Look Up

It was steak tips and fries – for the second time in three days. Yes, they are delicious. The salad bar and Pepsi Zero adding to their sizzle, these platter meat and starch necessities have been a Wednesday and occasional Saturday staple. Friends meeting for casual conversation … and the same, predictable waitress we ask for each time. Expected.

Looking down as usual. Meat and a potato variety. Salad bar. Never more than a horizontal stare across the very familiar round table. I, the youngest of six sitting around, was engaged in conversations stretching from the Pittsburgh Pirates to “how it was” prior to my open-eyed arrival in the early 60’s. Easy to understand as one of my friends is a nonagenarian farmer – contrasted with this piano-playing hotdog salesman.

As they say, an eclectic group of people folk. The other four … along for the dinner ride almost every week at this steak house. Crab cakes for one, meatloaf for two and three, a burger on the plate for number four, call up shrimp or chicken fingers for five, and for me? … some part of a cow is always up for grabs.

Routine. A Wednesday staple – sometimes Saturday. A routine where -and when – we find ourselves never looking up. So habitual, in fact, that before even starting the 12 minutes drive I hear an exhausted, ” … again?” gracing my right ear in the car. Frankly, I can’t argue the point. Responding with a half-hearted, sighing, “yeah …” we pull away anticipating the same rights, lefts, signal lights, and – yes – parking spaces at Hoss’s Steak House at the other end of town.

It’s not a “rut”. That’s a negative version of routine. You can’t get ANY pleasure out of a rut. This is why Scooby’s favorite saying is what it is. We have no expectation of pulling a mask off our favorite waitress to divulge a sinister plot. Yes, my steak was not the best two weeks ago, however, I don’t feel she concocted a plan to “rut-roh” my evening. Shaggy and fatty as it was, I still go back. Mistakes were made.

It was routine. Look ahead routine. So many times. Week after week.

One more time this past Saturday – routine … and then I walked out.

Framed between two light poles was magnificent deep orange and brilliant yellow. Purples, blues, and blacks hugged the sky as well. My sight line was … up. Not down. Not horizontal. Up. What I saw was in front of me. Not behind or beside.

“Perspective” is what jumped out of the clouds immediately into my mind.

Definitely not a routine sighting, right? I don’t understand atmospheric conditions despite earning an “A” in my college intro to meteorology class. (Memory rinse and repeat gets one to earn such a grade … before you reach a conclusion that I can do much more than identify the difference between stratus, cumulous, and cirrus clouds).

Reflect, refract? Prism crystals, or light bending through water vapor? You tell me. Frankly, I don’t care to know. Surely our stately sun was involved as it went to its evening rest around a global tilt. This would be the extent of my knowledge.

I stood for a few seconds as I am sure some in the local area did. Looking up. It was a beautiful sky. Certainly put perspective in my life … for a little time, anyway.

Routine disappeared … as this artistry was certainly out of routine. As if to say, “I got this …”, these colors radiated down a sense of calm – an overarching, blanketing feeling over the community. A reminder – as it were – to look up out of our routines and take a breath.

The “I” to which I refer has no identity. No assignment given here. It is open to all colors, shapes and sizes of beliefs.

As an artist of the music kind, looking up I saw a pallete of dancing colors that could easily be transcribed into little dots on a musical staff. Gustav Holst imagined The Planets in his fantastic work of the same title. Looking up has created musical magic and I can only imagine continues to inspire composers.

All this to say “look up” once in a while. Yeah, it’s an over-used, well-cooked into life’s pie cliché. Take a well-earned breath. Please keep all things in perspective. Your job and issues that can stress your essence have a shelf life. Give them attention, however, no more than they deserve. Continue to live a healthy routine, of course …but stay out of a rut. Every once in a while, there may be stunning colors you NEED to see. Reminder: life’s moments are worth having around even if your steak isn’t the best sometimes.

Me and Adolph

I’m working in the lot outside a local pretzel factory today. Twisted, I am not. A bit salty, my attitude always. This local business is a world-wide distributor of “bretzels” … a fine alliteration – if you will – of a sodium laden snack and German baked pastry tied up in a knot. Generations have enjoyed these crunchy delectable treats from Western Pa. It’s still a family owned business proudly run by the progeny of an entrepreneur with a vision back in 1911 … Adolph Benzel.

One-hundred and twelve years later. That a lot of bretzeling. Of course, they’ve expanded the business to include other products, however, the cornerstone has always been a red pouch of Benzel’s Bretzels. Aisle admit, it’d be difficult to meander down any grocery sidecar-snack lane or, for that matter, notice a conveniece store eye-grabbing, impulse-craving shelve crammed with crackling, baked goods … and NOT see that red bag.

The Benzel Bakery is a huge success … no argument here. My business would need an additional ninety-three years to match five score plus twelve years … and these dawg bones don’t have a Guinness Book of World Records time left to live that long. Honestly, I wouldn’t want the headaches passed on through lineage I don’t have, anyway.

As I look over my steaming, post grilled dawgs today – waiting for packers and bakers to arrive – I marvel at the tenacity of generational businesses. How did they make it through all the personality differences, specifically? I have challenges with my own mental ups and downs inside Sam’s Club picking out vegetables. Ask me to look a week ahead in my schedule and I’m liable to blow a piston thinking it through. Granted, I do get my stuff done … and done kinda well. Scale up my life even two notches and there’d neither be a calendar capable of handling the load, nor enough time to squeeze minutes from this already full bag of obligations.

I have no family to shoulder the load going forward … and this is perfectly OK. Which, kinda, answers my question. I talk to the owner of the Bretzel factory frequently. He is engaged with his family. They are engaged with him. Everyone within that familial structure – past and present – has invested sweat equity (to write an overused cliche) into the business. They’ve given their all. Passionate and dedicated they are … and have been.

This commitment never guarantees success, of course. Adolph probably didn’t know the carbs and salt would, eventually, end up in millions of homes and businesses world-wide contributing crackling delight. He was a visionary … and this forward motion remains in the belts pushing through the ovens now. That – along with standing on the shoulders of failures and successes of their ancestors, side by side – propels the bretzel-pretzel pedigree.

All this to say I am glad this little cart of mine is a one man, nineteen years operation.

A van, some coolers, … and a tag-along grill that’s been as much a part of my family as Adolph’s kin has been to him.

I’m dedicated to it. We’ve see each other through snow, wind, horrible rain storms, 105-degree heat with high humidity, busted events, terrific sales days, broken sinks, busted wheels, gas lines needing repair … on and on. Never once has one given up on the other.

I feel as if we are just as big as Benzel’s. It’s a mindset. A family of two. A partnership. A commitment, of sorts.

The final invoice turned in, I’ve done a good days work here. The profit will be counted along with hundreds of other ledger entries over the past 19 years. Add a few hundred more dawgs to the total sold since 2005.

I don’t know if Adolph would be proud of me. I’m not looking for validation from his ancestor who owns the business now, either. Frankly, a check in about a week will suffice.

Small and large businesses alike. This is why I love what I do. Just down the road are the corporate offices of Sheetz – another massively successful local story. Family run. Family dedicated.

My small family of, well, two gives me insight into multi-million dollar ventures that expand the world.

I love it.

Working outside a pretzel factory reminds me of these special connections.

Time to clean up, slip into something comfortable and plunge my hand into a red bag of twisted treats.

Flavored Status

Probably well over one-thousand. Has to be that many tables I’ve sat behind while eating everything from seafood to steak, tacos to turkey, and donuts to dumplings. I’m counting only those where pleasant smiles have greeted me at a restaraunt, café, or fast food burger joint. Sure, some don’t quite get a glimmering, “memory”, review as I sit here tonight at yet another.

If your experiences have been similar to mine, eating out isn’t always the pleasant experience we hope for when a gurgling stomach makes its demands. “Having a bad day” servers and over-priced, low quality food can cool a bowl of happy soup in a hurry. So when we find a favorite or two, it’s like the culinary cosmos opens up a big can of whoo-hoo in our lives.

I have my “flavored-status” places to find delicious ways to the bottom of a bowl, the end of a stacked sandwich, or an empty glass of refreshing iced tea. They are the few I’ve chosen out of many in which to share moments.

As I sit here tonight behind a, now, empty plate that once held a very proud piece of strawberry pie, I wonder what makes those eatery “spots” we visit so special.

Food probably comes in second; although, where I visit frequently, … the soup, salads, dinners, sandwiches, and crepes are fantastic. You probably have your local places to visit and chat up the day’s events just like I do? The conversation between likable friends across steaming coffee in the morning is sun-risably essential for the soul. Still, not the top condiment in my sandwich, though.

Has to be those smiling faces. As I came into this place tonight for a piece of pie …

… I – not so swiftly – passed this sign. The message was grinning me right in the face.

I don’t visit Eat & Park often. Maybe twice a month … maybe. It isn’t a favorite as favorites go in my life. After two forkfulls of syrupy strawberry pie here however, it became a treasured one-man island for my thoughts. Notions about a Place For Smiles and all the restaraunts I’ve been in, my favorites, … and what makes them so: the smiles and joy I receive from the staff.

There really isn’t anything better than being appreciated as a customer. The waitresses and waiters get to know us, become like friends, and are so special. A simple, cheery “Hello!”, really tugs at a deep, welcoming receptor inside us that needs a smile to open up our world of possible sadness or hurt. We go inside our favorite places to get outside ourselves. If it wasn’t for the genuinely lovely folks who brighten our days with order tablets or simple sheets of paper, I’m not sure life would be the same.

It wouldn’t be for me, anyway … because I have a “nickname” at my local, special eatery. No need for anyone here to know the specifics. It’s kinda cool, but out of context, I wouldn’t recommend looking up the associated picture of said “nickname”. It’s an ugly little bugger … 🙄😉😊.

So, with the pie all gone, it’s one-thousand and one restaraunts …. at least for now. Who really counts, anyway? Tonight HAS been a place for smiles. Truly.

I can smile since life is not bad for most of us, right? Sure, there’s are some problems always on the horizon and issues to be dealt with now. Life as it is for most of us getting through a post-pandemic, crazy world.

My waitress was deserving of the tip she received. After all, I sat here for a while – nursing a glass of water and piece of pie for a long time. All the while, she never stopped smiling while asking me if I needed anything else …

To her, and those who brighten our days by smiling and extending genuine love and care to us – your customers and friends:

… “We’re fine. I’m fine. Truly. I appreciate you. We appreciate you. Thanks.”

Crepes!, It’s Great

A promise finally fulfilled. After three weeks and many considerations, Allegheny Creamery & Crepes finds its way onto my keyboard. Weeks ago, I asked Heather, the energetic and forward-thinking co-owner, for permission to use the above beautiful photograph. She graciously accepted assuming, of course, I would fold it into an immediate glowing, spiffingly delicious, sophisticated word palate equal to her offerings inside. I did not at the time.

Yesterday, while forking through a very tender buffalo chicken crepe while relaxing at a table on the outside back patio, Heather and I exchanged glances. Mine was an apologetic – yet somewhat sarcastic – glimpse suggesting humility hand-in-hand with pride that I actually remembered a promise from weeks ago. “I haven’t forgotten to write that blog yet … thanks for allowing me use of the picture!”, I threw out to initiate an apology of sorts. Heather, in her kindness, acknowledged my attempted cover-up and replied, “that’s ok…”, and went about attending to her business … with a smile. There were other words exchanged, of course. (I have a habit of over-using bits of lexicon).

Ok. So it took a few weeks to get to this point. At least we’re here … and what a marvelous place it is!

Step off of Route 36 North, or South, in Hollidaysburg and you’re within two blocks. Allegheny street is this hometown’s narrows for all that’s lovely in a ‘burg over 226 years old. We have cracks in well-worn sidewalks, a slightly-yellowed post office that you would pass on the way, and old, restored buildings painted with historic hues breathing legacies down upon young, energetic youth. Go too far past the Creamery, and you’ll be in front of the Blair County Courthouse, built in 1875-1876, .. our county government center of law and justice. Just down from the courthouse, an old green church is being developed (proposed) into offices, an indoor vendor market, and new performance center/restaurant.

All this to say, Allegheny Creamery & Crepes sits in the middle of history, tradition, and a new generation of ideas and growth. Heather & Kirk, her husband, weathered Covid and a few (failed) ideas to emerge as a landing place for hungry souls. A soft landing for those having a hard day, perhaps. A fulfilling, warm meal for those who need something to satisfy an otherwise empty day. I wrote of a valuable hot chocolate serving few months ago … here, when only words and the Creamery felt right.

There’s technology inside, and lots of great food. Sounds so cliche – and I don’t mean it to be so. You enter into the doors of an old shoe repair store where my grandfather took his boots to be resoled – knowing, ahead, your soul will potentially be restored by any of the following (different/new items may have been added since):

The wooden floor creaks when you walk by carrying a slender metal pole, number attached at the top for quick table service. Drinks in the neighboring room to be picked up on your way by to the upper room, or outside dining patio if the weather is accommodating. All so efficient. So pleasant. Take the time to peer through the glass wall separating the dining area and prep kitchen. That wall, at times, reflects the silver metal ceiling tiles keeping watch over all patrons … making sure everyone is enjoying the time away from stressors and frustrations.

That is the magic of this place. Whether it be the few front outside metal tables, beverage room sit-abouts, sitting area in (what I call) the order room, red dining room upstairs, or back patio, – the experience of tucking away their fare, combined with the kindness of a well-trained staff and hometown pride in presentation makes them worth writing about – even if it’s a few weeks late.

Come by our hometown. The Black Dog Cafe is but a few steps down. This block is a-rockin’ with great food. The Allegheny Creamery & Crepes is so unique and worth stepping over a few cracks in the sidewalk and swinging around a small number of tree branches the borough may not have trimmed yet. Five-0-Five Allegheny Street is so easy to find. Parking, well, it’s kinda ok, as well. You need to be a bit of a detective during the busier times to find a place, but I guarantee once you sit inside Allegheny Creamery, all that will be behind you.

Look for Heather. I’d like to say she’ll be the one smiling, but they all do, soooo. Ask for her, maybe? If I am there, I’ll point you to her. I am absolutely sure she won’t mind my pointing her out to you. At least if YOU are talking to her, the conversation won’t go on as long.

Universal Elegance

Her words are soft and metronomically soothing. I found them only a few months ago while rhythmically scrolling through many pleasant social media symphony scores. An orchestra of players, not unlike myself, tune in frequently to hear her directions from the positive podium on which she stands. She wields a gentile three-minute baton held between words carefully chosen for us. Many watch … anticipating a helpful, calming, pre-dawn urge to help us move forward.

Among them, I sit. A player in this openly orchestral life full of challenges, I now exist. Embedded with an out-of-tune mental attitude at times and distracted by standmates who, possibly, are tired and strung-out as well, I sit every day waiting for her words. Mezzo-pianistic phraseology I so appreciate … facilitating body, mind, and spirit healing.

Enter stage left Maestro Michelle Walker, a conductor of energy. She represents what is right in the world by helping us center ourselves when all curtains want to fall awkwardly and untimely on our well practiced, planned performances. We thought we had the lighting correct. Maybe this day, shadows of doubt and unease hover about? Our experiences and training ushered us into the very seat in which we nudgefully nestle, but life had other plans. Alas, the moment, right?

… I sit. Another opus begins. I, along with my unknown instru-mentalists, wait for the downbeat – a hearty, intuitive “Good Morning, everyone!”. It begins. Waves of words waft across an invisible space between my phone and ears. Music for my soul. I know the enjoyment must be shared as well among my peers. For I am aware of energy when it occurs …

…and there’s nothing I know other than what I do know. Most of the gray globule matter floating around inside my skull contains energy committed to the connection between music dots on the staff and piano keys. I do, however, venture into the fascinating world of quantum mechanics at times. General relativity finds a black hole for my interest as well. Currently, I am reading, “The Elegant Universe” -authored by Brian Greene – which puts me smack in the company of quarks, electrons, atoms, string theory, and a quest for the Ultimate Theory. Einstein has a presence throughout, as does a continual nagging at my lesser intelligent conscious state of being. (Geesh, there are some really bright folk out there.)

Why am I on a quest to learn about the “Theory of Everything?”. I feel empowered to do so.

The “Theory of Everything” is an attempt to bridge the gap between the hugeness of space and the teeniness of the microworld. As Einstein would understand it to be (as mentioned in the Preface of Brian’s book): “a theory capable of describing nature’s forces within a single, all-encompassing, coherent framework.

So many scientists, et al, are on this path. They are edging closer to finding an answer. I will join them, marginally of course. Not wanting to give up pizza eating time, or moments watching football, will trump any dig-deep time-space continuum, gravity-bending, search throughs. Beethoven and Chopin require energy of mine before snarky quarks and pesky protons.

This is why Michelle is important. She takes the infinitely confusing space in our lives and says, “Hey, you are running around a lot these days, focusing on all those large life issues. Maybe stop and look at some smaller, wholesome, really good things going on today. Energy is good. Breathe. Take in your problems, perhaps, but don’t let them weigh you down…”

There is balance in the universe. An elegant lesson is to understand every problem can be broken down and pass through us like a little neutrino if we look at it that way. Is it easy to do? Absolutely not!

The balance is in how we think about it, not in how it actually comes to pass. This is the beauty of her words. They are words. Controlled, energetic words meant to inspire thought and action going forward – empowering us to move, to engage the energy if we so choose.

It truly IS an elegant universe; not only beyond the stars, but also inside ourselves. We have a fascinating body, mind, and spirit that has a limited time here – on a home planet that will spin us off into unknown space and eternal time once the final dispatch is sent for us.

Until then, we must do the best we can. Sitting where we are on this stage while reading what we must, loving those who we fold into our lives, eyeing up that which is pleasing and accepting our losses along the way, we look for guidance. In this ever-altering world of out-of-tune players, few stand out ahead to guide us with truth, peaceful energy, and three minutes of day-starting inspiration.

Brian Greene and Einstein may have a head start on string theory and an answer to what is at the core of “everything”, but I doubt they know how valuable Michelle Walker is to the Universe. Well, at least to the universe as I know it to be – a wonderful stage full of performers struggling with life’s problems, but still holding on to their inspired instruments and dreams.

A place where those few words tapping lightly on the conductor’s stand, to start a day’s symphony of beautiful music, mean the world to all listening.

Readers and Tea

Admittedly, not much of a reader here. A few enjoyable books sprinkle my past. “Tristan and Iseult” lovingly spread itself across a high school desk many years ago, some motivational books during a decade of selling to the masses, and Genesis to Revelation once. There were a few more opened along the lawn beside my educational path, probably. Had to be, for sure, but I don’t remember 99% of them. Math and music were my loves. Books with words? Not so much.

I’m fascinated by folks who read. As I sit behind a lunchtime warm bowl of ham pot pie soup, there are some folks across this coffee shop at their own table. Reading. Laptops, tablets, and – for hardcore traditionalists – paperbacks. One hand holds a mug of their warm brew of choice, another patiently taps or turns a mysterious, romantic, or comedic story into the next minute future of their lives.

There are non-readers here, too. Conversationalists living in the moment, they are. It’s a normal, sunny November day outside. I can’t imagine talk-across words include how cold, or warm, the outside temperature is, or what the rest of the week has in store. The food here is always as good as the service, so nothing new to talk about there. Without an abrupt walk-up and accompanying, irritating “Hey, watcha talkin’ about?”, I can’t know … and this is o.k.. Everyone is smiling. That’s good enough.

They don’t need a book at this moment. Others do. Those “others” fascinate me more when I see them mixed in with tables in cafés where conversations are happening. I find the gift of reading fascinating because I don’t have it. How can one concentrate on a story in the middle of a café when others are chatting away over tea? As an aside, how do readers not fall asleep in one of those plush, large chairs inside Barnes & Noble? I get woozy just wandering around inside there looking for the bathroom.

Readers are, simply, a breed apart.

Those who read inside cafés seem to be extra special. I’m drawn to their apparent higher level. Higher level of “what” I will leave up to your imagination. As others talk over bowls of soup, chicken taco salads, and aloha turkey & mango salsa wraps, textually-engaged individuals quietly enjoy their novels. With mugs of tea and coffee enhancing the aroma of each story, time moves forward in their lives through words only they can see.

I look at them with awe. My fascinations lie elsewhere – in notes on a staff and numbers stacked as equations. Placing words on a page are, as well, highly enjoyable, too. However, reading, as an activity in my life, can be tolerated in short, abbreviated segments.

For the “now”, my soup appears to not have survived this writing episode as it was super-good as always. My extra hand didn’t need the mug of tea – a soup spoon was sufficient. With a few breaks to chat with a friend or two and five minutes for a delicious chocolate-chip cookie, the hour quickly passed.

This café is almost empty now. Readers are back to their day-to-day. Whatever imaginary world in which they found themselves, it is at rest until those great grammarian gates open again.

Tomorrow may be that time.

I am glad you are readers. Without your eyes, I have no audience. I am so fortunate to be that non-reader who enjoys sitting in a café while silent words rise from laptops, novels, and tablets of others.

If we’re ever lunching within proximity of each other and you see me hovering over a delicious bowl of soup, stop over. I’d love to discuss my dalliances with daily fascinations. Chief among them, your love of books … If, indeed, you are one of those.

I would be glad to buy that hot mug of tea by your side.

It’s Crystal Clear

Crystal Clear Wellness, 517 Allegheny Street, Hollidaysburg Pa.

Someone very special in my life walked a few steps ahead of me the first time I stepped into this store. On that day, leaves didn’t sweep across a cold concrete sidewalk and a fall nip wasn’t in the air. It was a truly beautiful day. It was a day when excitement swirling about her matched the sun shining through a few mid-afternoon trees outside – welcoming our visit.

She was so glad to be there. A store so close to her heart.

“Oh, look at that … I need to have it!”, proclaimed the one to whom the crystals, wiccan wares, books, and various fascinations spoke. I saw a light shine from her soul that filled every little nook; without exception, all darkness hidden became available for all to see. She filled the small, quaint store with her sincerity and love for all things energetic and mysterious.

This was crystal clear. This was Greta.

I couldn’t help but think of her when walking by on a seasonally cold day. Honestly, I can’t recall a day since her passing when I don’t think of her. This Sunday past was no exception. Maybe it was the crunching of the leaves? Possibly a small puff of breeze at my feet that snagged my interest? I don’t know. Whatever the reason, stopping to take a picture and remember that wonderful day – while standing in the energy that was Greta – held another grateful memory moment in my heart.

This is Crystal Clear Wellness, too. Energetic and mysteriously wonderful. It is a place where I’ve been since … to check in – to see my friend Tony and all the other wonderful personnel so graciously willing to help out where – and when – they can. I have my special items from the store that mean so much now … more than ever. Understanding, in a very limited scope, the different edges of life previously undiscovered, I can start to appreciate the crystal that is my life. I am starting to appreciate the connection Greta had with vibrancy and vitality in the universe.

Was it perfect? Certainly not. Her body failed her at the end. We lost a beautiful person to a disease that ravaged and taunted her. All the healing vibes and energy didn’t save her. That same vibrancy and vitality wasn’t enough. The universe had other plans.

Those other plans are unfolding and I have a suspicion she set them in motion.

She was a friend of Tony’s and, by extension, the Crystal Clear Wellness family. Because of this, it’s a challenge for me to be in there and not think of her attachment to all of our collective lives. After thinking it over a bit, this is how it should be after all.

Places exist as memorials to those we loved. Everywhere we go – where they were – is a reminder, in some small or large way, of their passions and energies. We need to hug those places and embrace the folks who connect with us while we’re there. A small emporium universe or marketplace in which they visited is still part of ours. Experiencing them, without being able to hold a warm hand or touch a soft face, is still o.k.. We can be there alone. We can stand outside on a seasonally cold Sunday and still feel them beside us.

This is a special place. I will always know Greta is there. The last time in, I bought a small, decorative purple cloth with a pentagram design. It sits on my dresser underneath a few items. Representing the elements of Spirit, Air, Earth, Water and Fire, it is there as a reminder for me to ground myself in what will last beyond my years.

My life does goes on, of course. All of us have this path forward and we do what we can to heal after losing someone special.

It may seems like the energy goes away, but it doesn’t. A few moments outside a special store – remembering a time when I was inside with someone I saw “Oh, looking…” at everything – helped me realize this place is special. It was crystal clear to me when we were there together … and it’s very apparent, now, special wonderful widget stores can hold our broken hearts together as well.

If you’ve lost someone, find a place. They will be glad you came by. Even if it’s a bit cooler than the last time you were there with them, remembering your time together will warm up the rest of your journey forward.

Waiting Windows

With frost on my windshield for the second time this season, I headed out. It was a few minutes after 7 a.m. – a bit earlier than normal for this guy, but not for the early, double-caramel person I was meeting. We agreed upon the “Black Dog” for a pre-dawn sip and possible bagel consuming chit-chat. This eatery has been a local favorite for friendly, delicious smooshes … so, my beat-up Honda crunched its way from a wet driveway, over a mile of cold leafy sideroads, to a parking spot three spaces away from this latte-lighthouse.

I’m not one for the fancy drinks. To that end, not even a basic cup of hot coffee warms my soul. Chill it, or steam it … no latte or frappe will ever drape over the sill known as my lower lip. A simple mug of hot chocolate topped with a small dollop of whipped cream (or, perhaps a few small marshmallows) always, and forever, is my huggable winter-season drink of choice.

I’ve known Andy, the owner of the “Black Dog”, a long time. He works hard. Along the path of our friendship however, his hard work would never recognize my finicky taste in hot beverages. It’s not his job to pay attention to my weird ways. After all, a high percentage of his pre-dawn sippage sales IS most likely all the fancy, dancy grande cups and mugs ordered every day – not the marginal hot chocolate orders.

So, when I walked through the doors yesterday morning, a hot chocolate order was out of his norm, but graciously prepared. I sat alone for a few minutes at a table for four … recognizing how wonderful it was to wait for Andy to steam up a warm cup of hot chocolate. Wait for my company to arrive. Wait for the sun to come up through the windows of a very familiar cafe. Just sit, and wait.

After only a few ticks on the clock, two ladies arrived to order breakfast and then Andy’s “front of the house” day began. Although from what I gather, the soups for lunch were already started hours before and happily stewing away on the stove in the back. My company arrived shortly thereafter and we had a charmingly small visit.

During any normal day, I wouldn’t arrive until after 8:00, possibly 9:15, to meet friends for breakfast depending upon the day’s schedule. This was rare. The “Black Dog” is a common stop for lunches and late breakfasts in daily drive-abouts if I am floating around. Andy and his staff are wonderfully packed full of energy and engaged in everyone’s life which is why I try to get there when I can.

Yes, my friends are there, too. This is important. There’s a round table – not as significant as King Arthur’s – but one where compression of souls happens on a regular basis. Short folks, tall frames, skinny sorts, and sometimes well-suited suitors sit comfortably at this table enjoying the day’s news and, of course, one of five selected lunch choices. Andy prepares five diverse lunch choices, a variety of soups, and dessert items. Each day is different, … but only five per day. Simple. Most patrons, if not all over the years, prefer it this way. No surprises. Always delicious. Always fun and affordable, too.

It’s just a local cafe if you look at the “Black Dog” as a building. As a place to wait for a few minutes and think about what life is … it’s more than half-fogged up windows resting above a leaf-blown sidewalk. It’s about those very windows waiting for the sun to rise.

I walked through the doors thinking about those windows. The time was too early for me. I knew there was hot chocolate waiting inside, however. The few minutes once inside – waiting for Andy to brew up the mug’s warm interior liquidy goodness – gave me pause to consider the hour ahead. A sun would rise to evaporate the moisture off those windows. Pretty basic stuff. A day would start for so many, including me.

With all that’s been going on with my life, I forgot that days do have a beginning. The sun comes up. Good, predictable things happen every day. Waiting for them to happen – being patient – was a nice reminder yesterday.

If it’s good enough for the windows at the “Black Dog”, I can be patient, too.

Bump and Stop

Yeah, I felt like looking away, too. At the very bottom edge, Murphy had enough of the bumps and stops in life as well. Experiences – especially those four letter words ahead – have been too prevalent in both our lives lately.

I had to stop my normal, everyday maneuvers a while ago and do tiring, but satisfying activities for multiple weeks on end. I also rode over legions of unexpected bumps until my human, emotional underside wore through a pretty thick pair of wrangled genes. Murphy? Well, he did have some feeding times that were off a bit.

A medical crisis set life aside as care for a loved one took precedence over all other labors, hobbies, and toils.

Thing is, there were no warning signs for months during that difficult drive … on challenging roads. Every experience was an unexpected turn of events.

During our pleasant walk this evening, however, Murphy and I had at least two signs. We knew to sidestep the slight tar implosion to our left and walk cautiously on the sidewalk to the right. Watching for traffic at the four-way ahead was easy-peasy – even without that red octagonal, familiar sign – because this is what responsible dog walkers do who don’t want to bring harm to themselves or their leash-alongs.

I can do without unexpected bumps and stops for now. My limit has been reached and, possibly, breached.

The everyday expected is ok. Any obvious, conventional, everyday sign alerting my living, vehicular being to an anticipated knot in a string of roads ahead is fine. Similarly, if I must put the brakes on to avoid risk, so be it.

We can go for so long before there’s a break down along the side of the road, right? The stops and starts after each bump in the road – while caring for someone – is really difficult. It is what’s done, though, because love is involved … and we’ll do whatever, whenever, for as long as necessary. I am not the first, certainly not the last, and claim no expertise in the matter of care-taking of a loved one.

I also know it takes a partnership with family members and professionals to make it work, too. With all the struggle along the road that was, a specific, dedicated, small group of us never gave up.

With all that was, the end came and I am tired.

Bump and stop signs – better yet, the actual unexpected pesky projections and nettlesome negations that could veer this body off-road -should park themselves in a garage for a few months. I’d appreciate it until life returns back to more normal road conditions … If that’s even possible.

As for Murphy, he just needs to take a walk with his fuzzy brother-buddy and not think too much, anyway.

You … take a walk. Watch out for signs that should keep you safe. They may not be bumps or stops, but at least you’re headed in the right direction. Deep breaths, friendly hellos or waves from a neighbor, crackling, crisp water over rocks in a stream, or breezes through bendy tree limbs … to name a few.

Or, helping a loved one through the most challenging times of her life. This can be the most unexpectedly challenging, tiring, incredibly difficult things to do … and also something that resets life, overall, in the right direction.

I’d do what I did all over again, but wouldn’t wish the pain to return to a body whose fight couldn’t overcome cancer’s eventual outcome. You bet I am tired and don’t need any more surprises right now.

… Now, unless that surprise is a Powerball win of a few million. That’s an unexpected bump in the road I could tolerate and drive a long distance without stopping.

Guess Murphy would need a ride, though.

2O Seconds at Halfway

Canal Basin Park in Hollidaysburg, Pa. Push, “play”, to experience the halfway around ripples two dogs and I experience while fluffing our way through that park.

To them, Rex and Murphy, it’s another opportunity to sniff out new smells along a stone-ground walkway beside a brown, churned up waterway. For me, the halfway point river is simply that … a 50%, “been there, need to do more” point while walking said puppies. I look forward to the sound. Simple stones underfoot duetting with water nuzzling over rocks in the Beaverdam Branch of the Juniata River.

Halfway is halfway no matter how the walk is sliced up. Pretty sure Rex and Murphy’s math skills aren’t up to par, and time has little meaning, so their time/distance matrix has no relevance to four-pawed progression. Onward is all they care about. Walks are very important as a stress release inside their furry go-about bodies.

I like walking them. It has been a while since canine connections fabulously exited stress from my body as well. Years, actually. Shopan was the last to give me a refreshingly new leash on life. He lived a homophonically great life as a shepherd-collie-rottie mix at my piano feet – representing the masterful Frederic of Poland well.

These two? Kinda musical. Rhythmic paces under one’s white and black woolly paws, and the other’s velvety brown sweepers? Yeah, for sure. Before halfway finds its way into our path, Canal Basin offers us sights to spur our intrigue. Living a few miles away from this park, I never took the time to walk around and read plaques so well placed among the sound filled breezes now appreciated during a pleasant walk with Doug in tow.

These are just two of the markers discovered. A Musical Garden? Holy Orchestral Chimes, Batman! How did I not know of this? The Amphitheatre has been around a while. Thankfully, I’ve attended concerts there. The stage, however, hasn’t experienced notes from my trombone slide, or imperfect piano fingers.

With my human body sleigh being towed , other sites nearly halfway include an original 4-wheeled Cradle and Track set and really big, orange, metally, complicated train pieces put together in such a way I will never understand.

An open soon-to-be loch of imaginary possibilities to our right – with its reservoir of tonal reach-outs past the halfway point – the three of us continued on our way. Two fur pullers and an adaptable tag-along headed toward the Reiser House – the home of a prominent butcher whose house was built at the Canal Basin site decades ago.

We exited across a plank foot bridge, clicking nails did the two scurry as this one silently Skechered. Three-quarters the way, by my estimation. Dogs, still no clue. Their smellers always on alert and pee markers finding every possible target, though.

The halfway sliver of time spent recording pleasing ripples of time meant nothing to them. Just a “paws” during another outing with Doug, the dog walker.

Ok, so I accept that role. I’ll also welcome the opportunity to walk them again, and again. No sense committing to anything halfway.

Unless, of course, halfway means standing beside waters rhythmically dancing over partner rocks. In that case, maybe next time two dogs and a guy will sit down for more than 20 seconds.

Find a halfway in your life. I doubt Rex and Murphy are available, but someone could meet you by the river sometime. Perhaps for more than 20 seconds, if you’d like. Wherever your halfway is, a river of calm is waiting. Don’t push to be 100% all the time. Enjoy the sites along the way.

Halfway is halfway no matter how your life is sliced up. There’s always more path ahead to explore. Go, now.