Little Boy, Big Boy

From where I stand, this is one view of our local Norfolk Southern rail yard. Off in the distance is the Rose Yard. It’s where hundreds, if not over one-thousand men worked at one time. Building, painting, repairing cars for transport all over the USA. I haven’t come across any employee – retired or current – who isn’t proud of earned sweat from a day’s wage.

A few weeks ago, the Big Boy steam engine came rolling through on its nationwide tour. Definitely a treat for those employees and all train enthusiasts locally. My vantage point to see it at the Rose Yard – not as an enthusiast, but as a fortunate food vendor – was spectacular. (Much different than it would have been as if I was standing where I am currently).

Yes, a Big Boy. Thousands upon thousands across America waited for hours to see it rumble through their two-stop sign towns. If only for a few seconds, it became a story they can pass on to their grandkids. Videos swarmed Facebook and other social media sites. “Where to see it..” maps and guides were posted on dedicated websites. In its own way, the Big Boy months-long event was a bring-America together spectacle for all to see and experience.

I live in a railroad city. Altoona, Pa. was known as one of the major manufacturing hubs for rail car building. This is why Norfolk Southern chose us to host one of their two-day events for the Big Boy. Huge daily turnouts to meet and greet the steel-wheeled celebrity, political photo-ops, employee appreciation rallies, and merchandise give-aways … all to enhance the engine’s allure and historical stamp on our country’s railroad heritage.

I mention all this simply because had I not been invited to be a caterer for one of the events, this engine would have steam-rolled through me with little consideration. None. I had no interest in seeing it. With this said, shame on me.

Yes, shame on me for not wanting to – at the very least – TRY to get a ticket for viewing. A once in a lifetime thing like this … and I treated it like an order at McDonald’s. What’s the big deal, right?

Noticing all the pre-press and hubaloo sirening down from afar, I could have suffered from social media fatigue, I guess? Too many “same perspective” videos of this engine being welcomed into multiple towns of various sizes, colors, and shapes? Locals here complaining of pre-ticket mis-management, maybe? Whatever the reason, I couldn’t get off the platform and board the excitement train.

All this changed. That moment Big Boy came barreling down into the Rose Yard, I was my nine-year old Christmas morning, pajama wearing, pumped boy once again. There was something happening inside. Just pure joy. All the lethargy disappeared. Yes, my camera phone video saved is almost exactly the same as all the others, however, for me it frame a different perspective on my life.

… On how not to be so quick to judge.

Something unique about seeing this special train that evening. As someone who knows nothing about these metal mechanical machines, I flipped from steam stupor to Big Boy bliss within seconds. All the locomotion finally made sense surrounding its arrival. The engine enthusiasts weren’t that crazy after all.

I pre-judged the event and the folks who were excited about its arrival. Not in a bad way, of course. A better word would be, “dispassionate”, I suppose. But, this is on the same track. Every time a conversation, article, newscast, or social media pop-up feed came, warning light arms dropped down and my caring car came to a halt.

That car in which I traveled did make its way to the Rose Yard. Yes, It was a concession van, but nonetheless a vehicle. Norfolk Southern corporate staff couldn’t have been nicer, as an aside here, and the employee event went off without a hitch. As I remained behind to clean and organize for a multi-day event coming up, all the tah-dah had dispatched, few people remained, and Big Boy sat almost alone on a track only two minutes walk from where I stood. The timing was perfect. Just me and a huge machine. History along with a guy who plays the piano and sells food. Quite the contrast, I suppose. This was the moment I regretted ever questioning those who spent weeks anticipating its arrival.

They weren’t wrong.

Look, I’m in my last third of life … if things work out. It’s highly likely I will continue to make judgements about people, places, and things. We don’t make life changes and stop our own huge personal engine (at least at this point) on the spot. We can only try to learn as we barrel down our life’s track.

One small detail I did find out. This engine was getting assistance from two other diesels connected behind. Kinda makes sense. It was built in the early 1940’s, so for a machine running eighty-six years, …. quite understandable.

For us as well. We don’t make any changes in life without support from good friends and family behind us – encouraging us to be the best we can be. It’s not easy, … especially as age and habits set in.

There won’t be another Big Boy event in Altoona – at least in my lifetime for sure. I am so glad my business afforded me the opportunity to learn a little life lesson. Without that chance six weeks ago, I would have missed being a little boy again … if only for a few minutes.

We need moments like those. Win-wins. Small life lessons coupled with happy experiences.

Here’s hoping the next “Big” thing to come down the social track is met with a little less skeptical short-sightedness on my part. Can’t guarantee it, however I can at least try to be more accepting and give myself a chance to be surprised.

Big Boy wanted this to be an awesome experience for all of us. After all, this is what its whole national tour was designed to do.

Just so happens I got an extra life lesson bonus.

“Just Me…”

Minutes disappear. Hours melt into days. Weeks and months become unrecognizable. Whatever the current year is – in a life previously filled with work, family, church, and hobbies – it isn’t relevant anymore. No time, or date, is vital to my dad’s day-to-day life now.

He has dementia. As you may know from previous posts, this condition is his reality.

What’s important to him are multiple calls, every day, to me from the activity room phone. “Just me. Calling to see if anything is going on today. Ok.”, he says then hangs up. Usually this is the message on voicemail. I can’t pick up a majority of the time due to my schedule. Thankfully, this message comes in on the other end of a redial button. I have my doubts dad would have recall to pull out a ten-digit cell number from his shrinking brain.

I am grateful for these messages. So thankful. Even though they overload my queue, when deleting messages, I always keep his last message. Always. One never knows what dozen, or so, words will be his last.

Returning a call is difficult. The facility number rings not only to that hand-held, but also to other phones as well. Besides, even if I call back immediately, his mind would have him take a u-turn back towards the dining hall, or back a hallway within seconds from hanging up. No matter, it’s good.

Always good to hear his voice. Only a matter of a day or so before I get in to see him. My minutes and hours are noticeable and very regulated by a tight schedule – one shared within a few seconds after dad sees me enter his room.

“OH, hey! Nice to see you…”, as his eyes light up , posture straightens, and arms immediately move toward lacing a worn pair of sneakers. “You want to go somewhere? What have you been up to?”

“Hey, dad”, .. as I scan the room for anything out of place … any irregularities from a man who is very, very meticulous about his pens, hats, chapstick, clothes, belt clip, and toiletries. “I’ve been getting your messages. Sorry I haven’t been available to answer.”

“I’m sure I’ve called you. Just don’t know how many times. Was it today at all? Where are we going?”,

By this time, those worn sneakers on his feet need a destination. So, a walk from his room down a long, ornate hallway begins as does a wonderful conversation between a father and son. Details about my work. The experiences in my daily wheres and whens have to be passed to him. He enjoys hearing of my successes and failures. My ups and downs. I know these don’t process in a normal way, however, he connects to me. To my experience, my life, as he needs to during the three minutes we walk in that hallway.

Finally ending in an entrance/exit, we depart. Final destination: somewhere. Could be a dollar store, hobby shop of my choosing, quick lunch, or simple walk through a grocery store for ginger ale and cookies. Wherever we go, my goal is his experience. His glance at new faces, new places. Fresh air and sunshine. Minutes, possibly an hour, or two, away from his norm to shake off a few old days and put new ideas into a brain stressed with anxiety, stress, and confusion.

“Stop sign sentences”, as I like to call them, are so enjoyable. Every jaunt around town, the same one is repeated each time. Meaning, when one is started as we leave his facility, it is often repeated at most of the stop signs. Usually in the form of a question answered once – yet asked again, … and again .. and again, I find myself challenged to answer differently. It’s a puzzle to be solved for me. For dad, just another intersection in his brain where logic and memory take a left turn.

These short trips always come to an end. Confusion usually follows our return, unfortunately. Life, for dad, is simple yet complicated. No responsibility. Everything is looked after.

Complicated in the worst way possible because nothing makes sense … and he kinda knows it still.

The phone messages are so nice for me to hear, yet I know he is struggling with what to say. He is trying to stay connected. I love this. Like before, I always want this and don’t want it to stop.

“It’s just me.” will be silent some day, however. This is the nature of dementia.

It’s my nature to keep up with what he needs as best I can. In as much as he needs connected to me, I need this from him. As to me … “Just me”?… I need him to add value to my life – to still be interested in what I am doing even if it’s only for a few fleeting seconds. That connection is so important.

… and I’m perfectly fine with both of us staying in touch with each other the best way we know how.

He can push redial as many times as he wants. Yes, it will go to voicemail most likely. At least it’ll be a few more seconds I can save in the archives for a later time…

… when the phone stops ringing and a very important voice in my life is silenced by a disease nobody should ever have to endure.

A Bridge Crossed

There’s not a vinyl bench back seat from a 1970’s era paneled station wagon anywhere, I figure, without the question, “Are we there, yet?, immortalized in its seams. Far rear-facing, or middle seats, those words ran upside the back of many father’s necks either every twenty minutes, upon seeing exit ramps, or a mother waking up from her passenger side nap.

I was just as guilty as my siblings on long trips to the beach. As our seven-plus hours stuffed wagon began its final leg, I, more than my siblings, uttered those four annoying words. More out of excitement, probably, than as an enticement for punishment. Boredom after hours in the brown stretch box could have been a reason as well.

Funny how it always worked for every child who did speak these words. It never seemed to happen coming back home. Silence ruled the hours. Human nature ruled the time. For us, school was fast approaching because our vacation – most times – was at the end of summer. If, some years, it happened to be near the start of June, coming back to summer work schedules (even as young kids) weren’t something in our bag of exciting things.

So, “Are we there yet?” .. was a thing. I’m going to presume it still may be? This I don’t have any personal experiences because I’ve had no opportunities to be a back of the neck listener. No chance to turn around and say, “Don’t pick on your sister, young man!”… Not being a dad has afforded me no opportunity to hear that four word phrase.

I do have a dad still – and was recalling that particular phrase when he and I were out and about the other day. Side by side, fifty years later, in a less rickety automobile, minus three humans, a dog, and polyester brown and orange shorts. Yes, just the two of us talking the day through when he asked, “Where are we going?”.

This question caught me off guard, but only a little. With his limited recall and short-term memory loss, I wasn’t surprised. It was only a few minutes prior when I did say we were headed out to shop at Sam’s Club. Leaving his facility shortly before that conversation, however, was a trigger to new stimulation, … new brain input. This is how dementia works. I find it fascinating.

I do enjoy watching how dad navigates his way around (and through) this remarkable time in his life. He adapts. He survives. He gets frustrated and calls me to connect, but disguises it as a need he wishes to be fulfilled.

“Where are we going?”, still hung out there.

The question was asked and required a quick response as we sat at three cars back in a construction zone. I could sense his eyes looking over at me with excitement. After all, he was happy to be out with me – in the sunshine – somewhere other than staring at the same tan walls he’s been accustomed to for a while. My reply came swift with little forethought:

“Well, I guess when we get where we’re going, you’ll know where we are, Dad.”

“That kinda makes sense, in a way, Doug. I don’t know what you just said, but I believe you.”

There’s a lot there … in a few words. We laughed the whole way to Sam’s Club – and, I don’t know why. Both of us found this exchange to be hilarious. Honestly, I was on the same mental track as dad. We connected and every second escalated into more simple moments of fun.

As is my dad’s personality, once arriving at Sam’s – in the public square (as it were), his demeanor change … back to business, “helping his son” by pushing the cart for some exercise. I got that and was more than willing to meet him where he landed, mentally. All good.

I write this to give hope to anyone helping a loved one with dementia. They are still driving their car. Yes, it’s quite different. You can still be in the back seat wondering, “Are you there yet?” with them? Are they safe and healthy while on their individual destination?

Just now, as the adult with them, patience, humor, love, and compassion rule the day. Also, the trip isn’t only hours, it’s years.

Along the drive, though, are rest stops when you can laugh with them – unexpectedly – while heading somewhere.

It’s a wonderful experience for me. Mainly because I never know what tomorrow invites in with my father/son relationship. All I know is …. if I could ask him, “Are we there yet?”, one more time … and have him answer, “Almost, the beach is just over the bridge …”

… I’d do it in a heartbeat.

Don’t Mind My Busy Body

Certainly was a different time. Decades ago, to be frank. That very tree is gone, the uncomfortable sneaks and entire outfit were standard early 80’s, and those shades I remember well. This wasn’t a senior picture portfolio shoot or young men’s magazine ad modeling submission (thank heavens 😉). It’s just a young me standing beside a tree … doing absolutely nothing.

… And I honestly believe it was the last time I did that.

Somehow I learned how to be busy all the time soon after this picture was taken. A skill lasting well into my 6th decade of life. A wonderful journey, of course, since then. Up, down, and every plausible direction in between has been a bucket of moments spilling over into channels of lifelong memories. Being busy, active, and engaged in life – with people, especially – is a certain, special kind of constant immersion I’m glad life has afforded me.

There was the loss of loved ones, disappointment and happiness, financial want and success, sickness and healing, learning, rejection … all at the hands of others – and I would not exchange one second for something different. Out of each experience came a better me, if necessary. If not, I remained active in educating myself: understanding the “why” as I’ve written about previously.

“Why” is important to me. Yeah, probably just to me, but this keeps my mind busy. To a fault, I need to understand the “why” behind a lot of crazy that stirs in my busy stew pot even today. Folks make decisions that indirectly, or directly, make my life go, “Huh?”, and I ask myself, “Why you do that?” as they merrily go on their way giving it no second thought. I busily stew unnecessarily. It is an acquired skill. Ruminating over their ruthlessness is still worthwhile, in my opinion, because stress is released into the universe. In addition, weight is lost pacing endlessly back and forth over well-worn tread marks in the carpet.

Tonight, I had such a moment. The end of my evening event presented a “why” moment as a conversation went nowhere. Three explanations hit a brick wall. I couldn’t get my point across to save all the mustard left in China’s largest squeeze bottle. She just didn’t hear my words and listen to what I was saying. So frustrating. Why? Why did she make the decision earlier that affected my business so negatively? Why didn’t she understand my possible remedy for the future? Why did I walk away feeling disrespected?

People are still people. I’m no different, but I do know what I know. Nice is nice. Mistakes happen. I’m busy seemingly all the time and make goof-ups appear normal. I get it. Understanding others’ motivations or reasons for what they do, however, scrambles my brain – keeping me really busy all the freakin’ time.

All the time educating myself on how to better handle these situations.

It will be my “busy” for however many decades I have left on this spinning large blue, weird-shaped ball. I’ll never completely understand why people do what they do. I have a sense that I’m not supposed to, either. In the end, what would be the point of it, anyway? The process of learning how to better cope with frustration and disappointment? Maybe. The “whys?” are almost always associated with downslopes and dismays, so …🤔

Being busy, active, and engaged with people, like I wrote, is my thing – my lifeline to experiences I need to have. With those come the inevitable breakdowns that force the “whys” into existence. Yeah, sure … sometimes even “Why me?” jumps out of the pot and I don’t have an an answer from me to me. Go figure.

It’s all good, though. I don’t want to go back to the early 80’s. I want my hair and health back from those days, however, and possibly the cool shades. I also want my mom back who took the picture.

All of those are not possible, of course. Time doesn’t return. It moves forward … constantly reminding us of our limited time to grow, learn, and experience all we can.

I should start asking “why?” to learn about the virtuous surrounding me. Focusing on “why is there so much good in the world?” may be a better use of my busy mind than pressing more carpet flatly into the floor. Understanding that people are just people and do their people-thing up to their current ability may be the best path forward. Experiencing the experience of a life lived while doing absolutely nothing would be wonderful to revisit once again.

Probably with a more comfortable pair of sneakers this time.

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.

… Since Then

It’s been almost two weeks – if not more – since I’ve managed to find the time. Life has been very busy lately. If you only knew how difficult the hidden the moments have been to find. Those wonderful, cherished times to sit down and simply use the muscles in my mind and not the ones tired from over use – with little rest from bending, arching, twisting, and turning. Yes, life is a strange experiment.

A good and great experiment. Don’t mistake my weariness for complaining. My previous two weeks have been filled with excitement as a new chapter opened up. The long awaited bigger, better concession trailer has officially started its journey down the Doug’s Dawgs path after a two year’s argh-full process of torchery. Well, that word may be a bit harsh. Let’s just say if a hurdle needed placing, in my way seemed to be the location. After tripping over the last of these, I pushed my way toward that wonderful tape last week and 85% finished the race … at the very least sputtered to a soft opening with 15% more improvements to go. Today is for reflection and rest. And writing.

Glad to be back.

Also, happy to see not much has changed in the world. With all the goings on in my life, I haven’t seen much around in yours … and by extension, our country. So this morning I felt the need to get caught up on Facebook. Why not, right? If there’s a place where all opinions live and breathe, there it is! Certainly I haven’t the time (or, energy) to click around the tv channels gathering sputtering blather from biased newscasts, so settling into my most comfortable worn leather office chair is preferred. While doing so, this beautiful letter popped up. I’ve seen if before. Somehow, today, it means so much more than ever before to me. To all of us, perhaps.

Maybe I’m just tired from all the extended, tired major muscle groups still clinging to my clothes, or my overly-red eyes are too swollen? … I don’t know; however, when I started to whisper these words to myself during this morning in September, the mist over my eyes began to match the fog beginning to lift off the early lawn outside my office. I am a pianist, musician, sentimental type – excuses meant, of course, but there’s something sweet in George Bush’s words to Bill Clinton. An urging of civility and kindness missing today from the most respected office in America.

This isn’t a post taking sides. I don’t care about politics anymore, really. I care about people. When a human being says, “I wish you well … I wish your family well…”, it means as much to the giver as the receiver. One heart to another. One American to another. One of us passing on politeness and good manners on to another of us. Respect.

Since then, right? 2021 will be twenty-eight years. George Bush died in November of 2018 and shadows of Presidential courtesy still proudly blanket his grave at College Station, Texas. Bill Clinton lives on with a legacy – agree or disagree with any of his attached problems or successes. In regard to the current occupant, he’ll either leave a note to himself on January 20th, 2021 if re-elected, or a newly elected president will most likely find a very stark, empty unwelcoming, no note oval office upon entering. Provided, of course, the Supreme court upholds .. the … oh, wait, I promised no politics.

In ending, I do wish you well. When I walked into MY office this morning, I also felt a sense of wonder and excitement because – after two weeks – I saw an empty white screen once again in front of me. Granted, I’m not the President of the United States. Whew! on that note, and I know you feel that, too! … Go do your thing today and be brave. Accept the words George H.W. gave us and don’t be afraid to be a giver.

If it was good enough for him, it should be for us as well.