The Potter

“So now what?”, said Clay to the potter. A fair question. After all, Clay didn’t ask to be thrown on the potter’s wheel. Minding his own since the creation of time, the situation, now, is quite different.

Clay was only recently unearthed and his question was warranted. Very justified, to be sure. He was taken from his millennial friends whom he met as they passed by in the cold stream nearby. A place called home where small shiny fish swam in the riffle pockets swirling around glossy green pebbles. Familiar and predictable. Nature’s pathway to eternal growth, for Clay, seemed no more.

Finding his way back would be futile. There really was no return. The potter determined Clay’s fate with the first thrust of a generational, rusty shovel. Into the bucket he fell .. and unknown future.

The future needed to survive came from his tears – which were beginning to run dry after hours inside this pale yellow tin prison. Cracks never known before began to appear on his face as an original deep, rich hue changed to a pale, inanimate tan. As each moment passed, life affirming oxygen swirled still … stale, dormant inside. Darkness cut off the sunlight. With each sway – as he was carried away from his familiar – came less hope of ever being his familiar self again. Despair. Alone in a circular world of alien metal and foreign feelings.

A short distance away was the potter’s home. Extending from the porch a worn path of stones placed years ago by a loving great-grandfather. For this house was generationally bound to the present with each and every new step taken by his heirs. The dirty prints atop each stone remained as gifts paid forward to the next one blessed to have walked in his footsteps.

At the far end of the simple ranch house, a small wooden, simply-framed building stood in contrast to the house itself. Unconnected, it stood with four walls reaching up to form a slightly leaning roof front-to-back and also inside-to-upside. From age, not design, the roof leaned in a peculiar way. In one corner, rain water collected. Surely not the original intent … for there was no apparent way for the water to drain. Repairs seemed necessary, but not a priority. Whatever the cause, intent, or resolution, from inside a rusty old bucket, none of this mattered.

There was no revelation for Clay. No way of knowing. Cut off from what he knew, currently in a dark scary space, unaware of the future he could not see … fate dealt a massive blow.

Then the swaying stopped.

Silence.

What was to be? An end finally here? Motionless alarm.

At last in the distance a trickle. At first he wasn’t sure, but as it continued, he knew the sound. Suddenly, it was music so familiar a joy .. and then an immediate hope infused with water saturated his soul. The moment became momentarily possible as the still rusty bucket started to fill around him with precious familiar water. Life could continue with a renewed, but hesitant outlook.

Clay began to consider his recent nemesis a friend. Cracks healing, color returning, the bucket not naturally familiar, however, there was life ahead so everything was ok for now. And with that, he sat. Waiting. Pondering what to say. By this time, the potter retired for the evening back into his house, turning the single light off in this tilted, damp extra building where a bucket sat to collect rainwater leaking from the roof.

The traditional, predictable question, “why?” didn’t fit. Any answer to that wasn’t going to change Clay’s current state. He knew where he came from and where he was at present.. The future was unclear…until.

The potter’s warm hands reached in to embrace Clay the following morning as the sun dried the dew off the stones in the pathway. He gently placed Clay on the spinning wheel sitting in the dry corner opposite where the rain bucket sat almost full from the evening storm. With a trust formerly unfamiliar to him -especially never speaking to the potter – Clay, with humility and grace, spoke, “So now what? I am scared. I am alone. Please, please. What is your purpose with me?”

From the potter came a most unexpected reply,

“I have searched for perfection. Meticulously scanning the earth for years, I did not find it until yesterday. This craft of pottery was entrusted to me from my forefathers. The honor of continuing at their behest requires perfection – not in the final form, but in the basic, foundation materials. Such material has to be pure, aged, wise, loving, nurturing – all of the qualities I am blessed to finally find in you. You are perfection from the start. I am truly honored to work with you”

Silence. Then tears. Then friendship. Then love. That day a potter began a masterpiece never to be shown in a gallery.

Clay now sits on the potter’s book stand next to a rocking chair – the same wicker chair passed down from a great-grandfather. The same chair with worn side rails from a grateful great grandson’s arms resting on them every night.

The most beautiful of vases sits quietly, and majestically, next to a worn, aged, man who years ago carried a long since rusted out bucket back from a stream. The stream has since dried out. The fish are gone. The pebbles are still sitting there in the dust.

As Clay sits quietly, his friends are gone. Forever.

He is alive and more beautiful than ever thanks to his wonderful friend, the potter, who sleeps silently next to him with a partially open book over his chest. Silently he rests to arise tomorrow, possibly walking out the front door to make new footprints on the stone pathway into the future…

Colors

When life is over, it is finished. All the hoping and stressing ceases to be. Time remains constant, however, for those we loved left behind. They remain to despair or rejoice over our absence.
Before life was for us, all desires and tensions belonged to those alive. They were joyous in their blessed accounts or despondent among gatherings of friends.
In between is us – our lifetimes. These are overlapping spans of years blended on the corners of an artist’s imagination by passing experiences. All the real dreams and disappointments mixed so tightly together we cannot escape the gallery of each other’s pains and pleasures. Surprisingly beautiful are the dreadful times. Wonderfully elegant the magnificent moments.
In the trio of time – past, present, and future, – never forgotten are the colors of love. This is time best represented.
Since time is all you have, love yourself as no one can. For this is a palette of colors representing self-compassion in your failures, tolerance of choices, and faith forward in dreams.
Take the empty canvas leaning on self-acceptance and begin to create a masterpiece that is your life on this day. Some walking by will casually glance at your paint soaked hands and move on not understanding what they see. Those who do stop to consider your story and wonder about what inspires you are part of your world. They are there. Truly seeing the colors. One with you at that moment. Give them an experience. Hand them a brush, perhaps, and let them mix in a few colors with you so they may be a now and a hope with you.
That small time with you is their time as well. It is their present for you.
Love is the meaning in this time together… in all time, too. Passing through today is more for others, not us. When today is finished, all the wishing and worrying ceases to be. Time remains constant when our brushes are cleaned for another day. Time, ever so steadfast, urges forward for those we colored. They will despair or rejoice over our absence.
Have it be they rejoice, not despair. Love the colors. Love the painting they painted on their hearts while in your presence. In them, then, you’ll see the love you have for yourself … something that is timeless. Just like love itself.

1 DAY 8 HOURS

To be more precise, two-thousand one-hundred forty-two miles is the distance from here to there. Day and hours is only a driving estimate because I could board a plane and be there in about two – maybe three – hours. Shorter yet, I can, and usually do, nervously tap a few clicks on my antiquated Dell keyboard and be connected right quick on Facebook. Whatever means to the end, I could guarantee – experiencing only the latter of the three – an ensuing conversation with my friend, Daniella*, would always be in the queue of my little lightening bubble.

Of course, I can’t reveal the exact location or name of said she-person … that would be unethical until such time permission is granted to edit this post. I also know she reads my blog entries and I could be in a world of jujitsu hurt if I ever DID show up in person at her house, so …

Some really boring back-story details: On January 27th, 2017, we had a re-connection when I sent her a picture (on FB) of a guitar I purchased and she replied back, “That is gorgeous”. This was more of a comment & message to an earlier post I generated on my personal page. PS Thanks for yawning your way through that!!

… Over thirty years since high school. Way before Facebook. A time when Daniella and I had our faces in real books as classmates in high school. Can’t say we knew each other well enough to hang out in the local mall together and share walk-man headphones listening to Run D.M.C., The Police, or Billy Joel. Could have been, though, because we were music minors loving the sounds of life.

Memory has a goofy way of checking out the roses while the thorns poke you in the butt. That said, I am not going to spend much time in the reminiscence garden for that very reason. What I know – with absolute certainty – is everything from January 27th, 2017 forward IS known. The lightening bolt sphere I always referred to, casually, as my personal “bubble of knowledge” had been thunderously awakened. Accepting most information at face value in general comments, the depth of understanding I missed through this acceptance was Mariana Trench huge. To Yoda-size, “Leap of faith I made”…

To my credit or fault, I sent Daniella a PM in September of that year:

“Had my mind altered a bit after watching Trevor Noah….Something I am guilty of and didn’t know it. Every time there’s a protest – especially by minorities – my response is to say, “you can protest, but just in another way (ie NFL kneel)”. Trevor made a fantastic point…and it made me think. If that line of thinking holds, just WHEN and WHERE can a protest be made? If that’s the excuse I’ve used every time, as Trevor said, apparently I don’t believe they can protest. He pointed out 5 instances in the past when someone like me used the “you can, but not here” excuse. Seems like I gots some more of that learnin’ to do….

I made a promise not to write any specific words from Daniella out of respect for her privacy. It is from my value system I have veiled trust. Her response began a dialogue we’ve continued to this day. It would be a wonderful exercise in humanity (and an absolute violation in trust *see jujitsu comment above*) to copy and paste our entire PMs here. I’d love for you, my readers, to see the transformative power of open and honest words between friends.

To say, “Daniella and I touched the tip of the political spear” … would be to say “Star Wars was a two-bit, no good, overacted, piece of cinematic clammy Wookiee poop.” We plunged that spear into the belly of the beast many times over, slaying a never dead subject as it’s head continually rose with every headline and tweet.

She, the passionate, eerr…. uhm, ardent, intense, most likely left side of the aisle believer in all things that way. I, the independent, but right leaning sort-of persuadable, open minded, passionate believer in all things that way.

Not everything is, or was, politics. Bell curve it … and, yes politics would be the meat. We’ve been back and forth about faith now and then as well. Lighter stuff, mostly, save the occasional WTF was that! She’s a fan of this blog which gives my fingers tingles and I am keenly aware of her appreciation for my “minor” influences prevalent among pianist endeavors on my recent CD.

The ups and downs of a bell curve, however, are minimal compared to the successes and failures in life we live. It was so hard to see thirty years into the future living out of acid-wash denims, Members Only jackets, and bright neon shirts. Big calculators didn’t have capacity for spheres of knowledge. Quite honestly, it was a good thing because two teenagers didn’t have the maturity for it either.

The purpose today isn’t to laud and honor Daniella’s political position … of which I am sure some may disagree. I have come to highly respect, through listening and research, her point of view because that’s what evolving adults do. She has helped me understand “the other side”. I am taking her cart of knowledge into my garden, planting some of her seeds, and seeing what grows.

Our last GIF a few days ago quotes Dr. Evil, “Come Join Us”. The context between Daniella and I doesn’t really matter much. If you join us in the community of understanding each other through listening and reaching out, we can begin to solve some smaller problems together. As I wrote above, “seems like I gots some more of that learnin’ to do….“, Daniella, I believe, knows that.

The climate here is much different over two-thousand miles away so I don’t know what my garden will bear. It takes time for these things to grow … maybe another thirty years, perhaps? … and that’s perfectly fine.

PRECIOUS

"Precious"
Two seemingly trifling syllables, yet unlimited reach
Gemstones, babies, puppies, lovers ...

Oh, so much in eight letters.

The moments that turn over lives
Caring, crying, caressing, consoling
Time ending and fresh beginnings

Oh, so much in eight letters.

Second chances taken when sadness unveiled
Depression at bay with respiratory ease.
Touching the tears of a friend gasping for breath

Oh, so much in eight letters.

"Precious", above all this, is your life.
You are unlimited reach.
You are two syllables of wild imagination.
You are "Oh, so much more than eight letters".

Satisfaction

Feel like writing about music today. Maybe it’s the ROLLING STONES fault. Drove into my neighborhood a few moments ago while “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” played at a subtle, but understandable, volume inside my salty gray, tired Honda. (As an aside here, I should consider a mid-winter wash of the exterior just to ease the expected rust expansion come spring). Inside I sat listening, feeling satisfied about some things: the year is off to a new start, nobody won the Powerball the other night – so I have a chance again Saturday, and I learned how to do a load of “delicates” last night. In these things, I can be pleased.

To be clear, I am – at the same time – content in other details of my life … and, of course, dissatisfied with some. Trying to balance out all the bads and goods is so hard.

A small part of my dirty laundry was managed last night, so, I won’t hang a shirt-load of it out for you to look upon and admire my lack of smack in facing it head on. I will not take this time to write a laundry list of praises I think I deserve. Time is a cradle, today, to gently hold music’s “naissance de satisfaction” as it was for a performer years ago who melted into the moments …

Late 1980’s. “One” with a grand instrument – a young man exercised his right to tame the demons and call out the angels. Nothing came alive until a key was struck, graced, or summoned into submission. As so many before and since, I felt honored to perform on the very stage where virtuosi and amateurs brought to life their interpretations of the great Masters’ music. This did not need to be the great Carnegie Hall or Lincoln Center. It was a stage, piano, and me … a triangle of satisfaction.

The flip of my tuxedo tails off the back edge of the black polished performance bench always added a touch of elegance. The automatic head tilt upwards, as if to say “I have arrived”, while doing so was always a moment of pride at the end of a grueling few months of preparation. Stretching nine feet ahead, a twisted, organized harp of strings and hammers awaited instructions as small beads of sweat ran down behind my well-pressed ruffled shirt. With one well-polished shoe (on the damper) at the end of a slightly nervous right leg, and another comfortably under the bench waiting to employ the una corda, I was almost ready for Mozart.

The time was near. House lights so dark. I sat alone on stage, but among so many who reclined in darkness with eyes upon me. Silence ruled the moment as seconds demanded attention.

These seconds were the eternal pillars through which I’d pass into the magnificent concert hall of echoing satisfaction. Placing my hands on the keys in silence at the very beginning of this, or any, concert was the most magical gesture for me. The audience was anticipating. I was complete. Everything necessary in order to please the piano gods was at the ivory altar awaiting their nod. Approval given, I began.

Mozart, Beethoven, Rachmaninoff, Chopin … all friends by my side for the next hour and forty minutes enjoying, as I was, every uplifting phrasal draft coming up from the keys. Save the occasional applause pause, each moment a respite from the rigors beating on the drums of everyday college-life stress: The anxieties and pressures of a GPA bearing down on future resumes causing fissures in my already fragile mind, unease tilting the scales of personal relationships, and the hunger for acceptance in a starved wilderness of blind self-ambition to name a few.

Shirt sufficiently soaked. I finished. A final bow as the house manager slowly brought attention to the audience I forgot was in attendance. With a quick glance to the light wooden stage near my feet, one would notice (with a bit of imagination) a few wrong notes left there in Beethoven’s Sonata #23, “Appassionata”, Allegro ma non troppo – Presto movement. I’m confident the janitor would have swept them up in a pile – along with some other mistakes I made – that evening.

All said, there was no greater satisfaction in my life. The request for a picture came minutes later after I shed my tux tails coat and tie. No cummerbund did I wear. I struck a pose, froze, and the picture became one of lore to be framed among others and hung, innocently, in a hallway I pass by everyday. Satisfied, on that day, I gave music what it deserved:

“A place among the magical, invisible places where we can go, as fallible, hopeful beings .. to live, briefly, when we want, satisfied in ourselves, and eternally thankful for the gift of being there.” – THIS is my essence and grace when I place my hands on the keys. My triangle of satisfaction.

2020 220 Mil

They say it starts with a dream. I disagree. My theory: It starts with a few extra dollars in your pocket and a proclivity to gamble. A theory I’ve proven to be true over and over again.

December 31st of “last year” was no exception. My usual non-alcoholic watering hole – where I frequently purchase lottery tickets – is a local gas station at the intersection of a north-south PA route and main street going through town. “Watering hole”, because it’s a place for bottled iced tea (an obligatory, daily personal refreshment) and gas necessary for automobile re-fuelment. These are my two top reasons to stop in, frequently, and “impulsively” (yeah, we’ll go with that word choice) discharge some hard earned money into the abyss of the monster known as the big green lottery machine. When the number of zeros in the odds of winning equal the numbers in the actual monetary prize … yeah, it’s a chasm of the highest order.

The gap between my wanting to win and forking over the loot is very narrow, however. That’s the tendency to gamble … not the ridiculous dream. More on that in a bit …

There are a number of other places to obtain gas and tea. I like this place. A home away from home … away from home. A second resident cousin once removed, if you will. My car has so much a familial relationship with this building I believe it could find a way there itself. I, as well, have a wonderful connection to the family. They are a tight, well-bonded Indian family who have graciously accepted my silly humor, bad days, and family issues. Sometimes, I see my life as one big colorful geisha fan. Between the folds – in the dark creases between the tints of splendor everyone sees – there are friends, everyday friends, who are simply there. This family is in the one of my folds. Always.

The oldest son wears the brightest colored shirts. For me to go a week without complimenting him would be a strange seven days. Not only are the colors vibrant , but the designs are not your typical, standard conservative, plain …. pick an adjective. Motivated, young, personable, presentable, kind, … again, pick a personality trait among the rainbow of choices and you wouldn’t be too far off in describing him.

His dad is all business, all the time. A over-used cliche (I dislike these), but so appropriate. A more conservative dresser than his oldest son and the matriarch of the business empire stretching across the ocean to India. Always respectful toward his customers, as expected, demonstrated by the “Hello, Mr. Doug” immediately spoken to me .. every… single … time I enter. He could be in the back shouting from the freezers, doing paperwork at a desk in the side room, or wiping off a coffee counter – always acknowledging a customer’s arrival. There is no other establishment in my hometown where this occurs. Yes, there’s the, “May I help you?”, or the, “Is there anything I can do for you?” … kinda not the same, though. In fairness, there is one other place, however, this gas station / iced tea gentleman doesn’t ever use sarcasm, so a different category of customer service.

Iced tea in hand and a few extra dollars, I decided to play, again, yesterday for the drawing tonight – New Year’s Day. Why not, right? No use in making a New Year’s resolution I have absolutely no intention keeping. The small gap in my wallet should match the infinitely smaller space between an urge and an implementation. I carefully place my six one-dollar bills down on the black stained counter in front of me thinking, “If the scratch-off maniacs would simply wait a few seconds and dig into their addictions somewhere else, … like I do” internally chuckling at the irony.

As quickly as the thought ended, the green monster spit out my ridiculous-odds tickets. My friend casually handed me the “proclivity to gamble authorization passes” notated with the numbers $220,000,000 unimpressively emblazoned in small, abbreviated form: Powerball Jkpt. $220 Mil. This is why I don’t believe in the dream theory.

The odds are sooo incredibly bad, THEY don’t even print all the zeros of the jackpot on the ticket. “1 in 292,201,338” are the actual advertised odds (www.cnbc.com google search). Apparently I have only three of the possible combinations @ $2 each. Fair trade, right? My calculator doesn’t have enough zeros on the right side of the decimal to calculate the percent dividing 292 million into 3.

Buying a ticket does not start with a dream. It starts with driving onto the parking lot of a wonderful convenience store, day after day, walking into a welcoming handshake, and plunking down a few well-earned dollars on black-white-and-red little pieces of paper.

I could not do this and save the money. The iced tea and gas would still be available for purchase. My days would fold out into weeks .. into months … into years if I am so lucky and blessed to have that. My fan folds wouldn’t change much. I’m sure my Indian friends would appreciate “Mr. Doug” whether or not I buy lottery tickets.

Eleven p.m. EST, knowing my day, I’ll be sleeping – probably dreaming. The lottery system will be up a running with the Powerball drawing broadcast live on t.v.. My tickets will be in the usual place. If the magic balls fall in my favor, I will not know until the sun rises tomorrow, January 2nd , 2020.

I’m debating a follow-up blog tomorrow. Should I? Shouldn’t I? If I don’t post anything, is there a possibility, in my absence, a jackpot win is assumed? If I post up a completely different subject, am I being coy? What if I say, “I didn’t match a single number.” – would you believe me? (you should, btw…). I’ll leave it at: “Happy New Year” for now and let’s see what the ‘morrow brings. ‘kay?

Until then, “… to sleep – to sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the rub, for in this sleep … what dreams may come…” (Hamlet)

My Amulet

I fell in love today.

It took only one bite to realize my original plans of a year-end silent soliloquy was toast. To be fair, the wheat toast was already ingested when, after one forkful of an omelet barely eaten, I espied the most amazing of shapes before me. Peppered plate un-rotated, friends surrounded me in unimpressed amazement, and I – a willing accomplice in this jovial platter of blog-worthy coincidence before me … were all together on this last day of 2019.

Who knew? Certainly not I. The ordering of a simple sausage, egg, and cheese omelet earlier should not have, under normal circumstances, required a quick holster draw of a camera phone. This morning was not a normal circumstance. If it was, I’d be uploading the pre-planned writing saved yesterday and attaching pictures of flowers, moonbeams, and stars. Well … not really, but you get my point.

As it seems to be, I am not doing that currently. What I am doing is posting up a camera shot of a ever-so-partially eaten omelet. “Unimpressive”, by your standards, perhaps, but “Magnificent” in my eyes. As an aside, you continue to read, so I know your infatuation with “Amulet” the omelet (yes, I’ve assigned a name – don’t judge me) is equal to my initial attraction. What drew me in? What stopped me from another viscous tining into the eggy breakfast fare?….

…. Why, the shape? The luscious shape. Look at her. Is there anything more beautiful than a head, dorsal fin, caudal fin, and pectoral fin glistening back off a porcelain peppered plate? Ah, my Amulet.

I’ve been wanting “different” lately. My friends knew nothing of this “different”. I entered the cafe hungry. I knew it was not a hunger for food, but longings and connections with seafaring, romantic impulses missing in our landlocked community. The wanting of warm waves rippling in my toes. Salty ocean breezes and greased air from boardwalk fryers crossing beneath my nose are so absent here.

As is stands, I take my pleasures where they are. Omelets and all. Imaginings take shape in our wonderful minds. In these places live oceans of ideas. Today, I have a friend … on a plate. And she’s special.

I chose the name for two reasons. First, should I ever compose a song, “Amulet” and “omelet” are close in rhyme and/or sound. Grammy worthy, perhaps not, however I can dream of her in my private evening nocturnes and be quite satisfied in that alone. Second, amulets protect against all the “bad stuffs” possibly coming my way.

I will have to take solace in only thinking about Amulet as time moves forward into 2020 and beyond. Reflecting upon our short time together this morning, I am so keenly aware she left me as quickly as she entered.

Because I ate her. And she was delicious. Fins and all.

Sometimes love requires sacrifice. I will forever remember beauty as her shape.

My sausage, egg, and cheese Queen. My Amulet.

If Only

To my friends,

If only all promises made were fulfilled,
Would your life be the same?
If only disappointments weren’t at hand,
No regrets, no fear, no pain.

If only expectations were somehow true,
Would you then have some relief?
If only everyone else came by for you,
No guilt, no shame, no false belief.

“If only” is a concept that doesn’t exist
-Hope for the future as you’d like it to be.
Now has no “if only” – the past is what was
“If only” puts chains on expected reality

Today didn’t show because of two words.
Tomorrow will be here regardless of you.
The past lived before, gone by as the time.
“If” you are doing, sometime did, or will do.

Saying, ‘If only I didn’t hear all of this now
then what would be worthwhile to learn?”
I’d say, “You did it regardless of ‘if only’
Your life needed a substantial turn”

All promises made aren’t fulfilled.
Your life will remain the same.
There will be disappointments at hand.
Stop playing the “if only” game.

Expectations are infinitely seldom true
Answers aplenty don’t knock on your door
No one may help you get through your life
Instead of “if only”, ask “what is my awesome life for?”

It’ll give you purpose, goals, and a hope
For a future you’d happily embrace
“If only” steals joy from your now as it is.
Wiping smiles and joy off your face.

I, too, need to learn as well not to say
These two words here-to-fore said,
“One day at a time” – our lives are lived out
“if only” in our expectant heads.

Sincerely as one heartbeat at a time,

Doug

Tacos, Camels, and Pickles

I detest tapioca pudding. To use the word “detest” is to give more credit to this dessert than I feel it deserves. The texture should never … ever … be allowed in the mouth of any human. Never and Ever.

Piccata, on the other hand, is a word I can embrace. Any word describing, in Italian, the act of inserting strips of fat or bacon into meat before cooking should … at all times … be allowed in the mouth of any human being. Always and forever.

As captain of this blog today, I declare the above to be true – beyond reproach. Truer than “no round squares” and “no square circles”.

Now, unless you are the captain of this blog (doubtful), eating chicken piccata (questionable), or sliding vanilla tapioca pudding down your gullet (ugh), there isn’t a chance you have any idea what I’m writing about. Frankly, I don’t have much of a clue either. However, “don’t have much of a clue” IS better than none at all, so I’ll take the helm and steer this puppy into uncharted waters if that’s ok with you?…

I love words and numbers. The title today is: “Tacos, Camels, and Pickles”. These are words, but there are hidden numbers as well: 5, 6, then 7. Easy, peasy – the number of letters in each word. (You went back to count, didn’t you?) No other order makes sense in a mind where O comes before C comes before D. Unless, to be accurate, you suffer from C-D-O where all the letters ARE in the correct alphabetical order which, in itself, presents a paradoxical complication since then we have: Compulsive Disorder Obsessive. We may as well say the earth is the seventh planet from the sun if “pickles”, then “tacos”, then “camels” if the order doesn’t really matter. But it does. It has to. Has. To.

Trust me, as your captain. Your land legs will return. Embark on a jaunt with me as we explore what I consider to be a mismatch of the highest order. This is a short trip from here to there and back.

An unseasonably warm day in December gets me outside of the house – especially on Saturday when I need, badly, a schedule book for 2020. Having multiple responsibilities requiring a delegation of time, scribbling here-and-there notes, names, and obligations in a book is a necessity. In my, ahem, “younger” years, there existed enough reserve brain multitasking matter to accomplish any tasks without the need for the written word, save the occasional sticky note on the ‘fridge or car dash. As things exhaustively stand now, an overpriced, bound, cheaply made reminder of how fast time is passing me by seems to be the only option.

I present the box store. Specifically, the “office” box store. Additionally specific, the “office supply store”. Very different from Amazon, of course. Ah, Amazon. The “A to Z internet mega-behemoth get everything delivered to you in smiley boxes that talk” store. A few clicks and my same schedule book would be wonderfully plopped on my porch in three to five days … for half the price … by a drone, maybe, and possibly filled in with all my appointments for the year. I chose the former. Touch then buy today. That kind of a day. Also, I needed a drive, fresh air, and food for lunch.

I like this particular box store. Easily navigable because the aisles are clearly marked in large block letters for the elderly, the layout hardly ever changes, and the associates are kind. If there’s ever a time when I need a job – like now, it could be argued – finding myself in tan khaki pants and a red polo shirt is doable. The money I’ve spent here, back into my pocket and invested wisely, would be a nice little retirement. Alas, I have a nice collection of binders, clips, computers, doodads, gizmos, jiggers, widgets, contraptions, electronics, and containers. Not to exclude pencils, pens, stickers, empty toner cartridges, papers, envelopes, markers, poster boards, tabs, and highlighters.

What I don’t have, nor will ever have from this particular store, are ….. SOCKS.

Yes, socks. I’m baffled as to why socks are on sale in an office store. Is there ever a time when a sockless executive enters this store thinking, “I can’t believe I left home not wearing socks! Suit? Check. Tie? Check. Both shoes? Check. ….” At what point in this person’s morning does it NOT occur socks are missing? Furthermore, after realizing said feet are naked except for the imported leather Berlutis, this person, then, must get in his or her car, drive past J.C. Penney’s, Macy’s, Boscov’s, – name a store – and intentionally park within walking distance of this “office supply store” hoping they stock …. Socks.

Oh, and here’s the sockless kicker: the socks are NOT dress socks. Said professional slunks up to the display rack to find, in horror, socks of various, colorful, yet totally inappropriate design. The guterall emptiness of an immediately apparent wasted trip. What is seen? Tacos, camels, and pickles along with various other pre-adolescent, toy store, bouncey ball themed footwear. To boot, the rack where “sushi” themed socks sold out (“why” I ask in amazement) remains bare, so if raw-fish-motif toe coverings are desired … Mr., Miss, or Mrs. Professional is, well, screwed.

Who is the customer? I need to know. Perhaps a part-time job in this store is the right job for me if only to see one person buy one pair of these socks. I’d like to be the sock stocker stalker. After satisfying my curiosity, I can quit to go back being a regular customer – spending my retirement savings on additional doodads and gizmos.

These socks certainly are a mismatch of the highest order. As left is to right, they are perfect pairs unto themselves. Between reams of paper and letter sorter options, I see no connection, however. Camels don’t eat tacos or pickles that I’m aware. Unless Mexican fare has changed recently, pickles don’t go inside tacos. I certainly didn’t need to see any of this today. All I wanted was fresh air, lunch, and a schedule book.

You now have permission to disembark. Before I, the captain, unhook the velvet rope at the head of the gangplank, I must explain the tapioca pudding and chicken piccata I have so graciously prepared as your departing gift.

There could be some kind of hustle a-foot. A CON, if you will, at this store. If there is a corporate game at play – a hidden camera “let’s see who pays attention to these socks” contest – designed to lure unsuspecting, but curious datebook buyers, I have my toes in the cotton waters. Let’s play.

Take the first two letters out of each word, Taco (TA), Camel (CA), and Pickle (PI) to get “TACAPI”. Organize them in alphabetical order, of course: AACIPT. From this, take each letter of “CON” one at a time and add it to those six letters to form three individual words: Captain, Tapioca, and Piccata. Start a blog trying, desperately, to tie in a picture of socks with said words. Confirm success in brain.

Even in the insanity of this mixed up word play I found quite amusing to create, it still has more insight and wisdom inherent than selling bright yellow, banana colored, ankle-biter, food printed socks to absent minded professionals. Just a captain’s opinion. Enjoy your meal.

I still hate tapioca pudding, btw. Yuck.

The Conversation

Gus: “If I don’t drink coffee in the morning first thing, I get a headache within two hours”

Me: “After two hours of not seeing you, my headache begins to disappear”

So goes the daily conversation between Gus* and I (… don’t need to explain why the “*” is beside his name, right?). We meet almost every morning in a sometimes busy, sometimes not, restaurant located inside a three story hotel at the end of town. “End of town” is “up town”, or “downtown” depending upon who you are, of course. It sits beside what we affectionately call the “diamond” because the configuration of the curbs and streets form .. you guessed it … a diamond (assuming you have a little imagination). Trolley tracks, long since replaced by layers of brick, concrete, and asphalt – would run down over the hill should you turn left out of the restaurant. Across the way is an antique consignment shop, quick copy and print business, family foundation supporting pancreatic research, and an up-start fundraising endeavor. On a given day, you can smell fresh pizza baking through the vents in the roof next door as the cheesy-goodness scent passes by on its way to your likely purchase of same.

It is a hotel that hasn’t changed much over the decades. This writer remembers a time when his grandmother owned a shop next door – between the, now, pizza shop and this very hotel. Her gift shop long since gone the way of trolley tracks and mom-n’-pop businesses. Fortunately, conversations among friends in these days of smartphones and short attention spans, aren’t the hourglasses, iceboxes, telegraphs, or slide rules of our time … yet. We still have words back and forth. And old hotel restaurants ….

This local Hotel is an old establishment. Don’t know how old, however. There are plenty of brochures and smells of age-old memories lying around. Black and white pictures on the walls as you’d expect and well worn carpet stains with stories to tell if only possible. The egg shell paint definitely is in need of a cleaning, but the forty-foot mirror running the length of the wall – as one walks past a dozen or so stools – more than makes up for it. No more than two waitresses (“G” and “G”) scurry successfully between the lunch counter and the mirror filling orders amidst the banter from wannabe humorists and political pundits of all ages. A mixture of a few tables, two booths near the center of this narrow entry room, and two of the same up front under a few drafty windows overlooking the main square complete the interior charming front room.

To live during the high times of this hotel is to not have broad shoulders. The back dining room is a “must see” for first time visitors, but ladies with big, hoopy dresses or stout men sporting manly shoulders need not attempt. The two entryways are …well…narrower than expected by today’s standard measures. Narrow. Not impossibly impassable. It is through one of these doorways, directly to my right, where I saw my friend, Earl*

Earl is usually quiet. His table is, by default, my second choice. I almost always choose one of the drafty tables in the front. Today, however, I had in tow a leftover Chinese food container with three cookies inside destined for Earl and his friends. It was my wish that he and his soon to be arriving adult playmates enjoy a little more Christmas joy. His challenge was three cookies and four friends. Knowing Earl, it was going to be easy. Probably one for each, himself excluded.

The conversation began easily. Just the two of us because of the apparent late arrivals of any other “Earl friends”. I wasn’t in a hurry. I know his friends well … as they are acquaintances of mine.

Earl is an easy talker. I know this. His delivery has always been open and honest with me. With head tilted slightly to the left and back, eyes never shifting, and reticent, somewhat crooked smile, he talks with me .. not to me. Never has there been a time when Earl considered me an inferior. He is twenty years my senior and certainly more experienced in life. Guidance and direction given to me on occasion, when asked for, was direct and compassionate, … and always spoken gently over well placed crossed arms which seems to be his trademark pose – as it was during the telling of his personal conversation with me.

“How was your Christmas?”, I asked, handing Earl his three cookie Chinese container. We exchanged usual holiday banter before words turned in the most unusual direction. Maybe it was a “family” word? Perhaps prompting in a phrase? I’ve churned this over in my brain a few times to no satisfactory end….and it doesn’t really matter. I suddenly found myself being engaged in the most wonderful listening experience of the holiday.

From beginning to end, a story of searching and finding, loss and gain, successes and failures captured my moments and left me almost speechless. The details so far apart from any business or financial endeavors, but infinitely close to family and relationships. Details private enough I can’t share without permission. So easily said today. I don’t believe easily lived by relatives not so long ago. Substantial respect for a man today who can share a step along life’s journey with me. Twenty minutes of time when I didn’t need to talk .. just listen. A GOOD twenty minutes.

Back to Gus. It was fortunate for him my blessed presence sat beside his smaller, older, less handsome body in one of the drafty front booths today – a day after my meet-up with Earl. He wouldn’t use the word “fortunate”, however. “Unlucky”, “miserably cursed”, or perhaps “poorly untimed”, penned in blood on cloth napkins, would be his rapier in the ongoing duel of locution. Heightened recently with his utmost disregard for my aloud readings of “blog-stuff” as he so articulately defines my art form.

But, I, as the superior mature male in this exchange, will not proceed in the dialogue previously written in regard to this matter….

…Because he recently lost a dear friend and the funeral is today. I feel a deep sense of loss for Gus. A conversation today in a hotel front room, a drafty booth, and two friends – sarcastic as both may be – talking over one cup of coffee, one glass of iced tea, and one person I did not know, but he did … very well.

Gus and Carl had a friendship for years. Small town friendship. Smaller town than the the town we sat in today. The tie-in connections between the two are many and I don’t pretend to pass on details still unclear to me. What I do know is the final chapter of a very long book.

Gus is not a man who speaks as Pericles. He is “The Old Man and The Sea” without being the great Hemmingway. Dave Barry is certainly not surging through his veins. Point being, he isn’t – as none of us are – a great orator, writer, or humorist. He’s not on that scale. Some of us, though, can attempt to put a big toe on that scale, with some confidence, hoping that our one ounce little piggy will register with the heavy weight of the aforementioned legacies. Gus is in the other room eating bananas while reading jokes from the enlarged print version of Readers’ Digest.

Today was a sincere conversation between good friends. He would understand my sarcasm should he be in an awakened coma unaware of what he was doing. Even reading my blog today would cause medical exigencies of such catastrophic dimension in his life I would have a difficult time understanding the proper course of treatment forward. Probably read more of my insights, out loud, slowly to him as he drifts in and out of consciousness?

That said, Gus isn’t going to the funeral. He didn’t go to the viewing yesterday. Not sure why…did not ask. It was best to allow Gus the pleasure of his telling his stories. His conversation with me. I know he spent time visiting two weeks ago as Carl rapidly declined in health. I am aware there were bedside conversations – sincere humor and reflection between two good friends. As I suspect there was for years. One day Carl was there. The next. Gone.

Gus probably misses Carl. I’ll never know. It’s hard to tell due to his ever present sarcasm and attempt at hiding his really remarkable, understanding friendship he has with me.

I’ve known Gus a while. In as much as I’d like to know who he really is and why he uses the veil of sarcasm, I understood our conversation today … as I do everyday. I have to believe Carl did as well … for a much longer time than I.

Carl took his seat at the eternal drafty window booth to wait for Gus’ arrival someday. I’m positive there’s a conversation waiting to be continued….