Incredible Feat

6 feet. We’ve all known the rule for at least that many months as well. Completely unrelated, seventy-two inches just happens to be my exact height. One being a guideline for the pandemic of the century, and the other an out of control genetic mutation caused by parent’s wine-and-dine how-do-you-do nine months prior to my birth. Six feet, in both cases, not a bad thing. The former, presumably preventative, and the latter helpful when standing in the back of a crowded elevator wondering who just passed gas – by being able to recognized the face of the guilty party – is certainly socially advantageous.

There is something much better, however: a pair of feet. Especially, a pair of ankle-socked stompers wearing inexpensive Avias purchased in haste from Walmart … inexplicably, the most comfortable, casual shoes I’ve worn in a long time. Light, airy, invisible to the feet, basically no support except to my emotional well-being … this pedestrian pleasure pair is making strides in what I now know as a tootsie utopia.

Life never used to be this way at times. Pinches, heaviness, stiffness. All of us know the uncomfortable qualities we can assign to shoes not fitting correctly, right? Shoe horned into our lives were cheap leathers, knocked-off racks we knew existed for the benefit of parents discounting pennies at the end of a hard earned paychecks. Mom and dad had to do … what they had to do.

Those days long gone, but memories stay. Everytime a shoe turns against me, or a sock knot twinges in the toes, I’m reminded how difficult it must have been for my parents make the laces of life meet in the middle. Our Christmas bills lasted until the following April – just in time for the taxes to be due. Vacations the first week in June burdened my dad’s remaining summer days with work to pay off those sandy beach times.

Fall ushered in a schedule replete with the requisite pre-first day of school shopping outing for … school shoes. That 70’s, badly coordinated, brown polyester, bowl haircut era when my mom piled us into our paneled station wagon with the guarantee of a cheap McDonald’s lunch if we behaved. Every year, one after another, pair after pair, my siblings and I clanked into our homerooms satiated to the gills with 25-cent hamburgers and the finest, unfittest shoes a school teacher’s credit budget could afford.

More pairs I’ve owned as an adult than ever as a child, of course. Sneakers, loafers, slip-ons, slippers, flip-flops, casuals, tuxedo blacks, – all of them purchased without urging from my mom who isn’t around to share a McDonald’s meal with me anymore. Dad’s comfortably able to buy expensive shoes – or take any vacation he wants, with time and money no longer obstacles, but age and willingness is waning.

What steps are we taking in life with what we’re given? It isn’t just our feet, of course. So much we had isn’t here anymore. My mom. My dad. What I had. What they needed to do.

My inexpensive Avias are surprising. They are really comfortable. A big box store should not, by all intents and purposes, be providing me this level of ease for such a small price. I was not raised to believe low price equals comfort; Nor should I expect to receive this heavenly blisterless bliss in the future. I will take off these one-offs as long as I can count my blessings each time.

And I guess that’s what it’s all about. As Neil Armstrong so famously said, “That’s one small step for (a man / man), one giant leap for mankind”, each small metaphorical step we take forward in our lives is one giant step helping everyone else. Our life is a contribution to everyone else’s experience. The oft used “butterfly effect”.

Remember that the next time you find yourself looking down. I bet you’ve taken a lot of remarkable steps thus far to be where you are right now. Some not as comfortable as others, but you’re here and that is what’s important.

… and if I must say so, that’s some incredible feat, or two.

“Table for One”

Title in quotes because I didn’t name this beautiful picture; nor did I possibly leave boot prints in muddy puddles, or quiet sandal steps along stone pathways, to sneak up on this flower and its momentary inhabitant. That glorious moment belonged to my wonderful friend. A dear person. The kind of behind the lens, shy, keenly aware human being all of us should have in our emotional back pocket.

She has a name – one I didn’t ask permission to use. In addition, I will not splay words of adulation upon this page – although they would be appropriate. To simply mention her support and encouragement will suffice.

What cannot be unnoticed, and necessarily witnessed by simply being next to the pictures like what’s above, is her eye for nature’s beauty. I’ve seen the sun splendidly spectacular, trees triumph, and water massage thousand years old rocks – through her lens. The lens of a camera phone btw.

In the course of a work day, perhaps, or a leisurely walk, she finds moments to see what few of us see. Hundreds upon hundreds – possibly over a thousand – captured frames we’d never know if she didn’t stop to let us in. Allowing us the opportunity to bee, yes “bee one with nature” …

… and then it’s no longer a “Table for One”, is it?

We’re at the table together. A not so subtle reminder as August of 2020 winds down into the early fall months. Exactly two-thirds of an extraordinarily un-bee-lievable year melted into our memories with so many unknown experiences yet ahead.

Everything seems so un-natural. Words, tossed about from people we’re finding difficult to trust, are not the same anymore. Cloth that was beautifully sewn into dresses and ties is now muffling “I love you’s” being spoken by those making that masking decision – which is another American divide. Science is at odds with opinion, and numbers are no longer stern – they are malleable and flexible to the moment.

Yes, it seems un-natural. Through our human lens, anyway. What appears to bee isn’t always that way. If we step back, as my picture-esque friend does “quite finely”, nature gives us time to see what she sees: a bee on a flower. Simple.

Bees collect pollen, a source of protein they feed to their offspring. Also, I believe the hair on their bodies collects the pollen as well which, in turn, helps pollinate the earth. (I may know more music than biology, Mozart than mud, but I think I have that right?). See, our wonderful world has a plan for everything.

We’re just the goofballs messing it all up. The party crashers at the table, as it were. It’s estimated 50% of all the wildlife is extinct now … and we are in the 6th Extinction event as I type. Who knew? I certainly didn’t until I became a bit more educated and less dependent on single-use plastic bags. Half to eighty-five percent of the oxygen we breathe comes from phytoplankton in the ocean and it’s in trouble. Over-population is destroying natural habitats. We eat way too much food to sustain the land necessary for cultivation … on and on it goes. This is from a guy who … well …

I’m not a nature walker. Far from it. My best day would be to sit at my desk with one hand knuckles deep in a bowl of dry cereal with the other controlling a mouse. I do appreciate nice things in front of my peepers when I go outside, however, and I want them to stay that way. I want a blue sky, lush green grass, and clean, healthy air.

My life is like 2020. Roughly two-thirds over – if actuarial tables are correct and no speeding bus is headed my way soon. Comparatively speaking, both have had ups and downs. Maybe you’re right there with me in age? Perhaps not.

Whatever the case, you’re doing all the right things and I’m glad to introduce you to my friend’s world of pictorial pleasures. She’s pretty shy, so I don’t know if I’ll have the delight in sharing more of her colorful imagery with all of you in the future.

Knowing her as I do – and since we’re all in this together – she’ll graciously welcome us at her table if I ask. That’s how she rolls.

For now, on this very early Sunday morning in August, I’ll be content knowing another day is ahead for us to look through our lenses to see what my fabulous friend sees. When a flower appears, stop … if only for a second. You may witness a small miracle nature has been creating every day for 4.5 billion years. Bee-lieve me, we don’t want to lose sight of it.

My dear friend is making sure we don’t.

The Lab, King

He’s a handful. A handsome one, according to my good friend, Joel. His outlook? I’m inclined to agree. A king in his lavish world. So much so, he’s named, “King”.

Not hard to imagine why his name is beautifully attached to royalty from any imagined canine country. Labrador-Latvia, Canine-Croatia, or Doggie-Denmark would each welcome his highness into their castle of splendor with one glance upon this magnificent pose. He’s begging the question … if he could ask with words, “If not me, then who?”

No doggy. Simply, no doggy I know at this time in my life. One paw down slightly compared to the other, a smokey white light glancing off his right snout, and that sneaky, ever-so-slender reflection coming at us from his right eye all give us a sense of puppy pompiness. The circumstance of this photo opportunity was, I’m sure, 50/50 impromptu/planned as Joel loves staged shots. I’m almost sure there are treats and teases behind the scene, but not 100% digesting the suggestion. Regardless of the motivation, King is the king of this moment.

Moments like this, right? Pets and their owners. Correction. Humans and their owners. Kings and subjects, queens and servants.

Variations of this frame, in all probability, have been clicked through many camera phones since I started tapping moments ago. Long haired hounds and short-tempered toy poodles wearing tiaras on their noggins. Setters sitting behinds against not-so worn carpet. Beagles – bellying up in front of windows without stained glass panels – posing proudly for their subjects. Sit-stay. Waaait. All verbal commands falling on the floppy ears of flighty, figity, yet finely furred monarchical masters of our happy expectations.

We truly are subject to their royalty. They own us…and I’m glad they do. We’d be lost within the kingdom of our minds if they weren’t ruling from their cozy corner beds and lazy, droopy eyes.

Not just dogs, of course. Queenly cats and joker gerbils qualify as well. Pets are princely no matter what form they take and we gladly let them assume the role.

I don’t see Joel much. A few times weekly as we meet for a breakfast chat with friends. King is never at his side during these morning moments. Frankly, even without Covid restrictions, there’d be no room for his beefy frame … King, that is.

Joel is lanky, has very large hands compared to his slim shoulders, and is an expert woodworker … not that this fact has anything to do with his cantankerous personality. The hair he sports appears unkempt as the middle part holds it all at bay. One glance, and you’d spot his uniqueness right away: a specific sway in his gate, articulate thoughts when he speaks to you, and an insistence you get to the point of your story.

His claim of not liking me very much is testament to the exact opposite. My words frustrate him, but he listens with attentive ears every time knowing the outcome. That end result being his complete understanding of “my” unique qualities opposite of his. I ramble on because I am me … I tell quality jokes because I am me … and I poke him with words, again, because I am me.

Enter King in Joel’s life. Joel’s respite from the likes of me. King sits and listens to his words without judgement. He accepts all while rejecting none. In doing so, being a king who pardons all the day’s troubles in a servant who is seen as an equal…

…Which puts the picture above in a whole new perspective. Joel admits King is handsome. I do wholeheartedly agree! This peppy puppy is, indeed, “The Lab, King” – a stately one; however, look again.

King is extending a hug – an invite to all of us, not just Joel. I want to curl up under his two paws and rest for a few minutes. A non-judgemental, kingly hug would be wonderful just about now for all of us.

All of our pets want to be here for us if we’d let them. I have a feeling we do, otherwise we wouldn’t have them. Today is simply a reminder, I guess.

So, they rule over our hearts and, at the same time, serve our emotional needs when we require that space be filled.

Hug a hamster, or search out solace from a salamander. Rest assured they won’t understand your words. Hey, Joel never understands mine, but he respects my friendship just the same. There’s hope and peace whether animal or human, so keep plowing ahead in your fields and knocking on the doors of the castle. The King is listening and will welcome you into his world someday for a hug.

What a wonderful day that will be.

S’pots and S’pans

I love how light bounces off these four lids. Yes, the kahlua bottle proudly standing in the background reflects an inner beauty as well, but I’m referring to “being lit” in a less colloquial sense. Literally, I love the way four identical scenes glide from one to the other on sleds of light … as the pan toppers gradually increase in size. Remarkable.

Reflecting back on my life, it has been a remarkable journey – as I’m sure yours has been as well. All of our forward steps stack up against each other’s timelines quite impressively … with none being better, or worse, than another. We are equal. The air we breath has no discrimination attached. The ground upon which we walk knows no color, race, or gender.

S’pots dot our past, as individuals – of course they do. We’ve made mistakes along the way. Our S’pan of time on this big, blue marble, thus far, has shown us when and where we could have done better. Hopefully we didn’t repeat those mistakes, but, if your experience(s) was/were like mine, I bet you did. It’s being human.

Life’s a big ‘ole pain in the butt most times – doing the same crazy little s’pots over and over again. The trick is not smooshing our thoughts around them so much as it is focusing on all the wonderful things we did right along the way.

First of all, you were born. If you weren’t, I find it highly unlikely you’d be reading these words. Birth is a remarkable process. This was something that went right in your life. Granted, YOU had nothing to do with the process and, perhaps, there was a bottle of kahlua emptied nine months prior. Regardless, the universe decided it was time to introduce you to grass stains on your knees, toes on table legs in the dark, and income taxes. Your S’pan began.

Friendships started to develop. Some of these you did inspire and have lasted breathful years so far. Maybe they started spontaneously over pre-school bright, colorful Crayola crayons sprayed over a large white swath of paper. You, as well as I, drew sticks with heads, trees with odd shaped leaves, and tilted roof houses while laughing crazily with other little gigglers, soon to be classmates twelve years hence.

Playground plays, elementary experimental years s’potted us a few scrapes and bruises to our Easy Reader brains. T’was all good. Friends stood by our side. Even Captain Kangaroo kept his promises while Sesame seeds sprouted good feelings along a very familiar Street where a happy grouch lived and a big yellow bird taught us to love one another.

Middle school push throughs prompted awkward s’pans. Friendships strained a bit. Parental controls turned up the heat under the s’pots previously resting comfortably on warm, gentle simmers. We s’lid into teenage years unaware of the hazards facing the young, specifically, as facial recognition software would have been so, so helpful to the cause. Yes, zit would have!!

Counting down to marvelous matriculation meant meandering through hallways with books under arms … passing by the very friends, met years ago, occupied by their own intelligences. Wasn’t ever anything to put a lid on, or hide under solitary expectations. Just pre-mature adulthood s’pots we worked through. Crayola crayons were replaced with more permanent markers for our lives as the normal for four years. The Freshness melted slowly into Soph-ness… Juniority would eagerly jump into Senior status. Then life changed.

Adulthood at the stoop of a door into college, trade school, the military, or directly into the work-a-day world. Finding a husband, or a wife … or a baby on the way.

Then we began the cycle for the next generation of crayon crunchers. All good for whatever filled the time routine offered us up until the “now”. All during our individual s’pans of time on this big blue marble, right? All of these things are good, right? Remarkable reflections when we take time to think about them and not the s’pots that dot our past.

Our lives glide from one experience to another … seamlessly, yet we remain the same. Just like the reflections on the lids – each experience different in size, one on top of another, day after day.

These lids do serve to cover up s’pots at times that happen in our s’pans – and that’s o.k.. We’re given the wonderful opportunity to be human; thus, the magic of a full kahlua bottle, available vessel, and soft music at times, I guess.

In the end, it is only four beautifully round, very functional pieces of stainless steel teaching one simple lesson to us all: We’re doing the best we can. Period.

Reflect upon that next time you see a lid with your beautifulness staring back at you. It’s quite remarkable.

Forks In My Drawer 2: Be a Fred

Having never been to Kansas, knowing any real spinning Dorothy, or nick-namingly connecting Dots in my life, I can say mid-western wind is nothing I’m all too familiar. It’s as strange as trying to properly place the word “with” in that last sentence. I have, however, been close to a fictitional Dorothy in my life.

I directed a local production of “Oz” a few years ago in an historically beautiful theater … on the musical side of the house. The cast was spectacular, talented, and quite charming.

Scarecrow scampered about, dripping brainless wit and sardonic straw on the audience of dreams. Our heartless, lovable Tin Man clanked and clampered. We had a fuzzy Lion in wait, as he humbly and without pride sat fearing the next moment of unexpected surprises.

Professor Marveled the audience evenings on end and Glinda glittered her way into their hearts. Em’s not all the cast and crew, to be sure. Our production team – including the pit orchestra – was spectacular. On and on I could go like a word twister twisting his words.

Alas, admittedly, I could not place even a brick in the wonderfully written word road L. Frank Baum wrote eighty-one years ago eventually going to the big screen losing in the best picture category to Gone With The Wind. Not a bad way to lose. Buckets of expressions behind my curtains of cute constructions here pale in comparison to his eventual cinematic creation.

Who, including me, writes of “Oz” without mentioning Margaret Hamilton? Nobody, I say…nobody. Her evilistic sneer chasing down a gulping shot of little children dread … with the pointy hat, black-hearted, now special adulting appreciation laughter she had is one role for the ages.

As wicked as the witch was, she was predictable – as always. Since the film debuted in 1939, and every flying monkey year since, eyes have been Toto-ally expecting her to melt her way into our hearts.

Just like Fred. A stretch? Allow me to explain.

Fred wasn’t in that production. I doubt he was ever in a stage play, although I do know he played the piano and drums. This from our brief encounters next to each other – I, the hot dawg, sausage dude, and he, the flatbread, pizza guy. We’ve had some “get to know one another chats” lately due to just meeting two weeks ago. Nice dough smasher and sauce spreader, he is. Just didn’t know how nice until this morning.

The evening before, house spinning winds wound through the lot where Fred, I, and others set up shop to sell our food-stuffs. I’ve been at this over fifteen years. Snow, wind, rain, lightening, hail, excessive heat and cold, .. whatever, I’ve been through it all. That said, I AM exaggerating by writing, “house spinning”. A little puppy breeze came through…(don’t judge me. It was a long week up to that point and I’m entitled to some big bloviating)…

…and since I neglected to tie down my “less than cheap almost brand new” canopy, this Kansas wind lifted up said tarp, threw it up against Fred’s truck, and finally allowed its final resting place to be ten yards behind my van, upside down, with a broken side bracket.

There aren’t enough words in “Oz” to describe the words I wanted to say out loud, but did utter in my pretty little dog head. Two customers, Fred, and I were obviously too late in holding down the hot-air balloon canopy lifting off for home as it gleefully, seemingly, gave me the Emerald City middle finger while flying by.

Enter professor Marvel Fred. A simple wardrobe switch of a pair of ruby red shoes for a tap welder and grinder. He came in a little early to repair my brain and canopy. Didn’t have to, but did. Took him all of about 1/2 hour to 45 minutes out of his busy prep morning to help me. Time I’m sure he could have spent with his new puppy at home, three kids, or wife.

Courage to help a friend … a heart to reach out … and the brains to know how. THAT’S Fred, a new friend on my personal yellow brick road.

Yesterday was another fork in drawer moment as I forgot to tie down my new, rather expensive, canopy. The wind was just enough to aargh the canopy, but more than enough to uplift my hope and faith in all the great possibilities living within people.

This is a weird time. We certainly need more Freds circling around our little towns. When the big scary winds stop, we can open our eyes and say in our own way: “Oh, Hunk, Hickory, and Zeke … you were there! … I knew you’d be! You helped me find the way forward. I knew the problem, but not the solution at the moment. Thank you.”

There truly is no place like home when you find someone who is willing to go out of their way to help you.

I like Fred. Maybe I can be more like Fred. Be a Fred for someone. Be Oz-some today even if for a moment. You never know whose life will be different when the winds suddenly change.

Virtual Vibes Vibrate the Virus

Let’s consider the 22nd letter of our amazing alphabet … and sound, the incredible, instrumental item of bouncy benevolence. It’s one of many ways that allow us to enjoy each other’s ideas, music, and laughter. There’s another usage pushing itself to the fore these challenging belly months of 2020.

March through August, the six months between the bookends of each three fall and winter months here in Western-Central PA have been ugh-i-ness. I suspect the same for, well, the rest of America. Smooth sailing after the new year until Saint Patrick’s Day then …. whack!! The curve rounded up on charts, data sets, and every conceivable pie graphs known to man since cave people scratched skinny stick sketches on wet, Covid-free, drippy walls.

All indications are, I think … and it’s only a layman’s assumption … the medical experts, every day, are understanding more and more the virology tendencies of this slap-down disease we are dealing with behind our masks. Due to these come-to-whomever-you-worship (if anyone) moments, I’ll propose a slight downturn of the back-side belly line after six months.

Ideas, music, and laughter ride the waves quite well. We’ve relied on these three, and will continue to do so as waves of new information crash upon the beaches of our lives – as they will. We’re not on solid footing yet, that’s for darn sure! The sand underfoot is still moist with insecurity. As media ripples wash over, we are un-sucking our feet out of the constantly changing informational quicksand holes in which we find ourselves.

This is sound. And it’s good.

So is the alphabet we use to form words, to created sentences … to communicate effectively. Well, let’s say, to understand one another … somehow, right? I’ve witnessed grocery store line verbal connections between folks sometimes that challenge the notions of effective communication. (Maybe if I didn’t eavesdrop over my impulse reach for a pack of Orbit gum? … just a private moment here for self-evaluation)

Oh, and the 22nd letter in the series: “V” – which gets me to the title of my post today: “Virtual Vibes Vibrate the Virus”

Probably wasn’t necessary to copy and paste the title there. You folks are pretty smart. I had to, though, because I simply like the ring of it in my head. Also, “Vee” makes my lower lip rumble a bit against my upper chompers, too, giving this morning time an upper level excitment I need. One Clif-bar and a few meds don’t do much to jump start a day.

Sound and the four Vee words, together, can help my friends through this belly, and beyond. At least I hope so.

I like to give Doug hugs. Obviously, or the URL would be very different here. In the belly of the beast, these hugs are difficult to physically extend to friends and family. They are not around as much – fearing, rightfully so, the viral ramifications of close proximity. Now, humorously considering some of their positions on hugging, I could assume some of them are just staying away. That’ll be addressed during the post-apocolyptic, post-masking time.

My option at this time is to extend virtual vibes out into the world to, hopefully, not only have my friends and family feel the hugs but also take comfort that the virus may be vibrated away from them.

That’s all. Nothing to crack the theories of dark matter or change what anyone believes about alien life on Mars … or, if coconut should be banned as a candy choice (I vote yes, btw). My hope is our well-being can be shared. Sound good?

Just my idea on how to get through all this together. It’s why I write here. Not to be the next Rowlings, Patterson, King, or Steel. I’m merely one step above that cave man …

…. etching my story into a small piece of granite over here in a dimly lit corner in the vast cavern of public opinion. Sometimes the echoes are so loud, I can’t hear myself talk to myself. That’s ok. I can hug myself. It’s all good.

It’s all Vital in the Vastness of life. Be Valiant, my friends. I’m hugging for you.

It’s Quiet Now

So quiet. This porch.

Save the distant barking of a distressed dog and an occasional tweet of the natural kind – not electronic twitching of opinions, this time brings me such peace. After a long and confusing week, I find sitting here … now … nicely nice. There are a few visually annoying sight lines avoided by simply closing my eyes. Even the smell of grass – cut earlier by a fine crew of hard working young men – still has that fresh smell of greenness attached to the air casually blowing under my nose.

Yes, this is really nice now. Now is a nice place to be. How wonderful is at the moment?

Here, now, is all we have. It is said too often, but not appreciated enough, that we have only moments to live our lives. The hours and days only exist on the canvas because the minutes prop them up on the easel. One stroke at a time, using beautiful blues, reds, and yellows of curiosity and grace, we paint what others see in us. And it renews – over and over again – when we value now.

Simple traffic noise in the near, distant space is far enough away to filter through the few trees between us. It is a mere swaddled sound as it reaches my ears.

The distressed barking has stopped for the moment. Something, or someone has calmed the canine concern. Birds continue their songs in the trees, however, as I expect they should. Nested little ones need to eat, husbands and wives must communicate, and predator warnings are necessary. These are neighborhood nows that continue forward without the recognition of self-reflection …as I sit in a recliner on this shady, comfortable porch. They move their miracles forward, regardless. I am simply another brush of color on their palate of life.

So many shapes and sizes around. I can close my eyes and see a variety of not only physical beings, but also ideas as well. From big and tall notions changing the world – like vaccines for pandemic viruses – to small proposals such as smiles, hugs, and handshakes. Both are connections to the world outside ourselves and so important to the now we are experiencing together.

I have little to taste now except for the Arby’s roast beef sitting casually by my side. In all likelihood, it is less fresh than it was a few minutes ago when I first entertained the idea of sliding it over my lips. Fortunately, one was already consumed prior, so this second sandwich is not a tragedy. The diet Pepsi is flat, unfortunately, so I am slightly disappointed in my beverage choice. Humidity is less drippy compared to days past and I get the impression folks around these parts are settling into a late summer / early-August routine.

This is now. Now is Covid-19, masking, the last day in July of a ridiculously crazy, little over three months from an election, out of one’s mind, take a deep breath, … 2020.

We have to keep our senses about us, right? I have mine. Today is all about what I see, hear, smell, taste, and … can say to you.

Enjoy the now. You are special. The now is here for you to have, hold, and cherish. Pull up a chair next to me on my porch.

It’s quiet.

What In Carnation!

We ain’t in River City and I certainly ain’t Harold, but we got trouble … right here. With a capital “T”. Granted, I don’t own the rights to the song or the musical itself (disclaimer out of the way), however, permission to use every synonym associated with the 18th century word tarnation is hereby assigned. Trouble, as well sung in the musical as it is, isn’t close to filling the lead role, although it is in the supporting cast of synonymous players.

Shall I begin with censure, criticism, or denunciation? Perhaps castigation is best? Maybe bewilderment or anger best describes your mood when tarnating someone – if that’s even a thing. Two centuries ago, damnation – the origin of this word under examination – meant an eternity of fire and misery. Today? Just two weeks in isolation with someone who won’t shut up about their position opposite yours on masking, politics, or salt on fruit.

I settled on “Oh, pfft … what the … dagnabit … What in carnation!” when I spied what I spied.

Walking out of a big box store the other morning, what do I see? …

One solitary stem-a-sight-a-licious on the hot pavement. Who in tarnation leaves one beautiful red flower behind and drives off? “Who?” I write. WHO? What in carnation is this world coming to?

Certainly … hopefully … this act of abandoning wasn’t intentional (for to leave such a beauty behind on purpose would be upsetting to even the least of the forbearing, floral gods). Imagined said customer in all likelihood possessed a bouquet of bounteous beauties and was in too much of a hurry to arrive at his/her next port of call. Out of hands this one dropped gently to the ground.

Perhaps even more romantic is the notion of one noticing my slightly greasy, flavorful white Ford van with cart in tow exhaustively exhaling next to gravel-stricken yellow painted lines on over-heated pavement. I being not the only one exiting my vehicle overheated at the notion of masking once again to enter another store once again … this time to momentarily pass an underpaid nice young security lady at the door handing out single-use masks and sanitizer wipes to those so inclined to receive these gifts of Covid-19 invisibility. I declined with whispers behind my cute cloth Dalmatian mask. Back to my fantasy…

One saw this scent-of-a-van and, upon my absence, placed one fine flower next to it as one would gently settle a rose on the casket of a lost loved lover. Thinking, “Oh, I must meet this person to whom this vehicle belongs. I see a sign on the cart, ‘Doug’s Dawgs’ … He must, must be inside. I shall not wait because I am in a hurry. Maybe some day … someday…”, my imaginary friend walked away leaving only a lonely stemmed memory behind.

There was space in my life for a 10 inches long gift to present itself at my feet. Where it came from is known: a big box store full of masked, slightly confused, doing the best-we-can, cart pushing, life-getting through extended neighbors of mine. How it arrived? This is a mystery I am entirely comfortable not knowing. For someone like me who needs to ask why? and have an answer all the freakin’ time, this is off my-OCD game a bit … however, knowing I’ll never be close to the truth, I can let it go.

We still have trouble my friends. Right here in (any) city, don’t we! Ugh. That very day, I ambled out of the store with a cart full of goods not knowing – until hours later – that the very item I went in to buy was missing. I simply forgot to buy it … and needed it for my business. The day before some of my product spoiled without any chance of replacing … and had a large order including that product I couldn’t fulfill. I’ve dropped customers orders on the ground this week, handed out wrong change/under-charged folks, made wrong sandwiches with incorrect toppings, and … my back hurts more than normal. It’s been a week.

What in Carnation is happening! We’ve been asking this since Mid-March, right? All of us.

This flower is currently on the dashboard of my overcrowded van. It rests in an overworked, reliable, friendly automobile as a reminder to those – including me – who don’t take enough time to do the same during these troubling times. At some settled time, this flower will fade out and lose color, but not its significance. The consequence of seeing it lay at my feet that day does not dim with the passage of time, however, as each opportunity to be happy in the midst of trouble is a flower in and of itself.

We’re going to be at this virus-thing for a while, it seems. I’m no doctor, although I could be, in some imaginary t.v. afternoon soap opera universe, be ascribed the moniker “Dr. Doug” (but, I digress …), so, try to find a small flower at your feet that a stranger leaves for you. A smile. Spare change for a free cup of coffee. A $5 lottery ticket. Time away for a few minutes you wouldn’t normally get. I don’t know what it’ll be. Only the perky little parking lots in life will be able to provide the answers for you. There’s something out there that will make perfect scents for you, I’m sure.

I am willing to keep looking myself. On stage with Harold Hill I’m not. Just a simple guy with simple ideas tripping over little flowers left behind by who-knows bodies. I am aware that I must continue forward living life the best I know how in the midst of this goofy time – as all of us must. Covid be damned … err … Darnation, anyway!

Specifically, I am looking forward to change – especially the correct amount in return to my customers as I hand over the proper sandwiches with the exact toppings ordered, not dropped on the ground (which I wouldn’t serve anyway, just to clarify), and all without grimacing and moaning quietly behind my face covering due to my achy-breaky back. That is, if I remembered to pick up what I needed in the first place.

Back to the store again sometime soon. Say, “Hi!” if you see me there. I’ll be the one handing out invisible carnations disguised as a smile behind my mask. We’re all on stage together. It certainly isn’t River City, but it’s home.

Find your flowers.

Words of a Feather

More than one happily danced on the sidewalk the other morning when I went to work. Back home hours later, I saw this single feather look up at me without any hope of returning to normal. It seemed lost. Although detached from a gracious host hours – possibly days – earlier, familiarity among its peers that morning must have provided some hope. Now? Alone on a sidewalk.

Where did the other friends go? One can guess with the wind. This would be a logical assumption as much needed rain has been pushing through the area lately … and with it, breezy heat-relieving cooling sensations. Today, light rain continues. It is another early morning quiet and that beautiful feather has been tickling my imagination since I carefully stepped over it yesterday.

Words of a feather … stuck together in my mind since that chance meeting. Why now? Why this small, almost weightless object before my eyes on a semi-hot, light breezy day in July?

It is a symbol of things. What else could it be? A representation, a reflection, a return. A “What R we trying to get back to in the midst of all this confusion?” kind of thing.

This feather, alone, with very little guidance save the occasional kind puff of freshness passing by to urge it forward. A breath of fresh air that will, most assuredly, not return it to the very similar looking friends nestled around from its youth. That innocence is gone as are all the familiar long-looking gray, black, and white ideas holding hands with it.

I do not know why this feather detached from its host. Perhaps tragedy or a simple act of nature? What I can gather from my amateur detective senses, is … it looked like a crime scene. Maybe a larger preditor – perhaps a neighborhood cat – was involved? I simply don’t know.

This is our story as well in 2020. We, simply, don’t know.

We are simple feathers.

This is a time we represent a separation from what we knew as normal. Our ordinary lives shed us like yesterday’s news and replaced moments with masks, unknown futures, and closed minds. We reflect back to a time when our friends friended us on Facebook without bias or preconceptions about race, gender, or religious beliefs. A return to normals like feeling comfortable in our favorite cafe or caring for a stranger by a gentle, “I’m here for you” hand on his shoulder is desired by many.

We R the simple feather now, representing our individual lives the best way we know how. Replacing old normals with new ones while trying to reflect recently matured views about how society should be … as birds of one United feather, we need to stick together. Gray, black, white and all colors in between. On all the sidewalks in every neighborhood … in every city, town, and borough.

My words are simply those … words. Predatory forces are out there willing to separate us from our friends and family, beliefs, ideals, and fantastic individual strengths. Stand strong with more than words – together, 6-feet apart if necessary – and live the new normals with renewed energy.

The early morning rain hasn’t dampened my spirit as I will head out to see if that special feather is still there. If so, picking it up to eventually place it among the reminder/knick-knacks at my desk is so much a possibility.

Possibilities are all we have, right? Remind yourself of them frequently. “Tickle your fancy” with an imaginary feather once in a while. And, if you’re lucky enough to find one at your feet during an early morning walk, remember: words of a feather stick together.

Chloe and Friends

This is Chloe. Ah Chloe, a little four-pawed, eight pound pug-beagle mix puppy and Dolly, an eleven month pure breed German shepherd live in my neighborhood. Dolly, of course, having slightly larger furry footies than Chloe … and the classic sloped back you’d expect to see coming down off her sleek brown and black back fur. Chloe is just a tiny little ball of energy, teeth, and grr-ness. Just enough to make anyone holding her jealous for more time – once returning her to the ever vigilant rightful owners across the way.

Two canine cuties finding their way around the neighborhood these days – such a welcome relief from the dreary life of literal lassitude we’ve been forced into lately. In a phrase, “puppies make personal spaces better”.

These two happy-enticing hounds have no real sense of their intrinsic value to us. Frolicking about, sniffing and barking, is of no consequence to them. In the moment they live – not worrying about tomorrow’s meal or playtime adventures to come. We are the ones who assign value to them.

There is no higher proof than hearing chit-chatter lexicon with a dog. I’ve witnessed so much effort in sentence structure and subject/verb agreement from sputtering dog non-whisperers to their canine consorts. Deep breaths are sucked in before lengthy, adjective-laden heaps of praise are thrust upon unsuspecting flappy ears having no concept of a dangling modifiers, clitics, or malaphors. We speak words to them they cannot understand because of the expectations we have for them.

I could be accused of such. Mind you, not to any large degree, but on the dial. So goes most of our relationships with nice, little to mid-sized puppies and dogs. Perhaps, if I can be so bold, older fur ball friends as well. For purposes of today, I’m interested only in dogs. No offense to cats, turtles, snakes, fish, gerbils, ferrets, rabbits, iguanas, birds, horses, goats, chickens, pigs, and swans. Pets are pets … I get that.

Their value is what we want them to be. We have expectations they’ll fill our happiness bucket – and they do.

For a seven-times expectation of years, these lap blankets and/or breathing floor rugs are expected to fetch not only the animate, overpriced toys, but also our priceless loneliness and need for companionship.

We need them now more than ever. Human shuffle-alongs are not – for the most part – stepping up and are waaaaay too judgmental these days. Any time spent on Facebook proves my point – perusing posts where spitting social diatribes from friends assault my daily wiener-grilling weary eyes. Three-dimensional conversations are better, but not much so. Letters to the editors, television commentaries, news briefs, on and on …. human to human contacts are becoming increasingly combative and expectantly virally centered. Not all, mind you; However, enough to warrant mention now more than before.

Meanwhile, Chloe chews on a stick. This is expected contentment, happiness, and companionship for some of us when we need it the most.

The “We’re in this together” mantra spreading faster than the virus has, by all ironic accounts, pulled us into our own isolation. Opinions about masking, especially, are driving deep divides into once common waters. “What is a mandate, and what isn’t?” followed by, “Who has the right to enforce it?”, both create waves of opposition as hammers wielded by holier-than-thou opinion whackers pound their theories into social seas of their expected injustices.

It seems there’s no filling a bucket with societal agreement … Even beyond that, I fear we have no clear idea what American ideals, equality, standards, morals, values, and ethics are anymore. Contentment, happiness, and companionship are foreigners … drifting in rough waters off the coast … waiting, once again, for entry into the forgotten Ellis Island of our once accepting land.

We need to stamp their ticket – and soon. Chloe, and her friends, would … without judgement or question. Without anger or retribution on Facebook.

She may even offer them a game of tug-of-war with her favorite stick while waiting in line. I’ve played this fun-frolic fantastic tug-a-long with her little self. After about 5 minutes, she’s done … and moves on to snarling a bit with the grass, or wriggling about around my legs. It’s happiness and companionship overload without any stress.

I walk across the street expecting no less. I may – just may – talk to her using goober words laced with high frequency baby inflections, but will never admit to such.

She has so much value to offer … as do all pets. In these ridiculously riled up times of high anxiety, a portable, possibly petable pet provides plenty of pleasure.

As for Chloe, in about an hour she’ll be out again to smell the newness of the day. Everything, to her, will be fresh, invigorating, and alive. I like that perspective and want some small piece of her life. So, saunter off I’ll go to brush my hands over her puppy fur once more to start my day – that is, if she’ll allow me the pleasure.

She will. Though, she does have a say in the matter. Hopefully I can meet her expectations as well. If her expectant tail wag is seen as I lazily scoot across our soon to be traveled, pre-work day neighborhood road, I’m sure I’ll be welcomed into her grr-ness once more.