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 …

Funerals and the Living

I’m at a funeral this morning. Another casket, one more service behind the organ. More hymns than normal for my friend who died. She requested my “organized pianistic” presence at her pre-final rest service here. I’m honored to be a part.

A part, here, with the living. Old and young, big and tall. We’re here celebrating a life. This life of a Pastor well lived .. and given back through an eleven year vessel lined with stage four ovarian cancer.

Yet, we are still here.

I, in some small part, provide the music. An “Alleluia” prelude at the keyboard followed by six hymns and two liturgical snippets. For Pastor Denise, these are. For the congregants and Pastors all in attendance who are here paying respects to their friend and colleague, I play.

This is not the first, nor last, funeral I will play. I’ve had three grandparents, a mom, and countless others. A dad will follow along if I live a normal span of years and this church will require my end of lives’ services in the future as well.

“Funerals and the Living”, always brushes across my mind when passing by parlor doors open to a closed casket. In this same spot, I held my mom’s clasped hands eleven years ago hours before her viewing. Thinking a variation of the same thought, “I am living at your funeral … what is this?” … it was, truly, an odd, dichotomous feeling. Death and life two feet apart, but love unchanged. Cold, yet warm. Energy still present. Holding hands … a connection I feel to this day.

Mom and I are pianists. This is quite possibly the bridge between her funeral and my living existence today. Holding keyboard hearts and hands – over 4,000 sunsets after her passing. I think of her each time my fingers begin funeral Preludes. It is what is right and necessary to allow a mom’s mourning sunrise to reach those who need a connection with their lost soul.

“Funerals and the Living”. The funeral viewing and service – a small arc of the circle that is a death process the living must go through. It is sad and possibly necessary if wanted by the family and deceased. The circle … a burial or spreading of ashes to follow, perhaps. The circle … therapy for the living if needed. The circle … estate issues, etc …

Maybe the circle never ends. I don’t know. My “mom circle” never closed.

As it stands now – one hour and fifteen minutes since this writing started and the service for Pastor Denise began as well – I was able to express my thoughts here between six hymns, a smattering of liturgical responses, a sermon, scripture readings, and a eulogy.

Mom has been with me all along. She always is. Every funeral. Always. Funerals help me live. They help mom stay alive as well …

I’m at a funeral this morning. So glad I am not alone.

You are not alone either when arriving at a loved one’s funeral. Yes, the living are by your side in the pew as eulogies are spoken and hymns sung. Visitors offer hugs in the midst of drowning tears.

In the quiet chambers of your heart, the one who passed through this life still occupies memories. Remarkable memories unique to you – and only you – serve as reminders of times when life was lived to its fullest … with them by your side.

Funerals reflect life back to us. Pastor Denise reminds me, today in her death, I am not alone.

In death, Mom and Pastor Denise live this day. As always.

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.

Franco, Mom, and Me

When the news came, I was shocked – just as you most likely were. He was a legend in Western Pennsylvania. Still is. His unexpected death has not changed anyone’s opinion of this man’s accomplishments on, and off, fields of play and business. He is Franco … the only black and gold #32 most of us ever knew. The one we will never carve out of our childhood memories, or forget meeting during a chance encounter.

I never met him. Since his passing, though, I have become aware some of my friends met him in the past. Pictures of happy embraces grace my feed. In some instances, proud autographs are displayed. Just through those secondary seconds in time, I can imagine wonderful conversations. He must have been a gentleman.

There may be no other way for me to hug the moment – that is, to eulogize a man I only knew through little pieces of 2-dimensional cardboard – than to say: He must have been a gentle man.

This. From a musician far removed from any gridiron grit … who spent his time watching the sport mainly through colorful picture cards with posing players who never opposed anyone while in their inanimate state. This was my Franco, Terry, Lynn, and Rocky experience. Nolan, Roberto, and Mr. Yount became frequent visitors to my afternoon bungalows as time whisked away in imaginary playfields with my sister … and possibly a few friends who happened to stop by.

The real magic happened if a sickness (especially on a school day) happened to march into my sinus dugout. Up to bat came Mom to pinch hit with fresh wax packs of marvelous cards to open. Yah, know – to assist me in the “healing process” … I’m not sure if this was ever Dr. approved, but Mom always knew how to lift my spirits. Of course she did. Mom’s know. She was a gentle lady.

Yes, she was.

This Christmas will be the 10th without her. This is a hard holiday. Hard – not because she’s not in the kitchen baking cookies, or we’re not playing piano duets. Hard – not because the pinochle deck isn’t spread out all over the table beside a few unfinished puzzles of hers. Hard – not because we can’t talk and be goofy together.

Hard because of that gentleman, Franco Harris. Hard because I can’t ever give Mom anything back in return for what she gave me: love, respect, kindness, compassion, caring, and humor.

You see, the card above is the very last present I opened from Mom. It was randomly inserted in a pack of cards she bought, unopened, from a local hobby shop. She knew I love sports cards. Of course, she knew.

She was so sick. With only a few months to live, this was her gift. This pack – containing no guarantee of anything – was purchased and wrapped. Weeks later, opened by a very grateful son.

Decades earlier, I was sick. Fast forward. There I was feeling equally grateful to receive a pack of cards from my Mom – now, she was sick. Difference being, I would get better in a few days.

She died a few months later.

I’ve looked at this card every Christmas. The weird thing about all this is the serial number:

“It’s a Christmas miracle, Mom”, I whisper to myself every time this card appears before my teared up eyes. #12/25 could not have happened without the love and respect Mom and I had for each other throughout our lives.

Things like that happen because they have to. The piano connection was, almost, too easy. She needed a more clever way to stay in touch with me.

Yesterday was a Franco, Mom, and me day for sure.

Sunday will be a day to remember Mom, again, as her Christmas absence will be felt. That 2011 Certified Fabric of the Game relic card sits in a special place to be pulled out and cherished for a few minutes as usual. This year, I will pause an extra minute or so to honor Franco Harris as well.

He is the man I never met, but feel I’ve known my whole life. Through it all … he’s been with me in 2-dimensional form, however, has made a 3-dimensional difference in my life thanks to Mom.

She is hard to miss now, but was easy to love.

Merry Christmas, once again, Mom. Franco sends his best your way.

Kim’s Path

Three kids. I know, these three … again. They’re just so easy to write about behind a standard Samsung tap-away screen. My thumbs gladly take time away from their piano playing, hot dawg slinging duties to grace in one word at a time. It’s a joy.

Today, however, isn’t about what’s behind this phone or ahead for those well-loved children on their way to another happy place.

This pleasant October digital morning dedication is for the one who is always behind these pictures … the mom – the “always there” encourager. She deserves recognition, love, and support.

I don’t know why today seems like the day to acknowledge her. It just … does. This isn’t new. I’ve known and admired Kim a long time. From the time she timidly walked around the corner of a dining room to take her first piano lesson until now, there’s been a special bond. Years it has been. Too many, almost, to count.

In many ways, she set the standard for hundreds of students to follow. Yes, there was – and continues to be – an extraordinary pool of genetic music material woven into the fabric of her family. This, alone, is never enough, however. It takes work and dedication to play well. Kim put in her time and effort. Was there struggle? Of course. Did we laugh along the way? Absolutely.

So, we had the past … and have the now in 2022. Both of us are years away from those black and white experiences. Family dynamics have changed. Locations in our lives are significantly different. In a phrase, “life moved on …”.

Even though time ticked forward, memories stayed and social media, thankfully, allowed us to continue forward. Through this medium, I became aware of her magnificent photos. (Of course, it helps her three kiddos are ridiculously photogenic). This, combined with my love of amateur words and phrases, made a perfect pair once again.

Teacher/student. Photographer/writer. Thus…

Her daughter’s physical expression above tells the story for me. She encapsulates Kim’s story. The outstretched arms and hope for the future – while leading the way for her younger siblings – embodies Kim’s essence. She was the leader of her own two younger siblings who, in their own right, are spectacular, successful young adults as well.

Yes, all moms deserve love and support. Of course they do. The mom behind the pictures I love to write about earns my love and support today – not only because of the wonderful lives she’s giving her kiddos along side her husband, but also simply because Kim is … Kim. She is a person who overcomes adversity, faces life head-on, loves every life experience she can find, enjoys her friends, adores music, and dedicates all she has to family.

For me, she is still that little girl who peeked around the corner and whose feet barely touched the floor the first time she sat down on the bench.

What she didn’t realize as time went on and her playing matured, my respect for her barely touched the floor … and hasn’t since.

May her path forward be as joyous as the picture above, and may every image to come inspire words yet to be written.

So far, it’s been my utmost pleasure to walk along the path with her.

Our Infinite Blade of Grass

I find the universe an unending source of fascination. From the kuiper belt inward and outward toward distances unknown with red shifting celestial objects, all of it hugs my never-ending intrigue of infinity. I am not Neil deGrasse Tyson brilliant by any means, nor do I possess the brain-wares close to an Einstein. What is locked into my 3 lb cranial matter, however, is the ability to read fancy terms and come up with some constellation of ideas that never end.

Space never ends, too. As mortals seem to understand the matter, … it goes, and goes, and goes. “What’s after the edge of the known universe?”, my mom always said. Probably more expanse? Additional infinity, possibly. If you consider the size of the know universe as 94 BILLION light years across, this fact is so ridiculously unthinkable that infinity is a concept nearly beyond consideration. Nearly, yes … but reachable for a few minutes of my time this morning. What, really, is 94B light years plus one, anyway?

Infinity is a time abstraction.

I sit here at my desk thinking about time. On StarTalk a few days ago, Neil deGrasse Tyson was considering the age of our local universe since the Big Bang. He analogized the span of time with a football field’s 100-yard distance from one goal line to the other – A gridiron/timeline of the universe, as it were. A 14 billion year measurement funneled down into format most of us can understand with our little 3 lb number crunching, synapse-firing spectacular wiggles of matter.

Cosmic time intervals are so large, we need help pulling them into a scale we can grasp. Fourteen billion … 14,000,000,000 years. Ugh.

His analogy was better than most offensive plays the Steelers tripped over themselves so far this season, I must admit.

Place the events of 14B years on a 100 yard field – where would the events happen? If one considers a southern goal line to be the start of the Big Bang, our solar system does not begin forming until about the thirty yard line on the north side of the field – seventy yards away. Around the four yard line, single cell organisms became multi-cell organisms with legs, eyes, antennae, i.e. sensors for what is happening around their environment. “Cave dwellers appeared at the near side of the thickness of the blade of grass at the zero yard line”, according to Mr. Tyson. (Yes, we are talking about blades of grass here) …

Through the thickness of that blade of grass at the ZERO yard line, … Moses, Jesus, Mohamed, agriculture, …then US. We are hanging on to that last blade – on the far edge with our dangly toes barely able to NOT kick up the fine, white powder beneath our feet … 100 YARDS AWAY !!… 14,000,000,000 years away.

Supporting all this has been the James Webb telescope and the progress of science. Change has been a constant. This is why I am so fascinated by small, upward glances toward space and wide open perspectives into astronomic ideas and access into, almost, the entire universe…

And infinity, of course.

The cosmos does not exist for us. It can’t. Our planet could disappear tomorrow and the gazillions of galaxies and mega-trillions of stars will live on as if the Steelers, Yankees, and Washington, D.C. had no emotional power over us. Stars incubated for nearly 10B years before our local solar system decided to blink awake. Our sun is estimated to live for another 5B years before it morphs into a red giant as it enters into its dying stage of existence.

I don’t find any of this depressing at all. Infinitely captivating, actually. Looking inward at what we do have and can control, I don’t see oceans of emptiness. I see a paradise equal to – if not greater than – what we can ever know about the cosmos.

We exist to be always looking up, ever vigilant of the opportunities in our lives. This is what the universe, ultimately, means to me. It is a copious supply of possibilities every time I read, or observe, anything in its shimmering darkness. No matter what is squirming about in my local universe, I can always find a little star somewhere – a nestled bright spot hidden in a celestial sphere on a friend’s face, in a piece of music I am playing, or simply woven into a kind conversation.

These are endless and plentiful for all of us. In a way, infinite.

I never did answer mom’s query. She asked it more than once. My hope is her soul rests easy among the stars at that very edge of infinity. All of our questions will be answered some day. This is my hope.

As for the present time and place, I will find my refuge in the unanswered and precious 14 billion years presented before all of us. They hold a magnificent portion of infinite wisdom in their age. I am glad they cradle our existence and look forward to an additional 14 billion more.

… However, if actuarial tables hold true, I have only .0000000017857th of that time to learn more. Oh well, when my time ends, I’ll just hang out with mom at the edge of the universe and see what happens. We’ll have an infinity’s worth of time to figure it all out.

Point to the Wonder

Smiles coming to life. On faces of children, on a big yellow balloon, wide open happy expressions appear across a field of green. Pointing to the wonder of it all, one little soul decided it was – truly was – a moment in time to celebrate. “Look! LOOK … share this lucky, merry moment with me, please!”, so gleefully proclaimed.

I dare say this exclamation of joy was returned by not only a large, yellow, inflatable hot-air human carrier in the distance, but also a little lady a few feet behind. Delight all around.

Laughter lifts spirits just as warm air rises. Possibly, into the blue sky went a dozen balloons moments after this picture was taken. Perhaps these inflatable pockets of joy were settling down after lofty rides on pIeasant breezes? In either case, I am sure giddiness followed.

This is what it means to be young. Directing attention to all that is wonderful … not knowing why it is so, just that it is. Astonishing colors, amazing shapes, and fabulous sizings add an imaginary reality to clean, perfect slates of innocence. Three children. United by sensational, youthful direction … led by the outstretched arm of one. Youth captured.

Pointing us to their youth.

… Pointing us to reminders of our youthful exuberance layered between adult experiences – colors, shapes, and sizings we’ve since covered up with grown-up frustrations and responsibilities. Our adult warm air pushes down on our souls. It takes Hurculean effort to catch up, let alone keep up, with the Jones’ across the street. The “mature” balloons we occupy are grounded, but not indefinitely.

We know the culprits: bills, work, relationships, car and house repairs, health issues, etc … all the crop-ups, granted, single-number age breathers don’t need to face.

None of these are excuses to point away from wonder, however.

Let’s constantly look for ways to notice the balloons in our lives. We can expand our joy as wonderful warm air swells into pleasant experiences we witness – giving rise, in return, to our every dayfullness.

This is how life should be.

Smiles coming to life shouldn’t happen only to little ones. We, as adults, need to crack open the hard shells with pointed enthusiasm- just as they do – and remind ourselves life is a one-time-around experience.

Now, go find a field and point to the wonder. Find what your joy looks like and breathe it in. Stand in your field where the vibration – that is your soul – surrounds the you that is you. Listen to music. Look, and absorb, the art of the masters. Read the words inside covers of your favorite author’s books. Walk between trees where the shade lays ahead a calm path. These are youthful, wonderful inhales.

Happy expressions, joyful lessons … simple reminders from one outstretched arm, three children, and one big smiley balloon and friends.

So much wonder.

Reaching at Leaves

While walking past all-so familiar store fronts during an early afternoon fall walk, I was pleasantly struck by a few descending leaves. One landed on my shoulder, two bounced off shuffling shoes on their way to their own off-day destinations. All reminders that fall had arrived.

A late straggler hung in the breeze. I followed it with my right hand – trying to grab it from its own fall goal. No success. It continually teased my grasp from a distance inches away. A thirty second dance pursued – between a leaf and a man – for a distance of three concrete squares on a sidewalk. Allegheny Street, possibly, never knew such awkward grace, or a twisted tapestry of steps. A leaf and a man. A dance.

For the rest of the day, I looked for opportunities to reach for leaves. Falling ones, especially. For there was no success earlier. That single, one leaf passing through my hand left a void. Its brothers and sisters across the town were waiting my passing, for sure.

Now, this wasn’t a primary goal. I had a to-do list that, initially, didn’t involve chasing after leaves. In reality, I would guess none of us get up expecting to be unexpectedly, graciously, grazed by falling leaves … like I did. These kind of wonderful happenings just, … well, … happen.

… and, I am so glad they do.

It had been months since I’ve written words here. When that one leaf fell beyond my reach, I was suddenly reminded how long it’s been – how “out of reach” this space has been – beyond my grasp, … my awareness, my front-of-mind.

We get so distracted. This is the centerpiece of sermons, books, and motivational talks. Stuff occupies our steps and our minds are ever busy with the next thing to do. Ignoring the essences of our lives – words and melodies making up our unique blend of individuality – seems to be the norm. And it shouldn’t be.

We need to constantly pay attention to the now – the magnificence of this moment.

Plan for the future. Hope for good things, of course. Have faith in what you can accomplish. Fold into your gifts.

I needed that particular partner the other day. It fell away not knowing, though.

Sometimes, what is valuable lands in our lives on a breeze and stays for only a brief time. Be that leaf for someone, perhaps, as they walk through life. Let them reach out to you as well. Maybe, just maybe, you will be a little beyond their grasp, but will make enough of an impact in their lives that their words will come alive again.

Say, “Hello” to a stranger. It could be the leaf they need to see fall before their very eyes. A reminder that life, now, is the most remarkable experiences one can have.

A Toddler’s Playground

That distinctive aroma of gravy and turkey spun its way around the corner of our old kitchen into a small dining room. A traditional Thankgiving meal was almost on the way. Mom, of course, would be the last to arrive at a table with an informally placed, odd selection of chairs seating a similarly odd hodgepodge of family members.

A typical family holiday. Mom insisting that everyone be seated before she sat down. Dad fussing over something of which we had no idea. Perhaps a fondue pot in the center of the table surrounded by dark green vegetable trays on top of a brown, yellow, and orange table cloth all set the tone for a 70’s Thanksgiving feast.

This particular year was different, however. Aside from all the normal scuffle-abouts, the children among us – myself included – were pre-instructed to be on our best behavior, if possible. My Uncle John was bringing a special guest home for the holiday .. a friend of his … a gentleman singer/associate he met while both sang as members of the elite US Army Chorus.

I don’t recall the specific year, however, I do remember where I sat and the specific quote. “Keep an eye on him,” Uncle John said, “…he’s going to be a big star some day and go places!”

Clint Holmes went on to be a major headliner in Vegas – and is to this day.

I can’t really wrap my mind around sitting next to him that Thanksgiving day fifty years ago. Only a few feet away sat a young man in a very humble house, in Hollidaysburg. His life unfolded in quite a magnificent way. Uncle John nailed it.

The other day, this picture roused up that memory.

“Playground in my Mind” was released in 1972. The Clint Holmes recording became one of his all-time biggest hits. I listened to the record over, and over, … and … over. “Where the children laugh and the children play / And we sing a song all day” are my favorite lyrics in this wonderful song. Doesn’t this picture speak that magic?

Kiddo magic – running into a playground to laugh, play, imagine, and dream. We forget, as astutely mature ones, what it was like to be inquisitive … to run into mysteriously fun places to touch a universe of unknowns, or examine tiny fascinations.

Look at these two little ones. If they could fly, they would. One foot off the ground and the other toe-tapping a ground barely in existence under their joyous toddler beings. Beyond the covered bridge is a magnificent playground in their mind … just as Clint Holmes loved and sang in his mind a half century ago.

I am so honored to span the generations with music. The power of music holding hands with memories is spectacular. In so many ways, we are connected – variations of words, music, and spirit.

In no small way, two little ones helped me re-live a memory I haven’t experienced in decades. Also, they reminded me to skip a bit easier through the challenging covered bridges in life.

As Clint sang, maybe try, “Living in a world I left behind…” once in a while.

It is a fantastic song. Look it up and dare to pass through the troubles in a moment’s time to experience a happy, giggling, peaceful, generational playground in your mind.

Those two above, and Clint, would have it no other way.

31 Flags

I don’t know most of their stories. Every day, for a few minutes, I stood on warm concrete slabs as individual flags folded into summer breezes. Quiet imaginations filled my head while honoring local heroes. They made an impression on a digital camera phone and a daily memory for me.

Their names etched in black on a pole placard… and each individual story supported by a family member who reached out to the Rotary Club.

For one of the thirty-one days, each hero earned a place of recognition on my Facebook page. It was, truly, my honor to do so.

As a tribute to those who served and are currently active, here are the thirty-one who gave me pause:

Alex H. Drummond – Air Force, John Paul Dibert – US Army, Robert S. Cramer – Sergeant First Class US Army Reserve 1957-1995 , Richard Gildea US Navy Radarman 2/C WW2, Adolph Goldstein – US Army WW2, Samuel Calvin McLanahan – US Navy 1863-1869, Robert D. Williams – Trooper PA State Police, Andrew C. Williams RN, BSN Clinical Supervisor Cardiology Services, Valentine Ranck – Lancaster Militia Revolutionary War, Colonel Terry Wagner – US Army, Gerald Grubb US Army Air Corp KIA 3/30/43, Cloyd P. Grubb US Army Infantry Purple Heart Recipient, Dennis E. McCready – US Army Korea, JW Straesser – US Army Air Corp WW2.

Colonel Paul Roscher – Decorated Pilot POW WW2, Louis J. Lusk USAF “Halo” Senior Master Sergeant Special Warfare, Thomas Tidd – US Navy WW2 Pacific Theatre, Colonel Craig L. Carlson – US Army, Dr. Bridget O. Corey – Blair Foot & Ankle podiatric medicine, Mike J. Corey US Army , Elle W. McConnell – Nurse Practitioner Blair Foot & Ankle, Carl C. Werner – Staff Sergeant E-6, Allegheny Lutheran Social Services Healthcare, Residents of the Lutheran Home of Hollidaysburg who served our Nation, William R. Collins Jr. – US Army, Gary A. Davis – US Marine Corps, Richard Burnett – US Army, John S. Sigrist – US Army Reserve, Tony Drummond – US Army Healthcare worker, Desmond T. Lutz – Air Force Staff Sergeant, and Edward Kopanski – Vietnam veteran.

Quite the list. Revolutionary War through present day. I knew Colonel Wagner and am personally familiar with a few others; however, I am still fascinated by the stories those flags told.

They are no longer there.

Gone are the early morning stops for me. I miss the moments. So much so that a late night pull over this evening – after a tiring food truck event – was necessary. I needed time. Time to pull life over from its busy lane just enough to remember other folks who do much more – give so much more – to allow all of us a life of work and leisure.

At the very end of an invisible 31st flag, the permanent digital display gave me this:

Another flag. Yes, it is always in the rotation between, now, 80+ degree temperature readings and the time. This was no miracle sent from the heavens. For me, simply a final image to capture, to bookend if you will, a marvelous experience.

My story is simple. Five minutes every morning, I was fortunate enough to stand in front of an American flag while honoring an individual who deserved my time.

On July 13th, thirty-one invisible flags – for thirty-one seconds during a quiet, dark evening – were settled into their repose until next year. I stood there, peacefully.

I figure a second for each one of their stories is worth a lifetime for us.