What Can we Learn from Strangers? 

My mother and I settled into a shuttle hired to take us to a family dinner. Mom is comfortable in the back while I’m tucked into the passenger side that’s too close to the dash, even for a short-legged person like me. But it was a 15-minute trip and not worth adjusting the seat.

Our conversation with our driver started on cruise control, with the ordinary openers: How are you today? Where are you going? Where are you from? 

 We meandered through topics, and the effect was like approaching a cautionary yellow light where one relies on instinct: speed up or slow down.    

It started with my telling our affable driver that I was from Philadelphia visiting family in Columbia, Missouri, over the holidays.

“Philadelphia? They had a garbage workers’ strike this summer, right?” he said.

Did I want to talk trash? No, but I had empathy for the city workers and their families.

“It was awful,” I said, shaking my head as I imagined the stench in the July heat. I lived outside the city limits, far away from the smelly situation. However, I had friends who lived in the city who worried about the strike, especially after hauling their garbage to pickup sites with mounting piles.

Our driver, a man who probably juggled several jobs, sided with the union, believing Philadelphia’s mayor should have paid the workers, not let them go on strike. The strike lasted eight long days.

Philly is a union town. Unions thrive in the City of Brotherly Love. Last summer, the city’s Union 33, comprised of about 9,000 workers, went on strike before Independence Day, when tourists outnumber cheesesteaks. Besides sanitation workers, Union 33 members also include custodians, security guards, and others who work in the public library system, which meant many libraries, which serve as cooling centers in the summer, were closed. 

Closed due to staffing. Closed because of safety concerns. Closed in solidarity. (Because the librarians who belong to another union lent their support to their co-workers.)

We developed a rapport and continued talking. I learned our driver wasn’t a native Midwesterner. He grew up in North Carolina, far from the coast. He longed to visit the East Coast, see the Atlantic Ocean—from the shore, not a boat, thank you. Yes, he also wanted to see Philadelphia.

Did I recite the region’s historic sites, naming the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, and Valley Forge? Yes. Did I kick off bragging about the Eagles? No, that’s too serious. He wasn’t wearing a Chiefs hat, but why remind him of the bitter taste of defeat? Did I remember to mention the popular shows “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” or “Abbott Elementary”? Yes, of course. Or pick an easy subject to chew on, like our famous food scene? We ran out of time.   

Without hesitating, he says he’d like to see the Rocky statue rather than the Liberty Bell. He’s not alone in his fandom. Rocky draws hordes of tourists who run up the art museum’s seventy-two steps like the character Rocky.  

Meanwhile, we were halfway to my brother’s house. It’s partly sunny with temperatures in the upper 60s. It’s the Friday after Christmas, and I assumed from the sparse traffic that the transport business had a light week.  

The transport business was not slow despite the holiday week, he said, explaining he drove dialysis patients to their appointments on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. These treatments are vital for those suffering from kidney failure or diagnosed with kidney disease.

“I admire their positive attitude,” he said, adding that they gave him inspiration.

Our silence suggested we agreed our worries were few and small in comparison. I stared out the window, sad but grateful. Gratitude is appreciating what we have in the present tense.

Over two million people worldwide treat kidney disease with dialysis or a kidney transplant, according to the Cleveland Clinic’s website. A staggering number.  

But I had met a stranger who drove a shuttle delivering compassion along with a ride.   

 

What happens when you talk, really talk with Strangers?

Although my casual exchanges with librarians, waiters, hotel receptionists, or museum staff, shuttle drivers, may feel random, I believe otherwise. Every conversation opens a door. Invites reflection. Raises a question. 

Bob the librarian told me he liked my I still read books button when I approached him for a favor. “Could you watch my box of books while I pull my car around to load up?” I asked.

Why guard a box of books in a library? My box contained three-volume sets of new, expensive encyclopedias, which were my responsibility to return to the bookstore. He agreed. I lugged the sagging box from the meeting room to the circulation desk.   

“Watch!” he called, pointing to the box, whose bottom had come apart without me realizing it. He looked for a sturdier box, and when he didn’t find one, offered to carry the books for me.

We talked as he followed me to my car parked in the back lot. He carried the heavy box with a straight back and a smile. Before the library, Bob considered himself the consummate businessman—he loved the energy that came from making deals. He spent long lunches closing deals, signing contracts, and celebrating with drinks. He called himself a functioning alcoholic — someone who manages working, parenting, and living their life without showing stereotypical outward signs of addiction.

It’s like a game of hide and seek that goes on too long when finally, the one hiding shows themselves and end the game. Or the seeker gives up searching and calls, “Olley, Olley, in free,” declaring a truce or a new round.

I listened and then shared a family story—with a stranger. A first for me. I stood there, in my memory.

He said, “I can tell you’re a worrier.”

I can confirm I know how to worry. But I strive to follow the Serenity Prayer — accepting the things I cannot change, having the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Today, Bob’s a recovering alcoholic. He told me his family checks on him, especially concerned after relaying bad news. “I don’t want a drink after hearing sad news. I crave a drink after hearing good news,” he explained.   

We shook hands. He walked back to the library, his refuge. As I drove home, I knew I’d walked through another door of understanding.  

(The librarian's name was changed at the writer's discretion.) 

Image of Santa in the Northern Lights. 

Boots Rides Again 

“Boots, why don’t you ride with me Christmas Eve?” Santa said as he scratched me behind the ears.      

I opened one eye and raised my head. I’d rather sleep by the fire.

“But you’ll miss the celestial show tonight—an epic experience,” Santa said.

Sleeping is an epic experience, I thought, stifling a yawn.    

“I’ll be back for you,” the jolly elf said with a wink I knew well.

“Where are my fur-lined gloves?” Santa called, rummaging through the closet, tossing mismatched gloves into the hallway with a thump, thump, thump.  

Mrs. Claus appeared holding his lost gloves. She handed him the gloves and wrapped a muffler around his neck in exchange for a kiss.

“You need a new muffler,” she said, poking her finger through a gapping hole. 

“I like this muffler because it’s warm. What’s wrong with it?” he said, frowning in mock protest.

“Nothing a little magic can’t fix. I'll ask the elves to mend it again,” she said, tsk-tsking as she walked away.

“What would I do without you? And my magic scarf?” he said chuckling. 

Santa saw me standing by the doorway. “Boots, you decided to ride again for old-time’s sake.”      

I’d matured at least three lifetimes since that first scary sleigh ride with Santa. What a memorable night.  

 +++

Long before Santa adopted me, my name was Midnight. My life was carefree. I lived in a barn content to share my home with horses.  

Oh, I can still smell the sweet scent of hay in my loft. But there wasn’t enough hay to keep me warm when temperatures dropped into the single digits. I still shiver remembering Missouri winters. The heartland is harsh in the winter, even though I have a fur coat.  

That night, I had snuggled into an old, smelly horse blanket. Sleep came easily. In my dreams, I pounced on grasshoppers, chased field mice in a maze of corn, and dozed in the sunshine surrounded by wildflowers. Suddenly, a blast of frigid air and the sound of jingling bells woke me. The barn door stood wide open, and a herd of deer stood in formation. The snorting bunch began eating from the trough like they hadn’t had a meal in weeks. The horses ignored them, but I couldn’t. A blinking red nose coming from the smallest deer made the barn glow. I burrowed under the blanket.

But curiosity beckoned me to investigate. I snuck outside while the herd noisily ate. Outside, I spied a funny-looking type of tractor without wheels.   

I heard heavy footsteps and jumped inside the bulging bag atop the tractor. The warmth enveloped me, coaxing me into a nap.  I awoke to a deep voice calling, “Time to fly!” followed by a slap of reins.

 Where was I? I pawed at the thick fabric with my claws. I howled, screeched, and scratched. My stomach felt like I’d eaten something rotten. Panic set in. The bag opened, and a long white beard tickled my whiskers.

“Where did you come from?” the voice asked.

The Murphy’s barn, I thought.

“I have toys to deliver, and I’m afraid you’ll stuck with me, little one,” the strange large man said as he pulled me out of the bag. He swaddled me in his worn but warm muffler.

“We’ll get you back safe. The Mrs. will know what to do,” he said.

Twinkling, blinking stars surrounded us as we whooshed through the air.

“This nice clear night makes for smooth traveling,” he said.  

Who are you?

“Ho, ho, ho! I’m Santa Claus,” he said, reading my mind.  

Where are we?   

“Don’t worry, Midnight, we know our way. Look straight ahead if you feel sick,” Santa answered in a reassuring voice that comforted me. How did he know my name?

 My nausea had passed. 

“We’re going through the Milky Way,” Santa said, gesturing with both hands.

“It’s dazzling,” I said, wishing he’d hold onto the reins.

“The skies are spectacular. We love surfing over the rainbow of Northern Lights, which is phenomenal. Rudolph took to dancing with the lights. Ho, ho, ho! I promise to show you someday,” he said.

Before I could ask who Rudolph was, I fell into a deep sleep.

Refreshed, I woke up to a symphony of snoring from a crew of Santa’s helpers. Elves. Elves are the loudest sleepers I’ve heard and remember; I’ve slept in a barn. Before I’d had time to explore, a short, smartly dressed woman with rosy cheeks and wire spectacles appeared.

“Bedraggled mess, but we’ll fix you up,” the woman said. I assumed this was the Mrs. She took my left paw in her hand. “Are your paws white? It looks like you’ve been walking in the snow.”

She pulled a brush from her apron, unknotting all the tangles until my coat glistened. She buried her face in my fur, which made her sneeze.

“Bless you,” I said.

“You need a bath, Boots,” she said. 

Didn’t she know I gave myself baths? I didn’t want a strange human touching me. But her kind eyes made me trust her.

She hummed “Jolly Old St. Nicholas” as she carried me into the house for a bath in the sink. She scrubbed and dried and fluffed my fur. She held a mirror for me to admire myself.

“Follow me Boots, I’ll conjure you up a nice dish of leftovers,” Mrs. Claus said.

She poured some cream into a bowl. It tasted like home, and I wasted no time lapping it up. She returned with a dish full of food. I inhaled the fishy goodness, not realizing how hungry I was.

Mrs. Claus invited me into their cozy cottage, where I made myself comfortable on the braided rug, where I lay now.

+++

“Boots. I promised to show you the Northern Lights. Tonight’s the night,” Santa said.

I supposed my TikTok dance video could wait until next year.

Mrs. Claus held up a cat-sized sweater and smiled. Before I could stop her, she dressed me in the hand-knit, fuzzy soft sweater. The deep red color flattered my raven-colored coat and matched Mr. Claus’ suit too.

“Perfect fit!” she beamed, clapping her hands together.

Rather snug for my taste. But I would never hurt her feelings. I paraded around the room jingling?   

“The bells are a safety feature so Santa can hear you,” Mrs. Claus said.

I rolled my eyes. She meant well, but I sounded like a miniature sleigh. Rudolph and the guys would tease me relentlessly.

“I should get a photo of you two in your matching suits before you leave,” she said.

“No time,” Mr. Claus bellowed.

“Come along then, Boots. Donner is giving his pep talk to the crew while the elves load the sleigh,” Mr. Claus said, opening the door. He scooped me up and headed for the barn.

“Fill Old Santa’s sleigh before us, ho, ho, ho, ho ho, ha, ha, ha, ha," sang the elves who were giddy with exhaustion, but as soon as we left, they would party. A drunken display that I’d unfortunately stumbled upon last Christmas Eve. I jumped from Santa’s arms into the sleigh whilst the elves sang softer now,

“Spike the nog, prepare the punch. We are a partying bunch. Ho, ho, ho, ho-ho, ha, ha, ha, ha.

This party is on the down low; Old Santa mustn’t know.

Seriously, you got my gist? Santa still keeps a naughty list.”

The eldest elf's green eyes locked on mine, a warning. I nodded because these elves had a temper, especially after too much nog or grog or whatever nasty drink they brewed. I adored thick creamy milk — hold the rum.

A chorus of elves sang louder and faster, “Ho, ho, ho, ho-ho, ha, ha, ha, ha.”

“Ho, ho, ho, let’s go!” Santa called, bursting into the barn.

All the reindeer followed his orders, pairing up in front of the sleigh. With a wave of Santa’s hand, a harness floated above the team. Donner bowed his head three times. Santa checked the radar and gave the signal for lift-off. Contrary to widely held belief, Santa planned his route based on the weather, with no time to stop for treats. In fact, he carried protein bars—but that’s our secret.

“Time to Fly!” he called.

I closed my eyes, preparing for the sleigh to rise off the ground. My ears popped. Slowly, I opened my eyes when we were at cruising altitude.

“How much further until we reach the Northern Lights?” I asked.  

To be continued.

Why not try a
Thrifty Christmas? 

Whether the motivation is economic or environmental, I applaud this trend. Recently, I struck up a conversation with a bookstore customer browsing the shelves.  

“You’re having a great day!” I said, marveling at the stack of brand-new looking books she juggled in her arms. She explained that her family had agreed to a thrifty Christmas this year, buying only used items. She smiled after she said she had finished shopping and was under budget.

Many of you may think that thrift store shopping is not as easy as online three-click shopping. But my friends, the reward comes from the thrill of treasure hunting. When I see the perfect present, it’s like spotting a shooting star in a twinkling night sky. Plus, I don’t spend more than I planned thanks to the low prices and avoiding the high-end and designer brand items locked in cases.

A parody of a tune in the spirit of the season. Here's to a thrifty holiday! 

 

Have Yourself A Thrifty Little Christmas

Have yourself a thrifty little Christmas.
Don’t you spend a grand!
From now on, we’ll only shop second hand.

Have yourself a thrifty little Christmas.
Join me in a song.
From now on, we’ll hunt for treasures all year long.

Have yourself a thrifty little Christmas.
Let your wallet rest.
From now on, we’ll put our unique gifts to the test.   

Pre-Chorus/Chorus  

Here we are watching prices soar.
No more spending days of yore.
Faithful to the budget this year.
Holiday debt no more.           

Through the years, we’ve found the truth.
It’s the thought that counts.
Give a gift that won’t be returned or exchanged.
And have yourself a merry, debt-free season now.    

Pre Chorus/Chorus 

Here we are wearing recycled sweaters,
spreading holiday cheer galore.  
Faithful friends follow us this year
proud to support their charity store.
  

Through the years, we’ve all grown wiser.
Let us make a vow.
Show our loving miser side to those so dear.
And have yourself a thrifty little Christmas now.  

*Co-written Marilyn & Rico Paolino

 

 

 

Image: Cardinals not at my new feeder!

Where are the birds?

It’s been three days! 

Our new smart bird feeder, overflowing with seeds is ready. We are waiting somewhat patiently to watch you eat–takeout or dine in. Swoop in and perch on the platform. Or grab some grub to go.

All birds staying over the winter are welcome. 

We see you–flashy red cardinals, tufted titmice hopping on the deck. We hear you—red-bellied woodpeckers drilling and sets of squawking jays.

Stop by our sturdy, tree-friendly feeder equipped with a camera hugging the most popular bird hangout in our front yard. The camera has alerted us to every school bus, garage truck, car, bicycle, and walker passing by the house. But no birds.

Aren’t birds always hungry? I suppose they are foraging tasty berries, worms, insects and have no time for free seed. Maybe I need to offer a better selection of seeds at the buffet.

While waiting, I’m musing why we have no bird visitors.  

3. The locals are not hungry after having a Thanksgiving feast at our neighbor’s house.

2. Some feathered friends are camera-shy uncomfortable with anyone watching them gobbling their meal, and coming back for seconds, thirds, etc.    

1. Certain birds are boycotting our feeder until I make my donation to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. 

That's it! I pledge a donation to protect the birds. 

Cookbook inscribed by my flat mate.    

Found Family for Thanksgiving  

My first “Friendsgiving” was one memorable potluck feast with a group of American students sharing a house during their study abroad semester in England.

I didn’t expect to celebrate my favorite holiday away from home. For the last 21 years, I’d spent Thanksgiving with my parents and brother. We hosted relatives who drove for days, happy to be among family. My parents also invited guests whom we affectionately called “strays,” because they didn’t have family nearby. We welcomed these individuals, who were my mother’s students, my father’s colleagues, or our friends from church.

Our traditional meal centered on roasted turkey. Garden vegetables, sweet potatoes, dressing, canned cranberry sauce, rolls, and pumpkin pie with Cool Whip completed the feast. We had plenty of servings of food and gratitude to go around.     

***

I was grateful for the chance to study abroad, a privilege bestowed by my parents. As a communications major, I was thrilled to meet people who produced radio and television programs for the British Broadcasting Corporation. I divided my time between studying and exploring Oxford by bicycle. The town was bustling with students on bikes. The river rippled with scullers.   

***

I kept busy writing essays and writing letters back home. Overseas phone calls were expensive back then, and reserved for emergencies. As Thanksgiving neared, so did my desire for familiar settings, food, and unconditional love.

Mary Houser, my Oxford roommate and new friend, also suffered from a similar bout of homesickness. Neither of us had been away from our families at Thanksgiving. But Mary wasn’t one to wallow in self-pity. And that’s what I adored about her.

She hosted Thanksgiving at our flat. Mary always lifted my spirits. I used to tease her by singing “Oh, it’s a jolly holiday with Mary,” from the Mary Poppins’ movie.

Mary negotiated with everyone so we wouldn’t have too many green bean casseroles. Everyone agreed to bring a different dish and contribute toward the turkey. I made apple pies and set off the smoke detector in the process. Our house mates, hearing the alarm, quickly came to check on Mary and me. 

Bad news: Our flat smelled of smoke that clung in the air all afternoon. Good news: I didn't burn the pies! 

We had a spectacular celebration that Thanksgiving, grateful for our blossoming friendships, belonging, and bounty of food.   

A Beginner's Dilemma 

“Why don’t you two beginners practice together?” 

Mr. Friendly’s question sounded more like a command than a suggestion to this newbie on her first night of open indoor pickleball at the local community center.   

Located less than a mile from my house, I joined this community center because it offered pickleball, along with yoga, spinning classes, and even a childhood favorite  —  badminton. Of course, I expected that a sense of community came with the membership. Now, I was dubious.

Players trickled in, claiming their courts and partners for the first round of doubles during the 90-minute session. Meanwhile, Teri and I, dubbed beginners, played together on the far court. Until more players arrived. Instead of the regulars asking us to play with them, they asked the manager to set up another net. Just for us.

Politely, we were banished to play behind the barrier in the gymnasium Isolated. No stray balls would roll onto our neighbor’s court. No rallying calls or screeching shoes. And no regular players dared rotate in and out of our game.

 “They are aggressive players,” Teri said, adding that she had experienced this brand of competitive behavior from them last week.

Although I felt hurt, I focused my anger on controlling my shots. Low pressure. No scorekeeping. She had taken pickleball lessons, and my good friends had taught me the ins and outs of the game.

Beginners? Our coordination, strategy, and court coverage surpassed any average beginner. 

Admittedly, I’m biased.

Teri, a left-handed player, recognized we had both played tennis. We got into a steady groove and started having fun.

Then, a player I’ll call Manny, who had paired Teri and I together, appeared. “Let’s hit. Keep the ball in play. Don’t worry about the score,” he said. He motioned for me to team up with Teri.

After we ran Manny from side to side, sweat started dripping from his forehead. He analyzed our returns, much like a sports commentator who points out every error your team made in real time. His coaching was useful, his intentions good, but I wanted to hit without the free lessons.

Obviously, he wasn’t winning any points with me. Before leaving us to resume practicing, Manny shared several key ways to win points: 1) hit the ball at the person’s feet, over their head, and anywhere they are not.

My new friend Teri and I said our farewells in the parking lot. I asked her if she had tried the open badminton, naively thinking the game didn’t draw the racquet warriors. Her story surprised me.

“The desk person looked me up and down before asking: When was the last time you played?”

Teri, who is an athlete with knee surgery to her credit, admitted she had not played the game for decades. Because of that, she was shunned. “We have professional badminton players here. Why don’t you play pickleball instead?”

Really? I thought. My community center is a training ground for badminton champions.

“I’ll stick to pickleball then. Do you play on other days?” I asked Teri. 

“Tuesday nights. But don’t come on weekday mornings for pickleball," she said, in a voice that warned me off.   

“Oh?” I asked.

"It’s all levels. We’d have to play with beginners!” Terri said.

We both laughed. I laughed all the way home. Because the truth is, nobody likes to play with beginners, even beginners. 

Footnote: I returned to the community center for open play night. Manny, a regular, told me he felt bad for how we were treated.