Litterbug, Litterbug
A very merry, bright, and bouncy girl bounded through the bustling train station.
Katie was so excited, she could hardly contain herself! She was going to the zoo!
A train horn blared: Wooo-ooh-wooo! Woo-ooh-wooo! An announcement rang out: Allllll aboarrrd!
People scurried about, turnstiles spun ‘round and ‘round. The station display board made a clackety-clack sound.
“Katie, don’t get too far ahead!” her parents called after her.
But they didn’t see her! “Oh, dear, oh, dear, where can she be?” her mother said.
When they finally caught up to Katie, she was staring up at a not-so-bright or bouncy gentleman.
He was dressed from head to toe in leather! The name “Duke” was stitched into his vest.
They both had their hands on their hips. It was a staredown!
“You pick that up right now!” Katie said to the man. He had tossed his trash on the floor, right in front of Katie.
“Well, well, well! And just who do you think YOU are, little girl?” the decidedly not merry man said.
“Litterbug, litterbug!” Katie said, inching closer to the man. “My mom always says ‘never litter!’”
He inched one inch backwards, and then two. Katie stepped one step closer, and then two!
“Litterbug, litterbug!” Katie said again. “LITTERBUG!!”
“Well, well, well”, bellowed a very merry, bright, and not so bouncy man.
Katie and Duke stood with their hands on their hips, staring at each other, and then at the other man.
Katie said, “He littered! He littered! He’s a litterbug!”. Duke scowled at Katie and looked to his friend for help.
The very merry and bright, but not so bouncy man turned to Katie and said, “Soooooo, you’d like Duke here to pick up his trash, do I have that right, young lady?”
Katie looked this new man right in the eye and said, “Yes! He’s a litterbug! All he needed to do was toss his trash in the can.”
She pointed towards a trash can near a doorway.
A small crowd had gathered at this point, and Katie’s mom and dad were mortified! “Katie, please, let’s just get this nice man to pick up his trash, and we can be on our way.”
The very merry and bright, but not so bouncy man, whose name was “Chance”, according to the stitching on his leather vest, turned towards Duke and said, “Ok, big fella, how about we just do what this little lady says, and pick up that trash!”
Duke scowled again and let out a low “hrrummpphhh!” He bent over, picked up his trash, and lumbered over to the trash can.
He turned to face Katie and the crowd and tossed the offending crumpled-up paper bag into the can.
Katie clapped her hands and smiled from ear to ear. The crowd cheered and whistled. Katie’s mom and dad hurried over and each took one of Katie’s hands in theirs.
Duke and Chance stood there, hands in their pockets, looking at Katie. She broke free from her parents’ grasp and ran up to the two towering men.
She said softly, “Thank you! Thank you so much!” The men looked down at this precocious little red-haired girl for a moment. Then Duke mumbled bashfully, “I’m sorry for littering. I won’t do it again, ok?”
Katie beamed! She took one step towards Duke and Chance and winked!
She ran back to her parents and exclaimed, “Ok! I’m ready to go to the zoo now!”
Her mom and dad breathed a sigh of relief, and they merrily, and brightly, and bouncily made their way out of the train station and towards the zoo!
Words Were Her Currency
It has been a little over two and a half years since my mother uttered these words: And long after her editorial career was over, words continued to be her currency. She was dictating her obituary to me. Certainly a position neither one of us had discussed, nor expected to be in; but there we were. Her, half sitting-half lying in the hospital bed; me, hunched over, scribbling madly on pink hospital paper that outlined instructions we would never use. Her sharp decline in health left us all with no time to prepare; least of all, my mom. Fumbling around blindly in an ocean of emotions and medical jargon that mostly made no sense, we all tried to get through each moment, together, as best as we could. One day that meant chocolate shakes, another was playing some of mom’s favorite songs while she rested; yet another was my sister-in-law leading us in bedside prayer. We all do what we can in these circumstances. It was not perfect, it was not easy, and it was the single-most heart wrenching thing I have experienced.
Looking back, there are one thousand and one things I wish I had asked. But I didn’t. I wasn’t in the mindset to organize my thoughts, or prioritize what to ask mom so she could help me fill in the gaps; I didn’t even have paper or a pen with me. Mostly, I just was worried that I would seem selfish . . . I mean, how could I be thinking about me, and my needs at a time like this?
I am writing now, with my mother’s voice tapping me on the shoulder; words, currency. Her love of writing inspires me every day; and her ability to transport her reader to the very heart and soul of what she wrote about, is what I aspire to.
I’ve yet to chart a clear path forward in terms of what exactly I wish to write about; mom would likely say, “Whatever you do, just write with conviction, and for God’s sake, mind your grammar and use spell check”! My father, a speech and communications professor, more than certainly would have had the same advice. I have a work-in-progress compilation of short stories about my life experiences that will one day become my memoir. I have two works of fiction in various stages of thought and progress. I have started a children’s book series. I also have a jumbled assortment of recipes from my varied culinary experiences over the last thirty years. As well, since losing my mom in October of 2021, I have written numerous pieces detailing my journey with my omnipresent companion, grief. And I have one of my most prized treasures from my mom; her columns from her editorial days at the now defunct Courier and Freeman, in our hometown of Potsdam, NY.
So, after laying the above groundwork, I guess I should say, “Words are my currency, too; do stay tuned if you wish”.
The Kitchen Shovel
Amid the din of the barking expeditor, the rat-tat-tat of the relentlessly spewing ticket machine, and the dizzying chatter of the all-Latino cook’s line, I didn’t have time to ask anyone why there was a big concrete shovel tucked away in a small nook behind the convection oven. As a somewhat intimidated and relatively new line cook, I just did as I was told. I made hundreds and hundreds of nacho plates; they were dripping with chili, or pulled pork, or a soggy vegetable medley composed of “kitchen sink” ingredients. On go the sliced jalapenos & waxy black olives, the chopped scallions, and then the shredded cheese. In the oven, out of the oven, slap on the sour cream, guacamole, salsa, and shredded iceberg lettuce, shove the plate in the pick-up window, and then some half-in-the-bag reveler just outside those swinging kitchen doors was about to add to an already overly full stomach after previously scarfing down ball park franks and overpriced draft swill.
Looking back, perhaps that shovel should have been my first clue; a clue as to what? Maybe running away as fast as I could?
After the rush, after dunking kitchen towels in ice water, and putting them around our necks to fight off the extreme heat, it was time to clean. Luis, the gregarious, loud-mouth from El Salvador said to me, “Kate, consigue esa pala!!” (Get that shovel.).
It had been so busy, such a flurry of hours rushing by, an overload of adrenaline, all fueled by swearing, bellowing, clanging pots & pans, and the searing heat, that I never even noticed the extent of the mess at of our feet.
Discarded plastic portion bags, crumpled paper towels, pieces of tortellini, chicken fingers, smushed portion cups of any number of side sauces, roasted red peppers, band-aids, latex gloves, French fry bags, French fries, clam fry, egg shells, a steak tip or ten, plastic cups that held barely drinkable cooking wine, ripped printer dupes, and the biggest pile? It lay at my feet: crushed nacho chips, shredded cheese, salsa, at least one Costco-sized can worth of black olives, and a small garden plot of scallions and iceberg lettuce. Oh, I had my share of plastic cups, heartlessly ripped open portion bags, and paper towels. But the food waste that I was standing in was breathtaking. Luis said, “Kate, no te precoupes!” (Don’t worry!).
Sure, Luis . . .
Luis told me that all the cooks were going to pick up the kitchen mats, shake them out, and take them to the dish pit. He then said, “Ahora pala!” (Now we shovel!). And we did. After knocking off the food that was caked into the quarter-sized holes in the mats and giving them to the hapless, overworked dishwasher, who was already buried in dirty plates, bowls, and silverware, we shoveled. We shoveled enough crap off the line floor to fill half a dozen trash bags as full as could be. Down the stairs I went with Luis, my new brother-in-gluttony; we were like trash Santas with bags of pure, unabashed food waste slung over our shoulders.
When Luis and I returned to the line, it was as though nothing had happened at all. The floor was spotless, the stations were wiped down and reset. The din had settled, the ticket machine was quiet, and the scorching heat had turned to cooler late summer night air. Luis said to me, “Por favor, vuelva a poner la pala.” (Please put the shovel back.).
The wanton and careless wastefulness of my surroundings in that first “big” line cook job is jarring to think about now. With the restaurant being situated in the heart of a popular downtown area, mere feet from a beloved sports stadium, the public had fallen in love with the food, beer, ease of access, and late-night hours. This fueled a seemingly obsessive focus by ownership on nothing but making money; and lots of it.
*This turned into penny pinching and an equally obsessive approach to counting shit out down to the last bay leaf and butter pat. Prep the food, make the food, drop the food with devil-may-care abandon, shovel it up OFF THE FLOOR, and throw it away. Two ballsy trash Santa’s; Luis and I probably should have invested in 33 gallon garbage bags, for the amount of cases of them that we ripped through every week. But there was a certain rush, a high even, of being so busy that we didn’t care. The money was good, we ate for free, and the kitchen wine truly didn’t taste so bad when you mixed it with Sprite and citrus wedges.
That carefree disregard was pretty short-lived, though. Both Luis and I were relatively sure that “it just shouldn’t be like this.”. We moved on to other kitchens, stayed in touch off and on, and eventually lost all contact with each other. But, I know our takeaway was that our experience was full of exercises in what not to do. I mean, WTF, shovels are for snow, or dirt, or even concrete. Not for scraping up food off the floor after a busy Friday rush. But hey, at least I’ll be able to take with me to the grave, the fact that there are 1174 bay leaves in a 12oz jug and 720 butter pats in a case!
#endkitchenfoodwaste
Shonto
We were just outside of Flagstaff, when Kelly yelled, “Turn around, we have to go back!” It was 105 degrees, blazing sun, the heat making the road seem hazy and shimmery. Kelly said again, “Turn around! An old woman was walking down the road back there.”
When we pulled up alongside the woman, we were all stunned to see that she was at least 95 years old. A Navajo woman, dressed in stunning turquoise clothing, with a wrist full of bracelets of the same color, stood there, unfazed, staring us down.
My friends were speechless for once. The strength and independence of this woman emanated from every fiber of her being. I looked at her, gestured towards the empty passenger seat, just vacated by Emily. She looked at me, grabbed the handrail, placed a foot on the sidebar, and swung herself into the seat with a satisfied little “Humpf!”
Her weathered skin was the color of mocha, and the brilliant blue of her dress brought out a kindness in her wary eyes. She was sitting in my truck, with four self-proclaimed world travelers, early music from Pink on the radio, and the AC blasting. I noticed goosebumps on her arms, and turned down the cold air. I asked her, “Where can we take you?”
She remained quiet, and looked around a few moments; to the side of the highway, behind us, and out in front of us. She raised a hand, and pointed a bony, arthritic finger in a northern direction, and said, “Shonto.”
We didn’t have GPS, but instead, impossible maps. Kelly and Jen rustled around in the backseat, trying to look up this “Shonto”. Emily leaned over and said to me, “Kate, just drive.”
So, my three best friends and one new friend headed off toward Shonto. The woman leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes. I must have stolen a thousand glances in her direction, wondering if she was comfortable, who she was, how old she was, did she make her clothes and jewelry, did she live on a reservation, was she a revered and well-loved elder, what was her name, and what in the hell was she doing out on the highway in middle of nowhere, walking alone?
About 20 minutes into our drive, the woman opened her eyes; less than a minute after that, she started gesturing towards a road sign. Shonto, it said. The four of us had no idea where we were, but our friend did. She sat straight up in her seat and started to smooth out her dress. She was looking intently at side roads that had started popping up to our left; finally, she pointed and said, “Shonto.”
We turned left, and again, the woman was looking carefully at the tiny side roads along the way; after passing at least half a dozen of them, she gently touched my arm and pointed to the right. I looked at her, her eyes dark, with a shy and small, but assured smile on her face. I saw grace. I saw strength. I saw light and love, hardship, and long walks down the highway. I saw pride. I felt a bit of grateful peace as we slowly wound our way down a bumpy dirt road.
There were no houses, no cars, no people; I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little nervous. All of a sudden, the woman gestured to the right; we turned into a driveway, and it opened into a wide space of land with tiny bungalows, single-story row houses, sheds, pick-up trucks, old bicycles, and motorcycles everywhere. The woman pointed to a simple cabin-like home, with the shades drawn, and yellow shutters. The front door was plain wood, with a black door knob, and a dusty doormat.
We slowly pulled up to this woman’s home; I noticed that every single place of residence had their shades drawn. I put the truck in park, and started to open my door. But the woman placed her hand on my arm, and gently moved my hand back to the steering wheel; if she had spoken, it clearly would have been to say, “Stay put.”
She opened the door and carefully began to swing her legs out to the ground; at that moment, simultaneously, every door and every window, of every home of this Navajo village, flew open. Every single one. What must have been 100 souls, stood in their doorways, and peered out their windows, sizing up the four, very white women who were bringing their wife, mother, grandmother, elder, and wise woman home.
She firmly planted her feet on the ground once she was out of the truck; she steadied herself against the door for a moment, and then looked back at all of us. To each of us, she gave a slow nod of her head; a thank you. She gazed at me for a moment, and then looked at her people, her family. She looked back at me, and swept her arms in the direction of her home, and community, and said, “Shonto.”
She closed her eyes, opened them, and looked at us again; and then, in an instant, she was gone. Swept into her house by a young woman and several children. Low talking could be heard, and then laughter. All the doors and windows closed. It was almost as if no one had ever been there at all.
We backed out and pulled away. None of us said anything for the rest of the way to Santa Fe. It was a stunning display of family and community. Of respect, heritage, culture, and a way of life, none of us would ever be able to fully translate. We were total interlopers, but at the same time, we were welcomed for one small moment. I’ll always remember this glimpse I got into a world that is not mine, and I’ll never forget the brilliance of the color turquoise. Shonto.