Gus:  “If I don’t drink coffee in the morning first thing, I get a headache within two hours”

Me:  “After two hours of not seeing you, my headache begins to disappear”

So goes the daily conversation between Gus* and I (… don’t need to explain why the “*” is beside his name, right?).  We meet almost every morning in a sometimes busy, sometimes not, restaurant located inside a three story hotel at the end of town.  “End of town” is “up town”, or “downtown” depending upon who you are, of course. It sits beside what we affectionately call the “diamond” because the configuration of the curbs and streets form .. you guessed it … a diamond (assuming you have a little imagination).  Trolley tracks, long since replaced by layers of brick, concrete, and asphalt – would run down over the hill should you turn left out of the restaurant. Across the way is an antique consignment shop, quick copy and print business, family foundation supporting pancreatic research, and an up-start fundraising endeavor.  On a given day, you can smell fresh pizza baking through the vents in the roof next door as the cheesy-goodness scent passes by on its way to your likely purchase of same.  

It is a hotel that hasn’t changed much over the decades.  This writer remembers a time when his grandmother owned a shop next door – between the, now, pizza shop and this very hotel.  Her gift shop long since gone the way of trolley tracks and mom-n’-pop businesses. Fortunately, conversations among friends in these days of smartphones and short attention spans, aren’t the hourglasses, iceboxes, telegraphs, or slide rules of our time … yet.  We still have words back and forth. And old hotel restaurants ….

This local Hotel is an old establishment. Don’t know how old, however. There are plenty of brochures and smells of age-old memories lying around. Black and white pictures on the walls as you’d expect and well worn carpet stains with stories to tell if only possible. The egg shell paint definitely is in need of a cleaning, but the forty-foot mirror running the length of the wall – as one walks past a dozen or so stools – more than makes up for it. No more than two waitresses (“G” and “G”) scurry successfully between the lunch counter and the mirror filling orders amidst the banter from wannabe humorists and political pundits of all ages. A mixture of a few tables, two booths near the center of this narrow entry room, and two of the same up front under a few drafty windows overlooking the main square complete the interior charming front room.

To live during the high times of this hotel is to not have broad shoulders. The back dining room is a “must see” for first time visitors, but ladies with big, hoopy dresses or stout men sporting manly shoulders need not attempt. The two entryways are …well…narrower than expected by today’s standard measures. Narrow. Not impossibly impassable. It is through one of these doorways, directly to my right, where I saw my friend, Earl* 

Earl is usually quiet. His table is, by default, my second choice. I almost always choose one of the drafty tables in the front. Today, however, I had in tow a leftover Chinese food container with three cookies inside destined for Earl and his friends. It was my wish that he and his soon to be arriving adult playmates enjoy a little more Christmas joy. His challenge was three cookies and four friends. Knowing Earl, it was going to be easy. Probably one for each, himself excluded.

The conversation began easily. Just the two of us because of the apparent late arrivals of any other “Earl friends”. I wasn’t in a hurry. I know his friends well … as they are acquaintances of mine.

Earl is an easy talker. I know this. His delivery has always been open and honest with me. With head tilted slightly to the left and back, eyes never shifting, and reticent, somewhat crooked smile, he talks with me .. not to me. Never has there been a time when Earl considered me an inferior. He is twenty years my senior and certainly more experienced in life. Guidance and direction given to me on occasion, when asked for, was direct and compassionate, … and always spoken gently over well placed crossed arms which seems to be his trademark pose – as it was during the telling of his personal conversation with me.

“How was your Christmas?”, I asked, handing Earl his three cookie Chinese container. We exchanged usual holiday banter before words turned in the most unusual direction. Maybe it was a “family” word? Perhaps prompting in a phrase? I’ve churned this over in my brain a few times to no satisfactory end….and it doesn’t really matter. I suddenly found myself being engaged in the most wonderful listening experience of the holiday.

From beginning to end, a story of searching and finding, loss and gain, successes and failures captured my moments and left me almost speechless. The details so far apart from any business or financial endeavors, but infinitely close to family and relationships. Details private enough I can’t share without permission. So easily said today. I don’t believe easily lived by relatives not so long ago. Substantial respect for a man today who can share a step along life’s journey with me. Twenty minutes of time when I didn’t need to talk .. just listen. A GOOD twenty minutes.

Back to Gus.  It was fortunate for him my blessed presence sat beside his smaller, older, less handsome body in one of the drafty front booths today – a day after my meet-up with Earl.  He wouldn’t use the word “fortunate”, however. “Unlucky”, “miserably cursed”, or perhaps “poorly untimed”, penned in blood on cloth napkins, would be his rapier in the ongoing duel of locution.  Heightened recently with his utmost disregard for my aloud readings of “blog-stuff” as he so articulately defines my art form.  

But, I, as the superior mature male in this exchange, will not proceed in the dialogue previously written in regard to this matter….

…Because he recently lost a dear friend and the funeral is today.  I feel a deep sense of loss for Gus. A conversation today in a hotel front room, a drafty booth, and two friends – sarcastic as both may be – talking over one cup of coffee, one glass of iced tea, and one person I did not know, but he did … very well.

Gus and Carl had a friendship for years.  Small town friendship. Smaller town than the the town we sat in today.  The tie-in connections between the two are many and I don’t pretend to pass on details still unclear to me.  What I do know is the final chapter of a very long book.  

Gus is not a man who speaks as Pericles.  He is “The Old Man and The Sea” without being the great Hemmingway.  Dave Barry is certainly not surging through his veins. Point being, he isn’t – as none of us are – a great orator, writer, or humorist. He’s not on that scale.  Some of us, though, can attempt to put a big toe on that scale, with some confidence, hoping that our one ounce little piggy will register with the heavy weight of the aforementioned legacies.  Gus is in the other room eating bananas while reading jokes from the enlarged print version of Readers’ Digest.

Today was a sincere conversation between good friends.  He would understand my sarcasm should he be in an awakened coma unaware of what he was doing.  Even reading my blog today would cause medical exigencies of such catastrophic dimension in his life I would have a difficult time understanding the proper course of treatment forward.  Probably read more of my insights, out loud, slowly to him as he drifts in and out of consciousness?  

That said, Gus isn’t going to the funeral.  He didn’t go to the viewing yesterday. Not sure why…did not ask.  It was best to allow Gus the pleasure of his telling his stories. His conversation with me.  I know he spent time visiting two weeks ago as Carl rapidly declined in health. I am aware there were bedside conversations – sincere humor and reflection between two good friends.  As I suspect there was for years. One day Carl was there. The next. Gone.

Gus probably misses Carl.  I’ll never know. It’s hard to tell due to his ever present sarcasm and attempt at hiding his really remarkable, understanding friendship he has with me.  

I’ve known Gus a while.  In as much as I’d like to know who he really is and why he uses the veil of sarcasm, I understood our conversation today … as I do everyday.  I have to believe Carl did as well … for a much longer time than I.  

Carl took his seat at the eternal drafty window booth to wait for Gus’ arrival someday.  I’m positive there’s a conversation waiting to be continued….

Today is the birthday of one very good friend.

I met Bill in college a long time ago and we remain friends to this day – separated by an hour drive east or west (depending upon who wants to spend the gas money). Regrettably, neither of us do it often. It took the death of his oldest son, and father a month prior, for me to make two trips two years ago. His last trip to see me was seven years ago when my mom died. Death, it seems, was the tie that bound.

Not to say we haven’t talked on the phone. We have. The conversations last hours. Every time I call, his wife answers. She and I converse a few minutes and it ends up with her saying, “So, do you want to talk to Bill now?”. “Yep”, I eagerly reply. “Bill, it’s your friend, Doug”, is always what I hear being loudly proclaimed. Boy, do I feel warm fuzzies hearing that … even after all these years. Validates me. Yes, a fifty-something grown man is allowed to go out and play with a good friend. His wife said so. She knows it is a connection both Bill and I need. Nice.

My mom loved Bill. She respected his choices in life. He and his wife had specific challenges with two of their three children. Hard, hard choices most people would not have faced as bravely and faithfully as they did. They hung in there. Somehow mom nurtured our friendship by supporting him through all of it – as I did. She was that “extra special” in our friendship. At the memorial service for his son, I needed to speak on behalf of my mom’s memory – as well, to Bill and his wife. Those in attendance heard those exact words.

Both of us experienced wrestling coach fathers. We spent more time on the racquetball courts in college than behind desks studying. Roommates that loved pizza drove us nuts by never wanting any until we ordered, paid for, and began eating it …then heard the words, “hey, you gonna eat all that?”… We experienced the same goofy sibling rivalries. Opening packs of baseball cards as adults – acting like children – seemed normal to us. There was nothing we could do to not get the complete support of the other. Nothing.

…and that support lasts throughout the silence of the many months of no contact. I suspect the same is true of friendships that last a lifetime. Chance meetings early in life … moments that change the direction of the friend-ship. Looking back, there were three dorm moves and two chance roommates that led to Bill. Without these random events, there probably would be no Doug-Bill tandem today. No mom-Bill encounters. No chance to have all our lives enriched by heartache, successes, failures, connections, joys, births, deaths, jobs, and relationships.

When my birthday arrives soon, I know I will get a phone call. I ALWAYS do. It’s like clockwork. Bill always, always calls. If I don’t answer, there will be a message … it is never different. “Hey big guy. Thought I’d give you a call. Happy Birthday, big boy. Hope you have a good day.” This has been the message for over thirty years. Admittedly, sometimes I see the call and don’t answer because I want it to go to voicemail JUST to get the message … and then call Bill back. He’s such a good friend.

I am not as reliable. Today, however, I’ll make the call. He deserves it. Life is too short not to.

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

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

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

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

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

Which is the point of Tony’s post.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks for listening and not judging my words.

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

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

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

United States — Mickey Mouse

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

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United States — The Yo-Yo

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

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Amsterdam Summer Olympics

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

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

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

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United States — Iron Lung

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

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

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

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

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

Sincerely,
Ben Franklin

• 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nice moments.

• 

What a neat genre. Coming from a classical background, I never fully appreciated bluegrass. Outside of the usual music gen-ed courses I was forced into, classical music was the “it” in my life. Country, rock, jazz, fusion, blues, etc … same. Wish, now, my past was different. Age has a funny way of changing perspective on a lot of things. Enter “One Grass Two Grass”.

Anthony (the bearded guy in the middle) is the son of a dear friend of mine. He’s a fiddle player and the brother of a former piano student. I’ve known this family a long time. Through tragedy and triumph, they’ve survived to see wonderful futures for all three: mom, daughter, and son.

I am forever linked, musically, to this family. From performing two solo concerts in memory of her first husband to playing the wedding of her daughter years later, I’ve known “mom” quite a while. These are the connections that matter. Connections music make.

Do yourself a favor. Look up “One Grass Two Grass” on Google. They do a lot of touring on the west coast and also have uploaded videos on the internet.

I have a special gift in my office from Anthony and, by extension, OGTG. Something they did not have to do, but did anyway.

Years ago, a family, a piano, a teacher. Today, my new respect for bluegrass, a “more wonderful” family, and a connection to a group not possible without the love of music lasting beyond any expectations.

Thank you, Anthony. Thank you, One Grass Two Grass. Keep smiles on your faces, extended breath in your words, and life in your music.

Rock on,…eeerr…..”Bluegrass” on my friends!!

• 

• 

• 

I didn’t know SFC Daniel Lightner. Feel like I should, though because I pass by this lovely, small, intimate park nine months out of the year on my way to work. Patriot Park is dedicated to his ultimate sacrifice.

The road around this park is a one-way roundabout with a few off roads to surrounding neighborhoods. In the middle of the park is a gazebo where I seldom see anyone taking advantage of the respite opportunity… including me. If truth be told, during the years I’ve hastily driven by, I never knew this knoll was dedicated to young Mr. Lightner. Shame on me. Really, this is on me for never stopping. My hometown and I never knew. I’m sorry, Daniel.

Ironic that this roundabout is one-way because today I found another way forward. A small way, but another, different way.

We see so many “one ways” in our lives. It’s almost always us – our responsibility … not our parents, teachers, spouse, friends, situations, jobs, kids, finances, politics, etc.. it’s how we see the road we’re on. How easy it is to look back and respond negatively to something, or someone, else as an answer to the challenges in our lives. Look, I do know things happen. I’m not pushing the unexpected aside. Those are the detours. It’s how we “see” that new road I’m writing about.

What struck me today is the one-way road Daniel didn’t know he was on when deployed. He didn’t know there would be a small park one day dedicated to his sacrifice … a park with a one-way road circling the same.

What’s unique, however, is our ability to walk around this park in any direction we want. We are not limited to only the one-way road. We can take our shoes off, feel the grass in our toes, walk a few paces to the east, stop, sit, and reflect. Maybe think about Daniel. Think about his one-way trip back home not knowing. Not knowing he made a man stop for a few minutes – fouteen years later – to think about his life.

And, possibly, help others think about the many different ways roads may be travelled.

That’s a true patriot, SFC Daniel Lightner. Rest in peace, my friend.

• 

I had the pleasure of working today with this guy. To give you some context, here is my business …

• 

I’ve owned a mobile food business since 2005, “Doug’s Dawgs”, which affords me the opportunity to work side-by-side with vendors, artists, …. and magicians. Like, David Wayne. Fascinating. Magical.

I was steady today. He didn’t have much opportunity to show off his talent, however. The crowd wasn’t formed in his favor … more leaning my way. That said, in my down time I had the time to talk with David.

To start, he knows the early -lesser known – history of Houdini, is past President of the National Society of Magicians (I may not remember the exact society name), lives in Chambersburg, and does 100 shows a year. In addition, he is a retired salesman, married a long time, and, most importantly, has inner joy when performing his craft.

You wouldn’t know my great uncle was a professional magician – “Geinger, the Magician”. Also, you wouldn’t know I dabbled as well … mostly card sleight-of-hands because of my pianist background … the cards felt soooo good in my hands. Double-lifts, Svengali decks, etc. All this to say David and I hit it off right away. Unfortunately, but necessarily so, I had to wait on customers. Otherwise, the four hours would have been spent talking David Copperfield, Mark Wilson, Dunninger’s, Houdini, and …. magic without interruption.

I woke up this morning expecting un-magical things to happen. A normal day in the heat, behind a grill, turning over my “nth+” hot dawg, smiling at my “nth+” customer, tearing down my business for the “nth+” time…

And then there was this spiritually levitating event – one which made the minutes disappear … the universe picked the right card for me today. I turned it over. It was David.

I have a feeling it knew the trick all along.

• 

My grammarly-leaning friends will quickly notice the error(s) within the quote inserted in my picture above. And, by no coincidence, in the sentence I just wrote prior to this one. Both end with the dreaded prepositions “from” and “above”. Oh, no!! I did it again!!… My most sincere apologies. I’m sure I will be forgiven. That’s what friends do, right? Normal ones, anyway. Good, wholesome, be-there-in-a-pinch-for-you friends.

I want to write about the step above friends. The ones who surprise us with amazing insight, show us our errors through our gifts – not our faults, and ignite our hopes. They are the one-among-the-many.

Where do they come from?

The easy answer is a physical location. Across town, another city, state, or county is always possible. The “smart”, so obviously comedic reply is “a mother’s womb” (waka waka). I’m more interested in the philosophical question……really. Who…or what sends an awesome friend or two to us?… Where DO they come from?

I’ve experienced great friends in the past. Still do to this day. They fascinate me. I value them more than almost anything else. I feel no discomfort telling them … truth is what truth is…

I do ask questions, though. I always will. It is hard for me to just accept. I ask the “why?”….

I am built to ask “why?”

….or, in this case “from where?” ( see, grammar sticklers?…I do know!!)

Why do I ask, “from where does a great friend come?”. Because, recently I had a conversation with a great friend. Through that, I found part of me I never knew existed. That’s why.

Short answer to “from where?”……”I don’t know”. Probably will never find the answer. I doubt in the search, if you would care to join me, we would never as well. It’s a mysterious place. All I can figure is fate has a hand in guiding the right one-among-the-many into our lives. That extra special great friend -who helps us see our better self no matter what – comes from the imagination of the unknown. And with someone so special by our side, we can overcome …

…no matter what we come up against (oh, man…I did it again!)

• 

I have a friend, Scott, who operates a Kettle Korn concession stand. I’ve known Scott a long time – mainly through another hobby of mine. He is the manager of a bowling center where I first met him years ago. Full circle…. neither he nor I were “concessionaires” at that time, but now we are. Two men. Two foodies. Two decent bowlers (I have 5 perfect “300” games …. he has a ridiculously high amount more)…but I digress.

His Kettle Korn is awesome. His bowling skills are awesome….and he’s a really cool guy.

Anyway, where is all this going? If you read my blogs or FB posts with any regularity, you’ll find my brain to be deeply engaged in philosophizing, or pandering to the pun world. There never seems to be a middle ground. This blog may be my break through!

Imagine that? A “normal” conversation with you, my own self….and all the extra voices in my head.

So, back to Kettle Korn. It’s standard fare at a fair. Easily priced and almost always available – but not always good. Scott’s is, however. I’ve had others….and then there’s his. The difference? His kettle has years of seasoning baked in…age, experience, wear, stories,…Each popped kernel is flavored from the past.

….and that’s the lesson for today. Nothing deep.

Each day of our lives is a kernel popped from a well seasoned, aged, experienced kettle. It’s simply that simple.

Thanks, Scott.