Bob

The Dream restaurant in Hollidaysburg, Pa. will be the same going forward, but not really. Their turkey dinner, meatloaf, and lemon pepper chicken – along with all the other fine meals offered daily – will continue to fulfill everyone’s hungry expectations. Breakfast on Mondays with “my crew”, most certainly, can continue – albeit with just a little less sparkle for some time. The shine has gone away in the kitchen. At least for these few weeks of mourning, there’s less humor around the grill.

Bob isn’t there.

Early this past Monday, Bob left us. It was sudden and unexpected. He was a steady mainstay in the kitchen at The Dream. A “forty-two years” mainstay covering a very long culinary career beginning after high school.

In addition to his job there, he was well known – and liked – around our community. To those who knew him, a friendly smile always greeted them along with a humorous quip, or two.

I never knew Bob to be down, sad, or really upset about any particular situation he faced. We often found ourselves on the wrong side of an occasional lottery ticket and commented to each other, “Well, that’s that … again, huh?” … realizing the odds were always against us.

The news of his death came only hours after his shift began early this past Monday morning. Shocking, of course.

Very surprising, yet I could look back and be glad I knew him.

Most of us can memorialize the life of a family member, or friend, who isn’t with us anymore. I can, undoubtedly, be glad my life’s path crossed over Bob’s multiple times. I didn’t consider him a close friend, but someone with whom I never passed up an opportunity to have a pleasant conversation.

I’m glad to have known Bob. Just as I was, of course, certainly glad to have known and loved my mom who passed away years ago. As well, very happy to have known so many who have gone ahead of me. Very sure you’ve been here & there before? Loved ones and friends here … and now gone.

Death isn’t the end of these relationships. It’s not a religious thing – unless one wants it to be, I suppose. More like compartments of memories staying alive and thriving throughout our lives now. Those who have been here, who have made impressions and, possibly, big impressions in our lives can’t go really go away. They are here for us … and with us.

I often say the morning mom died was the best day of my life. She and I were close. Musically, and personally, we had the same interests and personalities. I relied on her to tell me everything was going to be OK, regardless of the situation. The morning I left her bedside when she passed – the realization that crutch, the assurance of “not” having to face a problem, was gone.

As a middle-aged man, this was a wake-up call. It was the best thing to happen to me. The best day of my life. The best gift mom ever could have given me. Yes, cancer sucks, but it didn’t win that early March morning. Mom finally got eternal relief and I received a life-long gift.

My relationship with her certainly hasn’t stopped. Every time I see a problem overcome, or a situation solved, I thank her.

When a small opportunity to laugh presents itself, a warm turkey dinner is set before me, or a (most likely) losing lottery ticket finds its way under a finger-clenched quarter, I’ll give a nod to Bob.

He won’t be forgotten. By me, other friends or family, his smile and laughter will continue. The Dream will continue forward.

He’d want it this way.

Clearly, You See?

It was strange.

When one sees something not right – out of the ordinary, for example – it’s only right to ask, “Why?”. Whether this is silently questioned in an inquisitive mind, or asked out loud, it must be answered. Such was an encounter the other day when I casually walked into a room for a mid-day munchie. In context, a mid-morning breakroom where there happened to be a lamination machine being officially occupied by a co-worker. Just the two of us. One casually snacking on mini whoppers and another seemingly working on a whopper of a job by said machine.

“Seemingly”, may I add. Granted, knowing this person, anything is possible. Generally, one should have available something to laminate? I spied by my very eyes … nothing. Clearly, nothing. Time being of the essence, I did understand the hesitancy in her reply when I asked, “Why .. ? What are you doing? ..There’s nothing here?”.

This was question #1.

Seeing through my “possible” sarcastic nature (but, avoiding a natural, satirical response), she spoke an unadorned comeback, “Hey, I’m waiting for this machine to warm-up. Do you know what temperature it has to reach?”. I was impressed with this reply. Logical. To the point; however, it was very transparent .. she was avoiding my, “Why?”

Again. “I know the machine is warming up. What project are you laminating? I don’t see anything on the table? Why?”

This was question #2

Once the machine reached it’s desired goal five minutes later, I got my answer. Five minutes of nothing. No laminated bird pictures, artist summaries, color wheels, how-to’s of this-and that’s, forest critter drawings, or kiddo crayon doodles – nada.

A pail-full of pellucid pandering for a period of five minutes. Intriguing? Yes.

…And I lamented the lamination – which ended up being my answer. You, distinctly, read this right. Q: To repeat #2 “Why?”. A: “To Laminate a Lamination”.

Ah, but there was a follow-up. Yayoi Kusama.

If you are familiar with a bright red bob wig, then my good friend’s answer makes perfect sense. Yayoi Kusama died mid-August and she was known for her signature wig as well as a distinctive art style. Mainly, her immersion into a clear, reflective, and boundless art style. This is what I can gather from my minimal search. So, from an educational perspective, to give students clear laminate in which to explore Yayoi’s world clears things up for me.

I guess I can see-through the genius of Yayoi to walk on my good friend’s motivational (and educational) path. Looking back, if I wasn’t hungry for the whoppers, none of this would have happened.

Lesson learned. Still ALWAYS good to ask, “Why?”. Even if the first answer doesn’t make sense, remember, the second mouse always gets the cheese … and learns a lesson in the process.

As long as it doesn’t get too close to the lamination machine. That wouldn’t be good.

A Lot of Room with a View

Out past Tyrone, Pa., a few miles from Port Matilda is where I find myself. Beside rt. 55ON if headed toward State College is the Way Fruit Farm.

It’s an overcast, semi-humid car show, food truck, music festival kind-of day. A lot of room for folks to meander about, sample some excellent food (in their café as well) and enjoy a few nice days before fall invites itself in.

There’s kettle corn, craft cold tea, and BBQ within walking distance from beef dawgs/hot sausage/and angus burgers here at my cart. A wonderful jazz duo is creating musical memories for everyone while a few dozen antique cars are re-living their heydays a few yards down to my left.

At 4pm, my time ends, van and cart head out as I must be seated behind Zion’s organ at 6pm for the Saturday evening service. It’s a tight schedule with a nearly hour drive back plus unloading, clean-up, and change of clothes.

Every time I do an event up here, the field across rt. 550 – unbeknownst to it – provides me a respite. I glance across and realize how un-busy it is. Sits there, it does. An hour at southwest “hometown”, there’s not a lot I see, on the regular, providing me moments like this. I am sure one does exist. I am probably too busy to notice.

Do you ever feel a need to take time? Time to just take a moment? Or, does this come naturally? Tell ya what, not with me.

These five hours at the Way Fruit Farm, during breaks in sales, give me time to walk around the back of my van/cart. If only for a couple seconds, I am compelled to make room in my life for a few deep breaths.

Why not do this other times?… other places? Why here? Asked, answered earlier. It doesn’t come naturally. And, it’s not a learned habit.

Here, however, the field has a hypnotic effect. Simply looking across gives me a peace. Maybe because I have no control over it? I can’t work it … or change it. My marginal OCD or control issues cannot do a darn thing to alter it? I have to accept it as it is….

… and, not in any negative way, turn my back to all the busy-ness going on behind.

All this after dad called again this morning with his same issues and September life is as busy as it has ever been.

So, find your field if you don’t have one … as I make efforts to look for more in my life closer to home.

There should be more room in my life to take deep breaths. Being more open to find those opportunities – and a Way forward – will be fruitful in the long run.

For you as well, I hope.

The Hole Truth

There’s a well-worn joke I like to tell: “Why should you always have an extra pair of socks in your golf bag? In case you get a hole-in-one”.

Ok, so not bad. Not good. Just so-so?

Holes have been popping up lately in various, even homophonic, forms this week. I’ve heard, “You’re not going to eat the whole thing now, are you?”. “You know we have whole wheat wraps as well, right?”.

I actually had to physically dig a 2’x3’x3′ hole this past Wednesday followed up with a 20′ trench. The whole thing took hours of mindless spade time I could have used for a thousand other things. Digging through soil and clay isn’t on my list of pleasant pursuits. Had to be done.

What didn’t have to be done?

Two big toes of mine are sore from an owner irresponsibly smashing them on a small iron post located in a, err …, hole. Once in and once out of a door way – at our local church – this lazy, now, limper forgot that iron post marker was there to protect the location of a special hole. It’s special all right. I, simply, was in too much of a hurry “twice” 😫… to remember it was there while cutting the corner of the walkway.

Which gets me to why I need humor in my life. Or, attempted humor. Why? To offset the partially stupid things I do to upset my mental applecart at times.

“How many holes are in a straw?” This question was asked by an elementary friend recently. She posts interesting questions on a board to pique youthful interest as students arrive. There were two possible answers offered: 1 or 2.

As I usually enter early, time is on my side to ponder possible parenthetical, possible answers to any proposed problems posted. This extra time also allows for conversation with my friend who writes the questions. She and I, sometimes, have spirited discussions about most of the topics/questions/quizzes posted. The other day was a partial in-depth, ninety-second discussion concerning the dominant color on a zebra. See? Really important stuff!

So, anyway. 1 or 2 holes? …

With a few elementary kids around and, by my guess, younger teachers within ear shot, … my best response was:

“Depends on whether or not there was a turkey in it, or not?” … followed up by a little do-do- dododo-dododododododo … musical enforcement to drive the point home.

Nothing. Except one good friend who gave me the usual small head nod and little “I got that, but it was really bad” eye roll acceptance glance.

In my mind I had material and timing. Both necessary for complete success … Just not the audience. So, later at choir practice I tried it again. Material, timing, and an adult audience. Nada. Zero. Nothing.

A comedic black hole. It circled the event horizon twice and then spaghettified into the abyss where time stopped – never to be heard again.

Honestly, I thought it truly was a hole-in-one.

Oddly enough, “one”, scientifically is the correct answer to the question as confirmed by a high school student later in the day. Not only by him, but also by a donut-loving elementary student earlier.

Never mind I thought “two” – one on each end. Reason being: that hole I dug a few days ago is one hole – one entry point, not two. So, does a straw, by comparison, have only one as well. Eh?

… and with that, I will stick to what I believe to be the hole truth and nothing but the hole truth.

A Coffee Intermission

Mug contents unknown. Known, however, is the holder of this hot beverage vessel. She is a friend who allowed my use of her picture. I saw it on FB and asked permission … as is protocol when I come across one I’d like to share that is undeniably unique.

I don’t believe Katie expected a blog post when snapping this photo during a relaxing time recently – and, I didn’t anticipate writing about a mug filled with (possibly) a hot beverage I won’t drink … coffee. I write “possibly” because the contents of her mug have not been confirmed at this time. That aside, I’m a huge fan of black vs. blue pictures, … thus the photo.

Ah, the photo. Reflective, relaxing. All the adjectives one would use to chronicle a blanketed porch time overlooking a field stretched out to that wooded horizon. I especially like that innocent little intermission centered in the middle of the two larger acts stage left and right. Clouds above give us a perfectly hanging, never closing, curtain over this theater of tranquility.

Alas, however, I must address the “aside” issue. I don’t drink coffee. Assuming this was in her mug, I can’t connect with the liquidy, beany delight millions enjoy multiple times each day. Just. Can’t. Of all the wonderful, musical, game-loving, life-affirming, joking around, silly mannerisms I inherited from my dear mother … her deep-brewing love of the roasted java didn’t make it into MY particular mug.

I sat around a breakfast table the other morning as friends recounted their first experience drinking coffee. The place. The time. Possibly the company with whom they kept? I had nothing to contribute except a few iced tea laden exhales of nothingness.

Coffee culture does captivate me.

Daily, the drivethru lines outside our local Starbucks are fascinating. Squigling around the building, they are seemingly endless … anxious automatic caffeine caravans – awaiting their luscious Lattes and frothing Frappes.

We entertain multiple little specialty coffee shops around these parts and one large traveling Concession trailer (who also has multiple brick and mortar locations as well). One cafe I frequent a lot offers a buck-a-cup option for all eatery patrons on the honor system. You pump alternative brews from carafes into your favorite mug while enjoying limited menu items. Notice the “you” pronoun there … definitely not, “me”.

Coffee seems to be the great uniter. I see this happen in a small way as I sweeten my tea surrounded by coffee consumers. They become unconcious, competent conversationalists as liquid (de)caffeine rhythmically crosses their lips. It’s a ballet of words in between sips and warm-ups (otherwise known as top-me-offs) … swallowing can be timed and self-affirming as well. Even the finest of wine connoisseurs may not even sniff their way around stemware with such elegance … let alone partake of the Bordeaux.

It’s a conundrum to me. This whole coffee thing. To those who love it, I say, “fantastic” .. and truly mean the compliment. I had one small taste many ages ago. Many decades, to be accurate. Friends suggest this wasn’t enough to develop a taste. Well, I had one small chocolate chip cookie, a pizza, and pretzels for the first time a long time ago and fell in love with all of them soooooo, THAT theory is kinda bunk…

The picture is really quite beautiful. I love the mystery of NOT knowing what is in her mug. Hot, green tea? Yeah, that’s it. Indeed, if it IS coffee, I don’t need to know. Let’s assume whatever filled the mug, filled her spirit at the time.

I am entirely satisfied looking at – and beyond – the horizon. Blue and black framing the intermission where all of us can just take a big breath. Our curtain will not end the show, nor will what is going on now – good or bad – last forever.

Let’s all sit where we are, hold on to whatever is in our life’s mug, and enjoy the scenery.

Even if it does include a cup delicious, uhm, coffee …

A Little Sweetness

Some call me sweetly sentimental. Some may agree with sweet – perhaps some only sentimental. Those close enough to be great friends drop all the niceties and stick with a simply sarcastic, “You’re kinda weird”. I concur as I am aware it is only meant as the nicest gesture possible … and with that I reply, “Thank you” and go on with my day.

It’s a group of morning guys as diverse as the jokes I tell. They’re not always the best (the humerous pleasantries, that is). I get it; however, I can’t simply sit there morning over morning, month over month, with such fertile conversational fabric being tossed around and not make a beautiful tapestry of merriment.

Golf, politics, food, relationships, various work related issues, … all of it bantered about from guy to guy. And yet, I’m expected to sit there and NOT throw in a silly pun, related joke, or twisted tale? Me thinks not.

Merciful and kind criticism comes from the likes of business owners, retired financiers, educators, county workers, city employees, and occassional contractors. All of whom I consider good friends. I time my wittisisms carefully, although not always timely – if that makes any sense at all. One must accept the occassional failure in my line of a.m. amateur whimsical folly.

During a rare few moments one morning – when the subjects at hand provided no juicy bait on the humerous hook – I glanced down at the simple sugar packet holder … to fill the apparent void in my brain. These funny little pink, white, blue, and yellow guys suddenly became exceptionally interesting. How different they look, maybe? Do they? Same shape, same basic function: sweetness? Just different color outside and kinda different chemistry inside, … but looks the same inside.

The differentness and sameness. Quirky. One could open one of each color, pour out the contents into separate mixed piles, and be challenged to match each white pile with its original packaging. With no pasty-finger testing allowed, I doubt it could be done. Four simple little piles of white “sugar” … looking the same. Four very different colored packets. Simple in the packets. Complicated when removed. Yet, when I’ve put a pink and white over ice before my tea hundreds of times in the past, this never earned my consideration.

This could be doctoral candidate thesis stuff here! I’m thinking a possible Nobel prize nod… and I have a slow news day at the breakfast table to thank.

Well, if I was to make that trip to Sweden one day for my medal, my sugar packet theory would have developed into a lesson in friendship. For my friends who tolerate me come in different colors, shapes, and sizes; however, they’re pretty much the same inside.

Quirky, different, and same. They hang together with me for a purpose: to support and nurture a friendship – regardless of how bad or good things are going. All of us, in a sense, add a certain sweetness to each other’s lives in a different colored way. Our packets – experiences and personalities – support and frame the care and concern we bring “to the table” for everyone else.

So, that’s it in a sugar packet nutshell. I didn’t HAVE to be quiet, but it was forced upon me by the gods of inadequate interlocutors. Nobody, but nobody, had a tidbit – a morsel – of compelling comedic conversation going on. Thus, a reflection on the deeper meaning of sugar packets (like they had a superficial meaning to begin with?)…

Oh, well. I’ll await my invite from the Nobel committee. Until then, all of you continue YOUR sweetness, ok?

Look Up

It was steak tips and fries – for the second time in three days. Yes, they are delicious. The salad bar and Pepsi Zero adding to their sizzle, these platter meat and starch necessities have been a Wednesday and occasional Saturday staple. Friends meeting for casual conversation … and the same, predictable waitress we ask for each time. Expected.

Looking down as usual. Meat and a potato variety. Salad bar. Never more than a horizontal stare across the very familiar round table. I, the youngest of six sitting around, was engaged in conversations stretching from the Pittsburgh Pirates to “how it was” prior to my open-eyed arrival in the early 60’s. Easy to understand as one of my friends is a nonagenarian farmer – contrasted with this piano-playing hotdog salesman.

As they say, an eclectic group of people folk. The other four … along for the dinner ride almost every week at this steak house. Crab cakes for one, meatloaf for two and three, a burger on the plate for number four, call up shrimp or chicken fingers for five, and for me? … some part of a cow is always up for grabs.

Routine. A Wednesday staple – sometimes Saturday. A routine where -and when – we find ourselves never looking up. So habitual, in fact, that before even starting the 12 minutes drive I hear an exhausted, ” … again?” gracing my right ear in the car. Frankly, I can’t argue the point. Responding with a half-hearted, sighing, “yeah …” we pull away anticipating the same rights, lefts, signal lights, and – yes – parking spaces at Hoss’s Steak House at the other end of town.

It’s not a “rut”. That’s a negative version of routine. You can’t get ANY pleasure out of a rut. This is why Scooby’s favorite saying is what it is. We have no expectation of pulling a mask off our favorite waitress to divulge a sinister plot. Yes, my steak was not the best two weeks ago, however, I don’t feel she concocted a plan to “rut-roh” my evening. Shaggy and fatty as it was, I still go back. Mistakes were made.

It was routine. Look ahead routine. So many times. Week after week.

One more time this past Saturday – routine … and then I walked out.

Framed between two light poles was magnificent deep orange and brilliant yellow. Purples, blues, and blacks hugged the sky as well. My sight line was … up. Not down. Not horizontal. Up. What I saw was in front of me. Not behind or beside.

“Perspective” is what jumped out of the clouds immediately into my mind.

Definitely not a routine sighting, right? I don’t understand atmospheric conditions despite earning an “A” in my college intro to meteorology class. (Memory rinse and repeat gets one to earn such a grade … before you reach a conclusion that I can do much more than identify the difference between stratus, cumulous, and cirrus clouds).

Reflect, refract? Prism crystals, or light bending through water vapor? You tell me. Frankly, I don’t care to know. Surely our stately sun was involved as it went to its evening rest around a global tilt. This would be the extent of my knowledge.

I stood for a few seconds as I am sure some in the local area did. Looking up. It was a beautiful sky. Certainly put perspective in my life … for a little time, anyway.

Routine disappeared … as this artistry was certainly out of routine. As if to say, “I got this …”, these colors radiated down a sense of calm – an overarching, blanketing feeling over the community. A reminder – as it were – to look up out of our routines and take a breath.

The “I” to which I refer has no identity. No assignment given here. It is open to all colors, shapes and sizes of beliefs.

As an artist of the music kind, looking up I saw a pallete of dancing colors that could easily be transcribed into little dots on a musical staff. Gustav Holst imagined The Planets in his fantastic work of the same title. Looking up has created musical magic and I can only imagine continues to inspire composers.

All this to say “look up” once in a while. Yeah, it’s an over-used, well-cooked into life’s pie cliché. Take a well-earned breath. Please keep all things in perspective. Your job and issues that can stress your essence have a shelf life. Give them attention, however, no more than they deserve. Continue to live a healthy routine, of course …but stay out of a rut. Every once in a while, there may be stunning colors you NEED to see. Reminder: life’s moments are worth having around even if your steak isn’t the best sometimes.

It’s Christmas Eve, After All

It’s Christmas Eve. 5:24, to be exact. I am sitting on my little red chair beside the organ at Zion Lutheran Church. A break in the service as a sermon is about to begin.

No worries. I have two more services tonight to catch up with the Pastor’s message. Already, I have almost missed the third verse of our Hymn of the Day. This is my first service back after a week of miserable covid isolation and stress. To have been nearly absent-minded over a few lyrics is, I feel, a passable offense … considering.