2O Seconds at Halfway

Canal Basin Park in Hollidaysburg, Pa. Push, “play”, to experience the halfway around ripples two dogs and I experience while fluffing our way through that park.

To them, Rex and Murphy, it’s another opportunity to sniff out new smells along a stone-ground walkway beside a brown, churned up waterway. For me, the halfway point river is simply that … a 50%, “been there, need to do more” point while walking said puppies. I look forward to the sound. Simple stones underfoot duetting with water nuzzling over rocks in the Beaverdam Branch of the Juniata River.

Halfway is halfway no matter how the walk is sliced up. Pretty sure Rex and Murphy’s math skills aren’t up to par, and time has little meaning, so their time/distance matrix has no relevance to four-pawed progression. Onward is all they care about. Walks are very important as a stress release inside their furry go-about bodies.

I like walking them. It has been a while since canine connections fabulously exited stress from my body as well. Years, actually. Shopan was the last to give me a refreshingly new leash on life. He lived a homophonically great life as a shepherd-collie-rottie mix at my piano feet – representing the masterful Frederic of Poland well.

These two? Kinda musical. Rhythmic paces under one’s white and black woolly paws, and the other’s velvety brown sweepers? Yeah, for sure. Before halfway finds its way into our path, Canal Basin offers us sights to spur our intrigue. Living a few miles away from this park, I never took the time to walk around and read plaques so well placed among the sound filled breezes now appreciated during a pleasant walk with Doug in tow.

These are just two of the markers discovered. A Musical Garden? Holy Orchestral Chimes, Batman! How did I not know of this? The Amphitheatre has been around a while. Thankfully, I’ve attended concerts there. The stage, however, hasn’t experienced notes from my trombone slide, or imperfect piano fingers.

With my human body sleigh being towed , other sites nearly halfway include an original 4-wheeled Cradle and Track set and really big, orange, metally, complicated train pieces put together in such a way I will never understand.

An open soon-to-be loch of imaginary possibilities to our right – with its reservoir of tonal reach-outs past the halfway point – the three of us continued on our way. Two fur pullers and an adaptable tag-along headed toward the Reiser House – the home of a prominent butcher whose house was built at the Canal Basin site decades ago.

We exited across a plank foot bridge, clicking nails did the two scurry as this one silently Skechered. Three-quarters the way, by my estimation. Dogs, still no clue. Their smellers always on alert and pee markers finding every possible target, though.

The halfway sliver of time spent recording pleasing ripples of time meant nothing to them. Just a “paws” during another outing with Doug, the dog walker.

Ok, so I accept that role. I’ll also welcome the opportunity to walk them again, and again. No sense committing to anything halfway.

Unless, of course, halfway means standing beside waters rhythmically dancing over partner rocks. In that case, maybe next time two dogs and a guy will sit down for more than 20 seconds.

Find a halfway in your life. I doubt Rex and Murphy are available, but someone could meet you by the river sometime. Perhaps for more than 20 seconds, if you’d like. Wherever your halfway is, a river of calm is waiting. Don’t push to be 100% all the time. Enjoy the sites along the way.

Halfway is halfway no matter how your life is sliced up. There’s always more path ahead to explore. Go, now.

Candle Wax in the Moonlight

Photo Courtesy of Pamela and Travis Etters

The Bellagio fountains this isn’t. Sure reminds me of the time I stood in front of those magnificent, rhythmic cascades, however. Difference being, I was a lot younger then and peered over a spray of hallucinating, musical vapors in person … unlike the experience of seeing this picture appear in my Facebook feed a few days ago.

Penn State, Altoona campus. A quiet reflection pond at moonlight time caught in perfect frame by my friend, Travis. No comparison to Bellagio’s 15 or 30 minute interval experience, depending upon when you would happen to scoot by their Las Vegas hook and play casino. High energy, impersonal lights and spray vs. this calm dark, contrasting reach into each of our lives. Inviting, isn’t it?

I don’t visit PSU often. That campus is so beautiful – with groves of trees allowing duck families good-time afternoons and students shady respites from their young, forward-looking studies. Snippets of sunshine I’ve seen on occasion while walking through during a food event, heading to the chapel to keyboard a nuptial hand-in-hand, or attending a function inside the Misciagna Family Center for Performing Arts.

None of those wound me around the reflecting pond, let alone at night. What moon forces kept me away from such masterfully crafted, deep orange hues ricocheting off a glistening pond into my eyes? Oh, yeah. Me. I was too busy doing something else, … not probably. For sure.

That’s the way life is. We can’t see all the beautiful stuff that’s out there when it happens. Some get missed. Thankfully, there are folks, like Travis, who recognize subtle shimering upon still waters. He saw the light of the moon across the sky, and tapped into your individual imagination … whatever that is for you.

For me, I am a huge fan of black contrasting blue in photographs. The deep monarch orange slightly arching across finely separates the two. Blue is the future and black is now. I see lines of improvement asking me to look forward, through problems and challenges, to the end lights shining as flames tipping wax off candles. Tapered fire to the moon. A blue future burning off any clouds of doubt …

… from a picture of a reflecting pond. Any imaginations are acceptable. Yours, mine, theirs.

This captured image is, to you, whatever you need it to be. Unlimited. It has been left up to you when tapped on a phone … and posted on Facebook. The moon will stay tucked away in the sky. Campus lights flicker every night as the sun goes to sleep. Millions of years don’t change cellestial habits or movements set in place.

I was moved, however. Yeah, this guy – who really hasn’t taken a stroll down through the Penn State, Altoona campus lately – was taken aback by the poetic, artistic photograph my fine friend took the other night.

In a word, stunning. I tip a candle to Travis’ reflecting eye for beauty. May we see in ourselves a future so much more than what 15 minutes of cascading, bedazzling pizzazz would do for us in front of the Bellagio.

Muted Footsteps Exiting the Capitol Hotel

I swiped this menu a while ago. Don’t remember when it happened, or why I felt the urge to break the law. Did I really, though? All that happened, in my humble opinion, was the conversion from an in-house menu to a take-out one by walking out the very familiar glass doors with it in my hand. Strange, in a way, because I never ordered unless I sat at the counter, a back room table, or in one of four red vinyl booths.

“I’m glad I have it, officer.”

Today, I heard they are closing … for good. May I offer up another not so humble opinion? This information really sucks their really awesome steak salads!!

I don’t know why the owner decided to close. Could be a (late) pandemic response or he is, simply, tired of running a hotel restaurant. Whatever the cause, respect is due because so many memories from there are sheltered away in my treasure box of friendly conversational souvenirs. It’s been one of the few places in my life where words meant something when shared among close friends.

It was the first place I stopped on my way back from the hospital moments after mom died. My friend, Kevin, was sitting in the back middle booth to share in my grief. Although I haven’t seen him in years, that moment is as clear as this moment now.

During lighter times, my lame jokes – or, perhaps a few awesome ones – danced around one of two front booths where a bevy of bloviating bosomers sat. Chief among them, no one. All of us remained equal. Friends. Not one greater or lesser than the other.

Big heavy mirrors, old rotating chairs sitting partially occupied in front of the counter, stainless steel clanging about as breakfasts were served with a tinge of attitude … All of this, and then some, make the Capitol Hotel Restaraunt what it is – for one more day.

Thursday, September 23rd, 2021. This will be the day memories come to an end. Those warm, red vinyl booths will start to get an early fall non-conversational chill and remain so. Short, worn wooden bar chairs will be bound to their silent still posts as of 2:00 p.m. that day. A clean-up crew – and no others – will then pass through one of two entryways into the back dining room. The large grandfather clock there, sitting many decades removed from a big screen t.v., will no longer tick away pleasant fish Friday lunches for business companions, or retirees enjoying their sunset years.

The whole restaurant will be silent – as hushed as the last time a puff of air closed an off-white, laminated, “Since 1905” menu for the last time; Or, perhaps as one of a few times I sat extended, alone, in one of those very confidential front booths and wrote a blog entry. Possibly, muted tones from friends’ last footsteps leaving tomorrow will remain behind as reminders how special this place is to everyone.

Most likely, I will not be one of them.

This does not mean my heart will not exit through those double glass doors one final time with them, however. Hopefully, at least one of my brothers or sisters in crime will find their way into 300 Allegheny Street, Hollidaysburg, to swipe a menu for themselves.

I should remind them take-out could be tricky. Especially from the clink.

Corner Room, Corner Table

I had to reach back into my archives – four months, or so – to relive a blessed feel good moment in my life. It was an afternoon I will never again get with the lady who sat across from me during that beautiful, lovely afternoon in State College, Pa. A limited menu was offered to us. Two. A pair with unlimited possibilities for humor, music musings, and sweet couple words. The restaurant, “The Corner Room”, wasn’t aware of our silliness. Half-drapes in the window, overlooking a lightly attended summer session sidewalk, kept a summer sun off our tea as Old Main sat off in the distance.

We waited patiently for sandwiches and appetizers. What else was there to do? An afternoon in May. Two wonderers sitting comfortably among others who had their own wondering to do. I looked around, but nothing … no one … caught my attention more than the one sitting across from me in a high, dark vinyl booth.

I think it was her hair this time, although not always the case. Her eyes and smile could hook me in, too. Against the backdrop of a very accomodating, hugging booth (one I was becoming very jealous of, for the record), those golden locks bounced off my afternoon delight. Leaving me no choice, I parted from a semi-sweet tea to imprint this picture on my late spring, early summer’s soul:

Black and white. Simple. Complementary colors holding my hand during pre-lunch moments. Sandwiches hadn’t arrived yet. We were hungry. Even the appetizers were somewhere different than in our prior two-hours, walk-around town, empty bellies. Still, with those grinding away inside, we chuckled the time away.

There was no time limit on my preoccupation. It could have been two minutes or two days. She sat across from me before that day in other restaurants … in other cities … patiently caressing the time with me for meals taking longer than normal. Those times were endless fascinations as well.

Yes, no finish date at all on any of the words, at any time, with any fare on any plate in front of us. As far as that May day, I can smell the chicken sandwich with sides finally arriving along with roast beef au jus. Appetizers did come – spinach dip with chips – prior to those lunch munchies. A waitress, seldom seen, blessed us with her absence. Teas didn’t need refilling, plates were full until they weren’t, and two booth dwellers had a glorious feast … one for his eyes, the other for her tummy.

During this long exhale of our time together, a “today memory” I adore had to be written.

I will never have that chance again with Greta. Hundreds of pictures, but not bubbly-blonde booth dates from now on in familiar towns and restaurants. I will see nice, sunny days through café curtains again, for sure, but not across from someone like her. Smiles, eyes, hair, voice, and personality wrapped up in her is a once-in-a lifetime menu choice.

A corner room and corner table I had to revisit today. Life is black and white when it comes to a sweet woman I love and adore. Color through a camera lens and street window frames an afternoon I never want to forget.

Choose your moments wisely. Four months, or so, goes by quickly when you think more time is easily within your grasp.

Maybe our lunch was good? I don’t remember.

Time spent together that day? I will cherish forever.

Lovely “Creature”

We left Shadyside Hospital in Pittsburgh not aware we’d be returning only a few days later. The original procedure didn’t hold on to its promise. A Friday exit, then a Sunday return for another five days fix-up in a smaller, less accomodating room. The newer plastic mechanics seem to be working better, thankfully so. The fourteen days stretch, with that two day respite at home in between, was a long spread of time. Not too many opportunities to celebrate fun things.

Except one. Creature.

We sat patiently near a large revolving door in the Posner pavilion waiting for a chariot after visit #1 ended. Once the car arrived during a very pleasant Pittsburgh afternoon, a short wheelchair push through accomodating heavy glass doors gave us a chance for deep, fresh air in our lungs. So nice after five days. Even the bending sun coming under an overhang felt warmishly friendly on our faces.

Out of eyesight until my ears caught her saying, “Look, a puppy!”,… a sweet soul leashed onto Greta’s ever canine-attentive heart. She gently pointed her one free hand off to the right, but was unable to get the attention of the gentleman carrying the angel puppy. The one fun, furry, happy experience – given to her after five days of blah, colorless beeping and proding – looked like it was about to whisk by.

… and it did.

Others behind awaited their chariots as well. My sole beat-up Honda sat alone in the 5th level parking garage spot where I left it days prior. With Greta comfortable in the back seat of her transport and many thoughts of my own packed away in my brain, off I went back through the impersonal revolving doors … alone this time with any empty wheelchair.

Fate finally did allow an arched rainbow of color moments after I began my trek back through Posner. Fortunately, the shortest distance back to the parking garage was returning through the hospital, oh, and I suppose pushing an empty wheelchair up Centre Avenue wouldn’t have been the smartest thing to do, either.

Only a few feet back from the information desk, there they stood. A young man and his puppy. The same young man and puppy eluding Greta’s pleas moments before. The urge to stop was overcome by my sheer joy in seeing them. What an opportunity it was to at least get a picture to send to Greta! It wouldn’t be the same as a puppy-lover’s dream hug in person, but a picture could be worth a thousand barks in this case?

His name is, “Creature”, and the story was more than I expected.

The young man, perhaps in his 40’s, stood inches away. In a blue, apparently comfortable, t-shirt and wearing the all-too familiar paper hospital ID bracelet, his stature was taller than his smaller frame would suggest. His story began as I kindly asked for a picture and the puppy’s name to send to Greta…

A brain injury set his life back unexpectedly. As he said, “No one expects to lose their speech suddenly, without warning. One day you’re talking. The next? You can’t…I had a long road back.”

His recovery – in and out of the same hospital I would, unknowingly, find myself back in a few days hence – was long and tedious. Literally, one word at a time. “One word, one heartbeat at a time”, rang sympathetic in my brain as this is the purpose of DougHugs – the main reason I began this amateur quest after my seizure over three years ago.

Enter, “Creature” into his, then, confused world. By suggestion, he went to a humane society shelter. Thinking a puppy partner would help him through the maze of words, glancing into a litter of fur babies changed his life. Most scampering paws within the pen hustled toward the front anticipating a head scratch or nuzzle pat. Off in the corner sat a rather shy one. “Who is that little creature over there?”, gently spoke my friend in a fractured, soft manner. Slowly, the little one made his way forward – as the story was told to me. And so, the name stuck. So did the everlasting, deep love and friendship … and remarkable healing a year later.

As time was clicking forward, I did need to get a move on toward the parking garage. Picture in tow – as it were – and the empty wheelchair safely back ready for a quick cleaning spritz and reuse, I said a quick, gracious thanks and headed down a long hallway. I was not so quick to forget about Creature cradled in nurturing arms, but anxious to send Greta a picture. She needed a loving doggie. If not in person during a quick exit out, at least over a FB message as a reminder that she wasn’t alone during a long ride home.

A home where she could only stay a few short days until a return visit back to Shadyside had to happen.

I don’t know the rest of Creature’s story. In the bustle of that day, I neglected to catch the young man’s name. That little bit of information got by me. Hospital stays – with the admittances and discharges bookending such pleasures – are exhausting. The fact I even remembered my chariot was on level 5 surprises me to this day. I didn’t remember what I ate for breakfast that morning and I pushed down the same cafeteria fare every morning.

Well, however the story unfolds for Creature in his lifetime with his owner, he gave Greta a remarkable rehab on her way home … if only in a picture. We should all be so lucky to have a picture of healing like Creature in our phones like I do.

Maybe reaching out and saying, “Look, a puppy!”, could work for you sometime. You never know who may be around to snap a picture. Oh, and there might just be a story of healing and love behind it as well.

A picture is worth a thousand barks after all.

Rex and Murphy

They stay very loyal. Of course, they do. Today, Rex and Murphy weave in and out between bags and boxes of medical supplies, legs and arms of strangers, and words coming out of mouths so unfamiliar to them. The past four weeks as well, they always found their way to Mommy. She is their rock, their comfort … their place to nestle two wet noses under a comfortable, familiar blanket.

Rex is about six years Murphy’s junior. He is Mommy’s little boy. The protector of all that is wrong with Greta, he is. These days, his job is overwhelming as Mommy’s appendiceal cancer has taken control over her remaining few weeks. Rex knows something isn’t right. He scampers about wondering where to be within eyesight … out of the way, but thankfully in the way of his Mommy’s over-extending heart. Close to her he dearly wants to be all the time. Sometimes, this isn’t possible.

Normal isn’t normal anymore. Every two hours, attention needs to be paid elsewhere. Rex must step aside. Elsewhere is Greta. I believe he understands. There’s a big picture window from which he looks out to gather his puppy thoughts. Rex will do what is necessary for Mommy. He’s anxious and unsure about a lot of things right now. Sure he is. We are, too.

Murphy is a fluffy tow-along. At an older age, his health isn’t a good as Rex. Just recently, a diagnosis of tracheal cancer put him behind the 8-ball a bit. He’s a steroid machine because of it. That medicine put him on an eating binge including a pair of glasses and pretty much any food – wrapped or otherwise – that isn’t at least 5-feet off the floor and 4-feet back off the front edge of any counter. He is laser focused on stuffing his snout.

Now, his love for Mommy is no less than Rex. A very comfortable little bed, at the foot of a larger Mommy bed, provides him a resting place almost every night. A low center of gravity, combined with nearly ninety-one human years muscled around his weary bones, makes jumping up on furniture for an ear scratch a bit difficult. He has the same window for reflection, but uses a lower bunked doggie bed, not the love seat. Granted, Rex has the same opportunity to it – and does. They are brothers through and through.

Rex and Murphy. Two canine companions trying their best to make a difficult situation make sense. In the furry brains as worried as all the human ones, their lives have been turned upside-down. Cancer – especially rare appendecial that strikes approximately 3 out of 1,000,000 people world-wide who are diagnosed with any cancer – changes everyone who cares for the loved one.

It’s never the obvious changes: bills, groceries, things-to-do that have to be altered. Those are (sometimes) the easy workarounds … short-term, anyway. Certainly, there’s no easy answer to any of this. I sit here not claiming a magic crystal ball. Yesterday, friends stopped by offering many open hands – as friend do.

The change is at a heart-centered level. Love digs deeper, care cores down, and tears are torrential during silent, solitary moments in the middle of the night.

Greta’s two boys aren’t immune from experiencing any of this. They sense the pain. Mommy isn’t well. Rex and Murphy are keenly aware of her missing their normal, daily connection through feeding, head-scratch, and hug set-aside times.

With this, however, hearts don’t miss a beat between a Mom and her two doggies. Eyes don’t miss every few moments available to catch a glimpse of each other between all the busy medical steps now woven in all our lives. Rex, Murphy, and Mom … a blanket of love with some snags now, but never to be torn apart by cancer.

That’s loyalty earned through years of patient petting and nurturing. Devotion in the midst of sterile equipment and impersonal, neutral medicine flowing past open valves and tubes into a body so tired of fighting … a loving soul still very much aware that two kind, devoted, four-pawed creatures still love her so much and feel every twinge of pain and also every smile.

This is a day for them, now. Rex and Murphy. I suppose, in a few hours, their wet noses will find warm spots somewhere. Wherever those may be, Greta will know. Of course, she will.

MPH

Endings.

Those three images usually close out a thought of mine on Facebook … in the order they appear. “M” for microphone, “P” is certainly obvious, and “H” … well, of course, right?

Miles Per Hour is more appropriate, however. Facebook musings aside, life the past month or so has seen a different application of MPH along a single-focus highway of missed exit ramps. Turn-offs I willingly didn’t take, in order to help care for someone who is dying, can wait until I circle back around later. Sure, there have been – and will be – some chances to exit and do necessary things; overall, though, life has been moving rapidly. For me.

Not so rapidly for sweet Greta who is dying. This is an ending we knew was coming – it just will come sooner than expected.

She is the vocalist, I am the pianist, and our hearts make wonderful music together.

This evening, I have quiet moments to watch her sit on a very familiar tan recliner five feet from me. The room is small. She’s protected by many books and miniature owls resting on two bookcases behind her. Surprisingly, she has some energy left in her body to look over my way at times. This day has been a busy one with friends and family buzzing about her already tired soul.

I don’t know from where her drive and determination comes. These are traits I find fascinating as her days linger on through pain management, sleep deprivation, and a determination to soak up every available blink on the clock. A wonderful, full, young life experience coming to an end is slowing her time down to a breathable crawl. Every second counts.

Last hugs from an only brother this morning forced time to stop. As a niece and nephew said good-bye, the early morning sun stopped to cry just a little and its tears were seen as dew on the grass in the rear view mirror on their hearts. Driving away slowly – with a 7 hour’s drive ahead – had to be the most difficult beginning of a trip … and ending … a family ever had to endure.

This afternoon, many friends stopped by for a rather nice patio visit with Ms. Greta. Pictures were perused, memories visited, and conversations had. She laughed heartily through a veiled smile – one that is barely half of what was once full-voiced and warmly engaging. Eyes beautifully sparkling, however, and no less attentive to everyone sharing some Sunday time with her.

Time well spent today. Exhausting for her, of course. She is the Captainess of this Cancership, I’ve always said, and when a post of today’s 11-4 plan was discovered (by me) on her Facebook feed last night at 9p.m., I was surprised, but not startled.

An exit ramp I may have missed last night, but sure as tooting would have backed up and taken at 11 a.m. today once folks started coming.

There is an ending. Just not today. I am moving at a certain MPH on a single-focus road for now.

That’s only one side of this story. The other side is pretty easy to explain. I am doing what I am doing on this road because of the Microphone, Piano, and Hearts.

Greta is a special woman. She connects with me. Musically, as a pianist, I’ve accompanied no vocalist in my career who has moved me to tears. Her depth, passion, and commitment to excellence pushed me beyond my 50 years experience behind a keyboard.

We had fun together apart from music. Loving life together. Eating out, working at my concession business, sitting around the local parks, watching game shows, etc …

Thinking we had more time together is where we are right now. Time is slowing down for her, yet fast for me. Endings are never easy.

Since they aren’t easy, let me finish by inserting a paragraph posted on Facebook by my friend Rick. He came by today. His words will be mine until we meet again. Hug a loved one today. 🎙️🎹💕

“(Landslide) is a very special song as of this moment. I had the pleasure of visiting my friend Greta today and this is one of her favorite songs. I visited her on her patio with other friends, her Mom, and others there. Today, this very special woman decided she was not going to die today. She was determined to welcome friends for a last visit, a goodbye. My friend is soon to be lost to cancer, but she knows it, has thought about it, accepted it. A very strong, charming, witty, and talented woman with a heart as beautiful as a sunrise on a beach. If this is farewell, I am a better person for have having her in my life if only for a short while.”

I Saw the Light

If one truth exists all of us can agree on, it’s this: There is happiness in finding nuggets of knowledge, perhaps slices of pleasure in the world, that aren’t ingredients in our sweet life’s pie. Sure, we live quite nicely without the understanding or delight. Our work and play times never miss these extra little treasures because we are not aware they happen about in our world. But when they occur, something marvelous can shine forth.

These occur as a different way of thinking, of course. I do need to rejigger my way of thinking … sometimes … because information I believe to be valid in my noggin ‘haint so. Sure, as difficult as this is to type, I make mistakes in assuming I am right – justifiably correct – some of the time and need to step back my conclusions when new information comes to light. Pretty sure this isn’t unique to me, however. All of us push toward justifying our own opinions, I bet. My stubborn streak just may be a bit stronger than most.

Enter the idiom, “see the light”. To suddenly gain an understanding of something previously not understood in my brainial universe is a difficult piece of pie for me to digest. The word, “suddenly”, drips off the fork like a bitter dutch apple pie chunk left in the hot sun during a humid family picnic. I can’t swallow it. Any sweetness of comprehension is temporarily overcome by a nose-pinching, head turning, … well … , flat out inflexibility.

I need process time. Time for ingredients to bake into my pie. Once done, all good. This isn’t to say immediate decisions can’t be made if necessary, however. Moving sideways to accommodate an urgent situation is fine. I’m not THAT inflexible, btw.

Now, missing an exit off of PA43 was a sideways/immediate decision on Sunday night I needed to make that didn’t happen. Rt 119 went by as I, unfortunately, realized the next exit was eight miles away. A 16 miles, round trip mistake I suddenly understood as a nugget of knowledge in my tired, late driving pie – was on my plate. What to do? Not much except to suck it up and accept this “treasure” so delightfully placed inside my already jammed up noodle block.

Arriving 20 minutes late to my destination wasn’t so bad. Exiting off a highway one beyond because mistakes happen? Eh, life, right? The new information gleaned from that experience is: I need to take better care of myself by not driving when I am flat-out exhausted. Period. And, this, my friends, is a very hard lesson to learn. I’m stubborn and have my way about me. We all do.

Not just driving – there is a larger truth here.

We can’t allow ourselves to work so hard, be so committed to a cause or belief, that it runs us down to the point of complete exhaustion. At that point, we are no good to anybody, or any conviction.

This is new, rather sudden information to me. Maybe not to you, but to me.

Where I stayed Sunday night, the gentleman of the house makes these light people. Some small, some large. The arms move as desired by anyone willing to move them and shades can be replaced with any assorted varieties on the market. Shown above is what I would call a “jr” version. Don’t imagine walk-abouts are possible … meaning if the legs move or not … although I didn’t ask. My visit was brief and little time was spent discussing these wonderful wooden electric fancies.

I left Monday thinking over the light people. Once in the city, another 5 hours of round trip home-and-back driving was ahead before returning back. It’s all for a cause I lovingly believe in and a person who deserves the effort,… and more. She’s endured more than any of us could ever imagine.

It’s, simply, about seeing the light. New ways of understanding ourselves and the world. Suddenly, new bits of information come at us and we need to change how we “do us”. Hard lessons. Necessary square pegs we need to jam into our round brain holes.

Wherever you are, please take care of yourself. Get enough rest, food, water, and hugs. There are folks relying on you to stay healthy and happy. Be the best “you” you can be, please.

Look for special light in your life, too. You may be surprised. That light just may be a living, breathing person. In a pinch, a little wooden treasure south of Pittsburgh may suffice if needed. It certainly helped me understand a slice of my dutch apple pie a smidge better.

I saw the light. Go find yours.

70 Degrees and Flourescent

Really cool conversations can happen when we least expect them, right? Unforced words between strangers standing across from one another in an elevator hallway, for example, are times of unexplained awe-ness. I find these moments refreshing – which is why I take every opportunity to turn those awkward silences on their head. Any opening, any nugget or trait visible on which to latch, is a chance to learn about someone else’s day … life … struggle … happy dance they are living.

Can I do this all the time? No, of course. I do have situational awareness. Bad hair days and other leave-me-alone times are easily recognizable. Additionally, cell phone usage is close to 100% which makes the art of, say, elevator elocution nearly impossible. Nearly is not completely, however, and there are times when someone’s down can be reversed – albeit momentarily – inside a sterile, vertical, metal clangy people transport box.

I met a man. A pharmacist. Not so easily recognized as such because of all the files tucked under his arm covering a medical ID badge. The paperwork was thick. Responsibility as stocky as the inches of paper coming out of manila folders. He and I, both weary from a different set of burdens upon our shoulders inside a very busy hospital, stood waiting for the elevator to arrive.

This stand by, as I necessarily had to understand during the previous week, just is … There are three elevators in use for that particular wing, but only two are available for visitors, doctors, etc … The third is reserved for construction and maintenance folk.

At present, as was then, possessed elevator #2 sometimes feels going down takes higher priority, thus bypasses all going up button orders. Additionally, to the hospital’s credit, there is a standing rule everyone must exit the elevator if a patient – in whatever condition or transport – needs use of the elevator. All of this was going on as a slightly taller, same-aged man with a lot in his mind and I began a pleasant conversation while standing in a sterile, busy hospital hallway … waiting.

I began, “It looks like you may need to step outside for a few minutes. It’s a beautiful day. I think you have time … These elevators aren’t our friends again today.”

“I’d love to, but this is what I do …” as he used his head to direct my attention to the large stack of folders under his arms. “…All the time. Up and down. Trying to keep up with the demands of everyone.”

“I assume you are a doctor?… I have to apologize, but I am a piano-playing hot dawg salesman, so every white lab coat wearer I kinda start off with the doctor-thing…”

With a bit of a chuckle, he replied, “Well, I’m a pharmacist. These are all the orders I need to verify and check, … Always running floor to floor.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of work … especially with these wonky elevators.”

“Yeah”

“Gotta say, though, I’ve been over here four days now and am so impressed with all the work everyone has done with the reason I am here. Everyone doing the work most of us aren’t either willing, or capable, of doing. Thanks for what you do…”

“It takes a team working together … Not just one.”

“So, don’t you ever get a chance to step outside … enjoy even a few seconds of a nice August day like today?”

“Not really. So many floors are understaffed lately and I need to stay alert and inside. Besides, in here it’s always 70-degrees and flourescent.”

As he finished up that phrase, elevator #1 arrived. He and I tried to continue our conversation during a very brief ride to the third floor where he made a quick exit. I remember few words spoken while we rode rapidly from one to three. A few seconds inside a temperamental elevator didn’t allow for an overflow of information. We ended a very brief acquaintance as it began – surrounded by busyness and shuffles of dozens of white coats and scrubs.

This is the work life of one person … one pharmacist who can’t carve two minutes out of his day to enjoy a beautiful, sunny, warm August day. He’s a wonderful guy. I believe this. A few minutes and a few words … I know this to be the case. Health care, especially now, demands extra special people doing extra special things. He is one of them. He is, admittedly, one in a team.

Steady, consistent, … 70-degrees and flourescent, right? This is his environment. This is how he weathers through.

As I finished up yesterday – leaving the hospital after nearly a week of stress, exhaustion, driving, …. and all the tag-alongs that go along with caring for someone in the hospital, his settled phrase calmed my nerves. The empty wheelchair back in its place, my final steps back to the parking garage for a 2 hour trip home were slow and metronomic. I breathed in the 70-degree air one last time as I left the East Wing. Flourescent lights of UPMC Shadyside, Pittsburgh, in my body’s rearview one last time and a welcoming, very familiar, Honda only two floors up awaited my key.

I understand. Not everything is easy. This past week was extremely difficult. Decisions had to be made that were hard on everyone.

This is why I smoosh in friendly conversations everywhere I can. Invigorating talk-abouts with strangers – when appropriate – enliven my spirit. We have to talk to each other in order to keep ourselves alive. Words must flow back and forth – not solely over texts and voicemails.

I understood what helps my pharmacist friend get through his days. I know what helps me. 70-degree and flourescent isn’t my thing. Music, your interesting life in digestible pieces, sunny days in August, … and loving, caring people in my life all make my 24-7’s worth the wait.

… and holding back time in front of moody elevators a few days ago deserved my attention. He never knew my name. “Doug” was never mentioned and a distant memory that never was in his busy, overworked medicinal mind. As we spoke, he never moved the files from in front of his badge. I will never know his name, either. What a wonderful conversation, nonetheless.

Find a stranger today and say, “Hi!”, if you are comfortable doing so. I have some practice and very little shame 🤔 … Seriously, though, … If you can ask about their day, you’ll be surprised what most folks will tell you. Think about what you’d say if asked(?).. Look in the mirror and practice.

I have fun engaging with folks. It’s not always the way to enlightenment, but sure beats the downs in life, I say. Ride as many elevators you can with as many folks as possible for an uplifting experience. If you are adverse to that idea, but need a positive boost in life, look for the usual elevator alternative …

It’s not a moody elevator, but a step in the right direction, anyway.

15 Stones

We had a few minutes. Greta and I weaved our way through the maze that is Shadyside hospital in Pittsburgh. Outside, across from a large slowly rotating door, in “The Garden of Distinction”, we sat comfortably on a weathered wooden bench. Finally, after 48 hours of hospital air, a fresh August breeze filled our lungs.

It is a meditative rock garden. Greta spent little time reflecting upon her past two days, of course. Any thoughts of IV drips, nurses, needles, or pain most assuredly was there but didn’t require her attention. The focus was her art … Needing to express herself by creating something out of nothing.

And that she did.

I watched the process unfold. With no fancy pens or expensive supplies available at her patient, artistic insistence, stones warmed by a late August sun were just enough to give her all she needed.

Specifically chosen by shade, stones were placed in rows and columns – darker to lighter – 3×5 to finish. 15 stones. On the top rests, perhaps even now, a pebble man on a chair as this artistic piece was not dismantled upon our departure. As we left, she stopped a few paces down a pebbled path to pick up that pine cone to return and place it gently on the corner. “Now, it’s complete!”, may have been the phrase so happily smiling in her head at that moment? I can’t recall what she said then, but I’m aware she knew those 15 stones, a pebbled man, and a pine cone brought closure to a wonderful time in a garden.

Yesterday was hard. A day that was supposed to be full of smiles and music presented an empty stage and lots of tears instead. When the day nurse wrote 8/22 on the daily board, it was difficult to see in the context of medicines and dose schedules. August 22nd was not going to be wasted, however.

I asked Abbey, her very kind day nurse, if it was possible to go outside after Greta requested a meeting with sunshine and nature. She pleasantly agreed and made arrangements for us to begin our trek through the labyrinth that is Shadyside. (Full disclosure here, I wanted to head out the nearest exit with Greta and not come back …). Slowly we headed out of the room, down 7 floors, past the cafeteria, then the gift shop, a few short steps until reaching a long, majestic entrance/exit to the rotating door …

… Out to a small driveway – then to a very peaceful rock garden.

Something out of nothing. 15 stones. Art is there for us to interpret. She is an artist who created a small work of art – a man in a chair on top of 15 stones … with a pine cone. It remains there as evidence of her presence during a very difficult time. I have my private ideas about what this means to me and would encourage you to look at that picture to consider how a terminal cancer diagnosis would change your perspective.

Music is art as well. We lost yesterday’s chance. As an accompanist, I lost the opportunity to perform with one of the best vocalists ever. What I have, however, is something much better. Time in that garden.

During an afternoon when we should have been on stage in front of many friends, we sat alone among many stones in a meditative garden. I watched as she worked her artistry … I was accompanying her once again – just not how we planned.

All in all, I figure the day was a success after all. My ideas and thoughts about her little creation, again, will remain mostly private. What I can share, though, is this:

Appendix cancer took the concert away from her yesterday – 72 hours short of our goal. 15 stones may seem small and insignificant to many, however, to me they represent the rock star Greta will always be to me.