Random Acts of Kindness

There's one thing I've long been convinced of (and many different restaurant jobs didn't hurt) -- that the likelihood of someone complaining when something goes wrong is fucking exponentially greater than of anyone saying a simple thank-you. I try to remember that at all times. Kind human contact matters, whether it's between best friends or between a grocery store clerk and customer.

So tonight I enjoyed a nice evening out with our friend John and his younger daughter Sue. Sue and I were having a grand old time at the IHOP -- they didn't have place-mats to color, but the waitress kindly brought us some blank paper and a Sharpie. So after we finished our meals, Sue and I wrote some poems for fun, and one of them was a brief haiku to leave the waitress alongside her tip. It was silly and shallow, but well intentioned.


IHOP Haiku

Hash browns, pancakes, eggs --
lovely servers and good food --
dinner at IHOP.


We each signed our name (Sue added a flower, and I scrawled a peace sign). The waitress seemed really surprised when she came to pick up the empty dishes that I had carefully stacked into a tower. "This is for me?" she asked, and tucked the haiku into her pocket. When she returned, she was beaming. "Which of you is Kelly and which is Sue? Thank you so much. I feel like a person tonight."

Yeah, she really said that.

Yeah. Like all it took to give someone a nice moment was something as small as that. I don't know if most people would find a haiku so cool. But I know I'm going to try it again.

Sandy Floors

Every so often, I'll catch a glimpse of something that sets off a powerful wave of nostalgia, a sense of longing so acute that I actually feel bereft. It's not any one specific thing, but it's always some sort of visual image that calls to mind the 1970s, or New England, or both.

"Take me back there!" I want to scream, though I know it would be useless.

I'm not transported to one particular memory, but to a jumble of impressions. Summer by the shore (probably Maine; possibly Rhode Island). The breeze sings gently; the air warms my skin, but sun and salt tighten it, deliciously. People are everywhere on the beach, a blur of bright colors and red skin and oversized sunglasses.

Then I cross the road, asphalt burning the soles of my feet, and run inside a rented cottage. It's cheap and barely furnished, but it's only one block from the beach. The curtains are ancient checked gingham. Cool and dark here; the floors are covered with a fine layer of sand, pleasantly gritty underfoot.

I am tired even though it is only afternoon, and I am just a child. The cold New England waters buoy you up and then sap your strength. I climb into a creaky old twin bed, easing onto stiff cotton sheets, and shut my eyes. I can swim again later, I know. More sun, salt, sand. I drift away in a cocoon of quiet joy. Summer...

Who wouldn't want to go back?

The Violet Hour

Let's put the "high" in "High Elevations" for a change. I got up very, very early this morning -- not the violet hour, but murky, cranky, and exciting all at once. Just past five a.m., I jumped out of bed to watch the two men's tennis semifinals at Roland Garros. In the first match, my pick won, and I felt happiness, relief, and a sudden exhaustion brought on by too many late nights in the past two weeks.

Waiting for the second match, I wandered over the Internet to Slate magazine and found a delightful little gem of an article called "The greatness of gin," by Troy Patterson. He covers a number of cocktail books, focusing mostly on my own favorite liquor. Amongst the bon mots, one about the cocktail hour and martinis, by Bernard DeVoto, stood out:

This is the violet hour, the hour of hush and wonder, when the affections glow and valor is reborn, when the shadows deepen along the edge of the forest and we believe that, if we watch carefully, at any moment we may see the unicorn. But it would not be a martini if we should see him.

Apparently DeVoto liked more vermouth in his mix than I do. But anyway, reading those words, I felt magically transported. What a lovely and accurate description of twilight...and martinis. And unicorns, probably.

Here's to the violet hour, wherever you are, and whatever you drink!