The Three Rules

I'm not a "rules for living" kind of guy, but I have three that I hope make me a better friend and easier to stomach.

A Facebook friend and longtime acquaintance surprised me recently by citing what he called my three rules for living that I didn’t know I had. It was actually quite an honor that he remembered these gems. I had never enumerated them as such, but now I’ll play along.

ONE: Spend more time with people you actually care about. 

Paul Blair was a writer and world traveler who found Roadside in one of his many cross-country travels and reached out to us, not only with his exquisitely penned accounts of the sights and flavors he discovered, but he often included cassette tape recordings — with music interludes — of those accounts. 

Yessy and Paul Blair

In those days, Paul lived in Indonesia with his wife Yessy, working for a news publication that served American ex-pats living in Jakarta and beyond. To say that Paul led an interesting life might have been the understatement of the decade. Before that, he lived served in Africa with the Peace Corps, and later worked for Radio Free Liberty. Along the way, he became one of the nation’s foremost Jazz aficionados, editing a magazine covering New York City’s jazz scene. 

When Paul returned to the States with Yessy in 1999, he settled in Brooklyn’s Bay Ridge section in a small apartment tastefully stuffed with mementos from his travels, including dozens of puppets hand crafted in Indonesia. Fortunately for all these puppets, Paul and Yessy had no children or pets. 

Paul’s extensive collection of Indonesian puppets.

I visited his new home in 1999 and one more time shortly after 9/11. Then, we exchanged phone calls and emails discussing our favorite topics — for me, roadside stuff, food, my kid. For him, — roadside stuff, city living, and his hosted tours of the city’s jazz landmarks. The emails and calls typically ended with him telling me, “Give us a call sometime, OK?  And don't forget that you and Louise are always welcome to bunk at our place.” (Yes, I naturally extended the same invitation.)

Finally, after more than ten years of such exchanges. He reached out again in October 2011, but this time including an offer too sweet to refuse. He and Yessy planned to move out of their apartment, and he hoped to lighten the load by disposing of his sizable collection of books on all-things-roadside, some long out-of-print. I knew then that I had to get off my ass and get up to Brooklyn. Yes, I wanted the books, but I missed hanging with Paul.

“I’ll be up there this weekend,” I told him. 

We spent another memorable afternoon together, far-too-long overdue. My travel experiences paled in comparison to his, so I couldn’t help but feel honored with the time he gave me — made even sweeter by the books and stories he shared. 

Two weeks later, I receive an email from Yessy telling me that Paul had suffered a heart attack and died while eating his lunch on a park bench in Bay Ridge. After reading that, I don’t think I moved for a good five minutes.

The news made me realize the importance of making an effort to spend time face-to-face with people I actually cared about. We simply never know when or if we’ll ever get that chance again.

Life’s too short, I decided, to endure unnecessary aggravations, especially at the expense of those that matter to us.

TWO: If they love it, and I don’t, shut up.

I know someone with a chronically negative outlook on most things with few impediments to expressing opinions shaped by that outlook. Saying, “What a beautiful day,” might evoke a response of, “Nah. It’s too cold/hot for me.” 

I have to credit this person for this particular rule, because several years ago during a friendly discussion about favorite TV shows, someone (maybe me) in our group said something to the effect, “I’m watching Breaking Bad and love it.” The person retorts, “Oh, no. I hate that show.” 

I’ve been in hundreds if not thousands of such conversations over the years, and I’ve little doubt I played the hater too many times. I too may have rejoined with such an opinion, probably unsolicited, possibly uninformed, and certainly ill-received. 

Because I don’t want to be anyone’s dark cloud, I will do my best to hold back a contrary opinion. Just as an example, tell me you love Taylor Swift, I’ll offer nothing or I nod my acknowledgment. If asked “What do you think?” In an effort to keep the conversation light, I say, “Not a fan.” If the Swiftie aggressively solicits my opinion, and I’ll then offer it gladly — in spades.

I see such exchanges on social media all the time. Often we read someone’s response to a positive opinion about something that veering into toxic invective. For example in a recent post at the Roadside People Facebook group, I wrote: 

Though I have tried scrapple in at least four different diners, all claiming to have the best, I never became a fan of it. Growing up in New England, this was never a part of my breakfast menu. I can’t seem to get past the livery flavor of it.

This provoked comments such as “Don’t like it” or “That’s because they don’t know how to make it” — both reasonable, non-judgmental stances.

Then there’s this: 

“Worst crap I ever tried to eat. If you know what’s in it, you’ll understand.” Punctuated with a puke emoji.

Followed with: 

Putting my editor’s cap on, let’s make this more civil. 

“I know what’s in scrapple, plus I’m not a fan of the flavor. I know some hot dogs are similarly suspect, but I love ‘em. Can’t help it.” 

All as long as you don’t put ketchup on them.

THREE: Focus on the goal, not the struggle.

In the early days of my working years, I found myself on the unemployment line when it was still an actual line. I had yet to embark on my planned career, but after about six months or so sweeping floors and cleaning toilets, I became eligible to collect. The unemployment office in downtown Springfield exemplified the hopeless, impersonal, and intensely beige government office, and the line to sign up for your weekly check easily extended out to at least thirty people or more at any given time. 

This place was a palace compared to Springfield’s unemployment office.

I had an advantage, however. I had previous experience accompanying my mother in the same line nearly ten years before. I remembered the stale, smoke-filled air and the glaring fluorescent lighting casting a grayish hue upon everyone and everything. Looking around, I saw no one who wanted to be there. So years later after my first layoff, I already knew what awaited me on the other side of that door to that office before I opened it. 

I knew that:

1. The line will be long

2. The people will be in bad moods, but… 

3. At the end of that line, I get money. 

The “I get money” part eased the suffering. I could actually stand there during this one-hour tour of institutional purgatory with a slight smile on my face, because when I got to the end of the line, a stone-faced but polite civil servant would hand me a check. The modest amount covered a couple of tanks of gasoline, and a night out with my girlfriend. Life was good. 

It’s a clear example of the rewards of patience. Getting in a huff about the predicament doesn’t move the line faster, or more importantly, make the people around me enjoy my company a wit more.

Decades later, I recall that experience whenever faced with a queue for pretty much anything (except maybe a bathroom). It keeps me sane. I stay focused on the goal, which also provides me with a powerful incentive to do whatever’s necessary to avoid that line in the first place.

My rules won’t make anyone wealthy, but they’ve preserved my sanity. I try to remember what’s important. Hopefully those who I deal with on a regular basis will remember me as reasonable, reliable, and blessed with a healthy sense of humor. If that’s the extent of my legacy, I’ll die contented.

Got a rule for living? Please share in the comments below.