18 Letters

Today, January 18th is the day … in 2021. A Monday. A day set aside to honor Martin Luther King, Jr. M.L.K, for short. A man with 18 letters, side by side, forming his name. In his death, asking us to stand side by side in a dream against the backdrop of “withering injustice” and the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation 100 years prior. 18 letters on the 18th day. Wonderful.

“When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men – yes, black men as well as white men – would be guaranteed the unalienable rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”, Dr. King spoke on August 28, 1963 before an estimated 250,000 people at our nation’s capital.

Shameful as it is, I’ve never read his speech in its entirety. The soundbites provided by a well-rounded education and occasional nod throughout my adult life during the third Monday in January over the years have been my limited exposure. As I read his speech earlier today, there’s was phrase in the eighth paragraph that fully developed my attention: ” … remind America of the fierce urgency of now“. Maybe recent events – like January 6th on those very steps where Dr. King stood – have my antenna up higher. Possibly the struggles this past summer over George Floyd’s unfortunate death have my brain thinking differently? Whatever the cause, the effect was an increased urgency to read his words carefully and with purpose … especially that phrase.

It came after his statement above – the promise to all mankind … and the default of same. A default-default, in a sense, because he goes on to say the system wasn’t broken. Opportunity for freedom and the security of justice still remained. He saw a path toward justice for all people … ALL people … at his now. 1963. I was taken aback by this. In context, his words at this point are better understood, for me, than five soundbites for an eighth grade pop quiz before lunch period. Imagine being one of 250,000. Listening to “… Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time...” as you stood with your friends. So powerful, it must have been.

The next few paragraphs, although only 10 lines, express a heartfelt desire for peace in pursuit of reform. His respect for authority and the brotherhood of blacks and whites – “as evidenced by their presence here today” – should be emphasized by all teachers wanting to provide their students a fair and accurate representation of Dr. King’s remarks. He wanted, in his words, “dignity and discipline” in pursuit of “their destiny (which is) is tied up with our destiny.”

Six injustices follow: Police brutality, inequity in travel/lodging, housing, “whites only” discrimination, voting, and justice reform. Summarizing, he vindicatingly remarks, “You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.”. Never up to this point in the speech did he urge the individuals to violently protest the injustices that were certainly tearing apart their lives and communities. His words, carefully crafted, soothed rough edges of concern and distress. Restless, weary kin had enough and were tired. They marched for change. In the midst of fatigue, they stood and listened. Eyes half open. Exhaustion pulled heavy on their souls. Then it happened.

Then … Dr. King entered into their slumber. He had a vision. The sun broke free, people on that day tilted their heads upward, generations to come read words in history books, and the third Monday in January celebrates an 18 letter name:

“So even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream. I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day down in Alabama with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of interposition and nullification, one day right down in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers. I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.“

Less than 5 years later, he was gone. On April 4th, 1968 he was shot on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee. We know the story. A righteous man who never condoned violence died because of it. That isn’t an original observation, of course. I highly doubt that phrase wasn’t used days after the assassination. It’s just so appropriate, however. It rings true – as does this selection from his final remarks on that day in August of 1963:

“And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true. And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York. Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania. Let freedom ring from the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado. Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California. But not only that, let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia. Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee. Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.”

Allow me to finish with my own 18 letters: Today, read his speech.

… And, also give the final say, but never good-bye, to Dr. King himself: ” … And when this happens, and when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual: Free at last. Free at last. Thank God almighty, we are free at last.”

Wonderful. Simply, Wonderful.

Being Human

What is it about being human that’s so difficult?

I watch fellow and fellow-ettes stumble through the moments – distracted by life’s immediate concerns – surviving, it seems, to get to the next unchecked box … all the while piling this thought on top of the silent, maniacal agenda of one-thousand to-do’s inside my brain. We’re on the go. Constantly. Listening to the lists in our brains. The never ending go-heres and do-thats are always in control. We give them permission to spin our hamster wheel of time.

Today, on Facebook:

“What kind of crazy world is this? I had no time to check Facebook, text messages, or my email while in a fast food drive-thru line this afternoon. Five cars back from the order speaker when I pulled in the lot. I thought I had time. NOPE

After ordering, between that speaker and the pick-up window. I thought I had time. NOPE

At the pick-up window … PLEASE just ten seconds to check my texts? I thought I had time. NOPE

At least today, the efficiency of Taco Bell on Plank Road reminded me I rely waaaaay to much on my phone. One day. One day all of us may look up from our phones and notice someone may not be there … and say to ourselves, “I thought I had more time.”

I know these three burrito supremes by my side right now, texts, and social media misses may not seem so important then. I also am aware this isn’t an original thought – just a reminder our time is short and we should long for what is important in our lives: friends and family.”

I pulled over to write those words – seconds after a warm bag of burritos were handed to me through the Taco Bell window. Ironically, five small paragraphs into an impersonal cell phone. This very machine, so distractingly oblivious to my plea, rested comfortably in my hand. I was alone with human thoughts – as the overly used saying goes. Oh, and very hungry.

Go back to December, 2020. Psychology Today magazine published a small article written by Camilla Pang titled, “How to Be Human”. Whether it was the smell of Mexican fare sitting off to my right or the kindness of the young lady at the window only minutes prior, notions of humanity – that is, “being human” – struck my fancy. Specifically, Ms. Pang’s article flew back into my mind as I remembered her pose as well as the articulate, short column she wrote about relationships and chemical bonds.

Chris McAndrew, Psychology Today, December 2020

I see this look a lot. It’s so familiar. Being human, to most in my life, is responding non-verbally in this manner. The blank, unfazed, stare of unbelief … that is, a look of, “Did I just hear what I just heard?” … I almost always humbly interpret as, “That was so genius, I have no words …”. (Insert face plant emoji here). Seeing her face printed on the very last page of a periodical last month – inserted between a two minute read of humanism – left a mark on my memory that drippled on my lap today, over to my phone, now into a blog.

Being human means relationships with others. Therein lies the difficulty. Early on in life, Ms. Pang asked her mother “… whether there was an instruction manual for humans”, because she laughed when no one else did and specifics weren’t clear when others talked (“I’ll be back soon” … How soon?, she’d inquire). Through a battery of tests, she was diagnosed with ADHD, anxiety, and autism. As would be the case in her pursuit of a doctorate in bioinformatics, she dug into the science of relationships. That is, the chemistry supporting two people either dancing toward each other in a daisy field or lazily sipping octogenarian tea on a warm porch summer life look-back.

There are so many difficulties along the way. Ms. Pang doesn’t address those. She can’t, of course, in a one page article. Leading with her one challenge, however, was huge. Not being able to understand human relationships on an emotional level … well … who can, really? Her personal petri dish approach was perfect for her and, maybe, we can learn something.

She continues, “In terms of relationships, I think about chemical bonds. You can model the tightness, the flexibility, the distribution of effort in different contexts”.

Bear with me for a decades review of my Sophomore chemistry class. The classroom wasn’t very friendly to this, err, quite bored musician who – at best – only cared to know how to light the bunsen burner safely without planting classmates on the drop ceiling hanging above my less than patient foggy-goggle teacher. Covalent Bonds form when electrons are shared between atoms and are attracted by the nuclei of both atoms. In pure covalent bonds, the electrons are shared equally. Ionic Bonds are chemical bonds where two atoms or molecules are connected to each other by electrostatic attraction. Finally, Weak Force is a fundamental force of nature that underlies some forms of radioactivity, governs the decay of unstable subatomic particles such as mesons.

Ms. Pang parallels the above chemical bonds with relational bonds. Friendship and marriage being the Covalent Bond, of course … an equivalence and stability. An agreement between two people concerning who takes out the trash, scrubs the dried adult play-doh off the walls, babysits the kangaroo, and restacks all the oversized fuzzy dice toppled over from last night’s toga party. Ionic Bonds are fantastically intense and energetic … that moment when a complete stranger or lifelong friend trips over your shoelace, looks up with a grateful smile, silently thanking you for catching them mid-fall, … and you realize a frozen second’s time is a lifetime ahead for you to just hold that face in your heart. You don’t want to let go of their arm, but have to because another human saved them from themselves a while ago.

Instincts and gut feelings round out the three as Weak Bonds. Radioactive decay – manifesting as gas lighting and manipulation – create a very toxic environment and this is where being human is so difficult. As Ms. Pang ends the article, “…the relationships that don’t sit well in your stomach. Forces like those (three) can challenge your own evolution – whether you should stay put or leave. It’s not just about making bonds but also about breaking them and continuing to grow”.

So it comes down to this: “Should I stay or should I go?”, according to the 1981 English punk rock band, The Clash. Why bring this up? Did Ms. Pang? Nope. Highly doubtful she knows the band or the song and I’m quite sure the line, “This indecision’s bugging me”, part way through would drive her a bit buggy. I also am not sure she knows the English line, “Bond, James Bond”. James, chemistry, double-oh-seven, or investment grade triple A … all bonds aren’t the same.

I see the bonds we make on a larger scale. Being human gives us opportunity to bond with our opinions about politics, religion, evolution, immigration, universal healthcare, capital punishment, gun control, animal rights, vaccines, … really anything that has two sides. We develop an emotional connection with our opinions – to a fault – and this is where there’s a slight separation from Ms. Pang. Not from her three chemical swabs in the lab, but in their application. Her thesis connects two people, mine connects one human to an opinion. At no time in our history more glaring than the past few months.

Some have a very strong Covalent Bond to their opinion. They’re married to it for life. No amount of logical, sane, calming, influential, reasonable dialogue will ever convince them to leave that matrimonial commitment to their ideals. Those ideals, in return, provide them a sense of comfort through others who feel exactly the same way.

An Ionic opinion bond happens when a person of one political, religious, or social crowd is convinced, suddenly, by the power of his or her peers, to join the majority because “it’s the right thing to do for the good of (insert higher cause here)“. Majority defined, of course, by only that influencer, not by science.

Lastly, the difficult Weak Bond. The toughest among the relational bonds and the boldest and bravest to exercise on the list of opinion-bonds as well. Recognizing the opinion that doesn’t sit right in your stomach … the gut feeling that won’t go away every time an influencer of ill-will tempts you to say and/or do something quirky … that “uh-oh” kinda red light blinking in front of your conscience … should be the warnings to walk away.

Ms. Pang’s final words challenge our own evolution and put us in charge of the same. We’re human, after all, and are bound to our opinions and relationships until we decide to change them. Both are a hamster wheel. Constantly difficult and always on the go. I know of no human who doesn’t struggle with life at some level. Just today, I met a young lady who was distraught over the impending death of her dear mother – who thought she had time.

Sharing those few moments is humanism at its most raw form and was a time of Covalent Bonding between two strangers who are now friends. No opinions exchanged. Just emotions shared.

Sometimes being human is nice.

Axes and Ohs

Brian extended a very kind gesture toward me today. “Who’s Brian?”, you ask. He owns a local axe throwing house close by. I met him eight months ago during a casual hour of moderately sharp tool-tossing after a five-minute introductory session. Underhanded, over-toss, … certainly not sideways, and – for sure – the forbidden backward mistake throws were all covered by his trainers. In front of me stood the forbearing circles of unproven manhood I was to carefully consider without stepping beyond lines at my toe tips. The only caveat was allowing axes to be thrown by all before retrieving mine. As an aside here, I’ve had knives in my back, figuratively, but would know to wait … (darn insurance company regulations require the disclaimer, probably). Oh, and did I mention alcohol is allowed as well? Yes, BYOB in an axe-throwing building.

Alcohol and axes. Local Paul Bunyons and their Big Barcelo Rums chasing the blues away in a small city block building close to a set of railroad tracks near Altoona, PA. Brian runs his business quite well. It’s as professional as any I’ve seen – for this type. Granted, how many mildly-blunt forestry implement flinging establishments have I been in? One. His. Every precaution has been taken for the safety of his guests. There’s sign-in ahead with call-in appointments recommended and professional staffing from entrance to exit.

Two weeks prior to my visit, Brian stopped by my concession stand to introduce himself. Why not, right? At that time, I was only a few blocks away and surely scents dancing on air – from the finest sausage grease and hamburgers in town – caught his nose-tice. Simple marketing. Meet-and-greet as we used to say pre-internet. Being not overbearing or abrasive, he became an instant friend of mine. I didn’t pretend, or assume, we’d immediately start to attend family goldfish burials together or send holiday cards back and forth, however. It wasn’t a bromance in the brew pot … just a real nice guy.

As the weeks continued on from there, I would look out my concession window and see Brian order two hot dawgs once a week – no onions. “Hey, how’ve you been?” moments in passing … hoping each one of us respond with positive reports. We did, then moved on with our next six days or so.

Today I noticed his company vehicle pull up – which, of course, wasn’t unusual. I knew fresh hot dawgs were grilled up ready to go with his favorite chili-cheese steaming in the cooker. Before I had a chance to ask how things were, he set a hefty box on the cold serving counter just outside my window.

“Here, Doug. This package is for you!”, he gleamingly gave voice to his benevolent demeanor. Stunned, I noticed a rather plain box with the words: Exterior String Lights, 49 Feet.

He continued, “A buddy and I came by the other night and measured the exterior of your trailer. There are enough lights to go around here …”, he continued, pointing excitingly to the far left side, “…all the way across the front, around the end then behind. All the sides cars will see you in the dark. Those nights when you are open, hopefully these will help you get some increased business, right?”. I, in a breathless manner, replied, ” Uh, yeah …”

“I’m sorry, Brian. I’m at a loss for words. Thank you so much. Let me pay you for these”.

“Absolutely not. And we’ll let it go at that.”

“Ok. At least allow me to give you these two dawgs for free?”. He agreed.

I was taught to accept gifts with gratitude and compliments with grace. Both, when done with sincerity, are given from a kind and gentile place. Brian, in that moment, exemplified his kindness toward me. I accepted – with a little push-back, of course, because I’m Doug.

Two weeks ago, Brian came by – at night – and apparently made a mental note that my exterior trailer space is dark. Save a few small lantern lights setting on the very shelf he placed his wonderful gift today, the customer experience after sundown is less than ideal. I have certain priorities – exterior lighting hasn’t been one of them. My casual friendship to Brian was a priority to him during this past week and I am indebted to his goodwill. He lit up my emotional small 160 square feet footprint today.

In a few days, I’ll be able install these lights. For now, Axes and Ohs go out to you, Brian. You threw one and hit dead center today, my friend.

Sensational Swashbuckling, 2021

2020 was not, for sure. 1954 – the backdrop year of this surprisingly wonderful film – was for a few characters … especially Bengy Stone, who was assigned the unenviable task of looking after swashbuckling matinee idol Alan Swann. Thirty-six years removed from the previous pandemic (in movie time) and directed by Richard Benjamin thirty-nine years behind this current masking society (in real time), “My Favorite Year” is close to my favorite slice of time so far in 2021.

I first met Richard Benjamin during a Tonight Show re-run a few nights ago. He was, in a word, delightful. His appearance came a few months prior to the release of this film, of course … as all appearances by actors and directors dutifully promoting their wares – sitting to the right of the King of Late Night – did at the time. One mention of Peter O’Toole is all it took for me to begin Netflixing my way through movie queues soon thereafter. A few dollars later, there it was. A movie, previously unknown to me, now beginning as a young Mark Linn-Baker carries a cardboard cutout of Alan Swann through the heavy pedestrian traffic of NYC toward 30 Rockefeller Center. A New York City full of life, energy, and humor.

Bengy is who you would expect him to be – a young, energetic fellow who has quirky, humble comedic tilts in his personality. As a writer among others supporting a one hour t.v. Comedy Hour, he’s under pressure to be funny, yet sympathetic to the bigger egos in the room. None bigger than the soon to be inserted Mr. Swann who, we are quick to learn, has a leaning toward wine and women, – both of which cause highly predictable delays in morning arrivals. This being the case, Bengy volunteers to be a swashbuckler’s man-nanny for the week, guaranteeing safe travels within the city and promptness at all rehearsals.

As with all movies that keep our attention and are entertaining, there are sub-plots and curves here. A small romance, a mafia tie-in that culminates in a “hit” at the end, and charming individual character flaws all come together to make this movie really fun to watch.

Obviously, I’m not a professional movie reviewer. I wouldn’t even qualify to carry the briefcases of Siskel & Ebert from their limo to the Oscars if they were alive today. How to accurately convey the pleasure I got out of watching a thirty-nine year old movie without giving away most of the surprise? I don’t know. Peter O’Toole was wonderful. The story wasn’t campy or overplayed by anyone. The premise wasn’t too far reaching … it could actually be true and believable should an actor relay such a story in an autobiography.

What I kept thinking after the movie credits was: How ironic the title.

Nine days into 2021, and I’ll go back to my first line … 2020 was not, for sure. Maybe I simply needed a 1 1/2 hour hero to jump out of the screen and save me from the bad news of last year. A surprise visitor. Someone different with a message I hadn’t heard in a while – even if it was a fantasy. A swashbuckler slaying all the badness one by one.

I related so well to Bengy. Maybe that’s it. Trying to get through with a bit of quirkiness, dealing with egos much greater than I … making it work, somehow.

That’s what most of us are doing. We don’t have a say beyond our own words. Too many have platforms and audiences greater than ours … probably.

I can’t say 1954 was my favorite. Pre-birth years don’t qualify. Now, 1982 does have significance – it set me on my life’s journey after high school. Not my favorite, though. Up to now, I don’t have one, really. Should I?

Should you? When Norman Steinberg and Dennis Palumbo wrote the story for My Favorite Year, I wonder if 1954 was theirs? Marilyn Monroe married Joe DiMaggio, the Oscar Mayer hotdog car was patented, and Rock Around the Clock was recorded by Bill Haley and the Comets that same year. If you were to write a movie, what year would you pick?

Tell you what year I wouldn’t pick. 2020. Unless the horror genre is your thing, I wouldn’t recommend it for you either. The only advice I will give you is: find a few moments aside to watch this movie. Yes, it’s 39 years old. Sure, there are better “made” movies that will sparkle your special-effects fantasies. However, for a refreshing start to your 2021, sit back and go back sixty-seven years to a NYC full of life, liberty, happiness, joy, …. and most of all – humanity.

As Siskel & Ebert would lovingly say, “See you at the movies!”

Mother Hubbard is Crackers

This morning’s breakfast fare started with two Full Circle Market Organic Classic Round crackers … and, as of this point in time, ended there. I’m out of options with my favorite hotel cafe closed on Saturdays and Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboards open, but as the poem goes, “the poor Doug has none”.

Anticipating no baker, fruiterer, alehouse, or undertaker in my future … no tailer, cobbler, sempstress, or hosier, the remaining three hours of my day before opening my business look to be quite cravingly mad. Throw me a bone here, please. I’ll take anything.

Sarah Catherine Martin, to whom that poem is attributed, could walk through my office doors at this moment. Unless she’s carrying a tray full of bacon, rye toast, … a chocolate Clif bar, two over-easy eggs, and two glasses of iced tea, I’m not interested in what a two-hundred and fifty-two year old woman has to say. Granted, it’d be nothing short of a Guinness World Record miracle to have such a bicentennial-plus moment here in my humble hovel, however, I need food in my groveling belly.

I’ll survive. As they say, “such a first world problem”. A small trip down the road to one of many grocery stores – full to the ceiling with food – would work all this out. My beat up Honda doesn’t have to disengage as I have the option to casually drift through a drive-thru as well. Both of these choices, unfortunately, require I step out. Step out of very comfortable material surroundings such as the cotton garments keeping my apologetically happy appendages warm at the moment. Twenty-five degrees with a slight breeze outside. Yes, I’m not one to step out into that weather at the moment.

There was a time when cold and hunger didn’t matter. Youth and inexperience colored in the pictures – between the lines drawn by warmth and the need for nutrition. Days without a nugget or morsel tapping around in my belly were common. By choice, mind you, I pushed forward motivated by the words of Zig Ziglar and Earl Nightingale. These men didn’t advocate starvation as a means to an end, of course. I was busy making sales calls, talking to prospects, enjoying my work … that’s all. Youthful exuberance shuffling along with a fantastic company environment. Ah, the late-twenties and mid-thirties in our lives, right?

Enter Old Mother Hubbard in the winter of 2021. Bifocal nose-sliding syndrome is upon me as we speak, the back tweak has returned after a two day respite, my arms are sore after yesterday’s 7-hour work day, and quite honestly, I’ve had just about enough of this year already … with 357 days to go. I’ve gained three pounds since January 1st and since unfollowed a lot of folks on Facebook. Engaging, enlightening political conversations with friends and family aren’t happening anymore and eggshells are strewn everywhere I trod. Looking down at the slight pudge below, my core may be labeled certifiably, organically classic round … just like the box says. “Perfect for Entertaining”?, well … don’t know about that.

The local and national world I live in is crackers. I’m just one of many varieties. Organic classic round as it turn out to be. Tomorrow? Who knows. Would love to be Ritz. Hey!! Speaking of that, I bought a Mega-Millions ticket last night. Better go check the numbers. Odds are pretty good I didn’t win and will be sitting here tomorrow, again, in my cotton clothes wondering if Sarah Catherine Martin ever considered a career in food service. She’d make a great cracker salesperson.

Find Your Light

“The breeze inside isn’t a warm summer facial this time of year. As I stand in between two open windows preparing the day’s food, this concession trailer reminds me what its version of comfortable means. Ventilation is required as burgers, sausage, and dawgs fill the inside air with smokey droplets that need an escape. As much as I need an escape from life’s troubles these days, these little white buggers need it more. With that, I must endure being uncomfortable for a time as the winter breeze cuts across my grill watching face.”

That paragraph was constructed inside my head hours ago. I now sit – past the hours of a lunch rush crowd pushed against one of those windows – within the eight feet expanse where there’s no longer a breeze. Windows shut. Heaters on. No more smoke … for now.

If you had a chance to look in my wordpress queue, however, you’d find plenty of drafts. Thirty-eight to be exact. Three of them enlisted within the past two days. Not-so-a-musings I decided not to publish because there’s too much negativity out here in opinion land. They were stilted on two very unsteady subjects these days: politics and religion. The amens and amen-dments we were told to stay away from … with good reason. I felt horrible energy flow through my body simply typing in the words.

One post did get through, however. “It Can Be So Simple” was my response to a rather nasty comment directed at me through social media. That done, I’m over it like melted cheese on a juicy, hot angus burger. No more bitter apples to chew on while getting hooked into someone else’s can of worms. I’m done.

I care about lighter things. Jokingly, but not dismissivly, puppies and rainbows have been outflowing from my mouth lately, figuratively speaking (true magic would be the only other way). Happy, non-human delicious things of this world are capturing my attention.

Thinking, two-legged, top-of-the-food -chain breathers – like me – well, we’re not doing ourselves a whole heap of good these days. Heavy, laboring diatribes … expected to move mountains of opposing opinions … are only echoing in the valleys of similar ones. To argue for arguments sake is the tag line of every Facebook post headline. Lighten up, I say. Only a suggestion.

Fo me, I’d rather look up … and see the light.

Glenn Davis, Photographer – with my thanks to the Mishler Theater, Altoona, PA as well

Isn’t this magnificent! Take a minute, or two, and … just … look at it.

Only ten minutes drive from where I sit, and a few feet above where I sat as music director for shows in this spectacular, historic landmark, … this! A brilliance I don’t want to describe too much due to your imagination being foremost in my mind. Let the limited dimension of that picture take you to unlimited, non- political, a-theistic universes where no judgements upon you will be administered. You are allowed that space … and time.

Why? Last year was a mess. The past seven days of 2021 haven’t done any of us any favors either. Those aren’t negative words (as I promised I wouldn’t write), they’re simply facts – truths to support why we need puppies, rainbows, and a lot more light in the world right now.

The Misher has been dark for a while due to covid restrictions. My friend, Glenn Davis, gave me permission to post his photograph because he’s a kind man … a light among men. A human who, in the midst of all this, saw that light and shared it with the world.

Find your light and share it. If it’s a candle, however, beware of any draft. They’re nasty this time of year.

It Can Be So Simple

It could have been so simple. A private message from this now-unfollowed, blocked non-human person on Facebook would have settled the matter. Instead, she decided a personal attack was the best route toward understanding … a destination where she had no intention of meeting me. Adult, mature conversations, apparently, aren’t part of her world.

I was wrong. Posting an opinion, I guess. Sure, it was opposite her view. Yes, the issue at hand was – and still is – a rather hot potato still rapidly transfering between millions of satirists and social media warriors. Today, as thousands protested in Washington, was not the day for me to postulate. ‘My bad.

Emotions are high. Reason and logic? Way down on the list of to-do’s for those not only in our nation’s capital, but also the keyboard strokers who are, themselves, marching ahead toward justice through their words. In my haste, I joined in ever so briefly. One comment.

A mistake in timing … and also in fact. I meant to type in one thing, however, another ended up so unfortunately being posted. By the time I realized my error, that comment above meteorically flamed in. Adulting as one would, I quickly replied back to her my intentions assuming I had time to, then, go back and correct the errors. Her second reply solidified my future unfollowing: “I stand by my opinion!” …

See, here’s where we are. An attack on one’s character is so easy anymore. To consider an opposing point of view and respond in a mature way is so 2019 (skipping over 2020 for obvious reasons). I’m not so sure we were too together back then, but certainly closer than we are now. In an effort to bridge the gap between my over-expectations now and the reality back then, I posted the following this evening:

“I postulated an opinion that – as it turns out – was in error. My facts were wrong. Before having a chance to correct myself, this (insert above) was immediately placed under my comment. I replied in an adult manner, still thinking I was correct, of course. This person, in reply, stood by her comment. I lost my cool and sent additional words I immediately regretted then deleted. Giving her a pass I shouldn’t do by deleting her name, I sure hope your disagreeing with an opinion doesn’t also turn into a direct insult on someone’s character. Yes. Today is a tough day. This still doesn’t warrant any personal attacks – especially on a social media forum. Call them in person or take a stand in front of them face to face. Have an adult conversation. “I was wrong.” are the greatest words in our language. These six words below (you are actually so freakin stupid) get us nowhere. I choose the three now and always because they are most honest at times. The latter? … I don’t own.”

Do I believe I’m stupid? Nope. Not at all. The adverb, “actually” when used can mean something written that is surprising. Yes, I was surprised by the quickness in her so obvious knee-jerk reaction and callous regard for introspection and foresight. She didn’t even have the bravery to type (with my apologies ahead here) fucking – resorting to “freakin”, a lady like choice of appellation … so sarcastically uncharacteristic of her true, obvious classy self. Polishing off the retort with stupid. Really? THAT’S the chosen word? Not slow-witted, foolish, or ignorant?

Why did she stomp on my 3rd to last left over 2020 nerve tonight? Because she doesn’t care to know my back story … my life. Nobody really knows anyone’s real story anymore. In fairness to her that she doesn’t deserve, I don’t know hers either. If she, in some repentant form, shows up at my doorstep some calm evening, I will talk with her side by side. I will neither give her permission to talk down to me, nor insult my intelligence with six additional words of attempted humiliation. It could be adulting 101 – something 2021 may have in the curriculum.

These pages are usually reserved for puppies and rainbows. For two minutes tonight, as I found myself tossed among the newsfeed and poked-political commentary concerning the Electoral College voting in the Senate, my pages on Facebook distracted me away from happy colors and purring pets. Sadly. Fingers typed anxious thoughts – in error – into a small cellular device causing my stomach to swirl just as it did decades ago. Words spoken in haste and error from someone who loved me, yet continually told me I was … “stupid”.

Those resurrected feelings are lifetime deal-withs. Tastes and smells a man never forgets. A man older, now, than the man who said that word back then. This man who has a wonderful relationship with his dad because forgiveness is a tremendous attribute. That forgiveness is real. He knows it. I know it.

Just so happens, the Forrest Gump syndrome runs up my emotional lane and “stupid is as stupid does” irrationality deposits itself on my heart. When mistakes happen, I can’t correct them in time, and then am insulted … the person who abuses me with words can be unfriended.

This simple click vanishes them from my virtual life, for sure. It’ll take a few days for the dust to settle otherwise because I am who I am. Understanding myself – even over a goofy post – is huge in living a balanced life.

Know your backstory well. Also, if available, get to know someone else’s story before deciding to make a judgement call on their character. Sure, disagree with them based on their opinions (maybe stay away from politics right now …) and talk recipes, restaurants, or kangaroos. Really, this is loving your neighbor – not shouting out to the social warriors you’re convinced they’re “actually so freakin stupid”.

None of us are “in this together” as claimed if all we do is make the divides already here larger. It can be so simple.

Welcome Back, Mom

I’ve been at this a short time. Since October of 2019, to be more precise. Millions of other bloggers dutifully write words of greater depth on this day and have done similar, marvelous posts on days going back further than that. Year over year, they tell their individual stories. I walk along side some of them as they silently speak of their beautiful journeys. They are we-blog folks. Simple people who have something special to say on a particular day.

At the time of this post, there are an estimated 500 million blogs. Logging on the web, back in 1994, was a portal for Justin Hall and Peter Merholz who became quasi-household names to all the bloggers yet to come. Pioneers are they. The former considered the “founding father” of personal blogging and the latter who coined the term, “blog”. Technological credits aside – available for anyone willing to do the additional research – I’m simply amazed – after fifteen months of experimental digitry on my Dell keyboard and Samsung phone, primitive observational photographic skills, and basic grasp of grammar rules – I have followers of one kind or another. Either through email or a simple follow button, there are those of you out there in the blogosphere who enjoy reading my words.

We don’t say “thank-you” enough these days. Out of half-a BILLION blogs, you’ve chosen this one to read. Thank-you.

…and thank you, 2021. What for? Returning a little bit of normal to me I thought I lost months ago during a tempestuous, emotional 2020.

We didn’t lose mom in 2020. She died in 2012. Part of what she left behind was her music. Not just all the piano music I get a chance to play, but also her iPod Shuffle and various other devices with music downloaded she listened to while undergoing chemo treatments. I’m not sure my siblings, or my dad, miss mom the same way I do. We’re all different. We mourn her loss differently – even eight years, four days later. Pianistic connections are hard to let go between a son and mother. Duets played side by side, deeply felt, are not easily let go – and shouldn’t be. Remembering hearts entwined, while playing thousands of pinochle hands on cold winter evenings, trump this sad feeling of not having her around to help me deal with her absence across the table from me.

Facing another year without someone like her is hard. If you’re sitting with me, you know the fondness without the company of that person. A mom, dad, son, daughter, friend …they’re all so uniquely important to us. A memory just isn’t enough most times. We can pretend a sign from above is enough – and it is for the moment. But when that person is no longer here in person to give us a hug, or tell us they love us no matter what, we feel less-full, less-complete. Holidays, especially, are tough. Mom’s cookies. Dad’s Christmas traditions … all so important to us, right?

Here is 2021. Geesh, are we glad it’s here, or what? The election season was anfractuous. Yes, anfractuous, and as of this day, still hasn’t settled into a direct line toward a calm inauguration. The pandemic, of course, virtually split everything into parts previously unknown for a century. Racial tensions pulled apart our country. What a mess we were … and continue to be. How about we simply acknowledge a lot happened we weren’t too happy about and, privately, mourn our losses? If you suffered a tragedy, please accept my sincere condolences. 2020 wasn’t kind. “Happy New Year!”, I guess.

Mom didn’t need to be alive for any of this. It’s fortunate she isn’t around. There are too many people to hug and not enough time in the day for her. Distancing away from her family would be too much – as it is for so many other families – and not being able to be her wouldn’t be any kind of life.

Cancer sucks. The day she died, however, was one of my best days. I’ve said this since that sad March day in 2012. My biggest crutch in life was kicked out from under me. I had to grow up and become an adult on that very day. Losing her earbuds last year still hurt, however. Listening to music through her ears since she died was one of my connections. When they went missing, I lost a part of my mom. Last year took so much from so many, yet misplacing a simple pair of earbuds, to me, was living the 14th floor of UPMC Altoona’s palliative care wing all over again.

The connection was lost. I lost a small part of mom. Efforts to find failed. Drawers, closets, cars, clothes, etc … nowhere to be found. With regret and sadness, I gave up. Times of late night music sessions only for my ears silenced. I didn’t want to buy a replacement. There was no other. I know this sounds goofy, perhaps a bit featherbrained, but tickle my fancy and go with the emotional-logic here: there IS no emotional-logic. Replacing the earbuds meant I was, in a mystifying way, replacing my dear mom.

I don’t believe in signs from above. If there’s a divine being up there, I think there’s a better way to send us signals than birds and cloud shapes. I don’t know what I don’t know, so I’m always open to learning, however. Whatever urged these wonderful little earbud-dies of mom’s to show back up in my life yesterday … thank-you. Yes, they were jammed under the sofa … no surprise there because I probably hobbled them under there a while back flirting around doing something else.

As I type, for the first time in months, music flows again through my ears. Mom lives again. I’m listening to the top hits of 2020. Everything’s back to normal. Kinda. Still have a way to go because hanging close by are six masks and a schedule adjusted for semi-lockdowns and virtual teaching.

I’m thankful and grateful I can write along with my 500 million friends … and have something special to say on this particular day. Unique, to me, of course because of all the problems in the world lately, I may have been the only one who lost his earbuds within the past 6 months. Small in comparison to others’ tremendous losses this past year, my experience was, nevertheless, real to me … and heartfelt.

As I close, “Memories” by Maroon 5 finishes up on the playlist. Again, no pointing upward or sideways to a divine interventionist. I’m simply going to stop typing, sit back, and listen to the words. Thankful, for one last time, mom is talking to me again. Welcome, 2021.

Froliday

Love or hate. Toss portmanteaus aside into mental bins where other words you don’t use reside; or, embrace them everywhere you see such words as brunch and spork. Two separate becoming one new. A concept once reserved for marital bliss also now used for stabbing peas and scooping mashed potatoes. Marvelous.

My portmanteau for this season is froliday. The urban dictionary defines it as a merging of friendship and holiday. That is, a recurring, significant date between friends. I don’t agree. Especially now, the day after January 1st – a Friday – when this particular 24 hour span seems like a Sunday, but is a Saturday. The same weirdo Serling event happened last week as the Christmas holiday fell on Friday, the 25th. These Friday holidays mess everything up. Chief among them, my weak-end mind.

These every-so-often Frolidays are not right. Frankly, of all the laws Washington should consider, I’d be in favor of them passing a “No Holidays on Friday” bill. I’m not twisting a Scrooge-screw here or waving a white flag, … just move the days July forth or back to another day so I can get my Saturdays straight in my head. Certainly you can get behind me here?

C’mon now. As sure as I type, didn’t you once think, “What day is it?” today? Maybe said it out loud into the mirror as you shaved Christmas and New Year’s stubble off your face, or ran ruby red lipstick around once cookie ravaged lips? Holidays, in general, mess us up. Gets us all off our routines, anyway. Hygiene, diets, school, work, … all of it off the rails – and THEN we have to smoosh in remembering a day-after Saturday?

Too much, I say. Weekday holiday, then another weekday after? Yep. Good to go. This three-syllable, gobsmack day after, twice happening letdown that happens roughly twelve percent of the time has to be removed … permanently. How and by what means other than an act of Congress, I’m not sure.

Very few things I’m sure of lately, that’s for sure. How about you? Two days into a new year and to quote one of my favorite comedians “You’re doin’ good!”. Tom Papa nails it. We’re hanging in there with what we’re dragging into this new year. Nothing really changed except the date. If we have a few extra pounds flipping us out, they’re still here. Goofy co-workers sit close by, possibly virtual, and can be just as annoying as they were only days ago. Looking back to the 2020 work-a-day world a few breaths back, I see nothing different today, really.

Not to say we can’t have hope, however. We are doing good if we have hope in what this year will bring. Not false hope. Going back to the moon or becoming a movie star does not a bucket list make. Hope that a hug from someone you love will finally arrive at your doorstep. Hope for a better job you’ve been working hard to get. Hope for small, measurable upticks in your healthy lifestyle so well deserved from early morning jogs and disciplined eating. These are doable, wonderful hope-for soul stuffers.

It’s all what we work and hope for that makes all the difference. If we remember we’re doin’ good – new year or not – we’ll be just fine.

I hope to never again have a Froliday (as I believe it to be) in my life, yet I know this will never be a reality. I must begin to agree with the times and seek out a friend with whom I can have a significant, urban, holiday date. Whoever this happens to be, I hope said individual understands if our anniversary falls on a Friday, I will be understandably absent from the celebration. Saturday following is iffy as well due to my believing it is a Sunday. It’s all messed up, you see.

So glad I have a portmanteau to keep it all straight. Or, do I?

Guys Who Cook

I run a concession stand, but don’t really cook. Sure, every week there are quarts upon quarts of very fine chili sauce marinating upon my stove – though I don’t consider that cooking. Anyone can mix up their grandmother’s tomato base, special spices, ground beef, and onions recipe in a stainless pot … turn the burner dial to medium/low heat, … to free the simmer-scent from its previously packaged existence. Right? One of my good days, casually placing meat on a grill, or condiments in a bun, doesn’t top off a Gordon Ramsay measuring cup bad day. There are guys who cook-cook, and then there’s … me.

I’m not a guys’ guy, either. In the outdoors checklist of life, there’s empty boxes beside camping, fishing, hunting, hiking, mountain biking, llama-sighting excursions, white-water rafting, or rock climbing. I have one vice in storage we found in my grandfather’s toolshed when cleaning out his estate; therefore, you can accurately assume no tobacco or alcohol products have danced across my lips (save the one drag at age twelve and once a year if that wine cooler). It’s a life.

To be honest here, I do give in to a risk/reward obsession. This is the one clamp around my personality I call a life. Casinos, pre-pandemic, and more than occasional stops to the local convenience store – during our viral experience these days – is what checks my boxes. Yep, there are way too many slips of paper and cardboard squares in my past with losing numbers on them. It’s my go-to for semi-validation, probably, and entertainment. All of us do what we do every day … week … to get by. Understanding ourselves is the key. Let’s not do a nasty on our back and pretend it’s a nice spring rain. This was my 2020. It was, I’m sure, a lot of our 2020’s.

I’ve known about my tilt into financial risk taking. I survive by taking those chances. Some work out, some don’t. They’re calculated, yet chancy, and I don’t ever place anyone in harm’s way. Nearly two-thirds the way through a life of wonderful experiences, I’m still here celebrating on the first day of a new year. You are still surviving a life you choose to live, too – with your faults and vices in tow as well.

Maybe you’re cooking today. I’m not. Guys that can are dutifully carving up delicious meats and smiling over stew pots as evidenced by my social media feed pictures. I am envious. I sit here writing words while friends internally glance over memorized recipes in their manly brains. Seasoned pork, shrimp skewers, taters my mom wouldn’t even try, silvery cutlery embedded in meatloafs and pies … all reaching out, yet ungrabable by me. A semi-opened bag of nacho chips within reach here my only friend at the moment. Wanting more is risky. A risk even I cannot take due to the, now, beginning icy road conditions and, additionally, I have some – but no exacting idea – where any of these culinary masters live. (As an aside, the uninvited issue wouldn’t bother me. Maybe them. Not me.).

The early afternoon hours of a new year bring renewed thoughts of community. A time of honesty about ourselves, others, and where we are, especially beginning in 2021, seems so appropriate.

I saw a quote run through the comment section of a friend’s post this morning: “How uncomfortable are you willing to be, so that someone else can feel comfortable?”. This gets right to the point of us – together – as a community. If we’re to be honest with ourselves, are we doing what we need to do for the benefit of someone else? What risks are we willing to take on to benefit someone else? Is unease an ingredient we’re willing to mix in to our recipe of compassion for others?

All pretty deep questions during a day when empty bottles are still rattling around on the table and paper party hats hang from lamp shades even now calmly warm from early morning festivities. Gangs of loved ones celebrating the end of a simple December day. None of us know what this new year will bring. We want nothing special from the fourth digit flip of a zero to a one, other than no more pain and suffering in the lives of those we love. Belonging to us is the hope of a new year crowded with hugs and smiles in person – not millions of 1’s and 0’s transmitting faster than a Covid-19 virus in an empty grandparent’s holiday home or local family restaurant.

The purpose here isn’t to unmask any answer. I don’t have the Gordon Ramsay magic and, thankfully, his colorful language to shock you into a new way of thinking. No meme, cute saying, or puppy/santa picture (although I do have one queued up) elegantly inserted here will either erase your memories of last year, or have you take the next happy exit ramp. Today is Friday, January 1st, 2021. “One day at a time.” is about all I can drop into the party, unannounced.

…which is really what I’d like to do soon as I’m getting hungry and there’s at least a dozen guys who can cook close by. Ah, but I do have a few other options. Friends. Friends who UberEats. I’ll allow them the pleasure through “contractual risk transfer” – despite the possibility that they’ll never know a contract exists. A simple knock and a nod blocks away by a friend could return pork and shrimp back to me. I have ways of finding addresses previously unknown. Little risk / yummy rewards. Well, I may lose a friend in the process, which would be sad. I have to think how uncomfortable I am willing to be … in order … “. Oh man! The trap we set by our own words. How about I simply invite my friends over soon to my concession trailer for a burger, or cheese-steak? At least I know I can cook those.

Start this new year knowing who you are and who you can help. Two really cool commodities that may serve you well going ahead into a time of perfect uncertainty. Level off your measuring cup and stay calm. If you’re a guy who can cook, hat’s off, my friend. Please post pictures for me to see with an address to avoid my searching google maps and, by all means, leave the front door open. I don’t want to lose any friends.