I am a writer and filmmaker on a journey, cataloging what happens when you leave what you know in search of what you don't. On this page, I will offer stories of encounters with mostly ordinary people I am meeting along the way. I've interviewed Henry Kissinger and won Emmys for my journalism, yet I still find the ordinary aspects of a person's life and drive to be fascinating. I find most people gracious with much to offer their fellow man, even if it's just a smile that warms a moment. I hope reading my stories informs and enriches you.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009. It's early afternoon. Coffee cafes, attract all sorts of interesting people. This time of day they seem to draw in people of letters. Educated, wise, seasoned veterans either retired or transforming their lives. I rushed in today, found my favorite wide and soft easy chair untaken, and tossed my laptop and tote of books into its cushions to claim it. I surmised my things should be safe there long enough for me to run five doors down in this small suburban hub of shops to make concrete my plans with Joe, the cobbler, to shoot a profile of him on Friday. My sense that my things would be safe grew out of a knowingness about the characters I tend to encounter at this cafe. They are lovers of the words either scored and wed with melodies playing in the background or those on printed pages that pull them into a different universe. Just then, one of those characters walked up to the small chess table next to my comfy chair. Without introduction, none seemed needed, I asked the gentleman wearing a tweed sweater and calm expression if he would act as sentinel over my things, just in case. He agreed with a deep smile and a deeper understanding. We didn't know each other, but we did. We were in love with some of the same things. How much so I would not learn until later.
I dashed to Joe's. I wanted to confirm our plans and get back to my work and finish a few assignments before a promised snow storm materialized. I could hardly get inside. Joe's tiny shoe repair shop was brimming with customers. I was so pleased for him, my face lit up. Behind his counter, I could see Joe noticed. In the midst of a depressed economy, people fix more shoes than they buy. Joe and his wife Helen were just swamped with people anxious to get shoes and boots and leather bags and jackets they had brought in before the Christmas break. Joe had closed the shop until today. He needed the break. There he was, soft blue gray eyes peering through glasses hooked onto his nose, but nowhere near those glittering eyes. It wasn't quite noon and his fingers were already stained with shoe polish. He rushed about, trying to please everyone bearing a ticket stub or making a request. I took a seat on the small bench provided for waiting customers. I didn't want to interfere. I am a writer. I wanted to observe. My perch was perfect. My mind records and records the scene playing out before me. At times, dashing between his back room and the front counter, Joe would stop and take deep breaths to control his own anxiety. He wanted to please everyone. That's never easy, but Joe is good at it. A man sitting next to me on the little bench tells me Joe is the only cobbler he knows of in the region. Yes, I say, cobblers we seem to be losing. I think, wouldn't Dickens be surprised. I wait and watch. The man beside me had left a shirt with leather patches for Joe to fix. It's not ready. The patches are too far gone. Joe wants to take his time with it and make whole new patches from scratch and then repair the shirt. The man gasps with surprise at the offer. This he didn't expect. Sure, is his answer. My expression tells Joe not to worry about me. I'm fine. He returns to his back room where he bends leathers to his will.
Helen, Joe's wife and partner, runs the front desk for a time until things slow down a bit. I engage her and our conversation morphs into a long woman to woman chat about children and the virtue on taking on debt to properly educate one's children, until this nation once again commits to educating more than just the rich. Joe resurfaces. New customers arrive. My mental recorder is happily consuming information. I remember my computer and the stranger. I snag Joe's attention. Luckily, the store has emptied for the moment. He remembers me and our agreement. The shoot is on and my boots are ready. Friday will go well.
I return to the cafe. My appointed sentinel is still on guard. His name I find out is Ed. I apologize for the length of my absence and ask him if he is a professor, sharing my perception of this very tailored man. No. He was a radio broadcaster for a number of years. Oh my, I think. We smile at each other deeply. Before, I dashed to Joe's, amid my request that he guard my possessions, I , out of cards, handed him my resume which I thought he was unusually interested in. Now, I understood. "You still have the pipes, sir." , I said. He laughed with pleasure at a compliment only someone in our industry would likely understand. He said he was "just" in local broadcasting, deferring to my network television credentials. I stopped him. "Don't say just. What is is and that was your domain. I'm sure you served your audience well." He accepted my view. After broadcasting, he worked at the Three Mile Island nuclear power plant in nearby Middletown, Pennsylvania, right through the near meltdown there back in 1979. I and every journalist alive at the time remembers that moment. Ed didn't get into that story, but said on point. "I thought I could only be in what's considered creative fields,". He said, "But I found out I could be creative in a technical job." The journalist in me wanted to know more. I suggested to Ed that there is a book inside him. Telling all he knows about that tremendously scary time seems an idea he discarded long ago. But, I discovered besides a love for coffee cafes, books, broadcasting and cobblers, we had one other thing in common. Turns out he graduated from Franklin and Marshall College, just as my son did last May.
Now, Ed is retired and a self-proclaimed "cafe rat". I laugh. It's a term I've not heard before. I tell him I a writer planning to profile Joe the cobbler. My new friend lights up. He is a big fan of Joe. "He does much more than just fix shoes you know. Joe makes shoes fit the needs of your foot. He can do this." I ask Ed if he'll be hanging out here Friday morning when I'll be filming Joe. He is pleased and says he'll try. I explain that people don't really know what they offer others, only the recipient can tell me that. Friday promises to be a good day. I hope Ed comes and is not camera shy.
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