Everything is OK. It Really Is

December 25th, Christmas Day, and it’s 8:18 am EST in my western Pennsylvania town roughly two hours east of Pittsburgh on a “good” driving day. My neighborhood is quiet. Most, if not all, of the kiddos have moved away to start their lives in more robust, better opportunistic areas. We’re not nestled in the worst part of our great country where folks are really struggling. My neighbors, as well, are not driving Porches and spending any dot-com fortunes on 60-foot yachts and Beverly Hills vacations. “Middle-class America” is our best sweatshirt embroidered logo … and the best way to describe our work ethic. Today as I type, under most modestly decorated trees of tinsel and faux-gold in homes no more than a few paces from my keyboard, I suspect few families have Christmas going on. The trees are decoration. That’s all.

Am I writing this from the scientific method? No…. merely a guess. Boy, Id’ love to be wrong. During the last twenty-four minutes of typing, the idea of having neighborhood children interrupt adults with snowball fights, hot-chocolate requests, present getting pleas, sing-a-longs, and hugs would be magic. There has been silence, however. This is o.k. It means those once children are now adults making their own memories in neighborhoods of their own choosing.

It is December 25th. Christmas Day, if it’s your day.

I did not have children. I am not writing this as a parent. I am writing, today, from a house in a neighborhood three avenues deep, one street wide, with only one road to the main boulevard. That one access – in and out – is the yellow brick road to our Oz. We can walk and dance our way back knowing the isolation and joy of having limited, and destination only, traffic. One block in, you’ve already passed a wonderful auto mechanic, Frank, a tobacco store and church. Stop briefly at the intersection (this time of year) to see “house beautiful” so wonderfully decorated in white lights with a darling fountain of ceramic dogs, ornately adorned, draped elegantly in front of the porch. Neighbors, including us, spend very little in outside decorations because of “house beautiful”. A simple, “D-I-T-T-O” light-arrow display well positioned … pointed strategically toward said house … usually sends the proper message. We love them, though.

I can’t say “all” of us. That’s not fair. Most neighbors do decorate. That was an attempt to hide the fact I don’t decorate – ever. So much easier to share a blame than accept all of it. My neighbor directly across has a front lawn electrified with a snowman, castle, red mailbox for Santa, and reindeer, a sleigh, and something I can’t really make out. To my immediate left is a lawn with a bunch of white “sticky” things – and by “sticky” I don’t mean adhesive. I am trying to say “Edward-Scissorhandy fingery looking thingys” sticking out from the ground. It’s daylight, and with daylight comes ambiguity. With night comes clarity. Those sticky concepts become beautiful reindeer, snowmen, sleighs, and trees.

Still, with all the decorations, so quiet. No kids. No footprints in the frost on the ground. Exactly an hour since I started writing and no interruptions for candy, patter of feet on the hardwood floor running toward the window to see if Grandma and Pap-Pap are coming, or wrapping paper wadded in a ball prepared for a swish into the trash bag ten feet away. It is such a quiet neighborhood today…and this is ok.

Later there will be a gathering of friends. Not in my neighborhood, however. I need to shift. Adult-kids are meeting in an adult place to be together. It is a new normal for me. Middle-class America is represented well among my friends, save a few where life’s pile of good fortune has dumped heaps upon them. What an amazing cross-section of companions I have – to support, encourage, foster, and keep up with the ever changing emotional and societal demands I pile upon them…..as they do me. I don’t know, where, what, or how the path of fate visited me…, or, at what time it was when eccentric little anti-imps decided to bless me .. but they did. It is in a neighborhood of sorts I will gladly attend in a few hours only five minutes drive away. Another quiet town. Just today.

Five minutes drive in the opposite direction, north, is the bustling small concrete emptiness of our local mall. Another gathering of folks among the un-rented, overpriced, greed-ridden vacuous corporate, outdated expanse. For the most part, strangers on any given day -except Christmas – find their way around Applebee’s, a candle store, phone kiosk, and smattering of other hang-on stores. The anchors are gasping for a last retail breath this holiday season and I suspect there isn’t much left in the tank. Crowds, as they are, seem almost museum quality … eyes glazing at the stores seen as relics of misunderstood art seen for a few weeks’ time, subsequently moving on to one more throng … in another quiet town in a different, but oh so similar, cold concrete mall.

Certainly, that is fifty weeks out of a normal year. The other two weeks remain in the hands of unfavorable fortune due to the drive of commercialism this time of year.

It was in our mall, during the 14-day window of this credit card netherworld, I caught sight of the tree above. It wasn’t 8:18 am on a cold Wednesday morning as today when I started writing. I don’t believe it was a Wednesday at all. Quiet wasn’t in the forecast, either. Kiddos were hustling about as the inexpensive train ride around the tree was running full-steam ahead. Parents, if not smiling ear-to-ear with their little ones while sandwiched in the little train cars, were uncomfortably bent over the restraining fence to get that perfect picture around the last right turn of the track. Santa sat proudly listening intently to the hopes and dreams whispered from each child’s wishful lips. Casual walkers had to slow down, anyway, to catch a small hopeful glimpse of a child’s happy face. Had to. In the face of that single child was an innocence of the season. A “happy holiday” that is always lost somewhere between losing a first tooth and cashing a first paycheck.

There were times stopping at this tree was mandatory. The crowds were so oppressive pre-internet, one had no choice but to suffer through the shopping body odor bondage of “I need to get over there but how” problem. This day, however, unremarkably absent was the crowd. Silent. I stood at the tree, anyway. Resolved to be vertical in homage to the tree before me. Silent as it was, but in precise opposition to what it stood as … not for.

It stands FOR a holiday – a Christmas holiday symbol for the tradition of presents, hot chocolate, sing-a-longs and snowball fights. This tree, AS it is, is artificial. This tree is not alive. Inside a cold, public, artificial meeting place, it stands. Yet, the warmth of simple children under all, is the real present for all of us to open.

Today, it stands quietly. Strangely so, my neighborhood does as well .. still. Four hours later. I’ve been to Denny’s and back for a half-hour breakfast with my dad. He paid because that’s what dads do for their lonely on Christmas day sons. Families were nestled in booths and nudged around tables … eating large breakfasts and sipping warm, steamy tea. Some quietly, some not. Waitresses and waiters served limited menu items and had unforced portrayals of joy on their faces for having to work on this day. Kudos to them. The parking lot of the mall, as I spied from my rather worn, red vinyl seat, was empty as it should be on December 25th, Christmas day.

I returned home coming back through the very same neighborhood I’ve traveled through thousands of times before. One street and three avenues deep, I still love it here. Didn’t pass one kiddo playing outside or one neighbor walking. Once again passing by house-beautiful, sticky white things and electrified red mailboxes. Soon to be handsome-fied with a quick shower and fluff-up, I’ll head into town to meet my friends. They’re really nice … not artificial.

Remembering the children under the tree today …

They’ll soon be grown. The real trees and all the kiddos. Quiet, still, as I end. It’s ok. It really is.

Happy Christmas to you and YOUR neighborhood !!

Missing Merriment

Missing the merriment. Simple. Family at home.

Everyone was together. No one was alone.

All in one room. Presents abounding

Shoulder to shoulder. Love certain – surrounding.

All is gone now. Piano and kin

Moments to treasure. Soul’s birth, again.

All is gone, but everything gained

The music, wonderfully, is still here. It never waned

Mom had it right. Christmas eve years ago

“Live to pass on what you already know.

Teach from your heart a piece never to die.

Play music forever as you rise to the sky.”

She rose years ago. Her piano’s been sold

The room sits so quiet. Beginning to look old.

Missing the merriment. Isn’t ever easy, they say

I’d like to sit once more. Just five minutes to play

A carol, a piece, or two. With mom by my side.

She’s not here. Kinda stings a little inside.

It’s ok, though.

Mom had it right.

I think I’ll sing, alone, a quiet verse

Of mother and child, I love this “Silent Night”

Why I Do – and Am

How uncomfortable to be writing a blog about myself. Just typing in those very words makes my heart go pitter-patter in a nervous, sweaty, not-so-good way. “Pitter-Patter” implies a teenager, acne prone, squeaky voice, whiny, pre-adult love of self pretense that is, most assuredly, not intended. “Nervous, sweaty, not-so-good-way” words? … YES, absolutely intended, spot-on, and necessary for purposes of today.

It’s one of the most interesting whatits about writing a, sort-of, every day entry into the vast, heavily jammed space of the blog-o-sphere; My observations, narrowed into categories; Categories sifted through appropriateness; Suitability filtered across friendly imaginations; My dear readers’ eyes as I type and edit my observations in many, or few, words? … all of this comes together, somehow, in a few hours time and not always in the most logical, grammatical, rhythmical way. Imagination, however, in the most intimate of a reader’s sole light, shows the passage toward understanding.

If there exists a humility clasp, I would use it to close the loop today. Self-promotion is not an arrow I use frequently out of a quiver I do not carry, anyway – if at all – to use in the battle of life’s greatest choices. Given a choice, deference to others – sometimes at a cost to me – is a greater cause. I am confident, as I write, there are others holding my hand here … understanding the shadow in which I find myself at times. We can be in this together. It’s not a solemn place where we stand side by side. Quite honorable to be so with you, if I must say.

Parts and pieces make up who we are. We have biological, emotional, spiritual, and mental parts and pieces. Probably, by extension, familial and friendship ones as well. With those parts and pieces co-mingled with mine in the shadows of the bright light of others, may I have permission to explore, briefly, the steps of consideration outlined above? If so, I will inhale and begin … with the understanding I am using the picture above solely for demonstration purposes only. Should GQ, Men’s Vogue, or Esquire call for references, please be advised that my schedule is full at this time.

OBSERVATIONS

A writer has to be observant. Under that umbrella are all the senses, of course. I have a mosquito flying into, or out of, my right ear, for example. I did not know that when I took the selfie. Now, the mosquito, apparently, isn’t one of the smarter ones because of my not knowing he, or she, wasn’t there at all. In addition to the lack of hearing any insect-ual sounds so close to my aural cavity, there is no residual effect of a little bump causing incessant scratching by my right index finger since the incident happened. After investigating further, …oh,yeah, it’s the ceiling fan. Mosquitoes are still stupid. No apologies. Observation #1.

I am old. At what point did “crow’s feet” crop up on my face? I’m observing these expanding, “branching wrinkles” (credit to google for such a descriptor) as they are, but don’t need to say, “it is what it is”, eer….”they are what they are”. I see them as little crevasses which aid my “go screw yourself” tears as they avoid the inevitable direct path down over my cheeks. My only recourse is to lobby the powers of the universe to rename such as, “Oyster Shells”. Ah, the beauty. “What’s in a name?”, sayeth Shakespeare. Look at the shape – sideways on my face … just imagine! Draw, in your mind’s eye, a line around the edge. A perfect shell! Do you, my dear reader, want a black, dirty “crow’s feet” beast on your face … or, the holder of a fine, priceless pearl? I ask you…DO you? Observation #2.

Look into my eyes. Really look into my eyes. I can’t. Eyes are, supposedly (boy, I hate saying that word – could there be a more annoying word to say?..I still say a “b” instead of a “d”), the window to one’s soul. Really?. These eyes are half open, tired, worn, and reddened from a long couple of years. Years of “fake it until you make it”, “conceive, believe, achieve”, “powers of positive thinking”, “this is your new normal”, etc… Life is hard. What we see in anyone isn’t always – hardly ever – what’s really going on. Facebook, …Instagram,… Snap-chat,… pick a social media platform and all you’ll see is the 10% up-side of a 90% down-side. Maybe a slight exaggeration, but I would argue I’m not too far off. Observation #3

The unseen. Follow-up. This selfie is the last of five taken. It was a response to a series of texts between three good friends and I. The string was headed into silliness and needed to end, so I simply posted up that selfie with the caption, “…My holiday wish is that you, my good friends, all become as handsome as I…”. It worked! To understand the effectiveness of that, you need to understand my friends, my humility, and the backstories of all of us. With little time, and respect for privacy, this is not possible, of course. What’s possible, though, is sifting all the observations through categories and seeing what comes through the other side…

CATEGORIES

When in school, especially higher grades, I dreamed of loftier goals. Specifics unimportant. What is important, though, is the fact I wasn’t paying too much attention in class – especially English or Creative Writing. Equally irritating to my teachers? My dad was an English teacher in the very school I attended. It is with this in mind – and awareness in the accessibility and ease, once again, of google – I base the explanation of “categories”.

Apparently there are four ways (categories) to explain what I need to say: expository, persuasive, narrative, and descriptive. I did not know these previous. Simply stated, I can inform, persuade, narrate, or describe. I don’t need to explain myself, so option #1 is out. (laughing out loud here because I really should explain myself to many, many people),,, Should I try to influence you? …hmm. This option #2?.. Nah. Option #3 is telling a story, fact or fiction. Probably a no-go here. I think “a type of expository writing that uses the five senses to paint a picture for the reader…this writing incorporates imagery and specific details” is quite the perfect category. (credit to: freeology.com) Option #4 it is!

I fall best into this category of the five senses. I am sensitive. I have to observe and then write about sensitive things. Missing my mom, relationships, music, emotions, and the “whys” in life chief among them.

To explain myself fully in a blog, or debate to persuade you, means I am uncomfortable. Possible narrative is edgy, sweet, and blog worthy at times, but not steady-reliable.

This category #4 decision, in light of the above picture, was easy now knowing the “official” English class category as “descriptive”, I can say: spectacular specs, rosy-red cheeks, half-way hair-spray hair, inner-flannel flare fashion, and a sincere smile. All of which are so appropriate for a guy who still can’t believe he’s writing a blog about himself.

SUITABILITY

This is a weird post today. In thinking about the process, I’m going through the process, observing the process while writing about the process. There have been observations made about the picture above I found unsuitable for press, i.e. type. That is, had to make a decision about appropriateness before arriving at “appropriateness”. Huh? My horse was mounted before I wrote about mounting it, in other words.

We do that as amateur bloggers. Look, I’ve been at this such a short time…months – compared to some lifers in the ‘sphere. I can imagine the struggles and victories some must have gone through, year over year regarding what is good to go vs. what is “over the line”. The arrows in THEIR quivers, used over and over to get where they are today, are vastly superior to any I may ever use . I am aware of one writer, who just had a book published, with a local connection. The missed targets. The hits and misses. The interviews, blogs, articles, drafts, late nights, early flights …. what a reward for her to be there, finally, at a book signing. The “suitablility” of that moment to her dreams. Wow. Just. Wow.

Back to my, ahem, picture. So, what is appropriate about my picture? Well, for one … I have clothes on. THAT’S a huge plus. Dear reader, that’s a plus … TRUST me on this. I’m shoulders up, I get it. But, easy filter. I want to say, “showered and shaved” .. and I can. Give me a little side-ways edge on the shaving thing because I rarely shave. A trim-up now and then. The “showered thing”?. You’ll just need to trust me on that. No way to prove it on a two-dimensional picture without a scratch and sniff option – so there! For a fiftyish older guy, I also have, by my estimate, fiftyish % of my scalp covered in hair. It’s that odd time in life when that happens mathematically. If I’m fortunate enough to reach age 90, the math ain’t gonna be so kind. The kindness, however, isn’t in the aging process of the body iself, but in the mind – where the real magic of imagination resides.

IMAGINATION

As I observe, I see and imagine. Categories and appropriateness automatically fall into place as I’m confident they do for most. My challenge is sarcasm and humor. Herein is my Maginot Line. It can be my false sense of security breached when a thought in my head appears on the screen in type and is immediately assaulted by the forces of common sense. Sometimes.

Other times I am absolutely amazed. Currently, I have drafts in my phone – and in my head – of seemingly unimaginable depth. For example, I haven’t eaten yet today, save a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich three hours ago. THAT amazes me. Oh, and a small box of raisins. An occasional text here and there and an eBay snafu on shipping have been my only distractions. Well, except for the two-thousand-three-hundred-forty-nine times I’ve needed to scroll up to look at my picture in the heading block. Not for reference … just to see my handsome mug (yeah, right)… talk about a wild imagination…

TYING UP THE WHATITS

I does really end up in the arena of imagination, if a blog writer has that in mind for his or her readers at the start. I’ve experienced blogs of an educational nature, debate format, and narrative form. All of them are well written – just not my style. Can’t see a cold, but not bitter, December afternoon hosting a man .. slapping up a humble picture of himself, while skipping necessary caloric intake, for the benefit of his readers without enjoying it fully – which he has. Also, after reading that last sentence, which makes no apparent sense, it is evident the lack of calories is taking its toll on his mind.

With that I will, humbly, close the loop on today’s entry into the log with this:

Imagine, if you will, a life of YOUR imaginings. Take a selfie. Look it over. Carefully. See you as you. Pull the imaginary mosquitoes out of your ears and cherish the oyster shells beside your eyes. They are yours and yours alone. You are in a category all by yourself and suitable to be loved by everyone. Including me. I am so proud to be the writer of your readership in some very small way.

Be humble, my friends.

Up Down Left Right

Blogs don’t, necessarily, have to be about personal experiences. I’m finding, however, building paragraphs on the life and times of a rather “sometimes” clumsy, clueless guy can fill a page or two. That guy being me, of course.

I make note of certain moments in my life by tagging them in my memory of shame. There exists, within my gray matter, an area reserved for remembering my slips-ups, errors in adulting, or shall we say, goof ball situational SNAFUs. Now, before you judge me, the only difference here is I am humble enough to share. You have these. too. We could sit together outside a quaint coffee house, slide our chairs up to a charming little bistro table, sip Voya tea, and compare notes. C’mon, now. You KNOW we could!

For purposes of a scene set-up, I was not in a quaint coffee house. Also, for privacy issues, I cannot divulge any more location details. Now, hold on! Don’t get all “I know you’re an amateur writer , but ‘no details’?” on me… Here’s what you need to know:

I was there.
I was at a beverage table
There were ceramic coffee mugs
There were plastic cold cups
Sugar, cream, stirrers, etc…
A bucket of ice
Very nice linens covering the table, AND

A large beverage dispenser with Iced Tea.

If you have any sense of senses, I think you can sense where this may be going. My lack of details, save the beverage specifics, should be a clue. Oh, I’m only beginning here.

Here’s the layout: Plastic cups to my left – upside down. Large beverage container immediately to my fore. Ceramic mugs to my right. Ice bucket in front of mugs. Red and white linens? Beautifully placed under all – diagonal to themselves as if the angels took time away from arranging the stars to do so. My visit there?… I just wanted a simple cup of iced tea. A. Simple. Cup. Of. Iced. Tea. Oh, and my food from the buffet was already at my table having been so elegantly chosen and placed on the plate in such a manner as I have never done before. Ah, the evening was going so, so well. Was.

I am right handed with cups. Left handed throwing balls. Right writing. (Well, both as a pianist …. but I digress). Cup under spout of dispenser with right, left hand turns on handle left-to-right and tea begins to fill cup. Note the “bold” type. This is important. Normal people would remember if left-to-right is ON for tea ….. what would OFF be, class? That’s correct….right-to-left!! Well, see I wasn’t happy with the rate of flow, so I increased the right-ness (correctly), BUT in the process FORGOT the L-R, R-L paradigm, soooooo when it came time to stop tea flow ….. well….

….. I went with Up ..then…Down…then…Up again. This did not work, duh. Enter panic override. Psychology: reaction vs response. I reacted. Remember I am right-handed, still. The tea is continuing to flow – aggressively at this point in the Doug vs. the Volcano of cold caffeine game. Also, I am alone at the table. Nobody is around to help. No-bod-y. My left handed, athletic dominance begins to assert itself.

My original plastic cup is volumed out. Proud that I’ve managed to not spill any, another cup has been awkwardly grabbed and placed under the spout. Now what? I am still not remembering to turn the handle back to the left…the simplest of remedies escapes me. Oh I know !! Be more aggressive on the UP/DOWN option! Most certainly this is the thought-through, mature way to handle the handle. And then the unthinkable happens…

The handle breaks off.

Sh*t! …. sorry for the language. Wait. I’m not sorry. You would have said the exact same thing. (check your notes)

Hours pass .. not really, but it felt like it. I’m pulling off plastic cups faster than the best shell-game con artist at the beach. Have you ever noticed, the faster you pull, the greater the suck-force between the one you pull and the next one? Oh, it’s real! You can, in the midst of panic, pull off ten at a time in one swift yank while cold, brown liquid runeth over thy finely washed linen. On..and…on. Seconds into minutes… into.. eternity…

After seemingly thousands of plastic cups and Einstein-blackholian amounts of time, I’m into the coffee mugs which are significantly smaller in volume (because THAT makes sense, right? … even though plastic cups are still available .. oh, about 100 or so). The pretty red and white linens are beginning to look a lot like NOT Christmas. I’m having my own personal Boston Tea party hell over at the beverage table while the cling-clang festival of happy little forks and spoons hitting plates of warm buffet food is Merry Christmasing behind me.

Snap shot this moment. Scene freeze. Iced tea, full force, pouring out of an untamed beverage container. Male, aged fifty-five, holding a wooden handle in one hand, pale, hungry, disoriented, other hand on a cup, mug, or open palm under spout “praying” for a miracle, linens soaking up the moment. I honestly believe there was a moment when said beverage container sneered in my direction as if to say, “Dude, I don’t know who you are, but this sh*t is funny …”

FINALLY, I caught the eye of a server who immediately came over, pried open my cold, dead fist containing the handle, and managed to stop the embarrassment. Oh, not mine. Hers. She didn’t know me. Actually, I’m confident she had no interest in saving me from myself. Pretty sure, if a large enough tray was available, she would have been able to serve tea to the crew of a small navy frigate – had one docked near by – considering how much I graciously pre-poured. … In many plastic cups AND small coffee mugs. How generous of me to provide two serving sizes, huh?

Well, I did get a chance to eat. Here’s the kicker. There HAD to be a kicker. Later into the meal, a server approached me …. not necessarily to talk about the tea-chasm of emotional torture, but to clear the table. The subject came up. “Maybe” I mentioned it first, your honor? Hard to know .. wink wink wink.

And, THIS is why I write. Her eventual reply:

“Oh, that happens all the time. We’ve mentioned it to the owner many times. Ten times an event, people try up/down because that’s what most of those containers do. That handle snaps off, but doesn’t break, We snap it back on. I’m thinking of just buying a new one with my own money, anyway. Did you enjoy your food?”

“WHAT THE @#$*(&^!&@&*$@& !!!!!!”

Man Meets Woman Part 2

Yesterday I wrote, tongue-in-cheek, a blog regarding the plot lines, ins-and-outs, wardrobes, and all there is’s with ROM-COMs as I see them. A lighter, more comedic approach to the genre. My frustration wasn’t with the movies themselves … it was (and is) with my inability to stay away from watching them. Writing about the inherent, obvious, predictable ebbs and flows gives me a tether – a stability in the midst of my temporary insanity. Bear with me as I attempt to loosen the bonds of frame by frame subjugation in which I find myself.

Keeping that in mind, I present the movie above. This 2011 romantic comedy has a personal connection. The director, Jim Fall, is a family friend. He is a graduate of my high school – only a year or so ahead of me – and was active in a lot of the music groups available to the student body. His interest, primary, was choral. Mine – instrumental, but we knew each other in passing.

A quick Wikipedia read has movie bio credits from 1999 through 2018 with “The Lizzie McGuire Movie” and “Trick 2” being two feature films of note listed in the Filmography among eight others. I encourage you to read his complete bio.

Jim does a marvelous job directing the film. My reflections below are just that … MINE. I have no doubt he would join me in understanding my frustrations are not about his work, or, the work of the actors, script writers, or crew. The story is wonderful. I am a slave to these. Period.

The movie to which I refer above, has the main character, Hillary, in a pickle. (If you are going to watch the movie, stop here…..) I’ll wait.

Waiting.

Ok. She finds herself alone after her jerk of a fiance dumps her kinda-because …. well, he’s a bald-spot on his chin shadow at 2pm lawyer who can’t stay off his phone long enough to have a civil conversation with her. Oh, and he wants her to move to Pittsburgh AFTER he earns a promotion at work (i.e. makes partner because there’s nobody – NOBODY – there who deserves it more). She doesn’t -er, hesititates ever so slightly – so, he kicks her to the curb while they’re walking next to the curb. She cries. He’s not seen again for a long, long time.

Hillary is helped along by a bestie who encourages her to get out there … ya know, put up a video on a dating site. Aha!! … Here’s a twist!. She happens to win a trip for two to Mexico …SO why not offer up those tickets to any guy willing to pretend to be her fiance at the Thanksgiving dinner at her folks home (who don’t know the fiance is no-go-guy)? See, there’s pressure at the ole’ home to marry and Hillary feels it … bad. Family ‘don’t know bad-breakup boy “Jason”, so the ruse is on. Take fake fiance and pass him off as Jason. Oh, the deeds of the needy… the game is a-foot.

She settles in on red-cell-phone guy David. Long story. Well not really. He’s an out of work actor working the streets who is the eventual winner in the internet video “find Hillary a Thanksgiving fake date Sweepstakes”. Seems a bit young for her in the beginning; however, cleans up a little, puts extra mousse in his hair, stops walking like a toddler, talks in complete sentences, and grows into his part …. uhm… (you know what I mean!)

Hillary settles into a less rigid character as the movie moves into the family Thanksgiving scenes. Opposite of David, she becomes open – less mature, if you will. Dealing with an over-protective mother, a sensitive, but goofy father, and a rebellious sister, her boundaries soften enough to realize her love is increasing for David. … what else? It’s a ROM-COM!

So….family dynamics back-and-forth for an hour. David playing Jason. We learn about them. They learn about them. Yeah-yeah. Oh, and Hillary is…in…L-O-V-E

And then. UH-OH!! JASON IS BACK…. Might as well be Friday the 13th! … Door bell rings and there he is. Guess what? He didn’t get the promotion. Da-da-Daaaah…..

Jason declares his love, once-a-freakin-gain for Hillary and she – (insert goofball icon here) ACCEPTS HIM BACK. Meanwhile, I’m not buying it because, although the love story doesn’t seem genuine between Hillary and David, the connection between Hillary and Jason is as bad as me and Charlize Theron: Just ain’t there.

AND.. I was right because five minutes later, Hillary is running frantically out the door to find David after Jason – the former fiance-turned curb dirt-then fiance-now pond bottom feeder once again couldn’t put his cell phone down long enough to kiss her goodnight. Good golly, Molly.

Ending? A wedding. Oh, with a dog jumping in the car with the happy couple. We never saw the dog until that moment but know it’s name is Whiskey because Hillary wrote an article that David read about that dog. Jason and Hillary’s mom never read the article. Silly, silly people.

Jason is nowhere to be found. Probably hasn’t shaved, either. Goof.

Man Meets Woman … Damn Rom-Coms

Have a need today to write about the “ROM-COM” films. Lately, I’ve been hostage to the darn things. It is so much an obsession that I quote-bold-capital-italic-alized the entire genre above in an attempt to show my dominance over this need to watch the …wait for it …. “man-meets-woman and struggles to tell her he loves her over the objections of close friends – on both sides – who, in the interest of wasting an hour and a half, find out they were wrong in the first place” plot.

I don’t know what it is lately. I scroll down the menu options looking past titles with key words that used to peak my interest. Words in the past prompting a twenty out of my wallet and a manly trip to the theater on a cold, blustery afternoon: Crush, Rambo, Thunder, Fearless, Braveheart, Warrior, 300, War, West, and GODFATHER … to name a manly few. There are many more. Many. Many. More. Please don’t doubt my past masculinity. (please?)

Ah, yes. Here’s one. Or two. Or…. Titles so wonderful. Enlightening. Soulful. I am heart-ful and full of excitement to see these words now-a-days: “Love, Amazing, Together, Incredible, Talking, Experience, Understand, Supporting, Sexy, Feeling, The Truth About You, Time ….. ” I know. I KNOW. If only there were movies like:

“I Understand You’re Feeling Like Murder”
“You Sexy Warrior Dude”
“I’m Feeling Crushed and Excited Love”

So, now here I am. In my mid 50’s choking back tears as ten minutes remain in a flick. The damn dude has screwed up -as usual – a chance at a lifetime of happiness with the girl/woman/hot chick of his dreams. He running through an airport/horse field/museum/traffic jam/hotel/restaurant dodging or running over everyone. She is eagerly oblivious, or, unabashedly aware of the situation: in love with said dude, but confused UNTIL he explains himself ONLY AFTER being completely out of breath. Oh, and all the misinformed, stupid, completely insensible friends stand around hugging themselves in a, sort-of, self congratulatory semi-circle – like they had anything to do with it.

Meanwhile, none of this solved my soppy problem under the cotton throw, crying my eyes out. Every. Single. Time.

The girl is always cute. The guy is always charming. The chemistry always works. The dude-friend is always clumsy, somewhat insightful, but never as smart as the main dude. The babe-friend “can” be spicier than the main girl, but never as sensitive or endearing. The sub-characters such as secondary friends or family?: Never, ever hotter or more captivating than subjects A, B, or C’s.

Wardrobe ranges from the sexiest of lingerie (which, btw, I had to google because I tried four times to spell), to bland bowling shirts, blue jeans, and knickers (THAT I could spell). What they wear in these movies is kinda irrelevant, I guess. What isn’t worn, arguably, could be reason to watch. But, that’s not the point of these movies. They are about the romance and the comedy, not the paleness of a saxophone-in-the-background every ten minutes flick. But, I digress. I’m still an emotional wreck at the end.

One dialectical problem, however. I do skip over English titles. No objection to our British friends. Can’t understand half the nuance, words, or slang. Mumble wouldn’t be an acceptable form of communication in my script writing class had I taken up that career path. No offense to my “Downton Abbey” readers. I did enjoy “The King’s Speech” a few years ago and this may have been my limit.

Anyway, I have been binging on these rom-coms, er.. “ROM-COMS” and they are winning. The seasons of my life are such that November through March are months of quasi-leisure mixed in with sporadic work here-and-theres. April through October are months of go-get-ems and may require (sadly) a hiatus.

Here’s what I figure:

Hollywood churns out movies. No problem there. Past movies available to queue up are, basically, unlimited. Again, no problem. Movies …. check!

A movie lasts one hour, forty-five minutes +/-. Two per day with a half hour break for snacks and “personal time” is a total of four hours. Hours …. check!

Let’s say, at a minimum, eight movies per week through mid-March. That’s about fourteen weeks from now. Weeks … check!

TOTAL: 14 weeks x 8 movies = 112 ROM-COMS !!

That’s 112 eventual couples who, at the beginning don’t know they’re supposed to be together – or do they? – but end up embracing their fate somewhere, surrounded by some people, in a somewhat situation, somehow, supposedly, miraculously finding the perfect parking space just in the nick of time. That’s 112 gorgeous women who always have makeup on in bed and never break a heel running on uneven sidewalks, or, fart at inappropriate times. That’s 112 charming dudes who always have gobs of money but never work, drive expensive cars but never put gas in them, cook but never shop for groceries, pay bills, or just readjust their underwear … not even ONCE!

Yet, here I am considering another again tonight … and another tomorrow…and another … and… well,….I’m being dominated. Man meets woman and I, the hopeless romantic/comedian of the mid-50’s manly-ish world, have been duped into this genre of predictability from which I cannot escape. Geesh. I can’t even get out from under the cotton throw I find myself – even when I need “personal time” bad in the middle of the damn movie – because he NEEDS to find his true love! .. He NEEDS her and doesn’t know it yet!. She needs him. He needs her. It’s also entirely possible I may need some help here … and soon.

Anybody know of a local Rom-Com-Anon group?

Grandma

Four in the picture. Only three were mature. But, who’s counting, anyway?

This is a famous trio on my left and right. No, .. not the Three Musketeers, Stooges, Marx Brothers, Bee Gees, or the Kingston Trio. The three surrounding this handsome gent are the only grandparents I ever knew. My other grandfather passed away shortly after I was born, and it’s his wife – my grandmother standing on the far right in the picture – who would be 113 today. Granted, that is an age not attained by many in today’s world. She died in 1999, at the age of 92, not quite seeing the turn of a century, but seeing a lot in her lifetime.

1770. 136 years before my grandmother was born. Bonn, Germany. Ludwig van Beethoven was baptized on December 17th. Now, I know this is one day off from today, December 16th. Historians are unsure as to the exact day of his birth, but it is presumed he was born the day before his baptism.

Why do I mention this?

We are a musical family. The “piano” line is direct from grandma-to mom-to me. This is not to exclude sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, dads, etc… AND it is not to assume a direct line back to the Master himself (I can, however, trace a teaching/pedagogical line from grandma back to Liszt from her instructor when she studied in Chicago). Heck, MY birthday is tied in with World War 2, so the “causation doesn’t equal correlation” fallacy chain, musically, is good only so far…

I mention Beethoven because it is a link to a memory. Today is a simple memory. Today is a day to celebrate the birthday of a lady who started it all – or, at the very least, kept it going. “It” being a love of music passed to her from her ancestors.

Her mom, my great-grandmother Ekas, I knew. A spirited little lady, she loved her card games. I didn’t know her as a musician as much as I remember her as a knitter, baker, and fierce pinochle player. I do know she – and her family – were singers. Not professional by trade, but singers in the home. Female chanters around the house. Carry-a -tuners. When we visited infrequently (made the trek west), the smell of cooking was always accompanied by a whistling tune of some origin. A female choir of voices.

My grandfather I didn’t know fiddled a tune in a local dance band according to family lore. I have yet to see pictures or hear recordings of such to validate any stories I’ve heard over the years. That said, I have no reason to believe this isn’t true. No reasonable person would make up a story such as that. I can see a fabled tale of gangsters, whiskey rebellions, and international crime … but, local fiddler dance band shenanigans?

Come to think of it, there were very few men around. Hmmmm. I wonder where they were? Either death came early voluntarily, or in an untimely…. well, suffice to say I shouldn’t speculate. I do know they, the men, worked hard in the steel mills of Western Pa. during a time when smoke billowed and towered above the mighty three rivers. I do believe the local watering holes sustained the sanity of those men and THAT’S why I, the underaged neophytic pre-teen, never saw the likes of them.

Her daughter, my grandma, was a lover of crosswords, Alex Trebek, pinochle (of course), Diane Bish, the organ, VW Beetles, Pittsburgh, her two daughters, Mrs. Cramer, her neighbors and friends she eventually got to know in Hollidaysburg, and her family. As her needs changed, it was a necessary move from Pittsburgh to Hollidaysburg. Closer to mom, medical care, opportunities for growth within the elderly communities, etc…

A trio of trios. Grandma, mom, and I sat together many times behind the 88 keys: Me – lower third, bass; mom – middle third, tenor / alto; grandma – upper third soprano primo. Thirty fingers, six hands, three players playing. The music rang (not always accurately). We had so much fun. You wouldn’t think it possible, but it was. Possible because we made it so.

“Life is possible because we make it so”. Probably this is the birthday lesson grandma gave me along with the perennial, “Life is like a piano…” sign predominantly displayed on her Yamaha grand: “…What you get out of it depends on how you play it.”

Mom isn’t here anymore. Neither is grandma. The entire trio above has been gone for a while now. Pap-pap was the most recent to pass away in 2010 … New Year’s Day.

Beethoven died March 26th, 1827. Coincidentally, that date is only one day before my mom’s birthday … well, his ending a hundred or so years before her beginning, of course. But, who’s counting, anyway?

Happy 113th, Grandma!! Miss You!… 92 was a long life with no regrets. You gave us a great mom, a wonderful aunt, and plenty of happy memories along the way.

Beethoven would be proud to share this “Ode to Joyous” day with you, I’m sure.

Emptiness Then Everything

When one is empty...
LIFE should be Liberated.
Boulders of pain and regret lifted
From shoulders worn down.

When one is empty...
LIGHT should be Continuity.
Prismatic tones ringing universal
From chambers of an unchained heart.

When one is empty...
LOVE should be Iridescent.
Glimmering beginnings never ending
From a soul having everything

When one is empty, there is all. 
Liberation, Continuity, Iridescence

From Emptiness, Expect Fullness
Embrace the arrival.

Mom: Then, and still Now

This is the face of illness. No need to specifically call out the disease. It has an ugly name. My mom, however, has a beautiful name: Beverly, It is etched into her gravestone above the date, March 19th, 2012. Over seven years ago, she died. No getting around the fact she is gone and will never again celebrate holidays with her family. We can argue the merits of an after-life belief, benefits of chemo vs the side-effects, herbals vs. no treatment, etc…, but, to what end? I can’t crack open a fresh pack of pinochle cards and struggle mightily against the forces of her always better melds.

Shortly after we survived the millennium turn, our family drove to Disney. Pennsylvania to Florida in a soccer mom van. I say, “our family”, but it was only four PA folk: two couples in search of a mid-winter respite. Mom, dad, my wife, and I eagerly, yet cautiously, humped our rears into a hunter-green Oldsmobile silhouette one early morning and headed south. “On the road” details unimportant for the purposes of this post. Suffice to say, I can enthusiastically report dad and I shared most of the driving, mom slept, we had an overnight in North Carolina, and arrived safely in Florida…

Mom always wanted a Disney trip. That, and a Grand Canyon visit. Happy to report we were able to get both her bucket list items in before there was an inkling of trouble on the horizon. I can’t even imagine her not having fulfilled these dreams at a time when she knew they were no longer possible. At a time during our conversations in the final month of her life, we talked openly about these trips. She was so grateful. Always grateful.

I have so few pictures of her at Disney. I like it that way. The ones I have are so precious. She was so happy there. I honestly think “I” was the adult and she was the child as we interacted with each other among the rides, venues, and characters. She rode “It’s a Small World” as if the magic of Walt Disney’s pen wrote a fantasy in front of her very eyes. When Mickey appeared in front of the Magic Castle shortly after we arrived, there were fireworks of splendor in her smile. This smile never left her face. You can see it in the picture above.

The visit lasted days. Universal, Epcot, … We tried to fit it all in for reasons most Pa folks understand. It was a long trip by car, the tickets weren’t cheap, and the time “chunk” to do it was not any small feat for four adults – two of which had to make a living. So, four weary adults humped their rears back into the same minivan and headed north. Same details. Same drivers – kinda. Arriving home the next day, safely, with the best memories Disney is so gifted to provide.

And then there’s …… cancer.

The two pictures above are squeezed together so tightly – and I’m glad they are. The space in between represents, so appropriately, the amount of time that seemed to go by between our Disney trip and her diagnosis. In actual time, of course, it was a few years, but it seems like only seconds. Time distorts memories. It never changes smiles, though.

In that small space between the pictures, there were chemo treatments, pills, surgeries, shots, many doctor visits, diet restrictions, colds, uncomfortable medical appliances, hospitals, nurses, trips, wigs, hair loss, neuropathy in her fingers, sore bones, pains all over, … for five years she endured as so many have. What started out as a small, little spot …. ended up going to three other areas in her body. She never really got a break. Every time she ended a treatment and her outlook was positive, a few months later her markers would be off and the disease would be somewhere else. All the while? A smile.

Look, it’s the holiday. No need to be sad. And, I’m not at all. The second picture of mom a month or so before she passed doesn’t make me sad at all. She is happy in that picture. The waitresses at a local restaurant bought her an angel and stopped by. They are a special breed…those waitresses. Mom was so happy. Probably, she was a bit embarrassed because the house may have been dusty (knowing mom, the house just “had” to be dust free for anyone to visit). That said, I suspect she was warmed of heart because she loved everyone. Period.

For me? I absolutely love these two pictures side by side for one reason. If you look closely, she is wearing the same blue and white overshirt she loved. I didn’t notice this until posting today. These pictures are over twelve years apart, and I KNOW she had this shirt in the 90’s, which makes it at least twenty years old.

You wonder why writing about my mom is so easy? She, apparently, never changed her shirt in the midst of the cancer storm life visited upon her.

And she never changed her smile either.

THAT’S a lesson for all of us.

72 Steps

Seventy-two human adult male steps. Approximately two thousand, five-hundred, ninety-two inches, or, seventy-two yards. This is the distance I measured from where I stood taking this picture to the end of the parking lot. Did I have something else to think about this morning? Yes. Well, no. Not really. Kinda. I did the measuring when I exited my car an hour-or-so earlier in the morning and thought it an interesting experiment.

You see, I was late. Traffic lights and stupid people driving caused my temper to be a bit off upon arriving, so I needed a distraction. I pondered, “What can I do so I don’t enter the school in a a foul mood?”…”I know, I’ll count the number of steps I take from the car to the door!”…”I’ve done this driving and parking thing for seven years now – the same last space in the lot to the same door and NEVER have I EVER done it!”… “Yes…BRILLIANT!!”

For the record, your honor, I DID enter the school relaxed. Success achieved. Now to be honest, I do know additional relaxation techniques I employed prior to arriving such as: 1. creative yelling at people who stopped at green lights, 2. quick, effective hand motions at drivers who didn’t move (and should have) at four-way stop signs, 3. vocal screams toward accelerator-deprived people who apparently didn’t know there WAS a mechanism at their disposal that WILL make their car go over 5 mph, and 4. head-butting my steering wheel in such a dramatic fashion so the driver next to me KNEW he cut me off two minutes prior. I arrived almost happy.

“Almost” being the key word. Aaaand, I recognized it. Kudos to me. Last thing anyone needs is an upset Doug – even slightly so.

Let the count begin. First step out of the car, I felt a small twinge in my left knee. Oh, THAT’S nice, right. I am at the end of, supposed, middle third of my life (if all goes as planned) and most would say a “twinge” is normal … so press on. Two, three, four…

Five. A slight breeze and I feel a drift influencing my gait enough that I brush up against the dirty bumper of a co-workers SUV. Now, I’m not one to complain, but seriously….Ya think a little bit of courtesy could be extended here? My cargo pants are not Balmain Ribbed Leather, I know, but I’d like them to stay nice. A little bumper-dirt maintenance now and then? (Obviously, I’m kidding…or am I?)

Six through thirty uneventful….feeling pretty good. And then around thirty-one.

Stones suck. They really do. Whoever invented stones should be stoned. Wait. How would that work?

“We hereby decree ye shall be stoned”
“But, Why?”
“For ye created stones”
“So, Thee shall weapon me to death by thy stones which I have created?”
“Yea”
“Rock on…”

Anyway, casting aside the really bad script above, step thirty-one presented a small, but annoying pebble in my shoe. How, pray tell, does this happen? Shoes, are by definition, the covering of a foot. Protection of a foot. A sturdy boundary between the elements of danger outside and the gentle flesh inside.

What happens between steps thirty-one and seventy-two is real simple. I had a boulder in my shoe the size of Mount Olympus. Pretty remarkable since my shoe size is 10 1/2 and the space between my ankle and the edge of my shoe is about 1/8″. You tell ME how this happens because I don’t know. Good thing I was in a good mood by then. Breathe in – breathe out. 10-9-8-7-6-5….

I was at the door. Seventy-two steps. Goal. Relaxed. All good. Yes, I knew there was this issue of the boulder in my shoe. Yes, I had tasks ahead such as opening the door, signing in, reading the (bad) joke another teacher usually has written on her white board inside the hallway, seeing all my favorite teachers with smiles on their faces, picking up an instrument, opening up the musical world for a student, and starting another day.

All in all, not bad. So many steps in any given day … in any lifetime, I guess. Today, those seventy-two from my car to the door were such a small fraction of the ones I’ve taken, or the ones yet to come. Almost always never noticed. Today, I took notice.

Kinda nice to give them the recognition so well deserved. Here’s to seventy-two in your life when you need them.