REGENERATION

 

Oh no.

It wasn’t there anymore, my fob, the one I needed to start my car.

Ten minutes ago, it was attached to my blue Salt Life lanyard along with my house keys and Wellness Center ID. I felt the lanyard snag on my typically overpacked suitcase as I hoisted it onto the rear bumper of my Explorer.

Bone-chilling air off of Lake Erie filled the empty parking lot of the Hilton Garden Inn. The trucks that had blocked the unmerciful Mid-March winds of 2026 the previous night were gone. Some remaining flurries still swirled around me this Sunday morning. I stood alone in a frigid wasteland in northern Pennsylvania.

As I pushed my suitcase completely into the back of my Explorer, I kept an eye out for pieces of my fob. I spotted a shiny, round battery resting on the concrete, alone with me in the parking lot. But where were the other pieces?

“God. It is so cold,” I began. “What have I done?”

I searched the area for the two pieces of my fob. I found one half snuggled between two uneaten pepperoni rolls at the bottom of a Food Lion grocery bag full of ginger ale, small bottles of liquor, and candy wrappers. 

Once I had the remaining section, which hid beneath my suitcase, I shut the back hatch and began to put the key fob back together. I slow-stepped to the side door, hoping to be finished and ready to exit the cold by the time I reached the driver's side.

Nothing. Nothing clicked. Nothing moved.

I couldn't get into my Explorer. I ran to the back, hoping the hatch was still open. It was also locked, closed by my own stupidity and locked by my own ineptitude only minutes earlier. 

I grew colder and felt my fingers losing warmth. My dress shirt and lightweight vest retained enough body heat to keep me warm for ten minutes or so, but that time had long since passed. 

I briskly walked to the side door of the hotel where I had exited moments earlier. The cleaning man who swept the rug and I had exchanged passing greetings earlier on my way out, back when I was in a more optimistic Sunday-morning mood. 

Locked. Damn. No key card. No cleaning man. 

I gazed through the tempered glass of the door, hoping for someone to walk down the long hallway. The little entrance barely shielded me from the cold, and I winced at the thought of the warmth on the other side of that half-inch of glass. I turned around in the small entryway and looked back out at my SUV sitting by itself in the parking lot.

Jim and Lisa had already gone. My brother likes to get on the road early. Michael, Emily, and the kids. Surely, they are moving slowly this morning. Nope. Gone. What about the Hilltopper team bus? Is there anyone at all?

I was on my own. 

Life often sends us down paths that we must travel alone, not because we have done anything wrong but because we need the journey to evolve, to become a better version of ourselves.

I zipped my vest up as high as it would go, pulled down on my UNC toboggan, and began the long walk around the corner of the building to the front door. I needed a plan. I needed to eliminate one factor affecting my ability to think: the icy cold.

The huge lobby was empty but welcomingly warm. I walked to one of the couches near a table where Emily and Michael’s son, Enzo, and I had put together a Disney puzzle Saturday morning before the Hilltoppers game. We spent an hour there, eating a Rice Krispies treat and looking for the missing pieces to the puzzle that Enzo had dropped on the floor.

Once I had a chance to slow down, I found my understanding of the key fob had improved. Even though I was able to put all the pieces in the right spots, I still struggled to snap the fob closed. Sometimes I think we get so far in life, only to hit more roadblocks.

The nice manager who gave Enzo his Rice Krispies treat stood at the front desk this morning. I waited patiently until she finished her work before bothering her. “Ma’am? Would you happen to have a rubber band? I can’t get this fob to close and need a rubber band to hold it together so I can go home.” 

“Oh, dear. Let me see what I have back here. Give me a minute.” She disappeared through a door behind the desk.

As she did that, I looked around the lobby and over to the Safari Grill, where the bar sat dark and empty. On Friday evening, the televisions around the bar were alive with the excitement of NCAA tournament games. People who know me will agree that I do not typically sit in a bar all night watching games and socializing. I have not been that way since college.

I loosened my self-imposed restraints and spent Friday night planted on the same barstool at the Safari Grill, engaging in a life that I did not want to pass me by.  I started by having an international conversation with a German bottle printer visiting the United States for his job, where we spoke about the differences between our two countries and his love for all that the US offers. 

As the night passed, more people came and went. I shared unused crossword puzzles I carried with me in case I was bored. I talked with the head chef about my delicious Beyond Beef burger. And I actually congratulated members of the championship West Liberty Men’s Basketball Team as they travelled back and forth through the grill to film sessions before tomorrow’s game. I was Norm, sitting at the end of the bar at Cheers, a regular unprepared to leave. 

My night in the Safari Grill was one of the better nights I have had in a long time. And, honestly, the experience continued the next day when I watched the NCAA basketball tournament kicking off here in Erie. Having watched West Liberty all year, I was sad they lost, but I was honored to witness the story the players and coaches had this season. Poignancy lives in bittersweet loss and the challenges life presents us.

So, when the manager came back with a solid, thick rubber band, I knew I had to take back my own story. I could rewrite how I viewed the events of the key fob, the desolation of the parking lot, and my being alone, not just as an undesirable ending to my weekend, but perhaps as a new beginning for something better.

With my key fob held tightly together by multiple wrappings of the rubber band, I once again walked down the hallway I had used nearly an hour ago. I marched to my Explorer with determination and the belief that my repair job would work. Uncle Vince would be proud of how I MacGyvered the fob. I clicked the open-door button multiple times.

Nothing. Nothing clicked. Nothing moved.

Defeated, I began to walk back to the lobby. I asked myself what I needed to do. I'll call Jim, Michael, or my nephew Chris. There is no shame in depending on others. Right? But I knew I could handle this. You’ve got this.

Standing in the middle of the parking lot, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the lanyard where the key fob normally stayed before I unceremoniously ripped it off. I saw that key, that one I never use. It is shiny and silver and does nothing but open the door.

I walked back to the driver’s side, inserted the generic key, and opened the door. The alarm started going off. I jumped inside and slammed the door, believing that would shut it off.  It didn’t. 

I pushed the ignition button. Nope. The alarm continued. I repeatedly pushed the hazard button off and on. Nope. Think. Think.

Someone, maybe my son Robert or one of my students, said that I could actually start my Explorer with a fob that has dead batteries. I stuck the fob right beside the ignition. Nope. I felt around for an opening or latch underneath the steering wheel. Nothing. The door? No. Think. Robert always looks on YouTube when he needs to find out how to do something. 

According to a YouTube video, there is a small slot inside the armrest storage area at the very bottom. A person just has to empty all the junk and clutter onto the passenger seat and simply stick the fob with a dead battery in the slot to start the car. 

Ten minutes later, I was driving southbound on I-79. As I travelled the same highway I had on Friday when I arrived, I knew this was a different journey now, one in which I could recall my experience in the Hilton Garden Inn parking lot with humor or angst, but one that has made me a bit more confident about how I handle an unknown future.

ON STAGE

I go through long, dry spells when it comes to writing for my blog. This dearth of sitting down and formally putting together a polished blog has nothing to do with the ideas and thoughts running through my head. I have plenty of those. 

I record all of my daily gratitude, angsty vents, and general 'how is my life going?' insights in my daily journal. I don’t polish those or even bother to edit. Those are for me. My blog, Time and Space, is also for me, but I enjoy sharing it with anyone who wants to stop by for a quick read, whether that's one person or one hundred. But, even if no one ever reads it, whatever I have created always remains there for me.

When I write a blog, I step onto a stage of my own making, a place where I channel my energy and creativity. The blog is a stage on which I engage with the world, holding a mirror up to reflect what I am seeing or experiencing back upon itself.

I drove to Wellsburg on this warm mid-August evening to visit another stage, one snugly housed inside an old barn in a park nestled in the hills of Wellsburg, West Virginia.

This trip marked the third time I visited Brooke Hills Playhouse this summer. I should have bought season tickets. I came for the final show of the season, the first one directed by my friend Bill since he and his wife, Heather, moved back to Weirton from San Diego after he retired from teaching.

If you have never been to a Brooke Hills production, you may be somewhat shocked that the entire production is in a converted barn. Over thirty years ago, when I first heard about Brooke Hills Playhouse being in a barn, visions of cows standing beside the audience with hay stuffed in lofts above the stage confused my young mind. I have always had a strange imagination.

The Playhouse is old, yes. You cannot help but notice that driving up for the first time when you see the wooden steps that lead you to the theater itself. When you sit down, you can see the braces and inner architecture of a barn. The seats and stage appear to be magically dropped into the middle of this odd setting, creating a uniquely fascinating and memorable experience. 

If you have the chance to talk to anyone who acts in the plays, works the concessions, or takes the tickets, I am sure they will have their own personal memories of the 54-year-old tradition of Brooke Hills Playhouse. Bill has shared his tales of working there for twenty-five dollars a week throughout the summer in between semesters at West Liberty State College. 

“Shags,” Bill smiled as he greeted visitors at the bottom of the wooden steps leading up to the theater. “I didn’t think you were coming this weekend.”

I shrugged my shoulders and said it seemed like a good night. “I hope this is good. Did you work out any issues from opening night?” 

“I hope so,” he laughed and brushed off my usual sarcasm. “We can talk after the show.” 

I grabbed my ticket, then glanced over to the concession stand where a popcorn machine was situated. I knew the aroma of fresh and hot popcorn would waft throughout the barn by the end of the first act. Simple things, like freshly popped popcorn, make me happy. 

I made my way to my usual seat, up the stairs to the right, and second row from the back. My seat had a great view with a tad extra leg room, nearly underneath the ceiling fan. I rumbled through the program, reading the actor bios and the community advertisements. Soon, the lights dimmed, and the play began.

A woman came over the speakers in the barn, welcoming everyone to the Playhouse and to the last show of the 54th season. She reminded people of exits and the importance of not using photography. Of course, the final message is the best: please refrain from unwrapping candy during the show, as it causes a distraction. I am sure there is a good anecdote related to this in the Playhouse’s storied tradition.

Back in May, I sat in the same seat while watching Steel Magnolias. The air was so crisp and cool back then; many people wore jackets or hoodies. A month or so later, Brooke Hills Playhouse presented a hilarious musical, 9 to 5, during one of the summer's heat waves. The cast’s passionate performance only added more intensity to the barn. I was so glad I brought a cheap fan to hang around my neck. I reminded myself to sit still because I could stay cooler then. God blesses those actors up there performing their hearts out in full costume and make-up. 

This last play of the season, Always a Bridesmaid, had a perfect night with temperatures in the mid-60s. I followed the play, recognizing the stage blocking technique that Bill and I had learned from John Reilly when we were Hilltop Players at West Liberty. At least, I hope that I recognized what I saw. I asked Bill about the technique during intermission. He laughed and said, “Yeah, Shags. That’s it.” I think he was messing with me, though.

Seeing these three plays over the summer triggered some long-forgotten memories from my time on stage. Thirty years ago, I found the theater as a place to channel my creativity. The stage was a place where I could be part of a cast telling a story about life, one that would transport both actors and audience to another place beyond the present. Back then, I fed on that energy, developing the confidence to be in front of an audience and to make them feel a part of the playwright’s vision, just as I was while standing on the stage.

I dug a little deeper into the memories, relating so many ideas to the actors I had seen on stage all summer. I felt the joy in their performances, the commitment to memorize lines, to rehearse after long days at work, leaving family, pets, and a comfortable bed at home for over a month. I am well past stepping on a stage like this again. However, actors continue to do so year after year in community theaters all across the country, especially here in a barn deep in the hills of the Northern Panhandle of West Virginia. 

We all need them to continue being part of our world. We need stories about losing a loved one unexpectedly, the nurturing value of rich friendships, the challenges of standing up for ourselves for the first time, and the feeling of being okay with our own life choices. When the actors embrace their own creativity, they give us a window to view a world similar to one we have experienced, but this time, from the outside looking in. They give us a chance to escape the daily dose of discontent with the world in which we live now.

That’s where creativity is multifaceted. As I said earlier, I write for myself when I write for my blog, just as I enjoyed being on the stage back in college. Just like the actors take their stage for themselves because it is cathartic, fun, and a means of creative expression. The musician and the painter do the same thing. Sharing what we have created is about offering our voice to an audience. The play, the blog, the song, and the painting are what we feel, what we think, what we want you to understand as part of the great expanse of the human heart. 

You can still catch the last show next weekend.

Picture Credits

Barn on Cover - The Intelligencer/The News Register

Brooke Hills Playhouse Facebook

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