Letters and Emojis

As one who spends some of his time typing words into the internet space, I’m going to state an unpopular opinion: We’re spending too much time here.

Why do I say that? Just today I need to clear up an issue with a great friend … and can’t via text. As I write this very minute, the problem at hand is unresolved. It’s not a matter of life or death, rather, a personal uncomfortableness – an unease – I can’t resolve without personal connectivity … a phone call or something other than 1’s and 0’s over the w-w-web.

Secondarily, I expressed an opinion on Facebook two days ago. That should be an “enough said” sentence, but after 100 comments and counting, I must continue.

It concerned the vacancy left by RBG’s death and the political fallout since – specifically, ACB’s nomination to the aforementioned seat. You’d think I typed in the worst offensive words possible about everyone’s mothers based upon the comments dripping underneath my eloquently phrased opinion. Again, no real conversation – just texts back and forth with veiled insults and an occasional “fact” in quotes, questioning sources, attaching descriptive connectors to humans in public office, and scripting personal narratives to public internet spaces.

Beings being 2-dimensional. I’m not enjoying any of it right now. Resolutions are really difficult at the end of two solitary thumbs when one has to wait moments – possibly hours – for a response (with no guarantee of one even coming).

Where are we now? Trying to interpret 26 letters and a bunch of emojis now is like looking through a dimly lit lantern’s glow at a wall of hieroglyphics … symbols we can’t really get a handle on. It’s a cave of our own doing. That’s where we find ourselves. A simple 👋 now can’t mean “hi”, anymore, without questioning the motive … is it sarcastic? Does it require a 👋 in return? I don’t know anymore without, at a minimum, looking the waver in the eye. At best, seeing them in person.

Look, I know the technology wave carried us into this cave. It was unavoidable, I guess. So many good things have happened because blips and beeps carry information across thousands of miles in nanoseconds. Lives are saved everyday with medical advances. Kids are learning more – by fifth grade – than I knew when I slid across the stage picking up my diploma. Access to information is … un-freakin-google-believable.

Still, all that can’t replace a person on the other end of a breathable space. Someone to help resolve a rather minor issue we need when that problem pokes itself out from the normalness that is life. A normal we really can’t be, by the way, spending almost all our time face down in a text. This isn’t the way life was intended to be.

You and me. Eye to eye is the absolute best. If not, at least voice to voice. For personal relationships and problem resolutions, it’s a deaf echo chamber cave of emojis and letters. As a way of communicating a momentary frustration in a blog on a cold, rainy Friday in October? Absolutely!

As to problem #1, I’m sure this little hiccup in my life will begin to work itself out once the iron of time plugs in and begins to iron out the wrinkles. The 3-D books I’ve read and really smart people in my life I’ve listened to guarantee it.

The now is now, however, and for what it’s worth, I do feel a bit better venting – even if it’s just letters and emojis.

Concern #2: The whole Facebook thing will do what it does and life moves forward for everyone involved. That space made Mark Z. a bazillionaire – which is more money than I’ll ever see. His money and notoriety slip him in a envelope and send him off to destinations unknown to me.

And so it goes. My opinion remains the same. We spend too much time. Here. Call me sometime and we’ll talk it over. I’d love to hear your opinion.

It’s Just Joel

I have a friend. He’s a rainy day kinda guy who finds his way around my days that are gloomy and need a poke – a dash of “You’re not that special”, or “Get away from me with your stupid humor”. You know, the kind of friend who likes me enough to be there when I need him and dislikes me enough to listen to my bad jokes. He constantly needles me with words of repute, but has a sparkle of respect in his eyes for my strange life. He’s my friend … just Joel.

This man, a few years my junior, is an expert craftsman. I’ve seen his woodworking skills in action and in 2-D pictures. Here’s an example:

See, this is one small sample from many I could show. There are rolling pins, flower pots, tree planters, containers, boxes, etc … all wonderfully caressed from his hands. As a pianist who creates from my hands, I can appreciate anyone who molds magnificence from nothing – as he does. There are few within my circle of knowing who can do this level of craftsmanship.

And why stop there? Recently, popping up on Facebook are pictorial fancies from the very phone he carries in his wood-dusted pockets. Seemingly, he could be the long lost, unknown sibling to my dear lady friend I’ve written about recently. She is wonderfully structured around flora and nature, he is naturally wondering about structures. This fascination comes through his eyes to ours as follows:

Rails, power, and invisible steps. Three out of many pictures finding their way in front of my eyes almost every day on my Facebook page – from a friend.

I don’t walk among those who explore. Joel and my other special camera friend saunter around sticks and stones looking for nature’s beauty and long lost structures that’ve rekindled their beauty in age-worn rust and rickets. This is not my thing. My duty is to sit back and enjoy their enjoyment in sharing their love of same … and then, in turn, pass that love on to you.

The same love I know Joel has when he says, “Please stop!” to me as I slip into a very eloquent joke, or long, detailed story of how my day is going. That’s how he rolls. If at any point he leans in with dutiful intent and queries, “Please tell me, Doug. How are you today?”, I will pause, get up from my seat, head out the door, and then go for a long, long walk … exploring in the deep woods, looking for the alien ship that carried the E.T. that took over Joel’s soul.

On my way back, however, I’ll be sure to find that perfect piece of lumber. I need him to make me a new piano bench – which I’m sure he’ll do. He’s that good of a friend. He’s just Joel.

She Kinda Made Census

It was a planned destination.

The cafe I found myself in this morning had been closed more often than open these past months due to the Covid restrictions, so today was a treat. Working day-after-day, week-over-week, I almost forgot what a day off without lighting a propane grill felt like. Yes, there were some oddball business tie-ups and catch-as-catch cans to fill some of my time, but overall the day was one big exhale for me … in the cafe finally feeling agreeable to greet customers.

The simple task of parallel parking a car in one welcoming space – instead of searching for a two-space opportunity for my van and cart – was, well, a breathable pleasure. Walking the fifteen or so paces, gently and unrushed, to the cafe took extra, purposeful, mindful minutes. I saw colors and cracks on the sidewalk not seen in a while. There were periferal pleasures such as others walking to the nearby church for a service and others out jogging for some early fall exercise. So nice.

Not too many folks in the cafe … just enough to feel comfortable in this time of interior, unsure distancing. A party of four at a table toward the back, two friends discussing a quiet matter over a small, intimate setting near the window toward the front, and a table over to my immediate left occupied by two … soon to be three people as I was almost immediately asked to join them. A husband and wife who are good friends of mine waved me over as a gesture of kindness as they had not ordered yet and probably needed a dose of new, fresh conversation.

I’m always up for talking. Never a problem. They’re aware of my ability – masked or unmasked – to swing among the conversational branches.

My plan was to sit quietly, … alone, however. I talk constantly during my days. Destiny had its plan when I arose this morning. Fate had other ideas.

So … what’s a guy to do? Well, listen. Yes, two-ear instead of one-mouth the minutes away. It has been a while since I’ve had to practice the art of listening. Of course, “What would you like on your hot dawgs?” doesn’t really qualify for the big leagues here, right? I hear a lot in order to make a living, but don’t listen too much these days. Admittedly, this is a short-sighted problem in my life.

Lisa (name change) is finishing up her full-time, temporary job with the 2020 census. I knew she had this job. It is a management/supervisory position for which she is so well-suited. Her personality and “vim” gives her all the necessary levers and gears to operate the human resource machine she needs to run. Up until this morning, this is all I knew.

You’ll pardon me for not remembering all the details from eight hours ago. During the most wonderful listening cloud of information, I indulged in the most amazing “mess” of fried potatoes, eggs, ham, peppers and onions, … lathered throughout with melty cheese, a dusting of finely ground pepper on top, and thick, perfectly toasted wheat bread on the side. Oh, and wonderfully brewed iced tea, too.

Back to Lisa. She explained – in detail – sizes and locations of all the census districts in the U.S., past histories of census counters (ex. counting by hand prior to, I think, 1960?), some of the difficulties encountered by the field operators, technology advances, some political things, 70% vs 30% return rates, accuracy in recording, etc … Nothing of a sensitive nature, to be sure, but more information than I ever knew simply by asking, “Tell me, how are things going with your job?”

This may be what is missing today. I don’t know? It wouldn’t hurt most of us to ask more questions and re-teach ourselves how to listen. Talk less, listen more, maybe? This isn’t the way of America right now that’s for sure.

I learned more than I knew this morning … ironically, over a breakfast dish known as … the “mess”. A jumbled, scrambled plateful of delicious ingredients working together for my benefit. THAT’S the American mess I once knew. I believe we still have it … the ingredients for a good mess for the benefit of all – but we need to listen more and talk less. The leaders we have, for the most part, aren’t the answer. They have to talk to get elected and keep the offices they hold.

We are the answer. We have to keep the conversations going – between us – in the little cafes during our days off when the parking spaces are easy to find and life is one big exhale. There’s a lot to learn even if we think we have known all there is to know.

Take it from me. All I wanted to do is be alone this morning with my thoughts. It’s eight hours later and now is that time. I’m glad life works out the way it does.

That plate of yummy is still lingering around … I haven’t eaten since. I will not say too much food – as I sit here finishing up this post – because I’d do it all over again.

It’s a cool, quiet evening on the front porch. A few cars pass by between the times a walker, or two, say, “hi”. This day off has been a joy. Thanks for listening.

There Shouldn’t Be Moments Like These …

… but I’m glad there are.

What a Friday in October! I need to be less happy about no customers arriving at my cart the past hour. Seems a bit strange I am not. As well, the minutes here – writing on my blog for the first time in roughly two weeks – is bringing me a pleasant joy unfelt in as many days. It’s been a really scurryingly busy time with this-and-thats. Stainless metal pans banging my every last nerve against each annoying little noise inside my tired, overworked, chili-laden noggin. Bills are lapping receipts at the moment. Oh, the true drudgery of being a surviving human sometimes wears a ragged coat of one, weary color.

All is not lost on me, however. I have a very solid brick wall steadying my sore back at this moment. The shade of a friendly tree is keeping me company as, on other days, customers would. We’re at a comfortable 70-degrees with a very slight breeze lifting my spirits over the steady flow of hurried traffic buzzing by on 6th avenue to my left. It would be my wish to have one, possibly two, of those destinal auto occupants stop for a munchie, but alas this is not to be today. S’ok. One hour left to serve … maybe, just maybe.

Fall months ahead for business in 2020 aren’t going to be normal … I’ve come to expect, so days like today are likely to repeat. Attendance limits on events not cancelled already are restricting opportunities for guys like me to make money. Most of us “foodies” knew this coming into our big October month season of festivals. Fortunately, I have wonderful contacts – and 15 years of Doug’s Dawgs – behind me to weather this slippery slope of knowns behind the Covid curtain.

Tomorrow hosts an event here on the lot, anyway. Its ArtOberfest. An activity, crafty, foodie, musicy, nine-hour long opportunity for the neighborhood folk to get out of their habitats. I’ll be here along side my good friends who pop Kettle Korn and bake BBQ chicken. Kiddos will scamper around in what should be another beautiful fall day and the evening will end with a concert by a local cover band.

As is usual, I’ll finish the day over a three bowl sink full of dirty dishes soaking in 110-degree water … waiting for my already chapped hands to scrub, rinse, and sanitize their precious little shines for use two days hence. Over and over the process. Life for all of us.

Until then, life now is just as slow as 1/2 hour ago. One phone call received and four hot dawgs were the only interruptions since I began this entry. I’ll end shortly as I must begin the closing process. Daily life, phase two, begins shortly.

This now, I’ve enjoyed. Can’t say missing sales is something pleasurable, though. My expectation, while setting up four hours ago, was to wait on customers – not write on my blog. That said, I have no regrets. Brick walls, trees, breezes, and grass can be just as enjoyable as money … and more rewarding when seen through the eyes of someone who needs time to relax and appreciate the moments like these.

Elsa and ‘Bones

Frozen in time are memories of Mr. McGee lumbering into the bandroom with that predictable scowl on his face. I don’t blame him, knowing what I know being, now, the age he was back then. Having to listen and direct a hoodlum bunch of blowing junior high quasi-instrumentalists – day after bad note day – had to get on his nerves. A collective group of teenaged tooters divided into the usual sections: woodwinds, brass, and percussion.

Sitting on the row in the top tier of the room, immediately inside the door from which he entered, we were the trombone section. Two Daves, a Jim, and I with a smattering of underclassmen. Four ninth-graders resting at the top of the middle school world who first spied Mr. McGee on any given day. Dave, the principle trombonist on the end, had the best seat, I was second, Jim … then Dave #2. One music stand per two slidey bones, four players, …. and one really good time. We were friends.

Dave to my left was always the better negotiator of chair order to that point, although I knew soon I was going to swing around him – which I did the following year. Music was too much in my bones (yes, pun intended) and he didn’t have the passion I did. Mr. McGee recognized this early on, but didn’t do much the change the status quo, so I went along with the plan. Why not, right? Too many other bothersome things in junior high to stumble over than fight about being 1st or 2nd in a band instrument section.

Roughly 10 years later, Mr. McGee fell ill and reached out to me. He was unable to return to that same outdated bandroom for an extended time and wondered if I’d be available to step in as a long-term substitute. After all, as a graduate and qualified K-12 music educator, it seemed the perfect opportunity. Politely declining, I stepped aside due to other career obligations and thanked him for the chance to walk through that same door he did years prior. He died shortly thereafter. The teacher who did accept the substitute position was eventually hired full-time and had a wonderful career.

Life is wonderful. Opportunities not taken are still excellent … just sometimes for others. I went on to do other things I am so wonderfully glad I was able to do – and continue to do.

This is about Dave #1 … and frozen moments. Mr. McGee walking sternly, yet exhaustively, into that bandroom is a still moment I can see today in my left peripheral vision. In that view is Dave sitting beside me. He will always be there.

Imagine my surprise when, with both eyes, I saw his profile picture a few years ago on Facebook when he accepted my 40-years later formal friend request. Those are definitely frozen moments. The, “Oh, man is this really him/her after all these years?” times that repeat over and over following reunion inspired requests. Yes, this was Dave’s overly dark beard, bushy eye brows, deep brown, tan skin and at- peace personality shining through his small smile.

With all those nice qualities, it’s not surprising his new puppy, frozen in time above, is in his care … or, that her name is ELSA. She is second in charge in his home behind an older canine sibling. I’m taking an immediate liking to Elsa and her apparent position seeing as how she’s “second chair” in the ‘bone section. The family is out of state, so I won’t have any opportunity to commiserate with my young puppy pal-ette of similar emotional coloring, but I can sympathize with her plight from afar.

Being 2nd isn’t a bad position. I’m behind my sister, yet ahead of my brother. Seconding, one could argue, is just as important as proposing a motion. Going for seconds is a compliment to the chef and minutes don’t exist without sixty little divisions within them. Great symphonies need relaxing, beautiful 2nd movements and what historical significance would there be between Washington and Jefferson if Adams was out picking apples instead of presiding as President?

Certainly Elsa didn’t choose to harm Anna in the movie. Kristoff steps in to help Anna find Elsa, eventually breaking the spell cast upon Arendelle. Elsa #2, becomes #1 with the help of an unlikely cast of melty characters.

Our Elsa above simply melts our hearts. No movie necessary. Look at that face.

It’s our cast of characters – unlikely or not – who get us through life … our Mr. McGees long since passed, or Daves popping up with cute puppies on social media. These folks melt away the frost on our frozen memories we may have forgotten.

It’s been some time since I’ve reminisced about those junior high, wool uniform band days. For all of Mr. McGee’s faults, he did a pretty good job of corralling a goofy bunch of late 70’s kids into a semi-large, old, non-acoustic beat up old band room from the 40’s.

As for Dave, I think he’s retired military who enjoys his cars. I doubt he plays his trombone much – if at all. Since I’ve been active in music my whole life, it’s probably about time to challenge him to a friendly head-to-head audition. Not that I’m holding a grudge or anything … we should just put to rest who was the better of the two back when Mr. McGee walked into our lives every other day.

Turns out, I kinda miss Mr. McGee’s attitude. It was real, … authentic. Qualities not seen too much these days. Almost frozen in the past.

Unless you’re the puppy, Elsa. Then you have genuine in spades.

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.

Where’s Chloe?

She didn’t intend to be Waldo. I have my doubts she even knows who Waldo is. I’m positive Martin Handford and Chloe never met, so, in my asking, “Where’s Chloe?”, there’s no chance Mr. Handford will answer, “There. Right there … snuggling in her pink doggie bed!”. His character Waldo (better known as Wally in North America) is a literary, spectacled success. I applaud the many hours, days, and perhaps years Mr. Handford invested developing his craft. Aspiring authors, painters, musicians, athletes, sculptors, designers, chefs, and inventors all … my best wishes for your success.

Chloe’s success is measured in smaller increments: pulling at socks while they’re only half way up my feet, eating ends off of papers in the trash, barking into closed doors … all the while refusing to pass through open ones, sneaking away with any shoe available, and crotch rocketing into my unsuspecting, shall I say, nameless part gentile. All of these a tiring day’s endeavors for a puppy of five months. Also, very exhausting for a neighbor willing to dog sit such an excitable little puggle. A neighbor who doesn’t have a cute little pink snuggle bed to rest away the stressors of the day.

Ah, but Chloe does … and isn’t that just perfect! (sarcasm). Good sarcasm … if that’s a thing.

Where’s Chloe? I’m constantly asking that question every day. There are moments it’s too quiet. You know what I mean. For a rug rattle consistent with puppy play to then disappear into silence means some paw-hankery is afoot. One certain Chloe is not considering her blessings, or reflecting upon the return of her owners. She’s usually up to something.

Today, the issue was a simple math problem. How to not keep jamming a simple blue racquetball into the corner seam of a sectional sofa … over and over again. Here’s the equation:

BALL + SEAM / SOFA = Doug’s Time × 4

I’m a busy guy these days, but my Waldo story is pretty easy. Facebook updates keep my datebook oars in the water with a pretty steady headwind. With that, my mornings stay predictable … unless there’s a little puggle under foot. Don’t mind the company. The occasional yip or brush against my leg is no more a distraction than the random thoughts bouncing around in my noggin.

When the blue ball comes kitchen knockin, however, it can’t be ignored. There’s traction in Chloe’s puppy play world and that ball will bounce an infinite number of times until it’s thrown back into another room. So again today, I obliged. I had to. This week, the lesser of the options between a set of big, brown eyes staring at me, and the paw-patter of feet across the wooden floor into our living room … until silence.

The deafening quiet when I knew she pushed the ball, somehow, up into the most remote corner of the sectional sofa. A crevasse so deep that her head – in combination with her extra long tongue – could not, under any law of physics, remove the deeply embedded ball. Silence.

I knew the dilemma. Fuzzy donuts, monkeys, head socks, bones, … none of these readily available toys within snouts distance were a sufficient replacement for the simple, old blue ball … in her mind. In my mind, why not, right? Any puppy mouth occupier that can keep me from interrupting my routine is gold. Not to be. Silence is too loud for my liking, so off I go to unjam the ball.

Oh, but this starts the game all over again. Cheery Chloe, with ball slightly larger than the very mouth it occupies, enters the kitchen once more – bringing with her a small shadow from the morning sun that beams through the window over the sink. It’s where I find myself looking down, again, at eyes I can’t resist. Three more times. Each time digging the same ball … out of the same seam … of the same sofa … for the same dog-ette.

… And then, later, she rests. After hours of other activities and fun frolicking – most of which I’m not aware. The working thing gets in the way of my Chloe time as she occupies her time with other humans. My time with her – as dog sitter – is limited to seven days now and will end in a few. Back to her true owners she’ll go and I’m sure she’ll be very, very happy to return.

I’ll be glad to hand her back, too. Not that I haven’t enjoyed her visit, mind you. Kinda like Grandparents “graciously”, and lovingly, handing over their grandkids back to the parents. Her owners are wonderful people, great neighbors, and terrific people-parents for Chloe.

For the next few days, I’ll suffer gladly through the minutes. Hopefully I won’t hear that silence too many more times. If I do, I’d like it to be less about a ball and more of her snuggled in a pink, warm bed.

At least then I would know the answer to “Where’s Chloe?”

Show Me Chloe

Ok. Since you asked. Here she is once again.

This past July 3rd, I introduced you to Chloe, the puppy. She’s still scampering about in our neighbor’s yard, tethered to – in her happy, anxious mind – a rather annoyingly short lead. If not, every whim and whisper nature provides would have her half way to China by now. This is her world. Her “I see Doug and want to give him something to think about now” universe.

“U” see, I am not one of those whims and whispers, supposedly. Considering I’m only that one letter off of being a dog myself, you’d think Chloe and I should be can-do, man-dog sypaticos. I think we are. She … well, … may think so. At this point, I’m not so sure. The occasional side belly rub gives me some puppy-cred and the special ball toy we play with at times sheds wonderful light into our friendship, however, one rather annoying habit of hers strikes a sour note across my heartstrings.

Being my canine neighbor across our not so well traveled avenue, she stares uninterrupted at me with her sad, wanting eyes. Beautifully calm, still, unwavering, she sits a few blades of grass from the edge of a driveway no more than 40 or so paces from my five trips back and forth on my property – loading the van for a day ahead. I always see her out of the cautious corner of either eye, depending upon which way I walk … careful to not make direct contact with the beast-ette. It is a dangerous game we play, for I would be tempted to smile uncontrollably at her insistence that I immediately approach – abandoning all my business needs at the moment.

One of any intelligence should assume, when finishing the task of loading said van with time to spare, this barely-out-of-puppydom would then welcome the very person to whom such pleas were advanced, right?

Uhm, wrong. That sounded too abrasive, so let me phrase it another way: Chloe wants me to come across and play a few minutes with her, then doesn’t, then does, then doesn’t, then …. you get my point.

If she wasn’t so damn cute and petable, I wouldn’t play this dog and mouse, “who wants to be a schmoozer the least” game at 7:30 in the misty morning. She sits there with her little butt barely on the grass, leash extended to its full length, … and brown marble eyes staring across like arrows lasered on my heart knowing full well I have a blue racquetball somewhere. Ah, the little, round rubber morning ball. It isn’t me she wants at all …

So, I walk “casually” over, pacing my step as if approaching a sleeping bear. Chloe’s tail wags a bit left and right and her, now, slightly larger than puppy body still does not move. Then, I’m only five steps away, a few seconds later, when she abruptly jumps a high-dee-ho, her leash gives a sigh, and back to the porch she runs … taking a path of zig-zags and look backs as if to say, “Ha! … gotcha again! .. Ya big sucker!”

There is no licky-lapy, jump into my arms, nice to see you moment. No Lassie found me alive in a well revelation. She runs from me the very moment I reach down – extending my arms to caress the very compassion and love she so wonderfully extended to me only seconds earlier. I, somehow, got a version of the smelly anti-dog plague in the four-point-six seconds it took to cross the street; OR, perhaps Chloe is playing a game, as usual.

It IS a game. A big freakin’ game I get sucked into almost every morning. Why? Because I’m me … and you’re you … and you’d do exactly the same thing, so don’t judge me.🤣

The lure of cuteness overload is exhausting sometimes. Chloe is sweet. I’ll continue to dance the dance. After a few minutes of rah-rah back and forth, she will settle and we’ll have some quality time as I sit on the stoop on her front porch. Ball-bouncy and side-scratchy morning time, as afforded by my nice neighbors, are important to Chloe, I guess. After all, she’s only a dog and I can only pretend to know what goes on inside her fuzzy little noggin’.

As for my brain, well, it’ll never change much. In about 45 minutes, the pleasure sensors will trigger puppy chemicals once again as I carry heavy coolers out from my commercial kitchen to the van. She’ll be sitting there … staring at me. Geesh.

I’ll not resist. Can’t. Show me Chloe and I’m done with all self-control. The best way to start any morning … on her terms, of course.

The dance begins …

Life is Grand in Small Pieces

It’s most likely the pianist in me. Eighty-eight keys arranged by white and black pieces, 52 + 36 = 88. Simple math. Ten little fingers gracefully stroking the correct ones – at precisely the correct moment – to create music directly from the Masters’ hearts is so special. A purely divine plan easily devised, but difficult to execute well.

Few rise to the level of international fame. More fall into mediocrity and just as many, if not more, succumb to scales and chords of lesser quality. As with any discipline, refined excellence of prodigious talent is really, really rare. Horowitz, Lang-Lang, and Rubenstein are perfect pianist pearls in an otherwise ordinary oyster world.

I fall into one of those categories. Into which one I descend is up to you to decide without hearing me stroke a single key. My dear mother had an opinion when she so diligently listened to my young digits squeak and squirm their way around the keys. Young as I was years ago, I did have an early affinity toward the mathematical 88. The piano/music connection always made sense to me. Middle C was to my brain as breathing was to my lungs, so mom decided early on THIS was to be the grand plan …

… Did you ever get the feeling someone else knew something you didn’t? Just asking. I should’ve finger-figured something was afoot.

Bless her heart, she tried. I didn’t. Call me stubborn … most do – even to this day many decades later. She recognized a gift I refused to open. I knew what I had in my hands was a unique quality … a special talent to play this wonderful, orchestral instrument capable of rich low and sweet high tones. One single vibration, or many clusters of dissonant sounds together at my sole discretion … all available with one twitch of a wrist. Yet, with that knowledge, I fought the less-than-valiant fight against the natural forces given to me at birth.

“Cantankerousistic tendencies” and the drive to be my own stubborn self. Period. End of self-analysis. I’ll send myself a bill.

Mom died eight years ago knowing all this; However, she did see me perform many times on stage both as a soloist, accompanist, and music director, etc… Music became a major part of my life and, aside from being a street vendor selling munchables, still is. I eventually decided to get serious about it after high school and have remained active in the arts community ever since. Mom saw that development in my adult years … yes, I did, kinda, grow up.

She’s so easy to write about and spatter great and wonderful words all over conversation. Her influence on me is immeasurable – in small parts.

Which makes my life so grand.

She saw the big picture for my life, but never pushed it on me. I was left to be me. Now, had I decided to be less of a pain in the ass and practiced more, she would have most likely influenced the “plan”. I didn’t. She didn’t. Instead, we laughed, played games together, colored, told jokes, went to stores and ate fast food, spent time with my brother and sister, ate meals together as a family with dad after he came home from work ….

All the small stuff in life she never ignored.

Wow. What a life lesson for all of us, right?

Big pictures and goals are great to have and to hold. No argument from me about life’s “go afters” that keep the wheels from coming off. None of us need to sit around drinking sodas, eating bbq chips, and watching cable news all day long. That’s definitely NOT worth the weight, correct?

Point being, relax and notice the small things that make you … you. Perhaps the stubbornness? (Ahem) … or the gift you have yet to develop. Maybe the gift in someone else who needs you to recognize and inspire? Could be a joke or game to share with a friend. Who knows?

My mom hasn’t been here for eight years. I’ll never see her again, nor will she hear me play one more time. It’s really ok. She’d always come up after any performance, give me a big hug and say, “How’d you do that? … it was wonderful!”. Now, I know in her heart she meant a heart-squeeze, but I also am aware I missed a c-sharp in the development of the second movement of the Beethoven Sonata and she knew this as well … “

I miss her on a grand scale. My heart heals every day in small pieces.

It’s all good. My ten fingers grace the keys today with almost as much grace as she blessed my life. It never mattered to her into which category I fell … and that, my friends, is a perfectly executed, divine plan.

Straight Turn from the Center Lane

This may be surprising to very few. I have friends on social media who complain. Politics, relationships, food, religion, … any and all subjects are spouted about sporadically – as the mood strikes – by ordinarily calm, peaceful folks in my life. My cell dings not-so-happy notices from the fingers of these upset pals and palettes who paint pictures of woe upon my wonderful wall. I don’t worry for, and about, them – knowing they’ll be ok, of course. Venting is healthy. So is chocolate, but that’s for another time.

Steve is my friend. I’ve known him for quite some time, however, not as long as some life-long friends. He’s more in the category of a customer/friend. One of those guys I see more often at my business than in other situational, about town run-ins or home visit type of things. He’s a lefty bowler – as am I – and, by my own admission, isn’t as accomplished at the finer art of that ten-pin, sixty feet skill. On the other hand, with no pun intended because both of us wouldn’t be right-handed, he’d be incredibly more accurate to point out his significantly higher skill level throwing darts. We are co-equals in life. Both rather sarcastic to/with one another. Respectful.

Why Steve? You’ll probably never meet this semi-balding, 5’10” guy who sports a sort-of beard most times and shuffles his approximate 180 pounds frame on two legs exhausted from a hard days work. Well, he threw up a complaint on my FB wonderwall yesterday.

The weather was humid. I was hot. Customers were, as always, very kind and plentiful … but after so many, they get to be too many. Not too many in numbers, just too many to wait on without a bit of a break. It’s my age, perhaps … or the virus, masking, grease all over my glasses, alignment of Venus, rattling of trucks idling nearby with three-thousand exhaust pipes popping out their roofs, or jerky little pom-pom cars with music so loud the windows rattled louder than a herd of rabid steer rambling over a field of broken dreams. Oh, and I was stinkin’ hot – in case I didn’t say that already – when I finally did get a moment to sit.

Diet Pepsi in hand, phone in the other, I opened the Facebook app … and there it was: Someone, sitting in the lane to his left, made a right turn from the left lane in front of Steve. Fortunately, there was no physical contact, meaning, no accident. He was, apparently, at a stop light and witnessed this violation. Illegal? Yes. I’ll advised? Absolutely! Complain-able? For sure!!

I give Steve full and complete permission to post-up words of frustration concerning this act of drivery-dissatisfaction. Complain he must! For to not do so does emotional harm only unto himself. Let it out, my man …. let it go!! We’re here for you.

This is social media this year – a vent stack for all that burns in the furnace of dissatisfaction.

Every Steve and Stephanie with a Covid complaint, especially, has this wonderful outlet to express his or her opinion on all virus related issues. Pick one among hundreds and go for it …

Educational articles have been tagged, shared, and discussed. Private and public groups are forming around specific interests. Humorous, viral-related memes are lightening the mood for some, and mask-making ideas glitter the sewing circles among seamstresses.

Life is about positive things in general. It’s never just about social media in the midst of a pandemic. We can take food to a neighbor, donate our time to a cause we believe in, simply be nice to someone who may be difficult to like …. all wonderful things.

For now, though, this virus is the lane we’re in … turning straight from the center lane is how we move forward. Any other option gets us off the road to recovery.

These are all what I call “turning straight from the center lane” things we can do:

-Don’t judge anyone. They are who they are because you are who you are.

-Try to understand. Be open to other possibilities. I’ve learned more about myself by understanding why other people believe what they do. Ask them – don’t assume anything.

-Work hard at your “now”. This pandemic requires us to be vigilant at all times. Believe, or not. Your choice, of course. Be mindful and work hard at staying true to you while respecting others.

-Listen to both sides of a broken record. An argument has two sides. Any cable news network has an equal and opposite network. Be balanced and fair to yourself when receiving news.

-Finally, please laugh… a lot!! I do – at myself constantly. I also yell, scream, bedangle, amazzel, frizzle, yellop, bloppel, and rackelpop myself twice a day as well.

All of these keep me centered as best I can be. The road forward is harder than the covid-concrete upon which we find ourselves these days, right? We’ve all kind o’ crazy drivers out there making illegal swings in front of us at every turn, so complain we must …

Steve had it right. No, wait, the other driver turned right. Whatever the case, he Facebook-filed a fabulously friendly complaint on my wall and I’m glad he did. It reinforced the “when properly used” puff-stack power of social media.

Y’all can blow off some steam once in a while. I’m at “Doug Rhodes Piano” on Facebook. Make sure to send your complaint at the height of a lunch rush, during a 95-degree plus, high humidity day. I’ll be sure to get right back with an appropriate reply. Don’t worry. Just remember, venting is healthy for me as well.

Now, go find some sweets. I hear dark chocolate is delicious when it’s melted.