There's Something About Philly

Sign interpretation: 😅 "Explore sharks underwooder" 😅
(Many Philadelphians say wooder for water)

It’s hard to put my finger on it. Maybe it depends on the day, or the hour, or maybe it’s because of the bewitching full-moon/time-change/Friday-the-13th/Corona virus week. But there's something about Philly that brings satisfying feelings. Despite the overall grime, homeless beggars, and cigarette smoke floating along the sidewalks, there is something deeper. 

I attempt to be the one ready to perform random acts of kindness. But, last Thursday around 6:00 p.m. near the bustling Center City Philly area the tables were turned as we ride a full subway car, standing. Standing in the subway car because the one pair of open seats has a large, disgusting, sticky spill on it. At the next stop a woman enters and eyes the empty pair of seats next to us. We say, Watch out for the sticky spill on the one seat. 

She replies, Thanks, but I’m used to it, while squeezing past us to situate herself into the clean seat. The professional-looking, silvery-aged woman is just glad to rest her feet, maybe after a long work day. She pulls out a couple of cloths and her "wooder" bottle (read the caption for the picture above), and vigorously scrubs the seat next to her. Then, she light-heartedly says, I’m always ready. 

We figure she wants to set her purse on the seat, but instead, I’ve cleaned the seat off, for you. Please sit!

Even though I am still a bit hesitant to sit in what was a messy seat (but now it looks clean), and our stop is next, it is rude to turn down a kindness. I smile, sit to rest my feet, but just for a quick minute. After the next noisy jerk and stop, we depart the subway car with a grateful, Thank you! Have a great evening! 

That act of kindness still surprises me, because I should be willing to do the same thing. But could this germophobe? With the Corona Virus lurking, maybe instead I will carry cleaning wipes to let others clean their own seats if needed.

Over the weekend, while comfortably situated in our car, running Saturday errands, we listened to a favorite radio speaker. The speaker lightly discussed discrimination, and how some people look for and anticipate discrimination, and others don't bother: As a child, while my [black] family spent their time talking about discrimination and even looking for it, other [black] families opened hardware stores (a much better use of time)! 

So, we are grateful and even enchanted by our recent memory, of one kind black Philly woman on the subway who wasn't looking for an act of discrimination against her. Instead, she spent a few minutes of her time performing a random act of kindness, for me. #There’sSomethingAboutPhilly

My 2nd Chance, a Do-Over. At last!!!

It was one of those times when the thought goes through the mind, "Why didn't I do that, say that, react differently!!!" or, "Why did I run away instead of face my fear?"

For me it was 2 weeks ago, panic-stricken facing Mr. Snake eye-to-eye, no-hiss -to- no-hiss. He, or it, was on the floor under the utility sink in our basement. I chose to let hubby take care of the feared-one, after he arrived home from work. But by the time he arrived, Mr. Slitherer had disappeared. We looked everywhere, but no snake was to be found. A week later, Done Right Handyman couldn't find the snake either when he came to fix the leaking basement sink.

Why didn't I take care of the problem when I could have?? Now, Mr. Sneak (yes, sneak) could be under the water heater, or in a box; actually, he could even climb up our steps to reach warmer surroundings, and be anywhere!

The day of reckoning finally came. I was searching, for our lost red file folder, in the dreaded basement, only in covered boxes because I thought Mr. Snake couldn't slink into them. That tells you how desperate I am to find that red folder, because I was back in the same basement, not for a brief visit but for an extended period of time. Where Mr. Snake was last spotted 2 weeks ago. 

The first box contained only books. The second box, the same. And the third. And the fourth. We moved more books than I realized! Then, I turned around. 

Just a foot away, in other words 12 inches, on the bottom shelf of our Rubbermaid shelving unit, in an uncovered box, he was somewhat coiled. My insides wanted to burst. I wanted to scream, "Help!!!" but only me, myself, and I would reply. I wanted to run upstairs and let hubby take care of the 911, later. But that tactic didn't work 2 weeks ago.

I had a second chance. It was do-over time. I was face-to-face with the enemy and would not run away, lest he slither to hide elsewhere. Self-talk works: "You can do it. God, help me! Be strong! But how? Think!!!! The box is heavy, and you don't want to hurt yourself, not before your big adventure next week!" Desperate times call for desperate measures.

After about 5 minutes of hysteric problem-solving and positive self-talk, plus text encouragement from hubby, I stepped closer to the box to cautiously remove what I thought was the heaviest item in the box. Then, with adrenaline on my side, up the stairs, fast; through the living room, fast; out the front door, fast; plop down and empty the box, fast (whoa, didn't realize our heavy circular saw was still in the box); and, the easy part, use a stick, to carry Mr. Unwelcome into any house of mine for any reason, ever, to fling him, to grasses ever far away from the front door.  

I text my family to brag on snake-handling skills. Our "Little" quickly FaceTimes to hear about the adventure; she sees my hair in total disarray, like a madwoman. I tell her the snake was thrown far away from the front door, so it wouldn't come back. Her quick response? "...so it can slither into someone else's house ... " (synchorized giggles).

Nice cursive, Mr. Snake

Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion (or hides like a sneaky snake)...

How will we respond?

(I Peter 5:8)

Our New City's Above- & Under-World

We continue to acquaint ourselves with new surroundings and a new culture. A culture and people that are barely known to us. It is like swimming through cloudy water, challenging to anticipate what lies ahead; let alone organize and declutter, to home-ify a smaller house.

Many in the Philadelphia/Delaware area say "wooder" for water, and pronounce mountain without the "t"... "mounain." In our 30s we lived in Dallas for 9 years and never acquired their southern drawl (our children did, but then lost it after we moved away from The South). So whether the dialect here will rub off on us is still up for grabs.

With so much to learn and explore (in other words silvery brain exercises galore) we never underestimate the power of small steps and repetition. One experience helps to better understand the mapping for the next adventure, and the next, and so forth. The past couple of months, our undercover continuing education class homework included acquainting ourselves with above-ground Center City Philly. 

Familiarizing ourselves with Philly's set-up includes two taller landmark structures, similar to lighthouses, used for navigation purposes: The 11-story Wells Fargo building (where hubby works) and City Hall, and how everything relates to those two buildings. Spotting one of those buildings helps to navigate the labyrinth.

For example, the post office on Market Street is just past the Wells Fargo building and 4th Street, and also Fox TV's 24-hour ticker tape news headline banner.

An historic landmark, the Ben Franklin Post Office has a worker who hand-stamps a mail customer's letter or postcard with Ben's signature. And the opposite direction, toward City Hall, is the way to head for some of the major museums or to climb Philly's famous "Rocky steps."

This week's adventure included exploring the dark under-world of Philly; in other words, its SEPTA underground subway and trolley systems. For months we have seen pedestrians disappear down strategically placed stairwells, descending many steps to the mysterious and dank underground... the city's underbelly. It resembles a tight and dimly-lit bomb shelter; unappealing to claustrophobes. I tend to shy away from below-ground dark places, like our basement (mice or rats or snakes could be there), and directional unknowns. Solo riding the underground subway fits into the unknown, almost creepy-crawly category.

The subway assumption appears to be that everyone knows what they are doing. Signage is undoubtedly for members-only, because it is vague and encrypt. Due to curving tracks, there is a corn-maze walled perspective. A limited frame of reference makes railway tunnels appear to have no beginning or ending. Gotcha subway turnstiles create sensory overload, because a required code or tattoo is needed to enter, to be a part of the riders club.

Septa subway, railway, trolley & bus system

It is a good thing to not realize 30 blocks later that you are on a train headed the wrong direction. Otherwise, if not crunched for time, enjoy the ride, study the map posted on the train, and ask a seasoned rider how to get to a particular destination. Steer clear of glassy-eyed riders who know only their specific railway to and from work. They have set paths and no clue how to subway to anyplace other than their weekday route. 

Summertime mystery odors in the underground, that smell like oil, B.O., vomit or garbage, emanate from who knows what and where. That is one of the main reasons why for months we steered clear; plus, we like to walk. Subway cars tend to be squeaky, noisy, and in no way, shape, or form germaphobe-friendly. But they get us to where we're going, fast and somewhat climate-controlled. Fall is prime time to explore the under-world (when smells and odors are less), before cold weather arrives and before we need the subway's protection.  

With all that has happened recently, it seems like a year has passed rather than just 2 months since we moved half-cross-country, to Delaware, a 40-minute train ride to Philly. Knowing what I know, and still looking for purpose and connection with others, would I have moved? Isolation skews my thoughts and feelings; feelings that are similar to years ago when we lived in Alabama, the first month after birthing our first child (the one who was colicky, whom I treasure and would carry and birth all over again). That first month is when a new Mom is more tired than ever imagined, has more questions than can be counted, and life is a blur. Cell phones were non-existent, and long-distance calls were too pricey for our budget. We lived a long, 12-hour drive from any family, and our car had no air conditioning for muggy summer trips. After Mom's presence and help left, I felt alone; and I feel alone now.  

At Philly's RBG Exhibit

So, how do I feel overall about the move, with what I know so far? I am tickled for hubby's new opportunities, but regret not personally exploring a concrete purpose prior to accepting the call. The need to organize will eventually end! It is useless to cry over spilled milk. We move on. Our lives will continue to be a blur until after the holidays. Creating an RBG costume for Halloween 2019 (re-using our daughter's high school graduation robe plus an RBG-like collar purchased at the thrift store), my answer to this paragraph's opening question can best be expressed using kindred-spirit legal jargon: The jury is still out. 

Unless an alternate purpose surfaces, faith and the SEPTA train system will regularly take me to Philly; organization/de-cluttering, after more than 40+ years of accumulation (a most recent household achievement... our sardine-tight-even-when-empty, two-car garage can finally hold two cars at one time, barely. Car door dings might be likely unless we are extra careful, so two cars will fit only when necessary, like on sub-zero and snow storm nights); acts of random kindness; FaceTimes with our treasured 4-year-old; and, holiday planning are current activities.

Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen (Hebrews 11:1)

The Crossings

Another Philly adventure with more traffic reminders of previous trips. We closely witnessed two uncomfortably close calls for pedestrians, and they are reminders that in July we survived a similar experience.

The first incident included two 20-something pedestrians startled by a car's loud horn. The pedestrians were totally in the wrong, trying to cross without the protective cross signal, so they were naturally on high alert. They quickly jumped back, and sincerely yelled, "Sorry" to the car. They were crossing without waiting for the safe signal (an unsuspecting older pedestrian, like the one in last week's experience that I wrote about, would have been challenged to react so quickly).

The second incident included just one 20-something pedestrian, distracted wearing headphones. It was a huge city bus this time, light-seconds from hitting Mr. Headphones. The blaring, heart-stopping bus horn frightened Mr. Headphones (and us as observers) to, faster than lightning, step back onto the curb (no breathing or hesitation allowed). The whoosh of the bus visibly shook his body.

That alert city bus driver was able to honk and wasn't distracted like our mid-summer bus driver. Our highly distracted bus driver did not have enough hands for a multi-task horn honk. The lawless bus driver (hard to forget) had blindly changed lanes to pass another bus, just prior to approaching a basically red traffic signal. He chose to scream through the intersection and run the red light, putting unsuspecting signal-obeying pedestrians like us in serious danger.

And then there is the story about Mr. Squirrel in Philly's beautiful Rittenhouse Square, that even more so punctuates our summer and fall adventures. What could be called a providence mark. A vivid reminder of crossing guard experiences that were too close for comfort...

Mr. Squirrel, back up the tall tree
Our hearts cheered after he survived a perilous fall

On Friday evening as we strolled along the park's quaint brick sidewalks, to my right a short, and what I thought was a stocky, branch dropped to the sidewalk with a dull thud. It wasn't a branch after all, but a squirrel, apparently crossing along a branch. He fell with a wallop, 30 feet! 

We thought Mr. Squirrel was a gonner, for sure, and watched. He must have seen stars for a brief moment, like being hit by a city bus or car. Dizzily he stood, then somehow headed for safety from humans, back to the 100-year-old tree from which he fell. He climbed halfway and momentarily parked there, dazed. Then he slowly climbed up toward the branch from which he fell, and stopped again to give more time to steady himself before getting back up on the horse saddle (or tree branch). 

Our hearts cheered. Mr. Squirrel survived, as did we after our frightening close call. With how close that bus was to us, we both could have seen heavenly stars or suffered physically. Angels were definitely looking out for us. No doubt about it. We are thankful for God's protection and mercies, throughout our entire move.

Looking forward to getting back up on the horse saddle (or train) for next week's trip to fun Philly, with notable adventures. No more pedestrian-related nightmares; our plan is to experiment riding the subway system.

Silveryside: The Crossing

Meaningful pretirement can bring freedom, like doing nervy acts that leave people scratching their heads. Also called prayerfully-directed chutzpah or boldness. Otherwise, healing acts like when Jesus brazenly rubbed spit mud on a blind man's eyes, could seem rude or overly dramatic (The Bible, John Chapter 9). Jesus walked in prayer, so the events of each of His days were ordered. 

Here is one of my modern-day mud rub stories, which I label The Crossing (guard). Preserved skills, learned during 6th grade crossing guard days at Washington Elementary School, have re-surfaced in the last few months for two spotty return engagements. The second experience begs a detailed explanation.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” says the petite, salt-&-pepper Asian lady standing next to me on the curb of a busy Philly intersection as I point to a car crossing the intersection. She thinks I saved her (maybe so, maybe not), by gently stopping her from crossing the street after the pedestrian signal appeared. She hadn’t looked to see the white vehicle that seriously ran a red light and was about to drive past us or at us if we had chosen to step off the curb to cross the one-way street. Just another interesting trip to Philly, grasping for weekly pretirement purpose. Now it’s time to safely ride the 6:36 p.m. train home with hubby.

So, on the train ride home there is time to ponder the book I read just today, with a story of God using the prayer of an evangelist to heal a blind man. It was a true miracle, and as I read that story I wondered if God could use my prayers to heal someone... and maybe He did, but in a different way. Which is more of a miracle? For a disabled person to be healed by prayer, or by prayer prevent someone from needing prayer in the first place? Maybe that lady at the busy intersection was spared injury by defensive means.

This back story to Paragraph One is the reason for my question:

The initial plan was to ride the train to Philly on Wednesday, but plans changed. I managed to miss Wednesday's 10:36 a.m. train and was bummed. On the tearful 20-minute return drive home, I briefly wondered if there was a reason why, through a series of parking circumstances (that could never be replicated), I missed that train. I decompressed and walked through how to correct the parking fumble, to hopefully not do it the next trip or ever again.   

Maybe Thursday or Friday would work to go to Philly. Fortunately, the two bedrooms in our new home, that still needed attention after our recent move, benefited from missing that train. 

Thursday came and went, with no time for Philly. And Friday's garage sale had me wondering whether or not Philly could be squeezed into afternoon plans. At 7:30 a.m. sharp I was open for business, ready to give free cupcakes to the first six customers and sell our dining table and everything. I waited. And waited. And had time to re-read the supernatural healing story in the book mentioned above. No customers whatsoever came, for 2 hours, so there was no need to stay open. Again I cried, this time because of a garage sale fail. Actually, it was a mega-fail. (A couple of hours later I discovered that my Craigslist post vanished, plus the sign at the end of the street that I thought was rudely taken down in reality fell down.)

Both Wednesday's outing and the garage sale had failed, yet I was determined to succeed at something this week! So as simple and unimportant as it might seem, that something was to get to Philly! It is a planned weekly silvery adventure I look forward to, and weekday options for the week had run out. It seemed poetic that since the train left me high and dry on Wednesday, randomly I wasn't asked to pay for Friday's train ride (nice). After arriving to the Philly train station, as always, the restroom was the first stop, then off to infamous busy Market Street (Facebook friends know that I have history there). Two or three lights later...

This recently-getting-used-to-staying-at-home silverweight might be grasping at straws, but if I hadn't failed to catch the train Wednesday, and if Friday's garage sale hadn't been a total flop (giving time to re-read some of the book that encouraged the prayer), with a stop at the train station's bathroom even though it was out of habit rather than urgency; and if discouragement kept me from putting one foot in front of the other... with all that happened this week to get me to that busy Philly intersection Friday at approximately 3:45 p.m. to stand next to that older stranger, with an ideal vantage point to see her and Mr. Lawless simultaneously, close enough to naturally stop the lady's forward motion. Maybe all of the events wove together to keep her from stepping into a scary situation. 

And the icing on the cupcake, to pause and punctuate a highly convoluted week plus that morning's book take-away, was an unexpected, complimentary one-way train ride into the city. Free always gets our attention! Some may call Friday's event random or over-rated, but because of odd circumstances and seeming fails that seamlessly combined together to orchestrate it, and the added 40-minute train ride home in the "quiet car" to do little more than ponder (no chatting allowed or you get shhhsh'd), I feel obliged and compelled to not downplay it, and to label it a rather-ish? miracle.

Recently freed from its protective chrysalis
a beautiful monarch butterfly's in-flight random
photo backdrop: An elementary school

God can partner uniquely with anyone. So whatever our stage in life, pray for opportunities. And be prepared to take pondering time to see the miracles and be humbled.