A hard rain pounded down on my Dodge Shadow as we drove a long stretch of U.S. Highway 264 in Eastern North Carolina. Sheet upon sheet of warm southern rain slapped the windshield, the wipers frantically sweeping back and forth in a futile attempt to provide even a few seconds of visibility. The numerous vehicles traveling the highway with me crept along blindly, all of us searching for a safe place to stop.
I could see the blurry taillights in front of me as drivers slowly navigated their way to the safety of the shoulder. The dark shadow of a large overpass had appeared through the heavy drops and offered shelter for those lucky to park under it. The rest of us gratefully created a community of travelers content to wait out the storm on the side of the road even though the storm continued to pelt us with unending rain.
I took a deep breath and sighed in relief as I parked the car. I looked over at my mother, who rode shotgun on my trip to Wilson, North Carolina, for my interview at Ralph L. Fike High School the next day. She made the sign of the cross and thanked me for pulling over. I did the same, praying that the water would not generate a flood that would wash us away.
We watched brave souls in their cars slowly inch past us into a dark, rainy horizon. Their red brake lights periodically flashed as if sending a distress message in Morse code. Eventually, those flashes faded and disappeared as they moved just yards down the road.
We passed the time ourselves straightening up the car. Before folding the unfoldable AAA paper map, I traced the highlighted path to see how far we had traveled that day. Occasionally, I glanced in my rearview mirror to see if the storm had subsided behind us, but I only found darkness and the blurred yellow headlights of other cars as the rainwater washed down my rear window.
After what seemed to be an eternity of rainfall, the gathering of dark clouds drifted off, carrying its power and majesty away from U.S. 264, where it would slowly dissipate into nothingness. Windshield wipers began sweeping off the dwindling remnants of rain as cars slowly rejoined the road to their destinations.
Mom and I continued our trek towards Wilson, enjoying the ever-changing scenery beneath the reemerging light of the southern sun. Behind us were the snaking turns through the mountains of West Virginia and Virginia and the growing developments along a busy Interstate 40 from Winston-Salem to the outskirts of Raleigh. After nine adventurous hours of map-referencing, an occasional missed exit or two, and numerous rest area stops, we had made it to the proverbial home stretch.
The landscape settled into a double-laned highway whose edges bordered a beautiful expanse of flat farmlands interspersed among sections of untouched groups of tall, thin pines whose tips touched the blue sky. Rows of crepe myrtles and spent daylilies separated the east and west sides of the highway, which shot forward in a straight line through a late afternoon sun that knew nothing of the storm that rested here a short time ago.
I am amazed that this memory has remained with me for over 30 years. Anxious anticipation and desperate indecision filled my first journey along U.S. 264. Two years after graduating from West Liberty State College, I was excited about landing my first teaching job, yet moving 500 miles away made this a difficult choice. The moment left a bittersweet indelible mark, not of a completed story but of one chapter in a life full of enduring memories like this.
Wonder, excitement, and anticipation surrounding a new chapter in life can accompany the subtle discomfort of change, which can take the form of loss, fear, and regret. Disparate emotions converge to form imperfect storms that can slow us to a stop, cleanse us, refresh us, and then send us on our way, perhaps even bring us back again.
Father Jim sends miniature Daily Reflections prayer books like a ticking clock every Advent and Lent. I recognize Father Jim’s black ink and hard-pressing penmanship on the outside of the standard white envelope. I can feel the boxiness of the prayer books as I hand the gift to Mom.
I always keep my copy on my nightstand, where I plan to read it every morning. Of course, my plan succumbs to an unfortunately more dedicated scrolling of X or Facebook on my phone. A subtle pang of guilt hits me anytime I move the prayer book to dust or reorganize my clutter. I will pick it up, read the devotion for that particular day, and then casually flip backward through the numerous days I have missed, making a half-hearted internal promise to catch up soon.
I carried Daily Reflections for Lent to the Easter vigil at Saint Michael this past spring. Reading the numerous missed pages would fill my soul during the quiet time before mass. As the few dim lights exorcised some darkness throughout the church, I found the March 21, Thursday of the Fifth Week of Lent passage: “Reimagining Time.”
I read this passage about time and how we perceive it. I sat quietly in my pew as my thoughts caught fire. I reread it, dog-eared the page, and then dropped the prayer book to my side as the service began with a quiet opening hymn.
I took the prayer book home and returned to moving it from place to place, occasionally glancing at the unopened book, leaving it untouched long after Lent had passed. I had all the time in the world and simply let my questions and answers about that passage continue to simmer.
The mid-June heat wave had kept many people inside during the week's blistering afternoons. Other than watering the plants in the morning or late evening or occasionally walking Charlie-Bear from shady spot to shady spot in the yard, I spent little time outdoors. I had already experienced enough of those oppressive summer bursts of intense heat and humidity when I lived for twenty years in North Carolina. I am older now, perfectly content to close the blinds, turn off the lights, and catch up on chores inside the house.
I found myself with time on my hands amidst all the unfinished projects and clutter stuck in the unseen nooks of my world. I began to organize the seeding containers, starter mix, and LED lights I used this past winter, placing them in random boxes in the basement and garage to be merged later. For months, Google has pressured me to buy storage space for my overflowing Google Photos account; hence, I sat at my computer, completing two years of photo saving and purging a day, leaving the hope of organizing my favorites into themed folders for a later time. I found plenty of projects to start but none to finish, and, quite honestly and surprisingly, that was fine.
Thoughts of the dog-eared Daily Reflections prayer book and the “Reimagining Time” passage returned with crisp, cool air as the heat wave subsided.
“Our worldview is usually quite linear,” the author writes. We view life as moving from one event to the next, seeing everything as having a beginning, middle, and end. The author also talks about other cultures that do not “perceive things” as a “series of events” but as “an enduring circle of relationships” extending over time.
These concepts are simple to understand on the surface but are worth more exploration. If you live the linear philosophy, you must find a balance within society’s movement from one task to the next, from one event to another. We know how taxing life can become, constantly checking a calendar and reading the notifications on our cell phones of where we need to be. Advances in technology have certainly helped to “move us along.” We genuinely yearn for the balance a circle of relationships brings to restore our depleted emotional and mental health from running on a never-ending hamster wheel.
What do I consider reimagining time? It is easier for me now as I am retired from teaching. But, Lord, I recall being on that treadmill going nowhere: working longer hours just to finish a project in one day when I should have taken two days, always hoping to arrive at the end instead of enjoying the process, not being mindful of the signals my body sent to take more care of myself. I needed a better philosophy because the one I had was not working.
I wanted to listen more and more to the world's rhythm and my body and heed the influence of the changing seasons. I wanted to not think of myself as procrastinating when I simply wished to wait until a better time. The passage in the prayer book I read at Easter is a great example. Months ago, I felt guilty and beat myself up for not returning to it at that specific time. I like that I finally explored the passage in my own time. It was worth the wait.
That heatwave represents the exhausting effort and work we put into maintaining a schedule and living within that linear worldview. In the past, I would have been passionate about finishing the boxing of the seed starter materials and been angry with myself if I had not completed the project the way I had wanted. All my pictures are still in Google Photos and awaiting sorting. Could I have finished the project while the sun beat down on the house? Will my life fall apart if I wait until a later time?
Without a need to rush, I can spend time elsewhere. I can make a nice meal for Mom, one we have never had. I can be OK with her saying I did not cook the pasta enough since I can always try it again. I can spend more time giving my son Robert a regular call in North Carolina instead of feeling too tired finishing projects I had started as I kept my nose to the grindstone. I can finish that challenging Sunday crossword puzzle, ignoring the 67-minute time limit that used to remind my self-conscious self to hurry up.
I wish I had reimagined time decades ago. I wish I had prioritized aspects of my life better than I had. I would have been much happier if I had learned to balance a beckoning impersonal list of things to do with other pleasures like lunch with a friend, an extra-long trip to visit family, or another walk around the park with my dog.
Last summer, shortly after closing the door to my classroom for good, I made a bucket list of the things I wanted to do now that I would have so much time on my hands. Much to my surprise, I am far busier than I thought. I have experienced one or two things on that bucket list in the past year; however, when I look at it again on the first anniversary of its creation, I want to do so with a healthier and wiser attitude. I want to look at the remaining list and say to myself: all in good time.
Upchurch, Catherine. Not by Bread Alone 2024: Daily Reflections For Lent, Liturgical Press, 2023
The air was stifling, the smoke detector down the hall was blaring, and I glanced around the kitchen at the mess I had made. I could hear Mom and Aunt Lou talking in the living room, but Aunt Lou's words were the loudest: "I could never spend three days making a pizza! I would just take a frozen out of the freezer! That's good enough for me!" In my mind, I could see them both smiling and shaking their heads in disbelief.
I quickly dove into the hot, sudsy blue Dawn dishwater, where I cleaned the dirty bowls and cooking utensils. The timer, I thought to myself, watch the timer. I closed up unused ingredients and stored them in the cupboard and refrigerator. I was nearing the finish line in my race against self-doubt. I was multiple lengths ahead, and an invisible opponent who had bested me often in my life had no chance of winning now. Not this time. I had worked too hard. I had overcome so much.
Making an old-fashioned Grandma pizza had moved from one weekly to-do list to the next long before Christmas. I was scrolling through YouTube when I found a video on a channel called Sip and Feast. James Delmage, the cook in the video, was calm and relaxed while making this famous Eastern New York pizza. Once I watched him open the video biting into a crunchy square piece of Grandma's pizza, I was trapped in an overwhelming mission of my choice.
No one in my family understood why I would place a stainless steel hand-held strainer on our Secret Santa Family Gift Exchange list. But that was the first step towards making my very own Grandma pizza. That strainer sat in a cupboard for over a month. Much like other interests, my desire to make the pizza waned. I wondered if I could do it, questioned whether I had the proper cooking utensils, and doubted my ability to not make a burnt mess of the kitchen.
In mid-January, I picked up Matthew McConaughey's book Greenlights. I put it aside during the holiday and never returned to it. As Fortune would have it, the present became the perfect time to do so. McConaughey's family had always expected him to become a lawyer, so when he called his father during college to tell him he wanted to forgo law school to enroll in film school, McConaughey was unsure how his father would react. His father's response: "Well... Don't half-ass it."
That is what I was doing - half-assing it. Why was I waiting? In Greenlights, Matthew McConaughey writes, "It is not about win or lose, it is about do you accept the challenge." So, I took thoughts about whether I could or should attempt the pie and pushed them as far away from my mind as possible. If I make a burnt mess of the kitchen, so be it.
That Friday was my run-around-town day. I did not have a simple list of ingredients in my small and worn spiral notepad. I had the Cadillac List of Ingredients, recorded from watching James Delmage repeatedly, writing down the specific flour type, particular canned peeled tomatoes, and all the fresh ingredients I would need to make my first Grandma pizza. No shortcuts. No cheap ingredients. I would not complain about a five-dollar can of tomatoes from Italy or a small six-dollar container of Pecorino Romano cheese. Who cares about a seven-dollar bag of bread flour? I told myself: Don't half-ass it.
That evening is when the process began. Keeping my phone nearby, I modeled how James made his dough, slowly and calmly pouring in the ingredients, kneading it, and placing it in the refrigerator to cold ferment. James told me to leave the dough alone for at least 24 hours, but 48 would be even better. And so, Day One of the grandma pizza challenge calmly ended with my dreaming about melted cheese and San Marzano plum tomatoes.
I waited 48 hours for the dough to fully ferment. The anticipation had been overwhelming as I woke early on Super Bowl Sunday to make my first Grandma pizza. I set up all of my utensils, prepped the oven, and cleaned my new heavy-duty baking pan I found at Boscov's. I was ready to ascend. Mom rested quietly in the living room. The house was peaceful. Then Aunt Lou arrived.
I love my aunt, but I wanted to make my pizza with a clear mind, without anyone asking questions or interrupting me. I am a work in progress. I still exhibit those rare moments of impatience and frustration, but I work so hard to rein in my negativity. Aunt Lou asked what I was doing. Sigh. Just explain this, so she will go into the living room."I made the dough from scratch on Friday...48 hours in the fridge...fresh 100% whole milk mozzarella cheese...San Marzano peeled plum tomatoes...blah, blah, blah."
"Wow," Aunt Lou said, grabbing some recently shredded cheese from my container. "Oh. This is good cheese. Use plenty of that."
I forced a smile. "I promise I will. The entire pizza dough will be covered edge to edge with cheese." Just don't eat any more of it.
"I am going to go talk to your mom for a while. Let me know if you need any help."
"Aunt Lou, I will be fine without anyone's help. I just want to focus on following the directions." I took a deep breath and returned to my preparations. I began to unclench my shoulders as she headed to the living room. I took several fresh garlic cloves, smashed off the outer peel, and minced each clove into tiny pieces. The kitchen was quiet again as I was zen-mincing the garlic. Then Jim and Lisa arrived.
I love my brother and his wife, but I just wanted to make this pizza without interruptions. I said that already, right? Lisa slipped into the kitchen first to say hello and put some chocolate-covered strawberries in the refrigerator. I knew how I looked when she saw me dressed in my old khakis and grass-cutters with a sleeveless faded yellow t-shirt. "So what are you doing, A.J.?" Lisa asked, somewhat weary of my disposition as she looked at the scattering of bowls and utensils.
"I am making Grandma pizza," I told her, holding up my stainless steel strainer. "Look! This is to strain these!" I held the opened can of San Marzano tomatoes up to her. "These smell so good. Smell!" God. I sound stupid. Don't ask her that.As I said, I am a work in progress. I exhibit those manic looks when I am engrossed in something. I am sure that Lisa recognized it.
"Are you having fun yet?" she asked, still careful not to break me.
"You know...I actually am." I was attempting to convince myself that I was enjoying this. I smiled, hiding what I was thinking behind some disturbingly deep breathing. Lisa, you are so sweet. Please. Go talk to Mom and Aunt Lou and keep Jim in there.
I poured the can of peeled San Marzano tomatoes into the strainer, where the excess liquid seeped into a bowl below. The plum tomatoes were absolutely gorgeous and had the most vibrant tomato smell. I was so glad that I bought only the best. Now, for the best part, I would use my hand to squeeze the plump tomatoes into small pieces. Like James Delmage, I would become one with the food at that point. Then Jim walked in.
"What the hell are you wearing?" My brother gave me a playfully judgmental up-down that he should have known would send me over the edge. We always do this dance, but we struggle with learning to walk away. "What are you doing?" he continued, inspecting my clothes and messy work area.
"Jim, please don't." Shit. Be nice. Don't take the bait. I took a deep breath as I put down the tomatoes. "I am making a Grandma pizza."
"Relax. Why are you so stressed?" He looked over at the dough stretched across the baking pan. "Did you make your own dough? What's a Grandma pizza?"
Why is this kitchen so hot? Why does he keep asking questions? Please do not mess with me right now. "Hey! Smell these tomatoes!" I offered, lifting the bowl up to him.
He stepped back. "I don't want to."
"Just...smell...the tomatoes. They are really good." I could feel my James Delmage calmness slowly slipping away, yet I was determined to remain in my world, accepting my challenge. He took a quick whiff of them and then retreated to the living room. Whew.
Over the next hour, I remained in the kitchen, continuing my inspired pursuit of the perfect Grandma pizza. Everyone seemed to resist the urge to revisit the kitchen. Jim and Lisa left, but Aunt Lou agreed to stay for a slice or two of Grandma pizza.
Yes, I did manage to set off the smoke alarm while baking the pizza. Too much olive oil in the pan. Aunt Lou eventually returned to check on me and offer suggestions I quietly disregarded as I repeated, "I just wanted to do this myself." The Grandma pizza turned out fabulous. The crust was so crunchy and full of incredible flavor. The mozzarella cheese had carmelized along the sides, and the hot tomatoes pulsated in their succulent flavor. I did it!
Mom, Aunt Lou, and I respectfully agreed on two things for next time. I need to use fewer of those plump tomatoes. They were so good, though. We also agreed that there was something special about the crust, something magical and tasty, made with love and patience over three long days.
The crust on the bottom is excellent.
I used a little too much tomato (so good, though).
A little "extra done" cheese never hurts, right?.
Actually, it's a Grandpa pizza (extra cheese and extra sauce).
I parked across the street from Saint Michael Grade School, carefully brushing my beard, slowly securing my wallet, and eventually adjusting my knit hat before I slipped into the cold of an early January morning. The winter wind pushed me to move a little more quickly on my journey this morning.
Had Paula Foster not reminded me, I may have forgotten about the commitment I had made several weeks before Christmas. Before I wrapped my first present or even helped Mom bake this year's cookies, Paula had asked me to visit her transitional kindergarten class after the holidays.
"I saw your post and your wonderful white beard (and) thought it was a sign," Paula said, perhaps trying to flatter me. I don't know if I was flattered, but I succumbed to Paula's enthusiasm as she detailed the great activities she planned for her five-year-old students. Of course, I would help out.
I rang the doorbell of Saint Michael Grade School, experiencing one of those "full circle" moments. As I waited for someone to open the door, I stepped backward to gaze into the adjacent parking lot, where the wind blew little remnants of snowflakes between the school and church. As a child attending "St. Mike's," I played games at recess in that parking lot, relegated to the outfield during kickball for my inability to make accurate throws as many of my classmates could.
I looked back through the glass of the front door, recalling the short rise of steps I walked as a first grader over half a century ago, being scared to death of what awaited me. Little did I know of the stories I would be able to tell one day. The door clicked, and as I entered the familiar lobby, the foyer air warmed me immediately. Didn't a pen and pencil machine stand there once upon a time? To a child, it was a steel monstrosity that clicked out cool plastic pens with Saint Michael Grade School etched on the casing, a rough, gray eraser at the top, one which did nothing but tear the paper instead of erasing the multiple mistakes I tended to make.
"I am so glad you are here, Mr. Bucon," Paula Foster greeted me from the top of the stairs, where she waited to usher me towards a classroom. I smiled and told her how happy I felt here, but my gaze continued to travel elsewhere rather than where she wanted me to go. A rolling refrigerated cart dispensing red and white half pints of whole milk once stood beside the water fountain in the front hallway. Excited students who rushed through lunch just to run outside would place leftover PB&Js or fruit from brown bag lunches atop the doors that slid back and forth, where someone would retrieve them to transport to the less fortunate in the world.
I stared into the cafeteria in front of me, a place I once struggled to find a seat where I could eat nervously by myself. Nothing is more exhilarating and mortifying than the sound of a chaotic grade school lunchroom, so I did what I could to survive. Even today, the little kids were yelling and screaming, filling the empty spaces of the blue-walled cafeteria. "Mr. Bucon, we need to get you in your costume. The kids will be back from lunch soon." Mrs. Foster's undeterred enthusiasm ushered me from the confines of my childhood memories into the first room of the school, where she prepared me for my visit to her class.
Sometimes, we can step outside ourselves on our journeys to witness moments as they happen. We are more present in these moments, shuffling off our daily worries and haggard agendas as we see more clearly and understand the world more deeply. Intent has little to do with this experience; our souls simply flip a switch inside each of us, leaving no choice but to embrace the feelings as they envelop us.
We quietly paraded down the hallway at Saint Michael's in colorful robes. We were Joseph's Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat adorning three nervous individuals who garnered the seventh and eighth graders welcoming grins and their "oohs" and "aahs" as we walked past the open doors of their classrooms. "Look! It's The Three Wisemen!" one person whispered as he pointed at the green, gold, white, red, brown, and silver pageantry.
Dressed in a dark green gown with a gold crown atop my head, I was Balthazar, the Wise Man from Arabia, bringing myrrh to the Baby Jesus. Long ago, as a first grader, I had waited outside this exact back hallway classroom, wondering what I would find once the door opened. And now I stood here again. I could do nothing but smile and absorb the energy of this moment. I felt my soul flipping the switch when we all entered the classroom to the paralyzed excitement and wonderment of a small group of five-year-olds who stopped to watch the magical entrance of the Magi, bearing gifts for them on their journey to the Baby Jesus.
We stood before the children, no longer anxious about what we had to do or say. The Wise Men had little time for those concerns as the genuinely curious young minds of five-year-olds posed numerous questions about where we were from and how we traveled across the ocean on camels. Innocent energy warmed the classroom as each Magi met every student, kindly sharing small gifts of golden chocolate coins and erasers in the shapes of farm animals and the Holy Family. Each child glowed as they announced their gifts to the class and then turned to the Magi to offer a heartfelt "thank you." Laughs and chatter soon filled the room as the students eventually returned to their coloring and continued chatting with us and one another.
Earlier than I wished, we said our goodbyes and told our new friends we were heading out to find Baby Jesus. We returned to the classroom at the front of the school, where we removed our colorful costumes. The reality of life began to creep back for me as the moment had already ended. It seemed as if my soul had flipped off the switch inside me as quietly as it had turned it on. Try as I might, I wanted to hold on to something from this short visit to the class. Nothing but appointments, shopping lists, and the cold awaited me outside. I wanted to slow down again. Did I miss what I was supposed to have learned?
That may be why certain moments remain with us for so long. We long to stay in the moments, keeping them with us despite a world that so quickly wants us to let go. Sometimes, life does not spell out the greater understanding for us, and we do not fully comprehend why certain moments matter more until all of the pieces finally come together days, months, or even years later.
Thank you to Paula Foster and her excellent class!
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