Here's a story about meeting Sherman Alexie...not in an I-Hop - nope I do not like pancakes. But for lack of any other place to plop down this story I am inserting my words right here:
Setting: Moscow Idaho, Gritman Hospital and Kenworthy Theater c 1998 the movie “Smoke Signals' came out. The Kenworthy Theater premiered a showing, for free, and Alexie and some of his cast and producers were hosting a panel discussion. (Moscow Idaho is not far from the Couer D'alene Rez, where parts of the movie was filmed.)
The night of the showing I was working as House Supervisor at the hospital, and it was a quiet night. I made my hospital rounds, and took the pager (remember those little black boxes that flashed a call back number, and then we had to find a real telephone?). I told folks who were on staff at the hospital that evening, I had to absolutely go to see Sherman Alexie. No one knew who he was and none could care less where I was at any given moment.
I had my copy of “Northwest Poets" (a gift from my beat-poet father-in-law, who wanted me to like poetry). The book had one of Alexie's poems, and I wanted it autographed. I walked the two blocks down Main Street to the Kenworthy, found Alexie in the lobby and asked him to sign my book. He was gracious, friendly, just as I imagined. He asked my name so he could inscribe a message, I held out my name tag so he would get it right, he stopped, looked at me, said “Oh you're in some kind of hospital clothes, a nurse or something?". I explained I had left work at the hospital to come get my book autographed, to listen to the panel discussion. He wrote in my book of poems" Maree, thanks for leaving work" and signed his name. I could not have been happier.
Is this the IHOP near SU? Amazing, no matter how often those tables got wiped, they were still sticky! But, I truly miss their pancakes and just sitting there for people watching.
IHOP tables are the stickiest!! I wish for you, that he had been a similar soul...oh, IHOPs are the best for stories and laughter, washed down with coffee. I feel your longing.
That was a strange essay. I can’t stand IHOP but have a friend who loves it. I like hearing you read though. Did you know there were Black Seminole people who moved to Northern Mexico a long time ago and celebrate Juneteenth. Google it.
That anecdote was brief but eloquent. The maybe-Indian heard the words but missed the music. Assuming the unfamiliar language was hostile, he missed the tacit message, the underlying warmth and hospitality, the welcoming gesture. And so he sat alone. How sad.
I wonder how often we miss the grace and love of others because we're in the habit of fear and the assumption of cruelty from the stranger.
Here's a story about meeting Sherman Alexie...not in an I-Hop - nope I do not like pancakes. But for lack of any other place to plop down this story I am inserting my words right here:
Setting: Moscow Idaho, Gritman Hospital and Kenworthy Theater c 1998 the movie “Smoke Signals' came out. The Kenworthy Theater premiered a showing, for free, and Alexie and some of his cast and producers were hosting a panel discussion. (Moscow Idaho is not far from the Couer D'alene Rez, where parts of the movie was filmed.)
The night of the showing I was working as House Supervisor at the hospital, and it was a quiet night. I made my hospital rounds, and took the pager (remember those little black boxes that flashed a call back number, and then we had to find a real telephone?). I told folks who were on staff at the hospital that evening, I had to absolutely go to see Sherman Alexie. No one knew who he was and none could care less where I was at any given moment.
I had my copy of “Northwest Poets" (a gift from my beat-poet father-in-law, who wanted me to like poetry). The book had one of Alexie's poems, and I wanted it autographed. I walked the two blocks down Main Street to the Kenworthy, found Alexie in the lobby and asked him to sign my book. He was gracious, friendly, just as I imagined. He asked my name so he could inscribe a message, I held out my name tag so he would get it right, he stopped, looked at me, said “Oh you're in some kind of hospital clothes, a nurse or something?". I explained I had left work at the hospital to come get my book autographed, to listen to the panel discussion. He wrote in my book of poems" Maree, thanks for leaving work" and signed his name. I could not have been happier.
Thanks for leaving work!
Is this the IHOP near SU? Amazing, no matter how often those tables got wiped, they were still sticky! But, I truly miss their pancakes and just sitting there for people watching.
I wrote a poem about a late-night pancake house once. Anyone who's not there for a communal experience is out of sync.
I drive by that IHOP probably four times a week. And I often remember that night. It was an odd experience.
IHOP tables are the stickiest!! I wish for you, that he had been a similar soul...oh, IHOPs are the best for stories and laughter, washed down with coffee. I feel your longing.
Language is a terrain. You can get lost. Or found. Lovely essay.
The wish for laughing is moving to me.
That was a strange essay. I can’t stand IHOP but have a friend who loves it. I like hearing you read though. Did you know there were Black Seminole people who moved to Northern Mexico a long time ago and celebrate Juneteenth. Google it.
I will eat pancakes no more forever.
That anecdote was brief but eloquent. The maybe-Indian heard the words but missed the music. Assuming the unfamiliar language was hostile, he missed the tacit message, the underlying warmth and hospitality, the welcoming gesture. And so he sat alone. How sad.
I wonder how often we miss the grace and love of others because we're in the habit of fear and the assumption of cruelty from the stranger.