Stradalyfe

“What’s your biggest fear?”

That was the question Mrs. Schrader, the best PEER adviser and counselor in our high school, asked as she looked at an  group of 30 of the smartest Juniors and Seniors who were seen as mentors, leaders, PEERs in our high school. All of that mean nothing as the room went silent except for the single voice of 30 high school kids simultaneously say to themselves “oh shit”.  After two minutes of desperately searching the room for someone to sacrifice themselves to save us all from the unbearable, awkwardness a brave soul spoke about their fear of not getting into any colleges.

Then, scattered across the room more and more hands popped up. Each person’s fear went deeper and deeper. Of course I was too busy thinking about my own fears to intently listen to others, but I had it. Eagerly I waited for the last person to finish before timidly raising my hand like I was taking ownership for doing something unacceptable like farting in front of the class.

“Zach, what’s your biggest fear?” she asked again like I hadn’t just spent an hour thinking about the question.

“Butterflies.” I said nervously. “I’m deathly afraid of butterflies.”

The room filled with a mix of gasps and laughter, which for me meant I was off to a great start.

“In fact, I hate butterflies”

Now everyone glared like huge butterfly advocates and I had single handedly wiped out all of their beloved Monarch butterflies. A little demoralizing, but I was already in pretty deep I had to commit otherwise the next day the entire school would be launching sticks or butter at me asking me if I was afraid when butter flies.

“I had a bad experience at a butterfly garden a long time ago when a bunch of the symmetrical winged beasts attacked me, covering my body in their tiny, prickly legs. I just don’t understand what the purpose of butterflies are. Like what is the purpose of the life of a butterfly?”

I paused. Silence, oh we meet again. Scan the room one more time. Yup, that’s what I thought I’m going to have to think quick to save my self from this one.

“I don’t expect you guys to answer that, even though some of you are probably thinking about the purpose of butterflies in terms of what they do that is productive. Which is okay, I guess. But that’s not what I’m trying to understand. What I want to know is their purpose. Take for example, us. What is the purpose of humans, to innovate? create? run government? No, all of that is just stuff that we do. So although I am afraid of butterflies, what I’m most afraid of is living with no purpose. What is MY purpose in life? Cliche as it sounds, I fear that when I die I won’t leave a legacy. I fear that no one will remember me. What I’m most afraid of isn’t anything in life at all, but what my life means to the world after its over.”

Silence.

Not the reaction I was expecting given that I went from my biggest fear being butterflies to understanding the purpose of life and leaving my legacy in a matter of seconds. But, okay.

“Wow. Zach I’m really glad you brought up understanding one’s purpose in life” said a shocked Mrs. Schrader “I think that’s something important to think about and that we are going to discuss next time”

I never knew that about myself. There was always something inside me that was eating up my mind and bothering me this whole time, and it wasn’t the awful memory of those butterflies from my childhood. No, they were just what lead me to the truth about what was really my biggest fear, which was my purpose in life and my legacy when I leave.

It really took admitting my very real fear of butterflies for me to realize that I was afraid I would be forgotten. I would never be remembered when I die.

This all coming at the same time “Hamilton” the musical was becoming a phenomenon on Broadway. We listened to the entire soundtrack in our AP Lit class, even though it wasn’t apart of the curriculum. Ooooooooooo, scary. If the head of the English department ever caught us she might have to report my teacher. Well, except that they were the same person so that would be counter productive. Nonetheless, the story of Alexander Hamilton’s life told through music is an amazing one. One I could only admire and hope to become a person that left such a mark on history as he did one day. I was so fond of the soundtrack that I listened to it as home and in the car all the time for the next 3 weeks. Then I hit a butterfly with my car while listening to “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story” when thought about my fears. I thought about butterflies and what I said earlier that year. Then, I realized that I wanted to make an impact in the same way that Alexander Hamilton did. I may not know my purpose in life completely, but I shared the same obsession with leaving a legacy with Alexander Hamilton and I knew that if anything I wanted to live my life the best I could everyday and do good everyday with the hope that I can make an impact on at least one person’s life. Because lets be real, fighting a revolution against the British and starting a new country is pretty hard to do today and has been done plenty of times by now.

When we were asked about our biggest fears, some people fear their past that they live everyday running from it. I feared my future that I lived everyday wasting time growing closer to it not doing anything to ease my worries. I wasn’t looking at what I could do now to live my best life with the purpose of just being a good person even if I didn’t understand fully what my purpose is. The reality of it is, no one understands their purpose until they die and if I live life seeking that answer than I’m just going to die realizing that my purpose WAS to live life.

I don’t know my purpose in life. And I don’t really want to know because I’m not ready to leave this world until I know I have made an impact on at least one person’s life. All I know is that the day that someone tells my their story and I somehow make it in the narrative because of the way I lived that enhanced their own life for the better, that’s when Ill know I have fulfilled my purpose in life and that I have left a legacy because I lived.

Believe it or not I was notoriously bad at telling stories. Crazy, right? It’s true.

It’s a title no one wants to have, the bad story teller. But, that was me in my friend group. It isn’t as bad as being the one who farts all the time and is always blamed for any unpleasant smell in the air regardless of whose fault it actually is, luckily I didn’t have that title, but being the bad story teller was definitely close second. Whenever I got together with my friends and I wanted to tell a story they immediately found a way to discredit my story telling ability. Now, I will admit, I wasn’t the best. But still I didn’t always tell the worse stories out of my friends and always ended up receiving the most criticism for my ability. This was hard for me because I loved story telling and to be told your bad at something you love doing is heartbreaking.

I had learned to love story telling from listening to them by myself. Whenever I felt alone or like I just needed to hear someone else’s voice other than the one in my head I would listen to stories. My favorite stories to listen to were on The Moth podcast. For those of you unfamiliar with The Moth, it is a non-profit that is all about the art of crating and telling stories. I stumbled upon them when I was walking around Barnes and Noble after taking advantage of the Starbucks inside and saw their book dressed elegantly with a dark, navy blue cover and a gold constellation of a moth on the front with the title “All These Wonders” accompanied by “True stories about facing the unknown”. Immediately, it took me in. I hadn’t opened the book yet but I was already surrounded by the eloquently crafted stories told by an array of people. Of course, I bought the book and immediately went home to read it. About four stories in, I realized that all of these stories were told live and recorded. I had the brilliant idea of listening while I read them. Okay, yeah that’s essentially what an audio book is but still I had the idea before I realized that’s what I was doing…so this is also a story of how I invented the audio book just to be disappointing that audio books were already a thing. I already knew what audio books were too, so not quite sure what I was thinking when I came to the Epiphany that more books should be recorded and shared online but whatever.

I listened to them for hours and once I had finished the entire book, I listened to more. During the summer, when I needed to get out I went on drives. I got in my pearly white Kia Forte, connected to Bluetooth (because Im cool), rolled down the windows and opened the sunroof (like I said before, Im cool), threw on my sunglasses and listened to stories for hours while driving around (we already went over this 2 times before how many times do I have to say it).

Those long drives listening to hundreds of people’s stories from all walks of life is what made me come to appreciate the art of storytelling. I had hundreds of new perspectives on life just from ordinary people telling stories that have changed their understanding of life. What I wanted most was to be able to tell my own stories and search my own life for those type of stories. I just needed a platform.

I thought about doing a Moth slam somewhere but I wanted prior approval of my stories before they were recorded in speech. I needed a place for trial and error; a place where I can get good feedback beyond the pitch of an audience’s clapping afterwards.

I decided I wanted to start a blog where I could be free to tell my stories to others and test the waters of real story telling. Not the shallow stuff from high school. No, I’m talking the storytelling that widens the lens through which we view life. I’m talking about stories that help people understand life by providing my own perspective.

The blog was a perfect place to put my stories, with the minor exception that it had no stories. Primarily because…well, I didn’t have any stories to tell. What the hell do I know about life and how the hell did I learn it if I know anything about it. I had to really think about what I had learned throughout my life that has changed my perspective. At first, this was hard, really damn hard because I still had no stories. It went to far without having any stories so I decided to listen to some more of The Moth stories and found some inspiration.

I knew I was going to really have to dive deep into my own mind and really look back on my past to see how it shaped my future. Just imagine the scene from Harry Potter…Order of the Phoenix where Harry and Dumbledore are using the magic dream pool. That’s what it felt like I was trying to do…minus the magic. Again, pretty freaking difficult as I don’t live in a fictional magical world where that’s possible (or maybe we do and were all muggles, conspiracy theories another great form of story telling). But as I was saying diving deep in your mind when you’ve been trying to suppress it the entire time is hard. It took a lot more story listening before I was able to come up with of few of my own, then slowly I chipped away at the barrier I put up around my mind and found a fountain of youth, that is they were all stories from my childhood which ended about a year ago so you would imagine shouldn’t be that hard to think of.

I felt like now, I am finally able to explore the art of story telling and truly understand the meaning of my daily experiences and how significant they are to my understanding of the seemingly ever complex concept of life. Finally, I can pass down what storytelling has taught me about my own life down to those who read the stories I have told and understand more about their experiences and their stories.

 

My journey, like any epic tale, began with a handful of visa gift cards sprawled out on my living room floor surrounding my body. It looked like I had setup some sort of cult ritual preparing to summon the spirits of Visa and MasterCard to advise me on how to best irresponsibly blow through my newly acquired wealth. At least that’s what I felt like. In reality I was sitting on my mom’s “tasteful” patterned rug while looking at all the meaningless plastic that was only defined by the number with dollar sign listed on the front of each card. Probably the farthest thing I could get from summoning any mysterious spirits that were rather awful at providing wealth management advising.

Spirits or no spirits, I realized that this year I was going to spend my Christmas gift cards wisely. Or, more appropriately, use them in a way that pleased my mother. This was always the hard part because it seemed that no matter what I wanted to purchase it was shot down immediately. Sometimes, and I swear this is proof that as soon as a woman becomes a mother they get an array of special powers that they can tap into which is a pretty fair payment for carrying another human being around for 9 months, she would even shoot down ideas before I brought them up a sign of mother telepathy or just a result of sharing the same Amazon Prime account. I choose to believe it was mother telepathy. But I had been through this same process year after year so this time around I wasn’t playing. I knew what I wanted and I had all the resources to get it.

Earlier that year, my senior year of high school, my friend Josh and I were hanging out in his basement while listening to and discussing all sorts of music. Often he would recommend albums and songs for me to listen too if we ran out of time and then we would usually talk about them in our PEER class the next day. Occasionally, I would make some recommendations as well but it was pretty rare that I knew of music he hadn’t already heard.

It wasn’t long before the other kids in our class began to eaves drop on our music reviews and discussions as they would constantly ask what album, song, or artist we were referencing. Nearly every time this happened they too provided Josh and I with their own input followed by their own recommendations. Every class it our discussion would grow to include more people. One day in late September we were having our daily discussion, that now included three other people besides Josh and I, when the look washed over Josh’s face and he made eye contact with me as Matt Y. rambled on about an “absolutely eye opening album we should listen to”. We just stared at each other, the volume of our thoughts slowly drowned out Matt’s voice until it was silent. I knew exactly what he was thinking, we need to expand our operation beyond the walls of that classroom and extend an invitation to the rest of the school. Ah ha, see mom I can read minds too and I didn’t even have to bring another human being into the world.

Okay obviously Josh wasn’t thinking that exact sentence, but he interrupted Matt and cutting our telepathic land line and said “Yo, Zach and I were thinking about starting a music club. Would you guys be up for it?”

Holy…what? We hadn’t even talked about starting a music club until literally that moment when we just looked at each other and came up with the idea all without saying a word. I’ll admit neither of us actually have telepathy, but we both had the ability to recognize we had started our own unofficial music club within our 8th block class. We just so happened to open our eyes to it at the same time.

We filled out the form to become a new club, found a teacher sponsor, and by the first Tuesday of November we had our first official meeting. Granted our first meeting pretty much consisted of the same group from class with the addition of a couple of friends and Mr.Kitchens, the new Government teacher who was just as into it as Josh and I were.  As time passed we grew in size, became more organized and vastly expanded our music horizons.

It was amazing to see how Josh and I  were able to create a diverse community of those who shared an appreciation for music through our own friendship. What was even more amazing was how much of an impact our music club had on my own life in the span of one semester. I went from listening to music and discussing it from the solely the standpoint of how it sounded to reflecting on the complexity and beauty of it as well as the meaning behind the music. The more I really listened to and reflected upon the music I was listening too, the more I found myself able to use music in a therapeutic way. The constant drama of senior year in pretty much all aspects of life was weighting on my entire body slowly breaking me down. In order to avoid total system failure, I used music and sports as a means to escape.

Before music club I never thought of music as an escape from my own issues. It wasn’t until I heard others in the club share how the albums and songs related to their lives that I began to evaluate my own life while listening to music. I found that there was a song to relate to any issue I was struggling with and assist in my own further understanding of life. That’s when I knew I wanted to get with my array of plastic rectangles. I wanted something that would remind me of the lessons that I learned in life from music.

So, I made my own Amazon Prime student account and bought my very first record player, an Audio Technica AT-LP60. Then I drove to the nearest establishment where they sell records and bought the first album we listened to as a club “22 A Million” by Bon Iver.

 

The turntable/record player was the first thing that came to mind because of how much I desired to listen to music in a more intimate medium that is vinyl records rather than through headphones connected to a phone or laptop. “22 A Million” on the other hand was the first album I had listened to of Bon Iver and his unique style of music. It consists of every type of song for every mood. As an album it understood me when ever I listened to it. It opened my eyes to further understand myself and completely changed my perspective on life.

Music truly took me on a journey. Ill let you decide if the tale was epic.

 

 

I am an only child.

Yes. Indulge your imagination with the thoughts of all the things my parents spoil me with, all the fights I don’t get in with siblings, all the things I don’t have to share, all the comfort I have of not sharing a room, and yes all the love and attention only I receive from my parents.

While I won’t necessarily deny that all of those things aren’t true to being an only child, because they definitely are. I will say that all the positives of being an only child there and all the things that people first think of when they those fateful words every time I tell them come with a cost. A cost that has and always will follow me around for the rest of my life.

See being an only child I was kinda spoiled as a kid and still do get spoiled a little bit from time to time and I was the center of attention and sole recipient of my parents love. That’s just the nature of being an only child.

Then there’s the darker side to all of that. The side that puts all of the pressure of being the only one your parents have to worry about on your shoulders. The side that reveals being the center of attention isn’t always a good thing. That side that shows you all of the love can quickly turn into punishing wrath at any moment. The side that is the side of being alone.

Yeah. Imagine being alone for 18 years of your life. That’s what most murders go through during their time in prison. Does that make me a murderer? NO.  Does that make me just a lonely person? Yes.

Yeah I have friends, but they aren’t always around to hangout, they have families too. Yeah I have a dog, but he just uses me for treats and belly rubs (I love my dog he’s the real homie). And yes, I am pretty good friends with both of my parents as long as they aren’t being parents and just being people.

For the most part its just me and  my thoughts.

Sure TV, video games, and sports all helped cure my loneliness but only temporarily. Somehow it always crept back into my life. Over the years making itself more and more evident. That was until I realized the hidden blessing in being by yourself for extended periods of time.

It wasn’t until Sophomore year of high school when I was between friend groups and sometimes found myself spending time alone not knowing whether to hang out with what were becoming my old friends or to try and establish myself as a rec curing member of my new group of friends. In my period of indecision, I chose to hangout predominantly with my best friend, Tyler. Except there was only one problem, Tyler wasn’t always available because he had to take care of his sister. So weekend after weekend I spent playing lacrosse with a wall, playing video games against computers and random people around the world, and watching TV with characters who were always surrounded by friends or siblings.

On a freezing weekend in December I had done my usual lonesome routine of activities but left with hours still to spare and a nauseating feeling every time I looked at a television screen. So I layed on my bed and stared at the ceiling. I tried as hard as I could to fall asleep but somehow couldn’t manage to do it. Now I was really locked in a cell like a prisoner. It was just me and my thoughts, except this time there was no outside distractions to drown them out. They were screaming at me. Begging for attention like they haven’t received any in years. And they hadn’t received any attention really ever. So I gave them my attention and let them talk to me. After three and a half hours of listening to them I was finally exhausted. It was like meeting a new person who won’t stop talking about themselves, except that person was myself. I had never been alone all along. I just hadn’t truly met that person that lived inside my head. This person knew me better than anyone else. He was like a Wikipedia page of myself that I didn’t even know existed. But there he was this whole time. All I had to do was listen.

I made it a priority to listen to my own thoughts from then on. I made sure that I always made time to catch up with myself. Being an only child, this seemed like my only savior from the dreaded feeling of loneliness that would follow me for the rest of my life. So it was important that I made sure the person inside my head and myself remained in good contact all the time.

As I got older and got my first car, I would just go on drives for hours at a time. Just myself, my thoughts, and some dope music that sounded way better with the bass in the car.  I still go on drives. Not just when I feel lonely, infarct that doesn’t occur a lot. I go on drives when I need to escape from everything, when I need to be alone.

I didn’t understand before but being lonely isn’t something bad about being an only child, it’s something that has served as a hidden benefit. I have been constantly subject to the feeling since childhood and understand more than most people how to embrace it rather than hide from it.

A while back I began carrying a pocket sized note book made by a company called Field Notes. At first it served as a way to keep track of my daily things to do in someway other than using my phone because when I try to use the calendar on my phone it’s like I age 40 years and am a father of 3 who gets made fun of for being completely unable to comprehend such simple technology. Nonetheless, as time went on I began to draw, write inspirational quotes, document funny things that happened during my day, and even brainstorm ideas for stories I’m going to write. This started to fulfill some vacancy in my life regarding expression as I had come to I create a notebook full of art m, stories, memories and daily to do’s.

My only struggle that came with my notebooks was writing. These notebooks fit in my pocket, they are not that big and there’s an even further inconvenience being left handed and trying to write in a small notebook. If you were genetically blessed with the ability to write with your left hand you know how much the blessing of having the superior dominant hand, being more intelligent and creative than right handers can be a curse.

In fact I’ve always struggled with my hand writing being left handed. Whether smearing my sentences just seconds after I write them or just the simple act of pushing my hand from left to right when most writing utensils are meant to be pulled across the page. All of these issues lead to a 10 year struggle with perfecting my handwriting to society’s acceptable standards which just so happen to be judged by public school educators.

At the beginning of each year from 2nd grade all the way to senior year of high school there has not been a moment where I have sat down with at least one of my teachers to discuss my handwriting. One of the most notable “meetings” I had with any teacher regarding the quality of my handwriting came in the fifth grade with Ms. Buxton. After one writing assignment Ms. Buxton called me over to her desk in the tone of voice that I already knew too well to know that it meant this was my annual handwriting talk. In her endearing yet concerned voice she told me “Zach, I wanted to talk about the way you crafted your homework”. This was a new approach to the conversation I hadn’t heard of before and it threw me off track, completely shooting down my assumption. But just as my assumption dispelled, it was re-affirmed almost immediately as she continued, “See I was reading and your ‘e’ looks like a ‘g’, your sentences are all smeared, and your handwriting is so big you managed to take up the entire front and back of three pages for just five sentences that I’m almost certain aren’t even complete sentences. But that’s probably just because I can’t read any of them.” Damn. That’s harsh. That’s also not what she said exactly, but it sure as hell felt like it. She gave me tips on how to improve and as the year went on wrote encouraging notes on my paper when I showed signs of improvement and circled in red pen where I revealed my shortcomings in conforming to the norms of society.

As the years passed teachers made less and less of an ordeal out of commenting on my handwriting. This was probably due to the fact that more and more assignments were being typed but I’ll just tell myself that it was because I gradually improved as I matured. It wasn’t until my freshman year of college when I was jotting down dimensions in my Field Notes pocketbook for a project I was building with a few other members of my pledge class for my fraternity. I got up to use the restroom leaving my notebook out for everyone to see as I was taking my time unaware that a couple of guys in my pledge class decided to look at some of the drawings I had for the project. They not only found my drawings for the project, but my to do lists, inspirational quotes, memorable moments I had jotted down (some about them that they didn’t know I remembered), and stories I was working on crafting. When I got back, I saw the notebook in Peter’s hand. Peter was a political science and econ major as well as a teenage dad. He doesn’t have any kids but he dresses exactly like a classic suburban dad would, khakis, quarter zip, tucked in t-shirt, and boat shoes. I knew he might have some appreciation at least for the concept and organizational aspect of the notebook. Yet again, I was wrong. The very first thing he commented on was how good my hand writing was and my drawings were. I was surprised. No one has ever told me that my hand writing was good. All I have heard was how I needed to be more like everyone else and conform to the handwriting that society has deemed acceptable. It wasn’t until later that evening when I was writing in my notebook that I really reflected on what Peter had said. I was being told my whole life that I was bad at something because I was different. Because I expressed my self and my thoughts in a different way than a majority of society due to being in the minority of left handed people. See society has created norms and constructs that I was supposed to align to and when I didn’t I was told about it every year by those who are meant to prepare us to blend into society.

I didn’t want to blend in. There are millions, even billions of other people to do that. It is the few that stand out that make society great. Those are the people who help society excel in fields from science to art. That is what I wanted when I started carrying around my notebook. I wanted to stand out, I wanted to contribute in a meaningful way to society that people take notice. I didn’t realize that I had been doing that for years and people took notice the entire time.
That’s the power of handwriting.

Thanksgiving was just around the corner and it was already frostbite in 20 minutes of skin exposure type weather in Philly. Ahhh yes! Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love and “The Rocky Steps”. The city of cheese steaks and Broad Street. The city of the Liberty Bell and the city of the best football fans in the world.

Now. Philladelphia is the city of World Champions!!

Looking back on my career as a fan, and yes being an Eagles fan can often times feel like a job, I would have never guessed that I would be able to experience a moment like this. Winning a Super Bowl! That’s crazy!

As the ball was swatted to the ground and the tripple zeros hit the clock, I could not believe it. A rush of so many emotions came over me all at once I stood up and I froze. Staring at the television as the confetti fell and the Gatorade was showered on Doug Pederson. “Damn, I knew I should’ve put twenty bucks on the yellow Gatorade. Its always yellow” I thought to myself in a brief attempt to distract myself from my own shower of emotions. As the Eagles chants began I joined in subconsciously still stunned by what had just happened. Then. I laughed. I walked around laughing for thirty minutes. I was being hugged by everyone in the room. Still I was laughing. Throughout the entire trophy ceramony I laughed. I laughed for a very long time because I knew if I stopped laughing… I knew that if I stopped laughing. I would cry.

To me it’s more than just football, its more than just a game. For me the Philadelphia Eagles are a family. Not just the players, because they come and go and even come back. Nope. It was the fans. The people of Philadelphia who raised me from a few hundred miles away as I watched in D.C. every Sunday, Monday, or Thursday.

Yes. The fans. If you are not a member of the Bird Gang then you only know Eagles fans to be the stereotypical drunkards that are portrayed in the media. Which, to be fair, most are. But, what you don’t see in the media is why they call it the city of brotherly love. It’s because when it comes to football and being an Eagles fan every Sunday you go to church with your family but you get changed into your green and whites and watch football with millions of your brothers. If you don’t think that your opinion of Eagles fans will change or aren’t open to changing your perspective, then stop reading this blog right about now and just know that we could be tearing apart our city for going 0-16 in a season, but this isn’t Cleveland.

Now if you are prepared to truly understand Eagles fans and have stuck around since the last paragraph, which probably was not that hard, then lets begin.

See soon after the contemplating the fact that we won the Super Bowl and would be world champions I thought of the people that introduced me to the Eagles. I was only just barely capable of forming a memory and my great uncle Ron. He’s not my great uncle because he’s a fantastic uncle, which he is and completely deserves. Nah he’s my great uncle because he’s the brother of my late grandfather. Uncle Ron begged and pleaded with my mother for weeks before the season started in order to get her to let him take me to a game at The Linc (Lincoln Financial Field/ Eagles stadium). By October she saw how good the team was and by November I was in Philadelphia walking down Broad street with Uncle Ron as I rocked my pint sized Donovan McNabb Jersey and he wore his gallon sized Ron Jaworski jersey, which seemed fitting. One great Ron wearing the jersey of another great Ron. I can somewhat put the picture of walking into The Link and smelling the sheer amount of Beer and Wine that covered the stands and the painful noise of drunk people filling yelling from all around me. This was pretty overwhelming for my young self. My tiny little body could only take so much of the chaos surrounding Eagles football in Philadelphia. I worried that something bad was going to happen so I asked Uncle Ron and he told me, with out taking his eyes away from the field, “ehh don’t worry this is normal”. Then proceeded to teach me how to do the Eagles chant.

Following the game we filed out of the stadium with the 70,000 other fans there that day and walked down Broad street looking for a place to take a breather. Uncle Ron suddenly stops up at a bar, looks inside and everything seems to check out. There was only one problem. I was a child. It was a bar. These two are not, and should never really be a non-problematic combination.

So given the situation the plan was for Uncle Ron to go to the bathroom really quick while I am handed off to a stranger to be taken care of and watched by for my own safety…in the middle of Philadelphia?! Yup, turns out after 30 minutes of waiting for the restroom, Uncle Ron finally emerged from the dark abyss that was a Philadelphia bar on game day. When he returned he thanked the stranger with the simple purchasing of a few beers at the bar and then we left down Broad street.

What I realized once the Eagles finally won the Super Bowl was that this wasn’t just a championship for the team, it was a championship for the family that supported that team from their very first memories of football to their dying breath. It was a championship for the strangers who watched six year old kids in the middle of Broad street while their adult supervisor goes to the bathroom in a bar. It is a championship for the Uncle Ron’s. A championship for those who first introduced you and those who took you to your first game.

It was a championship for all of that. And realizing this made my laughing stop.

I cried.

WE won. The City of Philly won. The bonds shared between those who connected over football won. Brotherly love won.

I can say that despite what you want to believe despite what you see on the news, Eagles fans are drunken fools. But they are caring, kind, warmhearted, loyal drunken fools. I couldn’t be more proud to be apart of a fan base like this one.

GO BIRDS!!

Philly Philly.

 

The soothingly aroma that is unique to Barnes and Noble flooded my nose rushing too my head just as I the words “Grande caffe mocha for Jack” suddenly muffled the chatter of the many strangers’ conversations to which I subtly eaves dropped. Whoever Jack is he order an alarmingly familiar drink to what I had ordered just a moment ago. Maybe he eaves dropped on my order and took some inspiration. Or maybe he just shares a similar taste in coffee as I do. These are just some of the things that I would have thought if this didn’t happen to me, but I know that in reality the “Grande caffe mocha for Jack” is really for Zach. Nonetheless I was going to have my coffee or what I assumed to be mine because I, Zach, love coffee and will always love coffee.

I love the feeling of sitting down coffee in h

 

and, the intoxicating odor of espresso mixed with what should be consider an illegal amount of chocolate syrup along with milk, and of course I love caffeine. But there is something more beyond coffee that I love about it so much. I love the warm feeling and emotions that I associate with it. These are not just physical feelings of warmth as the coffee singes my tongue sliding its fiery path down my throat until it warms my stomach. No these are more feelings of contentment, happiness, and often time joy as I converse with my mother about pretty much anything e

 

njoying her company on a nice Sunday morning after church.

In fact, it was my mom who introduced me to my otherwise unknown infatuation with coffee. See my mom and I had are usually Sunday routine, we would go to Starbucks at the mall where she would order her coffee, usually a medium roast, and I would get a juice or hot chocolate. This was all following church of course, after all it was the Lord’s day. But usually it always ended up being our day. It was one Sunday when the barista, guy, dude, whatever Starbucks employees call themselves these days misheard my order for a grande hot chocolate and instead whipped me up

a white chocolate mocha. Instantly I noticed the difference even before I tasted it. No, it’s not some special talent of mine or any super smelling ability that I have. He goes “white chocolate mocha for Zach”. Hey, at least you got the name right

bud. Still I was surprised that he screwed up my order so poorly, they don’t really even sound that similar. Maybe his man bun was just a little too tight or maybe it’s a specialty that all Starbucks employees have. Either my mom encouraged me to take a sip and just try it, most likely so she didn’t have to dish out another five bucks for a hot chocolate. That sip changed everything. I was instantly in love, hooked even. Probably a scary thing that I was only eleven years old but you got to start at some point. To my mom’s relief I told her that it was really good and that I could see why she drinks it every morning.

She said “Well, for me it’s more than just the taste.”

“Is it the caffeine?”

“Yeah, I guess you could say so” she replied reluctantly.

Even at eleven I knew that there was more to the story of her infatuation with coffee than just for the caffeine. But I let my curiosity rest until 104 more Sunday’s had passed. On the 105 and fifth Sunday I asked. She said that having coffee in the morning is her ritual because when she was eleven her grandmother, who we both loved dearly and was one of my best old people friends, had her over one Sunday and made coffee for the two of them and they would sit and chat for hours. Those Sundays were some of my mom’s favorite memories of my great grandmother. So, when she drinks coffee in the morning and sits at the table she is reminded of those moments and she said that it even feels like Nanny is right there with her still.

Now I understood what my mom meant when she said it was more than the taste or the caffeine. It was the feeling of nostalgia and contentment. So, once we were both done tearing up, I told her that I would love to make even more memories just like the one she shared with Nanny every Sunday. She agreed and said that it was her hope that when I took that first sip of coffee that I would like it so that she could pass on her Sunday traditions to me. That day we started our tradition and I had a new love for coffee that I would never have guessed I would feel content, happiness and joy when drinking something but that’s what I felt with coffee.

Every Sunday after that my mom and I would have our coffee and talk for hours. At least once a year we’d bring up some of our favorite memories of Nanny and it was as though she was right there with us. So, Sunday’s weren’t just the Lord’s day. Sunday’s were our days. They still are.

Even though I may be a few hundred miles away from home, I order my coffee and sit down and I feel like I’m right there with them at home.

During my senior year of high school, I was the victim of the fatal epidemic that plagues all seniors, Senioritis. Year after year the effort levels of seniors dropped dramatically and the hard working student they were their Junior year was now dead. The only signs of life were at the beginning of the year during college application season, but after all the common apps and tedious separate applications are done showing up to class was just a formality. There were a variety of factors ranging anywhere from Netflix to Twitter (actually it was really just those two) that strengthened this apathetic feeling towards our final year of public education. However, the root of my senioritis laid in my membership in a group called PEER. PEER is essentially a handpicked group of Juniors and Seniors that served as student mentors and worked on many projects to improve the school atmosphere for all students.

Being a part of PEER was a huge time commitment and most of the in-school work we did was during out hour and a half class period that replaced our Study Hall. PEER was also great because in the beginning of the year there was a curriculum that we had to follow during class so that meant all of the work for projects we didn’t get done during class either had to be done after school or during our other classes. The 25 other kids and I often elected to do our work during other classes because we had “other commitments” after school.

As the year went on and we all abused our power as the “good kids” in school to get out of ninety percent of our classes most of our work was focused on the annual Hero In The Hallway assembly held in front of the entire school in the Spring.  This year our message was about impact and our message was “RISE” which was an acronym for “Reach Inside See Everyone”. Part of this we decided to focus on how the smallest messages and acts that we do every day can impact someone else’s entire life. I was working on filming and editing two videos that were going to be played during the assembly which would take hours upon hours of work. Due to the great success of the assembly the previous year’s PEER group had put on there was a lot of stress on us do one up them, so naturally I used this as further justification to get out of class and push off a majority of my homework.                                                       

Due to the fact that the video last year was so popular this year we had an entire crew working on planning, filming and editing. Every class we separated from the rest of our PEERS (pun most definitely intended) as they planned the rest of the assembly. One day the non-video crew was having a rehearsal of the assembly and I decided to sneak away from the stressful video editing and go watch. When I got there, it was the end of the opening speech that was going to be given by Tyler one of the absolute nicest kids in the group.

Tyler and I had a long history of friendship leading up to high school. From before we were born my mom worked at The College of William and Mary where Tyler’s mom was attending and they soon became friends. This friendship transferred over to Tyler and I as we grew up a block from each other, played soccer together, did tae kwon do together, and in high school we played lacrosse together. We always talked to each other about everything that was going on in our lives any time there was something going on in my life I told Tyler and he told me if there were any issues in his.

But then Sophomore year came around and our friendship grew distant even though we still lived a block away from each other and still played lacrosse together we just had different interests. I began to hang out with a different group of friends and Tyler hung out with a girl he had also been really good friends with in childhood. Junior year Tyler didn’t play lacrosse which seemed to be the only thing holding together and friendship we had left. It wasn’t until we both had gotten accepted into PEER Senior year that we had finally started to spend time with each other as friends once again.

I didn’t really know what Tyler’s speech was about based on the last thirty seconds of it, but I knew it had to have been good enough for him to be the one opening this assembly. When the day of the assembly came the entire school was split up into two groups, the upstairs and downstairs. The upstairs classes would see the assembly first while downstairs had class and then they would switch. All my work had been done and I couldn’t wait to see our videos be played in front of the people we made them for. That morning I was on T-shirt duty and was supposed to look after the cash box that we used to collect money for all of the Hero In The Hallway T-shirts we sold. As the sea of students filed in to the auditorium filled with excitement and anticipation, I was trying to surpass these same feeling I also had by organizing the fives with the fives, making change, and even counting up all of the quarters in a sandwich bag that somehow made up $15. Nonetheless as soon as everyone was settled in their seats I returned the cash box to main office and then quietly opened the door just a smidge so that not too much light from the main hallway would enter the dark auditorium and I stood in front of the door so that I could make a quick escape back to my station after the assembly was over in order to prepare for the next group.

About twenty seconds after I entered the auditorium all of the anticipating chatter ceased completely, but it was because our SCA President, Maeov had taken the stage to formally open the assembly. Before I knew it she was replaced at the podium by Tyler and an eruption of clapping filled the room. Finally, I would know what Tyler’s speech was about and how amazing it was going to be because it was going to be the audience’s first impression of the rest of the assembly.

Suddenly, his mouth moved and out came the words “I, wanted to commit suicide”.  This stunned the entire crowd and even more than anyone in the crowd it had stunned me. He continued to go on about how the pressure of Junior year had made him consider committing suicide and how one night he was about to step off of the edge of his bedroom window until his phone buzzed. It was a friend of his who had texted him asking “How are you?”. These three words, as he would go on to describe, were all that it took for him to realize that someone out there had cared about him and that realization made him step back into his room, grab his phone and reply. It was the impact of a small gesture such as a text that had saved his life. Before he concluded his speech, Tyler thanked this friend that had sent that speech to him that day, “So Ashley, thank you” he said.

When I heard his story, I teared up. Part of me teared up because someone whom I care about felt that the only way he could escape all of the pressure and anxiety of life was by ending his own. But another part of me teared up because I felt that I failed him. I failed Tyler by deciding that I wasn’t able to make time for him because I had lacrosse or because I was already going to hang out with my other friends. I had let someone who was my best friend for my entire childhood feel so isolated in the world that he thought it didn’t matter if he was in it anymore.

This was the part that made the tears accumulated in my eyes run down my face. This was the part that made me cry.

Then there was something that happened almost simultaneously. I realized that this year, thanks to PEER and thanks to Ashley, I was able to rebuild that friendship with Tyler and realize how simply showing someone you care can mean the world.

I absolutely love the great outdoors, especially the ocean. The natural beauty of the water and its endlessness continues to fascinate me every time I lay eyes on it.

But, I haven’t always been this in love with the ocean as a I am now. In fact when I was younger my favorite part about our annual family summer vacation to Bethany Beach was going to the arcade on the board walk and shopping at the outlet mall.

Yes. As a child I liked shopping for clothes more than I liked going to the beach and building a sand castle or standing knee deep in the ocean and letting the waves crash on my waist as my feet slowly sunk into the sand and the pull of the current back in the ocean made me feel like I was being pulled in.

Every time my parents tried to drag me to the beach I would always say something along the lines of “I don’t know I’m kinda tired can we only stay for a couple of hours”.

No matter what excuse I came up with it really always came down to my fear of the ocean and my fear of the unknown that lurked underneath the salty, dark blue water. It didn’t take long for my dad to figure this out so when I was about nine years old he got up from his chair, walked me down right to edge of the water and stopped. He just looked out on the water, waited about sixty seconds and then just ran in like what a nine-year-old boy like myself was supposed to do. I don’t know what it was about the absolutely ridiculous sight of a forty-year-old man in peak dad form wearing nothing but board shorts rush the ocean like a child that made me feel like I needed to do the exact same thing that he did. So that’s exactly what I did. I just started running in the water until it got to my knees where the resistance was too high to run so I had to do some sort of awkward side hurdle move in order keep moving forward. This was instant progress and new territory that I had never seen before. I was proud of myself, for about a split second. Then I was really scared again.

It turns out that there was a reason my dad waited a minute before rushing the water. See he was watching the water off in the distance so that he could judge the right time to run in so that he wouldn’t be met by one of the common fifteen-foot waves that Bethany Beach was known for. I, being relatively new at this type of courageous act, did not know that there was some sort of strategy to running into the ocean. So of course, I had the great pleasure of being met with at “small” ten-foot wave as I was mid awkward side hurdle and very off balance. I didn’t feel the hit of the wave as much as I felt grainy sand scrape all the way from the left side of my face down to my calf while I was being dragged back to shore. When I was finally released from the waves grasp I did a quick check to make sure I had my floral swim trunks on and then I got up and saw my father this time running away from the ocean to come check on me.

If this experience did anything for my fear of the ocean, it made it worse. Maybe I could have come out thinking about how cool it was that I just survived a wave twice my size, but it just made me afraid of the force and power that a body of water like an ocean had.

It wasn’t until two years later that my parents took one last chance to at least reduce my fear of the ocean. My mom as usual decided to sign me up for something she knew I definitely would not want to do, but “I would thank her after I did it”. At least that was how she always put it every time I complained about whatever she had just volunteered me for. Well she wasn’t wrong. I don’t want to say she was always right because even as a kid I knew that once I told my mom she was right I would never hear the end of it. So she wasn’t completely wrong every time she had done this before. Nonetheless when I heard that she had gone behind my back to sign me up for surfing lessons at Bethany Beach with the surf shop, I was livid. As usual she said “Stop complaining and just trust me, I’ve been right about things like this before so just trust me”.

“Yeah well, as I recall just about two years ago I ‘trusted’ dad I ended up getting tossed around by the ocean like I was a doll in a washing machine” is what I almost said, but back then I wasn’t as quick on my feet especially with my mom so I just stayed silent.

When we arrived, it was around 5:45 in the morning and for once parking was easy but my stomach was very uneasy. I just sat there staring at the giant surf store front that read “Bethany Surf Shop” as my mom got out of the car. I finally amounted the slightest bit of courage up to get out of the car and walk with her up to the store where we waited for the instructor to come up front. After about five minutes a 5’9” clean cut, twenty-two-year-old guy walked out from the back and instantly made eye contact with me. Not quite the surfing instructor I was expecting. Seemed like more of a guy who was good at selling insurance or was an accountant.

“Zach” he said, “I’m Billy, it’s nice to meet you dude. Are you excited to learn how to surf?”

“NO. Do I look excited? Obviously, I did not come out here at five in the morning during my ‘vacation’ because I wanted to” is what I would have said. But, I was eleven and I wanted to impress Billy so to my mom’s surprise I said “Yeah, let’s do it”.

“Awesome!” he said, “Lemme just grab a couple of things and I’ll meet you outside.”

After a couple minutes Billy came out with two surfboards, one a little bigger than the other, and a kids sized wet suit presumably for me. He handed me the wet suit and prompted me to put it on over my bathing suit and then we walked over to the beach as he asked me a bunch of questions about myself.

When we got to the beach Billy wasted no time as he got right into teaching me the basics of a surfboard, a wave, and how to stand on the board. I practiced swimming on the board on the sand at first until Billy thought my form was “good enough for now”.

Finally, it was time to get in the water and my relatively settled nerves had just spiked up again as I stood with my surfboard in hand at the edge of the empty beach looking in out into the seemingly endless ocean. This time Billy warned me to keep a close watch on the water for any swells that could be signs of waves before I “just run in”. I could’ve used this guy’s advice about two years ago, but it was still appreciated then too.

I hesitated a few times as seven and eight-foot waves just kept crashing one after the other. Then there was a momentary pause and the ocean was completely calm so I ran in surfboard in hand, threw if down when the water got to my knees and then got on and began to swim this time. I looked back to see Billy close behind signaling me to go out a little further and then suddenly he yelled at me to stop.

There I was straddling a surfboard about thirty feet out in the ocean looking out on the horizon as the sun peeked its head out slowly giving the water a pinkish, orange tint. It was a side of the ocean that I had never seen before. It was beautiful, gentle and welcoming. Then seemingly out of nowhere I saw a swell that looked like it would be at least a ten-foot wave. As it quickly approached the wave began to get larger and larger so I positioned myself where I felt that I could catch right where it curled and just before it broke. I turned around waited to feel the water nearly over top of me and then began to swim and then I got up. To my own surprise I was able to keep both of my feet on the board and balance as the I caught the wave. However, this lasted about five seconds until I lost my balance simultaneously with the breaking of the wave and I wiped out almost exactly as I did two years before. Except this time, I knew how much power the ocean had and I was prepared to handle it. I got dragged out to about knee deep water and then found my footing, my surf board and a new appreciation. As I swam back out to where Billy was still straddling his surf board, I felt good. I wasn’t afraid of going back. I wasn’t nervous.  It was this weird adrenaline induced feeling that I had never felt while in the ocean before. I was excited.

Unlike the wipeout I had experience two years prior, this time I thought that this wipeout was fun and cool. This time I wanted more. So, I went back for more, wiped-out. Went back for more, wiped-out. Went back for more, and well you get the idea. Every time I got on the surfboard that day I wiped-out and I loved every minute of it. When our time was up, Billy told me that I was the most persistent kid he has ever seen during his time teaching surfing lessons. He said “I really hope you stick with surfing Zach, because I can already tell the ocean is something you really seem to enjoy”.

I would’ve told Billy he was wrong. But he was right. I did enjoy the ocean, or at least I had just started to enjoy the ocean. Taking his advice, I started to surf every chance that I could get. My mom, began to regret her decision quickly as almost every beach vacation I woke her up at five in the morning so that she could take me to the beach.

It wasn’t until the last time I went surfing that I really began to reflect on life. This past summer my friends and I travelled to Bethany Beach for our senior week. Being that I was about to depart for college in a couple of months I took the liberty upon myself to get one last surfing session in while I could. I did the usual, rented a surfboard from the surf shop and went out for about two hours and just enjoyed the company of the ocean and the sound of the crashing waves. When I was exhausted I just sat in the sand on the edge of the beach, the same place where I has stood when I started surfing, and I looked out on the horizon. I couldn’t help but think about the newest adventure I was about to rush into. College. Adulthood. Living without my parents. It all sounded nice at first until it hit me like a wave and suddenly became real as I began to dive deep into thought. In that moment I realized how scared I really was.

Then I thought back to all the times I had wiped-out and chose to continue surfing and the times when I thought I was the best surfer in the

world because I had caught a wave for a solid thirty seconds. I realized that life is a lot like an ocean, it comes in waves. For the first few years of your life you spend on the edge watching everyone else around you dive right in. Slowly you begin to dip you toes in and before you know it your knees, then your waist. Until the day comes where you have to completely submerge and really experience life. Initially you’ll be afraid and you’ll rush in not knowing much and probably wipe out. But you have to get back up shake the sand out of your ass, find your footing and dive right back in. Because there will be times where you catch a wave and you feel like you’re on top of the world. Those are the moments you live for.

Life has the power to knock people down, it is up to you to say “Damn, that was cool. Let’s try it one more time” so that it doesn’t keep you down. Just like the ocean’s endlessness, life has endless possibilities and there isn’t any time to let fear get in the way because if you let it get in the way you won’t appreciate life in all of its natural beauty.

Also a quick music recomendation: Felly- This s*** comes in waves. This song is what got me thinking about life like a series of waves. Its also just a great song if you’re looking for a chill type of vibe.

My absolute favorite candy has and always will be gourmet fruit slices. I don’t remember exactly when I had my first fruit slice, but I remember exactly where. It all began in my great grandmother’s Maryland apartment. My great grandmother was always stocked with candy for whenever I visited.

Everything from Lemonheads to Double Bubble filled the clear glass jars lined up neatly along the granite bar top. According to the family legend Nanny Goat has always incentivized her grandchildren and great grandchildren after which is how she got the name “Goat”. Goat actually refers to the acronym G.O.A.T which means “greatest of all time” according to the entirety of my extended family, except my aunt Carol. Aunt Carol claimed that she started “Nanny Goat” when she was five because Nanny would always babysit my mom and her sisters when they were younger hence the “Nanny” part. The “Goat” part actually came from the fact that one she sounded kind of like a goat. Two, she seemed approachable and nice at first but she had hidden strength that she was more than willing to reveal if you crossed her much like a goat at a petting zoo. When I was younger I don’t think I ever realized how ridiculous that sounds but talking about it now it sounds absolutely ridiculous that my aunt compared her to an actual goat. Nonetheless, what made Nanny the “G.O.A.T” in my book was the clear old-fashioned candy jar full with a bright rainbow of half-moon shaped gummy candy. Although the Lemonheads and Double bubble had been tempting but I had never seen these colorful new candies before until now. So naturally I didn’t just try one but I tried the whole jar. And I absolutely loved them. I loved them so much that when my mom came to pick me up later that day I threw them all up over the backseat of her Honda Accord on the hour ride back home.

 

But for some reason she kept sending me back to Nanny’s place. As I spent more time at her apartment, during what I would later realize were her final couple of years, she talked about her experiences at the F.B.I and I heard some of her most famous stories as I dug my head in the jar of my new favorite candy. Although I don’t remember the details of most of her stories I do remember some of the key names such as D.B. Cooper and Richard Nixon.

Listening to her stories while devouring gourmet fruit slices had become our new tradition and we had formed this unique bond through this candy. So when I was seven years old, I got some of the most confusing news of my life. Nanny Goat was sick and we didn’t know how long she had left. My mother thought it would be best for me to visit her at least one more time before she passes.

When we arrived at the building outside her apartment my mother and I approached the door right to the side of the door to the old fashioned candy shop right under Nanny’s apartment. As she reached for the door handle she opened the door to the candy shop instead of the door that lead to the flight of stairs that lead to Nanny’s apartment. She motioned for me to go in and she asked the most un-mom question ever “Zach, do you want any candy before we go up?”

“No, Nanny always has my favorite candy upstairs”

“Well honey Nanny hasn’t been able to refill her candy since the last time we were here because she’s been sick so I don’t think she will have any left”

“Okay I guess I will get a bag here then”

Then she asked the second most un-mom question ever

“Are you sure you don’t want two?”

“Okay I’ll take two”. Of course this was a once in a lifetime opportunity and I didn’t know when this side of my mom would be present ever again so as long as she was asking if I wanted more candy I was saying yes. We get upstairs and walk in and see Nanny laying in her bed hooked up to an oxygen tank that sat at her side. She stood straight up and walked me over to the kitchen. This is the first time I’ve seen the sheer strength that Nanny had, my aunt was right she was a goat. She sits me down at the bar and for the first time ever the jar of fruit slices was empty before I had arrived. My mom gave me the mom look that essentially said “Yes remember the candy I made you think was for you like 5 minutes ago? Well it’s not for you, but you can have a couple pieces it’s a long ride home”. She said this all in this special mom glare. So I grabbed the fruit slices I had gotten from down stairs and put them in the jar filling it halfway and then my mom left Nanny and I to our usual discussion. An hour and way more than “a couple” of fruit slices later it was time to say goodbye to Nanny.

At her funeral I didn’t cry. I didn’t know what to do I was confused. The whole family was in the church lined up infront of her casket waiting to go up and say a prayer as they gave her one last look. When it came to me my mom guided me up to the kneeler and I got down to pray but I just listened. Not because I was crazy and thought she was talking to me, mostly because I was only seven and the only prayer I knew was a combination of Our Father and Hail Mary. Then after I felt I had “listened” enough I got up and walked out into the hallway and had a couple of fruit slices that I snuck in my inner jacket pocket.

A year later my mom had decided to bring me on her business trip to Vienna, Austria in hopes that I could experience other cultures. I guess she wanted to waste no time in fully immersing me in the Austrian culture because our very first night in the beautiful city of Vienna she lost me. Okay, to be fair I kind of wandered off to go look at the beautiful artwork on the outside of one of the city’s chapels but I thought she was behind me. She wasn’t behind me. So I there I am standing in the middle of Vienna, Austria with absolutely no clue where my mother is.

Naturally as any eight year old would do, I freak out. I’m frantically running in circles staying relatively in the same place, because that is what you are supposed to do when you’re lost, searching for a white woman who looks like just about every woman in the city. I tried to listen for my name being cried out amongst the crowds. Although I don’t find my mother or hear my name, I did hear an older woman’s voice say “Hi sweetie, are you looking for someone?”

Apparently, I had wound up wondering across the street right outside an older looking candy store owned by this very woman and she had seen me walk frantically for the past five minutes so she decided to make sure I was okay.

I told her as I cried “I can’t find my mom”

She said “Okay I’m going to call the police, why don’t you wait inside the store while I do that”

So, I broke my rule and followed the woman inside the store where immediately I was drawn to the fruit slices. Then without another word she takes the lid off of the container holding the fruit slices and fills a small bag with way more than “a couple” and said “Well I think your mom is looking for you too. They should be here soon so eat them quick”

It seemed that within in seconds of her saying that my mother was nearly in tears standing next to a Vienna police officer at the door of the candy shop. She runs in the store and wraps me furiously in her arms, almost squishing the fruit slices but I manage to save them. Then she asks the woman how much she owes her for the fruit slices.

To which she replies “Its my treat”.

I was a polite eight year old so I said “Thank you” and then left.

Although that was only a year after Nanny’s death and I hadn’t given it much thought then, I realized a few years later that when I was lost and confused, even in Austria, all I had to do was listen. Nanny Goat and her fruit slices taught me that.

Side story:

When Nanny passed and the adults were deciding what to do with her stuff. They stumbled upon a note that was on a box that said my name. Inside there was a picture of her holding her award plague from the F.B.I standing with William H. Webster. Underneath the picture frame was her plaque that said her real name “Anne Marie Beck”.

This is what sparked my interest in criminology and my desire to someday work for the F.B.I.