Sometimes on a tough day all you want is to walk through the doors and have someone wrap you in a big hug.

That’s exactly what I got last week.

And instead of telling you all the reasons why I needed it…work sucks, crazy week, exhausted body…I will tell you why I appreciated it.

The setting was in the Starbucks down the street from my office. I used to work there as a shift manager, so it’s fun to go back and visit because a) they give me free drinks and b) every time I walk in, I know without a doubt I will see at least two friends who know how to make me laugh.

This particular day I was dealing with the issues mentioned above and decided to risk being late to work by stopping for a simple tall coffee. I walked in and immediately accounted for who was on staff that day: Holly was on the bar and Laura was on the register. One person was in line in front of me as I approached the pastry case.

Laura dropped a bagel into a bag, not noticing me behind the glass, and handed it to the customer at the counter. She glanced up and caught my eye. Her round eyes grew wide and her mouth let out a silent, “JAMIE! YEAH!” She quickly scuffled behind the counter and before I knew it, had swooped me up into a big hug.

Laura is a very tall, slightly heavy girl with long raven-black hair and big brown, friendly eyes. Her smile is easy and stretches clear across her face. She adores making people laugh, but has a raw honesty and isn’t afraid to tell you how she is when asked. “Fine” doesn’t often cut it for her.

“Hey you,” I said, as she made her way back around to the register. “How are things?”

Her smile faded a little and she shrugged.

“School’s kind of rough. But I’m hanging in there.” She proceeded to tell me about her classes and the drama in the store. She wished for a more peaceful schedule and more time for things she loved…like most of us. I nodded in agreement as she spoke, my own anxieties calming down as I realized I’m not the only one who feels like a balancing act gone terribly wrong.

“Anyways,” she said. “It’s good to see you. We talk about your wedding all the time.” I laughed. The whole staff had come to my wedding last year, and had nearly cleaned out the open bar. I think they alone may have made my dad regret his decision to pick up the bar tab.

“We do,” Holly piped in, nodding, her softspoken voice barely audible. “Anything special to drink today?”

I pursed my lips and shook my head. “Just a tall bold coffee.”

As they handed me my signature white and green cup with a sleeve, I halfway wished I was on the other side of the counter. Because on that side, my biggest problem of the day would have been that we ran out of turkey bacon breakfast sandwiches or that I had spilled leftover mocha in the back room or that I had had to clean the grinder. On that side, dancing and laughing and singing was met with people who joined in. On that side, I could run up and hug someone and it wasn’t out of place or inappropriate. I missed feeling like I knew exactly what I was doing most of the time and being in a place where it wasn’t hard to get people to smile.

But as I left, I knew that Laura would have given me that hug no matter where we were…if she had seen me at the mall, saw me at a stoplight (yes, she would have exited the car to greet me), or if she happened to stop by the office. And it’s not because it’s me. It’s because it’s Laura. And if more of us could shed this perception of unspoken rules, we would connect with each other more often and maybe feel just a little more sane.

That’s what Laura did for me.

Desperation is something Americans are unaccustomed to. There is a satisfied sense of pride in our mindset. We indulge in untold privileges and utilize technology to make simple tasks more simple.

The past two weeks have witnessed massive panic in southern cities. The hurricanes that blasted Louisiana and Texas have had a lasting effect down here. Oil production in the Gulf was stunted and supplies were short. When citizens learned we were low on petro, they promptly drove to the nearest station and gorged themselves like pigs in a landfill. Gas panic set in and soon all the stations were depleted. My father mentioned it was 1979 all over again.

For the past two weeks, most gas stations have been barren. The numbers on their signs are gone and plastic bags suffocate every pump handle. Inside, clerks watch and wait. Even cigarettes and black-as-tar coffee aren’t much of a draw to frantic patrons.

Blogs and websites have been formed to locate fuel. People have gone on record that they will waste a tank trying to find an open station. When a fuel truck arrives, cars stalk it out and follow it to its destination. Word gets out and for a few hours, lone stations are livid with activity. Watch from afar, and the melee resembles blue sharks on the hunt for a whale carcass. Scavengers who do not know when they will get their next meal.

I was not immune to this festival of idiocy. Recent assignments dictated my travel and I had been driving more than I ever did in June or July. I wanted to avoid the drama but then I would have had to turn down jobs. In this economy, you won’t last long with financial morals.

I went five days without driving. It’s not a badge of honor, but I felt better every time I passed the pumps. All around the country, happy SUV owners were ecstatic that prices were returning to under $3.50 a gallon. In the south Atlantic, we were lucky to find a place hawking it at all. People were getting in fights and ramming each other. The city was tearing at its own belly.

The feeling of desperation, of helplessness, is when you realize you are not in control of your life. That might sound silly to some, but there is a righteous feeling in the American hearts and minds that we control our own destiny. When basic necessity is barred, you lose perception. You lose hope. I can’t say that this is a comfortable time in American history. The tiny cracks have made our security wall become a glass door.

Maybe now is a good time to start paying attention to politics.

The first time I flew on an airplane on my own, I set down my book and leaned forward attentively as the flight attendants walked through the safety procedures. I studied the intricate mechanisms behind the safety belt, made a mental note that I should secure my own oxygen mask before assisting the passengers around me, and wondered where exactly under my seat cushion they had stored my life vest. (And what kind of larger trouble would we be in if we had a water landing, I thought, as we were supposedly flying over the Great Plains?) I soaked in every word with A-student instincts, ready to rattle off the details in case the flight attendant gave me a pop quiz. I even read the safety card.

Now, several trans-Atlantic and many in-country flights later, I barely even register that the flight attendants are standing there, fake-cheerfully buckling seatbelts and demonstrating how to wear a life vest on our Chicago to Denver flight. It takes someone with a sense of humor to cut through the boredom, like the woman who suggested that, after securing your own oxygen mask, you should choose which of your children you like best and take care of them next.

Flying back to Denver after being home for my brother’s wedding, I stretched in my seat as the plane touched down and people began shifting around, turning on cell phones and letting their hands hover over the buckle on the seatbelt so that they could unclick it the instant they heard the Pavlovian “ding!” The female flight attendant’s droning voice came on, thanking us for choosing their fine airline. And then she said, “Please make sure you take all of your personal problems off – I mean, BELONGINGS – off the plane with you.” Everyone on the plane giggled, but it sounded like a legitimate slip, not a pre-planned one to get the passengers off the plane with a smile. Everyone knows the baggage/“baggage” cliché, but she actually voiced it to a plane full of people.

That comment has lingered in my head for the past week. I’ve wondered what was going on in the head of the flight attendant that might have led to the Freudian slip. But I’ve thought, too, about how much I sometimes long for that option – to “accidentally” leave behind my problems on the proverbial plane along with my folded copy of the latest New Yorker.

Not that I’m laden with problems, but I’ve been thinking about vulnerability a lot lately, and how vulnerable “unpacking” what baggage I have is. We all like to have some semblance of control; I’m no exception. But vulnerability requires the exact opposite of control. I don’t like that. (I’ve tried talking to the higher-ups about this, but they keep telling me to wait it out.)

Right now, I’m on the “plane ride” of a new relationship, which is probably one of the epitomes of vulnerable. It’s exciting and lovely and fun, but it’s also vulnerable. Which has been a challenge for me. I’ve never been in a relationship before — and I’ve never admitted that to such a large audience before — so bringing my baggage along feels more than a little scary. All my insecurities and fears and lack of confidence and lack of experience are packed in there, waiting to be unfolded and examined, wrinkles and all.

But then I realize that the guy next to me on the plane hasn’t been scared away by what I’ve brought, and hasn’t taken advantage of my vulnerability. He’s excited to see what new and interesting things I’ve brought along for our ride. He’s brought a bag, too, waiting to be unpacked, trusting that I’ll be as kind about what he’s brought as he is to me. So while I don’t know our final destination, I know I won’t leave anything behind on the plane.

For those who don’t know, I have recently moved from Houston, Texas to Columbia, Missouri in order to be closer to my girlfriend. It has been nothing but pleasant thus far, and I see no signs of that changing any time soon. First, my girlfriend still likes me, even though we hang out for several hours a day. The fact that I haven’t scared her off yet bodes well. Also, the city has a wonderful set of trails, for both running and biking. Many days I haven’t needed to use my car, which is doing great things for my wallet. On top of all of that, the weather has been incredible. Sure, there were some hot, humid days in July and August, but it was nothing like what I would have been experiencing down in Houston. And right now, the weather is perfect. It seems like it has been 70 degrees, sunny, no wind, and not a cloud in the sky for two weeks straight.

While I love riding my bike to work, sometimes I must transport items, such as games, books, and snacks, which makes driving my car necessary. Last Wednesday happened to be one of those days, but even though I was being forced to use motorized transportation, it was the perfect opportunity to drive with my windows down. I turn some music on, feel the wind in my face and hope that nothing important flies out the window. It is incredibly freeing. I almost wish the eight-minute drive was 20 minutes.

I also wish there weren’t any stoplights. The airflow stops, I start getting too hot and the music is suddenly a little too loud. Plus, I feel like it can be kind of awkward sitting next to someone in a different car. It is probably exacerbated by the fact that there is really no personal interaction possible, as opposed to a line at the grocery store. At least at the grocery store you can smile at the person next to you, or count how many items they have in their basket to judge them for being in the Express Lane. But no such exchange is possible at a stoplight. Everybody just sits there, staring straight ahead, not really even acknowledging that there are people in other cars no more than 10 feet away. What’s worse is when you have to pull up next to someone you just cut off, or the person who just honked at you for not realizing that the previous light had turned green. That can be extra uncomfortable, especially when the person keeps trying to get you to look at them, but you don’t want to so you keep staring forward. It always seems like it takes an eternity for the light to turn green in those moments.

But last Wednesday was not one of those moments, and I was fully enjoying myself as I drove back to work after lunch. I was already pretty happy, because I was able to eat lunch with my girlfriend, Merry, and that always brightens my day. I was listening to one of my new favorite bands, Little Big Town, as I pulled up to the third-to-last stoplight before I got back to my office (yes, I count them). I pulled all the way to the stop line in the far left lane and noticed an older pick-up truck in the lane to my immediate right. It was mostly white, with a band of light blue that wrapped around the entire body. The truck wasn’t pulled all the way up to the stop line (yes, I notice those things, too), and there was a tree in the bed of the truck.

I didn’t think much of what I had just seen; I was just wishing the next 30 seconds would pass quickly so I could enjoy the last little bit of my drive. But no sooner had I stopped, I noticed that the truck had pulled up right next to me, and the driver was hanging his left elbow out of his open window: the universal sign that he wants to talk. I was a little taken aback; what was I supposed to do? As we have already established, it can be quite awkward when somebody tries to get your attention at a stoplight, and it is usually something you don’t want to talk about anyway.

Apparently, this guy was oblivious to unwritten stoplight rules.

“Did you graduate from Texas Tech?” he said loud enough to be heard over my music.

I had to pause for a split-second to figure out how in the world this guy could know where I went to college. Then I remembered the big Texas Tech Alumni sticker on the back window of my car.

“Yes, I did!” I said as I turned my music down. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I used to teach there, back in the ‘80s,” he said. “That was my first job, and then I came here to the University of Missouri.”

I mentioned how different Columbia is from Lubbock, Texas (where Texas Tech is located). He agreed, but said that he liked both places pretty well. He talked about Gerald Meyers being the basketball coach back then and how he is the Athletic Director now.

About that time, the light turned green and we both went on our ways. As I drove the rest of the way to work, I pondered how different that stoplight had been from just about every other stoplight that I have ever stopped at. The conversation only lasted about 25 seconds, at most, but it left an impression on me that I will carry forever: that one random act of good-will has changed my perception of stoplights. I’m not saying that I look forward to them now, or that I expect someone to talk to me at each intersection. What I am saying is that a little kindness goes a long way. Talking to the person in front of you in the line at the grocery store, wishing someone a nice day, or even just giving a big smile could make another person’s day. It could turn the ordinary into something special; the boring into something memorable. Even something as mundane as a stoplight.

I don’t remember who said it to me first.

“Never say ‘thank you’ in a thank-you note.”

Maybe it was one of my grandmothers shortly after a birthday…

It certainly could have been my mom back when we didn’t live close to relatives.

I don’t remember who said it, but I’ve never forgotten the advice.

It doesn’t even seem like good advice when you first say it to yourself. What do you mean I can’t say “thank you” in a thank-you note!? That’s crazy!

But when you stop to think about what you would say, the wisdom of it suddenly becomes clear. If you can’t just say thank you, you actually have to think about the gift and how you are going to use it and why you appreciate it. You might have to tell a story about this one time, before you had this gift, and the ridiculous, sad, scary things that happened… all because you didn’t have it yet.

The best thank-you notes leave you satisfied and a little smug. They let you know that the recipient of your gift didn’t just receive the gift, he or she “gets” it, understands that you worked to create or purchase something just for him or her. The words stay with you clear into the next day. And a month later, when you find that envelope still on your dresser, you can open it and feel good all over again.

That’s one of the best things about a hand-written, non-electronic, delivered-in-the-mail thank-you note. You can keep it, carry it around with you, read it again on a bad day or maybe take a quick peek at it in a coffee shop.

I really appreciate a good thank you note. My oldest daughter Erika… she gets it. When she got married last summer, she wrote the best thank-you notes. I was worried that maybe she wouldn’t like the gifts we chose for her… I mean, they weren’t on her bridal registry or anything. They were just pieces that I thought would look great in her amazing dining room. And then I showed them to my mom… and my brother… and my other brother… and they each picked out a piece that coordinated with the three pieces I had already purchased. They got several silvery, modernistic serving pieces that should look terrific in her dining room. But I mean, really! What had I started? What if neither she nor her new husband liked them? It was going to take the entire backseat of her SUV to return all of that stuff!

The note didn’t come right away. There was the honeymoon and lots of gifts to open. And lots of thank yous to write. But when it arrived, it was perfect. And in her perfect thank-you note, she let me know that the serving pieces were perfect in her dining room and that she knew that I was behind the shower of silvery, modernistic serving pieces and that they would always make her think of me.

Perfect.

But that sets the bar pretty high. Even by my standards.

I have a note of my own that I need to write. One that I have been putting off. Not because I am unappreciative or ungrateful, but because this note has to be perfect.

Because the gift was perfect.

Dear C.J.,

I can’t even start this note without tearing up. Your note about me and your experiences in my classroom sent me flying back in time. I read it during yearbook class. I had to turn and face the wall so that my students wouldn’t see my tears. But they weren’t tears of sadness.

From your first story in Beginning Journalism, I have loved to read your words. You use them so carefully. Rewriting and rethinking until the words flow together in a silken sentence that creates a vivid image. You choose words that set the tone of the moment, that force the reader into the scene or the situation. If the reader, like me, lived that moment from a different angle, the words have a physical impact… they leave you breathless or wistful or teary… or all of the above.

But to read about myself… to see me through your eyes… was scary and wonderful. Your senior year was a tough time… for you, for the newspaper and for me. Talking to you in my office after you didn’t get the editorship that you thought you owned was one of the toughest “chats” of my career. I thought the world of you and was shocked when your first interview was so… nonchalant and unimpressive. I thought that perhaps you were sick. Surely you would do better if we just gave you another chance. So we interviewed you again… and again. And then I saw your face in the days that followed that announcement. Well, I guess that’s not true. I didn’t see your face. You wouldn’t even look at me. I remember our talk in my office clearly. I think it was almost as tough for me as it was for you. I have cringed over the years at the memory of it.

To read your entry last month lifted a burden that I have carried with me since that day in my office. I don’t know if you realize how important those words were to me.

I have been so blessed in my career to work with many talented students like you… several of whom, like you, write for This Ordinary Day and rank way up there among the students I remember most vividly. You, Becka, Sam and Jacky all taught me lessons about life, about journalism and about people that I carry with me today.

I am not sure that I really deserved all of the kind words, all of the kudos, that you expressed, but I was touched by them and I will keep them.

I printed your words out.

I keep them in my jewelry box next to the brooches and earrings I inherited from my grandmothers.

And every time I open the drawer, I know that I can open the envelope and read your words again… even though I already know most of it by heart. Every time I read it, it’ll be like stepping into a time machine. I’ll get to travel back and revisit you, the quiet young man with the shy smile who grew up a great deal in my classroom. I’ll get see not only that young man, but myself, through your eyes.

And you need to stop by sometime so I can give you a hug and tell you how amazing it was to watch you lead from the back of the room, to see you remain true to yourself during a rough senior year and how privileged I feel to have played even a small role in your life’s successes.

As ever,
Cough

P.S. There’s a new C.J. in my Beginning Journalism class. He wants to be a sports writer when he grows up. I think you need to be his mentor.

Susan (Cough) sent this note to C.J. the old fashioned way before it ran here.

I never really thought about the parting words I hollered down the hallway after my students each afternoon: “Wear your seatbelts.”

It seemed like a natural thing to say — and something I needed these kids to hear.

When I was 19, I applied for a job I was too young, too inexperienced and too uneducated to get. I wanted to be the yearbook adviser at a very small, independent school in Lawrence, Kan. The school had been producing a 64-page book with an all-volunteer staff, mostly seventh- and eighth-graders. The editors were juniors who had been editing the yearbook since their eighth-grade year.

I should never have applied. They should never have offered. I should never have accepted.

But I did. They did. And I did again.

Just a couple of weeks after my first nervous discussion with the headmaster — during which he told me I was not to talk about family, relationships, sex, drugs, college or, well, anything but journalism while at school — I was in the classroom… my classroom.

The yearbook editors — Erin and Laura —were thirsty for yearbook theory. These girls had produced three yearbooks with very little help from other students and very little instruction. They needed to learn how to design, how to write traditional yearbook copy and how to develop a smart, sophisticated theme. And, as I very quickly found out, they needed someone to care.

That first yearbook is my favorite book; it’s beautiful, it’s well edited, it’s smart and, most importantly, it’s Erin and Laura in book form. The girls — with help from the school’s newspaper editor and one head photographer — designed, photographed and edited the entire book. They managed 35 seventh- and eighth-graders who rotated out each season.

And, between seasons, between deadlines and between lessons, they talked. Laura told me about conflicts at home; Erin struggled with her identity aloud. And I tried to stay quiet when they asked me about my friends, family and life outside of the school.

We shared Chinese food (giggling over fortune cookie phrases with the words “in journalism” tacked on the ends) once or twice each deadline. And, slowly, I stopped worrying about the rules explained by the headmaster before I took the job. And not so slowly I began to love each student; not so slowly they became my kids.

Two years later, the newspaper adviser and journalism instructor left so she could take care of her family. Nearly overnight I became Miss Cremer, newspaper and yearbook adviser and journalism instructor. I stepped into my classroom in August of 2008 to teach a graded class for the first time; I still didn’t have an undergraduate degree.

Each day, as my seventh-period class left the room, at least one — usually more — student would thank me. I don’t know that I would have admitted it then, but I lived for those words: “Thank you, Miss Cremer.”

During the day I was Becka — just Becka — but as they left, I was, for a brief moment, Miss Cremer.

Sometime during that year, I developed my own send-off phrase: “Wear your seatbelt.”

But I never really thought about it until Aubrey — a 4-foot-tall seventh-grader with a face worthy of Who-ville — put her hands on her tiny hips and asked, her voice all serious, “Miss Cremer? Miss Cremer, why do you tell us to wear our seatbelts?”

I’m sure I looked stunned, and I think I stuttered, but eventually, I had the right answer: “Because I love you, but I don’t want to yell that down the hall.”

“OK.”

Aubrey left my classroom that day skipping. She had a huge smile on her face, but I’m sure it couldn’t compare to mine.

I stopped teaching at the end of that year, but it’s still my community, my home in Lawrence. Last week I took Trego to visit my predecessor who is now my successor as well (she now teaches English and journalism and acts as Dean of Students). We spent nearly three hours in my old classroom chatting about yearbook, life and our former students.

While I was there, I saw Aubrey. Now, she’s a tiny eighth-grader who looks like she’d be at home in Who-ville. She threw her skinny arms around me, hugged tight, then dropped to the ground to cuddle Trego. After a few minutes she had to leave — she was off to Taekwondo or cross country or play practice — but as she skipped down the hall, I hollered after her: “Wear your seatbelt.”

She turned, flipping her hair over her shoulder, and beamed her beautiful smile back at me, “You too, Miss Cremer.”

She turned her back to me and all but ran toward the door, screaming, “I looooovvveeeeee you!”

And I love her too. I love all 107 of those kids — my kids.

And I do hope they wear their seatbelts.