Finding Inspiration When the World is on Fire

On writing despite all of...*Vanna White reveal of our world with outstretched arm* this

A Coke Mike bought me with my dead Mom’s name on it. Likely from a liquor store

**I’d like to start off with a little thank you to one of my favorite follows on this platform,

Paul Crenshaw

. I came for the essays, but stayed for the phenomenal writing and his newer offering

Establish the Habit

. Listen, Paul probably thinks I’m an online stalker because I share and comment and generally fangirl anything that shows up from him. I have no chill, though, and a lot of you know that. I even bought his essay collections recently, too and am enjoying his poignant, thoughtful and simple, straightforward but truly great writing about our complicated and nuanced world through his eyes. We happen to be the same age and have a ton of the same cultural references, but nevertheless, I think there is something for every person in his words. This piece is coming from the idea that Paul put forth that sometimes, all you need to start the page is a sentence that won’t leave you alone. So here goes nothing, or everything, whichever way you look at it. As always, thanks for coming along with me on my writing discovery. Please go support Paul if you can, or share something that resonates of his. This appeals to my inner head cheerleader that never came down off the top of the pyramid, my pom-pom’s still glistening in the sun, cheering the team, my team on despite the fact that we rarely won. The world feels heavy right now, but I am cheering for you, and us, and this country because I believe there are more of us interested in the well-being of those less privileged**

I have never been in a 7-Eleven that didn’t feel like home. I grew up blocks away from one, and from the time I could form sentences, Mom would often stop there to buy cigarettes. My job was to go in and buy them for her. She would sit in the parking lot, 1972 Plymouth Duster idling, waving at the checkout person, while I toddled in wearing my Coke bottle glasses and pigtails, saying, “Two packs of Kool Menthols, please.” She would give me extra cash to get a pack of Hostess chocolate frosted donuts (my older sister Shelly loved the powdered ones, or a Milky Way candy bar) or a Snickers or a Cherry Icee. I fell in love with snacks there. I love sweet, salty, and everything in between. In college, I would stop by the local 7-Eleven for a metric ton Big Gulp of Diet Pepsi, Marlboro Light cigarettes and something small to eat. I usually didn’t eat again until dinner time because I was so focused on making straight A’s to get into Nursing school (my lack of self-care seems to have started early), but that soda would get me through. I admit, I even braved their scary hot dogs a time or two because they were open and I had a crush on the checkout guy, Ray who my college roommates and I ended up seeing on an episode of “America’s Most Wanted.” My taste in snacks has not changed. My taste in men has.

The love of snacks and the palaces that hold them are still with me today. If there isn’t a 7-Eleven around, any local bottle shop or liquor store will do. I am also very into gas station snack shops. They often have the best candy choices with weird off brands that offer flavors not known in some name brand candies. I am up for trying anything with peanut butter and chocolate, or cinnamon hot candies, or a salty bag of Chex Mix I’ve never heard of. I love to wander the aisles searching for something, anything to sustain me. To fill that persistent, aching void that sometimes thrums so loud you just have to tend to it.

Life is hard, a full contact sport, even. Snacks are one of those small joys that make it worth living. Nothing makes me more giddy to pick up some long forgotten relic of my childhood, like Reese’s Pieces which were invented for the movie “E.T.” Or what about the Rice Krispy peanut butter chocolate combo of the Whatchamacallit? Divine. On a long drive to LA last year, I found a Nestle Chunky Bar in a dilapidated old liquor store attached to a gas station. The man that owned the shop confessed he still orders them because they are his favorite snack, and he gets a kick out of someone who loves and remembers them. I bought a few and kept them in my hotel fridge for a late night treat.

The other day I had to go pick up a prescription at my pharmacy. There was only one other lady waiting, and she was 83 and crying profusely in a sea of empty chairs. I wandered over and asked if I could help her. Her name was Barbara. It turned out her prescription for a very crucial medication was no longer covered and it was going to cost her thousands of dollars per month. The pharmacist was trying to help, but she was quite hysterical. She lived off Social Security and a small pension, and in between sobs you could hear how scared she was. The leader of this administrations name was uttered many a time. I ended up calming her down and we called a pharmacy that I know about through work that provides medications for free if they have them in stock. While on speaker phone, we learned that they get that medicine regularly into their pharmacy, and it should be available to her for at least a few months. I helped her write down what to say when she called her doctor so she could hopefully avoid this problem in the future.

Before I had stopped at the pharmacy, I detoured into our local 7-Eleven. I hadn’t been there since the pandemic, but the cool air and the smell of burnt coffee hit my nose, bringing me back to the film strip in my mind of little Nicole procuring cigarettes for my dead Mom, circa 1978. The checkout man was new to me, and he was a young chatty East Indian gentleman wearing the prettiest terra cotta colored turban. We chatted as I bought a sparkling water, some Haribo Gummy Bears, and a package of Cheez-It Puff’D White Cheddar crackers. I was so excited by a new form of the Cheez-It, and they are good. Think Pirate Booty or white cheddar puffs. A light, salty treat to make running errands more bearable. That’s the thing about me. I have been treating myself since before it was a meme from a TV show.

After I got Barbara settled, I reached into my bag and offered her my snack sized bag of gummy bears. Her eyes lit up. I had gotten a box of tissues from the pharmacy tech, and she was dabbing her eyes when I brought them out. We chatted about how hard it is to get older, how her kids lived far away, how I missed my parents terribly. She misses hers, too and they had been gone over thirty years. I confessed my love of snacks and how I hoped they would brighten her day, and she started a different kind of sobbing. The kind where she felt seen and cared for. The hug she gave me was top notch, and in the end, we got her tissues, directions, something sweet and she was on her way.

Listen, I am no saint. I get frustrated and irritated and so anxious my palms sweat and I want to hide in a cave or at least my house for days on end. I don’t always have the time or the bandwith to help the Barbara’s of the world because all too often, my pie plate is empty, too. Driving out of the parking lot, I felt helpless. I know I helped her, but what if I hadn’t walked in when I did? Would someone else have helped her? I just hate that the world feels like it is at the mercy of good people, or at least helpful people. What if there are none around? How can we fix the brokenness? Then I realized that this is how. Just meet people where they are and help them in that same spot. With love and snacks.