Living the small life

A friend of mine is struggling with what she wants to do the rest of her life. She is 60 and, having been a successful lawyer and a successful consultant, she wonders what is next. She gardens, she takes in stray dogs, she nurtures a family that includes her husband, a daughter, and stepchildren and much-loved grandchildren. She volunteers at a number of different places. I know how much she has done for a young woman in South Africa.

But somehow that is not enough. She needs a career.

My question is why? What has become of the small life? I know for many earning money is a necessity, not an option. But even for those of us who still need to be earners, why do so many of us seem to be reaching always for more, like a little kid trying to cram as many M&Ms as her mouth can hold, until chocolate dribbles down her chin?

I have come to believe in the small life and its many joys. As someone who has known since about the age of 10 that I would be a writer, I haven’t struggled as others have to define my vocation, my call, my profession.

When I was a teenager and young adult, I did dream of writing the great American novel. That hasn’t happened. Then I dreamed of publishing beautiful poems. And I wrote some lovely ones and made it into a workshop with a well-known poet. The truth, though, is that I am not driven to write poetry. I haven’t made the space for it that such work requires. See, I feel guilty even writing that. But if it had been my call, it would have happened. And goodness knows there are plenty of beautiful published poems out there to love.

The truth is I like my life. Okay, I love my life. I do. I love freelancing. I love having this blog. I love having time to take a walk in the middle of the day. I’m glad to have one dog and two cats to care for and hang out with. I’m really glad for my husband and for our great travels. I’m happy to have a 7th grader to mentor and a church to go to and a tiny little garden and a slightly bigger house in a gritty city.

Does this add up to a big life? No, but it adds up to a fine small one. I’m not going to save the world. I’m not going to walk down any red carpets or sign any autographs.

I am here to praise the small life, the opportunities it brings me to learn exactly how to love my neighbor (by which I mean, friends and family, those pesky people who I take for granted and who know me well enough to call me on what I need to be called on. Loving my neighbors and strangers is a breeze by comparison!). The chance I have to learn to feel compassion for those whose lives bear little resemblance to mine. The opportunity to not resort to road rage, to irritation, to constant complaining, as just a few examples of lessons I am still learning.

I enjoy my daily routine and I love my work, from writing a magazine article about how a staffing association won a legal battle that was cast as a thriller to writing profiles of students who manage to graduate from high school despite having obstacles as big as mountains in their way. It’s call with a small c but it’s mine.

Give me my green with happiness acres and keep your red carpet. I like this side of the fence.

Divin' In

My significant other and I love dives. One of my very favorite evenings in the three years I’ve lived in Baltimore was when we went to hear Arty Hill and Caleb Stine (look them up. Fabulous musicians!!!) at 1919 Fleet Street, a shoebox-sized bar that was last cleaned out in maybe 1970. Somehow, I feel at home in these places, as if I got the honky-tonkin’ gene from my parents’ Texas DNA, despite not owning one single pair of cowboy boots. There are lots of places like this in Baltimore, which also recalls my much-loved Pittsburgh, where, it is said, you can find a church and a bar on every block. Sometimes, the ratio is one church to two bars. Or more.

Every year, I look forward to a friend’s Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer party, which takes place at the Canton Liquor House, another shoebox bar where the owners call you hon and you can get as much Natty Boh or krupnik as you want. For J.’s party, you drink every time Rudolph’s nose blinks and you drink shots along the way too. It’s one of my favorite Christmas parties.

All through my young adult and adult years, my dad loved taking us to dive breakfast places. Mom, not so much, so the tradition evolved so that the kids and dad (and assorted in-laws and grandchildren) would go out to Waffle House or some local place for a good high-fat, lowbrow breakfast every Christmas when we were all home. The Christmas before he died of cancer, we spent a bittersweet hour with him out for breakfast after his doctor’s appointment. My favorite picture of Dad is in front of Rube’s, a now-gone diner in Columbus, Ohio, where my sisters and their families live. He’s got on shorts and a baseball cap and he’s carrying his Father’s Day gifts. He’s also wearing a smile a mile wide because he just had a good breakfast and spent some time ribbing his family. It didn’t get better than that for my dad.

Now, every time B. and I walk into one of our favorite Baltimore diners, I think of my dad and how much he would have loved it. Topping my list of favorites is New Wyman Park, at the corner of Howard Street and 25th. It’s not because the food is better or the place is cleaner or the décor is kitschier, it’s all because of the staff. Though the place has about eight booths, B. and I always sit at the bar if it’s just the two of us so we don’t miss the constant chatter. Owned, as near as we can tell, by a Greek family, several members of which work there as cook, wait staff, and buspeople, the New Wyman Park practically screams “Neighborhood!” The two cooks, one Greek-American and one African-American, are constantly talking to each other, to the waitresses, to the patrons, at least ¾ of whom are well-known, practically family.

We watch and listen as we eat up our scrambled eggs, home fries, toast, and, for B., thin planks of ham. They argue, laugh, yell, reminisce, and kid around, this the most constant form of communication. The banter is what can’t be beat and it keeps me coming back for more. One morning, as we sat somewhat lazy and very fully happy, the then-incoming mayor, Stephanie Rawlings-Blake, walked in. And got treated just like everyone else—with a smile and a hi. But no fawning, no running over. Of course, B. and I couldn’t help but introduce ourselves and wish her luck. We did our best to keep it low key.

New Wyman Park and its inhabitants are the finest of Baltimore, as far as I’m concerned. They are its heart and soul, what keeps me from despairing over the city’s ridiculous crime and murder rate, its swathes of abandoned housing, and its deeply entrenched poverty.

New Wyman Park reminds me that the heart of the city still beats when people black and white, rich and poor, can still gather at places like this, eat some really good food and enjoy each other’s company. Someone said home is the place you go and they have to take you in. That’s what New Wyman Park is to me and they welcome us all, prodigal and otherwise, with a smile and cup full of hot coffee.