It's strange how a voice with a foreign accent can be heard over a whole room full of people. It's as if the brain tunes out and subconsciously dismisses what is expected and constant and hones in instead on the data that is new. Similar to how my body is not currently giving me tons of input about the clothes or shoes I have on - the nerves on my neck and ears and forehead are not freaking out from the pieces of hair that rest there - my body is used to these places receiving contact, and therefore doesn't react or "say" anything about them.
I think this is the secret to living well... since I know you've been dying to know what it was. People who can still see and feel the pieces of hair they are so used to feeling that they swear they don't feel them at all - or maybe they swear the pieces don't exist; people who can hear not only the new accent in the room, but the conversation between two individuals in the corner. I continue to believe that the people who move me most with their stories are not the people who have had the most unique or diverse experiences (although I love hearing about events and circumstances that I myself could never imagine or be a part of) but the people who have somehow, some way, turned themselves on to their everyday, "normal" surroundings.
Stories are made. They are crafted. I also think a good story told well is inherently vulnerable. There is always something risky in the telling. We create a story by admitting a moment held meaning; and of course, we tell a story by first admitting a moment existed. Meaning and emotion can be stripped from even the most potent of events; I have heard people with miraculous life circumstances sigh and say, "It's nothing - it is just the way things are." And I have been moved to hysterical tears from stories of random, horribly timed diarrhea. Did the horrible diarrhea MEAN something? You'd better believe it.
Recently I found myself alone on a Sunday morning in a small town outside of Portland. I was exhausted as I often find myself on Sunday mornings in the Summer - I had photographed a wedding late into the night the previous day, and my feet were not letting me forget that they had been a integral part of those hours. I had received a "5 dollars off breakfast" coupon from the front desk of my hotel the night before, which led to wonder just how expensive breakfast was at the hotel restaurant. I didn't ever find out. I just threw away those coupons actually - I just found them in my purse a few days ago (and again wondered, how expensive does breakfast have to be to pass out "5 dollars off" coupons???!!). Instead of going to the hotel restaurant I went to my car and drove across the street to Shari's. I don't think I've been to Shari's since I was in high-school, but for some reason at that precise moment (maybe it was my hurting feet), Shari's sounded as good as gold.
I walked in and immediately saw that it was packed. I hadn't thought ahead to the possibility that on Father's Day one might take one's father to Shari's to celebrate. But I should have had this thought, because as I looked around it was obvious that every cluster of people present was focused on "Dad." There were at least 8 parties waiting in the front lobby, but I was a loner, so I walked to the bar. As I sat down at the bar I noticed that there was a newspaper and glasses sitting in front of me on the counter. My immediate thought was "Someone left their glasses." My second thought was "I wonder if I could sell them on e-Bay." But I dismissed this thought as slightly neurotic. I handed the glasses to my waitress who was about 4 inches in front of me piling at least a pound of strawberry gelatin on a pile of pancakes, and she gave them to her manager who gave them to someone else who walked away with them. What a good person I am, thought I. A few seconds later a very tall, very large man in a t-shirt with at least a hundred holes sat down next to me and asked me to pass him his glasses. Shit.
"Oh, I gave your glasses to them because I thought you had left them..."
He didn't react. He didn't make eye-contact with me. He wasn't at all rude, just not interested in chatting or making me feel better. He grunted in response.
I fluttered around and asked about 9 people to locate his glasses, causing mass chaos 4 inches in front of me (and in front of my new large man buddy sitting next to me). When I had sat down ALL of the seats at the bar had been open, and I had taken this man's seat as he went to the bathroom. The result of this seat-stealing feat was me and this man, sitting side-by-side at Shari's with every other seat open at the bar.
Once the man had his glasses and his newspaper and once I started to try to get over my own awkwardness of having stolen this regular's seat, mentally sold his glasses on e-Bay and talked with every single person on staff, I tried to relax.
Sitting alone at a bar in a small town leaves one feeling like having something to DO would be a very good thing. I remembered again that it was Fathers Day, and got out my phone. After three calls trying to get my Dad on the other line (home, cell and Mom's cell...), I hung up and felt super lonely. I began to think about my Dad, and about not being with him on Fathers Day, about how badly I want his book to get published, and then my thoughts morphed into feeling like an orphan and about how alone I was in the world... just me and my breakfast, surrounded by happy, strawberry-gelatin-full families.
The man next to me could probably sense my loneliness, or maybe he felt sorry for the fact that no one answered my phone calls, or maybe he was guilty for his grunts... whatever his reason he leaned over and asked if I would like some of his newspaper.
I replied "OH Yes, thank you." with way too much excitement. You would have thought it was Christmas, or that I had read a newspaper before. I placed the section he had given me on the counter beside my coffee cup without folding it out, and read the first part of 4 stories, but then realized I had no idea how to read a newspaper, (where was the rest of the story? did I have the right sections???) and was entirely relieved when my food came out.
I had ordered a light breakfast due to not really being a breakfast person - 2 eggs over easy with bacon and a side of tomatoes. I had also been clinging to my coffee like it was best friend. When my hands have something to hold I find my confidence busts up out of the water like Ariel when she becomes human.
My neighbor man's breakfast came out about the same time as mine. A huge plate of chicken-fried steak, and a huge plate of french toast. They were both huge. He started with the french toast, and for some reason (maybe it was because we were basically touching elbows, and surrounded by huge, full families in every direction) I felt the intense desire to converse.
"You have any kids?" I asked him slyly. I often pretend I am a secret spy, sent out on Father's Day to discover who is indeed a father by asking strategic questions such as, "Do you have kids?"
"Sure do." he replied. "Two kids."
His french toast was already gone - it was as if he had inhaled it. I think he literally had the entire dish in about four bites. He pushed his empty plate away and pulled his steak in for the kill.
"Has anybody told you happy Father's Day today?" I asked him, holding my coffee cup with confidence.
"Why, no they haven't... everybody but me is back in Florida for the week. The wife and the kids always loved it there... it never did it for me though... I stayed behind to work. They'll be back in a few days. Have you said Happy Father's Day to your Dad?"
"NO." I, for some reason, yelled. "I've been trying to call, but no answer yet."
From there we began to talk - the fidgety, neurotic, photographer with the iPhone who had stolen his seat and glasses, and the mid-50's thick-set man with a shirt more holes than not and two kids in Florida.
We talked about politics - about the pros and cons of living in the city vs. the country - we talked about the economy.
"It don't change a thing whether or not I worry. So I don't." Was his stance on recession. He told me he was a fisherman, and that he had been to Seattle before and thought it was a beautiful city.
When he heard I was from Texas, close to Houston, he lit up and said he had once been down there in his younger days. When I asked him why, he looked back at his food and said "I was there to try out for a team.. for a baseball team." I asked him if he played professionally (I had a hunch - suddenly his thick body and mannerisms were a picture-perfect image of an ex-baseball player). Without looking at me he said, "I used to. I used to. Long time ago." And he changed the subject.
At this point I am CONVINCED that I have met David James Duncan's Papa Toe from Brother's K... or maybe David James Duncan himself. Are you kidding me??? Small town, a bit gruff, shy but always the gentleman, a past in baseball, a passion for fly fishing... COME ON.
We continued to converse for a while until our food was gone and our bills were paid. As I prepared to go I realized that I had never actually told him Happy Father's Day. I decided to ask his name, which is always so strange after talking with someone for so long.
"Well I need to head out... I don't think I ever caught your name..." I said.
"Gary. Name's Gary." He replied.
"Oh." I said with surprise. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes so I busied myself with rearranging my phone in my bag... but I made myself look at his eyes when I said it... "Well, Happy Father's Day Gary. Good to talk with you."
He thanked me and wished me well in my photography and life in Seattle in a gruff but kind voice and with minimal words.
For those of you who don't know, Gary is my Dad's name.
When I got to my car I burst into tears. I could attribute my tears to my fatigue, or to the fact that I missed my family and my Dad on Father's Day. Both are true. But there was something else that struck me about that moment; the moment of wishing Gary a Happy Father's Day.
I so often worry about my family and about the people I love. I struggle daily to quiet the anxiety in me that exists for the sake of someone else. Part of that anxiety is just the nature of loving someone - and part of that anxiety is something I have taken on that is not mine to bear.
The moment of giving and receiving a strange sort of blessing with a man named Gary in a small town outside of Portland was a bit of proof to me that the people I love are surrounded by other people.
I know Gary's children probably wished they could have hugged him and told him Happy Father's Day on that Sunday morning, but they couldn't. They were in Florida. But someone talked with him... a visiting, exhausted, emotional photographer from Seattle told him Happy Father's Day with tears in her eyes.
Somehow the whole moment was like a gigantic, sweeping hug, not just for me but for my family. I love moments where I feel small... moments when I am made to see that I do not actually hold the reigns I believe myself to hold.
I didn't get to talk to my Dad that Sunday, and although the sadness at the distance between Seattle and Beaumont wasn't lessened as I sat in my car that morning, I did feel a wave of hope that wherever my Dad was, there would be other daughters who let out their father love on him. And I hoped and knew that when he heard the words and emotion of other people's children, he would feel my love for him... just like I was overwhelmed by his love for me by a strange encounter with a gruff, thick, kind man who ate french toast and chicken-friend steak for breakfast.
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