They’re Little, Little

It’s not uncommon to see a family of deer in our neighborhood. Usually four – a mom, dad, and two fawns. They wander about in back yards, a local graveyard, grassy areas surrounding evening walkabouts, and an elementary playgrond. During this particular evening, an after dinner stroll was, apparently, necessary near our high school. The “kids” were playing with each other as mom and dad paid particular attention to slow moving dusk traffic. I was part of that as my Mitsubishi took a u-turn up a block to make a return trip. A wooden fence provided just enough of a photo distraction between my parked car and these cervid creatures to avoid any nervous movement from them for a few seconds. Within a minute, it was time for another family adventure across the way … and they were gone.

Like I mentioned, this encounter isn’t unique for our neighborhood. Within a four block radius (+/-), deer are spotted on the regular. Sometimes there can be an octet of brown beast-ettes roaming lawns, minding their lives. Nobody really pays a bother. Once in a while, a garden takes notice as one of its vegetable or flower residents is, unfortunately, relieved of its residency. Such goes the “neighborhood”.

What do we expect when eighty years ago one lonely house stood alone four blocks away? This deer family’s ancestry had free, unobstructed reign over acres of land. Before two schools and dozens upon dozens of houses were built, this area was, yes, a bit swampy … but it was their home. Now they are still free, yes; however, dodging hundreds of over the speed-limit cars, skirting over paved roads, and avoiding as much human interaction as possible…

… even those pesky Mutsubishi pull-overs who insist on that one “please hold still” picture. The comment, “They’re so little, little”,… came across from my passenger side. I laughed. A much needed smile.

Why bother mentioning, right? Well, I needed it. Sorry, cute deer family. You were needed.

Seven hours of unnecessary, frustrating, aggravating, over-the top technological indignation precipitated this deer, oh so dear, encounter.

My phone died during lunch while I finished off a left-over Subway sub from the day before. It just went blank. No warning. No. “Hey, Doug .. guess what? I’d like the rest of my life off now. Please make sure you have everything in order. Let me know when it’s a good time for you and then I’ll sign off…”. Yeah, no.

You’d think a trip to the phone store – in the middle of an already $%*&^ busy three days – would be easy?

“Hey, my phone decided to check out…ideas?”… I felt was a timely, honest question to ask the sales representative who inquired why I stopped in.

“There’s one customer ahead of you now. Would you mind waiting?” I’ve had no issues before, so, no. Thirty minutes later finally at the service desk, the system doesn’t recognize my pin number I’ve AWLAYS used to reach my accout. I, obviously need a new phone. (Data storage – or some such conflagrational contraption corruption is the issue) … They can’t access my account. One more attempt, I’m toast. So off to a corporate store to use picture ID.

Corporate. Wait forty-five minutes to be told ID can’t access a business phone. Yeah, me!! They need to call another corporate line for voice authorization. The representative was kind, however, her tablet had spinny circle unkind issues going on and couldn’t connect IN AN INTERNET PHONE STORE (to add emphasis to my rising blood pressure issue at this particular time). In the mean time, two older church ladies in line behind me – who waited just as long – were anxious to get to a church function. I graciously allowed them to take my spot because God didn’t want me to stay in this situation any more… I am very sure of this.

Back to store #1. Stuck. Suggested I go back home to my PC email. That I do. Second floor, through the garage up the steps. My sales rep. wanted to send an email verification to that email, but IT wanted to send a verification code to my PHONE. Why? Because at this most unfortunate of times, my email decided to log out. In order to log in, of course, it wanted to send a two-step verification code to my freakin’ PHONE! Locked out of email. Locked out of my phone.

Locked out of any sense of sanity.

Oh, and everytime I come into the house now, I have to take off my shoes because there’s new carpet. This is a separate issue. Never mnd.

George Gobel once said, on the Tonight Show, “Did you ever get the feeling the world was a tuxedo and you were a pair of brown shoes?”. I felt that way in the middle of all this yesterday. Unconnected with the world. No cell. No email. No help. No texting…. And, this is sad, angry, and kinda upsetting at the same time. Something for all of us to look into. So connected to our electronics. Ugh.

Anyway.

I had to navigate through a zero-sum gain for over seven hours. Tried an office computer away from the house where, apparently, they changed the password?… No luck. It was an afternoon where an additional cell phone “could” have helped to coordinate codes, but it was tied up at, ironically, a funeral. I finally got into my email through another cell phone four hours later, called store #1 to re-send an access approval code, and walked out with a new phone. That process was an hour.

Another battle has ensued since with all downloads, password changes, email configurations, and just old guy problems with new technology. Yesterday was ridiculous. I know it became necessary. A pin number couldn’t open my account. Four simple little digits turned into multiple trips and a stir pot of frustrated stew. I, truly, had better things to do yesterday. Unfortunately, this is where all of us are. Technology in our hands. I need a phone.

These phones are getting better and faster. My new one has twice the memory. Couldn’t get a trade value for the old one. Not sure why? At this point, don’t really care. Has little, little value to me now. After all, it is dead to me.

It isn’t possible to write every detail from yesterday. I am fortunate no medical team was necessary to assist in my hours-long ordeal. I, truly, didn’t know we had so many masons capable of building that many brick walls so quickly in our small community. Gives me hope for the trades around here.

They’re so little, little in the long run. These problems. At the time, boy do they seem monumental. I guess this is the lesson from yesterday. Seeing that family – and the comment which followed – forced me to think. Was I over-reacting? Probably. Yet, the situation required frustration. I could only stay patient for so long. I didn’t yell at anyone who was trying to help. That’s completely unnecessary. When it comes to technology, I guess they only did what they can do. If a button says, “do this”… that’s all they can do. Step A has to happen before step B?

My multiple car-alone conversations yesterday, however, …well. Let’s say they weren’t sermon material and leave it go at that. I do hope my church ladies made it to their event and the little, little ones had a pleasant evening with their family.

As for me, I hope to the deer, dear heavens I don’t need another new phone any time soon. If I do, hide all the bricks, please.

Is It Just Me?

It can’t be just me.

Driving for most of all forty-five years since giving up my skateboard at age sixteen – as most sexagenarians – I’ve been successful at staying in my own lane. Save a few miles of mishaps and minor ticket travesties, vehicular events have been .. well .. uneventful and mundane. Here to there. Leave place A, arrive at place B.

Ordinary. Brick, pavement, dirt, and concrete roads leading to entertainment, work, or errand destinations. Every day. Thousands upon thousands of signal lights, signs, and road markings dictating our every move. Sounds from road noise can lull us into a mental hypnotic haze as cruise control takes over during longer trips.

With all that, a full bucket of paying attention while operating a vehicle is floating on wheels. As it should be. “Defensive driving”, as I was always taught. Not 100% fool-proof, but the best blueprint for effective, safe traveling two blocks or three-hundred miles. Dad said that two word phrase to me from the passenger side of a brown manual shift Pinto decades ago. Seems ironic, looking back, “safe”, and “Pinto” crossed lanes in my life about the same time … err, never mind.

My guess would be most of us practice safe driving, right? So, this can’t be just me. It can’t be. The past year (give or take a few weeks) the same thing has been happening on the regular. Today – once again – this specific strange occurrence visited my driving experience.

Leaving a Subway sub shop shouldn’t have had anything to do with it? Now, I did order a completely different sandwich. A wrap instead of the bread. Lest, I digress here.

So many different places I’ve pulled out into traffic. Slowly. Carefully.

I have two eyes, a relatively good rotation of my head, … and (counting the windshield and all windows) eight different ways to see all traffic coming in all directions. Once a decision is made to advance my life, my car, my day … forward, … the gods of traffic do this really weird thing.

…and, to repeat myself AGAIN… it can’t be just me.

There’s no traffic anywhere. I look. I double look. Up, down, left, right, … even those fortunate (or unlucky) enough to be in my passenger side confirm my eyesight evaluation. I trust but verify whenever possible. Always.

I think you have to know where this is going.

The second I am in my lane choice, there’s a person closer to the back end of my car than my proctologist was at my last exam. To make the situation worse, apparently these particular individuals are late on their way to an emergency White House meeting. I do believe they enter through a universal worm hole to irritate the living yield out of me.

Honestly, from where do they come? It used to be only the crotch rockets. Those super-hyped, over 120 mph cycles we can’t see, yet two seconds later they are on us flying by as a blaring blur of dangerous daredevily.

I get the normal tailgaters. We’ve all had those for years. If truth be traveled freely here, I must admit bumper stickers have been easily read by this writer on occasion as well; however, defensive driving 101 is almost always anticipating what the other drivers sharing the road will do.

Pulling out onto a road .. I’d be more than happy to anticipate what a driver would do – If that driver was actually ON the road.

More and more cars on the road now than back years ago, of course, when I sat in a (very) used Pinto learning how to shift without stalling the engine. The enjoyment faded, somewhat, after that day when I realized a car was needed for the jobs after school. The car meant more responsibility. As they say, a right of passage. I went with it.

Probably everyone’s attitude changed since then? We weren’t as anxious. As much in a hurry? We went with what life gave us.

A lot more cars with a lot more human stress behind the wheel now, … and so many additional distractions.

Pretty sure the road is always clear as is my mind. Passengers confirm it. It’s not a mirror coincidence this has been happening. Until I am satisfied with a real world answer, I’m going with my alien/worm hole theory.

If I look back one day and see a vintage brown Pinto tailgating me, however, …

… then I’ll give up and simply go back to my skateboard.

What’s the Good Word?

Dad has a difficult time finding the right words most times. “It’s just not coming to me…”, so often mutters within his struggling conversations with me. Questions or comments in his direction trigger this reply a lot.

This is a symptom of the underlying disease of dementia, of course. Patience rules the moments. I try to get information. “How was your day?”. “Tell me about how you feel now.”. “Are you glad to get out for a little bit?”. I don’t know – even after years – if these are good, or appropriate, questions? All I want to do is stay connected to him as long as I can.

As I struggle to find connecting questions on this journey with dad, I find my inner voice saying, as well, … “it’s not coming to me”. What’s right and proper? A brain, aware and alert most of the time, finds it difficult to locate a quizicle query … an interesting issue to trigger dad’s synaptic senses.

This, probably, is a common frustration for those in my circle of known, and unknown, friends holding mental hands with dementia suffering loved ones. Has to be common? Communication. Conversation. What was once normal, everyday who, where, and why, … is now one way remembrances as blank stares and misplaced whats disguised as whos dominate discussions.

Yet, we love them the same. Even more, I would argue.

My point of all this is … why write it? Why briefly point out dad’s unique, but common, response restraint? Problem finding the right words – the correct, perfect reply.

I know my dad. He’s a perfectionist. Even with his life’s setback now, this trait is still deeply embedded. I do believe he may want to answer the best way he can. “It” may just be that perfect word he can’t process anymore. That perfect word isn’t coming to him.

A son, laughingly must admit, carries the same gene … not to a fault, however. I allow some things to slip by.

What couldn’t get by me was that perfect word this evening. Truly, “it wasn’t”, yes, “coming to me”. This was a moment I felt a connection to dad and he wasn’t even around. Ironically, we planned on his attendance, but scheduling prevented it.

Simply stated, a guest pastor was in attendance at our evening service. I had a moment beforehand to mention how much I enjoyed his remarks at a funeral a few weeks past. As the organist at many a funerals, I heard many eulogies. At this particular service, his words were, well, ….

… and here’s where I got stuck. The pastor and I could have easily been dad and I mired in traffic for a few awkward moments -with a few glaring differences, of course. No dad and son. One pastor and organist. Both, supposedly of sound mind.

However, still one blankly staring back at his friendly guest pastor thinking, “it’s not coming to me..” What’s the proper and right word to compliment a pastor on his exceptional message on the death of a beloved friend, pastor to us all?

As I spoke a few wiggly words, none seemed appropriate. Each worse than one prior. The pastor’s kind, but confused smiles confirmed my suspicions. It was a “good” message? I “enjoyed’ what you said? None lifted itself on angel’s wings, for sure. “Nice job”? As the few minutes swooped into mild embarrassment, we parted ways with no damage done. We’ve been friends a long time. He knows … I know. A little lighthearted banter before worship in his mind.

For me, not so much.

A chance to be dad. To understand how he must be. “Be” in a moment where the right word/phrase isn’t processing. I can’t imagine living in that space 24/7 … especially when in a car being asked questions you KNOW you should be able to answer … just can’t find the words. Or, remember.

It’s been eight hours now. You know, I STILL don’t know what, exactly, to say. It was a lovely funeral. Of all memorials I’ve played, his words are in the top 10%. This is what I ended up saying to him.

That’ll have to suffice. I’m not happy with it. Doesn’t seem enough. What he said about our dear friend was amazing, poignant, caring, and compassionate. With those, I am not satisfied. They’re not what I want to say.

Maybe dad has it right, after all. It may be best to just admit, “it’s not coming to me”, and move on.

Well, in any case, having that connection moment with dad was kinda cool. Dementia has its unique set of problems. It’s nice to know we can share these little problems together.

Together in spirit, that is.

Next time in the car, in a grocery store, or at one of his favorite ice cream stops, … we’ll have another, “it’s not coming to me” moment in person.

It’s anyone’s guess as to which one of us will be waiting for a reply. All good as long as the connection is maintained.

That’s the blessing in all of this.

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.

Calling It a Nice Day

Today was a really nice day. Compared to most days recently, the outdoor human experience sunned itself favorably. A mere 55+ degrees fell happily upon most of us who delighted in a walking a few steps around town.

During my walk time this afternoon, a mid-day thought dawned on me. I haven’t written any kind considerations lately.

Lately? Heck, it’s been well over 5 months.

I miss this. Pointing out the obvious busy darts landing on my life’s dart board calendar doesn’t make for a good excuse here. I’ve been busier in the past and managed to land a few textual missiles. Idleness? Nope. Laziness is a noun I do not understand.

So, somewhere lurking around being too busy and never sitting still, I neglected doing something enjoyable – writing entries in a small blog.

It’s not like there hasn’t been anything to write. Time is early in the Lenten season for local Christian churches. To go completely 180-degrees, binging the Jack Reacher t.v. series, both seasons 1 & 2, was explosively exceptional. Personal triumph and another close friendship lost to cancer- interwoven among daily ups and downs – all of us could attach words to. There’s always words.

Making, i.e. finding, time to share these marvelous expressions more frequently than once a year should be a priority.

The sun today bleached out a small confession today. I had a moment to think. Sometimes we need to admit to ourselves we have neglected something enjoyable. Whatever the reason(s), that one hobby/activity dart headed for the diversion bullseye on our secondary “entertainment” dartboard never got picked up … let alone thrown. This happens a little at a time – and then months pass by. Ugh.

I’m calling this a nice day. Busy darts be damned. The sun shone while I walked. Maybe it’s Lent, the fear of a very large wandering ex-military behemoth, or a simple self-confession that got me back to this space?

My guess would be the latter. Mainly because Jack Reacher would be way out of place in downtown Hollidaysburg and I’ve got plenty of Lent to go yet behind the organ.

Do your happy place now. Don’t neglect it.

Walking Words

Here we are. Whatever “this” is. Again.

I used to write everyday. It was easy to do. The words appeared as instant imaginary impulses- piled one on top of another – in my lively, colorful, experience-laden brain. I’d rush home, or sit in my favorite red vinyl booth, and gush about toys I saw in display windows, the statue at a local park, or a meditation garden. Breezes were easy to see. Lives scurried about … intermingling. I could see they were laughing. Unmasked.

And that’s the “thing”. They were laughing. I could see the smiles. So much of this experience is gone … for now. It’s hard to write every day.

Now, I see masks hiding the smiles of those few who are out and about. Hometowners going about their essential best … scurrying they are not. Shoulders telling the real story. They droop atop torsos that are, as well, plodding along … belted to waists barely able to withstand another day attached to legs so tired from the grind of restlessness.

Everyone is so “thing-ed” out. As am I. Experiences are hard to uncover … to see. To, well, experience right now.

The stuckiness of all this, as a writer of what I see, “all I see is bad news”. Even my “imagineer’s workshop”, upon which I so heavily rely, has been hijacked by social distancing, #IsolationIssues, fear, unease, politics, unemployment, PPP, EIDL, masks, google hangout video necessities, pharmacy changes, and daily mis-information from social media. The wheels of my sleep/wake cycle fell off weeks ago and I find concentrating on anything other than doing the dishes every freakin’ hour, recording a piano piece, and checking in on my dad to be about my limit.

This wasn’t the case such a short time ago. I can’t blame my age, although it would be a easy target. It’s, of course, the virus. The stupid virus. The uncaring, ridiculous coronavirus. The whatever “this” is.

It’s the one thing that took away experiences of daily living that feed my writer’s soul.

For now.

I need to believe in the hope of our human spirit. In the belief of a common goal. A desire to beat this pandemic with one big, shared, world-wide breath of compassion for the families of the lost, a push toward three C’s in our body politic (Civility, Compromise & Credibility), renewed zeal for mother earth and the incredible resources she provides, less concern for self and more for other’s needs, and a cure-certain for this horrible, “whatever” virus … and all the ugliness associated with it.

These breaks of days aren’t the end of life, for sure. Nothing has stopped. The legs that are weary will dance again. Shoulders will be proud and carry great burdens with honor in the near future as life returns to a new normal once we figure all this out. Together.

And, in the end – when there is an end – we will meet there together. Together is a place, regardless of where we are in our indifference now, where we will be … unmasked with visible smiles.

This is what I hope for and what I’d like to be writing about again. I want my words to have legs more times than ever before.