No Bucket List

Seems like when I sit somewhere lately, my wondering eyes catch a glimpse of something extraordinarily normal. This object must be an everyday noun nature places within the very scope she gave me to notice, register in my brain, and process over … and over … until I decide I’ve enough information to share.

So, I sat for a few moments while considering one specific thing. Never mind where I sat, or, why it was necessary for me to be where I was at the time (instincts provide me with enough information to know the specific details are completely unnecessary and unbefitting a gentleman). The hour came. The moments arrived.

It was, by all measures, an early moment – 12:36 a.m. to be precise – and my overly tired, Coca-Cola dilated eyes weren’t available for proper sleep. Slurping that bubbly drink to take my twice-daily pills ten minutes before retiring the night before wasn’t my best decision of the day. They recommended plenty of water. I chose Coca-Cola. It isn’t an often choice, but after working close to twelve hours and eating a tuna salad sandwich, I took the advice of my counsel … it was soooo good. Still, not my best ruling from the bench.

No amount of rubbing, tweaking, pinky finger-flicking, or body bending at that hour can make even the moments themselves bestir. One sits and muses over the most mundane of whatsits sitting around because there’s nothing else to do. Magazines could not be read yet again through eyes unfocused, tired, and honestly unwilling to re-read the same Reader’s Digest jokes over again, anyway.

Once my eyes began to sharpen, the object same into focus: A bucket. A double-bucket to be correct. The kind of double-pail with a spinner in one side. To be even more unambiguous, the bucket I’ve never used. It wasn’t so much the blue bucket that caught my drained out attention span as it was the orange handle hugging the sides and extending across the middle. Twenty-two wee little slats molded into the handle’s center section spanning across an open, deep double-bucket. Most likely it would be half an oblong shape if continued to its complete form around, by my best guess. Lil’ Bo Pip would be proud of her two little pips on either end who hold the whole operation together.

Coca-cola decision aside, better to focus on the handle.

Why the handle and not the bucket? “Certainly the bucket’s use without a handle is a finer philosophical foray than the handle’s use with out a bucket?”, you may ask. To which I answer, “Yes, toting a handle alone about town would seem quite odd and useless; whereas, a bucket alone without its handle is still useful for many a tasks. For purposes of deeper meaning in life, and satisfying this writer’s need for tying the extraordinarily normal to same, a double-bucket handle is more important. Besides, lack of sleep, combined with 39g of sugar in a can of Coca-Cola and over four months of Covid Crazy all call for extraordinary efforts to remain calm through words.”

…And the words I choose to use today are simple. We all find ways to handle what we need to deal with during our day-to-days. I pick out things, ideas, people and think about them … a lot. These are very broad categories. I recognize this fact and also deal with too many zings and zips in my brain because of it. Focusing on considerable amounts of those above while accomplishing many things has been … and continues to be … my life’s motto to some finish line as of yet determined. Type A? Probably. I handle it in ways I need to by writing, working, and wresting my way through problems.

What do you do? How do you handle your day-to-days?

The sight and sound experiences in a public food space every day give me some idea. I see scrap haulers, trash folks, tire sellers, educators, retirees, politicians, garage mechanics, retailers of all products, dentists, martial artists, security workers, police, doctors, hospital maintenance workers, RNs, etc … who shuffle up to my street cart. They have buckets full of issues, I’m sure, but are handling their lives quite well. Sure, I bet their issues are equal to any others and not one is better or worse than another. Every so often, my cart is a bartender’s elbow rest … and I don’t mind if I’m not busy. I’m Doug, … and I’m listening.

We’re handling all this pretty darn good. The news may suggest otherwise … however, I believe that’s the bigger bucket of worms we can’t do much about. Right now is the right now. Here is our space. How we handle where we are – even if we sit and ponder the moment – can change who we are if what we are is in need of change. For now though, I think we’re all doing quitely fantastical.

This bucket, however, isn’t in its right mind and is in need of change. This I’ve determined. Double-buckets, especially, are a nuisance, … a persistent pestilence upon Doug-drowsy peepers.

Ironically, I’ve a problem. Without the bucket, I have no handle. With no handle, no subject about which to write. Well, that’s not entirely true. I could start a bucket list. Hey … a Double-Bucket List!! Nah. I’d never get around to doing anything on it. Too busy sitting around looking at extraordinarily normal things all the time – especially during these early morning hours when I should be sleeping. Too much Coca-Cola. I knew better but gulped it down anyway. Geesh.

Shades of Opinion

Yes, it’s a shameless plug for my business at the lower right edge, but I get to determine what goes and what doesn’t. This is my blog. My opinion, sarcastically written while a smirky, snarky corner smile reroutes sweat over my 95-degree, 85-percent humid, tired-pump heated face. Yes, my opinion is valuable … if only to me.

I sit on an uncomfortable metal chair waiting for customers to arrive. It’s another day of food sloshing. I don’t mind my customers at all, rather, they’re quite amusing. Attitudes can vary from an extreme euphoria on one end to a deep, cavernous malaise on the other … and all colors of “What the hell am I doing?” in between.

I’ve witnessed these various viewpoints as I stand in Doug puddles behind the grill. Varieties of opinions not only are expressed from my customers, but also live in my inward, laser-like unfocused, mind – where ideas disguised as shaded, nuanced ambiguities live. Back and forth we volley semi-words like “uhm” and “eh” in response to queries equally perplexing such as “wah?” and “meh?”. It’s a world I’m used to these days. The heat pounding off the earth is driving me insane. As well, forcing my body to stand erect hours on end – behind the ever-present bubbling steam table and grill contraption I designed for income-producing pleasure – is adding to my hotness (wow … did I just write that word as a descriptor for myself …?)

This moment of respite I shall take. A well deserved frozen moment in clock stoppage. No customers at the ready. Food in warmers. Sodas on ice. Flags waving a welcoming “hello” to passers-by. I am sincerely hoping – to the dismay of my accountant and checkbook – customers take their time considering whether or not to stop. I need this time to chill … literally.

This isn’t a normal time, to be sure. A one-hundred year pandemic is certainly bigger than my gripe about a few hours behind the meat monster grill cart. This isn’t my first hot summer and, hopefully, not my last stand under a catch-22, heat-holding, sun-blocking, sail-to-any-wind canopy. It requires four ratchet tie-downs as does my recent attitude … as if you couldn’t tell. I’m not at all angry. That’s not a word in my vocabulary. A jilted peddler, perhaps? Left behind at the peaceful alter of seller sanity? Who knows? I’m married to my profession – that’s a given – and I love what I do, so heat be damned! I sit here contemplating. Thinking. The metal chair is melting my attitude a bit … my thoughts go toward one word: SHADE.

S FOR SITS in life. The time to sit here and think. I am untroubled about the woes in our world. You shouldn’t be either. Be passionate about where you stand … absolutely. Live for what you believe. Breathe in the knowledge you have gained by being you. Give generously to others through what you have been given. All of these wonderfuls have enriched my life in the middle of being misunderstood, maligned, or mistreated. You have so much when it seems like you have so little.

H FOR HARMONY in life. Be happy. Nature wants us to be in harmony with her by being happy. So overused, but so true. I’ve heard it said it takes more muscles to frown than to smile. Whether this is correct, I’ve never confirmed … who cares, right? Twice last week, customers thanked me for the conversations at my cart. Not sure they could remember details if pressed, but I bet they remember being happy when they left. Emotions are strong motivators. This is why happy people perform better and are healthier. (I kinda want to debate this as I happily stuff my face, weekly, with pizza, sno-cones, burgers, and bacon). Force yourself to be happy those times when a tire is so inconveniently flat, a schedule is way out of whack, or your dog is up a tree. An insincere smile is always better than a sincere frown.

A FOR APPLES in life. Growing up, I never understood why eating a fresh, crisp apple after being outside playing always pulled me back from a fog. Fancy words didn’t suffice then, only, “I have to stop now …” echoing inside my head meant to head inside. The cold juice running down my chin signaled the beginning of a return to normalcy from what seemed to be a lull of neurological function. After a few minutes, the dizziness stopped, my mind cleared up, and life headed forward. Never knowing the cause other than a possible recurring drop in sugar, I went forward in life. We have these apples saving us every day. Small semi-lifeboats keeping us going. Kind words from friends, a special nod from a stranger, … finding a dollar or two in a pair of pants (preferably our own – don’t go random-reaching into other folk’s pockets) … these are small returns to normalcies we need to be on the lookout for daily. You have them. Keep looking.

D FOR DIGGING in life. Want to know more? Start digging into it. We have a local radio show featuring daily trivia questions. I love ’em! When I call in, I use the name my mom called me when we played trivia games together – as a way to remember our time pushing little game pieces around a board. Sports, Movies, Politics, etc … all subjects are covered while levels of difficulty vary as well. I won’t call in unless I’m Trebekian-sure of my answer for two reasons. #1) I am absolutely sure someone would recognize my voice ONLY if I got the answer wrong, and #2) I would feel guilty wasting the host’s time doing it any other way. Give or take a few condiment answers slipping off dawg questions, I’ve been pretty accurate. One step I always take is confirming my answer via research. I dig into the question … if time allows. If I can’t confirm my sneaking-suspicions, then it’s a no-go. Period. There’s the small treasure I’ve found. Whatever you want to know, or already know but want to know more about, find value in researching and confirming. Do the digging. It can be dirty work along the way and you may not get on the air, but the new information in your life is so worth it.

E FOR ENTERTAINMENT in life. My dad’s best expression, although he doesn’t know it, is “Here we go…”. The eye roll starts it. This is the best three-word phrase he could ever find in a vat of English words to say as a reaction to my reaction when something strikes my fancy in public. There’s no intention to embarrass my dad in public. He simply assumes the role of dad-as-chief-embarrassed when I openly, but respectfully, begin to speak my mind. Humorously, mind you, and always either self-reflecting or about the matters at hand. Never would I ever speak of others around or make light of the misfortunes of those less advantaged. My intent is to entertain those near and dear to me … including dad. He’s never entertained, though, and I don’t know why. One level, I suppose: serious. Or, he imagines my level of crazy and can’t relate. Whatever the case, I won’t stop because he needs conversational rabbits and magic hats in his life. Be open to entertainment or be that magician for someone. Amazing things can happen.

It looks like time has passed by … so much so I had to finish this comfortably sitting in my office chair at home. Problem being, I know in less than eight hours I must repeat the stainless-slamming once more in the heat.

It all sounds so depressing and I mean no disrespect to my business. Like I said, Doing the doing is hard in this environment. Heat, covid, masking issues, food, supply issues, rolls going bad, change shortages, on and on … all of the sludgery-buldudgery can get burdensome on this guy once in a while. The sit by the shade was a good thing today. Glad it happened due to it not happening very often. Darn customers making me get up all the time!

Go ahead … roll your eyes. Detect the sarcasm? Entertainment value only. I love my customers and will continue to be happy as each and every one of them lean on my cart for their food-stuffs. Sweating this out is a small price to pay for their happiness in a bun. Oh, and the conversations and attitudes will always be weird as nobody – including me – knows what the hell we are doing most of the time.

That’s ok. I think most everyone else doesn’t know either. In that light, we should all meet in the shade together and talk out our problems, … “eh?”

Yacht To Sea This

Just a few minutes ago, our Governor Wolf announced a return to six on my non-normal grading system … in a weird way. Normal around these parts hasn’t been seen since early March, so I measure typical on a non-normal scale. One being slightly above McDonald’s not having BBQ sauce for our McNuggets, or a freakishly fabulous forty-four degree day for our fourth of July picnics. An abduction by absolutely adorable, astute, astronomically ambidextrous aliens ranking an extreme ten on the other side of my normalcy division. Everything imaginable in between – our banged up toes on strange concrete pylons appearing out of nowhere, politicians with actual good ideas, tv shows about a family losing millions but starting over in an obscure Ontario town, long lines at bank drive-ups, meteors burning up in the atmosphere, global-warming, successful rube goldberg machines, Rose Apothecary purchases, on … and … on. My non-normal grading system application, when properly applied, could rival even the most strident of systems.

Take Politfact for example, since I mentioned Governor Wolf. Well, let’s backtrack for a minute. Today, he announced a return to a 25% capacity on restaurants (from 50%), closing of bars, and stricter business limitations – all in response to our state populous (as a whole) not doing a good job of masking and distancing. Without assuming my political or socio-economic position, just go with me here. This is moving from one non-normal number on my scale to another. We were at a marginal four-ish, now back to a solid six. Sliding away from Honey-Mustard and closer to Mars.

Back to the “Gov.”. According to http://www.fivethirtyeight.com, “First, some quick notes on how PolitFact works and a few words of warning. PolitiFact reporters, researchers and editors grade each statement as true, mostly true, half true, mostly false, false or “pants on fire”. This is a six-point system I’d gladly stand against on my scale – it’d be worth the weight. They are on a slippery-scale of opinion, whereas, I am fundamentally sound on solid ground of normal thought. Who’s to say what is a “half-truth, or mostly false”? “Half” and “mostly”, applied to abstracts like truth and false, are subject to interpretation. I’m half crazy, right? Define that in terms of my mostly sane existence … see what I mean?

Nobody – alas NOBODY – thinks where we are right now is anywhere close to normal! I’m simply applying a numerical value to the non-normal space of this time. We understand numbers so much more than words when grasping scalability. Mt Everest is 29, 029 feet high. The Grand Canyon is 277 miles long. There are over 7 trillion nerves in the human body … any one capable of being the last one some unfortunate schlep will step on within my existence by week’s end. THAT’S normal!

What wasn’t normal – and has a rather large million dollar number assigned to it – is this yacht – auto social-distancing its way through my hometown. Ten miles per hour, being sluggishly towed along by one very large semi, escorted to the future prom by plenty of local law enforcement officers eager to make sure there was no inappropriate touching, this handsome tug-hug was on its way to Lake Erie via Altoona, Pa. Pennsylvania Electric (Penelec) was in bucket form to raise all necessary lights/wires because Ms. Million-dollar stood tall atop her multi-wheel hull-carrier. She was the Queen of the moment. A traffic stopper – out of necessity and wonder.

Where we stood was normal to our everyday space. What was IN our space was anything but. How often does one see a multi-million dollar gargatron lumber through an intersection, hundreds of miles from any body of water necessary to float a yummy-yielding yacht of this stature? My guess? “Never”, and I yield the floor to PolitFact to grade this answer as “True” (even though “not normal” still applies).

We stand a firm six now. Ugh. I had a nice “at a marginal four-ish” Lemonade and Life lunch today before coming home to see the news about Governor Wolf’s decision. My customers were beautiful today. A very nice couple started a business lately and were excited to tell me about it. Another charming lady experienced loss a few years ago, but came back strong and I suspect great things in the future … for her and her boys. My space wasn’t normal as usual … a great non-normal for me, though.

For all of us, however, the non-normals in our collective space with all this aren’t peachy-keen as we’d like them to be, right? My scale of 1-10 is the social, all-of-us scale I apply to the situation. It is the big picture frame I use to help me understand my place as the extremely small pixel located in that small dot of color down by the lower left corner.

It’s not the non-normals for us – as individuals – that are driving us crazy. We can deals with hangnails, kids and kool aid spills, dog poop, and overcooked macaroni. The non-normals imposed upon our collective space are causing us to take notice of our place and our stance. “Yacht to pay attention to this virus in this way (pick any variation of masking, distancing, droplets, ICU beds, Fauci, Birx, … true, mostly true, half true, etc…)” … is the message slowly crossing through our intersections of reason and emotion every … single … day. It’s no wonder we have no sense of normal anymore… Our wires are being crossed and there’s no help ahead to make sure damage is mitigated. We’re headed to an Erie place.

…And, it’s why Governor Wolf probably reinstated the restrictions today. He’s going to get grief, I can guarantee it just as easy as I can assure you my chocolate milk is waiting in the ‘fridge for my enjoyment in about fifteen minutes.

Not all bad, folks. Pay attention to your color. Your place in the whole picture. You have color. You have life. You have a non-normal that contributes mightily to your experience and your space. This isn’t selfish or self-serving to pay heed to your space and your time. Yeah, we haven’t seen normal since mid-March …but, then again, we never saw a million-dollar yacht dry-surfing through multi-lanes of traffic on its way to a lake.

If I ever come across Martians eating McNuggets at the Rose Apothecary however, something is very wrong with the Universe. Unless, of course, David and Patrick rented Mariah Carey’s yacht for all the fans of Schitt’s Creek … then, maybe, non-normal could be put on hold for a few days.

Chloe and Friends

This is Chloe. Ah Chloe, a little four-pawed, eight pound pug-beagle mix puppy and Dolly, an eleven month pure breed German shepherd live in my neighborhood. Dolly, of course, having slightly larger furry footies than Chloe … and the classic sloped back you’d expect to see coming down off her sleek brown and black back fur. Chloe is just a tiny little ball of energy, teeth, and grr-ness. Just enough to make anyone holding her jealous for more time – once returning her to the ever vigilant rightful owners across the way.

Two canine cuties finding their way around the neighborhood these days – such a welcome relief from the dreary life of literal lassitude we’ve been forced into lately. In a phrase, “puppies make personal spaces better”.

These two happy-enticing hounds have no real sense of their intrinsic value to us. Frolicking about, sniffing and barking, is of no consequence to them. In the moment they live – not worrying about tomorrow’s meal or playtime adventures to come. We are the ones who assign value to them.

There is no higher proof than hearing chit-chatter lexicon with a dog. I’ve witnessed so much effort in sentence structure and subject/verb agreement from sputtering dog non-whisperers to their canine consorts. Deep breaths are sucked in before lengthy, adjective-laden heaps of praise are thrust upon unsuspecting flappy ears having no concept of a dangling modifiers, clitics, or malaphors. We speak words to them they cannot understand because of the expectations we have for them.

I could be accused of such. Mind you, not to any large degree, but on the dial. So goes most of our relationships with nice, little to mid-sized puppies and dogs. Perhaps, if I can be so bold, older fur ball friends as well. For purposes of today, I’m interested only in dogs. No offense to cats, turtles, snakes, fish, gerbils, ferrets, rabbits, iguanas, birds, horses, goats, chickens, pigs, and swans. Pets are pets … I get that.

Their value is what we want them to be. We have expectations they’ll fill our happiness bucket – and they do.

For a seven-times expectation of years, these lap blankets and/or breathing floor rugs are expected to fetch not only the animate, overpriced toys, but also our priceless loneliness and need for companionship.

We need them now more than ever. Human shuffle-alongs are not – for the most part – stepping up and are waaaaay too judgmental these days. Any time spent on Facebook proves my point – perusing posts where spitting social diatribes from friends assault my daily wiener-grilling weary eyes. Three-dimensional conversations are better, but not much so. Letters to the editors, television commentaries, news briefs, on and on …. human to human contacts are becoming increasingly combative and expectantly virally centered. Not all, mind you; However, enough to warrant mention now more than before.

Meanwhile, Chloe chews on a stick. This is expected contentment, happiness, and companionship for some of us when we need it the most.

The “We’re in this together” mantra spreading faster than the virus has, by all ironic accounts, pulled us into our own isolation. Opinions about masking, especially, are driving deep divides into once common waters. “What is a mandate, and what isn’t?” followed by, “Who has the right to enforce it?”, both create waves of opposition as hammers wielded by holier-than-thou opinion whackers pound their theories into social seas of their expected injustices.

It seems there’s no filling a bucket with societal agreement … Even beyond that, I fear we have no clear idea what American ideals, equality, standards, morals, values, and ethics are anymore. Contentment, happiness, and companionship are foreigners … drifting in rough waters off the coast … waiting, once again, for entry into the forgotten Ellis Island of our once accepting land.

We need to stamp their ticket – and soon. Chloe, and her friends, would … without judgement or question. Without anger or retribution on Facebook.

She may even offer them a game of tug-of-war with her favorite stick while waiting in line. I’ve played this fun-frolic fantastic tug-a-long with her little self. After about 5 minutes, she’s done … and moves on to snarling a bit with the grass, or wriggling about around my legs. It’s happiness and companionship overload without any stress.

I walk across the street expecting no less. I may – just may – talk to her using goober words laced with high frequency baby inflections, but will never admit to such.

She has so much value to offer … as do all pets. In these ridiculously riled up times of high anxiety, a portable, possibly petable pet provides plenty of pleasure.

As for Chloe, in about an hour she’ll be out again to smell the newness of the day. Everything, to her, will be fresh, invigorating, and alive. I like that perspective and want some small piece of her life. So, saunter off I’ll go to brush my hands over her puppy fur once more to start my day – that is, if she’ll allow me the pleasure.

She will. Though, she does have a say in the matter. Hopefully I can meet her expectations as well. If her expectant tail wag is seen as I lazily scoot across our soon to be traveled, pre-work day neighborhood road, I’m sure I’ll be welcomed into her grr-ness once more.

Mark (not) My Words

“Ok free advice take it for what it is worth:
There are many people on my friends list that have good points and views that I agree with. What I have a problem with is how you express them sometimes. We have to be careful that in a passionate desire to be heard we don’t build a wall the stifles our voice. Remember this my friends:
“How they HEAR what you SAY, is determined by how you SAY what they HEAR.”
If you only want to be heard by those that agree with you then it doesn’t matter. But what good is preaching to the choir. If you want to reach others and truly make a difference. Then you have to cut out the hate rhetoric, you will never open ears, eyes and hearts by attacking others beliefs, they won’t even listen if you start out by putting people on the defense. Instead put forward the virtues of your views, with your own words not some else’s memes that are usually biased, (any error in your message discredits the whole of your message.) If your good point is hidden among hate, profanity, and half truths people may not get to it. There is good food in the trash but many people aren’t willing to go through the trash to get to it. You must be willing to research and plays devil’s advocate on your own post. What is your goal? Just to get a bunch of likes or open other’s minds? Then put your message out in a way that will best get it received and educate another on your views.” Mark B. , Facebook Friend

Now that I have your attention.

The above few paragraphs are so well written, I had to share them with you. Sometimes in the process of churning over ideas in the “what-catches-my-fancy” mind machine, surprises lurch out from behind unexpected places.

The first “was to be” paragraph was already written inside this over-heated, somewhat delectably complacent body of mine when I sat down a few minutes ago. It takes that certain mood to begin writing. Inspiration and a semi-to-full belly helps the process along … as well as a relaxed, silent to the outside – garrulous on the inside – mind. A nice slab of lightly dusted haddock, mac-and-cheese, mashed potatoes, and corn with a side of fresh (ahem), cool air conditioning inside Cracker Barrel an hour ago activated the creative juices after a long three days in the hot sun. Work is work. After a pleasant meal, it was time to write. “Two short miles from a plate of fish to home.”, rattled around in my head. The rhythm of these words spoke to me as equally relieved tires kerplunked over each cement seam in the road.

A few small errands – weekend desk “jobs” – I quickly tossed aside. Not so sure they were done accurately (as I would like), but, this is why Monday days-off exist … in my mind, anyway. “Fix on Monday what was messed up on Sunday”, is my motto. Only one – ONE – item to-do remained: check my Facebook messages and follow-up with the “necessaries”. Don’t want to leave hanging half-dones in the hopper, right?

Well, I can’t say “wrong” … at least for the purposes of this blog. My original theme, completely off subject from what is to follow, can wait.

It’s just I had a “was to be” great idea … and then Mark came up with those wonderful words above that are even greater! – and I couldn’t let them pass by without giving him credit and a nod here. He wrote what I’ve been trying to say for months … and, ironically, this is the same idea spoken back and forth today between a stranger and I. He and I, by the way, are no longer strangers.

He wasn’t Mark. Mark and I go back in time a few years on Facebook. This young man – to whom I refer – I just met today.

It is about messaging. The young man wouldn’t mind my labeling him an activist – that’s what he is by his own admission. He organized a small, educational event – locally – to bring together opposing views on racism, discrimination, protests, violence, and police actions in America. My informal conversation with him enlightened my views on all the listed subjects (as a 50-ish white male) because he was respectful, did not talk down or up to me, listened and talked equally. Neither he nor I deserved disrespect, anger, or abusive language toward one another. Granted, we were in a semi-professional environment, but still …

Andrae’s cause is quite interesting. A Western-PA insertion into my life I did not expect, and refreshing as the iced tea I casually sipped while he spoke. My words would not do him justice, so I’ll allow a simple “cut and paste” from his Facebook page to speak for me (pay heed to the final sentence … does it not resonate loudly with Mark’s remarks above?):

“Progress for People of Color- PPC is a human race vs racism organization. We are not a black vs white, republican vs democrat, or capitalist vs communist organization. We are NONPARTISAN, accepting of ALL ethnicities/races, open to ALL religious groups, and willing to talk with ALL professions. We are NOT here to burn down bodies of authority, but to reform them. We are not a platform to publicize extremist or anarchist views, but respect your right to have your own opinions on your own behalf. If you’d like to do so, please look into establishing your own nonprofit organization. We will not perpetuate divisive rhetoric, unless it comes to separating racists from the rest of society.”

https://www.facebook.com/PPCPennsylvania/ (for more information)

He has a background I would not have guessed. He has a political leaning I would not have guessed. I have biases, still, even though I am working diligently to overcome them. I am digging through “trash” to find my own really good food within. This is a process I’ve always done – pre Covid and racial tension – so for me, this is nothing new. Inner reflection and self-improvement is as easy as breathing and, daily, I trip over cracks in my soul searching sidewalk along the path of personal perception. This is the good.

The bad? I’m still working through an experience with a person who is obstinate, defiant, stubborn, inflexible, recalcitrant, and whose opinions are unmanageable in the “truly make a difference” world Mark wants to see. Correction: In MY world, anyway.

One caveat here. This humanoid is family. Emotions, as you probably are aware and have experienced, get pushed off the swing at the height of the arc and are painful when family members are on the not-so-playful playground of politics. I will not gleefully play, or join in merriment anytime soon, with this person because I cannot HEAR what she SAYS. Recently, she put me on the defensive as is her tactic – I reacted with three/four texts – and I’m done. My response, now, is silence. There will be no more dialogue … and that’s unfortunate. There is a limit. Assaulting my beliefs with uninformed spears, prejudiced and intolerantly poisoned at the tips, penetrating what is an assumed position of mine, is no way to begin a rational discussion.

I am not shallow. I am an open book for learning. If you want to know me, just ask.

I am most people … I hope I am, anyway.

We are (almost) all open to change some of our opinions about (some) things. Mark is spot on about messaging. The old wive’s proverb, “You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar” means that it is much easier to get what you want by being polite rather than by being rude and insolent, is so true. They knew – pre-internet keyboard warriors – it was a kind word and a gentle handshake to soften an edgy personality. They knew a warm piece of apple pie and fresh brewed iced tea on a sunny, summer day was the ticket to enter someone’s cold heart.

My original idea for today can wait. It has to. The shelf of my ideas has room for one more. What can’t wait one more day is your willingness to look inside yourself and find one small nugget of reason and appreciation. Move it aside. If there is another goody-nugget behind, keep going … until you find room for understanding. Reach out to someone different and ask, “I don’t agree with you, but I want to understand why you believe what you do. May we talk?”

It’s magic. I’ve done it. Listen to them. Allow them the pleasure of listening to you.

The Cracker Barrel road, fortunately for me over the years, has been a two-way street. I have the pleasure of leaving and going there frequently. They are in that strange space defined by capacity limitations, condiment funny-isms, and weird menu choices – all due to this “where-are-we” virus world. Tonight, I cannot avoid the obvious, over-used cliche “two-way street” to say:

Feed your soul. Have that one great conversation with someone different. Adjust your mind about one small, little life-item you thought would never change. Read an article on a subject opposite from your normal political position. Ride a swing next to someone willing to be on the swing next to you, even though you are uncomfortable with them for some reason.

I think the over-arching theme is: Understand your message, speak well of others, and … as Mark said, “put your message out in a way that will best get it received and educate another on your views.“

My original message was probably good. Mark’s, however, was great.

Another day for mine, my friend. Thanks for the inspiration.

Chairs With No Seats

Perchance you follow, with some regularity, my musings about a special local eatery. A quaint little hotel restaurant it is, comfortably situated at street level – but not the bottom level – of a building around for over a century. Around the corner on the downgrade is a small basement bar entrance ushering any weary patron into a welcoming cold brew of hometown hugs. It has been, by any normal morning measure, a standard in my life.

This morning, after two months of leery lock downs and patient toe-tapping anticipation, I entered this very familiar place expecting some sense of normal to return. Our color is green in western PA – which comes with a permission slip attached to every eateries’ sign. Flipped to “open” if so desired by the owner, these special signs now have added responsibilities behind them including proper distancing, masking, capacity restrictions, and server requirements. All part of a un-normal world I expected to see as I slowly turned the century old knob on the creaky door I’ve done hundreds of times.

Four folks sat, shall I uneasily say, “comfortably” on seats un-randomly distanced in the front room. Two sat on chair-stools permanently attached to the floor on support posts and the others in booths more than the required 6-feet apart. Of the old wooden seats at the counter upon which my grandparents most likely sat, two of every three were removed and the post tops covered with upside-down cups.

To recap, only four of the twelve normal seat spaces are currently usable, while eight remain cunningly-cupable and advisably unusable unless one needs an unplanned, sudden post-ectomy.

The spirit floating around the front four was understandably cautious. Not one, unfortunately, exhibited signs of a regular crazy person known as a close friend of mine. As normal mornings go, this was not to be. My close friends were nowhere to be seen, heard, or laughed at…

For purposes of being real, I will use initials, not aliases. M.J. won’t be back for a while due to some ongoing health issues requiring heightened caution – and he’s nuts. S.R. was absent for a bit even before the pandemic happened, so she was unexpected this morning – she’s a bit crazy, too. J.F. is always there and leaves precisely at 8:23 when his wife texts. I was there after that smoochy-text-time probably arrived if he indeed was there, so no chance of seeing him – he’s goofy as well. Me, being the only normal one of the group, suffered through this other group of four not-so-unknown group of strangers as I knew them all my name. These level 2 friends engaged my time at precisely 8:55 as a masked server and I waited for my to-go egg, ham, and cheese sandwich from the kitchen.

Staying power lasted through over two months of quarantine, but not through ten minutes at one of my favorite hotel restaurants. Go figure. Dale, Marcie, Barb, and Lance held my attention for scant minutes as I perused the same four walls I’ve seen for years. The pale egg-white painted walls upon which hung two large mirrors held my attention for mere seconds. Aged stainless reach-in coolers behind the counter supported reflections of the decades worn, story filled stuccoed ceiling. Random brochures scattered about, new Covid-19 customer guidelines taped strategically here and necessarily there, … space where space wasn’t before – all keeping my day-off eyes busy for the time.

The vacuous rear banquet room, now, social distanced inside with tables fearing to be close to one another as only one was occupied by four older gentlemen I’ve known for years. Normal they were. Generationally stubborn and unfazed by any and all hysteria as they dipped into breakfast fare as if the trolley and town crier were both still on schedule. Unmasked, fearing only the possibility of being overcharged, once again, for the two cups of coffee and toast ordered every day since retiring years ago … they soldiered on.

Ten in total by my math. A nice binary math number to round out my morning coming out of isolation/quarantine into green. Four front, four back, my server, and I. A nice normal number … so far from normal, otherwise.

This is to be expected, or so I’m told. This past weekend, I drove by many restaurants – big and small, mom and pop, corporate and franchise, drive up, seating in & out – that are open for business … under “green” restrictions, of course. Happy to be so, I’m sure. Customers and owners alike have been waiting what seems a big-bang’s length of time to fire up grills full-flame and, again, turn up the charm-a-plenty. Humans on both sides of serve-and-be-served are emotionally hungry for all of it …

I know some of this because I’m a foodie-vendor myself. Fifteen years this year I’ve been tonging my way around – towing a 10-foot food cart. It’s been an incredibly saucy, drippy, unpredictable past few months in the event-dependable, need-to-have-people-jammed-together, vendor space world that doesn’t exist right now. I’m finding my way around parking lots and corners trying my level best … and, speaking for myself, still loving the ride. Can’t pretend to ventriloquistically vociferate on behalf of my food friends elsewhere. They can write their own words during their own day off. It’s an absolutely beautiful Monday in June and I’m as close to normal as I can be right now.

Today’s weather feels normal. It is, by any normal June morning measure, a perfect day. I have been sitting on this porch writing as a few birds go about their business gathering food. Friends living in the house next door are swimming, and on the other side, different neighbors are sputtering along – attempting to befriend an old riding mower that doesn’t seem to be cooperating. Shade on my weary legs is perfect as it extends out just past the edge of my porch where the sunlight takes over.

This can be normal for me the rest of the summer. This can be my “green”. For purposes of an early breakfast at my favorite restaurant? I can’t yet answer, “my ‘once’ favorite morning restaurant.” Yes, close friends will not be there for some time. Yes, I may not return again until there is some feel of normal again … whenever that is. There are no answers right now.

Just sunshine, birds, and another day to appreciate.

Maybe this has to be all of our new normals for a while. Just be careful of the chairs with no seats.

No More Words, For The Now

When there’s nothing to say.

Man, these are some weird times. Almost everything in our bucket of two months’ information has been poured all over the floor. We’ve sloshed through it – repeatedly splashing dirty water all over those wallowing with us, and managed to upset the supposed clear-thinking other half along the way. This truly does have the feel of “nothing to say, anymore”. What can be said that hasn’t already be said?

It’s been over a week since I’ve written anything here. There have been sketched moments on my new Samsung phone when words flowed into meaning, but nothing meaningful. This isn’t concerning to anyone but me, of course … and a few followers. Distractions within hours turn into days of activities as our state starts to “Open Up” and my business, once again, gargles to life.

So, both the constriction of time and lack of words come together this morning to provide a paralysis paradox.

What IS there to say that hasn’t already been said? President Trump continues to amaze. Good, or bad … take your pick. The death of George Floyd sparked racial-division outrage across the country we’ve seen before – and will certainly see again. Confusingly, Covid-19 isn’t sickly-serious as it was last week as hospital ICU bed and ventilator shortages have been demoted to second-class citizenry … for now. Most are mildly-masking while seemingly so-so social distancing and nobody really cares if our county is green, yellow, or any other color. Folks are out. Out of their homes. Moreover, out of patience.

None of this is surprising. I’ve lived 50+ years and could write the script of a movie chronicling how this was going to play out. Look, I’m no great Nostradamus combing through my eight inch beard. You could accomplished the same.

All of us reach this point when words are no longer necessary. We, as simple humans, grab on to it so instinctively. A simple eye-nod is all it takes. A casual, unspoken, “yep” as we pass each other on the sidewalk communicates a commonality among us. Separately, we read or saw the same headline only hours before as strangers …. but, in that passing second, we knew of our shared agreement. Our understanding.

No words necessary.

George Floyd’s murder was horrendous. The protests are legitimate. The riots and looting are criminal. Today, the recognition of racial inequality is much, much better than it was and most Americans are working on making things better. Some of our citizens are a**holes. My sincere apologies for their behaviors. It’s truly abhorrent how some are treated … black, white, and in between. We can’t fix stupid. Words, alone, can’t undo the injustice in the world. Hopefully, enough positive action and change will bring about lasting reform so there will be no need for any more protests and riots again.

As to the pandemic, I’ve no more words. It’s certainly an enigma. Some say hoax, some say the real deal. I’m likely to error on the cautious side with my family situation … but that’s me.

Me. A blogger with fewer words these days than normal. That’s o.k. When there’s not much to say, it means I’m out doing something – like hugging a puppy across the street or waiting 45 minutes in a bank’s drive-thru line. These are real life experiences at different ends of my peaceful/angry continuum I’d be glad to share with you another time.

For now, no more words.

I Feel Ya, That’s A Fact

My seasonal business pushes this lazy guy’s butt out of hibernation around mid-March. When the last of the “yeah, right” wintry mixes blows through these parts, I tentatively tow my shy weenie wagon up the road to an Irish Festival swarming with bendy little hat people and crafty good booth vendors.

I say tentatively because – after 15 years – I’m never quite ready for it, emotionally. It’s the beginning of a nine month spectacular slinging slog of magnificence ending with another Mid-November wintry mix. In that span of 270 days, my stainless friend and I get rained on, have spectacular sale days, see all our fantastic customers, burn food, give Doug hugs, have disagreements, pay a lot more bills, receive sunburns, lose tongs, and cook up dump loads of chili sauce. You know … normal.

This year wasn’t any different. For the first day open or so, anyway. Normal was … well, normal on that green, four-leaf clover “luck-o-the-Irish” day. After that 24 hours, my tow-a-long friend and I parted ways – involuntarily mind you – as I reluctantly backed her into storage. She remained in isolation for 45 days until this past Thursday when I, as squeaky-toned as her well appreciated wheels, hooked her back up to be operational once again.

Under duress of my over-compressed brain, I felt it necessary to serve the public. May 1st, 2020. Friday. The day to be back dipping into melty cheese, planking up Doug’s Dawgs two-by-two in a manner Noah himself would be proud. Time served of 45 days in isolation when, under the terms of take-out and drive-thru, I could have opened. I opted to close down because I didn’t know what I didn’t know. There was – and still is – an abundance of caution that needs to be respected. I feel that is required. Here and now is all of our space.

Here and now is six weeks later. The past two days customers came as I set up in the ArtsAltoona lot located at 6th avenue and 23rd Street in Altoona, PA. Fifteen years in the business with little advertising … I knew they would. Was it throngs of folk? No. A spattering of hungry, regulars came by, ordered and conversed, then left satisfied they received high quality, service, and cleanliness they’ve always expected.

For me, I was so glad to be behind my friend again. Supporting her as she always does for me. Yes, my stainless 10×5 is a “she”. Don’t argue with me. I have my problems in life. Please don’t make this another one. Y’all don’t pick on boat-toting, glee-floaters who have she-sheds with oars, so ….

Anyway, all of the activity those wonderful two days as I was open gave me concern. They felt normal. Even with masking and social distancing, I felt almost normal again. The facts: … Doug’s Dawgs was open for lunch and I felt normal.

FACTS and FEELINGS. Two sides of a very uncomfortable coin right now. A coin we can’t frivolously toss into the Trevi fountain hoping upon hope for overwhelming public consensus and healing of a very public open wound. The facts vs feeling debate rages on faster than the virus itself – to a greater end – and will outlast any supposed vaccine or herd immunity.

The umbrella shading all this is the increased feeling of “normal”. It continues to drive emotions. Protesters in Michigan who storm state office buildings, Governors issuing open-orders trying to get back some sense of “what should be but isn’t”, and grocery store patrons refusing to mask despite concern for their neighbors.

Then we have numbers. Data. Cases and death. Red and yellow counties in Pennsylvania, “facts” and on the ground, basic grind-away, undisputed (possibly, not) figures, Viet-nam comparable death counts. Virologist, immunologist, statisticians, ER doctors, … all the professionals this hotdawg seller/pianist respects … injecting their well-informed opinions into our semi-accepting, varicose-very-close, uber-sensitive veins.

Everyone is scampering about … starting to feel normal. And this could be not so good in the near future.

Feelings are not going away. Neither are the facts. The weather is getting warmer around these parts and I will remain open with all the restrictions in place. I “feel” this is the right thing to do. One “fact” too, … I have bills to pay and the season is upon me.

So many are stuck. Small businesses have to make similar decisions. None of us have easy times right now. These everyday normals suck. This fall, depending upon how the virus spreads, or doesn’t, could be a disaster … or not. Facts and feelings will determine a lot of our fates. The equation of the times, right? Facts and Feelings add up to our Fate in the Fall. Four F’s we never saw barreling toward a devil’s crossroad in NormalTown, USA.

Such a paradox with no real answer. We want to feel normal … but acting normal could get all of us in real trouble down the road … if the facts hold true. Ugh.

I feel ya, brothers and sisters. I feel ya. Hang tight. Rough roads we travel … hang on to your dawgs.

Simple Spoon

There were times when my mom stood over me tapping that over-used wooden spoon in her open palm. Rare, but rhythmic happening moments all of us experienced at least a few times in our dinner-lives, right? Those, “Eat your peas, or else moments!” … I had tapioca pudding, meat pie, and stuffed pepper or else wooden spoon moments with mom. I’m convinced a sense of internal pulses came out of these dinner rituals, if nothing else, and to this day want those precious shadowing, metronomic motherly-love heartbeats back.

You’ve had those comfortable, nice, hard to forget, precious memories. I know it. Plates smooshed with undesirable adult food before and after all the yummy good kid food was happily jammed down our throats. Popsicles, cookies, candy, Spaghetti-O’s, Kraft Mac-N-Cheese, hotdogs, peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, any pre-sweetened cereal … the pre-teen, can’t get enough, gullet-slider gas fueling rebellion to normal food met all our dietary needs.

And guess what? We survived, didn’t we? Goes to show those adults in the kitchen at that time who was right, darn-it! No canned peas for me, mom. Definitely had the, “I’ll sit here until this ugh-bread pudding dies a slow, painful, dehydrated death by stare-down” routine down. I was a rebellious child who didn’t like depression-era grub. I loved the challenge, though. Probably set a few world records. Sitting on old vinyl worn metal chairs with little hind-end padding, my nerves on edge, there’s was no giving in to the pressure. The unknown, unrecorded tales in the annals of time will tell of my conquest.

For now, I’ll settle for awesome memories of mom … and her tapping of a long wooden spoon waiting for my resignation .. my defeat. The ultimate spoon into dreaded abyss of lumpy, texture-terrible terrain in a bowl.

Unfinished as those dinners were so many years ago, was a movie I began last night. It was forgettable. Twenty minutes into this masterpiece, by my best guess, I fell asleep. Laziness prevents me from going back to find the Netflix title … that’s how important I feel it is to the overall point here. I’d rather eat a bowl of over-cooked, dry bread pudding than relive those twenty minutes. Typing in that last sentence was cinematically more creative than the opening credits of said box office blunder.

Save all that, the opening eight words caught my attention – which is why I decided to, possibly, spend a few blinky eye-isolation moments watching this movie. The hook got me and kept me in the stream for twenty minutes before this fish wiggled free from bad acted lines, baited scenes, and a cast that was in need of a re-do…badly.

Those eight words were simply: Receive with simplicity everything that happens to you.

As I reviewed that quote in my notes, my thoughts this morning went immediately back to childhood. That’s where all our simplicities live. Present tense used on purpose because we never outlive our youth. It’s colorful and rainbow-y, sometimes dreary, too – but always hanging around in our “backyard” brain. The places and people who shaped and helped us sway on emotional swings, slide down and get back up, run through dirt, and hang on to monkey bars forever. Simple.

This quarantine is simple. Or, at the least, should be. It has become anything but easy, simple, piece of cake, undemanding, … whatever term you’d like. Politics, individual beliefs about liberty and freedom, media biases, and religious tenets have hijacked the tranquility these times demand. Childhood, from any era, asks something different.

“Receive with simplicity all that is given to you”

This is not to say we are to accept and not question. I don’t like canned peas. To this day, I will find ways, in my mid-fifties, to straw-shoot them across the room to see if they’ll stick on the fridge. Don’t set a bowl of meat pie in front of me or I will stir it around with a spoon like a spoiled little man singing, “Go little meat pie all to h*ck, hope you find your place in …” ..well you get my drift. I can revisit my childhood so quickly when oofy-food I don’t like, still, is slam-plated down in front if me. Rare, but it happens. We laugh when it does. Sort-of.

This virus was given to us. By who? We don’t know. For what reason? Geesh … that’s for those with significantly higher spiritual connections than I to answer. When will it end? Probably not soon enough for anyone’s satisfaction.

These are complicated questions with no easy answers. Rashi, the 11th century French thinker, rabbi, and grammarian to whom the above quote is attributed, probably couldn’t figure it out either. He lived one-thousand years before meat pie and canned peas were invented, so other than his beautiful quote, all other stuff he deeply opined about can be, respectfully, dismissed at this time.

Whatever today brings, accept its simplicity. Whatever, or whoever is charged with the delivery, it comes wrapped in a purpose. I don’t know the reason and you don’t need to know either. Accept the gift. It may just be the gift of time.

Time I wish I had back with my mom … and the rhythm of her wooden spoon. Maybe, just maybe, I’d learn to like bread pudding and be a tad less stubborn in my ways. My mom would probably be a handful during these isolation moments. As one who did like that pudding-plah, she’d find comfort in offering to lovingly drop some off, I’m sure just as a way to give me some razz. I’d find assurance sitting in my own home – with my own wooden spoon – calling her back in our heartbeat-connected way.

No words. Just a few simple taps of my wooden spoon in the phone back to her. Simple. She’d know I love her.

And miss her.

Sorry, Bach.

It was a warm fall afternoon when I sauntered my way into a small basement studio, knowing nothing about what was to unfold. Inside approached a man, mid- to-late forties, slightly graying slicked back hair, small build with a striking jaw line framing a pleasant smile. He introduced his Eastman Doctoral self to my freshman-neophytic, pianistic-know-it-all, somewhat taller by 3-inches young, almost 18-year-old boy. Thus began our journey into the wonderful world of music exploration and partnership.

Through years of painful re-examination, it took more than eighty-eight keys to unlock doors slammed shut from pride, unsubstantiated self-awareness, and talent with less-than adequate preparation. This basement dweller of higher knowledge and advanced degrees of insight knew this, instinctively, once I began my introductory, “I’ll show you my genius!” … striking the first notes of Chopin’s G-Minor Ballade (of which I felt was so exquisitely played similar to the likes of Horowitz himself, btw). Jim, as I eventually was allowed to call him, stopped me soon after I began, placed his left hand on my shoulder, gently, and calmly said, “We’ll get back to this masterpiece in a bit .. for now, how about we look at Bach?” ….. Noooooooo!!!!

Not Bach!! I spent years avoiding this dry, powder wig, boring dude. There’s no sexiness in Bach!. Bach has no chick-magnet appeal like Chopin, Liszt, or Rachmaninoff. Jim HAD to be kidding me!! C’mon, man! Ok, so Bach had, like 19 kids and I’ve mega-props for his resilience in that department, but his music takes discipline, practice, and eff..eff… ef…fort oh, I started to see the problem. Damn.

Ding ding!! Light bulb moment in my mind, but I wasn’t about to let him know that. Why would I? Stubborn is a trait I am proud of to this day.

To go through the minutiae of my stuffy, eyeball-watering, note-by-night college lesson years with Jim isn’t the point of this post. I’d love to share all the moments. The struggles. Midnight hours alone with Chopin Etudes wearing my fingers to the bone, Czerny exercises sitting on my every nerve, Schumann lyrical lines I just couldn’t shape correctly, and Strauss waltzes accented so improperly I wanted to throw scores of blood curdling screams across the already small studio room … these are some of a thousand rough experiences nestled in among the few perfectly played moments in front of audiences comfortably settled in their plush, velvety seats in the campus recital hall.

I entered college as a music education major specializing in trombone studies. That was the path, anyway. I knew my passion was the way of pianistic endeavors, but earning a living as a pianist was not encouraged. It took a year of studying to convince myself that path, ultimately, wasn’t the way after all … after one phone call and a little paperwork, I adjusted my thinking and set a new way forward.

All this to say I did end up two college degrees. Yeah me, right? Now, I sell hot “dawgs” for a living and am quite proud of my life … and significantly less full of ego than my earlier, late-teen self.

All of this funneling down to my main point. The past month or so, I’ve posted daily piano pieces on Facebook. These exist as video evidence of my love for the instrument and an extension of wonderful music to the surrounding community as well. If you’d like to listen, they are posted under, “Doug Rhodes Piano”. These would not be possible without that first step into that musty, welcoming studio many years ago.

The selections vary from Jazz to Classical, Rock & Sacred to Motown. I believe there are about 40 total. Now, I don’t claim to have the market cornered on what helps any of us during these trying days, but I can at least give you some – if only a few – moments away to think about happier things. Maybe Chopin, Peter Nero, Barry Manilow, Josef Zawinul, Floyd Kramer, Beethoven, the Beatles, or Les Mis can pull you through … hold your hand – with the help of my two hands. I don’t know. It’s my offering to you.

Oh, and there’s no Bach … still. Years later and I’m as stubborn as I always was. Some things don’t change. Sorry, Jim.