Not Just An Ordinary Joe

Today’s category for our local call-in radio show was “Famous Joes”. Intermixed among the possible nominees presented by callers were stumpers asked by the host, Dr. John. He puts a lid on political cantankerousness and pot-stirring to lighten the satirical stew on Thursdays. Stumpers are an every weekday event. Some easy, others classified as “Mona Lisa Stumpers”, intended to challenge the highly intelligent among us – myself not included; although, I do manage to answer most correctly given enough time to get my thoughts together.

This morning, I punched in the seven digit number with my nominees: Joseph, the adoptive father of Jesus, and Joey Bishop … bypassing the first stumper of the day. After a few minutes contemplation, I called back (asking permission to speak a second time not knowing if there is a rule prohibiting such). Dr. John, gracious host that he is, allowed the secondo with his premio.

I had to. This is in my nature. Unfinished mental issues are the hanging chads on the ballot that is my personality. As soon as the aggressive left thumb on my hand pushed that round button, … this happened:

Of course!! JOE camel … and he’s playing the piano – as I was in that picture, uhm, over 40 years ago. My submission was graciously listened to and formally rejected. In the time it took me to hang up the first time and redial, J.F. (a trivial rival) called in and nominated Sir. Camel during his first (and only, I might add) call of the day. I casually offered up a second nominee – a baby kangaroo, joey – as a runner-up. Lightly accepted and happily-hopped onto the list it was, so I felt better.

Ah, but the duet continued. Dr. John, seizing the moment, proffered a Mona Lisa stumper on the spot. I quickly answered Jackie Gleason only to realize, thirty seconds later, I left a massive hanging chad on another ballot with no third call available. Joseph Levitch was the answer. These moments bother me. It’s over two hours later, I’m in my concession trailer, should have my mind on delicious food, but nooooo.

“Famous Joes”, right? Ah, but the question was framed as a Mona Lisa Stumper which makes one think about the possibility of an overlap. One who should have been thinking – like me, perhaps – could have answered correctly. He asked the question quickly, in haste, hoping to catch me off guard … which he did quite nicely.

The call ended. My angst did not. I sit here with Jerry Lewis – the face behind both Ms. Lisa and Joe – casually by my side. He was the comedian Dr. John wanted as the answer … not Jackie Gleason. What was I thinking?

Of course!!, once again. It’s been a day of second guesses, I guess.

There’s some relief, however. When ballot ballyhoo and quick, unsure decision drops rain down from the why-sky, tinybuddha.com gives us some insight:

Like a friend of mine likes to say, “Life is a hard hat zone. We are always under construction.”

You are not who you were yesterday and you are not who you will be tomorrow. So, make peace with that. Life is full of second chances. We are always in a state of evolution.

In learning how to walk, you had to crawl first, and maybe you wobbled and skinned your knees a few times. But eventually, you found your bearings and trusted your stability. As tiny as you were, you were able to stand straight and put one foot in front of the other as you moved forward.

Not so far off from what it’s like as an adult.

Quite the words when I look at where I was years ago, staring into a keyboard with glasses and clothes fit for for the times.

I think it’s about second chances, not second guesses.

The overall Mona Lisa, or picture – as it is – in our lives, is not how many questions we answer correctly. It’s how many times we call in and try. We’re not going to ever answer all of life’s questions correctly or tear off all the chads cleanly, are we?

This isn’t an easy lesson for me to learn in my sixth decade of life. Just like those piano lesson early on, I will fight my stubbornness to the bitter end just as I, most assuredly, will enjoy the fruits of my hard work – pushing through the challenges of who I am.

… the person who will eventually forget the answer was Jerry Lewis, an extraordinary entertainer, philanthropist, and star.

We may not be all that but you and I are unique, special, and not the average Joe by any measure. If 2020 has a reason, it is to teach us life has other plans. Average, normal, and sameness aren’t hanging around much these days. I don’t need to repeat the big three, but I will. If Dr. John asked for them, you would be able to rattle off Masking, Distancing, and Hand-Washing, right? Through all of this, we’ve maintained our unique selves. Don’t think so? Just look at all the opinions scattered about on the windows of every computer screen.

2021 will be about chances … and I believe we may also be able to guess our decisions, too. Hopefully, the former overrides the latter. I purposely left out the obvious word because I want you to second the motion in your heart.

Remember, you’re not just an ordinary Joe, or Josephine, or JoEllen, or Jo. Be you – whoever you need to be.

For me, I’ll just be here honeymooning in my misery with Art, Audrey, and Joyce.

Yellow Lines

Truth outside my concession window right now: parallel yellow lines. A few less east/west than north/south. It’s raining, again. This is another fact easily seen from my vantage point. To cap off a very apparent trilogy, today is Sunday, I bought a dozen bourbon wings from the local grocery store on my way here, and our 8-0 Steelers play at 4:30 EST.

Most times, facts are facts. I didn’t do very well in science class where mixing certain chemicals, as instructed, led to predictable outcomes … every time. I did, however, succeed in knowing how dad would react to my behavioral misappropriation … every time. I stated my case, my claims, in support of said behavior – all for naught. Fact: rules were rules and I broke (some of) them.

He had his hands full, to use an overly used expression. I may add, parenthetically, that he was a great provider. We lacked nothing. Presents at the holidays, medical care, food, vacations, shelter, clothing, education access, … foundationally, a pretty good middle-class, single-income upbringing. Mom hung emotional necklaces around our every sad and happy moments while dad pushed us forward into economic opportunities that he felt we needed for our pre-income earning years – if that makes any sense.

Yep. Facts are facts. At least they are until one decides to post something on Facebook. During a pandemic. In 2020. While electing, deciding on, confirming, a SCOTUS nominee and President. East is no longer east and yellow may no longer be recognized as a basic color on any elementary art teacher’s wonderful wheel of fascination.

My parallel yellow opinion lines representing – under normal conditions – a fair middle-of-the-road opinion between extreme Covid responses elicited over the line swerves. Near misses of automatic triggers came in within hours and commentual arguments ensued. A one word reply, “bullshit”, came back to me – which has since been tamed (we worked it out).

Two friends argued over mask/oxygen saturation which I didn’t even know was a “thing”. Articles came in as tags supporting both sides. Sourcing debates. Who said what and experiences trump experts, I guess? Who are the experts and what makes them so …? Is Dr. Fauci more of an expert now that he is, possibly, out from under President Trump’s shadow? Where is Dr. Birx?

I did use the phrase, “ridiculously low” and shouldn’t have. It was an insensitive phrase in light of 245,000 deaths. The fact still remains. That number is .075% of our total population in America. ALSO, to be very, very clear … I care deeply about every one who has been – and continues to be affected by this horrible virus. This is why I mask and social distance everywhere I can inside and wherever possible.

The point of my post on Facebook yesterday was to say one person can be in the middle of the debate. He can say, “The fact is, a low % of Americans – compared to the overall population – have died, but there’s overwhelming evidence that we should be extremely careful going forward because we don’t know what we don’t know.”

Yes, the economic impact of this has been disastrous. In addition, and significantly more important, there are lingering consequences for families who’ve suffered loss of loved ones. Our healthcare workers are tired, sore, drained, overworked, stressed, and missing their families.

Our country is really, really, hurting. Some suggest taking a hard line east, west, north, or south is the answer. From what I’ve seen, I don’t think so.

We should all shut off our loud automobiles, meet in the middle of the road, and talk like adults. I’m standing here trying not to get run over. Two wrong turns don’t make anything right.

That’s a fact.

Self-Motivation

What is it? What’s the key that turns on the engine of self-determination?

I think it’s just craziness. Period. Out-of-the-box nuttiness – this self-motivation thing compared to simple urgings from a Rocky movie or one-time kiss. The get-up and go, every moment of every day pulsing in one’s veins to accomplish, perhaps, the impossible regardless of the odds, obstacles, or objections of others.

Self-drive in the business environment? Internal forces pushing tired legs out of bed at 3 a.m. – after three hours sleep – to work another day full of 18 hour’s worth of problems to solve and goals to reach. Shoving aside the already rocky societal and economic barriers, self-determiners barrel ahead over the Niagra-type falls hoping to survive another wave of unsure times as they cascade down into a foggy financial mist of loans, credit lines, and liabilities over assets. In short, we hope to survive.

Some make it, most don’t. Self-motivation, alone, isn’t enough. Luck has to be a part. So does discipline, respect, courtesy, fairness, life-work balance, health, etc …

I spent a decade in direct, full-commission sales. Loved it. One of the main connections to enjoying it was my time spent listening to motivational tapes in the car between sales calls. Zig Ziglar, Brian Tracy, Earl Nightingale, and my favorite, Jim Rohn, always found their way into my cassette player in the car. Never were there silent moments as I traveled down a highway … five minutes or five hours. Wind up a few sentences even now, twenty-two years later, and I could probably finish them from any cassette – any side, any speaker.

What those guys did for me was help me develop a self-confidence I didn’t have prior. The sales techniques, presentation knowledge, book-stuff was easy … however, knocking on a door, or sitting down with a corporate CEO was another novel idea all to it’s own. They helped me internalize my own self-worth. I started to get up every morning being self-motivated, believing I could. Zig Ziglar said, “Whether you believe you can or you can’t, you’re right”. Now, whether he came up with that himself or was repeating it, I don’t know. From his mouth was the first time I heard it …

Seemed nutty to me at the time. And still does. When you grow up believing – and being told – a wildly weird idea that you’re not good enough, and then all of a sudden have these folks on the other side of a cassette player – who don’t know you – tell you that you are … that’s just messed up. That’s just messed up.

It was a wonderful career and had to end. The industry changed locally and I didn’t want to change with it. A great company with great, awesome people. Cassettes are passe as are packing arenas full with motivational speakers. Anthony Robbins isn’t my kind of guy and I don’t lean into any kind of religious urgings much as they relate to business. Cherishing my delicious decade with my guys is plenty nourishing to last a lifetime.

I’m a bit crazy. I outspend to indulge my business ideas … sometimes it works, sometimes not. I’m not a Gates, Jobs, or Iacoca. Who among us really are, right? Thank heavens I never decided to run for public office, be an astronaut (hate closed in spaces), or explore the poles (don’t like being alone). I’m just a self-motivated guy figuring my way through life.

… not to say I don’t buy a lottery ticket, uhm … every once in a while🤔. Well, maybe more frequent than that, because luck is a part of life, too.

Funny, though. Zig Ziglar never mentioned lottery tickets. Oh, well. Never said he was perfect.

Stay motivated wherever you can find the source. We have to keep going. All of us.

Oh, Wait!

You can’t tell from this picture. It’s an ugly day. I sit on my very familiar hard metal chair and look out the serving window at the driving rain. There are no customers to obstruct my view.

Cars slosh through Plank Road puddles 25 yards away while, behind me, I hear anxious autos screech to a stop on Rt. 36N not fully aware a red light – which has been there for years – just made it’s way from yellow. The hustle hasn’t stopped amid an early November rain storm. I may not see the hustle here at this very busy intersection today, however. So, I sit.

I sit and wait. It’s ok. Folks see my business differently in bad weather. They aren’t in a food-festive frenzy if the sun isn’t shining … especially when it comes to concession trailers, trucks, and carts. Seasonal is pretty much the best way to describe what we do … although, it’s somewhat limiting. We’re weatheral and crowdal more than seasonal. Give us foodies good weather and sizable crowds? … We’re stuffing our buns all the way to the bank.

That’s what makes today one of the “You’ll have days like this” days. “Suck it up, buttercup”, wet, damp, what-am-I-doing-here kind of slow tick-off the minutes slosh through days. Days when I can comfortably type off hundreds of words without looking up through a concession window – knowing I probably didn’t miss a hungry customer.

Enough about my waiting moments in the here and now. What I do now, and what I’ve done the past fifteen years, have always been for the future. Which makes me think about today … eight days after a very contested election. You remember … that whole Presidential thing we did last Tuesday?

We voted for the future we wanted. We wanted something to change OR for what we liked to stay the same. In either case, it was for the future of America. Nominees Biden and Harris were change and incumbents Trump and Pence were same. Pretty close to half our country voted one way, the other half voted opposite. Without getting into the weeds here, that was what the little bubbles on the ballot were for and, eight days later – for the most part – we have our answer.

… and that answer is:

We spent months, prior to November 3rd, looking out our political, ideological, philosophical, and spiritual trailers at some really nasty campaign weather … waiting for calm, sunny weather that we could take to the bank. Ideas that most of us – left and right, Democrat and Republican, Independent, Libertarian, Atheist and Christian – could deposit together on November 4th.

Instead, we have arguments about ballots, fraud, state tampering, Republicans squealing about election abuse that seemed to be o.k. four years ago, Democrats wanting unity after 4 years of nothing but the opposite, and a Congress, in general, that is as inept as my $0 balance in the register.

If you’re sensing my independent and stubborn streak here, welcome to the “Why is Doug looking at me that way?” club. I adore my friends and have a high level of respect for their opinions and beliefs. I’ll listen to other opinions and consider changing my mind. We have to co-exist. We need to get along. I’m a middle child as well with an older sibling who is a take-charge personality, and I have a younger sibling who is more stubborn than I. The appeasement gene is strong in my blood, too. I adapted early on.

All this to say, we’re going to be ok, but it’s not going to be easy for a bit here. For the next few months, all of us should be patient while we sit in an uncomfortable chair, looking out at some rather nasty political weather these early winter months. I thought, maybe, November 3rd the skies would clear, but they didn’t.

Here’s hoping January 20th will be sunny … and I’ll be looking out my concession window at a long line of hungry customers. Ain’t happening now.

Oh, wait!! … I see a customer!!

Lady, Luck and Me

This is a lady on Lady.

I had the pleasure of seeing them trot by at a local event last Saturday night. It was a late night corn maze and there wasn’t much business to be placed inside freshly purchased buns, unfortunately. Blame it on rescheduled trick-or-treat plans, cold weather, or Covid fatigue … any number of possibilities … it was simply a slow night. A really. Slow. Night.

Local isn’t really honest. Bedford county is 35 minutes due south from Blair, my home county, and more rural. I set up in a field of worn grass next to a wooded, rather scary, tree-bone graveyard off a well traveled route between two small towns. The folks were banjo friendly in a Nicholson kind of banjo-picking way. Nice, but looked at my hot dawg, northern self like I just stepped off a yankee canoe.

Charles, the folkman in charge of the entire event, was kindly nice and welcoming, however. His gentle demeanor didn’t represent a gruff, wheat stick between the teeth personality as he led my efforts to set up and prepare for the crowds anticipated arrival (not). In fairness – even with over 20 years’ experience running the corn maze and haunted woods – he couldn’t know the effect of Covid or rescheduled trick-or-treat night in the surrounding communities. With that, it was a grueling 4 hours in the cold with little to show except food waste, spent propane, mud in worn tires, and a late night of travel back to a more familiar Blair county.

There was a positive. Meeting the lady … and Lady. In my horse petting haste, I neglected to harness the rider’s name: the lady on Lady. The lady was a very nice person who filled my ears with wonderful information as I ran my cold hands over Lady’s still head a little above her nostrils. This looked to be the only place where she didn’t have a costume part draped over her. Bless her heart. She stood still in silence. Only the white, warm steam rose from the end of her exhales. There was no other movement except my hand – which she seemed to enjoy.

I was told she was a quarter horse. From what I can gather, American Quarter Horses get their name by being quick sprinters – in races of a quarter mile or less. It is one of the most popular breeds in the country and I can see why. I believe we had more of a connection between us than I had with some of the kind kin folk in those parts. Lady didn’t talk much. Heck, she didn’t talk at all. I asked her twice, “Are you a wonderful horse, Lady?”, and she nodded her head in agreement … twice – both times I asked. Don’t tell me we didn’t make a love connection, ’cause we did!

I’m not lonely. Don’t look at this the wrong way. Very seldom do I get to be around large animals, let alone really nice ones, OR ones I have time to pet while freezing my petunias off. Those of you around horses all day long won’t find this encounter of mine wonderful. I get it. For the same reason, I wouldn’t find your writing about an encounter with the most magnificent hot dawg exciting. It’s all what we’ve done, who is with us, perhaps, and possibly what large animal is involved that makes for an interesting life to one vs. another.

The lady’s outfit was interesting to me … especially the way she posed for my picture. It had a middle-eastern flare. Play around with this picture, adding the Abbasid Palace in the background, and it would make for a wonderful picture (although, with apologies to the culture, I’m not sure women are allowed to ride horses). The combination kept my eyes busy most of the evening because there wasn’t much else to do. Lady and the lady rode gently by every 20 minutes or so and I enjoyed every minute of it.

Lady belongs to Charles. He owns four horses. The lady is kind enough to saddle up and ride Lady during these corn maze and haunted woods events to entertain the crowds. Crowds, evidently, that show up only on the nights I’m not there.

That said, some really nice folks did arrive. I can’t say there weren’t. Those who did stop to buy a hamburger, or two, discussed pleasantries with me as I suffered my way around a steamy grill. Charles bought three – yes, three – sausage sandwiches that totaled up to most of my sales. Stuffed in among these slid a few dawg sales and maybe ten sodas. Not a very good night by any standard.

Doesn’t matter much because I try to always find a good nugget … something to stabilize the bad.

And, out of the stable came Lady. She was a few minutes within a few hours. This time became a sliver of my life. A cold guy petting a warm, friendly horse. Not much, by some standards, I humbly admit, but in the midst of a crazy later-mid life, I’ll take what I can get.

We should spend more time looking for these smaller moments that matter. The big ones just aren’t often enough and are fleeting, anyway. I believe “Lady luck” reigned me in Saturday night … if only for a little bit. Worth the drive down south over the county line. I’m not much for banjo playing, however, I may get a hankerin’ for some more soon. Lady may need some Doug affirmations again.

The Fall of (a) Man

It almost happened this morning. Dew not try this at home, I say. The hustle of time combined with an early morning mist – atop the carpet of leaves covering my porch steps – was a slippery soul waiting for my arrival. Fortunately, a past experience grabbed a hurried back collar by the neck of time. I was lucky.

A few years back, not so much. I’m still creaking along with a dislocated/injured disc from flapping down on these same steps. A sunny, less wet day … yet in the same uncontrolled, fast-paced, inattentive manner I approached the descent … and missed. Thinking all was fine (male trait), I went on my way. A bit sore, but hoping the pain would subside – which it sort-of did after a few days, I lived my life quite contently believing a quasi-sore back was just age. Male being male, right?

Uhm, not so much. After months + years of this, I had tests done … and … well, I have the bad news, bad back, issues to this day. Still living with it and that is what saved me from sure slippery this morning. Alarm bells rang, mindful memories magnified, and I stopped momentarily to think through the situation. “Wet leaves + Steps + Doug in a hurry = Hospital” … An equation nobody needs to figure out right now.

All this to say that picture above is the pile at the bottom of the stairs. A pile I most likely would have landed in had a tumble occurred only a few short hours ago. Certainly a Genesis-ical chapter to define rest of my life had it happened. The fall of this man in a season of unsure events and unpredictable happenings … for possibly all of us as well as I think through the past 10 months of 2020.

Welcome to the near end of 2020 – an end we are looking forward to as a group of 325 million loving, caring, crying, compassionate people. We’ve tripped over societal problems, stomped on issues long since ignored, slid on slippery slopes of ignorance and bigotry, stood on patriotism and pride, walked happily in the steps of heroes, and tred lightly through a pandemic’s science and political maze of unknowns … all the while, we survived and, sadly, at the time of this writing, 225,212 Americans have not.

I am not taking any sides here. I am, however, looking forward to the end of a political fall season guaranteed not to end on November 3rd. It’s been a side-stepping, two-step dance of ridiculousness the past few months. Our feet are calloused and legs pretty sore from carrying both liberal and conservative crosses across party plank floors … over and over on idealistic shoulders. The most decisive thing about November 4th? … it will be the day after November 3rd. The fall of 2020.

I didn’t go down this morning so, hopefully, the ten weeks remaining will be upbeat and pleasant. I’ll vote … and wait. I’ll keep masking, social distancing, and washing my hands all the time as recommended by the CDC. You dew what you dew, ok?

Take steps to be the best you you can be – and don’t take the steps ahead that are dangerous. I need you to be here for all of us. It’s a challenging time to be alive. One life, like yours, is too valuable to leave to chance, so watch your step.

I did. Leaves (0) + Doug (1) = One happy day. Now, that’s math I can live with.

Letters and Emojis

As one who spends some of his time typing words into the internet space, I’m going to state an unpopular opinion: We’re spending too much time here.

Why do I say that? Just today I need to clear up an issue with a great friend … and can’t via text. As I write this very minute, the problem at hand is unresolved. It’s not a matter of life or death, rather, a personal uncomfortableness – an unease – I can’t resolve without personal connectivity … a phone call or something other than 1’s and 0’s over the w-w-web.

Secondarily, I expressed an opinion on Facebook two days ago. That should be an “enough said” sentence, but after 100 comments and counting, I must continue.

It concerned the vacancy left by RBG’s death and the political fallout since – specifically, ACB’s nomination to the aforementioned seat. You’d think I typed in the worst offensive words possible about everyone’s mothers based upon the comments dripping underneath my eloquently phrased opinion. Again, no real conversation – just texts back and forth with veiled insults and an occasional “fact” in quotes, questioning sources, attaching descriptive connectors to humans in public office, and scripting personal narratives to public internet spaces.

Beings being 2-dimensional. I’m not enjoying any of it right now. Resolutions are really difficult at the end of two solitary thumbs when one has to wait moments – possibly hours – for a response (with no guarantee of one even coming).

Where are we now? Trying to interpret 26 letters and a bunch of emojis now is like looking through a dimly lit lantern’s glow at a wall of hieroglyphics … symbols we can’t really get a handle on. It’s a cave of our own doing. That’s where we find ourselves. A simple 👋 now can’t mean “hi”, anymore, without questioning the motive … is it sarcastic? Does it require a 👋 in return? I don’t know anymore without, at a minimum, looking the waver in the eye. At best, seeing them in person.

Look, I know the technology wave carried us into this cave. It was unavoidable, I guess. So many good things have happened because blips and beeps carry information across thousands of miles in nanoseconds. Lives are saved everyday with medical advances. Kids are learning more – by fifth grade – than I knew when I slid across the stage picking up my diploma. Access to information is … un-freakin-google-believable.

Still, all that can’t replace a person on the other end of a breathable space. Someone to help resolve a rather minor issue we need when that problem pokes itself out from the normalness that is life. A normal we really can’t be, by the way, spending almost all our time face down in a text. This isn’t the way life was intended to be.

You and me. Eye to eye is the absolute best. If not, at least voice to voice. For personal relationships and problem resolutions, it’s a deaf echo chamber cave of emojis and letters. As a way of communicating a momentary frustration in a blog on a cold, rainy Friday in October? Absolutely!

As to problem #1, I’m sure this little hiccup in my life will begin to work itself out once the iron of time plugs in and begins to iron out the wrinkles. The 3-D books I’ve read and really smart people in my life I’ve listened to guarantee it.

The now is now, however, and for what it’s worth, I do feel a bit better venting – even if it’s just letters and emojis.

Concern #2: The whole Facebook thing will do what it does and life moves forward for everyone involved. That space made Mark Z. a bazillionaire – which is more money than I’ll ever see. His money and notoriety slip him in a envelope and send him off to destinations unknown to me.

And so it goes. My opinion remains the same. We spend too much time. Here. Call me sometime and we’ll talk it over. I’d love to hear your opinion.

… Since Then

It’s been almost two weeks – if not more – since I’ve managed to find the time. Life has been very busy lately. If you only knew how difficult the hidden the moments have been to find. Those wonderful, cherished times to sit down and simply use the muscles in my mind and not the ones tired from over use – with little rest from bending, arching, twisting, and turning. Yes, life is a strange experiment.

A good and great experiment. Don’t mistake my weariness for complaining. My previous two weeks have been filled with excitement as a new chapter opened up. The long awaited bigger, better concession trailer has officially started its journey down the Doug’s Dawgs path after a two year’s argh-full process of torchery. Well, that word may be a bit harsh. Let’s just say if a hurdle needed placing, in my way seemed to be the location. After tripping over the last of these, I pushed my way toward that wonderful tape last week and 85% finished the race … at the very least sputtered to a soft opening with 15% more improvements to go. Today is for reflection and rest. And writing.

Glad to be back.

Also, happy to see not much has changed in the world. With all the goings on in my life, I haven’t seen much around in yours … and by extension, our country. So this morning I felt the need to get caught up on Facebook. Why not, right? If there’s a place where all opinions live and breathe, there it is! Certainly I haven’t the time (or, energy) to click around the tv channels gathering sputtering blather from biased newscasts, so settling into my most comfortable worn leather office chair is preferred. While doing so, this beautiful letter popped up. I’ve seen if before. Somehow, today, it means so much more than ever before to me. To all of us, perhaps.

Maybe I’m just tired from all the extended, tired major muscle groups still clinging to my clothes, or my overly-red eyes are too swollen? … I don’t know; however, when I started to whisper these words to myself during this morning in September, the mist over my eyes began to match the fog beginning to lift off the early lawn outside my office. I am a pianist, musician, sentimental type – excuses meant, of course, but there’s something sweet in George Bush’s words to Bill Clinton. An urging of civility and kindness missing today from the most respected office in America.

This isn’t a post taking sides. I don’t care about politics anymore, really. I care about people. When a human being says, “I wish you well … I wish your family well…”, it means as much to the giver as the receiver. One heart to another. One American to another. One of us passing on politeness and good manners on to another of us. Respect.

Since then, right? 2021 will be twenty-eight years. George Bush died in November of 2018 and shadows of Presidential courtesy still proudly blanket his grave at College Station, Texas. Bill Clinton lives on with a legacy – agree or disagree with any of his attached problems or successes. In regard to the current occupant, he’ll either leave a note to himself on January 20th, 2021 if re-elected, or a newly elected president will most likely find a very stark, empty unwelcoming, no note oval office upon entering. Provided, of course, the Supreme court upholds .. the … oh, wait, I promised no politics.

In ending, I do wish you well. When I walked into MY office this morning, I also felt a sense of wonder and excitement because – after two weeks – I saw an empty white screen once again in front of me. Granted, I’m not the President of the United States. Whew! on that note, and I know you feel that, too! … Go do your thing today and be brave. Accept the words George H.W. gave us and don’t be afraid to be a giver.

If it was good enough for him, it should be for us as well.

Kalmia latifolia

The kalmia latifolia is, appropriately, our state flower of Pennsylvania.

Stepping off the path where this fact lives, according to vacationideas.com, it makes sense that hills, valleys, ups, and downs would be associated with our great commonwealth:

“While the mountains do not reach the highs of their bigger cousins in the West, Pennsylvania is home to the Appalachian Mountains, which cut right through the state, with the Pocono and Allegheny Mountains as the most important sub-ranges.”

Further down the road, we have an area identified as the Laurel Highlands. The Laurel Highlands is a region in southwestern Pennsylvania made up of Fayette County, Somerset County and Westmoreland County.

S’merge all these ideas together – mountains and laurels – to get one rooted flower: the mountain laurel. A stately bloom captured on the other side of a lens settled gently in the hands of one with an eye for such beauty. I’ve shared her seizing symmetry before. Pictures are frozen in two dimensions, yet move emotions as if she is asking us to touch the scent … feeling its life.

The featured image for this post is from her archive. Once again, words are necessary.

Every state has a flower, a tree, a motto, a bird. Eastern hemlocks stand proudly as our tree, shouting, “Virtue, Liberty, Independence” from its branches and fine, dark-green needles. Secretive ruffed grouse may be seen by walking through the very forests where my keenly observant friend finds objects – shall I say, finely tuned, natural pleasures – to arrest our attention. These mentioned are Pennsylvania’s designated treasures sometimes surprisingly seen when least expected. Encouragement is urged for you to find your state’s magnificence as my sightly-gifted, grass-rooted earth swoosher asks all of her friends to do.

I’m asking you to find three dimensional allurement in your stately space. As a non-woodsy, never burly guy, my main path does not often go through lush thicket. On the rare occasion it does, either my eyes are too swollen to appreciate the moments, or closely held anxieties I cling to for comfort prevent any relaxed recreation. It is, therefore, your job to log in some forest time on behalf of all peculiar path-adverse people, like me, who only want to sit in comfortable chairs and glance upon very beautiful pictures.

Her pictures draw me in, so why would I subject myself to bugs, bothers, and blisters? I can live, momentarily, in a fantastical world of flowers, nights, trees, birds, and skys without leaving the safety of my insecurities. This is what great art does for those open to the possibilities. A Warholian jaunt, or Leibovitz-like skip from our trouble into whatever we imagine life needs to be to get us through that moment.

A calming moment, perhaps. Maybe kalmia? Softly spoken, with an Italian accent, “Come here..”. “…You’re welcome to join me as my friend. Sit with me and we will rest.”

Great images never have one view, of course. How many times do great paintings draw different opinions from the palettes of discerning wine and cheese guests? Her kalmia latifolia is white on green. A pre-holiday gift to help me keep hoping the present time is not so bad as it seems. They’re very open, as if to want to hold my hand – if only for a moment – and then retreat. Little umbrellas to hide the rain. All of this in a picture.

It’s ok to be open to these possibilities – even if only in two dimensions. I know the creator of the image is alive and well … in three dimensions. She’ll keep clicking away. It’s in her nature to do so and nature gladly accepts her good will. Maybe she’ll catch that wobbly ruffed grouse in her frame sometime for all of us to see.

I sure hope so ’cause there’s not much chance of one crossing my path anytime soon. This chair is just way too comfortable.

Thank a lot

The title is as hard to process in your brain as it was for me to type. “Thank” needs an S happily attached to its back end, right? I knew this when deciding to write, but did it anyway because sometimes our gray matter needs a jolt away from normal. Happy to oblige.

Now that I have your undivided, the lot across the street from my everyday lunch spot has my attention. For some reason today, I’m fascinated by normal and nothing. Four days after a labor’s rest, I’m not ready to work – haven’t been for the past four days. Sitting on a worn metal chair, waiting for any customer to arrive, listening to the sizzle on a grill I’ve heard many times, and experiencing a soft September breeze over my well-rested shoulders make me appreciate nothingness more than ever – at least compared to life last week.

See, last week was normal. My day-in, day-out life stuffed into the 24/7 all of us get. No more, no less. Life was all about running around gathering supplies for my business and scratching out personal checks for closely due bills I knew were itching to be paid. Events to work, prep and clean-up, follow-up phone calls, … oh, an occasional shower to ward off the hygiene police … all in a normal week’s step-through.

All of us sled through our normals. We have to, right? The only other choice is not to … and I probably don’t know what that means. Living abnormally, I can only guess, is inside an avalanche of weird events – day after day – riding on a not-so flexible flyer of ideas. Well, by that definition, then, I DO know. It’s 2020 … 50-ish days before a Presidential election. “Probably” – the assigned adverb four crazy sentences ago – surprisingly just morphed into the phrase, “absolutely aware”. Imagine that?

Every month, since this pandemic arrived, we’ve been hit with some other weird, goofy, sideline snowballs. Let me summarize:

Murder hornets, Australian bushfires, Harry and Meghan quitting the Royals, a Presidential impeachment, China seeds, a Ukrainian flight crashing in Tehran, Iran, killing all 176 passengers on board, Kobe and Gigi Bryant losing their lives with 7 other precious souls in a helicopter crash, one week toilet paper panic buying, UK exiting from the EU, a massive solar flare, locusts in Africa, Weinstein, W.H.O., what’s, and where’s … the complete cancellation of April. aaaand this:

A warlock in a wheelchair riding by between the lot and I. Normal, right? Yes, for him.

He waved a very casual “hi” with his non-staff holding hand as a trusty metal steed carried him by my lazy, but well rested, observing self. There’s a goal in the mind of a man who wears a pointed black hat and – from what I could see – sports a twisted, shiny, lacy white beard. The cloak of visible mystery rivaling Harry Potter’s and a Marlin-esque ponytail dripping out from the back rim both speak of a story I have not lived, most assuredly. It is his story to tell … if only in his mind. It is his normal for this day and, quite possibly, every day he gently places himself into that saddle of satisfaction.

So, normal. Nothing is normal anymore. Or, maybe nothing in our lives’ was ever normal to begin with? What is normal to us isn’t considered normal to another person? It’s a lot to think about. Thinking about a lot – as I am doing right now. All of life’s stuff piled on our once empty fields where fertile ideas grew, dirt was free to get wet with the spring rains, and wild flowers took root here and there as they wished.

We forgot how to tend to our fields. This is the “larger than life lesson” I’ve noticed as an observer of life in others (and myself) during the 2020 year best described as what-the-hell-is-happening?.

When the all-things-normal door slammed shut this past March 13th, none of us knew what to expect going forward. Guidelines were sketchy at best and the near future at the time had a thick haze of uncertainty on the horizon. Normal was no more for 320 million Americans who didn’t know what an unattended field of ideas looked liked back then. Nothing, as a reality, seemed more real than a virus we knew little about except it came from a province in China.

Journeying forward, we’ve become accustomed to a new normal. “New normal” – a phrase my mom often said when torturing through chemo every day. As an expression of sufferance rather than satisfaction in the moment, these two words give some meaning to the material over our mouths and depth to the distancing. Some do not, some do. The most normal phenomenon throughout this whole pandemic, however, has been the predictable percentage of our population who, rightfully or wrongfully, head in the other direction.

It is not my position to judge. I simply stare across the street and think the bare spot looks a lot like Snoopy. That’s not normal. To me, though, a few minutes to sit here and watch a warlock, think about murder hornets, remember a few whacky-weird things, and write about life is something. Mostly, I have a lot to be thankful for. So do you. Find one somewhere, grab an uncomfortable metal chair, and take a seat. Nothing awaits you.

But, then again, we have 111 days left in 2020.