But there was a night in the spring that a 1976 Gran Torino pulled into my front yard when the world was ours. Ours and mine. And we went for a joy ride.
I would wager that the rest of the world doesn’t know it yet, but I learned how to love that night. Or perhaps I merely remembered.
Suddenly I was a little girl again. In the back on the bench seat with the wind whipping through my hair. The open road, the night sky. The roar of a mean engine. And a giggling Red there beside me.
And what could I do but revel in El’s joy? In Red’s joy? In my own joy...
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Monday, March 19, 2012
For Red
Come lay your head down
Let your autumn hair fall
Let the sun kiss your face
And set your silken tresses ablaze
Close your eyes
And drift away
Melt. Flow. Breathe.
I will soothe away your sorrow
I will wipe away your tears
My fingertips the faintest caress
The brush in my hands
Tickling. Stroking. Smoothing.
I will sing for you a song
Of love and life and laughter
And together we will dream
And with each sigh, each breath
Happily-ever-after
Is one more moment closer
Let your autumn hair fall
Let the sun kiss your face
And set your silken tresses ablaze
Close your eyes
And drift away
Melt. Flow. Breathe.
I will soothe away your sorrow
I will wipe away your tears
My fingertips the faintest caress
The brush in my hands
Tickling. Stroking. Smoothing.
I will sing for you a song
Of love and life and laughter
And together we will dream
And with each sigh, each breath
Happily-ever-after
Is one more moment closer
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Where Are You, Larry Salt?
One evening I was attending a professional networking event on the posh patio of a swanky Scottsdale restaurant. I didn’t know anyone there, and the specific set of people in attendance was not strictly within my field of work, so finding common ground with which to make the prescribed small-talk was certainly nontrivial.
A glass of wine in, and I’d finally managed to insert myself into the circle of folks chatting with the host of the event, when a darling man in his early seventies approached.
“Excuse me. I don’t mean to interrupt. But might anyone here happen to have some Allen wrenches with them?” the man asked, clearly skeptical that he would receive the response he was hoping for.
Blanks stares from my circle-mates ensued.
“I do,” I said. “They’re in my Jeep, but I have them.”
A woman, the eldest in the group, cranked her head ‘round at me in surprise. “He asked for Allen wrenches,” she said—strong emphasis on the “Allen’, as though I perhaps had heard the man incorrectly, or otherwise did not know what Allen wrenches were.
“I know,” I said with a smile. I turned to the man, “Shall we?”
He grinned back in relief. “Let’s.”
We excused ourselves and made off for the Jeep.
The man’s name, he said, was Larry Salt. He was delightful and quirky. He told corny jokes the entire walk. You couldn’t stop him, really—he was a veritable fount.
“What did the anaesthesiologist say to the woman he was trying to cajole into going on a date with him?” Dramatic pause and I waited obligingly. “I’m a real knockout.”
I laughed. He laughed. In between the barrage of cheese, he slipped in nuggets of other details. He, himself, was a retired anaesthesiologist.
“You might think it’s strange to be my age and be driving around on a Harley,” he said. “I always wanted one, but my wife wouldn’t let me have one.” He paused for a moment, and the mood quieted. “She died about a month ago.”
“I am so very sorry to hear that, Larry.”
“Yes. It’s been difficult. I miss her very much. But,” and the smile returned to his beaming face, “I finally got my Harley. I’ve only had it a few weeks.”
By then we’d made it to the Jeep. I unlocked the driver-side door and reached for my Leatherman Charge-Ti and plucked it from its perch between the center console and the floor—just forward of my gear shift. I opened the leather case, and slid the bit clip from its sleeve.
I turned to Larry. “I’m not sure what size you need. Will any of these work?”
“Hmmm,” he considered. “I’m not sure. The bolt is quite large...”
“Well let’s go find out. If not, I’m sure we can find something else. This thing has just about every tool imaginable. We’ll improvise.” I grinned. He grinned. And we walked to the bike.
“My foot rest fell off. I can’t drive it home this way—no place to put my foot.” He had my Leatherman in his hand, and had pulled out the largest of the Allen bits. It was too small and would not gain purchase in the bolt head.
“Hmmm. Let me see.” He handed me back the tool. “There’s got to be some gadget in here that will do the trick.”
I knelt on the concrete to examine the bolt, and then looked back at the Leatherman, mentality considering and then dismissing each miniature tool. I came to a broad, flat tool that could have passed for a very large flat head screwdriver. In truth, I am still not sure what the intended purpose of the piece actually was, but eyeballing it, it looked broad enough to catch the interior corners of the carved-out hex in the head of the bolt.
“Let’s give this a try.” I handed the tool back to Larry, who inserted the flat head into the bolt and cranked. Sure enough, the head caught. Larry tightened the bolt, securing his foot rest.
I could see his grin from where I was standing. “That ought to get me home,” he said, once again beaming up at me.
“I really cannot thank you enough. I hadn’t expected anyone at the event to have anything with them that would help—and certainly not a young woman with a Jeep.”
I laughed. “Never underestimate a Jeep owner,” I said. “Let alone well-prepared young women.”
His eyes sparkled in laughter. He handed me back my Leatherman, thanked me again and we said good night.
I was shocked when, several weeks later, I received a bulky parcel in the mail at work. The inky-black, hand-written return address on the outside of the padded envelop indicated that it was from Larry Salt. I smiled immediately, and wondered what on earth he might have sent me.
Inside I found a painstakingly handcrafted thank you card. Larry had hand drawn and written the entire card himself—from the Gothic-style calligraphy-ed “Thank You” on the front, to a multi-paragraph note on the inside.
He had included two small, additional gifts.
Thank you, again, he said, for your assistance with my Harley, and for so graciously and politely tolerating my corny jokes. To show my appreciation, I have enclosed a copy of Terry Fator’s ‘Live From Las Vegas’ DVD. He is, you will find (and quite unlike myself), a true comedian. I hope you enjoy him as much as I have.
I have also enclosed a genuine Harley key-chain. We Harley owners can be a bit snobbish when it comes to Harley paraphernalia—we don’t think highly of non-owners brandishing it about. However, it is my firm conviction that a young woman with the foresight and presence of mind to carry a tool as useful as your Leatherman around in her Jeep is entirely worthy of the honor.
l was so touched by his thoughtfulness that tears welled in my eyes. It is not every ordinary day that we have the opportunity to encounter such gratefulness in our fellow humans, and rarer still that those who are grateful take the time and clear effort to express their thanks. Larry’s was, by far and away, the most endearing “Thank you” I had ever been blessed to receive. That it had been inspired by such a trivial expenditure of effort on my part* made it that much more humbling.
Larry Salt was a rare breed indeed.
I carefully reassembled my bundle, and I brought it home with me and set it on the counter in the kitchen (minus the key chain and the DVD, which I watched that very evening). My intent was to handcraft and send a reply worthy of the thought and care he had put into his expression of gratitude. More than anything, I wanted him to know that I had received his gifts, and perhaps more importantly, how much his gesture had meant to me.
Sadly, I had also left on the counter some plastic containers full of spoiled food that I had taken from the refrigerator. I had left them there (rather than emptying them into the garbage) because the bag was not nearly full, and I didn’t want the odor of spoiled food to dominate my kitchen while the bag filled over the next few days. So I set them there to await the bag being full enough to empty them and then immediately take out.
At the time I lived with a house full of boys with healthy appetites for beer. And a night later—long after I had gone to sleep—one of them (a little sloppy from a tad too much of noted beer) accidentally knocked the containers over. Some tumbled this way and some that. Most, I am told, landed on the floor. But at least one toppled and broke open on the counter, and spilled all over my precious card (and its envelope with its return address) from Larry Salt.
Spoiled food smelling as it does, the inebriated boys’ priority was to do whatever necessary to rid the kitchen of the foul stench, and to do so as quickly as possible. No-one thought to jot down Mr. Salt’s return address before they tossed the mess into the garbage. And of course, the garbage was immediately taken out.
I tried everything within my power to find an address for Larry. I contacted the folks from the circle I was conversing with at the networking event. I Googled him every which way I could think of—in this day and age, it is easier than ever to track someone down. How hard could it be to find a retired anaesthesiologist in the Phoenix valley named Larry Salt?
But my efforts yielded no results.
To this day, I would still burst at the chance to let Larry know that he touched my life and to wish him well. To let him know that I did enjoy his DVD, and that I still carry the Harley key chain attached to the zipper of my purse. And every time I see it, I think of him and I smile.
Where are you, Larry Salt?
*This fittingly reinforces the notion I attempted to express in one of my Musings entries: “We touch others' lives every day. Sometimes in what seems the smallest ways. So tread lightly, and with a smile.”
A glass of wine in, and I’d finally managed to insert myself into the circle of folks chatting with the host of the event, when a darling man in his early seventies approached.
“Excuse me. I don’t mean to interrupt. But might anyone here happen to have some Allen wrenches with them?” the man asked, clearly skeptical that he would receive the response he was hoping for.
Blanks stares from my circle-mates ensued.
“I do,” I said. “They’re in my Jeep, but I have them.”
A woman, the eldest in the group, cranked her head ‘round at me in surprise. “He asked for Allen wrenches,” she said—strong emphasis on the “Allen’, as though I perhaps had heard the man incorrectly, or otherwise did not know what Allen wrenches were.
“I know,” I said with a smile. I turned to the man, “Shall we?”
He grinned back in relief. “Let’s.”
We excused ourselves and made off for the Jeep.
The man’s name, he said, was Larry Salt. He was delightful and quirky. He told corny jokes the entire walk. You couldn’t stop him, really—he was a veritable fount.
“What did the anaesthesiologist say to the woman he was trying to cajole into going on a date with him?” Dramatic pause and I waited obligingly. “I’m a real knockout.”
I laughed. He laughed. In between the barrage of cheese, he slipped in nuggets of other details. He, himself, was a retired anaesthesiologist.
“You might think it’s strange to be my age and be driving around on a Harley,” he said. “I always wanted one, but my wife wouldn’t let me have one.” He paused for a moment, and the mood quieted. “She died about a month ago.”
“I am so very sorry to hear that, Larry.”
“Yes. It’s been difficult. I miss her very much. But,” and the smile returned to his beaming face, “I finally got my Harley. I’ve only had it a few weeks.”
By then we’d made it to the Jeep. I unlocked the driver-side door and reached for my Leatherman Charge-Ti and plucked it from its perch between the center console and the floor—just forward of my gear shift. I opened the leather case, and slid the bit clip from its sleeve.
I turned to Larry. “I’m not sure what size you need. Will any of these work?”
“Hmmm,” he considered. “I’m not sure. The bolt is quite large...”
“Well let’s go find out. If not, I’m sure we can find something else. This thing has just about every tool imaginable. We’ll improvise.” I grinned. He grinned. And we walked to the bike.
“My foot rest fell off. I can’t drive it home this way—no place to put my foot.” He had my Leatherman in his hand, and had pulled out the largest of the Allen bits. It was too small and would not gain purchase in the bolt head.
“Hmmm. Let me see.” He handed me back the tool. “There’s got to be some gadget in here that will do the trick.”
I knelt on the concrete to examine the bolt, and then looked back at the Leatherman, mentality considering and then dismissing each miniature tool. I came to a broad, flat tool that could have passed for a very large flat head screwdriver. In truth, I am still not sure what the intended purpose of the piece actually was, but eyeballing it, it looked broad enough to catch the interior corners of the carved-out hex in the head of the bolt.
“Let’s give this a try.” I handed the tool back to Larry, who inserted the flat head into the bolt and cranked. Sure enough, the head caught. Larry tightened the bolt, securing his foot rest.
I could see his grin from where I was standing. “That ought to get me home,” he said, once again beaming up at me.
“I really cannot thank you enough. I hadn’t expected anyone at the event to have anything with them that would help—and certainly not a young woman with a Jeep.”
I laughed. “Never underestimate a Jeep owner,” I said. “Let alone well-prepared young women.”
His eyes sparkled in laughter. He handed me back my Leatherman, thanked me again and we said good night.
I was shocked when, several weeks later, I received a bulky parcel in the mail at work. The inky-black, hand-written return address on the outside of the padded envelop indicated that it was from Larry Salt. I smiled immediately, and wondered what on earth he might have sent me.
Inside I found a painstakingly handcrafted thank you card. Larry had hand drawn and written the entire card himself—from the Gothic-style calligraphy-ed “Thank You” on the front, to a multi-paragraph note on the inside.
He had included two small, additional gifts.
Thank you, again, he said, for your assistance with my Harley, and for so graciously and politely tolerating my corny jokes. To show my appreciation, I have enclosed a copy of Terry Fator’s ‘Live From Las Vegas’ DVD. He is, you will find (and quite unlike myself), a true comedian. I hope you enjoy him as much as I have.
I have also enclosed a genuine Harley key-chain. We Harley owners can be a bit snobbish when it comes to Harley paraphernalia—we don’t think highly of non-owners brandishing it about. However, it is my firm conviction that a young woman with the foresight and presence of mind to carry a tool as useful as your Leatherman around in her Jeep is entirely worthy of the honor.
l was so touched by his thoughtfulness that tears welled in my eyes. It is not every ordinary day that we have the opportunity to encounter such gratefulness in our fellow humans, and rarer still that those who are grateful take the time and clear effort to express their thanks. Larry’s was, by far and away, the most endearing “Thank you” I had ever been blessed to receive. That it had been inspired by such a trivial expenditure of effort on my part* made it that much more humbling.
Larry Salt was a rare breed indeed.
I carefully reassembled my bundle, and I brought it home with me and set it on the counter in the kitchen (minus the key chain and the DVD, which I watched that very evening). My intent was to handcraft and send a reply worthy of the thought and care he had put into his expression of gratitude. More than anything, I wanted him to know that I had received his gifts, and perhaps more importantly, how much his gesture had meant to me.
Sadly, I had also left on the counter some plastic containers full of spoiled food that I had taken from the refrigerator. I had left them there (rather than emptying them into the garbage) because the bag was not nearly full, and I didn’t want the odor of spoiled food to dominate my kitchen while the bag filled over the next few days. So I set them there to await the bag being full enough to empty them and then immediately take out.
At the time I lived with a house full of boys with healthy appetites for beer. And a night later—long after I had gone to sleep—one of them (a little sloppy from a tad too much of noted beer) accidentally knocked the containers over. Some tumbled this way and some that. Most, I am told, landed on the floor. But at least one toppled and broke open on the counter, and spilled all over my precious card (and its envelope with its return address) from Larry Salt.
Spoiled food smelling as it does, the inebriated boys’ priority was to do whatever necessary to rid the kitchen of the foul stench, and to do so as quickly as possible. No-one thought to jot down Mr. Salt’s return address before they tossed the mess into the garbage. And of course, the garbage was immediately taken out.
I tried everything within my power to find an address for Larry. I contacted the folks from the circle I was conversing with at the networking event. I Googled him every which way I could think of—in this day and age, it is easier than ever to track someone down. How hard could it be to find a retired anaesthesiologist in the Phoenix valley named Larry Salt?
But my efforts yielded no results.
To this day, I would still burst at the chance to let Larry know that he touched my life and to wish him well. To let him know that I did enjoy his DVD, and that I still carry the Harley key chain attached to the zipper of my purse. And every time I see it, I think of him and I smile.
Where are you, Larry Salt?
*This fittingly reinforces the notion I attempted to express in one of my Musings entries: “We touch others' lives every day. Sometimes in what seems the smallest ways. So tread lightly, and with a smile.”
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