Can't We All Just GET ALONG?!

Lord, sweet baby Jesus, hear my prayer:  please let me always have enough on my table and in my pocket that I may break off a morsel to share or take my fellow human for a cheeseburger if she’s hungry.  

Allow me the time, patience, and concern for the other pilgrims on this bluish-greenish planet we call home to always have a moment to share a laugh or offer a hanky if they need to leak or honk.  “No, no—you keep it.”

Bless me with the gifts and talent that my words and my songs may birth a smile, aid a healing heart, convict a spirit to bring them closer to the Light.  And put in my soul a generosity so that I may not hesitate to offer when I know they’re needed.

Oh, and Savior of the Universe, should I be so lucky that folks would empty unto my feet their purses of pearl, stone, and coin; should their faith in me grow so great that they would trust me with their riches, I pray that I would be wise and kind, distributing it among the people to help them all; should I glut my bloated belly, licking sausage fingers slicked with grease and belching with force sufficient to rattle my sticky chins while others starve—the elderly, the children, the sick, the poverty-stricken, the downtrodden—I pray You would give my brethren and sisteren enough love in their hearts so they would NOT follow me blindly, but bring me to task, goading me into acts right and just.

And, should their imploring words fall upon fat-muffled ears, I pray You give them strength and courage sufficient to bludgeon me into justice and righteousness, unyielding ’til I am knocked off my pride harshly enough to hear.  

If that day of fecundity should never come to me, all the better.  But please supply me with the good grace to keep me in cash and kerchief, a kind word and a catchy tune, a smile and a wink on and about my face, and enough love to let folks know that there are people in the world who do really and truly give a hoot.

Love y’all.

Detroit Steel and the Open Road

The throaty, robust rumble of internal combustion was this young man’s siren’s song, swapping mermaid’s tail or angel chorus for heavy metal’s roar. Junior’d been itching for his first solo on the open road since he was allowed to steer the mechanical monster from the booster seat of Pop’s lap (pater on the pedals).

My childhood’s Sunday mornings were routine: cruise to town, coin-op car wash, breakfast at Huddle House, then off to church. In that order. Dad would always assist me in aiming the sprayer. It was a big job for a little man—rinsing the foam from the hood, bumpers, and fenders—all the parts I could reach. If I wasn’t thorough, the soap could dry and damage the finish. Once clean, the tick of the cooling engine counterpointed the drip of water into the drainage grate below; chamois cloth retrieved from the back seat, flapped soundly, sending fuzz flying, then applied with the care of nurse swaddling newborn.

Each pass of the spongy cloth would whittle away at the wetness that shrouded all that steel, exposing more of that sleek paint job that just BEGGED for you to slide an entire hand—flat palm and ALL five fingers—down its side, licking your lips at the tender texture of all that metallic smoothness; though you wouldn’t dare, as marring that Turtle Wax Sunday shine would rain down hellfire and brimstone upon the perpetrator.

My smile widened with the smooth friction of the turn of the ignition, the struggle of horses under the hood. You could hear the protest of the leather seats in their crack and squeak as we settled in for the rest of our errands: adjusting mirrors and taking inventory of miscellaneous sundries in the console—an earpiece of a cheap pair of five-and-dime shades; around 74 cents in Coke-soaked spare change—NEVER a quarter in the bunch; the paper jacket of my Survivor cassette (the first one I ever owned, begged off Pop’s BMG subscription) enjoyed so often I knew exactly when to expect the warp in the tape, and would bend my pitch to match.

The Huddle House we would frequent was next door to the U-Suds-It. It took more time to drive than walk, but there were other congregation members looking to slick their flivvers on the way to the Lord’s house—couldn’t homestead in the washer bays. Pop would drive slowly to avoid smashing too many bugs en route, then we’d saddle up to the formica countertops for a syrup-smothered pecan waffle or an order of biscuits ’n gravy (though Momma’s was always better). And no matter how quick the service or how fast you ate, you could never escape the cigarette stink that soaked into every stitch. <sigh> Days gone by.

Some of the fondest memories I have with my dad include the smell of exhaust and the squeal of tires. He’s traded those discount sunglasses for bifocals and sawmill gravy isn’t supposed to be on EITHER of our menus that often anymore. But the bond we share over a set of keys and the view of the world through a windshield is something I’ll always hold dear.

Beards 'n Babies

Directly across from me sits this ENORMOUS burly dude—ebon beard halfway down his chest; tattoos covering meaty forearms, climbing his tree neck; pomaded and parted so severely, he wears his hair like a helmet.  To his left, I assume, his wife:  beautiful, exotic; dark hair, eyes, and skin.  She looks as though she smells of tangerines and confectioner’s spices.  Their stunning baby girl is in the stroller between them, all eyelashes and ringlets, rosy cheeks and barren gums.  

Two stops after I board the train, angel starts to shriek.  Parental chatter halts abruptly when daughter opens mouth, releasing a piercing wail paused only by gaping, gasping breaths in preparation for another banshee’s lament.

Mom starts the anxious search through diaper bag for blanket, pacifier, morsel—ANYTHING to relieve dear one’s misery.  But Dad has parked the stroller, and while Mom is pilfering, he starts to stroke that precious cheek; that fat little roll flattens and puffs under his colossal finger as it rides up and down the side of her cherubic countenance.

“Is she hungry?”  “Maybe her diaper needs changing.”  “Oh, I’ll bet she’s teething.”  Dad hears it all, grins silently; continuing his task with constant, methodical, unwavering caress against that perfect face adorned with his nose…in miniature.

In noteless lullaby, the globules of tears slow, the bottom lip curls and releases under the final sobs, and the tiniest sigh escapes the littlest siren.  Blackbeard has soothed the inconsolable as only he can.

In this beautiful exchange, I see metaphors for life, friends.  Sometimes even the wisest among us can’t offer better advice than following our own instincts, so trust your gut.  Try not to judge a book by its cover—sometimes the tenderest tomes have the toughest binding.  And NEVER underestimate the power of a loving touch.  It can communicate affection more clearly than a million honey-dipped words dripping from poet’s pen.  

Love y’all.

I'll Save You A Seat

On my way home from work, I rarely look up from my phone.  I half-heartedly scroll through clickbait, selfies, shares, tirades, and puppy pics, doing all I can to avoid eye contact with others who are just as tired as I am, some more, but weren’t as lucky to find a seat at their stop. I’m not saying I’m proud of it; I’m just saying when these old dogs are barkin’, I’d prefer to let ‘em sleep under the porch if there’s shelter to be had.

Well, yesterday on the way home, the train doors open and this tiny Asian lady of a classic vintage shuffles on.  I glance up as she enters:  perfect curly ‘do, flowery backpack, wee hands folded together at her waist, a smile in her eyes.  I know she’s getting my seat from the instant I see her.

I gently tap her on the elbow and offer, and the wattage on her eyes amps to sunshine as her teeth join.  

I take my place on the handrail and go back to my phone.  About four stops down the line, the seat beside her becomes available.  She looks to me excitedly and pats it, beckoning me over.  I weave my way back to the empty space to her right and sit.  As I take my place, I rub my shoulder against her for a quick moment, shoot her a tight-lipped grin, and shrug/lean that armless hug of gratitude and contentment at the kindness shared between two strangers.  I don’t know that her English is super-solid; doesn’t matter. The message is clear.  

I didn’t look back at my phone for the rest of the ride.  I didn’t look at her—didn’t want to make her feel obligated to chat, or self-conscious.  But I wanted to give her my PRESENCE for the rest of our journey as seatmates.  And y’know, sometimes I think that’s more than sufficient.

The doors opened at 30th and I wished her a good evening as I left.  She nodded and smiled, raised a hand in acknowledgement, and I entered the platform with the rest of my neighbors.  

Connecting with kindness.  It makes a difference—in a day, in a life.  It does mine.  I hope it will yours, too.  Love y’all.

Delicious

I sat there hammerin’ on that enormous burger, tearin’ at that pink-brown slab o’ meat with the marbled, smoky bacon overhang; the runny orange/gold yolk o’ that fried egg dripping languidly through my fingers—no napkin in sight, so I lick it off; spaghetti-slurping that raw purple onion through a voracious pucker; crinkle-topped bun toasted to a burnt-edged perfection. I drag those crispy sweet potato fries through the tiny silver ramekins of homemade ranch and spicy mustard aioli before tossin’ ‘em on the mouth mound. A bluesy John Mayer tune pipes over the lively chatter of the few other patrons out past dark on a cold Sunday night, a hot mug of Lipton’s chasing away a chill and warming all the way down. I dine alone.

The curvaceous waitress with liner-drawn cat eyes steeples her fingers on my table to see how I’m enjoying my meal, as if the rolled eyes, the post-bite sighs, the moans of culinary satisfaction weren’t clear enough. Her ring finger nails are sparkly gold, all the others are dark-something; the lighting is low, so it’s hard to tell. Her blouse is tight and low-cut, her bra a bit too small—you can see where her amplenesses are cut in half and her cups runneth over. Her jeans appear to be from a spray can instead of a chest of drawers. I notice and appreciate in silence. She has fingerprint bruises on her upper arms, and I wonder if her boyfriend holds on too tightly because he’s angry, or jealous, or because he simply can’t get enough of all the incredible woman she is. I like to think it’s the third.

The other servers come by to check on me—it’s nearly closing time. I know this because the ketchup collection has begun. I request a check. Cat-eyed hourglass returns with a saunter and the bill and I flap my credit card on the table with a crooked grin. I double-dip the last sweet potato in the sauces and get ready to leave when “Thriller” comes on.

I can wait. For Michael, I will wait.

Vincent Price finishes his sinister laughter and I reach for my hat. As I rise, I feel the stiffness in my back—gym or age, uncertain—so it looks like I strut from the restaurant. Ah, who am I kidding? I strut from the restaurant. I feel the fall night air through the glass before my hand reaches the door handle and the breeze blows between my shirt buttons as I enter the evening, half a block from my home. It is GREAT to be alive.

On Failure

I’ve learned that sometimes I have to dwell in the hovel of my own failure.  Not dwell ON it, mind you, but IN it.  Poke around inside, see what happened, assess the damage; look for cracks to spackle and tiles to replace.  I take a hot cup of my own achievement with me, just so I’ve got something in my hand to anchor me to the rest of my world, taking small sips to remind me of the well and good, and to give me the fortitude to explore this darker, weaker side of the same man.  I think it’s important to see the less sunny side of things to know what to expect when shortcoming calls again, or to avoid it entirely by growing in the interim.  I don’t pass a LOT of time in there—just long enough to check under the sink, run a finger along the top of the fridge, flip the mattress.  But my visit isn’t long enough for a toothbrush; this ain’t an overnight deal.  And when I leave, I empty my mug in the weeds by the door, hopefully nourishing something at the threshold so the next time I’m here, I’ll have strength waiting for me by the steps.  Love y’all.

For Pop on Father's Day

Pointy boots and shiny buckles, paper cups for spittin’,

Mornings coffee, Court TV with Tink recliner sittin’.

Snot rags and duffel bags, a safe full of guns,

Nutter Butters, Lorna Doones, a box of honey buns.

Hair-smoothin', bifocal tiltin’, blowin’ his nose,

Floatin’ air biscuits, keepin’ Momma on her toes.

Singin’ fer Jesus, wheelin’, dealin’, entertainin’ masses

Horse ridin’, cattle proddin’, sweeter than molasses.

“Darlin’” this, “yessir” that, “not on your LIFE,”

Son who loves him—no, who NEEDS him—world’s best wife.

Transportation:  trucks ’n trailers, tractors galore,

In bed by 8, asleep in 10, and Lord—can he SNORE!

Golden child, a little wild, Granny Bullard’s baby,

Married good, fatherhood, don’t mean maybe.

It’s Father’s Day and here's the way I keep him close to me:

By working every day to be the man he hoped I'd be.

Ed Bullard, Pop of mine,

You deserve all this hoopla and “trubba."

For the example you set, the person you are— 

Love your Son, your Cowboy, your Bubba.

November 12: LAUGHTER

DAY 12:  I'm grateful for belly laughter--the kind that erupts from you in guffaw and bellow until it feels as though the walls of your lungs may meet, and still you laugh--silently, breathlessly, just WAITING for the next inhale, finally gasping and gulping to go again.  Those salty sweet tears streaming down into your mouth?  The vein in your forehead bulging with the pressure of the joy behind your face?  They're telltale signs of a happy spirit and a careless soul.  And the friends with whom you share these moments:  PRICELESS.  Thank you Lord, for your blessings on me.

Makin' My Peace with Italy

Italy, you know you've got me, but we're gonna have a "Come-To-Jesus" right now, which I find pretty appropriate this close to Easter.

1.  What's up with everything being so little?  This six-footer of a dude goes cruising by the apartment today in a three-wheeled "truck" whose front tire looked better suited to dunking in a cup of coffee than guiding your vehicle-ette along the streets of Italy.  The paper towels are more like Kleenex and don't even get me started on the clothes.  I will forever be doomed to buy trousers in the U.S.  Italian dudes simply do not carry as much in the trunk as THIS GUY.  Shirts are fine.  The buttons spread a little wide around the chest area, but that's livable.  Your country is fueled by simple sugars.  Act like it.  "Relaxed fit" is not a flippin' crime.  If it's such a problem, make 'em in fashion colors and roll the legs.  It's OK.

2.  Yesterday we made a cake for Martina's friend Viviana's birthday.  I was given a cookbook to peruse and found a recipe for carrot cake which turned out to be the final answer to the question.  After locating this recipe, I flipped back and forth through a few more pages, but couldn't see the one for the accompanying frosting.  "Where's the recipe for the icing, baby?"  "We don't really do that in Italy."  HOLD.  THE.  PHONE.  Folks, back me up:  what's the best part of a carrot or red velvet cake?!  THE ICING.  Am I right?  I'm right.  CAN I GET AN AMEN?!  Praise Him.  The American gets on the internet and finds the recipe for the frosting, hits the neighborhood grocery, whips up the solution to aforementioned problem, upping the calorie count by 200% and the flavor content by a THOUSAND.  You're welcome, Italy.  PREGO, ITALIA. 

3.  Why's it such a special occasion to have meat at a meal?  Yesterday Martina and I were walking through town and SOMEONE was cooking an "arrosto," that beautiful roast beef dish that Nonna Betty made for us two nights ago.  I kept sniffing the air and remarking on how incredible that smell was.  Martina got a bit of a worried look on her face and asked if I wanted meat for lunch.  It's just not commonplace to have meat at every meal here.  Dinner?  Sure.  But lunch?  Not the norm.  So I had to "settle" for artichoke tortellini with pan-sautéed tomato and mozzarella, homemade tiramisu for dessert.  OK, if that's the trade, I think I can handle it.

4.  Cookies for breakfast.  Ain't nothin' wrong with that.

5.  Cosmetics ads for men in Italy.  You pass by the window of a pharmacy or department store and there are just as many male-centric ads for beauty creams, unctions and potions as those for women.  No WONDER these guys can't fill a pair of pants.  Buck up, uomini.  

That's about it for now.  Italy, I love you.  I LOVE YOU.  Your language, your food, your PEOPLE.  But nothing's perfect.  I've said my peace.  Now gimme a hug.

November 6: On Success

Day 6: I’m grateful for my own personal definition of success. For years I’ve wrestled with what others considered to be a successful career and life, struggled with the strictures of what comprises happiness to others and compared it to my own. Now that I’m (near) grown, I’m confident in what defines my contentment and accomplishment: a flat but full belly; a big ol’ throbbin’ heart chockablock with the love of friends and family; enough money in the bank to keep the bills paid; a fulfilling job that brings joy both to me and the folks who get to see me do what I do; and a wide assortment of memories of places I’ve been, people I’ve known, and things I’ve done. I am sufficient and I am thankful. Thank you, Lord, for your blessings on me.

November 17: Machu Picchu Memories

Day 17:  I’m grateful for memory.  Sometimes I make the most vivid connections with an aroma or a feeling halfway around the world that serves as a strong reminder of my childhood.  For example:  I tried a kind of tea called mate’ de coca recently in my travels.  The hostess at the hotel helped me prepare it—she dropped a small handful of loose leaves into my cup of hot water and covered it with a saucer.  Then she instructed me to let it steep for five minutes before drinking. 

When I raised the cup to my lips, the flavor took me back to summer afternoons on the porch, sweet Mom or Granny Bullard in the rocking chair and me in the floor, shelling peas from Grandmother McCoy’s garden, or the farmer’s market, or a basket that a kind neighbor brought to us because they knew how much that husky little boy of Ed Bullard’s loved ‘em.  We’d hull bushel after bushel, causing sore, loose fingernails and completely staining them that purple color I associated with the flavors of the feasts on Sundays after church.  That fleshy, damp vegetable smell from that cup went quickly from mouth to heart, reminding me of chats, laughter and lessons with some of the most important women in my life.  Two of those angels are gone, but I’m grateful for the memories they left for me to enjoy no matter where I am.  Thank you, Lord, for your blessings on me.

Aggressive Positivity

Friends, sometimes I get a little passionate and preachy. I know it. I get excited when I see the light of a new idea or a breakthrough start to split the sky over the mind or heart of a friend or loved one, then I start hollering. I’m not apologizing, but I’m acknowledging the fact that not everybody LIKES a lotta noise when they put two and two together. Sometimes it’s the quiet of the dawn or the solidity in the silence that make it sacred. SO, if I get loud and shouty when you start to really figure it out, and you’d prefer a whisper or a pause, just lemme know. I’ll do my best to put a lid on it until you’ve come ‘round. Then we’ll jump some pews together, OK? Love y’all.

Granny Bullard's Passing

Mettie Adelia Bullard passed away just a few days before my 33rd birthday at the ripe old age of 101.  She left behind four children, a passel of grandchildren, quite a few great grandchildren, and at the time of her passing, she had one or two double-greats.  

She never drove a car and she never took no lip from NOBODY, ‘cept maybe my daddy.  She always called me “Sweetmeat,” and I LIVED for it.  Didn’t really know what it meant, didn’t honestly care.  I was the ONLY person she called by that name and that was enough.  The entire community knew her as “Aunt Mettie,” but *I* got to call her Granny.  She always had peppermints, and her black patent leather purse always had FOLDIN’ money in it for me, regardless of holiday, birthday or special occasion.  And that denomination was no JOKE, friends.

She washed her hair in that old lady blue shampoo—y’know, the kind in the gray bottle with the pink top.  She told me it was necessary to keep her locks snowy white.  She didn’t have a shower in the house, only a tub, so the sink on her back porch was her beauty shop.  Aunt Betsy would come by to wash and set it for church on Sunday morning and those snowy curls would be pristine for 10 a.m. service at Austin Creek Missionary Baptist Church.  I used to love to sit there and watch the two of them get her House-of-the-Lord-ready.  Granny would hold the velcro rollers in a woven wicker basket, ready for handoff to Aunt Betsy.   She wore a tea towel around her shoulders, occasionally grousing because the comb was digging into her scalp or the loops too tightly wound.

She taught me the proper use—and volume—for a few words that weren’t allowed in Sunday School.  When I called her name from the back of the house, she’d answer with a loud hoot, more owl than octogenarian.  And OOoooOOOOOHHHHH, her ‘nanner puddin’!  Billows of meringue, golden, pear-shaped droplets of sugar nestled in the crests and troughs of that fluffy egg white ocean, floating above the currents of ‘Nilla Wafer and banana coursing below.  Corn was called “roastin’ ears” and the area between her eyebrows and hairline was a “fard.”  And there wasn’t a croup or crud that couldn’t be cured with a generous drop o’ Jack.  Daniels, that is.  

But the thing I remember best and most about sweet Granny Bullard were the kisses she’d give.  She’d grab my chubby little jaw between two fingertips, each cathedral-arch-perfect and emery-boarded within an inch of their lives, the skin of them draped crepe, as Granny Bullard was positively ancient before I was even born.  She’d hold me while she pressed her lips to my fat little cheek.  She’d inhale, get my smell in her nostrils before the first big loud kiss, then give me a succession of smaller but just as raucous smacks on the side of the face.  I’d squeal and tilt my head to the side, making my two little hands into one slightly larger fist beneath my chins to try to protect my nearly non-existent neck while she’d belly laugh, a rolling chuckle that shook her whole body, punctuated with another hoot as she dabbed at her eyes with the dainty embroidered handkerchief she always magically produced from…somewhere.

Granny’s decline lasted longer than anybody should have to endure, but I got to sing just for her before she left this ol’ world.  It wasn’t anything special or fancy—just a few hymns by the hospital bed in her living room. Closer to the end, she suffered a lot; it was rare to be close to her without hearing her whimper or watch her wiggle, just trying to find some ease.  But while I sang for her, she was as quiet and still as the mice that might play at acting like congregation through the week at The Creek.  

And that was enough.  We put her in the ground not long after.  That year for my birthday, I got to help carry her casket to her graveside, received the gift of knowing that she was finally at peace and free of pain.  She’d filled a century with laughter and love and family and friends.  She left a million memories and close to as many mourners.  

Tell your people you love ‘em.  Show ‘em when you can, as best you can.  Life—it’s short but WIDE.  Love y’all.

Ownership

OK, folks—word of the day?  OWNERSHIP.  If you excel at something, ain’t no shame in letting the WORLD know about it.  I’m sick of people shooting down my compliments when I tell ‘em how great they do, how much they’ve grown, how amazing they are; or when people criticize me for tellin’ ‘em all the good I’ve got to offer.  If you’re a rock star at something, chances are, YOU WORK HARD AT IT.  Step up!  Take your laurels and wave ‘em around!  “HELL YEAH!  I BUSTED MY REAR FOR *YEARS* TO BE ABLE TO DO WHAT I DO AS WELL AS I DO IT!”  It’s a valuable lesson that the world needs to hear.  HARD WORK PAYS OFF.  There may be others out there that are better, but that doesn’t mean that you aren’t kickin’ ass.  So get out there and stinkin’ ACT like it.  Use your words and own your awesome.  Love y’all.

Envy and Joy

Envy, you hoary curmudgeon, seated at my breakfast table, tapping a gnarled knuckle with yellow, splitting nail by my steaming mug of ambition; whining and crackling your twisted, belittling words in my ear about the gifts and successes of my nearest and dearest, preaching poisoned parables from a pulpit of fear and frustration; I listen politely, respecting an elder the age of time itself, bowing my head and closing my eyes in prayer for relief and gratitude.

Then, Joy, the ample-bodied mother innkeeper bearing bowl of batter bustles ‘round the kitchen amid lively chatter and raucous laughter, sampling the pots steaming and simmering on the stove, gesticulating wildly with her spatula, slinging pre-pancake in punctuation, reminding that these people with their beauty, their strength, accomplishment, intellect, kindness and humor have chosen ME with whom to share their kinship.  And that, folks, is a blessing of epic proportion.  

While Envy miserly nibbles at his burnt bacon and dry toast, Joy and I feast on the plenty she’s laid before us.  There’s always room at her table, friends.  Pull up a seat and grab a plate.  Love y’all.

Life in the Garden

Your life's a seed you’ve been given.  Plant it in the richest earth you can find—good friends, fulfilling experiences, varied circumstances and locations.  Consider the adversity you encounter as the toil necessary to break the soil’s surface; endure it nobly and acknowledge its worth when you see the tender shoots appear.  Savor the fruit of your accomplishment, share generously with others.  Revel in the respite and protection you can provide in your strong and far-reaching limbs:  bring loved ones closer and aspire to nourish their lives with your own growth and history.  You’re one tree in a forest of many, but the sound of the wind through your leaves creates its own unique music; earnestly strive to make your rustle worth imitating.

Takin' the Buick to Church

There is something about the onset of cold weather that snaps my senses into sharp relief.  I remember climbing in the Buick, leather interior making the air inside crackle with each tiny move—the squeak as I nestled myself into the hug of an adjustable seat; the first crack of the candy shell of the Clorets Momma Bullard would distribute around the car, and the smacking that followed until spit and sweet came together to add to the smell I always associated with Sunday morning—the swirl of spearmint and Stetson, powder and pomade.  

Once situated, if all was completely still, I could hear the dry rustle of two precious hands rubbing in lotion from a tiny tube, probably something from a Christmas gift assortment from years past she finally got around to using—a whispering shoosh becoming a slick squish, the rattle of a pearl bracelet, the click of rings received with a promise now made over forty years ago. Sometimes she'd get too much; she’d slide one of my hands through both of hers to share the extra.  <SNIFF>  Gingerbread.  I KNEW it.

The hymn hum/whistle, preparation for the congregation, would come next—always a favorite.  Pop put his teeth together for that shrillness that was nearly too big for the car, making harmony while sweet Mom hummed (open-mouthed to hold her own against the din of Dad's dental ditty), often winding her way through a few keys before we got to the second chorus, all hummed ‘round the gum, and he'd just keep modulating with her while I grinned quietly, pocketing the Post-It with the page numbers, waiting to share it with the rest of the church family during service.  My folks were in good with the song director; this was the preview before the main event.  

I miss those feels, as I trade the sedan for the subway and too often swap the hymns of a country church for audition selections.  But every once in a while, I come across a silver fox that douses himself in a familiar aftershave or see Clorets in a bodega check-out line, and I can’t help but smile at those pungent memories that push through the cold.  And there’s a stone entryway with practically perfect acoustics near Union Square that may have heard a Southern gentleman’s rendition of “Amazing Grace” more than once in this big, bad city.  

La Famiglia Italiana

Nonna Cicciona (NOH-nuh Chee-CHOH-nuh), a.k.a. "Fluffy Grandmother," you are a treasure. To the woman who tends her garden in a three-strand of pearls and shoulder-brusher earrings, who made homemade raisin cookies to leave on the windowsill for the "skinny" boyfriend of her granddaughter, Marti, I thank you. Being the dutiful guest, I ate them all, washing them down with espresso served in thimbles with handles. Don't be fooled--there's still plenty of punch in a half-finger of Italian jet fuel.

Nonna Betty was thrilled that I had a "beautiful mouthful of teeth." I saw pictures of her husband, Nonno Fabio, the mighty hunter. He had more hair and teeth on and in his head than most folks would EVER know what to do with. Now I understand her satisfaction with the American suitor for her beloved granddaughter. Last night, she prepared arrosto (roast beef) at the Garni Patrizia for the family. The salty tenderness just melted in your mouth, complemented perfectly by the roasted potatoes and cauliflower boiled, buttered and smothered in vinegar.

Balu, the great BEAST of the family, is a 200-pound Leonberger that bounds through the home, having trouble at first building speed, then difficulty effectively applying the brakes to stop his great galumphing mass, often finding himself crashing and sliding through the bed and breakfast. I'm assuming that he, like most Italian dogs, loves the pasta the family mixes in with his food, but only if it's FRESH. He's a monstrous shedding hulk of a creature, but he is absolutely the sweetest, most gentle giant and the perfect mascot for the Bernards. When he puts his great pumpkin of a head on the dinner table, lifting those eyebrows and looking around at those seated there, it's hard not to sneak him something from your plate. That face, those eyes--the word "no" just doesn't seem appropriate.

The cuisine is other-worldly, but my favorite part of mealtime with the in-laws is the song. They sing a song from Disney's "The Jungle Book"--IN ITALIAN--at the table. It's the vulture song, "That's What Friends are For." Mama Alessandra and Martina sing the higher parts, Papa Alessandro rumbles on basso profundo, and Brother Mattia tries to avoid the whole scenario entirely by keeping his mouth full of bread, pasta, or whatever's handy...at least until the family finds their rhythm. Then HE's the one with all the words and voices, as well as EVERY SINGLE CHARACTER's interjections during the song. Yeah. He presents a great cool face, but he's just as happy to be here as the rest of us.

More to come as this new adventure unfolds. Cookies, cakes, coffee, pasta--those pounds lost on the mountain will DEFINITELY find their way back. And they may bring friends...

November 19: WOMEN

Day 19:  I’m grateful for women.  They’re the better-lookin’, sweeter-smellin’, and, for the most part, more emotionally honest half of the population on the planet.  I think they catch a lot of bad press for being difficult to figure out, ‘specially by the menfolk, but they’re not that complicated—shut up and listen (and sometimes it takes a minute), don’t try to FIX everything, show up with presents and be ready to hold onto ‘em for a while.  No cloud of mystery around that.  And when she wraps those cool little hands around the back of your neck to make sure you can’t get away while she’s takin’ her time showing you how much she enjoys your company, that’s GOT-ta be one of the best feelings in the world.  Thank you, Lord, for your blessings on me.

Heart In My Coffee

On the train, knees propped on elbows, cradling the blessed cup of liquid life in my hands, I look down at the veins cris-crossing my forearms, running across the backs of my hands.  I admire their prominence, their power, their use.  The longer I sit there, the more I ponder (and y’all know how I am when I ponder):  these are the pathways from my hands to my heart; my actions DIRECTLY affect my emotions.  If I do something hateful, it eventually gets back to my heart, and it could potentially poison that beautiful love muscle with my misdeeds.  

On the other side of that coin, those roads go both ways.  The to and from of them make me realize that the more love I feel in my heart for those around me, the more likely my hands are to put those caring thoughts into action.

What you’ve got on the inside eventually finds its way out, and, more importantly, what’s on the outside eventually finds its way in.  If you’re having trouble going one direction, maybe the answer to your question is turning it around.  Love y’all.