Feel like writing about music today. Maybe it’s the ROLLING STONES fault. Drove into my neighborhood a few moments ago while “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” played at a subtle, but understandable, volume inside my salty gray, tired Honda. (As an aside here, I should consider a mid-winter wash of the exterior just to ease the expected rust expansion come spring). Inside I sat listening, feeling satisfied about some things: the year is off to a new start, nobody won the Powerball the other night – so I have a chance again Saturday, and I learned how to do a load of “delicates” last night. In these things, I can be pleased.
To be clear, I am – at the same time – content in other details of my life … and, of course, dissatisfied with some. Trying to balance out all the bads and goods is so hard.
A small part of my dirty laundry was managed last night, so, I won’t hang a shirt-load of it out for you to look upon and admire my lack of smack in facing it head on. I will not take this time to write a laundry list of praises I think I deserve. Time is a cradle, today, to gently hold music’s “naissance de satisfaction” as it was for a performer years ago who melted into the moments …
Late 1980’s. “One” with a grand instrument – a young man exercised his right to tame the demons and call out the angels. Nothing came alive until a key was struck, graced, or summoned into submission. As so many before and since, I felt honored to perform on the very stage where virtuosi and amateurs brought to life their interpretations of the great Masters’ music. This did not need to be the great Carnegie Hall or Lincoln Center. It was a stage, piano, and me … a triangle of satisfaction.
The flip of my tuxedo tails off the back edge of the black polished performance bench always added a touch of elegance. The automatic head tilt upwards, as if to say “I have arrived”, while doing so was always a moment of pride at the end of a grueling few months of preparation. Stretching nine feet ahead, a twisted, organized harp of strings and hammers awaited instructions as small beads of sweat ran down behind my well-pressed ruffled shirt. With one well-polished shoe (on the damper) at the end of a slightly nervous right leg, and another comfortably under the bench waiting to employ the una corda, I was almost ready for Mozart.
The time was near. House lights so dark. I sat alone on stage, but among so many who reclined in darkness with eyes upon me. Silence ruled the moment as seconds demanded attention.
These seconds were the eternal pillars through which I’d pass into the magnificent concert hall of echoing satisfaction. Placing my hands on the keys in silence at the very beginning of this, or any, concert was the most magical gesture for me. The audience was anticipating. I was complete. Everything necessary in order to please the piano gods was at the ivory altar awaiting their nod. Approval given, I began.
Mozart, Beethoven, Rachmaninoff, Chopin … all friends by my side for the next hour and forty minutes enjoying, as I was, every uplifting phrasal draft coming up from the keys. Save the occasional applause pause, each moment a respite from the rigors beating on the drums of everyday college-life stress: The anxieties and pressures of a GPA bearing down on future resumes causing fissures in my already fragile mind, unease tilting the scales of personal relationships, and the hunger for acceptance in a starved wilderness of blind self-ambition to name a few.
Shirt sufficiently soaked. I finished. A final bow as the house manager slowly brought attention to the audience I forgot was in attendance. With a quick glance to the light wooden stage near my feet, one would notice (with a bit of imagination) a few wrong notes left there in Beethoven’s Sonata #23, “Appassionata”, Allegro ma non troppo – Presto movement. I’m confident the janitor would have swept them up in a pile – along with some other mistakes I made – that evening.
All said, there was no greater satisfaction in my life. The request for a picture came minutes later after I shed my tux tails coat and tie. No cummerbund did I wear. I struck a pose, froze, and the picture became one of lore to be framed among others and hung, innocently, in a hallway I pass by everyday. Satisfied, on that day, I gave music what it deserved:
“A place among the magical, invisible places where we can go, as fallible, hopeful beings .. to live, briefly, when we want, satisfied in ourselves, and eternally thankful for the gift of being there.” – THIS is my essence and grace when I place my hands on the keys. My triangle of satisfaction.
How uncomfortable to be writing a blog about myself. Just typing in those very words makes my heart go pitter-patter in a nervous, sweaty, not-so-good way. “Pitter-Patter” implies a teenager, acne prone, squeaky voice, whiny, pre-adult love of self pretense that is, most assuredly, not intended. “Nervous, sweaty, not-so-good-way” words? … YES, absolutely intended, spot-on, and necessary for purposes of today.
It’s one of the most interesting whatits about writing a, sort-of, every day entry into the vast, heavily jammed space of the blog-o-sphere; My observations, narrowed into categories; Categories sifted through appropriateness; Suitability filtered across friendly imaginations; My dear readers’ eyes as I type and edit my observations in many, or few, words? … all of this comes together, somehow, in a few hours time and not always in the most logical, grammatical, rhythmical way. Imagination, however, in the most intimate of a reader’s sole light, shows the passage toward understanding.
If there exists a humility clasp, I would use it to close the loop today. Self-promotion is not an arrow I use frequently out of a quiver I do not carry, anyway – if at all – to use in the battle of life’s greatest choices. Given a choice, deference to others – sometimes at a cost to me – is a greater cause. I am confident, as I write, there are others holding my hand here … understanding the shadow in which I find myself at times. We can be in this together. It’s not a solemn place where we stand side by side. Quite honorable to be so with you, if I must say.
Parts and pieces make up who we are. We have biological, emotional, spiritual, and mental parts and pieces. Probably, by extension, familial and friendship ones as well. With those parts and pieces co-mingled with mine in the shadows of the bright light of others, may I have permission to explore, briefly, the steps of consideration outlined above? If so, I will inhale and begin … with the understanding I am using the picture above solely for demonstration purposes only. Should GQ, Men’s Vogue, or Esquire call for references, please be advised that my schedule is full at this time.
OBSERVATIONS
A writer has to be observant. Under that umbrella are all the senses, of course. I have a mosquito flying into, or out of, my right ear, for example. I did not know that when I took the selfie. Now, the mosquito, apparently, isn’t one of the smarter ones because of my not knowing he, or she, wasn’t there at all. In addition to the lack of hearing any insect-ual sounds so close to my aural cavity, there is no residual effect of a little bump causing incessant scratching by my right index finger since the incident happened. After investigating further, …oh,yeah, it’s the ceiling fan. Mosquitoes are still stupid. No apologies. Observation #1.
I am old. At what point did “crow’s feet” crop up on my face? I’m observing these expanding, “branching wrinkles” (credit to google for such a descriptor) as they are, but don’t need to say, “it is what it is”, eer….”they are what they are”. I see them as little crevasses which aid my “go screw yourself” tears as they avoid the inevitable direct path down over my cheeks. My only recourse is to lobby the powers of the universe to rename such as, “Oyster Shells”. Ah, the beauty. “What’s in a name?”, sayeth Shakespeare. Look at the shape – sideways on my face … just imagine! Draw, in your mind’s eye, a line around the edge. A perfect shell! Do you, my dear reader, want a black, dirty “crow’s feet” beast on your face … or, the holder of a fine, priceless pearl? I ask you…DO you? Observation #2.
Look into my eyes. Really look into my eyes. I can’t. Eyes are, supposedly (boy, I hate saying that word – could there be a more annoying word to say?..I still say a “b” instead of a “d”), the window to one’s soul. Really?. These eyes are half open, tired, worn, and reddened from a long couple of years. Years of “fake it until you make it”, “conceive, believe, achieve”, “powers of positive thinking”, “this is your new normal”, etc… Life is hard. What we see in anyone isn’t always – hardly ever – what’s really going on. Facebook, …Instagram,… Snap-chat,… pick a social media platform and all you’ll see is the 10% up-side of a 90% down-side. Maybe a slight exaggeration, but I would argue I’m not too far off. Observation #3
The unseen. Follow-up. This selfie is the last of five taken. It was a response to a series of texts between three good friends and I. The string was headed into silliness and needed to end, so I simply posted up that selfie with the caption, “…My holiday wish is that you, my good friends, all become as handsome as I…”. It worked! To understand the effectiveness of that, you need to understand my friends, my humility, and the backstories of all of us. With little time, and respect for privacy, this is not possible, of course. What’s possible, though, is sifting all the observations through categories and seeing what comes through the other side…
CATEGORIES
When in school, especially higher grades, I dreamed of loftier goals. Specifics unimportant. What is important, though, is the fact I wasn’t paying too much attention in class – especially English or Creative Writing. Equally irritating to my teachers? My dad was an English teacher in the very school I attended. It is with this in mind – and awareness in the accessibility and ease, once again, of google – I base the explanation of “categories”.
Apparently there are four ways (categories) to explain what I need to say: expository, persuasive, narrative, and descriptive. I did not know these previous. Simply stated, I can inform, persuade, narrate, or describe. I don’t need to explain myself, so option #1 is out. (laughing out loud here because I really should explain myself to many, many people),,, Should I try to influence you? …hmm. This option #2?.. Nah. Option #3 is telling a story, fact or fiction. Probably a no-go here. I think “a type of expository writing that uses the five senses to paint a picture for the reader…this writing incorporates imagery and specific details” is quite the perfect category. (credit to: freeology.com) Option #4 it is!
I fall best into this category of the five senses. I am sensitive. I have to observe and then write about sensitive things. Missing my mom, relationships, music, emotions, and the “whys” in life chief among them.
To explain myself fully in a blog, or debate to persuade you, means I am uncomfortable. Possible narrative is edgy, sweet, and blog worthy at times, but not steady-reliable.
This category #4 decision, in light of the above picture, was easy now knowing the “official” English class category as “descriptive”, I can say: spectacular specs, rosy-red cheeks, half-way hair-spray hair, inner-flannel flare fashion, and a sincere smile. All of which are so appropriate for a guy who still can’t believe he’s writing a blog about himself.
SUITABILITY
This is a weird post today. In thinking about the process, I’m going through the process, observing the process while writing about the process. There have been observations made about the picture above I found unsuitable for press, i.e. type. That is, had to make a decision about appropriateness before arriving at “appropriateness”. Huh? My horse was mounted before I wrote about mounting it, in other words.
We do that as amateur bloggers. Look, I’ve been at this such a short time…months – compared to some lifers in the ‘sphere. I can imagine the struggles and victories some must have gone through, year over year regarding what is good to go vs. what is “over the line”. The arrows in THEIR quivers, used over and over to get where they are today, are vastly superior to any I may ever use . I am aware of one writer, who just had a book published, with a local connection. The missed targets. The hits and misses. The interviews, blogs, articles, drafts, late nights, early flights …. what a reward for her to be there, finally, at a book signing. The “suitablility” of that moment to her dreams. Wow. Just. Wow.
Back to my, ahem, picture. So, what is appropriate about my picture? Well, for one … I have clothes on. THAT’S a huge plus. Dear reader, that’s a plus … TRUST me on this. I’m shoulders up, I get it. But, easy filter. I want to say, “showered and shaved” .. and I can. Give me a little side-ways edge on the shaving thing because I rarely shave. A trim-up now and then. The “showered thing”?. You’ll just need to trust me on that. No way to prove it on a two-dimensional picture without a scratch and sniff option – so there! For a fiftyish older guy, I also have, by my estimate, fiftyish % of my scalp covered in hair. It’s that odd time in life when that happens mathematically. If I’m fortunate enough to reach age 90, the math ain’t gonna be so kind. The kindness, however, isn’t in the aging process of the body iself, but in the mind – where the real magic of imagination resides.
IMAGINATION
As I observe, I see and imagine. Categories and appropriateness automatically fall into place as I’m confident they do for most. My challenge is sarcasm and humor. Herein is my Maginot Line. It can be my false sense of security breached when a thought in my head appears on the screen in type and is immediately assaulted by the forces of common sense. Sometimes.
Other times I am absolutely amazed. Currently, I have drafts in my phone – and in my head – of seemingly unimaginable depth. For example, I haven’t eaten yet today, save a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich three hours ago. THAT amazes me. Oh, and a small box of raisins. An occasional text here and there and an eBay snafu on shipping have been my only distractions. Well, except for the two-thousand-three-hundred-forty-nine times I’ve needed to scroll up to look at my picture in the heading block. Not for reference … just to see my handsome mug (yeah, right)… talk about a wild imagination…
TYING UP THE WHATITS
I does really end up in the arena of imagination, if a blog writer has that in mind for his or her readers at the start. I’ve experienced blogs of an educational nature, debate format, and narrative form. All of them are well written – just not my style. Can’t see a cold, but not bitter, December afternoon hosting a man .. slapping up a humble picture of himself, while skipping necessary caloric intake, for the benefit of his readers without enjoying it fully – which he has. Also, after reading that last sentence, which makes no apparent sense, it is evident the lack of calories is taking its toll on his mind.
With that I will, humbly, close the loop on today’s entry into the log with this:
Imagine, if you will, a life of YOUR imaginings. Take a selfie. Look it over. Carefully. See you as you. Pull the imaginary mosquitoes out of your ears and cherish the oyster shells beside your eyes. They are yours and yours alone. You are in a category all by yourself and suitable to be loved by everyone. Including me. I am so proud to be the writer of your readership in some very small way.
There were shoes. A lot of them strewn across the oak wooden entryway floor ten feet ahead from my vantage point sitting behind the slightly out of tune piano. I only began noticing the mass of footwear well into my second half-hour of jazzy Christmas tunes ringing through the expansive room filled with a beautiful tree to my left and an early evening sunset through the bay window to my right.
There were guests. A lot of them standing around the marble island fifteen feet extending beyond my sight line over middle-C. All angles of human form – very pleasant and engaging as evidenced by their holiday smiles and lean-in body languages. Pretty dresses. Handsome shirts. Prosciutto, olives of different colors, turkey, decorative china, delectable delicacies of all shapes, wafting aromas mixing the air, and spirits stirring in the clear glass vessels of elixirs only began the feast of festivities.
There was sincere Joy. A lot of it. Beautifying the entryway were big welcoming doors where guests entered over a threshold of unending grace, joy, and wonder. This, of course, was a provider of merriment. A host of hugs. He was there, bowing to their admittance, and welcoming their special arrival.
There were words. A lot of them. Mumbles, appellations of happiness, blurbs, yipes, yips, teehees, kindnesses, woohoos, full sentences, hey-you’s, buddies, waz-ups, and tons more. The echos in the jovial, quite lusty atmosphere didn’t allow me to pick up on specific words, so pardon my lack of detail in this matter. Besides, matters of a pianistic nature occupied my time.
There were notes. A lot of them with me at the piano among the mass of shoes.
I have to figure some of the little buggers got out, though. After all, I wasn’t there to practice. Notes everywhere. I do know some of them ended up on the floor. C-sharps that should have been C-naturals, whacked keys, missed chords … all the notey-notey, cutesy stuff the universe drops in on us piano performers. Oh, and the occasional “music falling off the music rack stunt” … priceless, especially when the music does the slinky routine off the keyboard on the way down to the floor. So as those notes settled in for the night?… I hope you slept well, my pretties!…the duster probably got you the next morning!
So what about the other notes? The joyful ones, from my feelers, bouncing off the shoes, touching the words, through the guests, riding on the wings of wonder?
I have to image they had a purpose on that night. The survivors rose above to live a dream. Imagine coming to life as a note on that night. A sound never before until that moment.
From the vibration of a wire, a b-flat came alive to rebound off an gold angel ornament. The birth of an F immediately resulted in the prosciutto feeling a breeze of freshness over it’s face. A subtle turn of a head toward her partner was the destiny of a newly born trinity of crotchets as a revered combination of three notes passed through the lover’s closely shared space. Many notes, many dreams.
As I sat airing my grateful life ten fingers at a time, I realized the night belonged to the shoes after all. They were the stars of the night. Quietly assuming their role as deliverers of guests, these soles of the people rested until called upon, once again, to reprise a very personal responsibility: guide the steps, maintain safe the way, and hold true the stable gait of the trusting guest.
Shoes have the ability to give of themselves. Peeling off the leather heels liberated the guest from all daily pressures built up through grinding gravity. I could see relief eminate on faces as each shoe found its way to the pile. Each pair gave what it had to get to that moment …. and now it rested.
My time soon coming to a close, the party was nowhere near that end. Thousands of notes born, many guests, unending joy, and plenty of kind words about my piano playing. I observed many things. Chief among them, the shoes. Exiting with a lot of music in hand, I crossed over the threshold – passing by many styles, shapes, and sizes of fabulous footwear… wondering if I changed inside just a little.
For isn’t it true people of all kinds, shapes, and sizes carry us through all our paths and help lighten our steps along the way?
I played notes which I’ve done for years. I saw guests arrive and have extreme joy. I experienced an overwhelmingly gracious host. I heard some very kind words. All came together as movements of a shoe symphony I am so glad to have experienced.
We always do our human perspective. It’s easy to do. Human to human existence is our livelihood . Carved into our existence are the use of words. Words in verbal form, hand-written or typed, or signed for hard of hearing all express our needs, wants, joys, sadness, openness, solitude, and celebrations. Certainly, one can add many more nouns to this list. That’s the beauty of words.
For today, however, the sheer wonder of all words stands, as one in the shadow of two: gratitude and thanks.
“Thanks and Gratitude”. Through the eyes of Abby.
Abby is a dog. Pretty sure my elementary school teachers would be proud of my observation. Her noun classification is only one letter off my name … take the “u” out of DOUG, and “dog” appears – almost like magic! … Now, this isn’t anything too specific regarding Abby. Scooby Doo and I have this in common, too. Just a fun fact.
I see Abby once a week when I visit her family on a “business matter”. She is (understatement immediately forthcoming) really, really excited to see me. Steaming up the glass storm door with anticipatory breath, she can be seen banging her tail rhythmically against the hard ceramic floor. Once I gently open the door, she darts forward past my feet … happily so as if I’m NOT there,… although I am the only one she wants to see. Invisible to her elation, realizing her error, she immediately turns in my direction to enter the house before I have a chance to close the door. All this in ten seconds clicks of a clock. Paws skating across the glossy entryway floor, her gait propels her around corners so quickly I barely have a chance to catch my own breath before seeing her appear, once again in my sight. In a flash, the Abby white tornado whirls from the kitchen in blinding fashion, brakes suddenly at my feet, looks up, … and, well, ….. the ritual begins.
Abby is sweet. Five minutes into my visit, she settles out of the routine: pet the belly, pet the head, scratch the back, look away at a random noise (her, not me), try to jump up but be denied (multiple times), whimper and pout… The routine finishes with her gracing up a few stairs, plumping down on step, and poking her head through a rail with such a face of resignation as shown above.
I don’t believe it is just me on this given day. I think it is anyone, at any time, for any purpose, carrying anything, wearing anything, … you see my point. I’d “like” to believe I am someone special to her. I am not.
Or, am I?
Abby can’t use words. Her ability to speak isn’t in her DNA. I feel special when I see Abby, however. She doesn’t need to use words. I may be special to Abby the moment she sees me in the driveway … she just “feels” it somehow but can’t say it. This is that human-animal, non-verbal connection we should always be thankful for and cherish.
This is gratitude and thanks dogified – non-judgmental and always accepting of our flaws and problems. We can talk our words to them. They will listen and not understand in the way “we” think. Somehow, though, they will show grace and thanks to us not by words. Maybe we can extend this same idea to our human connections?
Today is a day of human perspective. By all means, tell everyone “thanks” for everything deserving their praise because human to human interaction is our existence. Be open to receive thanks as well.
Words aren’t necessary, either. Hug someone you love. Open the door for a stranger. Place a flower on the grave of a loved one. Read a book. Be silent. Pet the belly of an Abby in your life. Steam up a glass door and bang on the door when you see someone pull up in the driveway. Run up to them. Put your arms around them.
Whatever it is, … spoken or unspoken, one word or volumes of syllables, poems or novels, … make it special and full of thanks and gratitude today.
People. Some stop to buy, others walk by. Hundreds the past two days. Thousands this summer. Hundreds of thousands over the years. Many, many people.
Surprises along the way. It’s been almost fifteen years of ups, downs, and in-betweens. Consistency in process, product, and people on my side keep the engine motoring forward.
Without people, though, it would have stopped years ago. Grateful for people. Customers. Year after year.
This is business. Serving customers the right way … and it is exhausting. Especially what I do. I have no pass-through. No delegation of responsibility. I am a one man show “most times” for prep, set-up, shopping, and clean-up. Heavy selling times I do have help, but those aren’t the exhausting times …. it’s everything else: travel, bills, mental energy, planning, coordinating, cart maintenance, SAM’S CLUB changing their hours!!😡, sleep, scheduling, product prep, lifting/pulling the cart, trying to get my new trailer done ….. on and on…
This is on top of a busy life otherwise.
Nowhere will you hear me publicly complain. I live and love what I do. Privately I have my moments. All in business do I’m sure. Few, if any, share. I will …. just this once.
This is the face of business at times – after all the work. Two hard events, back to back, that should have been good… but weren’t …. and a third event packed in to top if off. Prep, set-up, hours worked, tear-down, clean-up, travel…. with little result. All knowing a third, larger event was in the wings -only hours later – requiring an hour drive each way … not knowing how it was going to go. Stress compounded.
This was me exhausted after all of it. Thirty hours work, four hours sleep. Don’t mind sharing. Small business owners know our limits, yet we exhaustively break them hoping to make your lives better in some small way. I do, anyway.
Today, however, I’m done. Tired and completely worn out … thanking the universe for rain which prevented me from setting up at my usual Sunday spot. Money lost, but necessary rest gained. I’ll absolutely miss my regular customers … those special people who don’t just walk by. The “by chance” new customers will have to wait until next year as this would have been my last Sunday for the season.
So grateful for everything. How wonderful life is – unfolding opportunities for those of us willing to work and put forth the effort. Effort that doesn’t always pay off, though … and, like I say, that’s ok.
I’d rather be exhausted doing what I love for others than rested doing something I want for only myself.
Many, many people and one me. Tiring as it may be at times, I’d have it no other way.
I’m a little G.I. not forgotten. In a window display, year after year, thinking I was forgotten … until today.
Nothing has changed, year after year. I sit in my Jet Propelled Supersonic Speed GR 5-4065 facing a blank, colorless wall across a row of trumpets and horns. Nobody winds me up anymore. Nobody. Can’t remember a time when a human hand touched, let alone played, with me. I keep a smile on my face, though.
My time was 1944 – an era stuck between the Great Depression and the boom of the 50’s. For me to survive seventy-five years is quite the miracle considering most of my contemporaries hit the junk pile, or simply rusted out into nothingness. Baseball card pals, Big Little book friends, Erector set siblings, Tiddlywink toddlers …. all gone. I miss them. Here I sit, still, silent. Thinking of them. Year after year.
My last owner, who owns this shop, hasn’t been around in a forever span. I don’t know why. I know he still cares about me and all my friends in this window, so I silently ask, “why?”…and there is never an answer. I can only assume a reason I don’t understand. That has to be good enough. It has to be. Year after year.
I can only sense experiences. Thinking in stillness. I would love to have someone, anyone, move me ever so slightly to see one snow fall, or watch the leaves change. To understand how rain slowly runs down the face of the glass, look out as the parades go by, catch a glimpse of a sunrise and sunset, or spot that one classic car I remember fondly …. would be magnificence in the most holiest of forms. It is not to be. I am this now, now. It is my year after year.
I am Jet Propelled. I am Supersonic Speed. Yet, I am stuck. Ironic. I have a specific identity, yet thousands pass, day by day, without notice of my predicament. I silently speak, yet no one hears. Everyone is in a hurry. It is not their fault, however. My time was seventy-five years ago. My identity is not recognized as much as it would have been back then and my usefulness has long since passed. Even my recognition as an antique/collectible is waning as those who remember me as the mighty G.I. Joe are slowly passing into eternal rest. Year after year.
Today was special, however. Some random guy stopped for a few minutes to say, “Hi”. He said he passes by frequently and looks in because his family used to visit the music store a lot (where I am on display). He’s sad, too. Sad to see a favorite store – with good memories – fall into disrepair over the years. I know, between the two of us, we are thinking the same thing: sometime soon, this store will need to be demolished. The damage from years of neglect is too severe for repairs to make any significant difference. Funny, at that time my view will finally change … and I don’t think it will be a happy ending. Year after year will finally come to an end for me.
Still, today was special for me. I’m a little G.I. not forgotten … at least for today. I have an identity that was recognized. My ego was Supersonic and my happiness Jet Propelled because some random guy took a few minutes to stop, look me in my side-eye through the glass, and talk to me. For anyone walking by, this may have seemed a bit odd. For the two of us, however, it brought back to life the memories of one and wound up the rusty heart of another.
For that, I am grateful….and will be. Year after year.
For today, may the leftover salt from life’s bag of unfortunate events miss your still open wounds of the past. Use your hope of the future as a bandage to get through what is today … and know tomorrow will be one step closer to healing – in whatever way your heart leads you to believe …
A family I know had to put down their dog today. Really nice family. Really hard day. The end of anything special is difficult to handle almost all the time. Special lives of special pets are no exception. Relationships with our pets live within smaller spans of time relative to our human lifetimes. Because of this, we feel a special bond, a tighter connection, a sense of urgency…to make every moment count. And then the day comes. The really hard day. No more urgency. But yet, the bond and connection still remain. They will always be here. And so will Rocky. He was a good dog.
I adore appropriately named towns. Just passed “Centerville” – almost halfway between Bedford, Pa and Cumberland, Md…
It’s a ville – in the center of somewhere. Never mind where I’m headed. Those familiar with these parts know the destination.
Centerville has an intersection / gas station / ice cream stop place. Today?… a dog in an open jeep looking at me. Happy to be seatbelted in because he knows his owner loves him enough to keep him safe.
That’s pretty much it. Centerville. A place … momentarily…for me to be centered. I guess that’s why it’s appropriately named such… and why I adore places like it.
I saw a moment today. Two individuals – possibly in their fifties – a few feet behind an old tree, hugging each other. As I drove by, I could see only her face, not his. She was sad. Didn’t know the circumstances of the embrace. Not to be nosy, but I wish I had the advantage – albeit briefly – of being that tree….just to witness, a bit longer, the compassion and grace being extended to her…and, quite possibly, more of the back story – which is not really important, anyway, to the “why” of this post. He gave his time. She needed a hug. Big, small, relevant, or meaningless to anyone else…..to them it was a moment that mattered. A moment behind a tree on an lazy Labor Day afternoon. I’ve wasted many moments doing stupid things. It’s hard for any of us to get around without tripping over our own fallibilities. We get sad and need hugs. We see friends who are sad and need hugs. Maybe, just maybe, all of us can look for an old tree once in a while. That way, when we hug someone who needs it, a fifty-something dude can drive by, see it, and pay it forward on Facebook during a lazy Labor Day evening.
DougHugs 