Tag Archives: Friends

Day Eight: Laughing Faces

One of the coolest things is seeing people waving and jumping around on the big screens in Arthur Ashe Stadium.  When the players are resting between games, sneaky photographers are capturing spectator antics for 20,000 of us to see.  I love the sudden jolt from placid to animated as the stars of the show realize that it’s all about them for a few seconds.  Young, old, in between … the human spirit is on display.

Late afternoon I was sitting high in Louis Armstrong Stadium, waiting for my dear Canadian hero Leylah Fernandez to begin play.  My heart was jumping up and down, which could make it difficult to sustain life.  When you’re so full, you just have to turn around and share the joy with the folks sitting behind.  I had to make sure they were cheering for Leylah, rather than the German player Angie Kerber.

A young woman and two young men seemed quite happy to clap for Leylah.  Good.  Our little cheering section.  They were most willing to talk to an old guy.  I found that refreshing.

Interlude: It’s now the next morning, just before the first match in Louis Armstrong.  We’ve just been asked to stand for the national anthem.  It’s time to sing, and I do, even though it’s not my anthem.  Feels good.

Back to yesterday.  As Leylah fashions another improbable comeback, I enjoy the “Go Leylah!”s coming from my new friends.  They’re into it!  As a matter of fact, so am I.  I stand up and yell a lot as Leylah hits winner after winner.

As Kerber’s final ball smashes into the net, the stadium explodes!  Decibel heaven.  Leylah prances around the court, arms held high.  Did she really beat Naomi Osaka and Angelique Kerber in consecutive matches?  Two former Grand Slam champions?  Yes, this lovely about-to-be 19-year-old did exactly that.

Areeka, Eshan, Rohan and I go out for dinner after the match, each of us choosing our fare from the food court.  Areeka and Rohan live in Texas, while Eshan calls Massachusetts home.  We are soon joined by their friend Ronak, who lives in New York City.  The four became friends while students at the University of Texas.

We talked tennis as if I’d been part of their lives for years.  Really we were talking about life, disguised as tennis.  I thought of the US Open ticket for Friday’s day session.  “Just give it to one of them, Bruce.”  Ronak was the only possibility, since the others were heading home soon.  He beamed a “Yes!” at me.  It only took a few minutes to cancel my attempt to sell and transfer the ticket to Ronak.  He gets to see the first men’s semi-final on Friday!  And so do I … with my friend Carolyne.

Okay … it’s time to watch Belinda Bencic from Switzerland go toe-to-toe with Iga Swiatek from Poland.  I’ll see you tomorrow.

Days Thirty-Two and Thirty-Three: Birthday Marathon … Lost in Space

At the edge of awakening this morning (Saturday), I heard Jody come in the front door. I smiled and got up to greet her. As I rounded the corner, she barely glanced at me, and retreated into another room.

“Where’s Jody? Where did she go?” … “She’s dead, Bruce.” And it took awhile to let that in.

My mind has crashed and burned over the past two days, with little resurrections yesterday as I was together with the members of the Evolutionary Collective. Now, at 7:45 am in Berkeley, California, my heart is rising again after twelve hours of sleep.

The flight from London, England to San Francisco lasted between eleven and twelve hours. It made for my longest birthday ever, and perhaps the dreariest one. The voice inside said “No pills” although I had a sleep inducer tucked into my wallet. I obeyed the voice.

Within the growing dullness, I could feel that I was being held by friends even though they were all far away physically. I was also being held by life, Spirit, the bigness that permeates all. Still I slumped.

At the beginning, I talked to my seatmate, a young lawyer going home. But then he put on his headphones, and that was essentially that. After dinner, I put my feet flat on the floor, extended the seat back, put on my blindfold and waited. Again, nothing of peace came.

I worried, I fretted. What’s to become of this wayfaring Canadian? Since leaving Dakar, Senegal on Wednesday evening, sleep had given me maybe one hour. I was approaching my previous record of sleeplessness – 34 hours. I remembered the delirium – the thought, jangled with desperation, that I was going to die.

Blessedly, the San Francisco Airport eventually appeared on the horizon … now about 42 hours. There was a long delay before we could get off the plane – some problem with the runway. (Sigh) Finally we moved/stumbled down the aisle. I don’t know how I managed to avoid smashing into the person in front.

Down twisting and turning corridors, grabbing on to the meaning of overhead signs, trying to remember the San Francisco subway system (BART).

Customs ahead. The lines barely registered. And then they did. My foggy eyes seemed to be saying that there were 150 people ahead of me. It wasn’t an illusion … they were right. (Sigh, sigh, sigh)

It took over an hour to reach a customs agent. He was delightful. I was a mess, but hopefully a kind one.

I got to bed at 11:00 pm at the Downtown Berkeley YMCA. Forty-six hours without appreciable sleep. Two minutes later, I was gone.

Yesterday held many joys, all revolving around love shared. We looked into each other’s eyes. We saw who was there. I spoke to the whole group a few times. What I said rang true inside, and that made me happy.

After we returned from lunch, the fade accelerated. I was in a practice with three other folks and I could feel my words starting to slur, my contact with goodness, truth and beauty letting go. I pushed myself into communion but the pull of sleep intensified.

Our day was done at 5:30 and I approached my friend Lara to see if she wanted to go for dinner later. “I need to sleep for an hour first.” Lara took one look at me and said “I’ll walk you home.” I didn’t resist. She took my arm in hers and we meandered the two blocks to the Y.

Thank you, Lara. There was no dinner for this guy. And … Voilà! … it’s today. A perfect time to be with people once more.

Day Sixteen: Rambles

Wild goats seem to be everywhere

Mariama on the edge of Soucouta

Laundry day

Home

***

Soucouta is a small village only a kilometre away from Toubacouta. Mamadou, Youssoupha and Mariama wanted me to see it. Since it was during the biggest heat of the day, they insisted I ride on the back of a moto, rather than walking.

The people don’t speak any English. French, Warlof and Serai are the words I hear. (I don’t know how to spell the last two.)

Mamadou took me into his home and I met his grandmother. She was old and pretty in her flowered blue dress and head wrap. She smiled softly and extended her hand.

Folks young and old called out greetings to my friends as we walked the land and the streets. Kids ran and jumped in the 37 degree Celsius sun (98 Fahrenheit). I slogged with the young ones to the edge of the sea, which felt like a narrow river. Mud lay exposed in the low tide and we walked the less gooey parts. Ahead of us hundreds of crabs scurried away to their wetter holes in the sand. Sadly, I forgot to take a picture of this migration.

I stood on the moist earth and talked to the water in puddles to my left: “De l’eau … vient ici tout de suite! Je t’attends.” (Water … come here right away! I’m waiting for you.) I stood still with my arms crossed. The young Senegalese gaped at me, then burst out laughing. Dumb white guy, expecting the tide to come in since he told it to. It was great fun.

How incredibly dry Senegal is. The wind blows the sand. The sun bakes the earth. But at least there’s the river and the sea. And through it all the folks of Soucouta and Toubacouta adorn themselves with smiles and splashes of colour.

Before the wrestling competition – drummers on the left and the two female singers on the right

Wrestlers warming up and showing off their bods before the fights begin

Youssoupha, Mamadou, Mariama and Bruce

***

And then there’s the night, when I can breathe easy again and lounge around in t-shirt and shorts. The Senegalese, however, need longsleeved shirts and jeans to ward off the chill. I’ve even seen a down jacket or two.

It turns out that last night was the final session of the Soucouta wrestling competition. I’d thought it would continue to New Year’s Eve. Singing and drumming were scheduled to happen pretty much uninterrupted from 10:00 pm until 2:00 am. Towards midnight, the wrestling would start.

I wanted to go. The four of us walked to Soucouta in the dark, drawn by two female voices beaming from the sound system. They alternated lines of music … seemingly forever. The drums smashed out their beat as we approached the glare of the stadium lights. It was actually a very small space. Only about two hundred of us went inside to witness the spectacle, one white guy included.

Hypnotic … the rise and fall of the singing and the frenzied rhythms of the drumming. The spotlights shone into the darkness, and all around eyes in dark bodies turned towards me. There was no feeling of animosity, merely curiosity.

I sat in a chair at the edge of the wrestling ground. In a flash, Mamadou was at my side, telling me I couldn’t sit there because I hadn’t paid an extra fee. At least that’s what I thought he said, as the music blared and I tried to pick out French words from his quiet sentences. I moved to another side of the arena and sat down in the dirt. Worked for me.

Wrestlers were strutting their stuff in the middle of the open space. Some would pour water over their torsos – naked or clothed – and keep running (dancing?) in a circle. One fellow tossed dirt over himself. All this while the two female singers kept up the drone of the song, while the drummers pounded the skins. The event flowed out from loudspeakers to the world of Toubacouta and I suspect far beyond.

Around 11:30, the first two wrestlers stripped down to loincloths and came to the centre of the field. Judges gave instructions. They crouched towards each other as the drums started up again. Soft touches on each other, reaches to the ground to get dust on their hands, feet moving left and right … then the fierce grabbing, the hips engaged in a supreme effort to throw the other, feet pounding into the sand as the dance moved twenty feet from the centre point. One fellow flipped backwards and fell to the earth, his opponent pressing down. Somewhere a whistle sounded and the match was over. The victor stood above the vanquished, who clutched his knee in agony.

Woh … intense or what. Now I wanted my bed … 2:00 am was a bridge too far. The four of us returned on the black roads towards Toubacouta, with vague human shapes passing us by. Mariama and I walked. Youssoupha and Mamadou shared the moto. I wanted them to stay and enjoy more matches but they would have none of it. Jo had made it very clear to them beforehand: take care of Bruce.

Yes, indeed, I am being cared for in this country, and in this life. I’m in the middle of something big.

Basketball

So we’re in Toronto … Olivia, Baziel and me. Eight hours after lifting off from Brussels, we nestled into the joys of Terminal One in Toronto. Adventure was in our six eyes.

We had to wait a fair long time for our shuttle bus to Scarlet’s temporary abode. Pas de problème. We all knew that we were about to be on a mission: to buy a basketball. You see, these kids are fanatics. They play on teams in Belgium. They dream of the future.

After we corralled Scarlet at Skyway Park, it was off on the 401 freeway to Yorkdale Mall, the home of SportChek, and hopefully many basketballs.

The ceilings were high, the glitter of wealth surrounded us and the people of Toronto flowed past in all their glory of multiculturalism. The store was full of athetic achievement, many sports represented in their clothing and equipment. Downstairs was the home of NBA devotees.

Ahh … the b-balls. Baziel settled on a Wilson Crossover model, and all was right with the world.

We wandered the mall in search of NBA jerseys but few were to be found. We had our treasure. It was time to play.

First to Anne and Ihor’s bed and breakfast. Anne glowed as she welcomed us in the door. The teens got it. They were glimpsing a new home.

Google Maps showed me a nearby school and we bounced our ball along the sidewalk. Around the back of the building were four hoops, all without nets, but that didn’t matter. Olivia and Baziel dribbled beautifully, laid up the ball gracefully, and nailed lots of long-distance shots. I … threw up the basketball in the general direction of the hoop. We had fun.

I was hungry, and convinced the kids to take a break for chicken. Yum.

Anne had mentioned that there was a basketball court near the local arena so we decided to explore in that direction. And lo and behold … there it was. Three young men crowded around one of the three hoops, testing each other. Baziel and Olivia did the same at another one.

Magically other teens and kids appeared. I just stared at all the athletes. One young boy in a red shirt was so skinny and so skilled. All those between-the-legs dribbles! At another basket, a supremely powerful young man was coaching a little boy who had gorgeous braided (?) hair and an everlasting smile.

A fellow came over to challenge Baziel to a one-on-one game. Olivia and I smiled as the contest unfolded. Then it was three-on-three. Baziel was beaming.

For the last hour it was a full game – five against five – as the sun declined. Belgium saying hi to Canada and Canada welcoming Belgium.

I loved it all.

San Gregorio Matese

The view from San Gregorio Matese

***

There is a place at the top of the world
where our Peugeot wants to run
back and forth on the roads.
Will you come with me?

And you did

***

The family had been to San Gregorio many days ago, when I’d been sick in bed. They wanted to include me in the majesty so we climbed again. We moved above the Autostrada, the roundabouts and the t-shirt shops. Into the clouds.

Jo smiled as he remembered the restaurant at the tipping point of the world, where the pasta was also close to heaven. We approached the ristorante sign in San Gregorio … and the smiles ended. Closed. I could feel how much my friends wanted me to experience the ecstasy of this particular Italiano cuisine.

We stepped out of the car and padded our way downhill. An old man smiled with us … “Buongiorno.” As we curved, a few chairs came into view. Two tables were full of old men playing cards, and there was also a spot for us. It was a gelateria, and I chose choccolato and caffè. Soon spoons and tongues were united in delicioso sweetness. All was right with the world.

We waved at the locals and they waved back, across the permeable boundaries of language. And then we just sat, saying something or nothing, just being together.

Across the way, two sweating men were removing a temporary stage that no doubt had been the centre of an evening celebration. Their banging with hammers seemed right at home with it all.

Also over there was a bar. I saw several men around a table, tiny bottles of beer at the ready. I yearned for such a brew, but it is not to be in the short while. Antibiotics and alcohol are not tender bedfellows. On Friday I’ll have an Omer or a glass of wine.

I could feel the pull. “Go over there and sit with them.” So I crossed the street. I went inside the building and indicated to the young server that I’d like the piece of sweet cake that was on display. Without words, we knew. One Euro and the dessert was mine.

I sat outside, at some distance from the gaggle of men. Six older fellows were joined by two male police officers for a round of talk. I loved seeing the officers lingering with the customers, laughing and gesturing broadly. Relationship … what our countries so dearly need.

It was time. I got up from my lonesome stool and walked over to the table. O offered “Buongiorno” and it was offered right back to me. A few of the guys looked at me a bit funny but I warmed them up by singing “O Canada”. A search was soon on for someone who could speak English, but no one showed up. No matter.

Half an hour later we the family left and I shouted goodbye to my high altitude amici. Ciao!

***

I see skies of blue and clouds of white
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night
And I think to myself … what a wonderful world

Harold and Ian … and Linda

I went to see a kids’ hockey game in London yesterday afternoon.  I was going to see a movie there in the evening.  Between, I wanted to find a cozy place for supper and to write my blog post.  I didn’t have a clue what I was going to say but virtually always something comes out to ask for expression.  (This, twenty-two hours later, is that post.)

It had been a long time since I’d been in the Morrissey House and so my nose led me there.  How about a beer and some funky British dish?  The angled wooden bar seats six people.  A young couple were off to the right and an older guy was hunkered down on the left edge.  I sat down two seats from him.

It’s unusual in my life that someone says hi before I do but today was my lucky day.  “Harold” was engaged in a conversation with the bartender, and included me.  It sounded like they were negotiating a trade, and indeed they were.

“How about four cuts for the painting?” offered the bartender.

“Sounds fair to me, ” returned Harold.

Wow.  If only all of life’s exchanges could be so simple.

Turns out that Harold is a barber in the back of a high-end men’s clothing store.  And Mr. Bartender is a painter.  I Googled the shop and found out that cool services such as a “hot towel shave” were on offer.

“I bet you know what you’re doing when you’re looking down on someone’s hair, Harold,” I chimed in.

“I’m good at what I do.”

How refreshing.  Someone who sees their ability accurately, without pomp and circumstance.

I looked more closely at the employees flitting to and fro.  They were often smiling.  And they wore black t-shirts.  On the front was “I ♥ the MO.”  On the back … “I am human and I need to be loved.”  Okay.  This is my type of place.  I asked my friend who was pouring drinks “Who owns the Morrissey House?”  The reply was accompanied by a gesturing arm.  “The fellow in the ball cap – Mark.”  He was seating a couple at a window table.  Big smile.  No edge.  Homey.  I like this room and its inhabitants.

Harold and I got going about Newfoundland.  We both were in St. John’s in September.  We talked about getting “screeched in” on George Street, and the astonishing host at Christian’s Bar who learned, and remembered, everyone’s name.  There must have been thirty people  participating in the ceremony.  That was a moment last night when Harold and I locked eyes in admiration for a young Newfie guy with fully operating brain cells.

We talked of the bright colours of St. John’s, the many homes painted in red, yellow or blue.  We talked of the people who laid open their welcome mats for us.  We were instant friends.

Harold is a regular at Morrissey’s and an hour after our first contact here comes “Ian”, another one.  He sits between us.  There’s an Irish lilt in his words as he tells me he’s from Corner Brook, Newfoundland.  Ian regales me with the beauty of Gros Morne National Park near his hometown, and soon it’s a three-way conversation about the wonders of St. John’s eateries and drinkeries.  “Did you go to Quidi Vidi?” > “Yes!  And the Quidi Vidi Brewing Company with its wooden paddle full of beer samples.” > “How about Linda’s Place there, right across from Mallard Cottage?” > “I was in Mallard Cottage but I don’t remember anything across the street.”  >  “It had another name but Linda was the star.  What a character!”

Wow.  Look at what I was in the middle of (well, actually on the right end).  Three senior guys whooping it up in memory.  I got Google Maps going on my phone and found Mallard Cottage.  When I enlarged the screen, I saw “Inne of Olde” across the street from Mallard.  I enlarged the photo of a smiling woman and showed it to my fellows.  “That’s Linda!” bellowed Harold.  And we all laughed some more.

Here’s a Google comment about Linda’s place:

Linda (the owner) has so much heart for those around her, and anyone that comes in is another new friend or family member to her.  Welcoming atmosphere, with trinkets from around the world and often stories along with them.

Definitely worth the stop in for a pint or a shot or three.

I’ll definitely come back every time I’m in St. John’s with a few friends in tow.  The YACC community will keep coming back, Linda, from your adopted cancer kids – we love you!

Wow all over again
Morrissey’s and Linda’s
Harold and Ian and Linda and Bruce
And a smiling young couple at the other end of the bar

Day Twenty-Three: To Toronto

It was a 6:00 am rising for the trip home. Lore and Baziel promised they’d get up at 7:00 to say goodbye. They kept their word. I hugged each of them and told them that I loved them. Such wonderful teenagers who will be great adults, ones with big hearts and huge contributions to make in our wide world. As we loaded the car, Baziel stood at the window for a few minutes, staying in touch.

Jo and Lydia drove me the hour to Brussels Airport. Sometimes she was sniffling in the front seat in the darkness.

We sat in a café having a coffee and croissant but the time was soon for parting. They walked me to the gate. Jo and I hugged and I told him that I loved him.

And then … Lydia. We turned to each other and started crying. We held each other with Jo smiling beside. She messed my hair and we said what was oh so very true.

As we walked in Belgium and Senegal, Lydia would often grab my arm. Sometimes it was her linked with Jo on one side and me on the other. A great joie de vivre as we strolled along.

If in August, 2017 on a hiking trail in Alberta Lydia Dutrieue hadn’t said “Would you like to come with us?” I wouldn’t be crying right now. I wouldn’t have held hands with Senegalese kids and kissed the cheeks of many adults. I wouldn’t now have Mareama and Youssoupha in my life. (I’ve been spelling his name wrong.) Thank you, Lydia, for moving right into my life and calling it home. You are my friend.

***

It’s four-and-a-half hours into the sky. I’ve had a delicious meal of penne pasta with a tomato sauce; a multi-flavoured salad full of greens, reds, little cheese balls and walnuts; a warm bun; an almond tart … and definitely the red wine. Wow. And that’s not even the best. I just finished watching Les Misérables for the first time. So much human communion there – love, sadness, loneliness, death – all wrapped in a blanket of song. Stunning.

***

I wonder what’s next in this life of mine. I know it’ll be about friends – in Belmont, in the Evolutionary Collective, in London, in Toronto and most definitely in Belgium and Senegal. I am blessed.

***

Okay, that was a very long flight. I am quite perfectly pooped and very glad to be staying with Anne and Ihor in Toronto tonight. I need to be good to myself and stay off the 401 in the dark when I’m this tired.

Belgium and Senegal were marvels in my world. I loved and was loved. Can you think of anything better? No, I can’t either. I’m going back in 2019 to both places … with bells on.

Thank you for sharing these twenty-three days with me. I’ve loved writing to you.

Day Fifteen: On the Water to Paradise Island

We started early this morning – two small boats carrying about twenty human beings down the river to the ocean. I sat with Lieselot, Sabrine and Jan. Normal conversations were punctuated with vistas of biabab trees, broad expanses of smooth water, and birds flying high. Other boats passed us by, mostly local folks out fishing. We waved and they waved.

Far, far away was Jackson Island, home of a lonely and all-encompassing white sand beach. Several of us began strolling by the water’s edge. The softness under my feet was a caress. The invitation was so clear – slow right down and feel the moments drip away. It was just me and my Speedo, a clothing choice that’s inspired quite a few giggles, and truth be told I wish I could have been nude. I realize, though, that ultimate freedom is an inside job. Paradise Island is just one more external thing … it’s not where the action is.

I sat on the sand for awhile, just drinking it all in. Ansou, one of our young Senegalese friends, probably was wondering if I needed assistance and lingered near me till I set off again. We walked along side by side, him apparently asking questions about Canada and me getting lost in his fast French. None of that mattered. We were together.

Our captains went out fishing, along with Jo and Curd. The group of them came back with several barracuda, which a Senegalese woman accompanying us prepared beautifully.

I had two beer, and that combined with the intense heat just did me in. I nibbled on the barracuda and spiced potatoes but my stomach wasn’t in it. Sabrine worried that I wasn’t well, and I tried to tell her that I was fine. It seems that I have a lot of mothers on this trip, as old as 55 and as young as 16. Although I bug them about it, it’s very cool that people care about me.

After lunch, six of us lay down in the shade. Nothing to do, nowhere to go. Just friends resting, and occasionally snoring. It was lovely. Out in the sun, the seven teens were working on a fancy sand castle. Sometimes they’re verging on adulthood, and at other times they’re just little kids trying to build something pretty.

Before I lay down with my friends, Sabrine warned me that there were little twigs in the sand, with big thorns. “You should put on your shoes, Bruce.” I didn’t. I got up at one point to take a photo of the long beach and was thoroughly impaled. Ali was near me, saw what my face did, knelt down and pulled the thorn out. I thought of Jesus washing the feet of his disciples as I smiled my thanks to the young man. We help each other.

On the way home, our two boats were often beside each other. Eva was looking over at her kids, and I asked her to share what she was thinking. “They look so happy.” And they did. Eva went on to tell me that Louisa, Jean and Giraud all hug her before they go to school and when they come back home. So wonderful. Plus they tell her their problems (most of the time). Even the kids’ friends trust Eva with their issues. She sounds like Super Mom to me.

We arrived back in Toubacouta just before sunset, in time to watch lines of birds heading to the big tree for a safe sleep together.

And may we too have a safe sleep within the spiritual presence of each other. Wherever we are in the world, our wings touch.

Day Eight: Everybody Gone

I’m sitting in the Basilica Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist, an immense building with ceilings as high as the sky. The feeling is white, with rich blues and purples, as well as 12-foot-high stained glass windows. They’re domed, and feature many views of Jesus and his disciples. Not one that I see shows two people looking into each other’s eyes, and I feel the loss of such contact. It’s what I treasure.

I just sneezed, and despite my sleeve, the sound echoes upwards. There are only four or five folks here potentially to be disturbed. It’s a lonely place, and for me an emotionally flat one.

High on the walls, four statues of the apostles seem to stand guard. I wonder what Matthew, Mark, Luke and John think of this sanctuary. I want a simpler church, far less ornate, one that feels good for a face-to-face meeting. Just a few pews, please, and a simple cross at the front.

Yesterday’s circle of musicians and the sight of Paul’s family smiling at him drew my spiritual breath far more deeply. But I wonder what energy would issue forth if the Basilica was full with 2000 souls.

I’m now in the Duke of Duckworth pub but I remember what came next at church. A gentleman started playing the pipe organ high in the back of the sanctuary. The deep tones went right through me but still I was left wanting. I wanted to be singing a stirring hymn with those 2000 souls, to have our voices bouncing off the ornamented walls.

What’s true is that the Tour du Canada riders have all headed home and I miss them. I miss the conversation. Today it was “Goodbye Paul, Ruedi, Ken, Jin-si, Kathy, Jane and Al.” Back to their real lives, or at least to their usual ones. Feeling lonely, I sat in the hotel lobby and joked with the guests who were coming and going. But our time together was measured in seconds. I need more than that.

On the TV is tennis – the US Open. I sip and cheer for Milos Raonic, the sole remaining Canadian. Around me are groups of friends, enjoying life together. No, I’m not going to approach them, declaring “Isn’t tennis great?” It’s time to be alone with Milos.

***

Milos lost … but he gave ‘er. I finished sipping and headed home. I was tired after a day of St. John’s slopy streets. And so to bed.

Dish Drainer

The kitchen and I have never been good friends.  Jody was a marvelous chef and created many brilliant meals for me over the years.  As for this entity, I was an incredible dishwasher.  But I’ve never learned to cook.

Since moving into my condo six months ago, I’ve wanted to have friends over for dinner but I’ve been too scared.  What would I feed them?  How would I do this and how would I do that?  You can’t just wash dishes – you have to present the yummies.

Farm Boy has been my frequent rescuer with tasty dinners.  On Wednesday, I walked in there and threw myself on the mercy of the manager.  I was so embarrassed and she was so kind.  “Happens all the time.  Gentlemen who don’t know what to do.  We give good advice.”  Whew.  My heart slowed down a mite.  And I left the store with a plan: mesquite chicken, oven roast potatoes and corn with coriander.  Not to mention a kale salad and something called maple cream pie.

Now it’s yesterday, and I realized in all my months in the condo, I’d never washed a pot.  The dishes from the few little faux meals were gobbled up by my dishwasher.  When I left Jody’s and my home last summer, I got rid of a lot of little things, such as a dish rack.

Here I was, worrying about how to dry pans, how to warm things up in the oven, and where the heck was the corkscrew for the wine.  Goodness.  I ventured forth to the supermarket and found a small white dish rack.  It sat proudly on my counter overnight.  This morning, however, it looked wrong.  (Remember, I’m the professional dishwasher.  I should know this stuff.)  It finally hit me – I didn’t buy the accompanying drain board.  Silly me.  Back to the store.  Unfortunately, the only drain boards they had were black, even though they sold white racks.  Arghh.  To another supermarket I went and now the two white folks sit companionably in the kitchen.

Okay, I’m exhausted.  Dinner is tomorrow at six and somewhere in a celestial realm, Julia Child is cluck-cluck-clucking at me.  (Sigh)

And then my dear wife’s voice to the rescue: “It’s okay, Bruce.  All is well.  Your guests won’t die tomorrow night.  In fact, they’ll enjoy themselves.”  Thank you, Jodiette.  Perhaps I’m overreacting just a tad.

How can I be so confident in some areas of life
and so plastered with sweat in others?
I don’t know
Maybe just a human being being human