Space in the Spice Aisle

“The exploration of space will go ahead, whether we join in it or not, and it is one of the great adventures of all time, and no nation which expects to be the leader of other nations can expect to stay behind in the race for space.”

JOHN F. KENNEDY, speech at Rice University, September 12, 1962

It’s time to give our 35th President some skin … a high five, if you will. On this first Saturday in May, fifty-eight years after those famous words were spoken, he deserves prophetic props for rolling a crystal ball down bowling alleys of special-spacial circumstances. The exploration of space he saw coming – and for that, Mr. President, I salute you.

It has become a race for space. Specifically, a tiny little hometown market space by that same name in my quaint growing-up ‘burg. This county seat of approximately 5,700 shuffling day-to-day, non-city folk who weave in and about a few remaining retail stores, pharmacies, and restaurants. A nice area where a future spring found its way into our Slinky hearts in 1943 and America’s oldest foundry is still operating. A nestled in-between community I find myself revisiting frequently as a customer during this shutdown time of social distancing.

Roughly twice a week, I get the call. “Need some stuff”, is the usual request from my father who jovingly asks for my assistance, which I am more than happy to give. He is, thankfully, not entertaining the idea of crunching his way around the cereal aisle looking for granola, or considering squeezing melons near grandmas in fear of the ‘rona. I admire his willingness to go beyond the stubbornness I know he owns. So, the call comes ding-a-linginging across to my already busy Samsung … and I answer. Every time. Glad to.

It’s almost always the same dozen or so dairy, snacky, and bready things I need to buy for him from the “Hometown Market”. Yes, that’s the name. A quaint name in the quaint town called Hollidaysburg. This small brick grocery sits one block off a two lane by-pass in a small neighborhood space where most have walk-to-or-by access. The parking lot is on a slant, so the carts have an attitude. In and out, empty and full, these wirey, meshy ne’er-do-wells are in constant cage-match mode … knowing gravity pulls favor to their corner at every turn – provided, of course, all the wheels rotate in sinc and don’t klunk and wobble.

Inside is a wonderful elbowy space. Aisle (pardon the pun, couldn’t resist) need to admit the jamminess is more than your typical box store. It is, of course, SmallTown, USA, for a reason. My fellow air-breathers walk about, on any unrestricted day, laughing and touching … smiling and feeling … piling high their hungry carts with goodies from the shortened, narrow spaces inside this small mart. Products lining the shelves insist on having personal, intimate interactions as walker-bys don’t initate contact. Advil wants to know where you went drinking last night, the bananas are fruitlessly a-peeling for compassion, and soup can d-rivel on and on … it is a small, therapy-inducing echo chamber at times.

These are restricted times, however. Special-spacial circumstances. One particular day, for dad, I found myself firmly planted, masked, in the “mist” of it all. Fogged up and as confused as the nice gentleman I found myself next to. Two dudes, two brains, two registers open, and two carts with no concept of time, distance, reality, … or space.

NASA, we had a problem.

Both he and I felt confident we navigated our way through the store quite well. It was an unspoken, eye-nod only guys have at the end of a successful wife or dad mandated grocery list errand run. We knew it. The tape 6-feet on the floor, however, gave us immediate pause and dampened any celebratory, non-verbal bro-mancing. See, there’s only about a cart length plus a body between the end of the register line to the end of the product aisle. Not enough space for two “just met masked dudes” unless one of us jumped on the other’s Oreos. Furthermore, neither of us knew for sure which of the two registers was open, or, what tape on the floor was applicable to which one of us. The ugliness of the moment was upon us. Two stars circling the grocery store black hole of social distancing with absolutely no idea how to proceed. The idea of “what to do” was clear – to management. For us, not so much. So we did the only thing we knew. Shrugged our burdened shoulders …. and laughed.

We didn’t see our smiles. Didn’t have to. We knew the moment required calm because what else was there? Stuckiness of the moment required our inner silence to maintain the frustration while our outer voices expressed our joy of the moment. I’d love to quote the conversation, but it happened a week or so ago and “I can’t remember what I had for breakfast yesterday and I eat the same thing every morning”, so …. (that’s my dad’s favorite saying, btw…). Really, though, the words aren’t as important as the message, right?

Space is important right now. It IS one of the great adventures of all time. JFK didn’t know how right he was almost 60 years ago. The quote starting my sunny Saturday morning blog said a lot. Re-read it. There’s so much more to unpack about leadership, vision, national pride, and adventure. It would do us all a great service to heed #35’s words and start paying attention to our individual and collective spaces again. Small, quaint hovels or large cities, we are a “pale, blue dot” in the biggest space of all, according to Carl Sagan.

The next time you find yourself masking your smile heading to a small space, remember there’s bound to be another doing exactly the same thing. You will meet. You will bump carts and be awkward together. Take that moment to laugh. It’s all we have in the space we share. Together.

Simple Spoon

There were times when my mom stood over me tapping that over-used wooden spoon in her open palm. Rare, but rhythmic happening moments all of us experienced at least a few times in our dinner-lives, right? Those, “Eat your peas, or else moments!” … I had tapioca pudding, meat pie, and stuffed pepper or else wooden spoon moments with mom. I’m convinced a sense of internal pulses came out of these dinner rituals, if nothing else, and to this day want those precious shadowing, metronomic motherly-love heartbeats back.

You’ve had those comfortable, nice, hard to forget, precious memories. I know it. Plates smooshed with undesirable adult food before and after all the yummy good kid food was happily jammed down our throats. Popsicles, cookies, candy, Spaghetti-O’s, Kraft Mac-N-Cheese, hotdogs, peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, any pre-sweetened cereal … the pre-teen, can’t get enough, gullet-slider gas fueling rebellion to normal food met all our dietary needs.

And guess what? We survived, didn’t we? Goes to show those adults in the kitchen at that time who was right, darn-it! No canned peas for me, mom. Definitely had the, “I’ll sit here until this ugh-bread pudding dies a slow, painful, dehydrated death by stare-down” routine down. I was a rebellious child who didn’t like depression-era grub. I loved the challenge, though. Probably set a few world records. Sitting on old vinyl worn metal chairs with little hind-end padding, my nerves on edge, there’s was no giving in to the pressure. The unknown, unrecorded tales in the annals of time will tell of my conquest.

For now, I’ll settle for awesome memories of mom … and her tapping of a long wooden spoon waiting for my resignation .. my defeat. The ultimate spoon into dreaded abyss of lumpy, texture-terrible terrain in a bowl.

Unfinished as those dinners were so many years ago, was a movie I began last night. It was forgettable. Twenty minutes into this masterpiece, by my best guess, I fell asleep. Laziness prevents me from going back to find the Netflix title … that’s how important I feel it is to the overall point here. I’d rather eat a bowl of over-cooked, dry bread pudding than relive those twenty minutes. Typing in that last sentence was cinematically more creative than the opening credits of said box office blunder.

Save all that, the opening eight words caught my attention – which is why I decided to, possibly, spend a few blinky eye-isolation moments watching this movie. The hook got me and kept me in the stream for twenty minutes before this fish wiggled free from bad acted lines, baited scenes, and a cast that was in need of a re-do…badly.

Those eight words were simply: Receive with simplicity everything that happens to you.

As I reviewed that quote in my notes, my thoughts this morning went immediately back to childhood. That’s where all our simplicities live. Present tense used on purpose because we never outlive our youth. It’s colorful and rainbow-y, sometimes dreary, too – but always hanging around in our “backyard” brain. The places and people who shaped and helped us sway on emotional swings, slide down and get back up, run through dirt, and hang on to monkey bars forever. Simple.

This quarantine is simple. Or, at the least, should be. It has become anything but easy, simple, piece of cake, undemanding, … whatever term you’d like. Politics, individual beliefs about liberty and freedom, media biases, and religious tenets have hijacked the tranquility these times demand. Childhood, from any era, asks something different.

“Receive with simplicity all that is given to you”

This is not to say we are to accept and not question. I don’t like canned peas. To this day, I will find ways, in my mid-fifties, to straw-shoot them across the room to see if they’ll stick on the fridge. Don’t set a bowl of meat pie in front of me or I will stir it around with a spoon like a spoiled little man singing, “Go little meat pie all to h*ck, hope you find your place in …” ..well you get my drift. I can revisit my childhood so quickly when oofy-food I don’t like, still, is slam-plated down in front if me. Rare, but it happens. We laugh when it does. Sort-of.

This virus was given to us. By who? We don’t know. For what reason? Geesh … that’s for those with significantly higher spiritual connections than I to answer. When will it end? Probably not soon enough for anyone’s satisfaction.

These are complicated questions with no easy answers. Rashi, the 11th century French thinker, rabbi, and grammarian to whom the above quote is attributed, probably couldn’t figure it out either. He lived one-thousand years before meat pie and canned peas were invented, so other than his beautiful quote, all other stuff he deeply opined about can be, respectfully, dismissed at this time.

Whatever today brings, accept its simplicity. Whatever, or whoever is charged with the delivery, it comes wrapped in a purpose. I don’t know the reason and you don’t need to know either. Accept the gift. It may just be the gift of time.

Time I wish I had back with my mom … and the rhythm of her wooden spoon. Maybe, just maybe, I’d learn to like bread pudding and be a tad less stubborn in my ways. My mom would probably be a handful during these isolation moments. As one who did like that pudding-plah, she’d find comfort in offering to lovingly drop some off, I’m sure just as a way to give me some razz. I’d find assurance sitting in my own home – with my own wooden spoon – calling her back in our heartbeat-connected way.

No words. Just a few simple taps of my wooden spoon in the phone back to her. Simple. She’d know I love her.

And miss her.

Tea On, My Friends

Cautiously, but with absolute certainty, I approached my desk a few minutes ago – mug of organic tea in hand. What makes this rainy, dank morning different from all others was my unwillingness to stop pouring the scalding water until it reached maximal height inside this humorous, tall mug-o-mine. This familiar Monopoly-themed ever so comfortable porcelain vessel – in which I have found such a friend these past forty days and forty nights – is filled to the upper edge – as am I. Both maximum capacity. Filled as filled can be.

Sympathetic, small vibrations rang, however slightly, when I set this mug down on the glass covering all the to-do memos I never get around finishing. You have these as well, for sure. Small to medium sized bits of paper with pen and pencil marks noting names, addresses, passwords, cell phone numbers, dates, websites, bill due dates, some pictures, goofy memes printed and saved, important kid moments, receipts, etc… all stuffed under glass. If not there … clipped, hung, taped, sorted, filed, pinned, stapled, folded, glued, boxed, drawered, or tacked above, around and about the very place you sit and sip tea just as I am doing right now. Hoping upon dear hope you don’t spill any hot, commiserating, isolating-get through beverage on what is probably 99% unimportant paperwork if you are honest with yourself. But hey, This environment itself is a comfort, too. In my clutter I find peace.

Within this sort-of mess, the tea sits to my left – less full as I have sipped a few slurps off the top. The stapler I’ve named Edward, Clorox wipes and wide, red duct tape roll all breathe a deep sigh as they are beyond danger of spillage at this point. Yes, all three are currently on my desk among an old 1967 Billy O’Dell Pittsburgh Pirates card, vintage three-hole punch, and pair of drum sticks. All the usual clunky stuff you’d find on anyone’s desk in Normaltown, USA. Also erected to my immediate off-center is a stack of three clear packaging tape rolls – one on top of another. By my estimation, this engineering miracle is 6″ high with an empty plastic chocolate milk bottle (label removed) jammed down the middle – upside down, mind you. The bottle has to be upside down, like my early morning mind, because this is the only way one side of an antique, small gold plated wire plate holder would fit down inside between it and the inner roll side of the tape.

Snuggled comfortably in the two prongs is my recently sanitized Samsung phone which completes my not quite, hardly-at-all Rube Goldberg, sort of Frank Lloyd Wright homage. No moving parts except my occasional finger sputtering a stroke down to refresh the screen or one more gentle push on that annoying little tic-tak shaped button at the bottom to bring light to a dark, flat, 2-D impersonal world. It’s a solid structure I’ve built. So proud to avoid future chiropractic stressors on my upper neck not goose-necking while gaping over said phone, be stocked up on packaging needs through 2089, and have ease of access to data. Data read from a small, impersonal phone screen, through the lofty, quarantined, isolated, heavy supposed droplet masked air of uncertainty … into another larger PC screen of whiteness until I enter letter after letter of color and vibrancy.

Need to warm my tea. Be right back. This time, not so full … aaaand, I’m back – marked safe from over-filling.

To my point. I can, today, share with you #IsolationIssues. These are little tidbits of word-knowledge invented, at times, from within my thoroughly depleted, wiped clean of any conscious-currency brain. Usually those middle of the night / early morning moments sandwiched in between checking CNN, MSNBC, PRR, Fox news, MSN.com, Google, Facebook, AOL mail, Pluto TV, and my alien friends on planet SR59G67. Suffice to say, the knowledge and insight I glean from my three-headed, one-eyed, highly-intelligent super tall hot pink, interstellar confidantes far exceed any mastery of current affairs any of the previous media expert prognosticators offer at this time.

Anyway, I digress. Here are my #IsolationIssues to date as pulled, conveniently, from my cell tower of tape. I lay claim to them as original only as far as I have done no research to the contrary. Is that enough of a disclaimer? I don’t know.

“TO SUM, THIS ADDS UP. TO ME, IT’S A PARADOX IN D.C. TRYING TO FIGURE OUT OUR PROBLEM.”

“I’VE MIXED MULTIPLE LIQUIDS TO SOLVE THE PROBLEM IN POLITICS. HEAD’S UP: THERE IS NO SOLUTION.”

“I CAN’T BALANCE A STOOL WITH TWO LEGS … DRIVING ME CRAZY. I CAN’T STAND IT.”

“SVEN THIS IS OVER, WHAT ELSA WE GONNA DO? HANS DOWN, OLAF THIS SOCIAL DISTANCING ANNA MASKING CAN JUST KRISTOFF! … THE ICE-OLATION NEVER BOTHERED ME, ANYWAY… OR, DID IT?”

“IN DISNEY’S FROZEN, ELSA HAD NO MAN-DATED ICE-ELATION, OR DID SHE?”

“BEAST QUARANTINED. BELLE HAD A LARGE SCARF. MRS. POTTS OFFERED … ‘SO, SHAWL-DISH DANCING’ AT ITS BEST”

“6-FEET RULE FOR OFF-KEY VOCALISTS: SO SHALL THIS DUNCE SING”

“MANDATORY MASK LOGO OR FABRIC CHOICE? I DON’T CARE TO ME IT’S I’M-MATERIAL”

“EATING LUNCH OFF PLATES WHILE WASHING DISHES BY HAND? KITCHEN-COUNTER PRODUCTIVE.”

“I FEEL LIKE A DONUT. GREASY, GLAZED OVER, AND SO IN TOUCH WITH THIS EARLY MORNING WAKING UP RIDICULOUSNESS.”

“CLOCK SAYS 3:36 AM, BUT NOT TALKING. I SAY WEIRD TIMES IN WHICH WE LIVE, BUT TYPING. QUIET. SILENCE SPEAKS VOLUMES.”

“THESE DAYS, AS THE QUOTE SO APTLY SAYS, “LIFE IS A MASK-YA-MADE”

“MICK JAGGER, MICHAEL JACKSON, MICHAEL JORDAN … ALL RICH AND FAMOUS! THAT’S IT! .. MY NEW NAME IS MUG JODES”

“I NEED TO BORROW A BUBBLE-MAKER, GIGGLE MACHINE, POGO STICK, AND N95 MASK. PM ME”

“DECIDED TO FINALLY READ MY HOROSCOPE. DIDN’T HAVE ANYTHING ELSE TO DO DURING THE QUARANTINE. IT SAID I WOULDN’T BE ABLE TO FINIS..H….”

“EASTER IN TIGER KING LAND. ANYONE SEEN CAROLE BASKET?”

“AM I CONCERNED ABOUT OVER-EATING DURING THE QUARANTINE? NO, BECAUSE I AM SO OVER EATING AT THIS POINT.”

Yes, I have issues, some extra Reader’s Digests if you want to borrow them … I’ll place them in a safe location on my front porch so we don’t have to be within 6 feet of each other. Too soon? I get that. I loved “Laughter is the Best Medicine” in those little bugger of periodicals. When my grandfather passed away, all his back issues were able to be saved and sit peacefully in my file drawer as a testament to my generationally gifted gene pool of goofiness. I get all this honestly. I have back issues as well. My L2 and L3 are bothering me lately.

He was a gentleman who lived into his 100th year. Most likely because he never tried to carry an over-flowing hot craft of flaming pekoe into his den. Ironically, I sit at the very desk of his I inherited upon his passing. He’d be so proud. Not of my attempt of tea-toting, but my tape tower upon which I’ve drawn inspiration for today’s post. He was a humorist who drew inspiration from life – as I have.

My tea has melted into a cold brew. I must exit and address the issues ahead. All of us should as we must. Carry your tea carefully, my friends.

Sorry, Bach.

It was a warm fall afternoon when I sauntered my way into a small basement studio, knowing nothing about what was to unfold. Inside approached a man, mid- to-late forties, slightly graying slicked back hair, small build with a striking jaw line framing a pleasant smile. He introduced his Eastman Doctoral self to my freshman-neophytic, pianistic-know-it-all, somewhat taller by 3-inches young, almost 18-year-old boy. Thus began our journey into the wonderful world of music exploration and partnership.

Through years of painful re-examination, it took more than eighty-eight keys to unlock doors slammed shut from pride, unsubstantiated self-awareness, and talent with less-than adequate preparation. This basement dweller of higher knowledge and advanced degrees of insight knew this, instinctively, once I began my introductory, “I’ll show you my genius!” … striking the first notes of Chopin’s G-Minor Ballade (of which I felt was so exquisitely played similar to the likes of Horowitz himself, btw). Jim, as I eventually was allowed to call him, stopped me soon after I began, placed his left hand on my shoulder, gently, and calmly said, “We’ll get back to this masterpiece in a bit .. for now, how about we look at Bach?” ….. Noooooooo!!!!

Not Bach!! I spent years avoiding this dry, powder wig, boring dude. There’s no sexiness in Bach!. Bach has no chick-magnet appeal like Chopin, Liszt, or Rachmaninoff. Jim HAD to be kidding me!! C’mon, man! Ok, so Bach had, like 19 kids and I’ve mega-props for his resilience in that department, but his music takes discipline, practice, and eff..eff… ef…fort oh, I started to see the problem. Damn.

Ding ding!! Light bulb moment in my mind, but I wasn’t about to let him know that. Why would I? Stubborn is a trait I am proud of to this day.

To go through the minutiae of my stuffy, eyeball-watering, note-by-night college lesson years with Jim isn’t the point of this post. I’d love to share all the moments. The struggles. Midnight hours alone with Chopin Etudes wearing my fingers to the bone, Czerny exercises sitting on my every nerve, Schumann lyrical lines I just couldn’t shape correctly, and Strauss waltzes accented so improperly I wanted to throw scores of blood curdling screams across the already small studio room … these are some of a thousand rough experiences nestled in among the few perfectly played moments in front of audiences comfortably settled in their plush, velvety seats in the campus recital hall.

I entered college as a music education major specializing in trombone studies. That was the path, anyway. I knew my passion was the way of pianistic endeavors, but earning a living as a pianist was not encouraged. It took a year of studying to convince myself that path, ultimately, wasn’t the way after all … after one phone call and a little paperwork, I adjusted my thinking and set a new way forward.

All this to say I did end up two college degrees. Yeah me, right? Now, I sell hot “dawgs” for a living and am quite proud of my life … and significantly less full of ego than my earlier, late-teen self.

All of this funneling down to my main point. The past month or so, I’ve posted daily piano pieces on Facebook. These exist as video evidence of my love for the instrument and an extension of wonderful music to the surrounding community as well. If you’d like to listen, they are posted under, “Doug Rhodes Piano”. These would not be possible without that first step into that musty, welcoming studio many years ago.

The selections vary from Jazz to Classical, Rock & Sacred to Motown. I believe there are about 40 total. Now, I don’t claim to have the market cornered on what helps any of us during these trying days, but I can at least give you some – if only a few – moments away to think about happier things. Maybe Chopin, Peter Nero, Barry Manilow, Josef Zawinul, Floyd Kramer, Beethoven, the Beatles, or Les Mis can pull you through … hold your hand – with the help of my two hands. I don’t know. It’s my offering to you.

Oh, and there’s no Bach … still. Years later and I’m as stubborn as I always was. Some things don’t change. Sorry, Jim.

Has It Been That Long?

Where does the time go?

Two weeks ago – if you asked me – I would have replied, “Not a chance.” to the question, “Do you believe there would come a time when writing every day, or every other day, on your blog would be difficult?”

This is a (minor) tragedy of this isolation. It is also my timely obituary of same. The bell has rung. Time to put the ‘ole boy down. Just about out of patience with an eely, slithery, invisible, politically-leeched, internationally famous infection known as coronavirus, the ‘rona, “Covid-19”, or whatever moniker you choose to slap on it.

It’s a constant of insolent data through mindless Coronavirus task force briefings, internet sloth and blather, hours of staring down into the same group of dirty dishes, opening cans of reasonably low sodium soup, and shuffling paperwork. Masking while asking, distancing and whincing, peering at my peers through little social media screens … these are the supposed normals to be accepted. They are also among little beat-downs in the heavy bag tied around my waste of time. Thus, almost two weeks of empty screens … no words to share.

I don’t feel alone, however. Most of us are really off any regular schedule. It’s 3:50 a.m. and not too uncommon for me to be up, but over on the Facebook side of my life, life is vibrant, colorful and very active. The friendly zoo cages of likes and opinions are happily unlocked which has been the case since the lockdowns started. It also reflects a time when crumb-critters-kiddos are in bed, dogs, cats and gerbils are nose-nestled in their torsos, and adults aren’t quite awake enough to spaddle each other (I’ll let you define that term). So, social media it is.

The problem before me has been experiences. I’m limited in my “Hey, you’s!”, and “Waz’ ups?”. Five to ten seems to be the magic number of humans the universe is allowing me to wallow with on a daily basis. Now, either I am a not worthy a higher number as determined by a supreme people-power-purveyor, or my lack of a regular shower schedule precedes me. I need interaction to create words. Imagination is wonderful to a degree, but when the heat is turned up from boredom and lack of human contact, interest burns as quickly as people run when you cough these days.

No disrespect to what we’re trying to do here. I get all of it. My blog is so insignificant to the bigger universe of ideas, models, testings, procedures, lives, businesses, countries, states, politics, finances, … all of the nouns we can assign to the times in which we live. This has been – and will continue to be – a big deal throughout 2020.

I’m not assigning blame to anyone for my current state of malaise. Ennui, unfortunately, is an intended consequence of isolation-idleness and I’m, quite simply, not happy about it. For example, “blah” and “whatever” should not be used in more than fourteen sentences daily …. but I do, and this is not good. I’ve organized throws and blankets by colors and size, rearranged my hoards of piano music eighty-eight times, flicked through Netflix until my thumb was numb, played enough hands of free internet poker to poke my eyes out, and have dishpan-man hands. All if this to, apparently, avoid writing on this blog – without knowing it.

Now, I don’t want to sell myself short here. In the midst of all, I have been keeping up to date with my dad’s grocery order and calling him every day. He has the same dozen-or-so items keeping him alive and I’m grateful for his dietary consistency. This makes my masked grocery trips for him quick and easy. His attention to necessary isolation has been a wonderful opportunity for us to connect as father and son.

As well, I have connected with my pianistic past by recording daily pieces … uploading them to Facebook for perusal. So, I can’t say all has been a complete waste bin of idleness. I have enjoyed some of the moments spent.

It’s now 4:50 .. Where does the time go? Well, today will be another day pretty much like the past forty-five. I’ll eat a Clif-bar, drink some hot tea, and scurry atop my fifty-ish feet, wearing out the path in the carpet I’ve worn down through many trips to the sad refrigerator.

All is not lost, however. May 1st I am opening up my business. After almost six months – four normal for winter break and two from mandatory shutdown – the community will once again have Doug’s Dawgs at their service for lunch. I am so opening up my world.

Experiences I need in a way only my idleness and eye-rolling can understand. There will be masking and social distancing because, because, be..cau..se….. those are the normals now. For how long? Who really knows. All I know is … there’s not a chance of ever saying, “never” when asked about anything because we don’t know what’s in our future. Ever. Just ask me. Maybe two weeks from now I’ll write about it? Hopefully sooner if I don’t have anything else to do.

Walking Words

Here we are. Whatever “this” is. Again.

I used to write everyday. It was easy to do. The words appeared as instant imaginary impulses- piled one on top of another – in my lively, colorful, experience-laden brain. I’d rush home, or sit in my favorite red vinyl booth, and gush about toys I saw in display windows, the statue at a local park, or a meditation garden. Breezes were easy to see. Lives scurried about … intermingling. I could see they were laughing. Unmasked.

And that’s the “thing”. They were laughing. I could see the smiles. So much of this experience is gone … for now. It’s hard to write every day.

Now, I see masks hiding the smiles of those few who are out and about. Hometowners going about their essential best … scurrying they are not. Shoulders telling the real story. They droop atop torsos that are, as well, plodding along … belted to waists barely able to withstand another day attached to legs so tired from the grind of restlessness.

Everyone is so “thing-ed” out. As am I. Experiences are hard to uncover … to see. To, well, experience right now.

The stuckiness of all this, as a writer of what I see, “all I see is bad news”. Even my “imagineer’s workshop”, upon which I so heavily rely, has been hijacked by social distancing, #IsolationIssues, fear, unease, politics, unemployment, PPP, EIDL, masks, google hangout video necessities, pharmacy changes, and daily mis-information from social media. The wheels of my sleep/wake cycle fell off weeks ago and I find concentrating on anything other than doing the dishes every freakin’ hour, recording a piano piece, and checking in on my dad to be about my limit.

This wasn’t the case such a short time ago. I can’t blame my age, although it would be a easy target. It’s, of course, the virus. The stupid virus. The uncaring, ridiculous coronavirus. The whatever “this” is.

It’s the one thing that took away experiences of daily living that feed my writer’s soul.

For now.

I need to believe in the hope of our human spirit. In the belief of a common goal. A desire to beat this pandemic with one big, shared, world-wide breath of compassion for the families of the lost, a push toward three C’s in our body politic (Civility, Compromise & Credibility), renewed zeal for mother earth and the incredible resources she provides, less concern for self and more for other’s needs, and a cure-certain for this horrible, “whatever” virus … and all the ugliness associated with it.

These breaks of days aren’t the end of life, for sure. Nothing has stopped. The legs that are weary will dance again. Shoulders will be proud and carry great burdens with honor in the near future as life returns to a new normal once we figure all this out. Together.

And, in the end – when there is an end – we will meet there together. Together is a place, regardless of where we are in our indifference now, where we will be … unmasked with visible smiles.

This is what I hope for and what I’d like to be writing about again. I want my words to have legs more times than ever before.

The Man With A Tan

Following is courtesy of gpickel@pennlive.com. My comments to follow.

“Gov. Tom Wolf unveiled the key criteria of his plan for reopening Pennsylvania amid the coronavirus pandemic on Friday.

A six-point plan was outlined during a televised address, but Wolf provided no timetable for when they could start taking place. He added that more specifics will be forthcoming next week.

The six-points are, as taken verbatim from Wolf:

“First, our approach will be data-driven. We will rely upon quantifiable criteria to drive a targeted, evidence-based, regional approach to reopen in Pennsylvania.“

“Second, we will put forth guidance and recommendations for employers, individuals, and healthcare facilities for assured accountability as we reopen.

“Third, reopening necessitates that adequate personal protective equipment and testing are available.

“Fourth, reopening requires a monitoring and surveillance program that allows the Commonwealth to deploy swift actions for containment or mitigation if it’s necessary.

“Fifth, protections for vulnerable populations must remain steadfast throughout the reopening process, such as limitations on visitors to congregate at care facilities and prisons.

“Six, limitations when large gatherings unrelated to occupations should remain in place for the duration of the reopening process.”

“Next week, I will be outlining more specific steps on the reopening process as we work with experts in public health agencies and stakeholders to determine how to safely reopen our economy.

On Thursday, President Donald Trump highlighted a three-phase plan for states to reopen whenever they feel it is time to do so. Wolf referenced that messages and The Associated Press described them as:

“In phase one, for instance, the plan recommends strict social distancing for all people in public. Gatherings larger than 10 people are to be avoided and nonessential travel is discouraged.

“In phase two, people are encouraged to maximize social distancing where possible and limit gatherings to no more than 50 people unless precautionary measures are taken. Travel could resume.

“Phase three envisions a return to normalcy for most Americans, with a focus on identification and isolation of any new infections.”

How I don’t want to be writing about this … again. Taking a few days off, to rewire my brain, I thought would help. It didn’t. Time after time, day after day, this damn virus stirs up one of many ugly nuggets that choke off one of the few vital breaths of fresh air I have. In between masking outside, the stale air circulating inside a home that’s tired of seeing my mug almost every god-forsaking second otherwise, and my inner sanctum’s restlessness during three hours sleep at night, fresh air is at a premium.

All the information coming at me I can’t ignore. I so wish it was candy unicorns, tickle machines, and swizzle fairies. These are the “imaginaries” I’d like to be writing about on this dreary, thirty-degree day in western-PA. Not our Governor Wolf, again. But, here I sit typing in his name once more, twelve letters, with a space in between, and it’s becoming wasted time and space – like his governorship. A waste of my time and space.

I never wanted Doug Hugs to become a forum for political or social grievances. He’s forced my hand because I am, like so many other self-employed in PA, so frustrated by his lack of leadership amid this pandemic. It’s really quite simple. He is ineffective. No other words will do. I will not attack his character because I do not know the man, however, I have every right to judge him by his actions during this pandemic as our Governor. By this standard, he’s failed us. Period.

I’m calling him “A Man With A Tan”. A plan he has not. He’s getting a nice even tan under the bright lights of an early Pennsylvania media sun, however.

My standard for failure is more specific than his willingness to simply fall in line with all other Governors – which he has done consistently. No initiative to step out and lead at all as the Covid-19 tentacles took an ugly turn toward our commonwealth. He stood idly by as waves of information processed through other states, schools and municipalities started to prepare, think, and plan their way forward .. oh, and possibly work together with their respective legislative bodies to come up with a solution for the common good of the constituency – something very foreign to our solitary-thinking, one-way only Governor who has done everything but.

Again, my standard is more specific than this. And, quite simple. TIME. Time we don’t have to waste that he, our leader of nearly 13 million men, women, and children, doesn’t seem to process.

Today’s press conference, i.e. campaign video, err … waste of time so aptly demonstrates this point perfectly.

Re-read the bullet-points above, or, listen to the whole (waste of time) 22 minute feed. It’s all over the internet. There is absolutely NO mention of when he “plans” on doing anything. He gets the luxury of appearing on a video – at our expense, mind you – with “a plan” … and no plan.

Kinda like me saying, “I will give you $1,000,000 … Promise. Wrapped in crisp packets of $100 bills!!” That’s all. Just sayin’ Wouldn’t you like to know when? Oh, I can’t tell you THAT.

Look, I know this virus is a goofy thing. Problem with Mr. Wolf (downgraded because I done with him as Governor) right now is credibility. He’s been seen standing at the podium lecturing us about masks and social distancing … time … after time … after time. THAT’S what he has time for – himself. Not us or a plan.

During one lecture, there were 7 people in the back (including Rachel Levine, the Health Secretary leading the coronavirus battle in Pennsylvania standing far left which, ironically, best describes Mr. Wolf’s political position). NONE of them were following the protocol he was at the very moment ordering us to follow. I don’t know how accurate timing was for it, as a disclaimer, but with the thin ice he stood on going into the presser, the burden of his uncredibility had large spider cracks forming underfoot.

C R E D I B I L I T Y !! … and time we don’t have anymore for this guy to get his act together.

Businesses he shut down April 1st are losing money every day. (Some credit here … He did need to do it. Something had to be done because nobody knew what we were up against) Unemployment, if ever approved for the thousands who’ve applied and aren’t getting processed, will be bankrupt – at best – in eleven weeks according to a recent report out of Pittsburgh. The already strained PA retirement system, heavy-burdened due to union contract mandated obligations, was already broke way before the virus took hold, and there was unrest with the government all along. Pile on financial stressors of small business not receiving PPP or EIDL monies due to federal inefficiencies, laying off valuable employees, the burdens of home-life isolation, masking, bills, dogs being walked eight times per hour, and irregular shower schedules … too much. Just too much.

This has been, at the time of this writing, 6 weeks. April 30th will be two full months. Only 13 cases in our county. We are under the same orders as the bigger cities. Why? We’ve had no deaths (well. one .. I believe, but an out of county that is attributed to us). Is it because most other states have done the same? Is it because he is influenced, as a democrat, by Pittsburgh and Philadelphia’s numbers? Even if he communicated his bias with us, a predominantly Republican county, we’d at least understand. Be upset, but get it. As it stands now, his lack of professionalism and concern for counties outside his special interest is baffling. Well, to be honest, not baffling anymore because the king has shown his true colors.

One could argue shutting down the entire state is showing concern. If he had that, we wouldn’t be in the financial mess we’re in to begin with, so I don’t agree. Big cities – Erie, Pittsburgh, Harrisburg, and Philadephia – rule with this guy. These are his voting blocks and the virus numbers upon which he so heavily relies.

Agree or disagree. This is not Your Hugs, it’s Doug Hugs, and I get my podium moment. I have my mask on, appear pale as the sheets I spend little time sleeping on, and most definitely stand 6-feet away from you.

We don’t need a man on video telling us his 6-step, open-ended plan. Why? Because it isn’t a plan at all. It’s a wish list hoping someone else will tell him when to act on it. That’s all it is.

Oh, he’ll get his wish some day soon. It’ll be 13 million unemployed people ( less his cronies ) who can’t get their unemployment – or businesses open – showing up at “Mr.” Wolf’s mansion, or his home away from that big house we pay for, telling him IT’S TIME!!

And he’ll have to listen.

Hope he wearing a mask and is at least 6-feet away.

Our Governor, Crying Wolf

THE one reason we were given to stop everything was to “flatten the curve”, remember? We had to do our part. In Blair county, we are doing what we can … and it’s not going well. Folks are following the social distancing guidelines better, but masking has been atrocious … AND despite this, I’m not seeing numbers increasing. They should be going up because a lot of people around here aren’t believers.

One of two things is happening: #1) the numbers AREN’T going up, or, #2) the numbers ARE and not being reported. Now, if Governor Wolf wants to keep issuing these increasingly oppressive, rights-infringing orders, SOMEONE better get some real information out – and fast.
There is an increasing impatient undertone afoot around here. Seeing a random comment on FB from an ER nurse mentioning his/her patient count doesn’t warrant belief in a specific, accurate county-wide number with all due respect given.

Overall PA numbers don’t influence much of the attitude here in western/central PA, apparently. Until it hits home and gets real, unfortunately, we will have a general malaise and lack of concern.

Bigger, densely populated cities are apt to take this seriously as they are overwhelmed with cases, people, and attitudes. Friends returning from larger cities report a vast difference in attitudes and approaches toward the mitigation of the COVID-19 virus.

Not so much here. Show the “real” – (if it is here) … not the expected or the “model”. Until then, you’ll probably get more of the same.

It’s been 30 days of forced closures, unemployment, stress, depression, home-schooling, government over-reach, devastating economic collapse, extreme political division, and soul searching. These are the real things happening in every county, in every state, not just in Pennsylvania.

I know my fellow Commonwealthers understand this. I do. They’re just a stubborn bunch of conservative folk.

Today, orders came down from our state capitol requiring all customers and workers to mask. The requirements are more detailed than this, but you get the point. Anyone not obeying the orders will be denied entry. Simple, right?

All this as an additional response to the ongoing coronavirus pandemic, obviously. The seemingly daily ordeal pushed in front of our conscious every breathing moment. A knee-jerk reaction as seen by those politically opposed to the Governor, and a move beneficial to society for those aligned.

As expected.

So we sit in limbo, in our homes, under lock and key, eating pretty much the same meals every day … taking only intermittent showers. Awaiting the next order from Harrisburg, we wait while the numbers stay pretty much the same.

I don’t want to do this anymore. Show me why I’m supposed to ramp up my efforts, obey another order while others are not, and yet continue to stare into a flat-lined chart of hardly ever increasing cases. We are already into the 11th day of the 14 days of “death” you, Gov. Wolf in sheep’s cloth, warned us about last Monday.

I believed you then. Less so now. So much less.

Me thinks boy Wolf is crying way too much for my taste these days. Run sheep, run.

Three Times a Maybe

“Two negative COVID tests. Doctors are convinced though that it is COVID so they did a third test,” she wrote on social media. The third test came back positive for coronavirus.

Broadway star Nick Cordero, who has tested positive for coronavirus, is continuing to fight for his life in the hospital.

The second of these above is the headline from an article in People Magazine as posted by MSN news. The first being a direct quote from his wife, Amanda Kloots.

Nick is struggling with a major health crisis and I’m hoping for a recovery … I really am. It’s not looking good. His family does not need to be going through this. According to the writer, Maria Pasquini, the original concern was pneumonia and respiratory distress – Nick had been sick for a while but doctors were still confirming the cause of his health crisis.

Two tests came back negative for Covid. Ok. They had to do a third? Why not be ok with pneumonia and keep trying – as they were – to save Nick’s life? There is no cure for Covid anyway, right? What was the point … if not to pad the numbers in favor of +1 to the coronavirus column?

All that aside, Nick was diagnosed positive – eventually. I do understand this. Again, I wish this wasn’t so. He’s a talented person and needs to be on stage, not fighting for his life.

Here’s my concern. It seems suspicious to me – with a shortage of tests in our country to begin with – that a team of doctors were, maybe, urged to get the diagnosis of Covid. Struck me as odd, that’s all. Maybe nothing to it. Hope not, but if even “some” hospitals are biased toward this type of over-testing to achieve pre-determined outcome, we may not be getting the whole picture.

How many tests? How many times are doctors, over the past weeks / months being pushed to do more tests to make sure there’s a diagnosis of Covid without checking the box? For the safety of all, I guess we need to know who has what … again, I guess. There are smarter minds than mine working over midnight candles, scratching theorems into weeks old data-filled tablets.

There must be respiratory distress problems still going on in our country? These didn’t stop just because a bat-disease flew its way into our collective lungs. Pulmonary diseases, heart problems, cancers, diabetes, … all the, sorry to say, “normal” “ughs” that everyday humans have to push through can develop into breathing problems. I grant testing once for Covid in the midst of this pandemic. “Maybe” twice if the situation warrants it … but three times?

Did we do this for the average seasonal flu? SARS? Swine Flu? Yes, I know we don’t have a natural immunity to this and no vaccine. An unkown and tricky bugger this Covid is. I will still Social Distance – try my level best to remain patient and calm. As with any virus, I want my loved ones, and all of society to be safe and healthy to the best of our ability … simply because I don’t know what I don’t know.

The numbers are still way below any viral flu in the past. Credit given to whatever or whoever. I’m slow to give credit or blame to anyone due to facts flying around like rabid bats from far away lands.

I’ll also be extraordinarily sensitive to anyone, anywhere who lost a loved one to this virus. It’s relentless and horrible to those susceptible to its nastiness.

Doctors are doing a marvelous job. I want them by my side. This is not an indictment of their job saving lives or heroic efforts on the front lines of this crazy, god-awful battle. It’s the system they work under. Test once. If it comes back negative, keep going with the absolute best treatment available. We need some controls here. Maybe twice if the situation warrants it. Again, I’m as close to being a doctor as I am a 7-foot professional basketball player, so take my Spalding and dunk it over my non-qualified, so-un-medical head.

Still, over-testing to achieve a biased result could be happening more than we know. Nick’s case is probably not unique. I have no facts to support my claim. It’s just a hunch.

Before you throw me under that approaching bus, remember who’s driving the bus: it’s a system having the same hunches, but is allowed to keep re-testing until they find what they’re looking for.

Until all of us are tested, this isn’t going away anytime soon, anyway.

This is who I am

This day requires a response and I didn’t know what to say. Until now.

An Easter miracle has been hoped for by my Christian friends for weeks. I’m not seeing the magic. Coronavirus numbers are climbing. Deaths are still happening. People are getting cancer. Someone is dying of congestive heart failure and, tonight, a wife will be telling her husband she doesn’t love him anymore.

Again, I’m not seeing the magic. My Christian friends will certainly respond one of two main ways. Either I am not looking in the right places, or I am, but not seeing with the right “heart”. This isn’t a sleight on their sincerity or wanting of my happiness. It is an indictment of a religious belief that all will work out in the eyes of a God, regardless of what happens. I knew, heading into today, there was to be the story of a resurrected Jesus – as there has been throughout the ages. Especially today, in the midst of a massive pandemic shutting down the world.

I also knew none of this was going to be the fault of a God, Jesus’ presumed father, who is in control of all this. Or, is He? Those so willing to turn over their hopes and dreams of a miraculous end to a virus never give him an atta-boy for allowing it in the first place. Either this God’s fault, or it isn’t.

Within the circles of skeptics, it’s called “counting the hits and not the misses”

I was blind to this for 36 years of my life. There was never a time for doubt or questioning from 1982 through 2018. During those years, any thoughts of walking away from a comfortable belief in a magical Christian ideology was scary, uneasy, and unfamiliar. I would never know the terms Agnostic, Atheist, or Skeptic. Even questioning the most obvious contradiction in the bible was emotionally upsetting. Throw in a dose of after-life eternal bliss, forgiveness of sins at birth, a born-again experience at 19, and I was golden. The luck of the draw placed me in a conservative, western-central PA ‘burg where Christian parents raised three kids to cite the Lord’s prayer, be confirmed, and sing in the children’s choir without questioning,”why”.

Until my seizure the evening of June 30th, 2018. The moment of a re-set in my brain when all electronic-impulses went haywire, for no apparent reason, and the label, “epileptic”, was scarlet-lettered on my soul. A one-time lapse into a brain malfunction black hole spun my person-planet into a brand new orbit. With no more seizures since, I’ve been circling a previously unknown sun ever since.

Worlds collided and I began a journey into a universe of self-exploration. A rich, new, singularity of ideas and words I never knew. Previously hidden from me – but always there – were books, websites, TedTalks, relatives, friends, podcasts, and other resources apart from centuries old, dust laden, tested and certainly unproven ideas written in a book so unclear it took gaggles of scholars to interpret.

There is no proof of a God. I reached that conclusion. Until there is, I am an atheist. I have been since the fall of 2018. This is my day to come out and say it to the world. Well, at least to those who care.

To clear this up, an atheist is one who will believe in the existence of a God once adequate proof is presented. To say there is a God is a magnificent claim requiring magnificent proof. That’s all. You ask, what does that proof look like? I respond honesty, “I don’t know”. If there is a God, it/he/she knows what proof is required to warrant my attention. I asked, earnestly, for over 35 years. In the deepest, and saddest point of my life, this God was silent … completely silent.

Now, please don’t respond with, “His answers are either yes, no, or maybe”, “All in God’s plan”, “Footprints”, “You didn’t pray right.”, or any other special pleading. I know them all. I really do.

Save one very special friend who stayed in touch via text and my family, nothing. There was never a feeling of a God by my side, a “voice”, or a “presence” … any of the things I expected after years of dedication to the “holy one in the word”. I survived with will-power, knowledge, and the science of medicine and doctors … and yes my close friend and family – all of whom I adore. THEY are the ones who sat with me and helped me through. They were my “hits”. Oh, and to say, “God sent them” … please, don’t.

Look, if you detect bitterness, it isn’t intended. I’m not, truly. The Easter miracle today and in the recent past, ironically, is this God opened my eyes to what was possible … almost two years ago.

I am still so full of piano-love … a genuine, spirited, hopeful, graceful, caring human being. Nothing about who I am has changed at all. A Doug hug from me now means the same as ever … well … at least when the stupid shut-down is over, anyway. Can’t really reach you from here.

I’ve been over counting the hits and not the misses for almost two years. “He’s” missed so many times. I promise you, whenever this whole Covid-19 ends, praise will be given to no end with absolutely no mention of fault. Just not from me, obviously. Tell that to the thousands of families who’ve lost family members. Oh, but I guess God had to do that as part of a bigger plan. But, why? I thought he had nothing to do with it in the first place?

Yes, the last paragraph is part sarcasm, however, it highlights the problem with ideas wrapped in traditional Christian thinking. Ideas I gave my life to for 36 years. Ideas that, ultimately, didn’t serve me at all when I absolutely needed them to.

…And isn’t that the whole point of Jesus’ resurrection being “celebrated” today? He died for our sins, I guess. Just not when I need(ed) him the most. What a great plan.