Sideways Glances: “I am a ONE”

Scrolling down my Facebook feed today, I came across the following preface – to a slightly longer post – from a good friend of mine:

“As someone who OFTEN gets sideways glances, or judgmental stares. And who hears whispers from people around me “quietly” making fun of me, or full on insulting me to my face for the way I dress/present myself to the world….”

The follow-up comments on that post bear witness to the support I, and others, have always shown toward this multi-talented individual. Respectfully, I have avoided the use of any specific pronoun, although I am confident he would not mind at all. For now, “Yogi” will suffice as a substitute until such time I garner permission from said individual … if necessary.

**UPDATE: permission granted. since original post**

Tony is a wonderful person. An individual. Tony is a ONE. I am so fortunate to cross creative, theatrical paths with this actor/singer/dancer in a number of shows in which I’ve been musically involved. We’ve remained casually good friends outside of the stage since our first experience together years ago … living quite different lives, but having that occasional, “hey, what’s up?” moment in a restaurant, on a sidewalk, or at a show. Always respectful. Always engaging. Always uniquely dressed.

Which is the point of Tony’s post.

I sincerely WISH I could post up multiple pictures of Tony. You’d enjoy the array of joy, fun, creativity, cleverness, and uniqueness he brings to YOUR life just in the viewing of same. What pleasure is brought forth from life itself.

Last week, as I glanced up for a moment from my enjoyable spoonfuls of comfort at a local eatery, I saw Tony swoosh by. We had a few minutes of casual conversation about a recent show he was in, talked about the production clips soon to be uploaded on FB, a few other matters, then went our separate ways….well, he exited and I continued on with my enjoyable lunch fare.

A few minutes carved out of our day. That’s all. Two individuals making time to have a one minute conversation – not giving two whiffs about what anyone else what thinking. I was (and am) a conservative, middle-aged, recently buzz haircut, non-tattooed, non-pierced, dressed in khakis, wearing a dress shirt, loafers, blazer, school lanyard with a magnetic key dangling at the end, piano playing guy. Tony? None of the above. So much none of the above. Pretty much anything you can think of not what was mentioned above. (Although, the “cool” factor very much alive in both our lives….) . Two “I am a ONE” people having an adult conversation. Period.

More to the point, why is judgement so important to people? I do judge. All the time. Probably the harshest critic is myself – to myself … and others at times. It truly is the human condition. We are born skeptics. We are genetically geared to not accept anything outside that which we are comfortable. Arguably, this is an inbred trait that has kept us alive and aware. We SHOULD question that which may be dangerous to our well-being. We SHOULD judge “nastiness” at our front door if our senses are heightened and danger seems imminent.

When a Tony appears, it is natural to glance and wonder, question, or, perhaps judge. The next step in the process is what some miss. It is the “filter” step … the “step-it-back” rung on the socially acceptable ladder.

Judge all you want. Be that person. I AM that person … less and less, over the years. I get over it pretty quick by asking and engaging, or moving on. These seem to me the only healthy options for everyone. Sometimes I see outfits and presentations I, simply, don’t understand. “Head-scratchers” to say the least. Just not my thing, BUT it’s THEIR thing. THAT’S the point.

Tony dresses for TONY!…And, I must say, it works. Most importantly, it works for TONY! Period. End of sentence.

So much can be accomplished by simply going up and saying, “Hi”. We don’t know the stories. Nobody knows. Pretending to know by insulting the Tonys doesn’t solve anything. The Tony I know is so super talented, yet, it happens often enough in his life to justify awareness on Facebook.

Tony isn’t going to change – THANKFULLY. We need more individuality and less conformity. More understanding and less judgement. More love and less hate…. and, definitely more silence – when warranted.

Please, don’t be the reason another Tony needs to post “sideways glances”. This person is a strong, talented individual. The next one may remain silent and suffer.

Thanks for listening and not judging my words.

“Pumpkin, honey”

Pumpkin honey. These two words always go together – kinda like “hootenanny” (although I believe that is one word). A quick google search finds the following: Pumpkin honey is one of the rarest of honeys, so it is a special treat when available. It is an excellent honey for cooking, baking, canning, and wonderful for marinades, sauces, and dressings.

So, there you have it. I, honestly, did not know it existed before starting my blog for today. As I sat staring at an October 31st blank screen, my mind wandered into a Halloween theme (pumpkin), and the next word into my mind was “honey” (?), so …. “pumpkin honey” purged forth from my nimble, yet pokey, fingers. Kinda disappointed it wasn’t an original phrase. Some sweet chef-ette decided to make a strange marinade, thus, stealing my literary spotlight for the day. Oh, well. “Whip it into a tasty honey-butter. You won’t be disappointed”, states the website … Yeah, ok, honey!! (Sarcasm intended…)…actually sounds good, btw.

“Pumpkin honey” blatantly stolen from me. Well, not really. I can run with it in a different direction, I guess.

The pumpkin is a large melon. Arguably, the pride of all melons – unless you consider Carnegie Mellon (which doesn’t really count because of the extra “L”). I can squash the squashes … too small… and cast out the casabas. I won’t do the honeydews and can’t do the cantaloupes. I spite the sprite melon and will not share my charentais.

The world record weight for a pumpkin is a whopping 2,624 pounds!! Tha-s-a-lot-a-large, my friends!! Can you say, “pie for 10,000, Alex?”. Now, I would figure time and motivation prevent me from aspiring to be the owner of large pumpkins, right? I’d rather bedazzle a mule (please don’t ask) than grow a humongous gourd. Besides, dad called me a melon-head once. ‘Nuff said.

Why the pumpkin and Halloween? I guess the Celts dug out the insides and carved faces into the outsides. After doing so, they placed a lit candle inside hoping the illumination would drive out evil spirits. Ok. Sounds fun. I typed “Celtic Wars” into Google to see how effective THAT was:

390 BC, Battle of the Allia,

284 BC, Battle of Arretium,

283 BC, Battle of Lake Vadimo,

225 BC, Battle of Telamon,

225 BC, Battle of Faesulae,

222 BC, Battle of Clastidium,

200 BC, Battle of Cremona,

Yeah…Looks like the whole “pumpkin” thing worked out real well for them.

That is the brief history of the pumpkin as I, the musician/hotdawg salesman know it to be. One other note – there are pumpkin chunkin’ contests held around the country. Nothing screams, “pumpkin humiliation” more to me than catapulting an innocent cucurbit (look it up) hundreds of yards to certain death by decimation. Unless, of course, one might carve stupid faces into same and….maybe….gut out the in….sid..es….never mind.

Nature hasn’t provided the perfect pumpkin. Man has sliced and diced, carved and peeled, cut and pasted his way into folklore looking for magic.

Perfect pumpkins aren’t out there – unless at Wal*Mart, aisle 4 – plastic ones with a hole in the top and a little black strap attached to each side. These aren’t perfect because they are plastic and mass-produced. Rather, perfection comes from what they give and receive. They find their way into the mittens of October children across the decorated lawns of orange-red-and-brown leafy neighborhoods. Kiddos gleefully sloshing them around, overflowing, on crisp Trick-or-Treat nights – banging these little orange vessels on their legs a hundred times over. Ghosts, witches, superheroes, nurses, robots, martians …. hoping for a treat to fill the expectations in their hearts. These little orange buckets receiving treats … and giving joy.

As adults, we can have perfect pumpkins, too. Maybe that’s the reason for this blog today? It isn’t the big ol’ natural, award winning, attention-grabbing pumpkins we see, perhaps, at the fairs, in the news, or on the internet. It may simply be the ones “out there” of different shapes and sizes we see everywhere on porches, in stores, at the town center or mall disguised as people. These pumpkins in our lives, as well, aren’t perfect because of who they are,… perfection comes from what they give and receive.

At the end of your Trick-or-Treat evening – whenever that may be – rest with family and friends for a few minutes. Appreciate all the pumpkins in your lives.
Sit back, relax. As you notice the smiling faces, the candy spilled on the floor from the plastic pumpkins, and the light frost starting to form on the outside of the glass, whisper to a loved one, “Well, it must be the pumpkins, honey.”

Your Angel


 Pay no mind to your heart when you sleep.
 For your heart doesn't mind soon at rest.
 A wonderful dream state awaits a desire 
 When closing your eyes, you are blessed.
 
 Your mind tends to worry I'm happy to say.
 It keeps your heart's day close at hand.
 A heart always with you - dusk until dawn -
 Can be rested upon your nightstand.
  
 A mindful, good sleep will shelter a soul
 and help nurture the pains of your heart.
 So separate the two -  a heart and a mind
 They won't mind being apart....
 
 During the eve, as your mind plunges forth,
 A magical happening occurs:
 An angel picks up your heart as it rests
 For you are the soul that she serves.
 
 Rest in your dream. All the while this is so,
 The angel repairs all your hurt.
 Joy woven peace are her stitches of time
 All your pain she works hard to convert.
 
 Are all souls attended in such a good fashion?
 Probably not, I'm sorry to say.
 Some choose to cling to their sad, lonely heart
 By not at the end of the day....
 
 Giving into a dream - a trusting nightstand
 Where a tired heart can be just so.
 (Angels of mercy cannot heal a heart 
 Held too close as to not let it grow)
 
 Like a miracle of fresh accents in bloom
 Is the morning when old becomes new..
 Your angel to watch - gently so, as it goes
 As she returns your heart back unto you.
 
 Pay no mind to your heart when you sleep
 For your angel won't let you alone.
 She heals that which is her one desire:
 Your heart, her mission, her home.

This is the business…

People. Some stop to buy, others walk by. Hundreds the past two days. Thousands this summer. Hundreds of thousands over the years. Many, many people.

Surprises along the way. It’s been almost fifteen years of ups, downs, and in-betweens. Consistency in process, product, and people on my side keep the engine motoring forward.

Without people, though, it would have stopped years ago. Grateful for people. Customers. Year after year.

This is business. Serving customers the right way … and it is exhausting. Especially what I do. I have no pass-through. No delegation of responsibility. I am a one man show “most times” for prep, set-up, shopping, and clean-up. Heavy selling times I do have help, but those aren’t the exhausting times …. it’s everything else: travel, bills, mental energy, planning, coordinating, cart maintenance, SAM’S CLUB changing their hours!!😡, sleep, scheduling, product prep, lifting/pulling the cart, trying to get my new trailer done ….. on and on…

This is on top of a busy life otherwise.

Nowhere will you hear me publicly complain. I live and love what I do. Privately I have my moments. All in business do I’m sure. Few, if any, share. I will …. just this once.

This is the face of business at times – after all the work. Two hard events, back to back, that should have been good… but weren’t …. and a third event packed in to top if off. Prep, set-up, hours worked, tear-down, clean-up, travel…. with little result. All knowing a third, larger event was in the wings -only hours later – requiring an hour drive each way … not knowing how it was going to go. Stress compounded.

This was me exhausted after all of it. Thirty hours work, four hours sleep. Don’t mind sharing. Small business owners know our limits, yet we exhaustively break them hoping to make your lives better in some small way. I do, anyway.

Today, however, I’m done. Tired and completely worn out … thanking the universe for rain which prevented me from setting up at my usual Sunday spot. Money lost, but necessary rest gained. I’ll absolutely miss my regular customers … those special people who don’t just walk by. The “by chance” new customers will have to wait until next year as this would have been my last Sunday for the season.

So grateful for everything. How wonderful life is – unfolding opportunities for those of us willing to work and put forth the effort. Effort that doesn’t always pay off, though … and, like I say, that’s ok.

I’d rather be exhausted doing what I love for others than rested doing something I want for only myself.

Many, many people and one me. Tiring as it may be at times, I’d have it no other way.

You

Following the recent posts here on “2.3 billion+1”, you would have read my Army G.I. reflection. If not, go back. In the event you don’t want to, I’ll give you a brief overview: The Army toy was in a music store window. Done.

I walked by the same window just the other day – as I always do (repeating myself, I know)… This little drum spoke words of wisdom to me on that day (revelation to follow). Now, the Army guy was still there, minding his own, staring into the same wall, thinking the same thoughts, … wishing upon wishing his head could turn. He can’t see this little drum, but I can … and that’s the point of this blog post.

Dan Rice’s circus (1830s–1860s) was first described by an Arkansas paper as the “greatest show on earth“, according to Wikipedia. It became the tagline of Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus, as we know. Most recently in the spotlight because of the movie (which, by the way, has a most fabulous soundtrack … of which I’ve been playing a piano arrangement that is equally challenging and marvelously scored … but I digress).

That tagline caught my attention: “The Greatest Show On Earth” … I spent most of the of the day thinking about it. The words. Always the words. Dissecting, thinking, analyzing, OCD-ing, “what-does-it-mean-ing?”. Tripping over past, present, and future tenses … Was it always the greatest and is not now? Did he believe it to be the greatest and “sell” it that way? Will it ever be the greatest again?… Was there anything else on earth at the time anyone thought was greater than this circus? Did Barnum ever give credit to Dan Rice or the Arkansas paper?

Well, after careful consideration and plenty of expended brain energy, I came to one solid, unbeatable, non-debatable conclusion that day … words of wisdom I shall never forget…ready!…here it is: ______________ and ________ followed by the most incredible__________, _______ , ______ , though ________!

Yep. That’s it. On that day. Zip. Nada.

That was then, as they say, and this is now.

Today this little drum has a new meaning. The drum beats on in silence just like my heart – dutifully for years. Yours as well. Both our hearts and the drum continue unnoticed unless paid attention to. That day I noticed; however, I chose the wrong path forward. Too much noise, not enough silence. Silence -the very message this little drum tried to speak to me. In the silence, I needed to hear: “I am the greatest show on earth. To me, for me, to be who I need to be.”

It is most certainly about others. Self-serving behavior and attitudes to an unhealthy degree serve no one except the selfish one. To be the greatest “show” on earth for the benefit of only self is a fool’s game. I’m writing about a healthy sense of self. A belief, an “ism”, a way of life, an extension of your soul where people around you see the love inside of you and are better because of it. A moment when you are great and those around you are greater because of it.

You and I are the greatest at being us. On our very “badest” of bad days, we are still better at being us than anyone else on earth – even on their “bestest” of best days of being them.

I have always believed in a show. The older I get, however, it is harder. Maybe reality sets in … I don’t know. Once, a sales manager casually gave the advice: “An insincere smile is better than a sincere frown”… Yeah, ok. Maybe this worked giving a sales pitch in my 20’s, but real life issues? … probably not. Life is too difficult. The happiness pill is too hard to swallow 24/7. Gotta be real and genuine. That’s what really counts in life.

You can’t beat the realities in life. There is no drum big enough to shut out the noise from the ups and downs. Life is, truly, a circus. Don’t overthink it. Take the easier path forward. Pick up your little drum, listen to your silent heartbeats, and be the greatest show on earth for you. It’s the least selfish thing you can do.

D00003241 *

Hello. I’m a 1928 $100 bill some random guy was fortunate enough to take home today. Boy, did he look me over good. Says he’s some dude who writes a “blog”. Now, I’m not exactly sure what that is, but, I’m some-kind-of-glad to see daylight after being stuffed in a drawer for almost eighty years. Think my math is off, do ya? Well, I was glad-handed around for ten years or so and then “saved” the remainder of the time. Saved for “what”? You got me. Oh, yeah. Some dude.

I’m still legal. Legit and tender (ha). Let me tell you about myself. The “4” in my Federal Reserve Seal means I was born in Cleveland – Federal Reserve District Number 4. (As an aside, the District numbers were eventually changed to letters, so I would have been a “D” had I been born later….) I could have been born in Boston (“1”) which would make me rare, or, all the way up to San Francisco (“12”) and my value could be upwards of $1,000. Now, if I was an “11” (Dallas), I could be over $2,000… All of my value, of course, is based on what someone would be willing to pay. For now, I’m ok with being my boring face value (Cleveland is in Ohio, after all…thus the $100 wink wink) I have friends born in New York (2) Philadelphia (3) Richmond (5) Atlanta (6) Chicago (7) St. Louis (8) Minneapolis (9) and Kansas City (10). If you see any of them, drop me a line. I’d love to reconnect.

I’m an irregular sort, though. Not too odd … just odd enough to catch the eye of this random blog-dude. Yes, I’m old. Nineteen-Twenty Eight old. Think about it. Propped up on the desk of random dude, I see him type in “google search” (WTH!”) on some goofy machine (?): “What happened in 1928” … almost immediately, I see the following appear magically on a white illuminated screen:

United States — Mickey Mouse

The cartoon star Mickey Mouse appears on November 18th in Steamboat Willie.,

United States — The Yo-Yo

Pedro Flores, a Filipino immigrant to the United States, opened the Yo-yo Manufacturing Company in Santa Barbara, California on April 26th .

Amsterdam Summer Olympics

The 1928 Summer Olympics take place during July. They were held in Amsterdam, Netherlands and were the eighth modern Olympic games.

U.S.A. — Lindbergh Congressional Medal of Honor

Charles Lindbergh receives the Congressional Medal of Honor for his non-stop transatlantic flight in the previous year.

United States — Iron Lung

Iron Lung Philip Drinker and Louis A. Shaw professors at the School Of Public Health at Harvard University invent the Iron Lung.

All of that is quite interesting, to be sure, but not as interesting as the little green star after my serial number. I am replacement note. When a printing error occurs during a normal press run and renders a set of bills unusable, replacement notes are used instead … and I am, proudly, one of them. There’s one of me in about every 100,000 bills +/-. … aaaaand, I’m still not worth much more than face value …. aaaand still from Ohio.

More interesting than all these facts and figures are the stories I must keep a secret. Maybe I was in the pockets of Douglas Fairbanks or Al Jolson?…Perhaps Smokin’ hot Marlene Dietrich took me aside to pay for a few meals inside a nightclub in NYC? Simpler so, I could have spent my days nestled in a handbag under the arm of an unassuming housewife, who was donning a Cloche hat, shopping in a small ‘burg somewhere near the big city. One will never know.

Yeah, I was passed around for a while – and it was MAGNIFICENT!!…The last eighty years?…meh. I’m so glad my friend found me today. He’s a gentile man. Doesn’t look at all like the men I last saw before being tossed in a drawer, though. Dressed kinda weird and, …. if you don’t mind me saying so, there’s waaaay too much noise and commotion around. I think you folks have too many people and automobiles…. which look funny also. What’s up with the talking heads in the box arguing? Oh, and those goofy little cigarette packs folks are talking into? ….

Well, I must rest. It’s been a long day. I’ve been dictating this to blog dude because I have no fingers to type. Think I’m strange, do ya? Well, he’s the one listening to paper currency, typing in said words, and pushing “publish”!…. All good. He’s my friend. I think I’ll keep him around.

Sincerely,
Ben Franklin

I’m Sure He Wouldn’t Mind

I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind.

His made up words rattle around in my brain. As fresh today as they were during the many years he was alive, these locutions are difficult for me to forget. I can say, “I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind”, because he spoke them so frequently – with such joy and merriment. Times of sickness required a motherly hot-water bottle, Vicks Vapo-rub, and a grandfather’s visit with a made-up word or two to lessen the pain a bit. Birthdays and holidays?….same. Ups, downs, in-betweens?…..didn’t matter to him. Insert made-up word or phrase here.

I can’t say for sure if he made them up, or, they were passed down. I didn’t know anyone older than his generation. Most of his family passed before I was born. There were a few brothers I saw infrequently at reunions. Time spent delving into weird-word origins seemed like time wasted among Pittsburgh Steeler talk, potato salad, flies, women in flowered aprons talking recipes, young boys and girls enjoying life without electronics, and the smell of burning embers in the fire pit waiting for marshmallows later at dusk.

I think Pap-Pap used words to get through life (Hmmm, sounds familiar)… I have the added advantage of my musical talents which he didn’t have, though. He and I shared the gift of laughter. He was a silly guy, but probably had his serious moments we never saw. We knew he never strayed from his faith. The last few years of his century-filled life were filled with wonderful, healthy experiences. He managed them well without grandma: the nose-to-the-grindstone, go-get-’em gal he lost after so many happy years together.

Words did mean something to him. One never knew what was truth or fantasy. The sparkle in his eye – I came to know early on – was a give away. As I aged (can’t say matured, obviously) I began to notice the “set-up” as another. I began to enjoy – rather, look forward to – his terminological twist even though I knew, most assuredly, what was to come. Reliving, forty years later, the little sick boy in bed listening to nonsensical words in hopes of feeling just a bit better about life. Adult, child? It never mattered. Pap-Pap was the same to me.

The last time I saw him alive and aware, he was in the hospital. I went in, alone, to see him. We couldn’t communicate well because he had a mask on and was hooked up to machines. As time passed, and family came in and out, he faded away and eventually passed – surrounded by family. Simply stated, after one-hundred years, his body was done. He was in pretty good shape a week prior – Christmas day – but fell ill suddenly a few days hence. He died New Year’s Day, 2010. He made it to his 100th year, but not to his 100th birthday. In all of our minds, he lived to be 100.

I’ve heard, “There are no words….”, used many times in many different contexts. From deep sorrow to endless elation, there can be times when words do not fit. Sometimes only a strong hug comforts the grieving when despair grips a soul. Or, so much happiness overrides overflowing joy in a heart and words are unattainable. Yes, silence is golden at times.

For me, silence isn’t one of my best attributes. I like to talk. It’s a good thing. Probably got the “skill” from grandma who was the salesperson. Pap-Pap, the goofy one who spun a story once in a while … choosing his moments carefully … would be proud of me. I think. But I don’t use made-up words like he did. The twisted irony of all this? … I still mix up dangling participles, clitics, schwas (wink wink Ms. Renee), malaphors, and sluicings ….. which ARE real grammar usage words. Geesh.

So, I lift my glass to Pap-Pap: The purveyor of purposefully meaningless words such as “Lumpuckaroo” and “Cringidabingess”. May you rest in peace.

Petie, Hercules, and I

This is “Petie”. I met him before, according to my good friend walking beside, but don’t remember doing so. Petie has one eye, is almost completely deaf, has no sense of balance due to bad hips, and is old. Other than those few inconveniences, life is good for him.

Daughter, the owner, is out of town, so “dad” is walking Petie down the isolated alley on this beautiful, sunny day. I had a few precious moments to stop by. My friend is an older gentleman who would dogsit for his daughter … while she moves about taking care of business out of state. He’s just that kind of a guy. A success and a survivor as well.

Petie takes the easy, slow road this day. I guess he has to. He’d topple over if urged by an overtug of the leash. The walk today seems to be a nice, gentle shuffle dance between my friend and Petie … held together by the silent music of the off-yellow rope leash binding the two together. There’s an understanding – “I won’t if you won’t” kind of thing going on.

You see, my dear friend is simply that: a dear friend. He is a pancreatic cancer survivor going on six years. He won’t admit we’re good friends because he’s goofy, and significantly older than I. But, I can admit such because I am a ….. mature adult … (pin drop).

“Hercules” (name changed, obviously) went through hell and back six years ago. He survived, but to do so required five back surgeries, multiple chemo treatments, …. and all the usuals. He lost – and maintains to this day – five inches in height and over fifty pounds. For an already smaller man, that’s not a small deal.

There is a back story as well. We met in 2007 and didn’t realize there was a musical connection until a conversation started over … yes … chili-mac and cheese at a local Doug’s Dawgs restaurant in Lakemont, oh so many years ago. He is a retired Army band member. My uncle John sang in the Army chorus (who are considered part of the Army band from what I can gather). They knew of each other. A large world suddenly shrank into a smaller, intimate world and a friendship began. My uncle John died in the summer of 2013, but he did have the chance to meet up with Hercules in 2010. What a neat circle of life moment.

My friend is very lucky. He doesn’t say “blessed” and I’m really cool with that. The survival rate, as we know, is ridiculously low for pancreatic cancer, so for him to be walking Petie six years after his diagnosis is quite fantastic.

I make every effort to irritate him as much as possible. I also take the time to tell him he is a special friend. Both are important to me.

Not surprising that he is walking Petie on this day. Both of them shuffling along, doing what they can with what life threw on their porch, … then rang their doorbell and ran like the coward it was.

I stopped by for a few minutes not knowing what I’d run into. I never do. Always like to stir the pot when I do because Hercules deserves a good ole’ change of pace sometimes. Today I find two older friends shuffling down an isolated alley – together – figuring out how to get through another day.

…. I was glad to be part of that – if only for a few minutes on a really nice sunny day. It was only Petie, Hercules, and I … that’s all we needed to make the inconveniences in our lives disappear – if ever so briefly.

Nice moments.

The Four of US

Four pianists. Four organists. One church.

Hard to imagine this happened, but it did – and not too long ago. Early 2000’s (probably around 2003 … the Bicentennial celebration of Zion Lutheran church in Hollidaysburg, Pa.). This was during the time when all four of us (Donna, Bev – aka “mom” -, Gail, and I) were on staff as keyboard specialists. If you are wondering who was my mom, you aren’t looking close enough.

Churches are in need of organists. The very church in which this picture was taken is currently looking for a full-time organist. I am busy with other endeavors, but holding down the fort Saturday night. Donna and Gail are doing what they can on a very limited basis. Mom, unfortunately for all of us, passed away. We have a very active praise band led by a talented group of musicians and a young man fills in at the organ when he can on Sundays. I think this is happening in a lot of churches, although, I have no concrete evidence supporting such a claim.

How fortunate Zion was to have all four of us. If you know me at all, this is written in the most humblest of ways. The differences in our playing styles and gifts were evident. Mom and I had the great fortune of a maternal “organ” gene passed down from her mom, Janet, who played professionally in Chicago before the depression forced her back to Pittsburgh, into marriage, and a steel-mill/steady job life with a husband and family. She managed to play regularly in churches around the city. In her retirement, when she relocated to Hollidaysburg, she played at the Methodist church on Walnut Street and at Zion on occasion.

Gail is born and bred Zion. She has gifted Zion with her skills as long as I can remember … plus she’s older than I. Insert slight chuckle here. Donna? Well, I don’t know much about her, sadly. She’s always been willing to jump in and play – quite well if I might say so.

So, that’s the summary to date. I love this picture of us. If the date I mentioned above is correct, the three of us alive today are sixteen years older. Yuk. THAT I don’t like. Within those years, I’ve lost mom, dislocated one and then sliced open the other thumb thirteen years later, started a goofy/fun hotdawg business, and really found out some strange things about myself. So, so many strange things over the 4×4 years that have passed. Don’t ask.

If only I could tug on my mom’s ear one more time. She’d understand, I’m sure.

Little G.I. Not Forgotten

I’m a little G.I. not forgotten. In a window display, year after year, thinking I was forgotten … until today.

Nothing has changed, year after year. I sit in my Jet Propelled Supersonic Speed GR 5-4065 facing a blank, colorless wall across a row of trumpets and horns. Nobody winds me up anymore. Nobody. Can’t remember a time when a human hand touched, let alone played, with me. I keep a smile on my face, though.

My time was 1944 – an era stuck between the Great Depression and the boom of the 50’s. For me to survive seventy-five years is quite the miracle considering most of my contemporaries hit the junk pile, or simply rusted out into nothingness. Baseball card pals, Big Little book friends, Erector set siblings, Tiddlywink toddlers …. all gone. I miss them. Here I sit, still, silent. Thinking of them. Year after year.

My last owner, who owns this shop, hasn’t been around in a forever span. I don’t know why. I know he still cares about me and all my friends in this window, so I silently ask, “why?”…and there is never an answer. I can only assume a reason I don’t understand. That has to be good enough. It has to be. Year after year.

I can only sense experiences. Thinking in stillness. I would love to have someone, anyone, move me ever so slightly to see one snow fall, or watch the leaves change. To understand how rain slowly runs down the face of the glass, look out as the parades go by, catch a glimpse of a sunrise and sunset, or spot that one classic car I remember fondly …. would be magnificence in the most holiest of forms. It is not to be. I am this now, now. It is my year after year.

I am Jet Propelled. I am Supersonic Speed. Yet, I am stuck. Ironic. I have a specific identity, yet thousands pass, day by day, without notice of my predicament. I silently speak, yet no one hears. Everyone is in a hurry. It is not their fault, however. My time was seventy-five years ago. My identity is not recognized as much as it would have been back then and my usefulness has long since passed. Even my recognition as an antique/collectible is waning as those who remember me as the mighty G.I. Joe are slowly passing into eternal rest. Year after year.

Today was special, however. Some random guy stopped for a few minutes to say, “Hi”. He said he passes by frequently and looks in because his family used to visit the music store a lot (where I am on display). He’s sad, too. Sad to see a favorite store – with good memories – fall into disrepair over the years. I know, between the two of us, we are thinking the same thing: sometime soon, this store will need to be demolished. The damage from years of neglect is too severe for repairs to make any significant difference. Funny, at that time my view will finally change … and I don’t think it will be a happy ending. Year after year will finally come to an end for me.

Still, today was special for me. I’m a little G.I. not forgotten … at least for today. I have an identity that was recognized. My ego was Supersonic and my happiness Jet Propelled because some random guy took a few minutes to stop, look me in my side-eye through the glass, and talk to me. For anyone walking by, this may have seemed a bit odd. For the two of us, however, it brought back to life the memories of one and wound up the rusty heart of another.

For that, I am grateful….and will be. Year after year.