A preview of this book's kickstarter image

One of my designers and I have been working with an author on a new novel.  We've designed the website, and the book cover, helped him find an editing team, and are helping him launch a kickstarter campaign.  Its great fun.  Here is a preview of the image for that kickstarter campaign.  We expect to launch this next week.  Stay tuned!

Originally posted on 9/11/2010.  Reposted on 9/11/2011, the 10 year Anniversay, in dedication to the First Responders who are still experiencing the effects of their courage and still losing their lives today.  I thank you all from the bottom of my heart for what you have done and for all that you do.  May the powers that be do the right thing, and give you the healthcare and support you need.

Too Many Stories

 I had never intended to write about it, and I hope no one will ever have to experience anything like it again.  Neither in our nightmares nor in our realities.  But there is something about that day that I always want to remember.

I hesitate, because as far as stories go, there are more than can be accounted for.  And there is no way to do them justice.  They are too surreal, too personal and too emotionally diverse.  But there are many stories that I remember and honor on this day.  From the story of a friend who lost hold of his coworker’s hand as he tried to save him but never saw him again.  To the man who was the last one on the elevator as it left the 84^th floor.  He watched as the door closed on his coworkers who patiently waited for the next car -- each unaware that this elevator car was the last.  When he got outside, he saw the 2^nd plane blow a hole through his workplace.  It is the story of a friend who felt the heat of explosion and without knowing what had happened, left all of her belongings and got onto a ferry.  She didn’t pause to look up as many so fatefully did.  That instinct saved her life.  The story continues with a stranger who pushed a lucky man into the doorway of the neighboring building.  This stranger threw himself on top of my friend as the rubble crashed where they had just been walking.  The two men then ran to in separate directions, my friend to safety, the other, who knows.  It is the story of my coworker who flew in from L.A. on the red eye.  He left less than 2 hours before the high-jacked plane.  He awoke from his nap at 8:51 a.m. thinking he had been buried alive.  He rescued one neighbor's dog; then he and another neighbor huddled in the kitchen as the towers fell around them.  Ironically, he could have lost his life twice that day, but died unexpectedly 6 years later.  It is the story of the firemen who rushed in as others rushed out – many losing more than 100 of their friends.  Families upon families, devasted.  The stories go beyond each person, and beyond New York -- to Washington, Pennsylvania and around the world.  Too many stories to do any of them justice, even in their telling and retelling, even though the stories need to be told and remembered.  One story that I wish to remember here is the one about the millions who walked, including a man who walked 20 or so miles back to his wife who gave birth on September 12, 2001.

The Questions

It seems like you either lost everyone or no one that day.  I was one of the lucky ones.   I had worked in the World Financial Center for seven years before changing jobs a couple of years earlier.  The towers weren't just towers to me, nor were they to most anyone else.  When I walked out of the office around noon, a sea of stunned people filled the streets.  No cabs.  No cars.  No subway nor bus.  No phone service.  All of us wondering where the people we loved might be and if they lived.  Just a sea of every color, creed, religion, character, head covering, political belief, age and marital status – all walking together. 

I walked with my friend Andy.  What a gift he was and is.  By the time we emerged onto the street, survivors from lower Manhattan had made it to our position on 36^th Street and 8^th Ave. Every color, creed, religion, character, political belief, head covering, age and marital status -- they were covered in the ash of the buildings.  They were covered in the ash of their fellow human beings.  Stunned, grey ghosts from every walk of life emerged and walked with us to the Upper West Side or to Queens or to the Bronx.  Some walked all day.   All walked next to someone who could inspire suspicion, and all walked next to someone who had just lost a loved one, but didn't know it yet.  All were walking somewhere.  I walked a mere mile and a half.  Another good friend, J.D. walked 8 miles just to sleep on my couch so I wouldn’t be alone.  Another gift I will never, ever forget.

As we walked, we strangers and friends worked out our feelings toward one another.  We remembered what we had learned about each other when working side by side, by doing business together, by talking daily about politics, prices and the weather.  We remembered who we are.  There was no room for hatred based upon assumptions or misunderstandings.  We knew too many people had died.  Too many people relied upon each other.  We, the strangers who walked, helped each other measure the health of both our trust and mistrust – using experience, behavior and instinct as our guide, not ignorance, fear and pride.  To say there was no evil afoot, no crazy extremism in our neighbors would be foolish.  The weekly bomb threats on our blocks kept reminding us of that.  But we, the strangers, and we the friends, were each other’s support.  I’ll never forget how a co-worker’s Catholic husband insisted that his Muslim wife not wear her scarf – he did not want her to become a target of violence.  He wanted her to be safe.  She wanted to respect her faith and be herself.  They compromised on a baseball cap.  A coworker walked her to work for months until potential danger toward her had quieted.  I’ll also never forget the many faces, accents and cultures who later gathered spontaneously around a radio in a cab or in front of a store window TV – all talking, all sharing information, all measuring our suspicions and all participating in multi-cultural solidarity.  

And I think this happened partly because we couldn’t get into our cars and separate ourselves. 

The Remembrance

I love New York because it is a city where people tell it like it is, no matter what their opinion might be (and they often show it, too).  Though New Yorkers crowd the streets every day, it is usually in equal but opposite directions.  If a brilliant architect or engineer could look at the movement of the city from an aerial perspective, I’m sure they could find some divine pattern that simply seems like chaos on the ground.  But that day, 8 million people from every imaginable demographic not only all walked, we walked together -- unmistakeably -- in the same direction. 

I learned a great life lesson from my fellow New Yorkers that day.  Not a political one.  And not a religious one.  As the shock hit, as the American flags flew up around us, as the military entered the subway, as the food dwindled in the stores and restaurants, and as the black cloud of ash entered our lungs and then circled our lives for months-- there could have been retaliation, violence – but there wasn't.  We simply walked.

It was powerful, it was strange, and it was comforting.  So I find myself writing today.  Because no matter how crazy things get, no matter how many opinions, viewpoints and shouting matches there are, no matter how the facts are gotten right, gotten wrong or are warped …. I want to remember how good people can be, how rationally and intelligently we all can behave.  Amidst the horrible acts that people do and teach each other to do, I want to remember how we can walk together without ego, without hatred and with a humble awareness of what we might not know.  Yes, we need to be smart.  To protect ourselves.  But my hope is that we can walk together toward who and what we love instead of in opposition to what we think we hate. I hope instead of taking a "position", we can look at our humanness and learn.  I hope we can help each other do that, too.  Because in spite of (or because of) our different experiences, we really need each other.  We really do.

In dedication to all who lost their lives and loved ones.



I took my heart to my garden

And tended.

The weeds were thick

The solitude sure.

As I pulled each unwanted thing

A little space grew

here

and there.

An ache healed,

A thought quelled,

Breath came in

and out again...

As it naturally should.

*also posted on www.tenderfoodie.com

I confess that I have struggled with writing this post.  Partly because I often hear disparaging remarks about the city’s needy from a small but opinionated group.  Comments surface, like, “Why can’t they get a job, or a 2nd job”, “I’ve struggled, too, especially in this economy,” and “Don’t they have family to help them?”  I can understand, to a point. Its tough out there for many of us.

I’ve also struggled with this post because as a writer. I want to say something that no one has said before.  But the truth is, there is nothing new about hunger.

•    It exists.  
•    It can happen to anyone.  
•    It takes a community of people to help solve the problem.

The more complicated questions are: why is there a hunger problem in the first place and how we do we kick hunger in its persistent little butt?

We Walk.

A Tough Blow in Life Is All It Takes

When I spoke to Jennifer Gray, the Hunger Walk Coordinator for Access of West Michigan, she helped clarify a few things about the “why”.  Jennifer told me that most of the people who visit the West Michigan Food Pantries have jobs. Sometimes two.  

I don’t want to get overly sentimental, because this post is not meant to guilt you into giving.  But the fact is, who can predict that you will lose your business because of a heart attack?  Or that medical bills because of cancer pile so high that you have to choose between treatment and food?  How do you survive if your sole breadwinner passes away and you cannot work yourself?  How do you keep your job if you lose your car so you can eat?  What happens when you lose your entire 401K when you are retired and elderly?  How do stay hopeful, keep your emotions in check and your kids healthy if you can’t feed them?  How do your kids learn in school when they can’t get enough to eat at home?

Food affects every area of our lives.  

Without healthy food, illness, loneliness and shame take a much stronger foothold within the entire community.  Look around at other communities that make us shake our heads.  If all of our citizens aren’t healthy and productive, then our community as a whole is not healthy either.

“Hunger does not discriminate.”
_Jennifer Wilson, Volunteer & Chairperson of the FightHungerGR task force now partnering with the Access of West Michigan Hunger Walk

About the Hunger Walk on May 7, 2011

In the spirit of a vibrant and caring community, Access of West Michigan works with a network of food pantries across Grand Rapids.  On Saturday, May 7, 2011 at 8 a.m. thousands of access volunteers and friends are coming together to walk and raise money together, so they can delve more deeply into the causes of hunger and eradicate them through a remarkable strategy of services.

You can sign up now, on Saturday morning or just donate a few bucks from your computer.  Click here to find out more.

“I really do believe that we are a community that cares about our citizens and that together we can end hunger in Grand Rapids.”  _Jennifer Gray, Hunger Walk Coordinator, Access of West Michigan

If I Had a Million Dollars

Here are a few quick facts about where your donations will be going:


•    Relationships with large, national food suppliers to keep their excess of products coming to West Michigan.

•    Broaden local resources like restaurants, groceries, farms and factories to become a truly sustainable, local food system and cut down on expensive transportation costs.

•    Collect local gardeners’ excess produce during the summer.

•    A Fresh Food Truck to deliver foods with a short shelf life -- like produce, meat and eggs to areas that do not have groceries within walking distance or along bus routes that offer such things.  There is a huge need for fresh foods.

•    Keep Pantries stocked all year round with longer shelf-life foods

•    Nutritional Options for Wellness (NOW) program that works with people who are faced with life-or-death diets for Diabetes, M.S., Cancer and other diseases.

•    Awareness Campaigns to help both the folks who are hungry and the people who want to help them.

•    Senior Meals.  Seniors, the disabled and children are the most vulnerable.

•    75% of donations will go to the local community

•    25% of the donations will support in-need international communities, such as Japan after the recent earthquake.


What I love about this Access of West Michigan is that when they say “community” they really mean it.  It is a faith-based organization that is made up of many different faith traditions.  And they work together for our local and international families.  

Many of us are lucky to have a family network to fall back on in hard times.  For the people who visit the food pantries, Access and their services have become that family.  The food pantries are all they have.

The financial goal of the Hunger Walk this year is $200,000.  I think I understand this piece of data correctly -- if we could raise $1,000,000, we could eradicate hunger in West Michigan.  It only costs us about $2.37 per meal.

If you can, will you join me in supporting them?

I am officially a blogger.  Not just any blogger, but one of those double bloggers.

Having had food allergies for the better part of a decade, and having met an enormous number of people in the last five years who also have food allergies (and their sisters, brothers, cousins, and aunts-twice-removed... ), I've decided to write about it.  The blog is called "The Tender Foodie" and we address all kinds of food allergies, related health topics - I mean, its your immune system for heaven's sake - and offer recipes that are geared toward people who love food.  We go deep, too.  I've been interviewing organic meat & wine producers, trying out products and am working with doctors and other experts to answer questions like, "Where do food allergies come from?", "What is the best testing?", "Why are food allergies associated with other diseases like ADHD?", and "How do we Stop this Madness?"

While slamming away at my keyboard writing stuff for The Tender Foodie I'm also working on a bigger picture called, "The Tender Palate".  It will become the information marketplace for all things foodie-worthy and allergen-free.  I'm very excited about it and I hope you will check it out! 

In the meantime, here are a few of the topics so you can get an idea of what you might be in for!

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 If Chocolate Were the Perfect Man, Would He Be Dairy-Free?

 When I found out that my adult dairy allergies would limit the kinds of chocolate I would be able to eat, I went through a period of denial.  Those “traces” of dairy wouldn’t really harm me, would they?  My own body finally forced my illusions to hit the reality fan.  I realized that this secret romance with the forbidden was over.  Until I met Barry Callebaut.

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Recipe:  Grown-Up Chili

The wonderful thing about chili, is that it is easy to make allergen-free.  Of course, most chili recipes do not contain nuts or gluten anyway, and the dairy is usually "on top", so you can choose to leave it off.  But with most chili recipes, you still miss that taste and texture of dairy - to either compliment the spice or to simply make you happy.

So, if you cannot consume dairy products, have I got a recipe for you.  There is no cheese required, and these flavors will demand that you leave it off.

This recipe has a mix of French and Mexican flavors, with a sauce that compels you to lick your bowl.  I call this "grown-up" chili, because this is not your kids' chili (not your normal kid, anyway).  With this blend of flavors and a 1/2 bottle of red wine, it's for adults only.

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Power Chicks & Lemon Chicken

Sometimes you need a little extra IQ.  A shot of cool, quick inspiration.  A few of the best peops in your corner. 

Since The Tender Palate is a budding business, I can use as many healthy brain cells as I can get.  So I brushed off my rusty entertaining skills, dished up a light supper for a few new power chick friends and “experimented” on them with a totally gluten- and dairy-free menu.  These fun and generous women agreed to help me jump-start a couple of ideas, so I made a variety of dishes that were fairly well-practiced.  I use the word “experiment”, because I’m always curious to see how the palates of people without food allergies react to alternative ingredients. 

Although no men  were invited to this particular party (next time I'll do an ALL MEN Menu), I threw a bone to equality by serving the same number of dessert items as savory-type dishes.  Because when it comes to chocolate . . . baby, there ain’t no glass ceiling. 

My unsuspecting power chicks were not aware, however, that many of the yummy ingredients in each dish were also power foods.  Here’s the menu plus a little of the moxie behind it.

Several years ago, I traveled to Italy to visit a friend.  He was working outside of Milan, in Cuomo, a town quietly perched upon a lake of the same name. 

The late fashion icon, Gianni Versace, had a home on Lake Cuomo called the Villa Fontanelle.  It rests with 18^th century elegance upon its shores.  As I traveled between the city and the Lake, I found a striking relationship between the two.  Both share an effortless sophistication.  But to me, Milan is like the serious, responsible sister who knows it all.  While the Lake – the Lake is that sibling who moved away -- just far enough to be unobserved and deliciously naughty.   

It was fitting, then, that my first taste of grappa was in Cuomo, where 12 Italian waiters watched me take my virgin sip with show-stopping delight.  I wasn’t as entertained as the grappa stripped the enamel from my teeth and the flesh from my esophagus.  But it was all in deliciously naughty fun.  In turn, it was also no surprise that Milan became yet another teacher in my never-ending education on life.  And in life’s accidental moments. 

After arriving at the hotel, I had a couple of solitary days to wander the Milanese streets, investigate and recover from my typical 3-day, eyes-wide-open jet lag.  So, upon the recommendation of another friend who had also once called Milan her home, I booked a massage with her masseuse.  Perhaps this trip, I would get some shuteye on the first night, rather than the 3rd. 

I plundered my suitcase for just the right thing to wear.  After all, Gianni Versace himself graced these streets.  Iconic storefronts like Gucci and Prada would be at my feet, ready to receive me should I venture into their hallowed racks along the way.

But I looked at my choices, felt my travel-weary feet and said; “I’ll become a fashionista … tomorrow.”

So I donned my tennis shoes, jeans and a worn, buttoned-down jean shirt.  I completed my classic American-wear with a Yankee baseball cap (anticipating that my hair could only get worse as the day wore on).  Then I stepped into one of the most revered fashion capitals of the world.  I was anonymous, who would care what I was wearing? 

The beautiful people of Milan most certainly did care. 

At first, my breath was taken away – not by the elaborate cathedrals and extraordinary architecture (that came second), but by the confident, impeccably dressed Milanese.  They were like a moving painting with The Duomo and the Galleria Vittoria Emanuel as their backdrop.  Everyone was very serious and dressed in greys, navys, blacks and browns.  I usually blend in.  I always try to learn and speak the language.  But that day, in my out-dated, light-blue baseball-capped attire, I stood out like a beacon of obnoxious light.  A smudge on this beautiful work of art.

I was an American tourist.     

But I was a tourist on a schedule so my only choice was to suck it up and hurtle into the crowds.  Crowds that would not, no matter what I did, share the sidewalk with me. 

I was both intrigued and a bit humiliated.  I felt like an anthropologist observing a pattern of behavior in a newly discovered jungle community -- except that I was the unsophisticated subject of observation.  People would approach, look down at my shoes, analyze them, then draw a line up my torso to my cap, express their disapproval, then plough right into me unless I first stepped out of their way.

I quickly realized that I was encountering a simple street rule, and every city has them.  In New York, for instance, you earn respect if you simply keep moving and hinder no one’s progress.  Do not stop.  Do not take out a map.  Everyone just wants to get from point A to point B.  Your shoes?  Just keep them walkin’ kiddo.

In Paris, your attire gives you points.  But no one will respond to your requests for anything, unless you confidently ask if you may ask a question . . . before you ask a question . . . preferably in French (“Excusez-moi, permettez-moi de vous poser une question?”)  At least that’s how I remember how you say it…

In Milan, it is all about the shoes.  You must wear beautifully designed shoes or you must walk in and amongst the speeding automobiles.  In sub-standard footwear, no amount of begging for sidewalk space will earn you an inch.  I’ve since tested this theory further.  Beautiful shoes earn respect.  Tennis shoes put you into oncoming traffic.

So I accepted my place and darted between the Vespa’s and tiny little cars.  I jumped out of the determined path of impeccably dressed men who I had “heard” would carry my bags and pinch my butt and say all kinds of wonderfully rude things to me.   I’m a writer, so I was curious about the absence of these “absolute” truths.  I am also a woman, so by the time I got to my destination, my ego was pouting just a little bit. 

But the story does not end with a street rule and bruised pride.  After the massage therapist pummeled me into a pulp, and as I was returning to the hotel, I did something typical.  I got lost.  A man noticed me looking at street signs then asked if he could help.  He seemed very nice and didn’t seem to care about my shoes, so I accepted.  I was grateful.  He told me to follow him because he was going my way.  He took me on a path through a small city garden and began to venture a little too close.  He was shockingly speedy.  I jumped away in record amount of time catching my jean shirt on a branch.  I made smoke like a track star and got away.  Thank heaven I was not in heels.  No harm was done, but I snuck into an espresso bar to collect myself and to make sure my getaway was complete.  I shook off the experience and moved on.  It was dinnertime and a wonderful meal was in the future.  Nothing was going to ruin that (and the meal turned out to be incredible, indeed.)

Back on the street, however, I began to notice that the sidewalk world had mysteriously changed.  Perhaps people get nicer as the day gets later?  The streets were still very crowded, but instead of knocking me over, every single man who passed, nodded his head, smiled, and stepped aside for me.  Even the women (although without the smile.)

Hmm.  We have entered an altered universe.

I smiled and nodded back.  Perhaps I had awoken from a dream – a nightmare really, that had played upon my insecurities.  Boy, that massage must have turned me into some kind of out-dated GAP-bedecked goddess.  This was the Italy I was told about!  Hallelujah!  I am woman even in my tennis shoes!

I continued down the street.  For the next 30 minutes, men of all ages continued smiling, pausing, nodding their heads and stepping out of my way.  Some even tipped their October hats.  How interesting that is, I mused.  I must be getting over my jet lag and projecting more confidence.  I was so silly -- beauty isn’t about what you wear or how messy or neat you look – it’s about how you FEEL about yourself that garners respect and admiration! 

Then I happened to notice that the men looked down, but unlike before, they were not looking at my shoes before they looked at me.  And this time they looked right at me and not at my cap.  I looked down as well to see what they saw.  I saw my navel. 

Uh Oh.

Somehow, my very American … very old … very casual jean shirt was unbuttoned all the way down to my belt buckle.  At the risk of being a little too intimate, my brassiere (and all that went with it) was rather completely exposed.  It was pink and frilly. 

And my face was very red and not frilly at all.

As you might imagine, I had to make a quick decision.  If I stopped to frantically fix this little problem, it would only enhance my embarrassment and draw more attention.  So I walked as if sporting the latest casual fashion trend and subtly re-buttoned as I strutted my stuff.  Head held high.  Cool expression on face.  One button per city block.  I became an imaginary Heidi Klum.  My tennis shoes were my virtual Jimmy Choos.

After that, I had the most incredible experiences in Milan.  I had a wonderful meal that evening where I watched families and friends sit for hours enjoying lovingly prepared food and spontaneous and comfortable laughter.  The restaurant staff treated me in that same gracious manner.  I felt relaxed.  Taken care of. And very well fed.  But I was puzzled.  I had no idea how my shirt ended up in its earlier state.  The air was so calm and temperate I didn’t even feel a breeze.  Perhaps that “nice” guy had lightening-speed unbuttoning talents that went along with his creepy ulterior motives.  Or that subsequent branch on that equally grabby tree had exposed me during my escape.  I do not know.  And never will.

But thanks to that experience, I did learn a few more rules of the street.

1.    When desperate, be wary of accepting help from the first person who tells you to follow them. 

2.    Embrace your insecurities and past embarrassments, and simply approach new situations like a super model.

3.    Perspectives can change with the loosening of a few buttons. 

4.    Listen honestly to your instincts and act according to your gut, but know that a few moments of observation does not the whole picture paint.

Maybe there is a little Lake Cuomo in that responsible, know-it-all sister after all.



I was attending an unusual art installation last spring at the historic Leonard at Logan House, in Grand Rapids, MI (one of my favorite event venues.)  While milling about, I heard a group of youngish artists discussing the fate of creativity.  The passion and absoluteness in their exchange was rather riveting.  They were very excited about one video installation in particular because of its gender-bending insight.  As I listened, I heard one of the youngish women say, “I just don’t know if there is much left to create anymore.  I mean, haven’t we done it all?”

This struck me, since I have been going through a creative renaissance of my own in the last few years.  What was once a romantic struggle between both tormented and delicious forces is now simply a part of the day for me.   The mystery of the “blank slate” is now a more comfortable and really fun friend.  Perhaps I'm growing up.

After reflecting further upon that woman's comment, however, I noticed a few things in the language of friends and clients:

1. People are very creative, and want to express that.  It doesn’t matter if they are the next Van Gogh or not.
2. We all participate in each other’s creative efforts (and in modern society, this is essential).
3. We humans have certain beliefs that aren’t necessarily true and those false beliefs effect how and how well we create.
4. When creativity knocks, it demands a blank slate.  If you do not give it one, it is created for you (whether you like it or not).
5. In order to create something – whether individually or collectively – trust is paramount.

These observations are not restricted to the individual.  They are also part of a 21st century corporate phenomenon.   As we explore how to wriggle free of a manufacturing mindset, we find ourselves in a more collectively creative world.   Customers – by demanding knowledge (like where things come from, how they are made and how can they do it themselves) -- are one of the forces leading us into century 21.  Sharing knowlegde (not just information)  trumps isolating ourselves and employees to "just" a set of tasks.  These tasks are very important, but most of us would also rather be a part of something . . . bigger, more conversational, more narrative.  Now anyone can have a seat at the idea table and anyone can contribute to developing that idea.  Anyone can do something that changes a tiny piece of the world around them.  So when companies (of any size) look at the more innovative aspects of their employees amazing, -- and sometimes-accidental events happen.  These events lay the groundwork for great marketing.   Making a creative shift, however, requires a blank slate and enough trust to do something . . . awkward.

What Does that Mean?  (You might ask.)  Stay tuned for Part II:  Prepare by Surprising Yourself

I'll be exploring the importance of storytelling in life, marketing and in organizations in upcoming "On Marketing" posts.

My first home was in  Washington Heights.  My first subway stop was 181^st and Broadway and my train was the famous A Train.  My first New York neighborhood had a rich history.  Legend had it that in 1629 the Dutch bought Manhattan Island from the Lenape Indians just north of where I lived (check this cool document out here).  In the 1900s Irish immigrants settled there, and in the 1930’s and 40’s, European Jews had moved in to escape Nazi persecution.  In the 1950’s & 60’s, Greek immigrants joined the neighborhood; and then African Americans, Cubans and Puerto Ricans all enriched the next decades with their restaurants and ways of life.  When I lived in Washington Heights in 1990, Dominicans added their music to the mix. That’s one of the things I love about New York – remnants of each one of these cultures were very much alive when this naïve Midwestern “immigrant” arrived with a U-Haul and was dropped off by a generous college friend named Mike.

One of the strongest memories of those first few weeks was the rather long walk to the subway station.  I moved to my new hood in the fall.  Fall brought the boomerang effect of hurricane season, and the new habit of throwing away umbrellas like scrap paper, arriving to work soaking wet, and the lesson that not all shoes survive the concrete jungle. 

(The hill on the trek to the subway station)

Nearly every night on the way back to my apartment, I would stop at the butcher and then shop in a small grocery (when your legs are your vehicle, you keep your load light.)  Nearly every night I would pass the same man sitting on the street.   He had wild hair and a cardboard box.  Nearly every night he would greet me with a nod of his head.  I would smile back and say “hello”.  It was deep into the 90’s recession and jobs were tough to find.  I was working as a temp – and had experienced for the first time in my rather privileged life what it meant to have to choose between a $3.79 chocolate bar and a $2.79 per pound chicken.  (The butcher informed me that I wouldn’t survive long if I always chose the chocolate over the chicken.)

So when I passed this man on the street, I wanted to share something with him, and I thought that it should be healthy, good-for-him and something that I could easily afford. 

I gave him an apple.

Nearly every night for about a month, I gave this man an apple and he nodded in thanks.  In fact, he was quite gracious about it.

One night, however, he directly refused.

 “Ma’am, you giith me am appow EVERWY day, buh ladhy, I AIN GOTH NO TEETH!!  How you e’spek me thoo eath THATH??

Sure enough, this man had no teeth whatsoever.  I felt incredibly foolish.  He seemed very passionate about his refusal (and I found myself wondering what happened to all of those apples).  So I looked in my bag and tried to think of something that he could most definitely gum and swallow without hurting himself.

I gave him a banana. 

When I passed him the next night I gave him two bananas (you know, to make up for the gaff with the apples).

I passed him for another couple of weeks and kept giving him a banana.  Once I gave him the whole bunch (you know, to make up for the gaff with the apples.) He always thanked me.  I always said, “You are welcome.”  He had called me Ma’am.  No one had ever called me that before.  I wasn’t old enough to be a Ma’am.

One day he looked irritated.  “Oh dear, he is probably sick of bananas.” I thought to myself.

“Ladhy, I shure dhoo apprethiate the banana, but you gith me one EVERWY day and now I have DIARRHEA!!!”

Oh.  My.  I guessed that made quite a bit of sense.  And would be quite a problem.  (But I was happy he was at least eating the bananas.  He needed the potassium, I was sure.)  I did not know appropriate non-diarrhea-producing, gum-friendly foods that didn’t need a blender.  So I asked, “Well, what could I do for you then that could help?” 

“I wannha go to Mac Donald’s.”  He said with toothless certainty.  McDonald’s was about a mile away.  It was night.  I was tired.  How on earth would he eat a hamburger?  Besides, it was not the safest walk with some strange man who had an aversion to fruit and who’s home was most definitely on the street.  So I asked him to find something in the grocery on that block instead.

“I will buy you one thing.”  I said, in an attempt to keep control of the situation. “What would you like?”

He wandered around for about 5 minutes looking and looking.  He really studied the shelves, measured his need and was thoughtful, I supposed.  The grocery store owner, however, was quite upset with me for bringing him in.  He was not an uncompassionate person, but apparently he was tired of the man trying to steal stuff from this store.

The apple man came out with a box of Hostess Ho Ho’s.

“Seriously?  Ho Ho’s?” 

“I like Ho Ho’s,” he said with a determined smile.  Ho Ho’s it is then.  So, I bought him the familiar box and thought, “Hmm.  I’m not the only one whose natural instinct is to choose chocolate over nutrition.” 

But I didn’t feel at all helpful, and could not emulate my butcher who had knocked some sense into my “budget”.  This guy had no budget. 

I passed him one more time after that and said nothing to him.   And he said nothing to me.  I didn’t know what to say or what to do.  I felt a little powerless. He seemed to feel the same.  We didn't have the skills to relate to each other.   I had also registered the fear in the grocer’s face -- a fear absent in me until I saw the experience in him. 

After that, I never saw my apple vagabond or his box of Ho Ho’s again.      

I used to wonder what happened to him.  I was pretty sure he was not off the street, did not have any dental work done and was still getting inappropriate food items from ignorant strangers.  But who knows.  Unlikely things happen all the time and I hope that his circumstances were bettered in some way.  I’m also quite sure that he does not remember me like I remember him.  It would be very odd if he did.  Because sometimes an apple is just an apple, and a banana is . . . well, it really just doesn’t agree with you.



As I waited (and waited) for the New York traffic to clear, I noticed a very grungy-looking man standing next to me. We were on 9^th Avenue in the Meat Packing District – one of those wonderful hipster and hepcat hotspots in New York whose location only a few years before smelled of last week’s hamburger.  So, this grungy guy stood out and was close enough to brush my right shoulder.  His trucker hat was pulled down over his head of rather long, stringy hair.  My New Yorker instincts kicked in and I moved myself (and my bag) to the left.  As I did so, my other senses woke up as well.  I noticed a beleaguered businessman with a briefcase and an equally beleaguered trench coat.  He was a lapel closer to the traffic and – in a series of subconscious firings – I assumed that he had a better view.  I also noticed that he looked like he had endured a very bad day too, as I slipped once again into the fragile soundtrack of the day. 

In a flash, the beleaguered man stepped out into the traffic and I numbly did the same, directly into the path of a speeding cab.  An arm flew into my chest with enough force to counteract my own ignorance – then a voice shouting, “Look Out!” stopped Beleaguered Man (almost turned Pancake Man) who fell backward onto the curb, buttocks first.  He was so close to the cab that its bumper clipped the front of his trench coat.  In that flash, a cross-section of strangers was painted, imprinted and stored in perhaps a number of minds.  A series of watercolors, each with a different perspective.

I caught my breath, and uttered a pathetic “thank you.”  The grungy man from whom I protected my purse had saved my life.  He saved Beleaguered Man’s too.  And with that realization, the moment sped back up to its normal pace.  I watched our hero cross the street with a confident and attractive gait.  I remembered his voice, it sounded familiar and kind.  I realized that his trucker attire actually had style and that his profile was very similar to that of …someone.  I then saw his face and put my hand to my mouth.  He headed toward the Gansevoort Hotel to paparazzi shouting, “Kevin!  Over here Kevin!  I got a great shot of you from last week, Kevin, wanna see it?” On one of the worst days of my life, I smiled.  Then laughed.  “Am I now ‘one degree’ from the pop culture icon of The Human Web?”  

Then observed.

Kevin drew a breath and relinquished his privacy to the flashing, shouting crowd. 

And I walked anonymously on. 

I don’t know if anyone else on 9^th Ave. that day remembers the moment, or realized who it was who had changed it.  But I am sure that unexpected people step out quietly to help every day.  Usually by just being there.  It was easy to know how my day was changed because of this famous stranger.  And curious to observe in whom I put my trust when preoccupied (another distressed person).  For me, that “something worse” presented itself profoundly, and being flattened by a yellow taxi was certainly not preferable. 

In the end, it was a simple act of authenticity that changed my fate.  The hero in this story wasn’t trying to be a hero that day, he was just being himself.

So, thanks to all of you Kevin Bacons out there.

(This inaugural post is dedicated to Lauren who sent me an unrelated link that made me laugh and which oddly served as an inspiration to write this blog.  I'm also dedicating this to Edward and John - who have been serving as my day-to-day Kevin Bacons for many years.)