"Can you please stop sending me photos of doors? You're in Europe, for Pete's sake," my wife texted.
She shrouded the command in a question, I thought. That means she wants more photos of doors but with an explanation.
"And don't even think of adding context to those photos. Take a photo of something exciting. No more doors. And just so you know, I don't care how old they are."
That text was more definitive. My thumbs flexed and I started to type a response. She must have seen the bubbles appearing in a text box.
"I'm serious."
Several years ago I had the opportunity to chaperone a group of high school kids to France and Italy. I'd never been to Europe, and the ancientness of the place seeped everywhere. Diagonal streets constructed in medieval times, centuries-old castles situated on Italian hills, and simple architectural pieces that survived wars, pestilence, and human wear sparked a longing to imagine who had been there.
To gain access to those spots, one had to pass through a door. Nothing impressive about that thought. But the fact that kings and paupers had passed through them, that civilians had sheltered within their arches, that swords had clanged their sides, and hands now gone for centuries had pushed them open sparked thoughts that were just too much to let go.
I was thinking about that the other day when reading all the tributes to Paul Greenberg. So many of this paper's editors and columnists weighed in on their experiences with this solitary life, this one man who through his nature and wisdom taught them much about writing.
I did not know Paul, though we corresponded a few times, and it's those few passages that made me wonder about doors.
I can still see the door of my old house growing up with its wood frame and translucent glass. It was difficult to fully make out who was standing outside when the doorbell rang, but over time it was possible to recognize body shapes and mannerisms through that clouded window. Once, a police officer brought my brother home in the middle of the night, and I remember seeing the distinctive outline of his glistening badge and obvious police cap. No mistaking that.
I think of the door to Maxine's bar in Fayetteville. That unimaginative, hulking, dented steel door provided comfort, a barrier between a transformative college experience and the desperation of adult life waiting outside.
My wife and I were in Memphis a few weeks ago and passed by the National Civil Rights Museum. The second-floor balcony of the Lorraine Motel with its specific robin-egg-blue door spoke chapters about the South's history. Dr. King had walked through it and was struck down in that spot.
Back in Europe, the Cathedral of Notre Dame, the Palace of Versailles, the medieval town of Assisi where St. Francis tended the poor all loom large in their passages. Massive oak doors, gilded metal doors, and simple, crudely hewn stone doors opened up to so much history, so much majesty on the temporal and spiritual levels.
I walked through Versailles and couldn't help but think of Louis XIV's regally clad elbow brushing a door frame. Passing through the rough doors of Assisi, I couldn't help but think of Francis scrubbing them himself.
Most of the time, we know exactly what lies on the other side of the doors we open. Sometimes, we have no idea. That's when these passages are at their best, the times when chance may deposit a new experience in our laps and give us an interaction with randomness and allow a brief relationship with someone new.
Paul Greenberg opened a lot of doors for journalists, it seems. Editorialists and columnists described him as a gentleman who left his mark of decency on each of them.
A few times over the years, I'd open a large Arkansas Democrat-Gazette envelope mailed to my home to find an essay or column I wrote cut out from the newspaper and taped to construction paper with a handwritten note penned by Paul. I'd whisper, "This is the guy who buys ink by the barrel and he's clipping items and pasting them? Couldn't he just send a full newspaper with his comments in the margins?"
But I realized that this was his compliment. He took care to do something personal that could indeed be done in a much easier way. Instead, he added his labor to his words. I've kept each one over the years.
As I grow older, I'm more cognizant of simple gestures. I'm more aware that the simple doors in life bring us glimpses of personalities if only we have the wisdom to notice. Sometimes we enter, sometimes we exit.
Either way, recognizing those passageways makes all the difference.
Steve Straessle, whose column appears every other Saturday, is the principal of Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys. You can reach him at sstraessle@lrchs.org. Find him on Twitter @steve_straessle.