Helplessly Hopeful.
This damn snow, it just keeps falling. Those relentless, miserable, white flakes of dread and despair. Day in, day out. They drop from the sky Is it just to piss me off? Is their job, covering, coating and obscuring everything from sight? Every single flake is different they say. Perhaps it's the pessimist in me, but I call bullshit. Because, from where I'm standing, every damn one looks the same.
What amazes me, is how this quaint little town can be so beautiful in the summer and even in the autumn yet become the biggest shit hole of Artic tundra when the snow flies. There was a time when I dreamed of snow. I thought it was the coolest possible thing, but like life, my dreams have changed.
I suppose part of my hatred for the "white hell" in which I currently live is due to the fact I was born and raised in Florida, and Ithaca, NY is a long way from Fort Myers in the winter. While chock full of winter activities, being outdoors in the cold has never really been my thing. I seem to prefer the warmth of summer, or at least to have a choice of climates.
The problem is, and I'm not complaining. It sounds like I am, but I do have options and I've made my choice. This is my second winter up north. I enjoy being away from the ocean and I like freshwater fishing on Cayuga Lake. Also, the summers up here are great. The Finger Lakes is my new home. My home, away from, home. And even though my body has fears about the pains of climatizing itself to four seasons, I honesty do look forward the changes. The change of seasons gives me something to look forward to. Especially when the days and nights start to warm up or cool down.
Still, I remain helplessly hopeful that change is just around the corner. Not only in the season, but also in life. And at the end of the day, everyone needs hope.
*****
My background story is a simple one. After graduation I left the warmth of Fort Myers behind. The new degree in my hand opened a lot of doors for me, but youth and inexperience became the determining factor in my next move. Feeling like I was too young to settle down with a traditional nine to five workdays at a clinic, I instead did what thousands of young men and women do, I joined the armed forces.
Having passed an accredited doctoral program, I was recruited to do my internship. My degrees allowed me to work with people to assist with issues they were having or hiding. The field of Behavioral, Cognitive and Trauma therapy is sometimes a nice way of saying, Social Worker.
Either way, Uncle Sam brought me on. They welcomed me with open arms, to be a part of their team. Then they loaded me up and sent me overseas. Armed with pens, notebooks and an Ipad Pro, I was ready to help 'the cause'. For good measure, they also gave me a gun.
What I didn't foresee was becoming personally attached to my job and to my work. After in little over 4 years, I had met with hundreds of soldiers. Men and women. I had heard stories. Graphic stories. Sad stories. Funny stories. Each one was different from the next, and each had a personal attachment to me in some way, shape or form. And every night when I reviewed my notes, I knew I had chosen the correct career path.
*****
Every moment I spent in the Middle East was, in some way, enlightening. It opened my eyes and broadened my thought processes. It introduced me to a new world. Instead of looking passed, over or around people I started looking at them. I talked 'with' them, and not at or to. Most were happy to share their stories and were relieved to find out that someone cared. I listened. I learned. I adjusted. I tried to help.
Curing their illness was never as simple as sitting down over a cup of coffee and conversing, but it helped open doors for a very long process. And I honestly feel if things hadn't gone the way they had, I would still be there. But life has a way of changing things up, and when the dust from the sandstorm settled, I had a story of my own. A story that had a chapter where I ended up at the Military & Naval Affairs Division, just outside of Ithaca, NY and Cornell University.
*****
Kicking balls of clumped up snow as I walked through the courtyard toward Rose's Diner, I saw one of my...I hate to use the word, but...patients. I prefer clients, John. John has a long list of issues, but he is a good man. He had served his country. And like me, he had come home with a Purple Heart. Unfortunately for him, in his head, he felt like he had let his family, friends, and country, down.
A once stable person, John now battles several personal demons. But, since I had started meeting with him, he had shown great steps to recovery.
"John. What yah doin sitting out here all by yourself? Couldn't find somewhere warmer?" My chuckle caused John to smile, but it was short lived.
"Hey, Ryan. Nothing. Nothing, really. Just sitting around and waiting. You know."
"Not working today?"
"I did. Finished early and skedaddled outta there before they found anything else for me to do."
John worked part-time at a fitness center. He was their custodian. Light maintenance and laundry duties when needed. I knew exactly what he did, because I called in a favor to help him get him his interview for the job. John is also the neighborhood small engine repair guy. I'm told he likes to tinker with lawnmowers and snowblowers.
"Nice. Wish I could call it a day, but I've got three meetings this afternoon alone." I watched John and saw him shiver from the cold. "John, where are your gloves?" his
"Back home. They were soaked through. I put them on a vent to dry and they were still real damp when I left."
"Well, you should go inside the Elks Lodge or the Legion. Get out of the cold and have a coffee and a bowl of chili. It'll help warm you up."
"Sounds good, but...I think I left my wallet at home too."
The five bucks I pulled out of my wallet was enough for a coffee and some lunch at the vet's hall. It was nothing. But giving up the fleece lined deerskin gloves broke my heart a bit.
"Here. For some soup and a coffee. And don't get these ones wet. Treat them good and your hands will always stay warm."
"Ryan...I can't. They're so..."
My hand touched his shoulder, but he couldn't pull himself to look at me.
"See you Thursday, John."
I hadn't gone more than 10 yards when he mustered up the courage to call out, "Ryan...I really appreciate it".
*****
Rose's Diner always smells good. Every time I step through the front door it makes me step back in time. A time when I was young and living at home. It was a stroll down memory lane. In my mind, the "Home Cooking" sign wasn't false advertising.
To me, the smell was always a mix. It landed somewhere between bacon and homemade cinnamon buns. The kind with whipped cream cheese icing on top. The buns, not the bacon. There are times when I'd go in for lunch and only have the buns. Skipping the sandwich and fries, I go in for the kill with a big glass of milk and a dessert.
Rose's is my regular place for lunch. I come in as often as 2 or 3 times a week. It wasn't as if I were unknown to them. Most of the staff liked me and greeted me when I entered, but on the days when I sat in one of the server's sections, I knew I was in for a quiet lunch. For some reason, she hated me. And for no apparent reason, always has.
"Hey," she said, without looking at me, as she filled my glass with water. "What can I get yah?"
There were no printed menus because a huge chalkboard had the menu written out in colorful and puny words, but I didn't need to look at it.
"I'll have the grilled cheese and a Coke. Please."
"Fries with that?"
"Please."
"Gravy?"
"No thanks."
Once again, she turned to walk away. It was the same thing every time. Never were there any pleasantries exchanged by either of us. And although we had never been introduced, I knew her name and I was fairly certain she knew mine. Yet, we never, not once, called each other by them. Instead, we opted for "Hey" or "Hi".
So, like every other time I sat in "Madison's" section. I watched her walk away. But for the first time since I had started coming into the diner, she stopped. She stopped, turned and walked back to my table.
Like all the other servers working in this establishment, she was dressed in the ugliest uniforms known to mankind. Rose, the owner of the diner, who's actual name is Ted, thought he would keep with the 70's style uniforms. The mustard yellow colored smock / dress that buttoned down the front. The ones with the white collars and white pocket cover. The kind made from thick, flame-retardant material, that probably caused extreme rashes and chafing to any bare skin it touched. As bad as the uniform was, on her feet were a pair of really good sneakers. The kind that can carry around a waitress for long hours, allowing them to work without causing them any leg or back pain.
Be that as it may, Madison, as the name tag so boldly stated, stood before me. Years of dried ink marks from a pen on her right pocket. The pocket only a righthanded person would use to store said pen and a note pad. But with regulars, "Madison", was too good at her job. She knew we didn't ask for anything out of the ordinary. So, we never saw her use the offending pen or pad.
In a gunfighter's stare down, we eyed one another. And I had no idea why she was giving me the stink eye. Still, neither of us spoke.
Finally, I blinked or maybe it was a flinch. From the scowl on her face, it may have even been fear that made me talk. Fear of being asked to leave the diner with an empty stomach.
"Can I help you?"
"Does he ask you for money?"
Somewhat shocked, I must have made a peculiar face. My, "what the hell are you talking about", face.
"The bum outside. The one you were speaking to before you came in. Does he ask you for money?" She clarified her earlier question. She wanted to leave no doubt. No room for error with my answer.
Knowing who she meant wasn't the issue. I was fully aware of the 'bum' in question. I just didn't know how to answer. So she pressed forward.
"You shouldn't give beggars and useless drunkards, money. It does nothing to assist them with blending seamlessly into society."
All I wanted was a sandwich and a soda. I could easily do without the rest of her diatribe. And the scintillating conversation with "Madison", while fresh and new, was unwanted. What I wanted was to 'seamlessly' eat. My hours use to 'assist' people back into 'society', were reserved for my office.
Closing my eyes and trying to squint away the words that could cause a painful exchange, I inhaled a deep breath, then slowly and deliberately exhaled just as slow. But words like 'bum', 'useless' and 'drunkard' always find a way to set me off. And I surely didn't want my new pal, Madison, and my, very first conversation, to go poorly.
"Probably. In fact, it might even be true. But on the other side of the coin, perhaps you shouldn't be giving unsolicited advice to people who don't want it."
"Pardon me." The shock on her face was very apparent and genuine. Her face probably looked exactly like mine had earlier. "What did you say to me?"
"I said, I'll have a grilled cheese sandwich, with fries. A Coke. No gravy. Please." I sensed my words had come out in the form of a growl.
