Message in a bottle most of us would like to receive

CEDARVILLE — A few of the tables at Beans and Cream, the coffee shop in an old bank building at the intersection of Ohio 72 and U.S. 42, have glass tops.

Most days, they provide views of older artifacts and antiques in the space beneath: samples of metal type once used in publishing, other doodads of the past and vintage printed materials.

But earlier this month, when I had overstayed my welcome while finishing a column and was packing up to leave, I saw something else through the glass: a clean white paper napkin with a message on it. The lettering was small and clear, written in what once was called a neat hand. The lightness of touch required for writing on a napkin without tearing it made the letters faint.

So, I slid back the glass, pulled out the napkin, pushed the glass back in place and set the note on the glass.

What I found was an extraordinary message of 124 words

— a message in a bottle most any of us would like to see floating our way at an important moment in our lives, but so few of us could write — certainly not me.

To the writer of this unsigned note, should he or she ever read this column, I want to say this. You might be justified saying I’m guilty of invading your privacy in writing about this. But I could not help myself.

Because your note speaks to a private moment most of us experience in our lifetimes. And your message is an example of how to meet its challenges with grace and clear-headedness.

In a life in which I’ve often wanted to be able to pull out an operator’s manual in time of need, your note is one I would hope to find in such a book.

From the moment you put pencil to napkin, you seem to have been as solidly composed as the note itself. That struck me most, because when I first was in the same situation, I wasn’t able to compose myself, let alone a message of any kind that would have made any sense.

For me it happened on Columbia Street in the Springfield of November 1973. It was one of those gray November days with the winter cold coming on, and the heater in my friend’s Volkswagen Beetle had yet to kick on.

The inside of the car was like the metal cave that was amplifying the road noise: Tires against pavement, the slightest of bumps, the thuddiest of thuds and the low growling of truck engines that seemed to penetrate the metal of the Beetle from the next lane.

What couldn’t be heard but only felt was the way the Beetle’s hard metal shell amplified what was going through my skull, where I was feeling disoriented and in need of a seatbelt, shoulder harness and air

bags, the last of which were not yet available.

Joni Mitchell’s song, released the following year, described my state. Its opening words — which are also the song’s title and plea — are: “Help me.” That first line continues explain why she so desperately needs it: “I think I’m falling, in love with you.”

Which is why the composed nature of your note on the napkin so struck me.

You open gracefully with what feels like a gentle tap on the sleeve.

Hey, can I talk to you a little while?

Because the words

“this late in the semester” appear downstream in the note, it’s clear this is in a collegiate setting. So, the reason for a talk might be about anything: An assignment, a discussion in a small group session, the continuation of a conversation.

In a way, I guess, the last description is the closest, because you begin with something you’ve talked about before with the anonymous person you’re addressing.

I know you value honesty, and I want to be honest right now with you and tell you that I like you.

Had I been driving the Volkswagen in Springfield back in 1973, I would have made it maybe to the word “value” before I coughed up something like a hairball. I then would have driven the car off the side of the road, and that would have been the end of that and me.

And maybe that’s why you wrote it instead.

Before I forget, your choice of “like” over “love” was spot on.

Your thoughtfulness has both practical and emotional dimensions — and recognizes the risks involved.

As your next line recognizes, it’s a risk for both of you.

I realize that if you don’t feel the same way, this may change our friendship. But I really mean it when I say that I really value the friendship I have with you.

Even in the speaking of it, you’re looking over the edge of the cliff. But the line creates a kind of safety rope that offers at least the chance of a slower, gentler landing than one offered by a fall.

Then you clearly state what you hope might survive.

I don’t want that (friendship) to change because of what I just told you.

You then soften the blow your reader might feel.

I’m sorry to lay this on you right before the end of the semester, but it felt like the right time.

That made me think about how choosing a time is something we have to do on our own. Waiting too long has its dangers as well. So does speaking too soon. But a person’s got to say what a person’s got to say. And at this moment, you say it.

How do you feel about me?

Then, with all the courage directness requires, you return to what you’ve established as the shared value you established as common ground to ask for what is your right: an answer.

Don’t worry about your answer hurting me. I want you to be just as honest as me.

I’ve watched several episodes of Great Performances over the years.

And yours is one of them.

However things turn out, congratulations.

As you likely know,

I put the napkin back under the glass.