Tag: homefront

Bully Pulpit

A school playground that looks inviting. And fun.

Kyle was the biggest kid in the school. The school itself was small, with just three groups, pre-school, pre-k and kindergarten. Pre-school was in the front room with the guinea pig named Piggy. Pre-k and kindergarten learned together in the next classroom over, on the other side of the kitchen where the littlest kids opened the huge refrigerator door to store their lunches.

Kyle was the oldest. He may have waited an extra year before enrolling, as was the fashion for boys then. Their parents thought it would give their sons, especially the ones younger or less mature, a better start.

Kyle definitely took advantage of his advantages. He was taller and stronger than the other kids. He was more coordinated. He had more words. And he was more aware of the way the world worked, or at least the ways he could work the world.

His mom and dad were full professors at the university. They were old parents with graying thinning hair, knees that sometimes popped and less patience. Their short patience span was manifest in letting Kyle be Kyle. They saw no reason to fully resist him. He could regularly wear them down without too much effort, so why not skip the struggle and just let him be? They were happiest when he was happy. Whether that was an occasional ice cream bar for breakfast, watching more TV than was allowed or skipping his bath some nights, they’d go along to get along.

The school was focused on letting the kids be kids. It wasn’t a free for all. No, not at all. The teachers and their assistants were well in control. They let the children lead their learning via their activities. This worried some parents. They wanted worksheets and homework so that their offspring would be “ready” for big-kid school. The faculty resisted. They guided lessons through the curiosity of the kids. The success of their approach was evidenced by ten years’ of kindergartners leaving their tutelage reading books. And asking wonderful questions. And taking responsibility for their learning.

The kids would make up their own games, build forts under blankets hung from cubbies and publish their own books with stapled spines. Sometimes, when the teachers weren’t looking, Kyle would walk by a classmate and push off of them with his hand. Or, you could say, he’d walk by and shove a kid. If there was any resistance, he would claim that he was misunderstood. If it was an extremely egregious hit, he would sheepishly apologize. His physical outbursts weren’t frequent.

More frequent were his exclusions. His parents thought that he was a natural leader. He would provide value–usually his attention–to some of the kids in order to isolate another. This was a rotating position, the one of outsider. One day you’d be out and the next day you would be part of the group barring someone else. It was fair, in a weird way. Except if you were Kyle, because you were never out. Kyle was always in. Everyone loved him, despite the hitting and despite the emotional manipulations. Kyle was the oldest and the biggest and the best.

There was at least one mother who noticed the dynamic. She noticed even before the day her pre-k son, a year or maybe two, younger than Kyle came home sad that he was sidelined. When her boy told her that he couldn’t play the game around the tree and that he felt left out, she felt left out, too.

“What stopped you from playing the game around the tree?”

“Kyle said that I couldn’t play.”

He needed some tools. They role played and practiced. Sometimes she was Kyle and sometimes he pretended to be Kyle. They sometimes played out their script in the car. There were no further incidents.

The mother brought him into school late one morning, after snack and before lunch. He had a doctor’s appointment. The school was adamant about taking the kids outside everyday, rain or shine, hot or cold, snow or wind, but today the downpour was too much. Some kids were playing “fort” near the cubbies. There were blocks stacked to protect from intruders. Her boy approached the “entrance” to the fort so he could drop off his backpack and hang his wet jacket in his cubby.

“Stop!” It was Kyle who stepped out from the group huddled in their “fort.”

“You aren’t in the club. You can’t come in here.”

The mother drew in a breath and felt her hand tighten on the handles of her satchel.

“Kyle, you aren’t the boss over me,” said her son, just like they had practiced. And he stepped over a block to his cubby.

Kyle didn’t miss a beat as he stepped aside. “You can be in the club.”

The boy hung up his coat and stepped back out of the fort. “No, I’m going to paint over there with Emily and Christine.” This second part was a freestyle. Not bad.

The mother’s heart was beating faster. First, because she was afraid, and now because she didn’t need to be. Her lesson was to let him find his own way with her guidance. Perhaps the school was teaching her as much as they were teaching him. They both had a lot to learn.

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Boiling Points

A tea tin, filled with bags of tea. English breakfast.

He filled up the electric kettle with water to the half-mark. No reason to waste energy on boiling extra water. It doesn’t stay hot.

The kettle was a very good addition to the ridiculously small and poorly laid out kitchen. There was a general dislike of kitchen appliances. Among some. Okay, among one. He minded less than she. There was paltry counter space for starters. The kettle, however, was used at least once each day, and very frequently two or three times. It earned its real estate. Its place was in plain site.

They used to have a stovetop whistling tea kettle. That took over a burner for the first part of their marriage. They went through four or five. A few burned out. One wore out. Most lost their ability to whistle during their tenures.

While traveling, he stayed in an apartment with an electric kettle. It reminded him of an old girlfriend’s mother. She emigrated from England and brought her love for tea and the efficiency of her electric tea kettle. He missed the mother much more than the daughter. It’s like that when you get older. Old girlfriends hold less meaning than their families who embraced you as one of theirs. He saw the kettle and was immediately attracted to it. He thought about the flaky crust of the fruit pies that the mother used to make.

The following Christmas–as they did before, one year when they exchanged toasters and another with pillows–they bought each other an electric kettle. They both did research and came up with two different models. He either took one to work or returned it to the store. She didn’t remember, but was happy that they did not have two additional small kitchen appliances. One was likely too much, anyway. Except it wasn’t.

The kettle was remarkably fast. Much faster than the whistling stovetop type. Even the direct flame from the gas burner could not compete with the magical kettle. You would think that the warming up of the carafe would take a long time, but just 60 seconds after flipping the switch the water starts to hiss. The hiss drops a few octaves before hitting a silent lull while it gathers enough energy to burst through the surface of the water and burp the first gurgle of the boil. Click. It automatically shuts itself off. Perfect safety for a flaky family.

After the 4.5 minutes of boiling, there is 5 minutes of steeping.

There is a small, well-curated selections of tea. The herbal choices include pure chamomile, pure peppermint and usually one lemon mint or lemon hibiscus or some hippie flavor mix. The black teas normally included English and Irish breakfast teas–the English is richer and the Irish more flavorful. There might be loose Earl Gray and Darjeeling. And a jasmine green tea. He can’t drink tea that might keep him up at night. Caffeine has no power over her.

She likes her after dinner black tea with a little milk and a little sweetener. He drinks his herbal brew straight or, occasionally, with honey. Sometimes she nods off before she finishes her tea, with her fingers resting on the keyboard, neglecting her writing. And sometimes he nudges her to finish up, brush her teeth and come up to bed.

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Behind the Mask

Filters of the Doc's 2016 pumpkin.

There was a welcome dearth of that cartoon princess with the icy blue dress and the long blond braid this year. I think we only had one. And she was a zombie version.

Not surprisingly, there was a new group of Harry Potters. What did surprise me was the number of girls dressed as Harry. The only Hermione I saw was a girl who said she was a “grown up Hermione,” since she was regular Hermione last year. Holtzman from Ghostbusters did show up, though.

There were plenty of superheroes–at least four Captain Americas. One had a shield I was very ready to poach. Just one Iron Man. I guess we know whose Civil War side was favored. [Full disclosure: Doc was Team Cap, too.]

I misidentified a trick-or-treater as Batman. He was wearing one of those costumes with the built in pillow pecs, and I was working my line about how he must lift. It always cracks me up. And I called him Batman. He very politely–almost apologetically–corrected me. While his mask had the same ears of the hordes of costumed Batmen trick or treating my porch, this guy was actually Black Panther. In recognition of his boss-dom and my error, I noted that he was much stronger than Batman and much more wealthy than Tony Stark. His dad, who was hanging a bit back, piped in, “See? They know!” The Dad was also dressed as a Black Panther. I recognized his black beret sporting a panther patch. I tossed a candy his way. He totally caught it, despite the dark.

The push and pull of family relations are told through some costumes. The parents who apologize for YAP (yet another princess), the kids who turn to their folks to ask “who am I, again?” and the occasional fusion when the child wanted to be a banana and the mom totally nailed the outfit. You can tell because that team is full of some wicked pride.

Personally, I like giving away candy and watching the show. I do not miss the costume scramble. Not at all.

The Big Guy dressed as The Joker for his Halloween haunting. To work the Joker makeup, he needed to be clean shaven. I saw his boy’s face that had been hidden for years under his beard. I asked him if the bar asked for his proof of age. He said his former co-worker didn’t recognize him.

When I looked at him, though, I knew exactly who he was. And, I felt like I was ten years younger. Definitely trick.

Posted on by docthink 2

Throwing in the Towel

Pink bath towel set.

It was a simple task. Maybe it wasn’t really that simple since there was already a task in the queue. She would call them “errands.” She had no idea what he would call them.

The goal was a simple wedding, and, as far as weddings go it was. The time frame between “will you marry me” through “I do” was a week shy of three months. They conned a priest into marrying them in a church and selected the #2 readings with full mass. Honestly the only criteria for the service was to avoid the “submit to thy husband” reading. Any of the other Old or New Testament love readings would be fine. A box checked.

There was a maid of honor and a best man, no additional maids or bearers. She told the maid to pick out a dress that would be appropriate to the best man’s tuxedo. And any color. Except white. There were many compliments to the bride over the maid’s sartorial selection.

She bought her own dress off the rack from the fancier department store. It was left over from prom. She had a choice among four or five white or near white frocks. She was very happy with the one she bought. And it was on sale, too.

The reception would be in his huge group house where there had been many large parties with multiple keg runs. He had a roommate who had access to wholesale booze, and they found a caterer that would bring food and a cake and wouldn’t charge for the champagne flutes even though they were only pouring and not supplying the bubbles.

Her sole requirement for the catering was that they show up. She didn’t care what the food tasted like as long as it was there before the guests. When the caterer mentioned a bakery he worked with, she enthusiastically said “Yes!” even before he could sell her on the the airy, buttery cake with raspberries spread between the layers. Her only request was that the bride and groom at the top of the cake was a man and a woman. Done and done!

The week of the wedding was pretty busy. There was family and friends coming from across the country–at least one, and perhaps as many as six, said that they had to witness him say, “I do.” There was a house that they closed on two days before the wedding. And there were two separate households to move into the freshly mortgaged cottage.

He and his best man were heading off to pick up the three tuxedos, one for the father of the bride, too. This is where the simple task came in. She realized that there were no decent finger towels for the bathroom.

“When you guys are out, can you pick up some hand towels for the bathroom? Pink, please. And if they don’t have pink, white would be fine.”

The time to the rehearsal began to close in like the trash compactor in Star Wars. There were amazing wedding elves moving furniture about, sweeping and mopping, and artfully hanging these ridiculous white paper bells and twists of gray and pink crepe paper, but the list of things to do was still daunting. She was becoming overwhelmed. He knew. She didn’t know, so much.

She needed to get her clothes and check into the hotel, then change, then to the church for rehearsal, then the dinner, then back to the hotel. She kept going over her list around and around like that stupid zipper ride at the fair. The one where you go up one side and down the other in these cars that swing around and upside down and the people riding throw up. The elves checked in and she distributed more tasks.

The soon-to-be groom and his best man came back with the tuxedos. He handed her dad’s suit to her so she could bring it to the hotel. He wasn’t going to the hotel.

She looked at him.

“Did you forget the towels?” Her voice went sharp and a half octave higher from the strain of being calm. She was approaching the peak of the zipper ride.

“We got them. We didn’t know where to go so we went to the drugstore. They didn’t have many towels but we found these.” His brother showed a shopping bag. He pulled out four towels. They were more like kitchen towels, which would be okay, but they were not pink. They were orange.

She did not handle the color substitution well. Her disappointment was of volume. It was such that the women who would be her sisters-in-law the next day flanked her, grabbed her by the elbows and led her out of the house to work through her zipper list. She wasn’t sure, but it seemed that everyone who remained in the house was relieved when the squad removed the ticking bomb.

Anyway, The Spouse brought up those orange towels today. “Well at least it’s not as bad as when I got those pink towels!” (Yes, he still clings to his improper claim that they were pink. I kept the evidence for about twelve years.)

Why bring it up? It’s been decades of errands and lists and stress and explosions and near misses since that day. I guess the towels are an expression of something the priest read at our supersized wedding:

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.

—1 Corinthians* 13:4-8

So when he reminded me of his abject towel failure, I asked him why with a crooked grin then a chuckle and then a belly laugh. Because I know exactly why he said it.

* for those keeping track at home, that’s pronounced First Corinthians.

Posted on by docthink 2

Motion, less

The Beast looks outside through the window with a bouquet and vase next to him.

What is still?

The Beast poked his head out the open window. There was no glass. There was no screen. There was only a frame for him to rest his head and stick his snout out into the world. There was no barrier between him and the outside.

He sniffed left and right without moving his big, block head. He raised his nostrils one and then the other from the tip of his scent-hound muzzle. He investigated that which was happening downwind, but, the concentration of smells rode the jetstream of air from the north. There was some mowed grass and a hint of the shampoo from the damp hair of the mom jogging by and pushing a massive three wheeled stroller. He was able to also pick out her warmed deodorant.

There was the delicious aroma of whatever was happening in the compost bin. There was some funk and some sweet and some sharp and some fire. It had rained most of the weekend and there was some leftover dampness–wet dirt, wet grass and those mushrooms that just appeared out of nowhere.

The rose bush was blooming one more time, but the sweet fresh fragrance was overshadowed by the base muskiness of the mums that were brought home to brighten the front yard. He smelled both, though.

The flies buzzed around his head and out the open window into the cool air. One or two tried to fly back into the warm house, but were caught in the heat-cold exchange and pushed back out.

The Beast’s head rested on the windowsill next to a vase of fading flowers. It was a beautiful still life, colored by the late morning sun streaming into the dining room. But this was no inanimate subject matter. There was hundreds of small movements happening, all at once.

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The Pit of Despair

Olives for snacking. Different kinds. All pitted. We hope.

Got a text from The Spouse who has been pulling in long days for a grand opening. Another late evening. Another late dinner.

I got home and was so hungry. Like so hungry. So hungry that all I can think of is my stomach. Every song coming through this 90s channel has a secret message about food. Green Day? Singing messages about vegetables, and maybe pesto. Mmmm, pesto. Semi-charmed Life? Yeah, I want something else, or at least something. I Like Big Butts? Definitely about ham. I hear the drum intro from Smells Like Teen Spirit and I substitute my own nonsense lyrics–“Here we are now, gotta feed us! A potato. Alfredo. A burrito. Cappuccino, yeah.”

Well, I guess I could easily just fend for myself and grab some cheese and crackers and a glass of wine. Or warm up the leftover pasta from yesterday–there’s not enough to share. There is enough fendable grub for two. I could take the high road and leave the best of the odds and ends for the straggler.

I know that someone will be tired and even hungrier than me when they drag themselves in the house.  I also know that someone worked hard all day–and yesterday and yesterday’s yesterday and tomorrow and tomorrow’s tomorrow, too. Someone who has stuff to share and would like some company.

I pulled out the grilled chicken from Saturday and cooked up some quinoa. I brought the heirloom tomato salad to room temperature and blanched some green beans. I’ll assemble a warm bowl on top of the arugula and drizzle it with the sauciness from the tomatoes. I’ll pour two glasses of that fizzy wine and have dinner with The Spouse. That’s what we do. We take care of each other.

I’ll have a few olives to tide me over. It’s not the pit of despair. It’s twoo love.

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Muse

Feet and Beast at beach.

Sitting on the couch, next to The Spouse. Tragically, he either refuses or is incapable of giving me a decent idea for a post. I only say refuses because the concepts he has provided displayed a lack of operability.

Seriously, his offers were more like an SAT essay prompt. Or a sickly question for Miss America. (Do they still do Miss America? Do they still ask her about world peace?)

I wondered if The Spouse has ever read the Doctor Of Thinkology. A regular reader would know that it is rare that the Doc is difficultly thoughtful. I mean, I POST EVERY STINKING DAY. Most posts are going to be short or glib. Sometimes I hit a home run. But if I’m asking for inspiration, rest assured this will not be a high scoring game.

I do appreciate the support. I really do. Throwing out ideas shows that we both take this seriously. And there is no reason on God’s green earth that The Spouse should. Yet he does.

While I am grateful that my quixotic quest to write and publish every stinking day is encouraged and endorsed, sans idea there is no post.

The Spouse asks me to stretch out so he can rub my feet.

Seriously, why is it when someone puts their hand on your foot and squeezes, or presses their fingers along the spine of your foot, or works through each of your toes, you’re just done? Done in a way that is perfect. Done in a way that the sensors in the balls of your feet which are directly and immediately wired to a spot in your brain, at the back of your head and above your right ear, deliver a breathless, “ahhhhh.” And a melting of the foot into the magic hand, begging for more. Because that is what happens. Foot massages are crack.

The Beast crawls up on the couch and drapes himself over the right side of my body. As he works to find his most comfortable–and comforting–spot, I take the laptop and move it around his huge shoulders, his huge head and his hugest snout. He settles in with his heavy head on my shoulder and his skinny legs folded underneath him. His sigh disperses a forceful wind of hot air, delivered with just a huff. At the end.

The hand on my foot absent-mindedly continues to sometimes apply pressure to bones and sometimes to just run along the distance between heel and toe. Whatever the technique, it lights up the dopamine receptors and all is right in the world.

So, what will I write about? What is my inspiration? Thank you, Spouse. You done did good.

Posted on by docthink 0

Scrreeeecch!

RIding a bike down Pennsylvania Ave with the Capitol ahead.

So I dumped my bike to avoid a big accident. For those of you with a more mortorized view of dumping a bike, it wasn’t that.

We had a glorious Sunday ride down to do an explore of the new museum. Yes, that one. It was a great late summer day with a breeze, sunshine and better than bearable temperatures. The bike path was full of cyclists and walkers. The route is an easy five miles to the museums with minuscule change in elevation. It’s not a work out, it’s like being a little kid locomoting yourself. And ringing your bicycle bell. I did that alot. The bell ringing. The Spouse got a little tired of it.

I felt like I was flying, like when the kids take off with E.T. Didn’t you always think you could do that? I pretended to race, mostly my shadow. I sang songs from last week’s concert. I went down a hill and said, “Wheeeee!” Outloud. I really did. The Spouse gave me a look for that, too. The Spouse is a much more serious cyclist than me. I slow down his vibe. He’s a good sport that way.

I took in the sights along the bike trail. It’s one of the paths that got built next to railroad tracks. For us it’s tracks that run Amtrack, CSX and the subway. Sometimes you can even race a train. They usually win, though.

There are stunning murals along a section of a retaining wall. It looks like they gave five or six artists sections to paint. As you pedal by you can see a style and color palette that somehow flows into the next section, even though the next artist is very different. I wonder if riding your bike past makes it into a moving picture. I’m thinking Muybridge motion studies.

Also, did I tell you I got a new helmet? And I like it?

We locked our bikes up in a secret garden behind the American history museum. Ours were the only bikes. I felt like a Washington insider. Okay, maybe my standards for insider-status are low. No matter. We walked through the construction site of the new museum, but that’s all I can tell you. It’s a secret. Then we rode back home.

We stopped for libations at the pub at the top of the hill at the top of the trail. I’m not kidding, the chips for the nachos were so fresh. And not just because they were good with the hopped beverage. They were special. It was like everything was special on this adventure.

I walked my bike up to the crosswalk so I could cross to the other side of the street and then over the bridge and then the three remaining blocks home. Nobody was coming on the right. Nobody on the left so I stood on the right pedal and pumped my foot down to scoot across the street. As I did, I saw a car coming over the bridge.

The bridge has a decent arch. There’s a light on the other side, but cars come flying if they get a go-ahead green at the intersection. Drivers can’t see you until after they crest the arch. And then, almost immediately, there’s the crosswalk. I didn’t like the future I saw, so as I was accelerating with my right leg, I used both hands to pull hard on the brake levers. Pulling as if my life depended on it.

The mixed messages of stop and go caused my front tire to rear left, almost like a horse. Except I don’t ride horses, so this simile might be overdone. But my bike did throw me. Fortunately, it tossed me to the sidewalk. Out of range of the car coming over that bridge. The driver sped by without seeing me.

There were cries of concern from the restaurant’s patio. Two women came to the edge of the space to see if I was hurt. I was a little scraped up. One of them thought that I should take a breather. I told her I was fine. Because I was. Better to have a skinned elbow and knee than to be hit by a car, I always say.

I dusted myself off to witness a most obscene exhibition of road rage. A group of five or six students were walking in the cross walk–the one with the metal sign in the middle reminding drivers that they must stop. A driver jumped out of his car and began yelling and cursing at them. He left his car door open and delivered an over-the-top berating, jumped into the path of one guy and body blocked a young woman. I thought she would melt on the spot, or turn to stone. The people on the patio were no longer looking at me. They were wide-eyed at the new spectacle. Busy afternoon.

I was shocked out of my absorption with my own bike dumping experience. Looks like someone was going to get hit with a car. Overall, I’m glad it was the undergrads being pummeled by  angry words. I adjusted the front tire of my bike and gingerly made the three minute trek home to ice my elbow.

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Failing On Line

A vintage picture of a well put together woman checking out here groceries. She has a great hat.

She was the worst ever at packing a grocery bag. She knew that eggs needed to go on the top, but would regularly misalign her tomatoes on unevenly shaped cans. Cans would shift, tomatoes would smash.

It goes back to that time–decades ago–at the cheaper grocery store. The one that didn’t take credit cards, that sold goods out of cardboard cases rather than from neatly stacked shelves, where you paid for bags and you packed your own.

Her stress began when she had to buy the bags. She didn’t know how many she needed. All she knew was she had a conveyor belt full of food. She guessed the number of bags she needed. She guessed wrong. How did her friends do this?

The baby was in the well of the shopping cart as she was trying to empty the full belt. He was a baby in that he wasn’t quite yet a kid, but he was mobile. She kept an eye on him while she shoved food in the paper bags as fast as she could. There were people behind her in her line. They would need her to be done. Soon. Very soon.

Ethel and Lucy desperately dealing with an accelerating chocolate candy assembly line.She felt like Lucy & Ethel wrapping chocolates as the conveyor belt moved faster and faster, and as they became increasing more desperate–hiding candy in their hats, secreting it away in their uniforms and eventually popping the evidence into their mouths. But this wasn’t a joke. Her consequences were real. And then there was the wail.

The baby had somehow wedged his big fat cheeks between the wires where the shopping cart seat meets the cart. The more he tried to extricate himself, the more he was stymied. And this held true for his mother, too. He was afraid. So was she.

She couldn’t collapse the seat into the cart without collapsing her son’s face. She had to figure out a way to wiggle his cheekbones attached to his big head from the grip of the cart. But the baby screamed as she was doing her work. She believed it was not just because it was uncomfortable, but also because it hurt.

So she’s holding up the entire busy line at the cheaper grocery store trying to liberate a being that she loved more than life itself. And she was not removing her groceries from the assembly line. The line that was moving, just behind her.

She wished to her soul that she had pliers to cut the cart to piles of metal shavings and take her sweet baby home. But she also had $160 of groceries on the line. And they weren’t bagged.

She attended to her baby as the passersby were looking at her like she was the most ignorant and the most neglectful and the worst mother in the city, and in the state, and in the country, and in the world, and, possibly, in the entire universe. Nobody stopped to see if they could help. Many threw their noses into the air as they looked down on her obvious incompetence.

She wasn’t sure how she extracted her love from the jaws of the shopping cart. But she held him close as his sobs subsided. Still there was no help.

Except.

Except.

Except for the checker. The one who was having her line held up by the madness. She stopped scanning packages and grabbed some brown paper bags. She expertly took the food on the belt and smartly packed the bags. Because that was what needed to be done. And her line was stalled. But she felt for the woman. She did the packing because she was helping. And god knew the woman with the baby needed help.

So that’s why the woman would never successfully pack a grocery bag. She just couldn’t do it. She seized up and stalled. Even when she had less than a bag full. Even when there was no hurry. Even if the store was empty. She was absolutely no good. No good at all.

Don’t expect her to pack. Her baby is a man now. But she won’t ever put her groceries in her bag. Not happening. She’s not certified on this equipment. And it hurts.

Posted on by docthink 0

Pomegranate Seeds

A flight of beer and a bowl of potato salad, beans and pulled pork. It was yum. Also, thanks Prisma!

My dad liked his potato salad with gravy. The potato salad came out of the fridge, especially since it had lots of creamy mayo. It was cold. And he liked it poured over with hot gravy. Like if the potatoes were hot and mixed with butter and milk. But they weren’t. They were cold. With mayo and raw onions and cooked eggs.

Everyone, other than him, thought it was pretty gross.

But it was Dad’s thing. Potato salad with gravy. It got to be so much a thing that when Mom made potato salad to accompany, say, burgers on the grill–served with condiments right from the fridge, like ketchup and yellow mustard and pickle relish and sliced onions and tomatoes–she would sometimes magic up some gravy for Dad. If you cooked, you know that there was some serious magic going on to make gravy when the meat was on the grill. And, by the way, Mom NEVER opened a can or jar of “gravy.” That gummy shit is a poor excuse for gravy. Even for potato salad.

Anyway, today, The Spouse asked me if I wanted to go to the auto store to get the battery for the Mini replaced. It was on warranty, and the Mini was frequently on no-go. I said yes.

The Spouse poked his head in the bathroom–I NEVER get any privacy around here–a few minutes later to admit that the errand was extremely dull and wondered why I would go. I said I’d go because I wanted to hang out. I gave The Beast a treat, and, along with the promise of new wiper blades for my car, we went to the auto store.

Me, being the clever Doc that I am, figured out the correct wiper blades and waited for The Spouse. And, while waiting, discovered that there was a yet to be tried brewery a mere four minutes drive away. Clearly, this was not going to be an extremely dull errand.

While at the beer makery, I spied the BBQ truck. The Spouse left the flights behind to have a tour of yet another set of stainless steel vats. I went to get the grub on the street from the truck.

As I studied the offerings chalked on the side of the truck, the very pleasant attendant asked if I had their BBQ Pearl.

“No,” I said.

“People really like it. It sounds weird but it’s the most popular. We layer mac and cheese with baked beans and pulled pork.”

“I know it’s weird, me not you, but I don’t really like mac and cheese.”

To her enormous credit, she did not make a disparaging face.

“Now, if it was like potato salad and beans and pork, I’d like that alot better.”

“I can make that!”

I realized I was channeling my Dad. The idea of hearty, hot food on top of potato salad was like gravy. And I said, “Yes.” I ate it as my Dad. And it was good.

I miss my Dad every day. Today I felt like I connected across the the lands of the living and the lands of those who have left. Over potato salad. And baked beans. And pulled pork.

Amen.

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