I Feel Ya, That’s A Fact

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simple Spoon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Receive with simplicity all that is given to you”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And miss her.

Walking Words

Here we are. Whatever “this” is. Again.

I used to write everyday. It was easy to do. The words appeared as instant imaginary impulses- piled one on top of another – in my lively, colorful, experience-laden brain. I’d rush home, or sit in my favorite red vinyl booth, and gush about toys I saw in display windows, the statue at a local park, or a meditation garden. Breezes were easy to see. Lives scurried about … intermingling. I could see they were laughing. Unmasked.

And that’s the “thing”. They were laughing. I could see the smiles. So much of this experience is gone … for now. It’s hard to write every day.

Now, I see masks hiding the smiles of those few who are out and about. Hometowners going about their essential best … scurrying they are not. Shoulders telling the real story. They droop atop torsos that are, as well, plodding along … belted to waists barely able to withstand another day attached to legs so tired from the grind of restlessness.

Everyone is so “thing-ed” out. As am I. Experiences are hard to uncover … to see. To, well, experience right now.

The stuckiness of all this, as a writer of what I see, “all I see is bad news”. Even my “imagineer’s workshop”, upon which I so heavily rely, has been hijacked by social distancing, #IsolationIssues, fear, unease, politics, unemployment, PPP, EIDL, masks, google hangout video necessities, pharmacy changes, and daily mis-information from social media. The wheels of my sleep/wake cycle fell off weeks ago and I find concentrating on anything other than doing the dishes every freakin’ hour, recording a piano piece, and checking in on my dad to be about my limit.

This wasn’t the case such a short time ago. I can’t blame my age, although it would be a easy target. It’s, of course, the virus. The stupid virus. The uncaring, ridiculous coronavirus. The whatever “this” is.

It’s the one thing that took away experiences of daily living that feed my writer’s soul.

For now.

I need to believe in the hope of our human spirit. In the belief of a common goal. A desire to beat this pandemic with one big, shared, world-wide breath of compassion for the families of the lost, a push toward three C’s in our body politic (Civility, Compromise & Credibility), renewed zeal for mother earth and the incredible resources she provides, less concern for self and more for other’s needs, and a cure-certain for this horrible, “whatever” virus … and all the ugliness associated with it.

These breaks of days aren’t the end of life, for sure. Nothing has stopped. The legs that are weary will dance again. Shoulders will be proud and carry great burdens with honor in the near future as life returns to a new normal once we figure all this out. Together.

And, in the end – when there is an end – we will meet there together. Together is a place, regardless of where we are in our indifference now, where we will be … unmasked with visible smiles.

This is what I hope for and what I’d like to be writing about again. I want my words to have legs more times than ever before.

This is who I am

This day requires a response and I didn’t know what to say. Until now.

An Easter miracle has been hoped for by my Christian friends for weeks. I’m not seeing the magic. Coronavirus numbers are climbing. Deaths are still happening. People are getting cancer. Someone is dying of congestive heart failure and, tonight, a wife will be telling her husband she doesn’t love him anymore.

Again, I’m not seeing the magic. My Christian friends will certainly respond one of two main ways. Either I am not looking in the right places, or I am, but not seeing with the right “heart”. This isn’t a sleight on their sincerity or wanting of my happiness. It is an indictment of a religious belief that all will work out in the eyes of a God, regardless of what happens. I knew, heading into today, there was to be the story of a resurrected Jesus – as there has been throughout the ages. Especially today, in the midst of a massive pandemic shutting down the world.

I also knew none of this was going to be the fault of a God, Jesus’ presumed father, who is in control of all this. Or, is He? Those so willing to turn over their hopes and dreams of a miraculous end to a virus never give him an atta-boy for allowing it in the first place. Either this God’s fault, or it isn’t.

Within the circles of skeptics, it’s called “counting the hits and not the misses”

I was blind to this for 36 years of my life. There was never a time for doubt or questioning from 1982 through 2018. During those years, any thoughts of walking away from a comfortable belief in a magical Christian ideology was scary, uneasy, and unfamiliar. I would never know the terms Agnostic, Atheist, or Skeptic. Even questioning the most obvious contradiction in the bible was emotionally upsetting. Throw in a dose of after-life eternal bliss, forgiveness of sins at birth, a born-again experience at 19, and I was golden. The luck of the draw placed me in a conservative, western-central PA ‘burg where Christian parents raised three kids to cite the Lord’s prayer, be confirmed, and sing in the children’s choir without questioning,”why”.

Until my seizure the evening of June 30th, 2018. The moment of a re-set in my brain when all electronic-impulses went haywire, for no apparent reason, and the label, “epileptic”, was scarlet-lettered on my soul. A one-time lapse into a brain malfunction black hole spun my person-planet into a brand new orbit. With no more seizures since, I’ve been circling a previously unknown sun ever since.

Worlds collided and I began a journey into a universe of self-exploration. A rich, new, singularity of ideas and words I never knew. Previously hidden from me – but always there – were books, websites, TedTalks, relatives, friends, podcasts, and other resources apart from centuries old, dust laden, tested and certainly unproven ideas written in a book so unclear it took gaggles of scholars to interpret.

There is no proof of a God. I reached that conclusion. Until there is, I am an atheist. I have been since the fall of 2018. This is my day to come out and say it to the world. Well, at least to those who care.

To clear this up, an atheist is one who will believe in the existence of a God once adequate proof is presented. To say there is a God is a magnificent claim requiring magnificent proof. That’s all. You ask, what does that proof look like? I respond honesty, “I don’t know”. If there is a God, it/he/she knows what proof is required to warrant my attention. I asked, earnestly, for over 35 years. In the deepest, and saddest point of my life, this God was silent … completely silent.

Now, please don’t respond with, “His answers are either yes, no, or maybe”, “All in God’s plan”, “Footprints”, “You didn’t pray right.”, or any other special pleading. I know them all. I really do.

Save one very special friend who stayed in touch via text and my family, nothing. There was never a feeling of a God by my side, a “voice”, or a “presence” … any of the things I expected after years of dedication to the “holy one in the word”. I survived with will-power, knowledge, and the science of medicine and doctors … and yes my close friend and family – all of whom I adore. THEY are the ones who sat with me and helped me through. They were my “hits”. Oh, and to say, “God sent them” … please, don’t.

Look, if you detect bitterness, it isn’t intended. I’m not, truly. The Easter miracle today and in the recent past, ironically, is this God opened my eyes to what was possible … almost two years ago.

I am still so full of piano-love … a genuine, spirited, hopeful, graceful, caring human being. Nothing about who I am has changed at all. A Doug hug from me now means the same as ever … well … at least when the stupid shut-down is over, anyway. Can’t really reach you from here.

I’ve been over counting the hits and not the misses for almost two years. “He’s” missed so many times. I promise you, whenever this whole Covid-19 ends, praise will be given to no end with absolutely no mention of fault. Just not from me, obviously. Tell that to the thousands of families who’ve lost family members. Oh, but I guess God had to do that as part of a bigger plan. But, why? I thought he had nothing to do with it in the first place?

Yes, the last paragraph is part sarcasm, however, it highlights the problem with ideas wrapped in traditional Christian thinking. Ideas I gave my life to for 36 years. Ideas that, ultimately, didn’t serve me at all when I absolutely needed them to.

…And isn’t that the whole point of Jesus’ resurrection being “celebrated” today? He died for our sins, I guess. Just not when I need(ed) him the most. What a great plan.

The Luxury of 85 Percent

A very short post today. Not a day for long reads, as most of my energy was spent elsewhere. Sleeping, mainly. It’s exhausting trying to do nothing while expected to do everything. This isolated, mandated, stay-at-home unproductive shifting around the house drains my ever-loving energy. With that in mind, consider the following brief, Nobel committee submission:

Did some thinkin’ today. What else other than “thinkin” is there to do, right?

This is a peaceful, little, calm discussion.

The pandemic of 1917-1919 took 675,000 US lives, according to the CDC’s own numbers. Based upon the estimated population at the time of 104 Million, that number is 0.65%. There are no stats as to what % of those deaths resulted from pre-existing conditions, so let’s assume all of them were directly related to the pandemic.

We are at 325 Million in 2020. With the above % as a base line, we should expect 2.1 Million deaths. Obviously, current projections (models) don’t even come close. We are, hopefully, not going to be even 15% of that number.

The difference is not only information, but also the speed at which our understanding and knowledge travels. Seems so ordinary, everyday to us.

We can differ significantly about who did what, where this went, and what happened when – all good for our national dialogue. Let’s, also, never forget the 85% margin of grace we enjoy that the folks of 100 years ago never had. Our luxury of advanced technology and medical science is a gift.

Let’s not abuse it by arguing too much.

Thank You Interview

New experience yesterday. The walk-about kind blogs are designed to talk-about. I guess.

This writing thing is still new to me. I’m baffled beyond amazed at how much fun the journey has been so far. Over 115 entries into this Imagineer’s Workshop of ideas and counting … with no barriers in front of me that I can see. 🤞 As a man with limited knowledge of grammar, a few ideas on how life should be, and an unpredictable sleep/wake cycle, I’m enjoying every solitary keystroke from my PA Keystone state of mind.

We are not having a normal winter here. One minor snowfall dusting and a few below normal, ice-scrapey days are scant entries in the diaries of expectant winter lovers. Ice melt sellers, snow blower repair shop owners and plow drivers rest easy inside local donut shops eagerly sipping coffee … waiting. Weather forecasters, climate experts, global warming alarmists, environmentalists, … everyone on social media, earth humans in general all wondering why West-Central Pennsylvania is having a mild winter. Me, too.

Yesterday was my “Me, too” movement. The simple act of moving my left leg out of the car onto the pavement of the radio station’s space in which I chose to park gave me pause. I, also, was wondering why the warmth of the sun felt so unseasonably pleasing on my nervous face. Or, why I didn’t remember walking across the slightly windy parking lot at all when I sat down in the lobby. The papers I prepared had little wind damage, nor did my black checkered sport coat, so all was well as I sat momentarily next to my good friend, Donna. And waited.

This was a radio interview to introduce a business venture/partnership between my Doug’s DAWGS concession thing and ArtsAltoona. In addition to this, the hour-long show also highlighted my music and blogging interests as well as a personal dive into the deep end of my family history swimming pool. Donna is the President of ArtsAltoona and was my support, friend, and compatriot in the process. A true, honest-to-greatness asset in our community and someone I am so honored to call a friend.

“The 11th Hour With Doug Herendeen” began as I would have expected since I listen to his show almost every day. The perspective inside his small, padded studio is quite different. He’s a real person, first of all – not just a voice. We had to sort out who was Doug #1 and Doug #2, get the microphones in order, and calm my nerves a bit. Bottled water at the ready, buttons knobs and switches lit and prepped, commercials done, …. the “on air” bulb lit up outside our small wooden door and words started to push up through the large satellite dishes …. into the invisible universe they went.

I enjoyed every moment. Every word. Every sputtering syllable (even though I believe I am a good public speaker). The creaky floors of our local radio station speak for the many who have walked upon those boards – delivering a message they believed to be important to them. Yesterday, Donna and I were honored to be counted among them.

As I left Donna behind to discuss other matters, the same sun I felt an hour before still appeared in noon glory through the front windows behind the leather, worn chair I sat in a short time ago. It was still unseasonably warm. Even more so … being high noon, and a little after twelve which meant I was due for a really nice lunch. A lot more relaxed, getting back in my car required much less movement and reason to question my anxiety. The uncertainty of underperforming, or not doing my best, had passed. I was going to be o.k.

Isn’t that what we want at the end of all the noise and confusion? We want to be o.k.. Things may not seem normal – like the weather – but somehow we manage. Yes, it’s hard and we ask why a lot, …. Why am I wondering if I’m going to say the right words, on the spot, live, with a large fluffy mic and untold numbers of strangers listening? Does it really matter? In my goofy past mid-years, am I still concerned what others think? Why, yes. Yes I am. If you were me, you’d be feeling the same, I’m quite sure. That’s ok, too. If you think you’re alone, you’re not.

Thank You for allowing me this space to tell you about my new experience yesterday. Next time I visit my friend, Doug, at the radio station, maybe you can join me. We’ll sip a bottle of water together in the lobby and maybe, just maybe, catch glimpse of a snowflake sledding down a seasonal breeze of arctic cold. Until then, live in unpredicability. There’s magic in the unknown.

Elfin Words

Writers, authors, novelists, poets, and bloggers – not an all-inclusive list of humans putting words together in some recognizable form, but a start. I have a close relative who belongs in this group, although he won’t ever admit it. Stubborn older crumblecorn of a guy, he is. One short story of twenty-five pages gives him forever status into our imagineer’s workshop.

It is an Elfin tale written during a time of loss and reflection. He traveled a zig-zaggy path with a co-author, trading paragraphs with a friend, back and forth over the internet three blocks away from each other. It was word therapy – the best kind, when tears and meals at an empty table no longer worked. If for no other cause, an expression of his grief unable to be shown over the casket of his wife who recently left his side, forever.

A project of love? Perhaps. He’ll never admit to Beatrice’s true identity. He wrote of her wanting true love as she stood singing on the balcony. Recent suitors to the castle never quite measuring up to her royal standards, she remained singularly focused on her love yet to be discovered.

Pacing, singing, … our fair Princess tuned out into the woods a song so pretty, and invitingly rich, no gentleman could ever deny his heart’s insistence. When, at once, through the mist came a friesian horse so bold … upon which sat a unseen suitor with a baritone song that pierced her longing heart…..

I’ll leave it at that. She fell for him. Not off the balcony mind you, … that would have been a ridiculous story line. Ya know, Beatrice hurting herself, some guy having to take care of her non-life threatening injuries while tending to his whatevers. Above is my two paragraph summary of Beatrice’s beginning journey into her exploration of true love – as written and imagined by my older wrinklefuss relative and his dear friend in their fantastical tale, “Elfin Irving, A Scottish Fable”

Over two dozen pages, they walk Beatrice through mist-laden bogs, literally, as she treads upon lessons theretofore mist (😂 love puns!) As a Princess, she didn’t know true love, I guess. We aren’t privey to her past years in the tale, but can only assume it was a life of foot massages, long hair brushing sessions in front of a full-length mirror while humming a wispy little tune, and grapes … plenty of grapes. We are to understand there lived a wonderful father and mother, i.e. Sir King and Lady Queen. Family life after a hard day’s work around the castle must have been pretty normal – for a fictitious family frolicking fancifully about.

I can’t disclose how the fable ends…not because you’ll ever read one of the 15 copies in existence. I can’t, due to the fact I’m a bit confused myself. Pretty sure I know, just not 100%. It’s been roughly two weeks since I read the heavy, tan parchment paper it is so elegantly printed upon and my memory has been committed to other matters. Mainly, did I shower yesterday, or not?

Overall point being, Beatrice aside, I’m really quite proud of my shufflescooter author who, along with his good friend, wrote such a tale. My dad.

He found a way to write about fantasy – which is a world so uncommon to his everyday. Very infrequently did he engage the monster, dragon-filled, playful fancy side of our childhood playtimes. Work – and only work – occupied his time. So common for the everyday man struggling to meet the demands of a three-child, one income household in the 70’s. Mom played. Dad worked. Three kids scruffled to-and-fro blopping and fropping with toys that made noise.

We transitioned into more expensive toys, spouses of our own, and lives apart from what we knew as kids. Dad pretty much stayed the same. For that matter, so did mom. Dad, the serious worker. Mom, the goofy gamer. Then she died.

My world changed.

I’m not going to claim dad’s world screeched to a massive halt and he fell to his knees in a rapturous, redemptive emotional u-turn the moment mom died. We walked out of the hospital numb. All of us. The rest of 2012 – the nine months since March 19th of that year – was a blur. Our playful gamer was gone. Fantasy and fun seemed lost. A world that dad never wanted to experience with her, anyway. Or, so it seemed.

He wrote a tale. It will be his only one I’m sure. It has to be. It is a story he could never write until love was worth searching for in a fantasy – not in a present reality. The unattainable … the lessons learned, finally, when perfection among all suitors arrives upon a stallion.

When all the hard work is proven worthwhile, yet years too late for one who passed. Not too late for those of us still grieving who finally decided to pick up this little gem and read it all the way through … seven years later!

So an awesome “tip of my hat” respectful nod to my father who has turned a corner into the imagineer’s workshop this one time. To feel his connection to mom – albeit probably not Beatrice’s identity as he would definite her – is my soul’s interpretation of the Elfin Irving. As the reader into my dad’s tipping hand, I reserve the right to see mom’s heart shining forth – singing wonderfully across the forested glen from a balcony of expanding, heart-gleaming tunes.

Two loving parents. One gone.. another here. Two very different transitions seven years ago. A single story written in fictitious form that, in it’s few dozen pages, tells a story of love beyond the pages. A personal story this son is glad to finally know. It may be just my silly interpretation, or not. I don’t really mind either way. The older klankmuster of a guy is my dad who shares a past with me that was kinda rough at times.

His fault? My fault? Don’t care. He’s my surviving parent, standing in the “not an all-inclusive list of humans putting words together in some recognizable form” group with me. So glad to have him here by my side.

For mom and dad, the final words from “…. A Scottish Fable”

“For after all, they both owed their love to all the little people in the world” The End

Urge to Purge

Up for consideration is the great American urge to purge. The greatest past-time activity of adults with a few extra minutes and specific, idealistic thoughts about how things should be. Is this a new thing? Or, can we just define “new” as the latest iteration of already existing behaviors and notions? Maybe “Nothing new under the sun” is the answer, idiomatically accredited to the book of Ecclesiastes.

As assumed, it isn’t every one. Some sit in their boats with thankful hands free in the air. “Whatever is, is, and there’s no reason to fret about it”, according to reasoning in their boats not-a-rockin’. Others, anticipating purge-atory word-wobbling, white knuckle the sides of the very boats in which they sit … spouting thesis and assumptions. Two very different ways. Should be easier to live the former, in my opinion, but I’m seeing the latter more and more.

The urge to purge. Spouting about things by creating mountainous geysers of presuppositions upon molehills of misinformation. This is what is being done. Over and over ….. and over. I see it in Facebook strings, other social media sites, national media, print, local chatter, and online articles. Some responsible journalism sprinkled in, to be sure, but much ado about nothing otherwise.

Today’s purge wasn’t going to be such, however. Stepping aside and allowing the words of should be to pass me by, I planned a different kind for myself – one requiring physical effort and mental memory cleansing:

A STORAGE UNIT / GARAGE / HOUSE / SHED Clean-Out !!

Two ladies came quickly at the precise time scheduled, 15-foot cargo trailer in tow. First stop? A two car storage garage where years of not-so-stackable, leaning cardboard boxes of all shapes bend into corners and crevasses. The near final resting place of my grandparents’ china patterns, old records, tools, rusty advertising signs, and Tupperware bins full of cards, comics, and collectibles. Three adults in a garage, moving stuff – not seen in years – into a trailer … along with little memories, one at a time. Necessary purging. Absolutely awesome.

Contractually, the two nice ladies helping me aren’t finished. We are about 50% done with the project (the house stuff remains and storage has some items yet to be removed). They are organizers who sell clean-out inventory and split proceeds 50/50 with their clients. I love the plan, mainly because the idea of yard-saleing all the porcelain, pipes, perfume, pottery, pillows, pens, and packrattery defies everything I believe about what to do with my spare time.

One emotional hang-up still to be resolved is my mom’s jewelry box. It sits silently on a table and will remain there until I decide something … a something as of yet undefined. This is one of the stuffs unpurgable…and they are the should be’s in life: memories so deep and meaningful never to be purged. We have them collecting tiny, tucked-away particles in our brains, attics, closets, and storage garages.

This simple box was not to be my unpurgable today, but it ended up being so. I knew it was there among the leaning. I understood the risks inherent among the inherited boxes saved and stored. It opened my memories when I gently peeked the padded cream colored top and saw her faux beads, rings, earrings, necklaces, key ring full of keys, and all the shiny, glittery glam inside that really wasn’t her … but knowing her hands graced the very top of that box was enough memory for me. She was there with me. All the memories of my life with her before she died, in that moment. This moment I never need to have purged from my life as I stood in the midst of obsolete objects.

Old grills, tables, and vases melted moments into hours as we pushed forward. Their tow along creaked as bigger, heavier picture frames and boxes were pushed into place toward the back end, behind buckets and bins filled with trinkets, toys, and tawdry towels. In the top spaces where only skinny folks dare go, we swifted thin paper goods – posters, pretty pictures, pastelled prints – to lessen the burden of tomorrow’s haul.

Tomorrow will arrive with expectations just as today did. I hope to have this project done by the day’s end when my friends pull away – towing a trailer full of purged non-words away. Stuff taken for the enjoyment of others. I may see a financial return from the sales, well… I most likely will due to the area where I live. It’ll be nice to have some money in return, however, walking out of a garage today … and by extension tomorrow… knowing I had the urge to purge, is the better feel good feeling.

I’ll take tonight to think about mom’s jewelry box. Maybe jump over to Facebook and check out some opinions about this-and-thats. So many have purging to do these days. Taking into consideration all they have to say, I still contend my purge today is the better way to go.

Good Deeds, Indeed

Not about me at all. Three circles in a very familiar logo.

Again, today isn’t about me. Let’s consider three different meanings for the circles:

ACCEPTANCE: Being open to do any kind act at any time.
MORALITY: Doing the right thing when called upon by a moment.
GRATEFULNESS: Accepting an outcome, but expecting none.

The other day I found a packet of insurance papers / registration cards resting comfortably on the sidewalk outside a local restaurant. It was immediately obvious this fell out of a car previously parked in the space I just – not so graciously – nudged a fresh set of tire marks on the curb. No harm done. I must humbly say if there existed annual awards for parallel parking, I’d have many dinners in my honor. That day, however, was a beautiful, sunny, seasonably-off, distractable-weatherish confundery, so I can be excused for not paying as much attention as necessary. Skid marks and a few mph’s extra aside, the cutting in and angle was only a degree or two off, anyway, and the back tire of my inexhaustable Honda spend only mere seconds atop an already cracked curb. So, again, no harm done … except to maybe my ego.

The packet I saw almost immediately, face up, slightly soiled, as if to say, “I’ve been through something, but not here”. Names, address, policy number, … all the pertinent information I’m quite sure the owner didn’t want to be in the hands of a stranger – who I was at the time. Fortunately, the sticker – with three circles in a very familiar logo – had above them a name. An agency owner. A friend. A wonderful coincidence.

A chance for the owners to take a deep breath they didn’t know they could take at the time – IF they even knew this packet was missing. I knew it was, but couldn’t really do anything about it at the time being a weekend with my friend’s agency closed at the time. My purpose for being in town, anyway, wasn’t to claim a lost insurance packet runaway. I wanted a three-egg veggie omelet and iced-tea from the black-and-white awning cafe on the corner 1/2 block down … where folks were already gathered around heavy black iron tables enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. Umbrellas up, kids laughing, brunch plates full, piled high with fruit, toasts-a-plenty, veggies and bacon club sandwiches as I made my way down the sidewalk.

Passing through those enjoying the company of their soon to be full friends, I settled into one of the back smaller tables for two, by myself, under a flat screen t.v. infrequently watched. This cafe, one seldom visited for common everyday, mundane news, finds itself a home for those less interested in national chatter. Personal stories and local heart warming trends trump all the international intrigue caught in the net of vanilla noise. It was the perfect place to sit, order a healthy omelet with only two out of three yokes, and slightly pat the packet I slipped in my left breast checkered sport coat pocket. “What to do until Monday?” I whispered under my breath as the couple very near at the table to my right quizzing looked over. “Oh,”, I leaned over, “I have a small decision to make … I have plenty to DO. I wasn’t trying to figure out my time until Monday.”. They had no response. Thinking back, that may have been twenty-three more words than necessary. My answer back to myself, eventually was … nothing. Do nothing.

And that’s what I did.

Today I stopped in to my friend’s agency and turned over the packet. This was after taking a few minutes yesterday searching through Facebook for the folks. Thinking maybe I could find them – address being only a few towns over – and then send the packet in the mail? Or, call them. Pretty much all the options were on the table, except the obvious one I already agreed upon with myself previously, alone, in a wonderful cafe. Relaxed and in control.

That’s the story. Nothing different from yours, perhaps. Except, maybe the tire marks. Well, c’mon now. Different time and place, but I KNOW you have done it, so fess up.

It is all the little stories like this, throughout our lives, that make a difference. Thankful, in a way, Mr and Mrs Anonymous parked in that space and left just in time for me to find it. I’m forever indebted to the invisible hands that lifted a slightly soiled packet out of their car and placed it comfortably on the sidewalk. Pleased I found, kept, and returned it.

Maybe still a stranger to my new friends a few towns away, but never to Acceptance, Morality, and Gratefulness. The three circles in a vary familiar logo that is our life. I saw them last week and had time to hold them in my hand for a few days.

Reminded that we should be open for moments to do the right thing, expecting nothing in return. Except it is never nothing. We always do get something back. I walked out of my friend’s agency feeling good. There was never a second thought of mis-using the information I had in my hands. That’s not how I roll. When her secretary told me they’d take care of it, a sense of completeness and “You did a good thing, my man” took over my day and will remain in the bucket of hours until the midnight of the clock spills into another day.

Again, today isn’t about me. It’s about three circles. Yes, small things. Feel goods. Good deeds, indeed, for all of us when we can.

Sofa, So Good

What is it about this almost complete silence? The 3 a.m. hush, save the once in a while furnace hum or swoosh of the blanket covering my feet, interrupted only by the light of a very early moon sleeping through slotted shades. It is a quitely mood. “Quitely” the best I have in my inventory of wonderful words to soften, even more, the mood of the moment. It is peaceful being here during this cold morning in February.

I didn’t find myself here, on this sofa, by chance. It’s by design … an unfortunate design of mis-alignment in spinal bone-age. Nothing too serious, just a small irritating annoyance. This sofa hugs my body better than a bed during times of hurty. And, of course, it is closer to a refrigerator full with humus, celery, and salad dressing (singular). Oh, wait. I believe there’s an apple in there as well.

We need these places. To think. Perhaps to meditate if so inclined. I need this space. Not necessarily to write about it, but to experience the quitely-ness within it. All of us do. For me, however, most times I do necessarily have to fill the time tapping words into the bright light breaking the darkness.

So many ideas and inspirations have blossomed from this early morning / late night recline. Time well spent healing a bad set of spine parts and exercising a brain wanting to show itself, and others, a pathway to the whys in life. Many unanswered, dusty writings sit in the queue awaiting the call. I revisit the casting couch to re-audition the wannabes every month and find them embracing the same attitudes … bitter, joyous, thankful, sarcastic, funny, etc… Not surprising since I’m the one responsible for their mood in the first place. Most will stay undiscovered, I’m glad to say. The editing process too involved and their agents too demanding.

This sofa. This couch of possibilities. Early morning writings in the queue and ones making the bright lights of fame among the stars. Parumph! (Oh, just for effect … that was the trash man disturbing the hush as he picked up the trash for the week).

There are the moments, undisturbed, when quitely opens up a door and in walks an undiscovered star in the making. A raw set of words jumbled on the floor in front of the casting couch. She weeps because life hasn’t been kind to her. A chance to be seen, to be heard, to once again be whole is all she wants. Her hand punches through the almost complete silence beside my sofa when I am here and open for auditions. As with all directors I assume, the mood has to be right and the lighting just so.

It is so peaceful here. I know … it’s worth repeating. Fortunately, today is looking like a good day. Sofa, so good, right?

Find your sofa place. A place to audition the ideas and dreams you have for your life. A weary bone resting couch to ease the worries life rests upon your shoulders. Where can you blanket yourself to get warm? Where can you enjoy only a 3 a.m. hum and nothing else? Where is the moon for you and you alone?

Answers are not easy. Especially from a guy who doesn’t take his own advice 99% of the time. These sofa times are easy to write, harder to live. That’s why they’re special. If every day, not so much … I wouldn’t even be writing about them. So ….

… Time to enjoy the moments away from the bright light of stardom, or a cell phone…. and take in the welcoming peek of a moonlit morning through the shade … during a quitely nice early morning in February.