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.

…We’ll Go With That

A few days since writing about dad. Not bad considering dad’s struggle with dementia. Life, for both of us, has been predictable. His life’s schedule pretty much the same: three squares a day, two daily activities, a nap here-and-there, etc … my hours filled with concession events, music obligations, planning and follow-ups.

This week has offered the two of us three opportunities to go to doctor’s appointments. Fortunately, these give a dad and son minutes to get caught up. Whether it be a PCP, dermatologist, or cardiologist, .. quality time is quality time.

“Quality” defined as simple conversation. It’s dad asking why we are at a particular place – seeing a certain person – for a specific reason … then forgetting why we’re there five minutes later. Additionally, he’s always concerned about my well-being. Am I doing well? Have I been busy? I’m happily conflicted wondering if he is connecting the dots in my life, or just asks because it’s in his fatherly DNA.

Such is the nature of dementia. As I’ve written before, none of us know what’s processing inside the mind of someone who lives with this disease.

I am merrily mindful, however, that he leaves voicemail messages when I can’t answer my phone.

I don’t have enough space to save all his voicemail messages, so keeping only the most recent one is my habit. Always having his “potential” last one will never leave my side. (I still have my mom’s last recorded message from over fourteen years ago). His available lexicon is still unique enough to vary the eleven seconds I hear nearly every day.

This morning was: “Hey, it’s Dad. Just seeing if there’s anything going on that concerns me. Guess we’ll go with that.” … and so began and ended the call.

With a little phone rustle on either end, this is standard. No extra fluff. To the point. I’ll gladly receive these calls every day … and, sometimes, two/three times in the span of twenty-four hours from this phone:

Always around eleven seconds. Always different words.

“That” means something on this specific phone call. Just what (?), I’m not sure. Could be the current waiting room situation we find ourselves in right now? This is the second of three this week with the last tomorrow morning. He’s had a situation needing addressed we’ve waited for an appointment. Finally, today, it is being followed-up on. Don’t believe he knew, or remembered, this morning when his message arrived during the early dew-laden hours.

At least I don’t believe so? Picking him up an hour ago, the usual smile with anticipation greeted me at his door. “Hey, what’s up?”, softly came across a warm, paternal portal. “You have another appointment, so how about we grab your favorite hat there and, probably, that warm jacket because it’s a fall day out”.

“Ok. Whatever you say”.

After missing the turn-off fifteen minutes later, we arrived here at his destination. “That” has been accomplished. ✔️ As far as I know, he’ll go with it so far.

… and continue to in the future because he trusts my judgement. My decisions with regard to his care are never questioned.

Trust is embedded in his “that”. He’ll, instinctively, go with it. Our relationship is built on trust. It’s a bridge built over (early on) tumultuous waters he and I were able to calm down together over the past decade.

This has been the small miracle embedded in his dementia diagnosis. The “gentile peace” both of us are experiencing continues to grow from the fertile demented ground. A trust blanket keeping our relationship warm month by month, year over year.

I trust – as long as he is able – a community room phone will continue to call out. He trusts enough to say the words, “We’ll go with… ” yes, ” … that”, to me regardless if it’s a scoop of his vanilla ice cream drizzled with hot fudge, or another medical appointment.

To him – at the end of his routine day – it’s quality time with me.

I’ll take “that” anytime, any day of the week.

Buckets and Pails

“With age comes wisdom, but sometimes age comes alone.” — [Oscar Wilde]

I hope this never comes to pass with dad. Meaning, he should never, ever, feel left alone – abandoned by his family. Notably, this son.

Dementia has a pail-full of confusing problems. I don’t have a ladle big enough to scoop out enough ounces to have it all make sense to me – let alone empty the humongous bucket dad must carry around 24/7. This is what occupies my time – my thoughts – a few minutes every once in a while. He and I are at an emotional well together.

He can be sitting with me holding a spoonful of dripping hot fudge over a serving of vanilla ice cream, or miles away tucked into a routine at his facility. Regardless, dementia is constantly filling up pails and buckets with confusing signals, information, and “whys”.

His pail ripples with same-old-same-old to him. What goes in is, possibly, new information, yet old to me and the very kind assistants who are patient with him. What hat should I wear? (That is the same every day if we go somewhere) Is my razor charging / where is it? (Same every day) … Will I be back for my meal? These question, I hope, are not stressful, but I know dad. I know he worries. These are his ripples.

My bucket is a bit different. I don’t worry about him. Not about the care he’s receiving. The guidelines I use are health and safety. Are they being met? Yes, absolutely! Where he is couldn’t be better.

My emotional ripples are bigger than that. Like I mentioned, I need a bigger ladle.

It had been a few days since I was able to get in. Yesterday, finally, in the midst of a few ridiculous rainstorms and high humidity, a nice walk down toward his room was a welcome relief. Usually a knock, or two, is all that’s needed to get a nice welcome smile to greet me. Not this time. Another attempt. Nope. Third time. Silence.

Off to the activity room to check on a possible group event. Maybe he was otherwise engaged? Nope.

I knew not to fear the worst. Dad is in pretty good health, so any idea of an emergency wasn’t warranted. Fortunately, a nice aide was able to help with a spare key.

As I figured, dad was sleeping as soundly as I’ve ever known him to be. This was an odd time for him to rest. No illness or other reason for this came immediately to my mind. We rustled him up, slightly, and I said my usual, “Hey, Dad..”, to see if he wanted to get out a little bit.

“…how about just going back to sleep and I’ll see you later?”, noticing his very different demeanor.

“Huh? … hmmph, ok”. And with that, a creased pillow found his head, once again, nestled into a very warm, comfy spot. I carefully refolded a blanket over his shoulder, said a soft “goodbye”, and gently closed the door behind me less than a minute later.

Walking back down that hallway felt different. Dad was alone, but not really. We were at that stupid well. My bucket was, again, filling up with confusing information. Is his age catching up to him? Is this advancing dementia? Was he simply bored on this particular day? Did he not recognize me, thus, not want to go? Am I looking too much into this?

Was this selfish of me to want his company, yet be unfulfilled? What’s the answer here?

I just don’t think there is one. And this is the problem with dementia. So much information, yet each case / each diagnosis is so different. Not only this, each connection with individual family members is unique. Everyone brings flawed buckets and pails if they care to have real, meaningful, beautiful bonds with a dementia striken loved one.

No matter the age-related situation, no elderly person EVER should be alone. They are the lifeblood of wisdom, unique energy, laughter, generational compassion, and historical preservation.

My dad has his set of problems now. Yesterday, I felt he was alone for just a minute or so. That’s on me. That’s my moment at the well. It’s my bucket to bear. Unfortunately, his pail is dementia – whatever it has to be one any given day, any presented moment.

Like I always say, “The other side of reality is getting a great guy little by little, so for now, I’ll take whatever dementia let’s me have on this side at the moment.”+

This way, he’s never alone. Nor will he ever be.

Enjoying the Fine Line

This is a wonderful arrangement of, “How Great Thou Art”. Mark Hayes has to be one of my favorite writers / composers of piano music. His ability to transfer musical ideas into playable, albeit moderate to advanced, finger-fun keyboard merriment is nearly unmatched. I search out his works. My library is stuffed full of well-creased, loosely stapled, worn arrangements accredited to his exceptional musicianship.

These books are of a religious persuasion, of course. I guess I need to say this. From every season of faith, he extracts melodies, harmonies, and rhythms appropriate for services from traditional to contemporary. Pentecostal to Brethren to Lutheran to Catholic… and beyond. Really, any gathering focused on a sensibility beyond our daily go-get ’em grind, … our yo-yo self schedule of daily ups and downs … is a good suit to fit on his body of music.

Specifically for me as an organist/pianist … any weekend collection of human worshipers inside a sanctuary wears well. I thoroughly enjoy the space I occupy behind any keyboard requiring my presence. Mark Hayes isn’t the only partner with me, of course, but on a most recent occasion … he was.

Thus the “Fine Line” of which I write.

The arrangement above is, well, so much fun to play. I’ve had it “under my fingers” a long time. As solo piano hymn music goes, it probably qualifies as “advanced” with some tricky octave passages, “showy” broken chord cadenza-type measures, and nice flowery arpeggios. To the non-music people, let’s just say, “a lot of fluff”. If a hymnal was opened to, “How Great Thou Art”, singing along with Mr. Hayes’ version wouldn’t be possible without a little imagination …

I played this as a Prelude. Here’s the “Fine Line”. It was an emotional dance played mentally in my head – even as notes began their arc into the sanctuary space. (By the way, not just with this piece, but with others as well). “Is this appropriate? Should a wonderful piece like this be played as a vessel to help congregants focus? Or, are they really listening, anyway? Is this about me, or their needs? Am I doing this just for my enjoyment as an artist? Why am I even concerned … Just play it and move on to the rest of the service”.

These, and other similar second-guessing, time consuming, energy draining, brain drain thoughts circle around and around … before, during, and after.

Problem is … I simply enjoy playing. Period.

All the arrangements I have … and there’s a generational ton going back through my grandmother and mother … are literally at my fingertips. Classical, romantic, baroque, modern, Christian. Over the decades, I’ve used them all. Funerals, weddings, solo recitals, special music events, a lot of specific services, accompanying soloists, and on… it’s almost always a question, for me, of appropriateness. What music fits the occasion, … the audience.

And the congregation as well.

They are not an audience; however, when I play a piece like “How Great”, an unimagical, unfantastical transformation happens before my very imagination. This wonderful “fluff” becomes a show piece I never intended it to be … converting a congregation of worshipers into an audience.

I know. I know. It’s what happens in my gray matter. Nobody, I repeat, nobody has ever mentioned a thing. I, alone, have created this hurricane of hazy hymnody.

It’s the fine line of what is, and is not, appropriate.

Even after decades of doing the dance, enjoying this line is a challenge. Play what’s not exciting or an arrangement I don’t find particulary engaging – to appease a prelude space? Or, fill that time with something intriguing to hear, play, and engage everyone’s aural senses, but risk tilting that imaginary spotlight in my direction?

There’s no real answer here. I suppose if I wore my black speckled rhinestone jacket, then someone “may” say a word, or two, to our Pastor. An 1970’s electronic color wheel on the organ could work, probably? For a minute – at least, or until an usher unplugged it. Small, dancing scarfs? A tall piano hat? Elton John glasses? These would be, clearly, an issue. Cause for a ministerial meeting, a personal pastoral interventional inquest.

The beauty in all of this? Music speaks so many languages to so many people. I’ve learned these tiny dots on a manuscript, regardless of what I play, do mean something to someone. On balance, my selections are varied. It’s my own personality creeping in when arrangements of this level present themselves on my music rack.

Heck, I’m just one piano player who worries more than I should. Ten fingers, eighty-eight keys and endless combinations of melodious merriment should be enough for me.

If only my fingers weren’t connected to a brain over-thinking too much instead of just enjoying the “Fine Line” I’ve created for myself.

It’s being human. It’s being a musician, maybe. It’s being alive at the same time as Mark Hayes and being massaged with his genius every time I open one of his books. He’d probably tell me to let the music speak for itself and don’t worry about anything else.

I’ll try to do better with all of it, Mark. My words … and my personal prelude piano problem.

Promise.

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.