curious spy seekers – kept a steady twenty paces away as to not arouse any suspicion. Two officers went through their usual routine checking registration and insurance, from what our innocent eyes could see. All was going well until the walk that should have been a straight line … that wasn’t … began.

“Oops, uhm, eeh, oooh”, we uttered intermittently as this young man made every valiant effort available to him. Upright he remained, his pride somewhat intact, but his shoes to the ground not so much. If “S” could qualify as a straight line, he passed.

Kudos to the officers, btw. Patience and calm were the qualities of the day. They moved to phase two, if this is a handbook guideline. Customer and I, again, waited patiently as I noticed no other customers waiting for my service. “Stand still, lift one leg and stay balanced.” We lip-read from the distance. As this was confirmed, you guessed it …. we tried it ourselves behind my van to avoid being seen. Just. In. Case.

We passed.

Well, the young man … didn’t. He was driving under the influence of something. It wasn’t under our jurisdiction to go over and ask, of course. That would be ridiculous. We did feel part of the whole process, though, like we were actually arresting the unfortunate young man ourselves. Sherriff Doug and his deputy Ken. Has a certain special sauce to it, huh?

Ken left soon after the Mr. Newly Arrested was placed in one of the shiny washed patrol cars. (Man, they are always clean.) I was alone. No customers. Only my thoughts as I looked over at two officers. One on his cell phone calling in for a tow to handle the, now, abandoned car on the street by my cart, and the other finishing up some odds and ends with paperwork. A fine job being done by our city’s finest.

My fork in the soup brain kicked in. They “must” be hungry. Never mind they’re in the middle of arresting an inebriated driver as I was under the influence of my over-active synapses. It’s an (air quotes) lunchtime arrest, afterall. Why not go over and offer them a free meal? Seems logical, right? They had nothing else going on at that moment.

Uhm, yes they did.

I sauntered over – proudly I may add.

“You guys hungry? May I (not “can I”. Always use proper grammar when speaking to an officer) offer you lunch? On me! … How about your partner? Looks like you’ve had your hands full here”

Ok. Once I spoke those words, a fog came over me. A dizziness-like amazement/what the f*ck did I just do moment. Why do I say that? Because the officer’s non-verbal response was a blank stare for a few seconds. An awkward silence. I had to say something KNOWING from my sales experience whoever speaks first loses. “I’m Doug. The dawg guy over there. Just thought maybe you guys could be hungry and would want something. A drink?”

Nothing. Then he said, “I’ll check with my partner.” He was kind, but otherwise distracted.

Meanwhile, officer #1 is still on his cell phone. Pacing still because, apparently, there is no contact with a tow company.

I remained calm and continued forward. It was close to the time to begin my closing procedure, so I headed past them to retrieve my street sign down a few yards from where they were. On the way back, of course I had to, once again ask, “You sure?”

After a deep breath in, he replied “Yes, I’m sure. If there’s time, we’ll stop back around.”

Now, I know this fine officer was being very generous with his treatment of me. They had no intentions to come back – unless to unstick me from my brain problem of wanting to help them. Why I had to go over and interfere with what was clearly two officers doing their job is a mystery to me.

Thinking ahead would have helped. I ended up with a fork in my soup and didn’t feel good about any of it. Only when I was driving home did I realize how unintended the outcome was.

More situation awareness? Maybe. I believe I simply like to help people where and when I can. Nothing more complicated than that. If I see a lonely fork in a drawer, the future soup is irrelevant at that moment. I want the fork to feel important. Cared for.

When I get to the soup, I like to be challenged. With the fork by my side, I’ll pick up the bowl and drink the soup. Everyone wins!

As for my police pals, I’ll eventually find a way to feed them for free. They did a wonderful and respectful job the other day. I think that’s all I wanted them to know by extending a meal to them. My way of telling them that was a bit unorthodox because I didn’t think ahead.

I’ll be ok. Like I wrote, some may be concerned about my mental facilities; however, where there’s a bowl of opportunity, there’s a way to be nice as long as there’s a fork in my drawer.

Best of Both Wor(l)ds

He walked up to my food cart wearing the coolest sunglasses I’ve seen in a long time. The noontime glare reflected off dark blue shades encased in a yellow hue, plasticky, seemingly bendable looking frame. Patrick is a twice-a-monther. A local guy who stops less frequently than others and is always pleasant during his off-peak visits … usually after the lunch rush is over. I like that he does, when he does. This allows us time to talk as we are “similars” in life: both musicians, lovers of life, and active conversationalists.

He listens more than talks, though, because I, the blabber, apparently talk more than listen. Go figure. We’ve come to an unspoken agreement on this fact. Unsurprisingly, most in my life have come to understand this (unbeknownst to me until recently). Covid beliefs flitter about from my unfiltered face and I’m really trying to contain my enthusiasm for my own biased opinion on the current state of things.

So, we … err … I chatted as the sun came through the clouds, reflected off his spectacular specs, and warmed the already pleasant air surrounding us on a rather nice Tuesday in August.

Patrick did have a few ideas on the status of his life. I was eager to hear them because I knew the sound of my continuing voice echoing over steam tables and a grill had to be quickly evaporating any interest he had in what I was saying.

He’s a local band director currently trying to march his kiddos through a tough summer of camp to prepare for a football season that will be different from any other. Significantly less crowds, of course. Distancing and social interaction guidelines for the students will be – and are – in place. District mandates, I’m sure … although not mentioned in our conversation… are being followed. He maintains a set of expected behavioral standards for his students and, by all accounts, they are respecting them. In this copious basket of Covid conditions, he’s controlling his environment extraordinary well, I’d say. And, by extension, ours too.

If all of us do our part with what we have within our control, then the bigger issues, hopefully, will work out. This is the best of both worlds, right?

…Or, as Patrick so eloquently mis-spoke yesterday, “The best of both words.”

I sure hope he doesn’t mind my use of his name in this short reflection today. Without noting his specific height, weight, hair color, or employment location, I believe I’m immune from his wrath. Besides, doubt can be cast upon his ability to sling wrath upon me because he’s a really cool guy. He HAS to be. I don’t hang with anyone who isn’t chill.

So, it really has been the difference of one letter. Word compared to World. I often ask myself, “What in the L is going on, lately?” to no avail.

The answers don’t come easily in a black and white only two sides world. Certainly, the encyclopedia of Facebook knowledge isn’t helping. The two volumes labeled “I’m Right” and “You’re Wrong” don’t get us anywhere when read cover to cover – if you can get through their/there/they’re usage errors.

Most likely, if you’re looking to the two-headed monster of Fox News and MSNBC for information, it’ll bite your head off. That dichotomous beast will eat you up quicker than you can say, “I’m only trying to get the facts. Just … the ..f..a..”.

Washington D.C.? Yeah. Ok. Let’s entertain this system we invited into our homes 250 years ago. The invitees are drunk with power, toga two-partying their way into our lives after we asked them to leave once their time was up. Oh, wait. They can’t. There’s no limit on how long they can stay. ‘Our bad.

Patrick, in misspeaking, was exactly right.

It is the best of both words, not worlds.

He didn’t mean for me to spatula him into a political/covid blog post. I flipped the narrative briefly here from a pleasant conversation about trombones, football halftime shows, and kiddos to politics. Perhaps, in my defense, to make a larger point. Sandwich in a slight attitude with a side of logic, the irony of his statement is in the statement itself.

“It IS the best of both words”

Those two being: words and world

Oh, the division and hatred these hard days in the world because of words … if one decides to focus on them which I did above. So easy to do. Drs. Birx and Fauci, President Trump vs. Speaker Pelosi, Bill Gates and his vaccine, masks, etc… All of us can take a seat in any courtroom and give testimony on any of these. We have strong feelings and beliefs about all of it – and words to back us up.

May I suggest we try … really try … to use positive words to help heal, and nurture, our wonderful world?

This is a simple, small space request. We focus so much on what is being said by national figures. Leadership by Governors, the President, presumptive Presidential nominee Biden, commentators, columnists, personalities … all their words seem to make an impact on how we act and what we say to each other. May I suggest we pay less attention to their words and more attention to our own?

We are beautiful on our own. Our individual lives stand apart from Facebook memes and so-called friendly mandates from unfriended, friendly social media sites. Two-dimensional opinions are significantly less important than one-on-one, heartfelt discussions with someone who disagrees with you but is willing to blow the steam off your coffee from six feet away.

Utopic worlds are unattainable, I get that. Perfection is something we have to quit trying to achieve. Perfect words, as well, probably don’t exist either. Absolutes, as much as we’d like them to be real, aren’t a thing either.

So, we’re left with doing the best we can in this world … with the words we have.

You don’t need to interject “ethereal”, “opulent”, “sanguine”, “panacea”, or “dulcet” into a conversation to brighten someone’s day. A simple, “beautiful” or “wow” could suffice.

Patrick left with a bounce in his step. This had nothing to do with our chat through the late mid-day sun. He’s, simply, a happy guy. Oh, and he was soon to eat food clasped firmly in one hand which probably had more to do with his optimism than anything else at the time.

A few minutes later, I had to text him a note to ask what the actual sentence was he spoke. My brain sprung a leak while a subsequent customer approached and I simply forgot to write “It is the best of both words” down anywhere. Glad he quickly obliged. That’s what kind folks do.

Zig Ziglar once opined, don’t be a SNIOP, one who is Susceptible to the Negative Influence of Other People. Well, I’ve never claimed to be happy all the time, but my happiness, or anger, is because of me – nobody else. Doesn’t always work and I do complain about other’s actions. Don’t all of us at times? Especially now? I can find a few juicy choice words to say a few times each day as opportunities arise…

…however, the world doesn’t deserve my harmful words. Our world is a beautiful orb, despite what volcanic spew of hate anyone decides to post online.

And by “the world”, I mean US. People. All of us. Notably NOW in the midst of a two-sided viral debate of words.

Thanks for stuttering a bit, Patrick, and for your business. Fourteen days between visits is fine and I hope your students march into the season with vim and vigor representing the school with pride. They have a great leader in you. I may not know what the “L” is going on in the world, but I’m glad you are staying positive.

Words mean things. The world of ours is special. Be safe.