Only two other humans were out braving the cold, a couple and their golden retriever, off-leash. They immediately called Toby to get him re-collared, but I hollered that I loved dogs and didn’t mind him loose at all. In fact, it lifted my heart to see him running so happily, so free. All the more so when his owner shouted at him to stay out of the water, which Toby utterly ignored, defiantly splashing in the frigid river. He then raced toward me, splattering with abandon, showing off, or perhaps inviting me. In the residential blocks further on, I enjoyed more variety of rocks fitted into eclectic home styles as I made my way to the one coffee shop. The place was founded by a young couple a few years ago but covid scares had shut it down when I was here last. I was happy to see they’d weathered things, and enjoyed an in-house made bagel and the cozy atmosphere. 

When you’re not a local you notice things with fresh eyes, but for me, travel also prompts reflecting on the past anew. We all retain a wealth of memories. Much as I try to stay in the now, I admit being the last two weeks being seduced by the pull of especially potent ones, and am curious what set these apart. They each hold details of split seconds, instances in particular places where I was in this region.

Some were driven by dramatic surprise: I recall just what I was thinking as that trim piece snapped, and how for a literal milli-second after, a non-thinking aspect of me was fully aware there was no way to avoid falling and my body was in going down. Or a more uplifting unexpected: I recall happening upon brightly painted steps of a staircase near the art gallery at Appalachian State University, reveling in the sheer joy that creative piece evoked. Recently in a more expansive setting, I became aware on my after-work drive to my lodgings, how the roofline and steeple-form atop a local bank, visible far ahead, mimicked the mountains in the distance, and for an instant seemed caught in “no-space” — I sensed the seen was present before me yet I was also moving into and was a part of the same harmonious vista I was observing. 

All these memories  transcend visual experience—in a way they seem a bit beyond all sensory experiences. While hiking with my friend last summer (after the tornado night) I was enjoying her quiet presence — which I suspect we often do with those in whose company we feel at peace. But then once when we paused on the trail, I casually glanced back and instantly felt overcome as the sheer beauty of the instant struck: She was still, smiling, a rocky overhang above, her form in silhouette, the sunlight setting the lush foliage behind her aglow with dappled sparks… as she stood silently not looking at me, it felt as if she too was glowing from within while at the same time she seemed utterly merged with the landscape. Words fall short to describe it.

Another profound moment evolved attending to a micro-wonder. That same day hiking, we came upon tiny “Ghost Pipes”, strangely albino-like hollow stemmed fungi, along a trail. The exquisite grace and beauty of this miniature ecosystem and delicate fungi all at once, for just an instant, renewed my felt sense of connection with our shared life on earth. 

A different version of connectedness in that instant was the palpable but invisible energy radiated by my friend’s sincere child-like excitement in finding these humble fungi, a joy which I felt to my core. All of these  incidents happened spontaneously, without any effort from me, suggesting it’s as much a relaxing of focus and concentration that enables access to these unique glimpses. 

Last week walking the riverway, I happened upon stone steps which gently wound around a large tree, and led to down to the river. I took the bait, and perched upon the large slab that was the endpoint, to “take in the moment.” At first my attention was on the sight of the morning sun dappling on the water, and then the rippling sounds, but at some point, without conscious effort, I let go of any focus. For a second (or was it a minute—time had faded) I felt a presence in the old tree, which in the same instant extended and expanded into the river itself. It was fleeting yet profound. Again, our language is too narrowing (perhaps too object-oriented) to adequately describe this flowing beyond-sensory felt experience, but it seared into my memory.

~~~

The sunshine glowed through the coffee shop windows as I sat down and warmed my hands on my mug. I was grateful for a table in the sun, soaking it in after my cool morning walk. As the steamy, foamed-oat milk warmed my insides and the sun my skin, I wondered what was it that made certain memories more profound? How long will I recall furry Toby, gleefully diving into that cold water in Spruce Pine…?

The door let in a cold draft and a boy just beyond toddler-age came in with his father. “Don’t you have any socks?!” the barista said as they approached the counter, both barefooted in sandals. “Nope! We like it this way!” The little sprout said proudly, announcing his kinship with his smiling, loving papa.

It’s ironic, but “being fully in the now” also seems to better etch those moments deeper in my memory. I can expect dramatic ones to be vivid, but provocatively, many of the most engrained instances are of quite simple even “uneventful” moments. Which reveals it’s less the experience, than my awareness within it. As if, in times when I was most aware, and let life unfold without muddying it, it was more vibrant and vital. My awareness was clearer, more fully attuned, my being more seamlessly immersed within life. Such instances taste richer, more hearty, and somehow are more sustaining. Though I write about “my awareness” and “my” being, what is it that makes these “mine”? When I try to trace them, they’re more persistent than all else I know, and yet—what if “I” am simply a conduit of Awareness that’s manifesting as all life, including my sense of “self”?

The richest glimpses seem to be linked to just abiding in the flow. By accepting all life with an open-heart, my being taps into something timeless — when fully engaged in the “now” we always lose a sense of time, contrary to our normal understanding of life as a linear passage of events, we might better describe the now as “eternal” since it’s never in the past or future. 

Experiencing harmony and beauty while being aware seems one gateway to these unique instances. Most have at least an undercurrent of interconnectedness. “I” am there, compassionately engaged, but with an indifference about trying to guide or controll anything. The magic seems to require being free of expectations, and judgments of good/bad, right/wrong. There’s a heightened (yet unforced) sense of being in the moment. A felt sense of being fully alive. 

Maybe the essential ingredient coupled with awareness in attending to life within these timeless, moving dynamics, is simply love.​

“Rabbit’s Gloves” 14.5” x 15.5” oil/cardboard

Over the holidays, my family chatted about the first miserable jobs we had. It also got me thinking about one after the really lousy one. I’d attended freshman year of college, and was living at my folk’s home the following summer looking for work. Since I waited until classes were done to begin looking, I was SOL [Sh*t Out of Luck] for a week. So when a random post appeared in the local newspaper want-ads I jumped at it, even though It was cryptic: “line workers needed for injection moulding plant.” I had no clue what it meant but they were hiring for all three shifts, so I applied and started the midnight shift (11 PM - 7 AM) the next day. 

I’d never worked a midnight shift so that was the first tough adjustment. The first night I was trained: “Sit on this chair, in front of this [elephant-sized] machine, take this small [retractable] knife and when the plastic part falls into this tray, cut the plumbing pieces off the outer part [framework], drop the important parts into this box, and put the outer frames into this box. When the boxes are full dump them here, and here.” 

We poured the plastic frames into a giant chipper shredder machine that was even louder than the moulding ones, which then melted them, to make more plumbing widgets. “Oh, and whatever you do, DO NOT EVER Stick your hands into the machine! And if you need to shut it down [presumably because you DID stick your hand into the machine!] hit this red button.” 

There was one person per machine. It was so loud you had to wear headphones for ear protection. A 15 minute break at 1 PM, lunch at 3:15 AM, another break at  5:30 AM, end of shift at 7 AM.  It smelled of liquified plastic (Always a quick-study, the first day I learned that’s what injection moulding did). We all smelled of molten plastic. I also learned we were a scab crew because the regulars were striking. 

I was a scrawny, introverted, 20-year old who had no clue how to relate to the seven other workers who all were older than me, smoked, and seemed to need the job more than I did.  One morning as I was leaving I saw another HS friend coming in for the morning shift and he said something like  “this really sucks” and “I’m outa here by the end of the week!” as we passed.  A few nights in, I braved a conversation during lunch with the Supervisor, Bob, and his wife, a couple on my shift who seemed ancient— maybe in their fifties.  “How long have you two been working here?” “Oh, we’ve been doing work like this for over 30 years,” he said nonchalantly. 

I remember sitting in my chair, back at it after lunch, trimming those warm plastic parts that dumped out every 90 seconds, a bit bewildered, pondering long and hard what it would be like to do this work for eight hours, every workday, for thirty years… It was unfathomable. Was this adult life?! I concluded that night, like my HS friend, I HAD to get out. 

I’d been at it about two weeks when one day at noon I woke from my weird new  schedule to hear my dad frustratedly calling from the top of the stairs to my older brother in his basement bedroom, that he needed to “call Marathon RV (Recreational Vehicles) today, or they wouldn’t keep the job open” for him. To his defense, my brother Steve had been through a grueling third year of an intense electrical engineering degree from Purdue. So he understandably needed a break from “pidly summer jobs.” He’d be hitting the ground running in the “real world” soon enough and earning far better money [and to his great credit, he’s still working hard 44 years later]. I popped out of bed, bleary-eyed, and asked my dad if I could call them. He said sure.

I happily quit the night shift and spent the rest of that summer sweeping floors, cleaning up debris, and making pick-ups for parts that were not delivered at our small recreational vehicle manufacturing plant. The framework came in one end of the building, where a welder extended the frame and a chipboard flooring was secured, then it rolled forward and frame walls were added, then insulation, electrical, plumbing, cabinets, etc, as it went through the length of the building three different rows, until the last, where after final touches of seats, speakers, cleaning windows were completed and almost miraculously a small RV emerged. I dont know how many were made each week by the 15 person crew. 

Because part of my job was cleaning up everywhere along the line, I got to know each dept. (usually one person, and each had a specialty). Maybe because I was at that age where you first start to see adults as something you will one day be, even 40 years later I still remember several of the personalities.  Dick (the welder) was a gruff-looking but friendly short guy with tattoos (in 1980 these were mostly still reserved for bikers and sailors); another guy built the cabinets and seemed like a former hippie (long brown hair, laid back attitude); a blonde-haired lady did all the upholstery; another fellow one day was excited to show me a fully intact Luna Moth he had found in the plant that he’d take home to his son, and he knew the Latin name—marking him as a rare “educated” line worker—I think he did the radios, stereo and speakers. I remember everyone got along, hustling like a smooth team  through some hot summer workdays, and there was banter and laughter during lunch hours. 

I was tired but always felt good at day’s end. At first I borrowed my parent’s old Chrysler sedan to get there, and it always had issues. After the workday it often wouldn’t start. I recall being frustrated and afraid to ask for help. Once after I had flooded it, a plant worker who (I swear) wore white short-sleeve T-shirts with cigs rolled in a sleeve, watched me and came over, removed the Bic pen I was propping the carburetor choke open with, and holding held it with his fingers until it took. With no hint of the humiliation that had kept me from asking for help, and no words, he handed me the pen, and we both headed home. It was nothing to him, but I still remember it vividly. So it was, I was becoming accepted as an adult. 

My boss was a fellow named Bill, but everyone called him “Rabbit.” I assumed because he was light-footed, and quick on his feet, in contrast to his Yogi bear-shaped body. He was a 40-ish dude, who chewed tobacco, wore a tractor cap, and talked with a heavy Indiana “good ol’ boy” accent that took me a while to understand. (I’d grown up in Detroit.) He showed me the ropes of what was expected, and I soaked it in earnestly. After the lousy night shift job, I was very happy to be there, and eager to please. I kept all the areas squeaky clean, so diligently my fore-arms filled out from sweeping so hard everyday. I showed initiative, and kept busy, so “Rab” came to appreciate “the college boy.” We got along better every week. 

He taught me to drive the pickup which had a manual. I got stuck at a few stoplights at first, but made my way eventually. Rabbit always gave me directions to the many random factories I needed to go to, solely by landmarks. Of course no internet existed, nor cell phones. “Go about up t’ th’ fourth buildin’, then left about two blocks, take a right where that muffler shop is…” I got lost a few times too, and on my return he’d say something like “we was wondering if you was gonna come back today” with a smile. He could somehow tell I could handle his teasing. 

He asked me just once what I was studying at college. When I told him I was studying art, he paused a minute and sincerely said “there any jobs in that?” — “I dunno,” was all I could sincerely reply. By the end of the summer we’d bonded, as much as a summer job “college boy” and a “good ol’ boy” twice my age from a very different world could. 

One day in mid-August he had to write out something on a box being returned. He called me over and said “Johnboy, how do you spell screen?” I figured maybe he was mixing up the “double E” for “E & A” or something, so I said “S-C-R-E-E” as he wrote each one slow and sure. But then he quit. In that instant I realized he would not add an “N” unless I told him, so I blurted out, “And “N”!” Suddenly, I realized why he never wrote me directions or named streets when he sent me out for pick-ups — he had not learned to read. 

I think in that moment, something opened in me. I felt (without being able to articulate it then) maybe for the first time, a mature empathy and compassion as an adult for another adult. Someone very different from me, who, through circumstance, I’d come to appreciate and respect and enjoy. I realized too that the seemingly huge differences between us were mostly because I simply had been gifted parents who made sure we learned in school; who were able to attend to us during our younger years; who were determined to shepherd us so we’d get a shot at college studies, which they had never been able to attend. 

In my first week sweeping floors at the Marathon RV plant, I got blisters from pushing the broom. Rabbit noticed. “Don’t you got any gloves, John-boy?” “Nope.” He paused a few seconds. “Here, you can have mine.” They were spanking new. I used them all summer (and had no more blisters) and wore the hide to a gray shine. On my last day he said “keep ‘em” — a parting gift — and I saved them. 

When I went back to school that fall, in my odd, “job-less” art major, I saw my undergrad studies very differently. I had a new fire in my belly. During the remaining years I intently took in every word from the professors, challenged them and me, applied myself hard in all my studio classes, worked beyond assignments, visited museums when I could, took home armloads of art books every week to stare at whenever not in class… I was thrilled to work my tail off, keenly aware of my privilege in being there, never forgetting either job from that summer when I became an adult. 

I’d seen Van Gogh’s paintings of shoes, and with similar sentiment, I painted Rabbit’s gloves in 1981, half a year after that summer job. It’s not an extraordinary painting. It’s a barely-considered composition, with a minimal sense of how to use or work the full square. I was mostly just struggling to learn how to create form and handle paint. Like the subject (and the artist?), it’s plain and straightforward, not classy, maybe even a bit “heavy,” — there’s plenty of room for improvement. But for me, like the man who gave me his new gloves, finesse and erudition are trumped by sincerity, integrity, and heart any day. 

Here’s to you Rabbit, thanks for the gloves, the memories, and the mentoring. Hope you’re looking into a bright new year, wherever you are. Happy new year to all the unassuming hardworking folks out there, we’re touching each other’s lives and affecting people in ways we never imagined. Let’s be gentle with one another.