Lady, Luck and Me

This is a lady on Lady.

I had the pleasure of seeing them trot by at a local event last Saturday night. It was a late night corn maze and there wasn’t much business to be placed inside freshly purchased buns, unfortunately. Blame it on rescheduled trick-or-treat plans, cold weather, or Covid fatigue … any number of possibilities … it was simply a slow night. A really. Slow. Night.

Local isn’t really honest. Bedford county is 35 minutes due south from Blair, my home county, and more rural. I set up in a field of worn grass next to a wooded, rather scary, tree-bone graveyard off a well traveled route between two small towns. The folks were banjo friendly in a Nicholson kind of banjo-picking way. Nice, but looked at my hot dawg, northern self like I just stepped off a yankee canoe.

Charles, the folkman in charge of the entire event, was kindly nice and welcoming, however. His gentle demeanor didn’t represent a gruff, wheat stick between the teeth personality as he led my efforts to set up and prepare for the crowds anticipated arrival (not). In fairness – even with over 20 years’ experience running the corn maze and haunted woods – he couldn’t know the effect of Covid or rescheduled trick-or-treat night in the surrounding communities. With that, it was a grueling 4 hours in the cold with little to show except food waste, spent propane, mud in worn tires, and a late night of travel back to a more familiar Blair county.

There was a positive. Meeting the lady … and Lady. In my horse petting haste, I neglected to harness the rider’s name: the lady on Lady. The lady was a very nice person who filled my ears with wonderful information as I ran my cold hands over Lady’s still head a little above her nostrils. This looked to be the only place where she didn’t have a costume part draped over her. Bless her heart. She stood still in silence. Only the white, warm steam rose from the end of her exhales. There was no other movement except my hand – which she seemed to enjoy.

I was told she was a quarter horse. From what I can gather, American Quarter Horses get their name by being quick sprinters – in races of a quarter mile or less. It is one of the most popular breeds in the country and I can see why. I believe we had more of a connection between us than I had with some of the kind kin folk in those parts. Lady didn’t talk much. Heck, she didn’t talk at all. I asked her twice, “Are you a wonderful horse, Lady?”, and she nodded her head in agreement … twice – both times I asked. Don’t tell me we didn’t make a love connection, ’cause we did!

I’m not lonely. Don’t look at this the wrong way. Very seldom do I get to be around large animals, let alone really nice ones, OR ones I have time to pet while freezing my petunias off. Those of you around horses all day long won’t find this encounter of mine wonderful. I get it. For the same reason, I wouldn’t find your writing about an encounter with the most magnificent hot dawg exciting. It’s all what we’ve done, who is with us, perhaps, and possibly what large animal is involved that makes for an interesting life to one vs. another.

The lady’s outfit was interesting to me … especially the way she posed for my picture. It had a middle-eastern flare. Play around with this picture, adding the Abbasid Palace in the background, and it would make for a wonderful picture (although, with apologies to the culture, I’m not sure women are allowed to ride horses). The combination kept my eyes busy most of the evening because there wasn’t much else to do. Lady and the lady rode gently by every 20 minutes or so and I enjoyed every minute of it.

Lady belongs to Charles. He owns four horses. The lady is kind enough to saddle up and ride Lady during these corn maze and haunted woods events to entertain the crowds. Crowds, evidently, that show up only on the nights I’m not there.

That said, some really nice folks did arrive. I can’t say there weren’t. Those who did stop to buy a hamburger, or two, discussed pleasantries with me as I suffered my way around a steamy grill. Charles bought three – yes, three – sausage sandwiches that totaled up to most of my sales. Stuffed in among these slid a few dawg sales and maybe ten sodas. Not a very good night by any standard.

Doesn’t matter much because I try to always find a good nugget … something to stabilize the bad.

And, out of the stable came Lady. She was a few minutes within a few hours. This time became a sliver of my life. A cold guy petting a warm, friendly horse. Not much, by some standards, I humbly admit, but in the midst of a crazy later-mid life, I’ll take what I can get.

We should spend more time looking for these smaller moments that matter. The big ones just aren’t often enough and are fleeting, anyway. I believe “Lady luck” reigned me in Saturday night … if only for a little bit. Worth the drive down south over the county line. I’m not much for banjo playing, however, I may get a hankerin’ for some more soon. Lady may need some Doug affirmations again.

Vote or Veto

“VOTE on/by Tuesday. If not, you’ve switched your constitutionally guaranteed vows…to a VETO of everything fought and died for over time.”

Something as simple as voting. It’s no more complicated as taking the E and L out of vowel to make another word sounding almost the same.

The process, however, could be a bit more involved, according to what I see on the news. You know. I know.

When I write “vote”, it means to pull a lever, fill in a bubble, or turn a knobby-thingy. The getting there is not included in my letters or words, nor is distancing, masking, ballot mailing, USPS rules, chads (is this a thing anymore?), drop boxes, signature matching, etc … I’m simply picturing you standing or sitting at a booth exercising your constitutionally guaranteed right. Period.

As of this date, November 1st, record-breaking numbers of Americans have pre-voted. I’m waiting until Tuesday because I like to do it in person, alone, in a booth. The ladies who greet me are pleasant and know me by name. I get free stuff (pamphlets) distanced safely – even before Covid – handed to me prior to entering the polling door. I like that. Humans taking a pro-active stance in the process. Sometimes there are mints on a table. I get to sign in. Most times I’ll see a neighbor, or two … or three.

I will not – ever – veto my vote. Especially now, when the vows are so easily switched.

You shouldn’t either. Do the best you can to vote. Please.

There Are Bones About It

This wonderful boney poker game is on display in a local neighbor’s yard. I’ve driven by at least ten times but haven’t been able to stop. Due to cars behind me occupied by drivers with impatience coursing through their veins, opportunities to take this picture have been rare – save one. Today was the day. I grabbed carpe diem by the ankles of its Latin legs and tackled it to the pavement.

What fascinates me the most here is a passerby – whether by car or foot – cannot, by any means, determine the gender or political leanings of either the four players or the dealer. Yes, THIS is my take-a-way from the hard work and imagination of a neighbor I don’t know. No player uncomfortably seated or unhappily handed has the slightest poker tell as to his/her liberal, conservative, Democrat, Republican, Independent, or Don’t Give a Sh*t agenda.

This isn’t a normal Halloween season. Every opinion, FB post, family meal, and/or spooky social commentary is sitting around a political or Covid table. Make no bones about it. Even I can’t drive by fabulous femurs without first figuring a way through this maze of viral thoughts and political posturings.

It’s where we are. It’s the hand we’ve, strangely enough, dealt to ourselves.

Today is October 31st and the t.v. in front of my 7 a.m. eyes is broadcasting prognosticating pretty polling predictions that may – or may not – come true next Tuesday. I’m weary from the deluge of information. Steve Kornacki, analyst usually seen on MSNBC, is quite fascinating. He presents state-by-state stats, digs into data, and creates charts I used to find artistic, colorful, and pleasing. Being Saturday morning, I don’t expect to see him until Monday … a few days into a new month, past this Halloween day, and in the midst of a barrage of election, bad-to-the-bone, 24-7 broadcasting.

This isn’t to fault them. I guess we need to be informed voters. But, how much is too much? If you don’t know Mr. Trump or Mr. Biden’s life and times by now, right? We need to know results over coffee on the 4th. That’s all we require at this point from our media. Who won … and who lost. Turning on my smart phone or the t.v. next Wednesday at, say, 7:12 a.m. – exactly 4 days from now – to see a President Trump or Biden – would be just fine by me.

… and it isn’t just the President-to-be.

It’s all in the cards we’ve been dealt and are holding – and, by extension, have allowed our representatives to play our hands. We voted in the senators who will lose, or retain, their seats, because of performance. The down-ballots are important, too. There are more than a handful of Republican senators who are in marginal to major danger of losing their seats because of their proximity to President Trump’s policies and personality. Thinking the ace-high flushes they held last year would be gold, they called a bet against the straight flushes held by their opponents …. and are in trouble. Jamie Harrison has a great chance against Lindsey Graham in S.C. He had a 17% chance in March and, now, is in a statistical tie with a guy who needs to go. According to Cook Political Report, a nonpartisan newsletter that tracks election forecasts, ” … other Republican senators who could lose their seats to Democrats after Election Day are: Arizona’s Martha McSally, Colorado’s Cory Gardner, Georgia’s Kelly Loeffler and David Perdue, Iowa’s Joni Ernst, Maine’s Susan Collins, Montana’s Steve Daines, and North Carolina’s Thom Tillis.”

These are scary times that surpass even the gallows of the eeriest of medieval Halloweens. A once-in-a-century health crisis with a national case record of 99,000 just yesterday. We are not carving our pandemic pumpkins properly. They’re ugly. Everything is a mess.

Apparently the mail is messed up with (R) judges changing the rules while ballots have already been sent under a previously agreed upon, publicly posted, set of guidelines. Some states are allowing ballots to be counted after Nov. 3rd, some aren’t. All this gleaned from the news I’m frustrated with, anyway.

Today we walk through the last day of the 10th month of 2020. Three years, two-hundred, eighty-four days into the Trump presidency and here we are – holding the hand we dealt to ourselves. This is either to our fault or merit. I’ll let that decision up to you. I have election-weary.

After I vote in person, I’ll be changing my party affiliation. Make no bones about it. I haven’t changed who I am at all. What’s changed is who I choose to represent me going forward. There are no perfect systems or people, but there are expectations that can be strived for and I want those I vote for to at least try to get there on my (and our collective) behalf instead of feeding their own self-interests.

When I do eventually leave this earth and sit my boney self around a poker table with my friends, I want to leave this place better than the way I left it. I can’t do this alone. Any national policy worth dreaming up requires help from a person in politics and the news to help circulate the message. Can’t coat this fact with any less sugar than that.

For today, Halloween 2020, masks are more important than ever. Sugared candy IS important for socially distanced kiddos if you can somehow swing it for them. Wash your hands frequently in person (and from the news the next few days) … the former is for the safety of your neighbors and the latter for your peace of mind.

If we play our cards well, all this can turn the tables around. There are bones sitting about that require a sane, but fun, game of who has what. We make our bets on the future and hope for the best based upon what we know now. That’s all we can do.

You’re doing good and I’m glad you’re sitting here with me. Flesh and all. Happy halloween.

The Fall of (a) Man

It almost happened this morning. Dew not try this at home, I say. The hustle of time combined with an early morning mist – atop the carpet of leaves covering my porch steps – was a slippery soul waiting for my arrival. Fortunately, a past experience grabbed a hurried back collar by the neck of time. I was lucky.

A few years back, not so much. I’m still creaking along with a dislocated/injured disc from flapping down on these same steps. A sunny, less wet day … yet in the same uncontrolled, fast-paced, inattentive manner I approached the descent … and missed. Thinking all was fine (male trait), I went on my way. A bit sore, but hoping the pain would subside – which it sort-of did after a few days, I lived my life quite contently believing a quasi-sore back was just age. Male being male, right?

Uhm, not so much. After months + years of this, I had tests done … and … well, I have the bad news, bad back, issues to this day. Still living with it and that is what saved me from sure slippery this morning. Alarm bells rang, mindful memories magnified, and I stopped momentarily to think through the situation. “Wet leaves + Steps + Doug in a hurry = Hospital” … An equation nobody needs to figure out right now.

All this to say that picture above is the pile at the bottom of the stairs. A pile I most likely would have landed in had a tumble occurred only a few short hours ago. Certainly a Genesis-ical chapter to define rest of my life had it happened. The fall of this man in a season of unsure events and unpredictable happenings … for possibly all of us as well as I think through the past 10 months of 2020.

Welcome to the near end of 2020 – an end we are looking forward to as a group of 325 million loving, caring, crying, compassionate people. We’ve tripped over societal problems, stomped on issues long since ignored, slid on slippery slopes of ignorance and bigotry, stood on patriotism and pride, walked happily in the steps of heroes, and tred lightly through a pandemic’s science and political maze of unknowns … all the while, we survived and, sadly, at the time of this writing, 225,212 Americans have not.

I am not taking any sides here. I am, however, looking forward to the end of a political fall season guaranteed not to end on November 3rd. It’s been a side-stepping, two-step dance of ridiculousness the past few months. Our feet are calloused and legs pretty sore from carrying both liberal and conservative crosses across party plank floors … over and over on idealistic shoulders. The most decisive thing about November 4th? … it will be the day after November 3rd. The fall of 2020.

I didn’t go down this morning so, hopefully, the ten weeks remaining will be upbeat and pleasant. I’ll vote … and wait. I’ll keep masking, social distancing, and washing my hands all the time as recommended by the CDC. You dew what you dew, ok?

Take steps to be the best you you can be – and don’t take the steps ahead that are dangerous. I need you to be here for all of us. It’s a challenging time to be alive. One life, like yours, is too valuable to leave to chance, so watch your step.

I did. Leaves (0) + Doug (1) = One happy day. Now, that’s math I can live with.

A Bear, Tim, and Harry

As the joke goes: A bear walks into a bar, places his arms on the counter, and says, “I’d like to …….. order a beer.” The bartender asks, “Why the long paws?”

This is a pun-unpleasantry I’ve read over and over during my years delving into books and magazines attracting my fancy. I love word play.

Granted, there are jokes – like this one – so over-used and worn I’d rather they never be spoken out loud again. Alas, however, I will most likely see it reappear in printed form, or, orally – both irritatingly so. Human nature dictates it. Bad jokes don’t die.

I can explain why this joke has been unbearably attached to my brain lately. Writing has been on pause lately and it’s as irritating to me as hearing a grizzled mammal swing open a tavern door – not that I even know what that sounds like. I don’t drink or frequent watering holes let alone hang out with alcoholic bears that talk.

Life is busy. That’s my excuse and I don’t appreciate it sometimes. Gosh, that sounds so ungrateful, doesn’t it? I’m healthy – save a few mid-fifty issues – and shouldn’t be complaining. My business is hectic with go-here’s and do that’s at odd hours with expenses due a few days before incomes. My legs beg for reclination time above my torso instead of continuously supporting a creaky, cranky back. This is 19/7 with 5 hours melted in for sleep.

At this very moment, I’m sitting in my wind-sheltered van waiting for customers to visit a welcoming food cart. It’s 55-degrees outside. Inside, I’m drinking a peach iced tea … hoping to wash down the rather kind ham and cheese hoagie I hastily purchased from the grocery store earlier. That was my noon breakfast. Life in the food truck fast-lane.

Yesterday was 70-degrees and sunny. Up is down with the weather in late October here in western-Pa. The small crack I must leave open in the door allows a cool breeze to flow in while there’s no sun to be found. Such a contrast from yesterday and the day before when we had even better weather. Close to 80-degrees and incredible skies. The day started out with this:

A soupy mess. I took this picture that morning hoping to write of the fog settling in my brain. A mist of quasi-frustration continuing into today …. a day when I actually have the time to write.

Those of us who love to write, but get off schedule because of life’s more important have to’s, eventually find time to put words down. We have to. Silence can stay silent only so long.

During my few minutes here, I’ve waited on two customers. Folks I didn’t see out of my peripheral vision for a few seconds as a result of this very breaking of my silence. They were very understanding. I blamed my inattention on you, my readers. I had to. It’s because of you – and my days long absence from this wonderful space – awareness was not paid.

… and, of course, that is mild sarcasm topped with a spoonful of thankfulness. No matter the circumstances in life, I am grateful. Yes, busy-ness is so closely tied to business. Life is to be lived out and outlived. We need to get every drop of yum extracted from the years we have.

My 7th grade Geography teacher said it best: “More than the years of your life … is the life in your years”. I don’t know if he came up with that or not, but it stuck. Mr. Hooper … what a guy.

A bear walks into a bar with his friend Tim, the termite. Tim asks “Is the Bar Tender?”. Tim has a friend, Harry the horse. The bartender asks Harry, “Why the long face?” ….Want me to continue?

I can’t. I just can’t. Maybe next time. For now, we’ll hit the pause button. Until we meet again.

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.