tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22347231835377499482024-02-07T21:48:58.662-05:00Happy in the ChaseMusings on life, running, kids, family, friends, work...and trying to keep pace...Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-23077546475115174832013-11-10T09:55:00.002-05:002013-11-10T09:56:05.308-05:00Random Acts of Kindness<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In 2004, I was driving my daughter to the doctor for what we
suspected was strep throat. A block
from the doctor’s office, the car lurched and died. I re-started it and it was a mess. It limped its way the final block into the
parking lot. Fortunately, there was a
mechanic close by and I got the car there, but barely. The mechanic went out to look at it and said
“You’ve got transmission fluid all over the place. I think you dropped the tranny.” Great.
I knew that was pretty much a death sentence for a minivan that had seen
over 100,000 miles. The car was to be
towed to the local dealer where I’d be purchasing the new minivan: with 3 small
children at the time and living in the suburbs a minivan is pretty much a
residency requirement. That and a sturdy
pair of mom jeans and I was good to go.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The one thing I neglected to do was take my EZ-PASS
transponder out of the car. When I went
to retrieve it a few days later, it was gone.
When I inquired at dealership if they had retrieved it , they said they
didn’t have it. It was then I realized
I’d been victimized by a moronic thief of such low ambition that he/she thought
ripping me off a quarter at a time was the heist of the century. Even funnier was that all I had to do was
call EZ-PASS and report the transponder stolen. It was a pain for me: I had to file a police
report in order to not be charged for a new transponder. I figured this person was the same type that
steals someone’s lunch out of the fridge at work, and it’s sad to know there is
a bumper crop of these folks roaming the planet. And that many of them will end up serving in
Congress. Sigh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Many years back, I worked for a bank. And I’d often come in the office in the
morning bemoaning the state of humanity.
Then some event would happen that would shift the balance – for example,
I’d pick up my dry cleaning and there would be a little ‘you forgot this’
baggie with it and the cleaner would have put the $5 I’d forgotten was in my
pocket. I’d skip into the office light
of heart the next day, my faith in humanity restored. My friend BJ – who is a world-class
curmudgeon – would roll his eyes at me and remind me of the previous instances
where people behaved like they were raised by wolves, but it wouldn’t matter:
this small instance of kindness would tow me along in my happy little rowboat
adrift in a sea of really bad manners. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As I’ve gotten older, I've come to be sadly resigned that
there are always going to be people whose raison d’etre is to be a deer tick on
their fellow man. We’ve all seen the
remnants of ‘mailbox baseball’ (do those slack-jawed navel-gazing kids know
each it costs about $100 to replace one of those suckers?), been tailgated by
some driver bordering on road rage, and read news of a widow being mugged at
the grave of her deceased husband.
Humanity can often need a collective ‘Time Out’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The little acts of kindness are gentle miracles in the
middle of the chaos, and I was lucky recently to be the recipient of not one
act, but three, all in the space of 24 hours.
I was driving many hundreds of miles for work, and in a single day,
drove from Richmond to Raleigh, and then from Raleigh to Washington DC. I was meeting a friend for dinner that
evening and the restaurant was located on a street and the spaces were designed
that you had to BACK INTO THEM. I’m
parking-challenged on a good day, but on an evening where I’ve logged over 300
miles by car, am on a busy street, and will be required to bring all traffic to
a stop and back into the space quickly I’m pretty sure my blood pressure went
to DEFCON 1. I somehow managed to pull
it off without anyone honking their horn at me to speed it up or flip me the
bird. That alone deemed the parking job
an overwhelming success. The next step
was paying for the meter. This street had
a central machine where you could pay with a card or by coin. Since I had no change, I opted for the
card. But the machine was jammed and
wouldn’t accept my card. There was a
couple who’d just finished parking a large pick-up truck (I marveled at his
effortless parking skill) and they asked if I needed help. I explained my predicament and they said “Oh
we’ll help you out!” The young man
retrieved a dark purple cloth bag from his truck and pulled out a handful of
quarters. As he was pumping them into
the machine for my parking fare, he said “I have a part time job in the summer
and they pay me in quarters…” I thanked
him for his generosity and replied “I have a full-time job and they pay me in
quarters too.” We went our separate ways
– they excited and happy to attend the Thursday Night football game, me to have
a nice meal with a friend. I phoned my friend Ros
who lives near the restaurant and told her I was nearly there and I’d wait for
her at the bar. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I entered the restaurant and the long par was full of
patrons eating. I’d hoped to order a
glass of wine but didn’t want to wedge in between dining patrons at the
bar. So I went to the end of the bar
where a waitress stood and asked a waitress if I could order a drink from her,
because I didn’t want to disrupt those enjoying their dinner at the bar. A very large man with a genuine smile pushed
back from the bar and said, “Come on in here, you’re fine.” He was seating next to a woman who also
assured me that I was fine, to join them for a couple of minutes. I thanked them and told them about all the
driving I’d done and traffic back-ups on the 95, my stress at having to park
and the issues with the parking meter.
“All I want is a nice glass of wine…” I said, and the man said “Your
first one is on me.” In the span of 15
minutes, I’d had not one, but two acts of kindness. I’d hit the ‘Random Acts’ lottery: I was on a
roll. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The next morning I drove to
Baltimore for work. Again, parking was
to do me in. I’d recently switched
briefcases: in my old one lay a partially used roll of quarters that I’d carry
for parking meters. I’d neglected to put
it in my bag and I found myself at an old-style meter with no quarters. I parked and went into my prospects office
and with a dollar bill in my hand asked if someone could make change for the
meter. The receptionist smiled brightly,
reached into a drawer and pulled out some coins. She refused to take my money in exchange.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There is this saying “Bad things come in threes.” As I made the long drive home that night I
marveled that sometimes really decent people can turn clichés on their end with
a small kindness. That week, I hit the
trifecta, and my faith in humanity was again restored. At least until Mailbox Baseball season
resumes.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-82892001961731261592013-08-12T17:46:00.002-04:002013-08-12T17:46:32.201-04:00What's in a Name?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scene: A richly
paneled conference room with polished floors, Oriental carpets, and elegant
mahogany furniture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A table in the
middle is occupied by two gentlemen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A third,
younger one enters, obviously late.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mr. Smyth: “So sorry for my tardiness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Any news?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mr. Baker: “Smyth, the only thing we should be waiting on is
the royal baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Smyth
sits down shamefully and reviews the paper in front of him.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mr. Baker: “Can we proceed please?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve called this meeting to discuss the
naming of the soon-to-be born Prince or Princess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve taken the liberty of compiling a list
of Generally Accepted Royal Names that we can suggest to The Prince and Duchess
for their child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d like us to review
these and provide a list of suggestions for them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the least we can do: they have been so
busy dodging the paparazzi and it seems far more practical than throwing a baby
shower.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Geeves: “Oh a baby shower would have been fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I make a mean diaper cake…” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Smyth stops short </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">after Baker shoots him
withering glance.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker: “Let’s proceed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Should we start with the boys names first, Mr. Geeves?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Geeves:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes,
yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where are my readers… ok…here we
go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Albert</b>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do we think of Albert?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smyth: “HEY HEY HEY!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s faaaaaaat Albert!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved
that show, watched re-runs on the telly when I was a lad.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker: “Mr. Smyth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You will cease the cartoon tomfoolery at once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is serious business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Geeves, I believe we should strike that name
from the list.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can just imagine the Fleet
Street headlines if ever a Prince Albert were to make a habit of super-sizing
his afternoon tea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next name please.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Geeves: “Quite right, quite right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Edmund.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>How about Edmund?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker: “Sounds too much like the Prince’s Uncle Edward.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smyth:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I do like it,
it’s my first name, but I must agree. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want
to be calling the Palace feeling like a fool by asking for myself on the line…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker: “Smyth, you are not being helpful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Geeves: Strike Edmund.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Geeves: “You want me to hit Smyth, Baker?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker: “I meant cross out the name <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Edmund.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If Smyth needs to be
struck I’ll do it myself, thank you very much.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Geeves: “The next name is Henry…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smyth (interrupting): “That retread?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every other royal was named Henry back in the
day. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
burned that name out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And with all his divorces…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Geeves (interrupting Smyth): “Yes, yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the last 20 years, the last thing we
need is even a WHIFF of marital scandal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Fleet Street would be frothing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker (irritated): “Retread...?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smyth (interrupting): “This is a new generation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Young…fresh…current.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The royals need a name that will resonate
with the public.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker (more irritated): “RESONATE WITH THE PUBLIC?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What resonates with the public is
tradition!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Monarchy is the glue that
holds the British Isles together!...”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Geeves (interrupting): “Well it’s not on the list but <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Elmer</b> would go nicely with the glue
leitmotif”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker (apoplectic): “Geeves!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Did you have a bit of brandy with your lunch? Get a hold of yourself
man!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smyth (laughing): “You were the one who compared the Royal
family to cheap epoxy.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker (glaring at Smyth): “If you are so well-versed on the blending
of royal tradition with the popular acceptance, what name would you suggest?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smyth: “Cnut.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker: “Did you say NEWT?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Is this a Monty Python joke?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
want to name the future Monarch after an aquatic amphibian?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or a – lord help us – AMERICAN POLITICIAN?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smyth: “NO, not NEWT, CNUT.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s pronounced Kuh-NEWT.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The C
is not silent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker: “CNUT?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
hasn’t been a Monarch named Cnut since…since…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Geeves (interrupting): “Since 1035 sir.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cnut, Son of Sweyn Forkbeard and Gunhilda of
Poland”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker: “Thank you Geeves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Smyth… CNUT?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can’t be
serious…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smyth: “It tested very well with the focus groups sir.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker: “YOU HAD A FOCUS GROUP ON THE NAME FOR THE OFFSPRING
OF THE ROYAL FAMILY?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smyth: “Yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the
feedback was fascinating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They liked the
rugged, Viking-like quality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would
help overhaul the Windsor brand. They don’t test out as being… being..</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker: “What?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smyth: “Tough”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker: “Tough?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
Princes serve in the MILITARY!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They fly
helicopters!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smyth: “Yes, they Princes serve in the military but it seems
the only time the public sees them are when they are on some ski holiday in
Gstaad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or sans vestmants during a round
of strip poker in Vega-“</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker: “STOP. RIGHT. THERE.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They are young men sowing their oats.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Geeves: “Well, I’d rather see those stories than the ones
forever questioning what the Queen carries in her handbag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyone with a brain knows it’s most
definitely a handkerchief and breath mints…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smyth: “See: handbags.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Handbags and breath mints do not telegraph strength.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>Cnut </i>on the other hand <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>had a rugged Viking-quality to it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The focus group found it mythic, strong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reminded them of dragons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker: “Dragons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
not following.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are you suggesting they
are thinking along the lines of the Legend of St. George and the Dragon?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smyth: “No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More like
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Game of Thrones.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker (incensed): “Are you suggesting we take cues from a
MINI-SERIES???”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Geeves: “It’s actually a regular series.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Season 4 starts soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s pretty good, but I myself am partial to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Downton Abbey”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker (sarcastically): “Of course you are.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smyth: “We could run a whole campaign around it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The scope of the merchandising could be astounding!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>T-shirts, coffee mugs, lunch boxes…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker (sarcastically): “The Royal Prince Cnut on a cheap
plastic lunch pail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh the majesty…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Geeves: “I have to agree with Baker on that one, Smyth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The plastic lunch pail is a bit
déclassé.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The coffee mugs in ceramic
could be nice though…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker: “Gentleman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Please… We are not getting very far here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can we please stop with this nonsense?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cnut it ridiculous.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smyth: “It is Cnot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Get it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cnut… Cnot…. “ (laughs)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Geeves: “Good one, lad!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Two servants enter
carrying afternoon tea.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Baker: “This is irrational.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We have list in front of us that represents over a thousand years of
royal splendor and dignity: Richards, and Edwards, Georges, and Henrys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And you give me CNUT.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I daresay I’m afraid to ask what the focus
group came up with for Girls names…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smyth: “The were particular to J-Lo”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Geeves: “I daresay, Baker just fainted.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smyth: “The man is wholly lacking a sense of humor”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Geeves: “I believe you are right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tea?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smyth: “Please.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
can pour out.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<![endif]--><br />Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-91749319369369992742013-06-01T00:42:00.000-04:002015-04-15T10:46:48.806-04:00Before 2:50 pm 4/15/2013 After<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">2:50 pm:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Was that a cannon…?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What was
th-…..oh my God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This isn’t good…OH MY
GOD.</i></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>The Race</u></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’m not
superstitious, except when it comes to racing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I always think if I get hopeful, something will happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the month before the Boston Marathon,
every ache and pain would set off a flurry of worrying about potential muscle
pulls and stress fractures. Then there is the issue of weather: I’ve never been
one to have luck with weather in marathons: too hot, frigidly cold,
nor’easter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve had 2 races cancelled
for weather: one for a winter storm in Myrtle Beach, and the other for a
hurricane. I used to joke I could make a tidy fortune having race directors pay
me to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>enter. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For 10 days leading up to the Boston Marathon,
I refused to believe the weather predictions of nearly perfect racing
conditions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kept thinking Mother
Nature was thumbing her nose at me, dangling this perfection in front of me and
would pour on the heat on race day just to dash my fragile hopes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was wrong: the morning could be described
in the single word, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Perfection</b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sunny and high 40’s at the start of the race, the temps wouldn’t be much
higher at the finish on Boylston Street at Copley Square.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">9:15 am - I’m making my way to my corral at the start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m with my long-run training partner,
Laura.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a faster qualifying time,
she’s two corrals in front of mine, so we wish each other good luck and I tell
her to text me how she did when she gets her phone after the race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With over 23,000 runners, I doubt I’ll see
her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The road to the start is jammed and
I have fear I might not get there in time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But with 5 minutes to go I’m at the start… and next thing I know I’m
walking with the rest of the start and we’re off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">9:30 am - The early miles are easy and social – but I remember being
irritated at the number of ‘Bandits’ I pass in the early miles (the roads are
clogged enough without additional unofficial entrants).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to remind myself to stow my crankiness
– this is too much of a fun, perfect day to let petty irritations get in the
way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere in the early miles a guy
says <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Keep running, you’re almost there!</b>
Wiseacre.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later I see a huge sign
someone has put in their yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
laughing and then see a blind runner with her guide – they are holding
hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is giving her a description of
the course, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">People are laughing because
there is a big sign with an arrow that says SHORTCUT… ok in about a minute
we’ll get to a short hill…</b> What is it like to hold both hands and
conversation over 26.2 miles?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">11:50 am - We are in the town of Natick and a woman yells with a chowder-thick
accent<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Yaw gonna finish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gawd Dammit
yaw gonna make it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>By mile 8, I can
feel the beginnings of tightness in my thighs; this isn’t good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just after mile 12, the women at Wellesley
don’t disappoint with their traditional “Scream Tunnel” – you can’t help but go
faster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the half marathon point, I
look at my watch and see I’m on pace for a really good race. But the tightness
in my thighs has progressed to a dull ache.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I know this is going to hurt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Somewhere at this point I see a man dressed as Elvis, strumming a guitar
and singing a song.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just before lower
Newton Falls, there is a long, hard downhill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This is the thing about going downhill that most people don’t recognize:
it is work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Think of skiing – you don’t
just plunge down the side of a mountain as a passenger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a combination of efficiency and
control, and it all comes from your thighs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My thighs are right on the edge of hurt at mile 15.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve been fending off the fear but it comes
roaring in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a decision to make:
do I succumb and slow down or accept it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That morning I received many notes of encouragement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember one in particular <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Make pain your bitch.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I simply accept that this race will hurt but
running a great race will make that hurt worthwhile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The marathon can seem like a weird sport,
I’ll give you that much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For many, it’s
about taking oneself to the breaking point and then not stopping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s about talking oneself into just one more
mile, then one more block, then ten more steps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For me, I simply decide I’m going to hold the pace for as long as I can,
even on the hills; I’m not getting any younger. I employ a racing visual: I
imagine a big black steamer trunk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Make Pain Your Bitch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>I embrace this thought, and I challenge
the pain, I want to see how much I can take.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But the bigger idea is to lock away the fear, to accept that it will
hurt, probably a lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So mentally I
break out another steamer trunk, and fear gets tossed in like a limp rag doll and
locked away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">1:03 PM - I
hit the first of the famed Newton Hills just after Lower Newton Falls and look
at the friendship bracelet my son Jean-Marc made for me for the race in
2007.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve worn it for good luck, and
remember looking at it and do it again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I cross the 95 overpass and the crowds thicken – many deep along the
sidewalk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The spectators are
raucous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s such a beautiful day and
they are as much a participant in this event as the runners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At mile 17.4 is the turn onto Commonwealth
Avenue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The evening before the race I’ve
phoned my father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d run this race
roughly a dozen times in the 70’s and 80’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I told him my wish for my race was to get to this turn feeling good and
go mano-a-mano with the hills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a
ridiculous statement – I’m just not a tough person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it’s my own rather small, humble
gauntlet, to face a hill and not slow down. This portion of Commonwealth Avenue
is like Richmond’s Monument Avenue in the Fan district: a double lane road with
a large grassy median.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the median and
on the opposing sidewalk is a veritable street party of folks cheering on the
runners while adding to the general festivities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d run this race for the first time in 2007
– the weather was not good – and I thought then the crowds were thick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Under the beautifully cool sunny blue skies,
the crowds are immense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve run this
race before, but in this perfect day, my expectations borne of memory are
trampled by the sheer volume of joyous humanity.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">This race
morning, as I’ve sat down to eat an oversized bowl of oatmeal, I've read a
story in the previous day’s Boston Globe about two ‘Mobility Impaired”
runners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both are dwarves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The woman looks to be very small but evenly
proportioned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man has a large torso
but very, very short, bowed legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I read
of their qualifying time of 6 hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
look at their photos and their very small stature and wonder how many steps
they have to take to every one of mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Just after the first hill I see – to my right – the man profiled in the
piece.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is tiny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he is walking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think for a brief moment what it takes to
endeavor to complete this course with that kind of handicap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then it occurs to me that the winner of
this race will have broken the tape in the same time it takes me to complete 14
or 15 miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Handicap is in the eye of
the beholder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or those a hell of a lot
faster.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Jen is a
friend and former colleague who is also a monstrously talented runner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d be in the 1% if there were ever an
“Occupy Fast Runners” protest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These days
she is far less about winning and more about pacing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the winter, we’d run a 15 mile training
run in Boston where the starting temperature was in the teens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d offered to pace me through this
marathon, but an injury a scant month later derailed her plans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She runs with the Somerville Road Runners and
had let me know <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">We have a tent and
unofficial hydration station at the 30K (18.6 mile) mark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Look for the black and yellow </b>balloons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell myself to get to 30k, that’s my next
goal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With every step, my thighs voice a
deep complaint of ache and hurt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
remind myself to use my arms because <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">For
every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>Or something like that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I use my arms, my legs will follow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look in the median for the balloons and
just after the 30K marker, I spot them and seconds later see Jen standing
expectantly in the road, scanning the runners for someone she knows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved
shirt, and white-rimmed sport sunglasses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I yell <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Jen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>JEN!</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She sees me and jumps up and starts running with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her running can be best described as graceful
– her footfall so quiet it’s easy to wonder if her feet ever touch the
ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is joyous and voicing her
support and in mid-stride pulls a baggie from her jeans pocket, extracts a wet
washcloth, and hands it to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never
knew such bliss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is wonderful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She says <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">You
look great!</b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>And I reply <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">My legs are on fire but I feel great!</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She runs with me for about a tenth of a mile
then apologizes <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I’d love to keep running
with you but I have to get back to my team…</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">1:25 pm…I’m past mile 19 and my legs are painfully sore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m coming up on a bunch of raucous guys –
college age? – and I point to my Richmond Road Runners shirt like <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Gimme some love guys</b> and all 6 of them
yell <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Yeah Richmond!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Get ‘em Richmond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Go Richmond!</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hear more laughing and look to my right and
see someone dressed as the Star Wars character C3PO running up the hill and
cheering people on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a Fellini
dream: I’ve seen blind runners, those missing limbs, a dwarf, a singing elvis,
and now a Star Wars character…this can’t be real I check my watch and see I’m
still holding pace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I start using my
arms to power my legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>pray for strength and as meditation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think of my mom, of my cousin Melissa, of
my Uncle Dick, and my dear friend Carlton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My prayer isn’t deep or profound: it consists of a single phrase <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Can you help me out and give me a push
please?</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">1:35 PM - I’m on another hill, and I realize I’ve lost count of
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Am I on the 3<sup>rd</sup> or the
4<sup>th</sup>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s so crowded and I’m
looking for a landmark – I’d driven this part of the course two days earlier –
looking for something that’ll tell me I’m on Heartbreak Hill, the last of the
hills. I pass a corner and look for a particular store and don’t see it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I’m on
the third.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh man, I still have another…</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel a moment of despair but push it aside <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">This is what you wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You wanted to leave it all out here, you
wanted to push the limits. Well, here it is.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right now, right here: This is the gut-check
moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do the math and it’s going to
hurt beyond any calculation and I’m hanging on by a daisy petal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see a spectator holding the funniest sign
of the day <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">If This Were Easy It Would Be
Called YOUR MOTHER.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>It takes me a
second then I laugh out loud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a
slight bend in the road and then I see it: the steeple at Boston College.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m on Heartbreak Hill and the brutal
inclines are almost done.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">1: 48 pm: The Wellesley Scream Tunnel is legendary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this day – hands DOWN - belongs to Boston
College.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just after Heartbreak Hill,
there is a short but steep downhill and after the course has had your legs for
and appetizer and lunch, it is painful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Both sides of the street are lined with people many deep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The screaming is both loud and agonizing: I’m
so tired and my legs hurt so much I can’t process the noise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I
love this but I have to get away from it or I’m going to throw up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>Later, my friend BJ would give me grief
that I ran by him and I didn’t even look his way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t remember hearing him or seeing him; I
just remember wanting to outrun the cacophony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I pass the 35K mark.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I start praying in earnest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
legs feel oddly disconnected from me but the pain is intense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just want to stay strong, to be tough, to
push the envelope and be bigger than the moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I start to say prayers of my youth… “Hail
Mary, full of grace…” They are a mantra, they settle my breathing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a lapsed Catholic, but they still have
meaning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look at my Garmin, and count
down the tenths left to the next mile marker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I pass a duo of “Inclusive Runners”, a guide pushing a participant in a
converted wheelchair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Up ahead, I see
someone whose gait is familiar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I run up
next to the woman and see it is indeed Christine, who lives not too far from
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is wearing her iPod and I say –
twice – before she hears me <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Chris…
CHRIS…?</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She turns and I am so happy
to see a familiar face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She says <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I didn’t think I could finish this race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>She will finish and finish well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shortly after I see her, a spectator who
wants to cross the course jumps the barrier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Instead of doing the smart thing – jumping in the race and tacking his
way across the street – he makes a mad dash straight across the street,
stumbles, and grabs on to an older male runner, nearly knocking him off his
feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The runner is incensed: this is
not a time in the race when you want to be knocked off your feet or spend
extraneous energy on an idiot spectator.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He makes a momentary move to follow the young man, but changes his mind
and keeps going forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can see in
his face he is suffering these last few miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I move next to him and say <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Are
you ok?</b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he grunts <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Yeah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m fine.</b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>He’s not, but relatively speaking he’ll
keep moving forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pass another duo
– “GUIDE” and “BLIND RUNNER” on their respective shirts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is remarkable is that they aren’t
tethered together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the race, I
will read an article on Runners World that this is Peter Sagal – a radio commentator
and runner – leading a nearly blind runner to the finish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">2:06 pm I pass mile marker 23.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Right here: this is the hardest mile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you get to the next one, you’ll have 2
miles, and after a block, 1-point-something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That’s nothing.</b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">This
is the hardest one, right here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>I
shake out my arms and they tingle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
pumping them to power my legs and my arms are not exactly powerful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the race I will have described the last
8 miles as having “muscled my way through the course”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a joke: my arms are like cobs of corn
without the corn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m carrying a lot of
tension in my arms and shoulders and remember very little of the
landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A slight uphill to Kenmore
square.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Citgo sign.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seeing the Prudential Center and knowing we
are very close. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s just a matter of
time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It hurts a lot, but I know we are close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is the marker <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">1 Mile To Go</i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>I
see the Mass Avenue underpass up ahead, and off to the right, something catches
my eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see peach tank top; I see my
long run training partner Laura walking at the side of the road.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">2:28 pm - I am so full of joy – I make my way to her and grab her arm <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">We are less than a mile from the finish!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are not walking now!! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Run with me to the finish!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>I’m surprised at her reaction: she looks
at me as if she’s seen a ghost and darts in front of me through the underpass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I catch up to her and she <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">says I’m so tired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This course was so hard… I can’t believe
you’re here…</b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>She would later tell me she was so tired
and decided to take a momentary walking break, and was wished I was there with
here like on her long runs. Seconds later, I’d grabber her arm; she told me she
thought she was hallucinating.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">2:30 pm - We make the right turn on to Hereford Street and a block
later, a left onto Boylston.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a
4-block canyon of buildings and people and noise and at the end is a big blue
and yellow finish line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pump my arms
as hard as I can – I have no clue where Laura is; I think she is off to my
right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just want to finish – the
sooner I get there, the sooner I can stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I cross the line and feel such joy at having soldiered through and the
bliss at being able to stop running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
legs hurt more than I could ever imagine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I turn around and see Laura finish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We embrace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">What a perfect finish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All those
long training runs together – how perfect is this?!</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone hands me bottled water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are arm-in-arm and a man in a volunteer
jacket is peering curiously at us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
are smiling and he says <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I’m sorry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just need to make sure you can both walk on
your own…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>And we demonstrate our
wobbly legs and he is sweet and apologetic and we thank him for his care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We get our foil capes, and finishers medals,
and pose for a picture. A block from the finish we say goodbye and make our way
to our checked bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And for that moment
– despite the clouds that are gathering and the chill breeze that is blowing in
- all is right in the world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u>The
Bombs</u></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">2:50 pm: There is a very large blast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My first thought is it is cannon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A woman next to me says “Is that fireworks…?”
and we see a huge plume of grey smoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Suddenly, there is another blast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I look at her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is instant
recognition that something bad has happened. After the initial shock I quietly
say to myself <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Please let it be a gas
explosion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please don’t let it be
terrorism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>Something inside me knows
it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Dammit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>DAMMIT.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></b>In my head I let loose a string of expletives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look up and again repeat my bib number for
the bag retrieval volunteer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to
get my bag and get the heck out of Dodge.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">2:57 pm: I’m still wrapped in my foil
finisher’s cape on as I grab my phone out of my bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m nearly out of the finishers chute and I
ask a policeman at the barricade if he knows what is going on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He says with urgency in his voice that he
doesn’t, and to keep moving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I call my
husband – his voice is cheery and he’s excited for my race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s chatting about my even splits and I cut
him off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell him about the explosions
and the first ambulance with its siren blaring goes by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Call
your parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Call the kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tell them I ‘m fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gotta call my dad.</b></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m
supposed to meet my friend BJ at the finish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I text him quickly, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Something is
going on – explosions at the finish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>I
call my dad and it’s the same conversation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He’s excited to discuss my race and I have to cut him off; I ask him to
check the internet for news but he is in his car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can barely hear him with the clamoring
sirens of the first responders rushing past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I’ll try and call later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m fine, I’m just really scared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>My voice cracks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I’m
gonna call Erin but if I don’t get a hold of her, tell Erin, Reen, and Nickey
I’m fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>I dial Erin and have a
third, identical conversation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to
cut her off mid-sentence; I can’t hear her and she can’t hear me amongst the
sirens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The call cuts out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I try dialing her but the call won’t go through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s gotten cloudy and breezy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve wandered onto a side street near the
finish and I’m cold and shivering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
legs are shot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grab track pants out of
my bag and with nowhere to sit, struggle to get them on over uncooperative and
weak muscles in aching legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put on a
long-sleeved shirt over my racing singlet, and as I’m zipping up my jacket see
a woman in a foil blanket walking down the street, the arm of – her husband? boyfriend?
– around her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is weeping and
frightened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realize whatever fear I
had is gone.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">3:30 pm…I pick up my bag and try and figure
out where I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If there is a ‘fight or
flight’ moment, I know I’m perfectly capable of neither: I’m too tired, and my
legs are too sore to run another step.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
take a left at the next street and see the edge of The Boston Common.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cross the street and see a young runner
with his parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ask them if they
know what has happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">We heard there was a bomb in the Copley
hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one was killed or hurt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>Someone else joins in the conversation <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">There were 2 bombs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they found a third they are diffusing.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ask if they know where the Arlington T-stop
is. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">They just closed the subway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Green Line is closed.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My phone keeps buzzing with text messages of
concern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stand there not knowing what
to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My rental car is parked miles
away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The subway is closed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, people aren’t in a state of panic: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are calmly walking and chatting,
seemingly unaware that anything is amiss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Boston residents, spectators, and foil-wrapped runners mix together and
walk slowly away from Boylston Street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
look at the Common:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trees are beginning
to bloom and the lawn is bright green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It feels unreal; I’m a sleepwalker in someone else’s dream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Common seems to be the only thing with
color right now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have this thought
that this isn’t real, that I’ll wake up and have to run the race again; my
aching thighs tell me otherwise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another
text message comes in, finally from BJ: <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Walk
to Cambridge now.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>BJ is one of those
unflappable guys and the urgency in his message is not like him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A second text from him shows up: <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Or run.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s an unlikely time to smile but I do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I stop two people who look like they know where they are going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ask the direction of the Longfellow Bridge
to Cambridge <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Go straight on this street
about 5 blocks – you can’t miss it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There is also a T-stop for the Red line right before.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My rental car is parked at a station on the
Red Line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell them about the subway
closings and thank them for their help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I start slowly walking down the street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My hands are freezing and I have to keep taking off my gloves to use the
touchscreen on my phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see a runner
being interviewed by a TV station about what she witnessed:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I
thought it was a cannon or fireworks.</b> </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">3:50 pm:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I stop at a Starbucks to grab something warm to drink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m starting to get cold and I hadn’t
anticipated being outside this long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
couple blocks later – I see the Red Line T-Stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the corner are two older women wearing yellow
Boston Marathon “Volunteer” jackets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
ask them if they know what has happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">It was bombs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Finish Line was chaos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Runners who had finished ran back down
Boylston to make sure their family was ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></b>They look at each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
other says <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I just want to get home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was awful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I just want to go home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>I ask
a Transit cop if the subway is running, and it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t even think about whether riding it is
a safe move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend Susan – with whom
I’ve entrusted my wallet – has texted to say that authorities have asked people
not come into the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decide to take
the train – my car is parked at the end of the red line – and drive to Newton
for my wallet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I text BJ about my change
in plan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I ask the transit cop
where to buy a ticket, she takes pity on me and lets me in without one. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I make my way slowly up the stairs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Text messages keep flooding my phone as I get
on the train. The battery is wearing out.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">4:00 pm:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This day is turning into the strangest of odysseys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At this point in the day I should have been
happily ensconced at the Cambridge Brew Pub working through a huge cheeseburger
and drinking a cold beer – which never tastes better than after running a
marathon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead I’m on a train full of
people, many of whom have been sent home by their employers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We pass three stops before a seat opens up
and I realize that this is the first time I’ve sat down since 9:45 that
morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I finally get to the Alewife Station where
my car is parked, get off the train, gingerly climb two flights of stairs and
enter the parking garage. I find my car, throw my bag in the back seat, and
punch in the address to my office in the Garmin app in my phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I drive to the garage exit and see a sign
that due to the Patriots Day Holiday parking must be paid for inside the
station at an automated kiosk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Figures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I find the first parking space and make the
slow, tedious journey back into the station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Descending steps is difficult on my aching, stiff legs. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After paying the parking, I make my way back
up the stairs and feel something inside my coat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realize my finisher’s medal is still around
my neck. I take it off, and as I look at it wave of fear, anger, and sadness
rocket from my belly and I choke back a sob.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I stuff the medal in my coat pocket and head back to my car.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">4:45 pm – The battery on my phone is down to
8%.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I doubt it will get me to the office
before dying, and I don’t know exactly how to get there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Within 2 miles, the screen goes blank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I become Ferdinand Magellan:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look at the sky for the position of the sun
and know the 95 is due west.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While it
will add several miles to the trip, if I can get to the 95, I can get to the
office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Looking at the position of the
sun, I drive west looking for familiar streets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Finally, I see a sign for the 95 and know I can relax.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">5:15 pm – I pull into the lot at work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realize I have no change for the meter walk
up to two older blue-collar kinds of guys talking in their thick, native
accents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ask these complete strangers
for a quarter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They give me an odd look
then quickly one of them digs into his pockets and hands me two quarters. Only
later will I realize that because of the holiday, I didn’t need to pay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was wearing a Boston Marathon windbreaker,
and I can’t imagine what my face must be telegraphing - probably a dazed
mixture of sweat, exhaustion, and quiet shock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He gave me a quarter for a meter that didn’t need to be fed without a
single word of protest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bostonians are
like that: sometimes they know when just help and to not ask questions.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">5:20 pm – I ring the bell to the office door
and the Office Manager lets me in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Renee
gives me a big, long hug <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I’m so happy
you are safe and out of harm’s way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
were so worried about you.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell
her I’m fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel uncomfortable with
this kind of attention because – despite being a block away – I never had a
sustained feeling of fear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I apologize
for not having changed or showered and she says she doesn’t mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I walk into the main office corridor and see Susan,
my friend Melissa, and my former boss Kristin. They repeat the sentiments Renee
has voiced minutes earlier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell them <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Really, I’m fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m just really pissed. </b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell them a little of the finish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m smiling when I talk about the race but
when I get to the part about the explosion, something catches in my
throat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">It was awful, </b>is all I manage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But after the initial moment of emotion, I feel empty and I think <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I should feel more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I should feel terror or fear or anger or
something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>I look at Susan – my best
friend at work - and I just shake my head <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">It’s
just crazy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just can’t believe it.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We walk to her desk so I can plug in my
phone, and as I go to sit in the chair, my thighs completely fail me and I fall
on the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looks at me and I
break out laughing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems like such
an odd thing to do – to laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She walks
with me into the office kitchen and I grab a ginger ale out of the fridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s now three hours since the race finished
and nearly 12 since I’ve had a meal. The wall-mounted TV is showing the news of
the bombings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We watch replays of blasts
going off and I see – right across the street from the blast – the man and the
inclusive racer I’ve passed around mile 22.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I recognize the shirt of the guide, and the wheel chair he is pushing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I watch the guide ducking his head and pushing
his charge as fast as he can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell
Susan <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I saw them!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I passed them!</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It should make it feel more real, but I’m standing
there drinking cold ginger ale watching the explosions and I feel nothing but
an odd sense of detachment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">6:30 pm - Melissa, Susan, and I leave to go
grab a beer at the restaurant on the ground floor of the building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t wait to taste that beer, to finally
inject some semblance of post-race normalcy into the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The three of us – the best of work buddies –
talk and chat and joke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I start to
talk about the race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They get quiet and
listen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel right now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m so sad and angry, but it doesn’t feel
real.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>A woman walks in - she is a
few years younger than me and with what I assume are her husband and parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is wearing the ‘secret handshake’ - a
Boston Marathon windbreaker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our eyes
meet; I say <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">You were there?</b> And she
says, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Yeah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">6:40 pm<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>- I leave the restaurant and make my way to another where I will be
meeting BJ and his wife for dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
one of my favorite seafood places and across the street from the Alewife
Station parking garage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With my phone
charged, I plug in the address and the trip takes 10 minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think of my blind wandering in the suburbs
of Boston hours earlier trying to get to the office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get to the office and my phone buzzes from
my sister.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see an email from my in-laws.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I call both of them before dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My Mother-in-Law is concerned, worried, and
mournful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is a strong woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My sister is in tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is a teacher in Columbus, Ohio, and she
tells me how her fellow teachers and administrators heard of the bombs, knew
she was tracking her sister, and how after school was over and she shepherded
her class on the bus, a colleague had gently taken her into a classroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the way, she passed her Principal whose
face had a look of serious concern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
was confused, wondering if she’d done something wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her colleague told her gently of the
bombings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Have you heard from your sister?</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Reenie is a gentle soul; she told me she panicked and said <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I’m always afraid of this – that someone I
love will be hurt…</b> She starts grabs her phone and turns it on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She says she broke into sobs of relief when
she saw a text from Erin saying I was fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Her voice is shaking as she tells me this and I reiterate over and over <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I’m fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Really, I’m fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are
people so much worse off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was blocks
away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just heard the blast and saw the
plume of smoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was crazy for a
second but…</b> But what?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is
something there I can’t articulate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I return to the table and have a low-key
dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>BJ insists we are going to
celebrate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">This is the deal: we aren’t going to sit here and mope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You had a great race and we’re going to talk
about that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We aren’t going to talk
about the other stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>BJ is genius
at segmenting life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He can throw up an
impenetrable wall around unsavory topics that us mere mortals lack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Behind him over the bar the TV is on and it
plays the finish line blast over and over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I avert my eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We toast my run
and I say <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">It’s just hard to find joy
here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is what I can’t square:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I say ‘I left it all out on the course’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were people out there who had legs
blown off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I left nothing out there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whoever did this hit the spectators, the
soft, unmoving targets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ones there
to cheer me and the others on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s all
relative, and I left NOTHING out there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>He
looks at me and says in his even way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">You’re right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now tell me about your race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know I was right where I was the last
time you ran and you didn’t even look at me…you didn’t even wave or anything</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d been there in 2007 – with my sisters
Reenie and Erin – just shy of the 35 KM mark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The place – this year – that both the Boston College students were
screaming louder and my legs hurt more than I thought humanly possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I immediately launch into a defense about how
I was feeling, the screaming… it wasn’t later until I saw how genius BJ really
is at the art of distraction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knows
me well enough to know it normally doesn’t take much, but at times like this it
is a mighty effort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He makes it look
easy.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">9:30 PM – BJ and Elizabeth offer their spare
room again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve had several similar
offers: from my dear friends Tammy and Dan Smith in Groton – a good drive from
Boston – the offer to come get me and bring me to their house, a respite from
the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From a childhood friend and
neighbor in Scituate – her house, her help, anything… From Susan who has
offered a dozen times her home… None of them are natives of Boston but all of
them are doing its city proud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A friend
in need, etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I want to be
alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need to be alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The memories in my head are churning and I
need quiet and solitude to let them fall into place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a short drive to my hotel in
Cambridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I’m waiting to check in I
watch the TV near the registration desk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There are two talking heads, discussing the wounds suffered by the
victims of the bombs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One is an
Emergency Physician.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He says a term that
takes several beats to decipher: “Catastrophic Amputation”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In layman’s terms, it means having one’s
limbs blown off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">10:15 pm – I enter my room and turn on the
lights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I drop my loaded suitcase,
backpack, and bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I take off my
jacket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel a weight in my pocket and
unzip it – it’s the finisher’s medal I’ve stowed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can barely look at it; can barely stomach
the feel of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put it quickly in a
small black velvet pouch I use to store jewelry when I’m travelling, pull the
silken ties tightly shut, and put the pouch in my backpack. I strip off my
race-weary clothes and step into the shower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The water and soap wash away the grit and sweat of the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After showering, I put on clean, soft
pajamas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I go to the window and part the
curtain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Across the Charles River I see
the Prudential Tower, brightly lit as if in defiance of the carnage that
occurred at its feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pop an Advil PM
and crawl between cool sheets. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Was any of this real?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I fall into a dreamless sleep.</i></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">* * *</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>The Aftermath</u></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I crossed
the finish line of the race at roughly 2:35 pm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I felt euphoria and celebrated a well-executed race, for having hung
tough and for muscling my way through the last 8 miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked forward to the post-race celebration
as I navigated my way through the blocks-long finishing chute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The feeling lasted roughly 15 minutes before
the elevator at the top floor plummeted to the basement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">And what of
the aftermath?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t know what I was
supposed to feel, but that day and a day later I felt nothing – not numb shock,
but a complete absence of anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
joy, not fear, not anger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Looking back I
realized I felt only momentary fear, despite hearing the blasts, and seeing the
smoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t some rare form of
bravery; it was more pragmatism and exhaustion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After that, I felt nothing but occasionally mild anger and sadness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I couldn’t pin the source of either down
on any one thing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">In the
Airport, I abandon any signs of having participated in the race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the security checkpoint, I see a woman
wearing her medal in a restaurant and am incensed: she is trying to draw
unnecessary attention to herself, to make it about her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If she were there, unscathed, she would be
better served to pack up her memorabilia and have some humility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later at my gate, I see people wearing
medals and Boston Marathon jackets and I can’t look at them. I board the plane
and see them and their little finisher’s tokens hanging on their necks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel incalculable fury.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Why
in God’s name are you trying to draw attention to yourself?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are no hero – you finished the race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You haven’t a scratch on you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Take that damn medal off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stow the jacket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>Later, some friends gently tell me this
was their way of ‘showing solidarity’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
angrily push aside that explanation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">It’s ego and vanity - nothing else.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can be a vicious, unforgiving critic.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The next day
my sister Erin calls me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She asks me how
I’m doing, and I tell her <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I’m fine, I’m
home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m tired, but I’m fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>I tell her about what I witnessed on
Boylston Street and my strange journey after.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I tell her about my anger at the people in the airport, of trying to
understand the senselessness of the attack and toll of the loss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">A
little boy, a child…</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I break down sobbing breathlessly,
and am overcome by wave after wave of unimaginable, raw grief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is there nothing we can do with reckless joy
and abandon?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The
following Thursday evening, the police kill one of the suspects and on Friday
evening, the second is captured cowering in a boat on dry land; the nightmare has
seemingly ended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That night, I walk <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>into my office and pull the finishers medal
out of the black velvet bag for the first time since I’d put it in there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel the silken ribbon, the weight of the
enameled token, and look at the smiling unicorn, the mythic symbol of the
Boston Athletic Association.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
anticipate the warm sense of relief, achievement, and celebration to finally rise
inside me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It doesn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think about the senseless violence and
realize that the cycle will never end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Despite that, I don’t believe that mankind is inherently evil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Boston, there were two seeds of evil
amongst the reveling throng of over half a million.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If mankind were fatally seeped in evil, we would have perished of our
own violence and despair a millennia ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The medal is what it is: a symbol of a race in a city that is tougher
and more resilient than this violence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
same city will both shelter the victims and dare any evil to come back to this
race in this town.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">After days
of numbing rage and sadness, I feel nothing but fatigue and odd detachment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember the swirl of the race and the
things I saw: blind people with guides, runners with one or two prosthetic
limbs, inclusive racers being pushed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
saw a dwarf walking up heartbreak hill and later a man dressed as C3PO.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw drunken, joyous Boston College students
cheering with such ferocity and glee that in my fatigue the noise was
nauseating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ran past the screaming
Sirens at Wellesley College, and found neighbors and friends in sea of over 24,000
runners and multiple times that many spectators.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw hand-made signs of encouragement and
hilarity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw barbeques, and people
celebrating with kegs of beer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw a group
of army men in full gear with packs double-timing the course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
remember my legs hurting as much as they’d ever hurt but feeling like they
weren’t attached to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember
saying prayers as both meditation and plea over the final miles, and in all of
this I’m surrounded by a sea of humanity running to a finish line on an
impossibly beautiful day because – at the end of it all – the finish line simply
exists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The race was a fantastic dream –
fluid and crazy and frenetic, full of characters so colorful I have a hard time
believing they are real.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m having a
hard time believing the entire race as having actually occurred.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did I imagine it? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">The violence
after I finished was brutal and vicious; there is nothing remotely poetic or cinematic
about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It snapped everyone immediately out of their
endorphin-fueled joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So much of life is
lived well in-between the margins of absolutes and it’s rare to feel the outer
limits of these measures; It’s even rarer to feel them on the same day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s difficult enough to navigate them in the
span of days, let alone a span of minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>To go from one to the other mostly requires an external force; there is
no way we could muster the desire or strength on our own to willingly endure them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">None of it
makes any sense: not the before, not the after.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If I had to choose which half of the day was real – before the
explosions or after – I’d have a difficult time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That they are both real is unfathomable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The day has now become an exercise of
memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are fixed points on a
calendar that mark the changing of seasons; they are determined by the position
of the sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But while the first day of spring
comes on a specific day, the first spring day comes on its own schedule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One we look to with anticipation; the other
we greet with much more joy because of its capricious nature and
timetable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You wait on that day, and
more often than not, have scant notice of its arrival.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The seasons are precocious children of
nature; so is memory. We don’t have control over our memories, but we can exert
our influence and discipline over those on which we linger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As for the others, we must continue – for as long
as it takes - to lock them tightly away along with pain and fear, in a sturdy steamer trunk in our soul.</span></div>
Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-27504014091548746952013-02-02T15:55:00.001-05:002013-02-07T07:24:57.263-05:00Apron Strings<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>And I'll be perfect in
my way</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>When you cry I will be
there I'll sing to you and comb your hair</i></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>All your troubles I
will share</i></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>For apron strings, can
be used for other things</i></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Than what they're
meant for and</i></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>You'd be happy wrapped
in my apron strings</i></span></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">~”EVERYTHING BUT THE GIRL”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">There are
these times as a parent that the indelible ink of memory makes a little note in
your soul. You don’t know it at the time
– you’re reminded of them later, often multiple times. The first time your child climbs the
impossibly high steps of the school bus, you think of those wobbly first
steps. When you move just before the 6<sup>th</sup>
grade and she struggles with stomach aches and wants to retreat to the safety
of her room and you have to be reduced to “tough love” – something you thought
you only read about with a whispered ‘oh the poor thing’ but would never ever
have to use – you are reminded of her first episode of ‘separation anxiety’. There are so many moments and the heart is
happy to unlock vault of the tiny gemstones of memory; to give flesh to the
bones of the reality of these singular moments.
We’ve been there before; it’s just a variation on a theme. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">They call
them “apron strings” and at some point in our lives, we’re supposed to cut
them. I’m finding as a parent that we
don’t cut them; they have a life of their own and they succumb on their own
accord.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">When I was a
Junior in college, I was sent off – like my older sister before me and the two
behind me to follow – to France, for a year abroad. There were no cell phones; I was not equipped
with a credit card. In fact the only
instructions I had were to call via long distance only in the event of an
emergency. At that time, the average
cost of a 10 minute transatlantic conversation equaled the GDP of an emerging
country. My mom put me on a plane in Buffalo, New York
bound for JFK in New York City to catch my connection. I don’t remember her seeming overly
concerned; her apron strings seemed to have long since been cut.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">I made that
trip without thinking too much about ‘what if’; I just made my way as was
expected. I had apprehension about going
overseas and was already anticipating my return: leaving the comfort of the
familiar is no small task as a child. Somehow,
I managed to navigate the waters of the foreign land, the language I barely
spoke, and feeling ripped from everything in which I thought I was fluent. But in that year I gained a gift more
valuable than the culture and language of a foreign land: I learned
self-reliance. I recognized it
immediately upon my return – the asking the question in class to the professor
everyone else feared, to not depend on my parents for everything, to take the
first steps to owning my life.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Last week, I
drove my own daughter to Dulles Airport for a semester in London. It was a semester, not a year. She was going to a country with a familiar
language. She would have a cell phone, a
laptop with skype, a credit card for emergencies. She would have an immediate, digital
lifeline. And that provided me no
comfort at all. I was sending her off
into the big vast world full of things that didn’t exist when I made my grand
adventure: regular terrorist alerts, the need to procure digital fingerprints
as part of a student visa, the fear of planes exploding over the Atlantic. Yes, my brain could take comfort in the
statistics<span style="font-size: small;">;</span> My heart blew the statistics
out of proportion. All I could see was
her as a baby, as a toddler, as a brilliant precocious child… and I couldn’t
bear the thought of her being in harm’s way.
My head was quick to remind me she was in harm’s way every day<span style="font-size: small;">: <span style="font-size: small;">w</span></span>e can’t
predict the speeding busses of chaos theory and fate<span style="font-size: small;"> and </span>can only give our kids
grit and fortify their own resilience.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">We arrived
at the airport early, plenty of time for lunch.
I bought her a small amount of British pounds ‘just in case’. We checked her luggage and then it was time
for her to go through the TSA pre-screening.
This was it – I couldn’t go past this check point. She smiled and couldn’t wait to go. I snapped a quick photo and watched her get
on the descending escalator. I found a
chair and waited – I’d told her I wouldn’t leave for the 2+ hour car ride back
to Richmond until she’d made it through security and was safely ensconced at
her gate. Within 15 minutes, the message
arrived: security was a breeze and she’d grabbed a Starbucks and was waiting to
board.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">And it was
time for me to go. I felt so utterly
empty – a big piece of me had gone down that escalator. As I walked back to my car the beautiful
memories of her life flashed in my mind: her birth… her first steps… her loving
to smell flowers and ending up with pollen on her little nose… her first day of
school… moving… the short walk to my car provided 21 years of highlights. And I found I was wiping away tears and my
head thinking “Oh would you STOP THIS RIGHT NOW!” Apron strings are not cut. They unravel over the course of the years and
each little inch of thread is lodged in our heads in the form of memory.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">It was cold
and the parking garage in Dulles was gray and without comfort. The tears flowed
down my face for me to have courage, to allow my daughter the freedom to have
her great adventure without the shackles of parental need. I know now my mother suffered when I got on
that plane, but she knew the greater need to loosen the ties that bind. She was giving me wings and an opportunity to
find my way on my terms. Those apron
strings may loosen and unravel, but they will stretch. And they never break.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">I walked to
my car, tears rolling down my face, my head doing battle with my own
sentimental weakness and fear for my girl.
But this time, my heart stepped in and said “It’s ok. I see those memories and you’ve earned those
tears.” For once, my heart was on my
side.</span></div>
Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-12938020375356158792012-12-17T07:31:00.000-05:002012-12-17T07:31:05.252-05:00A Season of Hope<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">~ All hope abandon, ye who enter in.</i></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dante Alighieri, The
Divine Comedy: Inferno, Canto III: The Gate of Hell, line 9.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I’m on a
deadline and I don’t have “writers block”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Frankly, ‘writers block’ would be an upgrade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m standing at the gates of deadline hell
and I’ve got… I’ve got… nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nada.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a single idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve gone out for runs waiting for the ideas
to sally forth and ring the doorbell in my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the stress of work, a son applying to
college, a presidential election, and leaves that fall uncollected on my yard
like unmelting lake-effect snow <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>has
crowded out any space for creative thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m hanging on a single thread of something that propels me out of bed
every morning: Hope. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, I’m <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> in the Divine Comedy: I’m in the longest checkout line in the
longest circle in hell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it’s not
moving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need to find inspiration.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">~ But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence. The
least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot
we have got hold of.</i></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lord Byron, letter to
Thomas Moore</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Clearly,
this isn’t it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lord Byron was in the
mother-of-all foul moods when he wrote Thomas Moore, who – rumor had it – owed
him money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hope is supposed to inspire
us, to provide us a life raft when all else is lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If Lord Byron hadn’t become dust a long time
ago, I’d give him the following advice: Get a prescription for Prozac, then promptly
double up on it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Paint on the face of
existence’…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘hollow-cheeked harlot’ …
Can’t imagine what special brand of crazy cheer his Christmas cards must have
contained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Byron is not inspiring
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">~ Hope is a good breakfast, but it is a bad supper.</i></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sir Francis Bacon,
Apophthegms (1624), No. 36.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Are we at
all surprised that a guy named BACON would be the head cheerleader for hope as
a breakfast food?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These Brits are
completely transparent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need some
help: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve got nothing on the page but a
bitter Italian, a depressed poet, and the English version of Jimmy Dean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">~ He that lives upon hope will die fasting.</i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span>Benjamin
Franklin </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I’m pretty
sure Ben Franklin never had a deadline.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Trying to coax creative thought from behind the locked vault in my head
has been a mighty task.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Usually I go for
a run and the ideas fall into place during the course of the course, but this
month there haven’t been enough miles in the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope against hope and rage against these
‘slings and arrows of outrageous fortune’, and wonder if William Shakespeare
ever had writers block.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My muse has
abandoned me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">~ Hope is a waking dream.</i></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Aristotle</i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I find hope
takes so many forms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When doing the math
to fund another college education, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hope
</i>I can afford it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hope</i> the economy turns around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I go for a run in the morning, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hope </i>I feel good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When my dishwasher broke the Tuesday before
Thanksgiving, I had hope I could get an appointment before Thursday, which is
frankly daft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I stood in line to
vote in the recent election, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hope</i>
took the form of a line that snaked out the polling place and down the
sidewalk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was so much collective
hope, but half that line woke up the next day without it, while the other half
was living the dream: as good an example of a zero-sum game as ever. When I
proof-read an email a colleague has written I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hope </i>I don’t see the word “hope” because – as we’ve all learned –
“Hope” is not an appropriate business strategy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is – however – perfectly sound for writing an article.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least that’s what I’ve told my
editor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hope</i> at the start of every football season – which is a mighty
thing for a lifelong fan of the Buffalo Bills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After decades, to still believe, that truly is a waking dream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or lunacy; I’m still deciding which.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">~ Hope is patience with the lamp lit.</i></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tertullian</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I have no idea
who Tertullian was, but I love the sentiment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s like he’s describing Hope as the “Motel 6” of the philosophical
realm, but with better decorating and a much better breakfast (see: Bacon, Sir
Francis.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know about hope – what
it really is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it a waking dream, a
thing with feathers,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>springs eternal, or
the only universal liar who never loses its reputation for veracity?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nietzsche, never the eternal optimist,
thought<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“In reality, hope is the worst
of all evils, because it prolongs man's torments.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But some unknown author countered “When the
world says, ‘Give up,’ Hope whispers, ‘Try it one more time.’”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hope is like the run: One more time, one more
line, one more step, one more mile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Hope runs on.</div>
Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-80836998713144716002012-08-08T16:21:00.002-04:002012-08-08T16:21:21.224-04:00A Patch of Red Earth<br />
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Grass doesn’t grow under the big oak in our back yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not like there was never any grass, but for
the better part of the past couple of years it has been replaced by a big patch
of earth, tinted red with clay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Behind
it is a netted goal, and behind that is an even bigger netted backstop to catch
the errant shots and protect the neighbor’s yard, fence, and windows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The backyard was taken over by a dream – to
play a game, to get better, to be the best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nearly every day for three years the kid would be out there – bouncing
off the rebounder, weaving at unseen defenders toward the goal, ripping a
shot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn’t matter if it was raining
or hot or freezing or near dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even
during the season – before and after practice the backyard was transformed into
a practice field.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Before he had the practice area, he’d taken to rebounding
off the side of the house, the side that shares a wall with my office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The amount of time he spent rebounding balls
off the wall was inversely proportional to my productivity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After he took out 3 porch slats with errant
shots, we finally broke down and bought him a rebounder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sanity and job security were restored.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That purchase was quickly followed up by a
practice goal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And after balls landed
with annoying regularity in a neighbor’s yard, we purchased the giant net
backstop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our backyard had been
successfully usurped.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
After so much use the nets have hastily patched holes,
shredded in spots from wear and tear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The poles that support the backstop are tall and lean at odd angles, the
net drooping between each pole; they’ve taken a beating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The yard isn’t particularly level and the
tree interferes with the left side of the otherwise adequate field of
play.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We back up on the Mount Hill
Commons and one day a big owl flew into a tree and watched Luc play for nearly
30 minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was like something out of
a fairy tale.</div>
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I can see this home-spun practice area from my office and
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard my son come in from school
through the front door, and minutes later hear the back door slam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has become a daily ritual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d turn around and see him jogging toward
the net, gloves on, cradling a ball in the head of his lacrosse stick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He runs to the net and winds up and lets a
shot fly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes a shot will ricochet
off a pole and rebound with a large <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">CLANG</i>
off the heat pump that is just behind my window startling me out of my chair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Others might end up in the woods in the leaves,
which is why I actually have a monthly budget for lacrosse balls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems a small price to pay to help
shepherd such devotion.</div>
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I’ve come to love this daily practice because I know it is
all his doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I admire people who have
such passion and faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I love more
the abandoning of oneself into play and how rare a commodity that becomes with
the increasing pressure and responsibilities of adult life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look out my office window and see that
patch of red earth I can imagine him running past a ghost army of defenders, toward
it and the goal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I envy that age when
play is the most important thing in your life.</div>
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My favorite part is not the goal, the shredded net, or the
leaning poles; it’s that patch of red earth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Every time I look at it I marvel that a single kid did that over the
course of a couple of years, trampling any hope of grass in the foreseeable
future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many might think it’s a scar in
a far-from ideal lawn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But to me it’s a
badge: of work, of effort, of hope and belief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My son is a rising senior, and I know one day soon he’ll will be off to
college, and then on his own. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nets
will eventually come down and grass will make its bid to reclaim that patch of
red earth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But for now, I like it just
the way it is.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-45334237829987856052012-06-10T16:17:00.002-04:002012-06-20T15:01:29.797-04:00Summer Vacation<br />
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</div>
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Be aware: this is not a family friendly entry. It’s not vile or violent, but if you’re
looking for some tips on planning a family vacation or ideas on where to go,
this isn’t the place. I love the idea of
family vacations; we’re just not very good at taking them. We do them when we are compelled to do them:
birthdays, holidays, graduations – we’ve never taken a family vacation that
didn’t involve an extended-family reunion at the destination.</div>
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We’ve talked about them, but by the time summer rolled
around any disposable income had been consumed by art and music lessons,
instruments, sports, sports equipment, school activities, and other
miscellaneous extra-curricular life activities.
My husband and I are adamant about paying for stuff as we go. The idea
of a vacation is to relax and unwind and to follow it up with stress of how to
pay for the bill in the aftermath would unravel all the benefit. That doesn’t stop the occasional <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maybe we should rent a house at the beach</i>…
or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We should think about Charleston</i>…
from escaping our mouths every once in a while.</div>
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He has always been great about taking the kids for a weekend
getaway camping. I’d gladly join if not
for my unwavering need for a mattress and electricity. It’s not that I’m high-maintenance; I just
don’t rough it that well. If I’d been a
pilgrim I’d have shipped back on the first boat to England inside of two
weeks. Honestly, my idea of camping is a
spa in the woods. I navigate wildlife at
work all year long - I don’t want to have to do battle with it during my vacation. Even if I can’t afford it every day, I like
the idea of being able to order room service.
Of fresh towels. Of the bed being
made by someone else.</div>
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We did do a family trip to France several years ago in the
summer. It was my Father-in-Law’s 70<sup>th</sup>
birthday and as a native of France he wanted to get the family together in his
homeland. We should have had a clue the
trip would be a challenge when we tried navigating our way to the house my
in-laws had rented. It was in the
hillside in Nice, and to avoid getting lost while jet-lagged, we rented a car
with a GPS Navigation system. The
streets are not as well-marked as one would have thought, and we were scolded
more than once by the GPS unit with her perfect British accent to “Make an
authorized U-turn”. When we saw a sign
“Monoco – 5 KM” and I read the sign and stated the obvious – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We are lost</i> - our middle son piped up <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">MAKE AN AUTHROIZED U-TURN</i> which was
followed by the GPS giving the same instruction. Hilarity ensued.</div>
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We spent two weeks in various parts of the country and our
kids – the oldest of who was just shy of 15 –*maybe* didn’t have the depth of
life experience to put most of what they saw in proper context. I played the part of the parent who forgot
what it’s like to be a kid by continually reprimanding them with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You
don’t know how lucky you are! Look at
this history! And if you keep rolling your eyes like that they’re gonna get
stuck in the back of your head! </i>The
masterful “Tapestry of Bayeux” to them was a long piece of cloth with a lot of
weird embroidered spelling. The trip to
see Notre Dame or Mont St. Michel was met with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">GREAT. ANOTHER OLD CHURCH</i>. The
day-long tour of the D-Day beaches was – to me and my husband –
fascinating. To the kids it was, well, a
long day. At Versailles – the decadent
masterpiece of Louis XIV’s self-absorption -
the great Hall of Mirrors was closed for renovation, so we were left to
the palace (lots of art and statues), the gardens (which were brown from lack
of rain), and the Grand Trianon (a little palace when the King needed to escape
the rigors of the big palace. Poor
thing.) It was hot, sunny, and water
fountains were in short supply. The
cacophony of whining could be boiled down by kid: the oldest was hot and tired,
the second was bored and hungry, and the third had to go to the bathroom. Throughout the two weeks, the complaints
rarely varied from kid or postal code.
Nice…Normandy…Paris… from the shores of the Mediterranean to the Eiffel
Tower – what I wouldn’t have paid for shade, a sandwich, and conveniently
located restroom. </div>
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<br /></div>
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We recently had a
discussion of possible destinations for a family trip. My husband suggested The Grand Canyon – I
thought it a capital idea. We floated it
past our kids. My middle son looked at
us and said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Are you crazy? The Grand Canyon? IN THE SUMMER? We’ll be
riding donkeys – right? Sissy will
complain that they smell and she’s hot.
Jammer will have to go to the bathroom every 5 minutes, Dad’s donkey
will take a wrong turn and he’ll freak out and have to make an authorized
u-turn. And you’ll be screaming at all
of us to shut up and enjoy ourselves.</i>
Out of the mouths of babes. </div>
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So, we have no vacation planned for this summer. My husband will probably take the kids for a
weekend of camping, my daughter managed to snag a summer job. The boys have opted to knock off a class in
summer school. And I’ll just keep
battling the wildlife at work.</div>Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-26843020431032439552012-04-06T16:41:00.001-04:002012-04-06T16:43:12.249-04:00There's an App for That<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“What’s great about the iPhone is that if you want to check snow
conditions on the mountain… THERE’S AN APP FOR THAT. If you want to check how many calories are in
your lunch, THERE’S AN APP FOR THAT. If
you want to check exactly where you parked the car, yup, THERE’S AN APP FOR
THAT. There’s an app for just about
anything on the iPhone”</i><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>Remember that 2009 commercial for the
original Apple<sup>TM</sup> iPhone? The apps (or applications) were what
separated the iPhone men from the Blackberry<sup>TM</sup> boys. These two fruit-named phones entered into the
mother-of-all food fights to conquer our hearts, minds, and wallet share. I’m pretty sure Apple<sup>TM</sup> scored a TKO in the first round because – all
together now - <span style="text-transform: uppercase;">they had an app for
that. </span></div>
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<br />
Ever the late technology adopter, I didn’t upgrade to an
iPhone until a year ago. I was happy
with my Blackberry; I wasn’t a huge user of it and grudgingly paid the very
large cellular bill not so I could ensure my place in the land of the gainfully
employed, but so I could enhance communication with my children. Which is one of several patently deluded
ideas to which I subscribe. I never
thought I’d use apps, they seemed more like silly little diversions than
anything that would be of practical value. I’ve been suspicious of mobile technology from
the start. There was a commercial by a
bank ten years back touting the convenience of banking from your computer. It showed a guy hiking up the side of a
mountain and once at the apex, he whipped out a laptop from his backpack and started
balancing his checkbook. I know: ludicrous, like anyone would do that. While we all crave to complete menial
administrative tasks in the splendor and glory of nature there is NO WAY you’re
not going to convince me this guy got decent wireless service on the top of
Mount Kilimanjaro: I’m just not that
gullible.</div>
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<br />
Once my device was fired up, veteran iPhoned friends
provided me plenty of advice on ‘must-have’ apps: The aptly named <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Around Me</i> lets me know – shockingly – what is around me in the form
of stores, restaurants, pharmacies, or my nearest Apple store. And I use it: at a late-finishing lacrosse
game in the middle of Bumwinkle, Virginia and need to find the nearest sub shop
to feed the famished player? I can find
it. Apple product on the fritz and need to belly
up to the nearest ‘genius bar’? I can find that too. My friend Gill – who I’m fairly certain owns a
substantial interest in Starbucks<sup>TM </sup> - made her recommendation so that I’d never
find myself in dire need of a Venti skinny vanilla latte and be left to shrivel
into a caffeine-deprived heap. I will
admit it came in handy while at a Lacrosse tournament in November in
Emmetsburg, Maryland. With a break in
the action, I was freezing cold and hankering for a decent triple half-caff
mocha lattechino with a half twist, and - horrors! – the concessions stand
didn’t have an espresso machine. Barbarians. My iPhone came to the rescue and let me know
that the nearest Starbucks<sup>TM </sup>was exactly 16.9 miles away in Gettysburg,
PA. I was stunned to discover that
apparently there <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> a corner of the
Earth without a Starbucks, and this app had done double duty by providing me
that nugget of information as well as a potential business opportunity. Assuming, that is, that cows drink
coffee. Talk about convenience! Let’s not forget <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fat Face. </i>Why wouldn’t I pay
good money for a program that could digitally enhance my photo to make me look
100 pounds heavier – it’s a dream app!</div>
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<br />
The number and variety of apps out there is staggering. In the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Medical</i>
category, one of the top selling apps is the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Instant ECG</i> by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">iAnesthesia.</i> No lie, you can’t make this stuff up. In the
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Education</i> category, a 5-star
‘absolute must buy!’ is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">TeachMe: Toddler</i>. For a scant $0.99 you get a platform which
teaches your toddler these essential education subjects: letters, abc phonics,
numbers, shapes, colors, and the art of cold fusion in the tubby. Finally in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Utilities,</i> there is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sparrow</i>. The description reads “Sparrow is an iPhone
mail client designed with love to provide you with an efficient and pleasant
mailing experience. With its pane
navigation, its new threading system and many new features, you’ll never look
back.” I have absolutely no idea what
any of that means.</div>
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<br />
What I can’t find are apps that would be of actual,
meaningful value to my everyday life.
For example, there is an app for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Past
Life Regression Hypnosis</i>. Well into
the app, the dulcet-toned narrator describes a scene where you are walking through
a flower-filled forest to a small bridge attended to by a brown-robed hooded
figure, who is apparently a gentle and kind being, but the only image I’m conjuring
is the Grim Reaper, after which my imagined self runs screaming from the forest. What I
really need is an app that will help me cope in the here and now. I type “Coping” in the App Store search bar
and the top result is something called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Loudbook.</i> I’d be happy to share with you what it does,
but the description is in Russian. I
find something to assemble my life and the instructions are in some foreign
language. Typical. </div>
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<br />
There are plenty of apps that will let me scour thousands of
recipes for delicious, nutritious, and time-saving meals. However, I’d find invaluable one that would
take it to the next level by first scanning the inventory of my pantry and
fridge, and then displaying the world of possibilities. Currently I’ve got a half-consumed jar of
capers, a cup of plain non-fat Greek yogurt, a wilted head of celery, some
gluten-free crackers, and a roll of paper towels: c’mon Mr. Silicon Valley
Genius, show me your magic. </div>
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<br />
Finally there is the app <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dealing
With Negative Emotions.</i> I don’t want
to deal with them; I want to act on them.
Anonymously and without repercussion, of course. What I’d really like is a Voodoo Doll app
that lets me literally give a pain in the hindquarters to those who are a pain
in mine. All those who think the terms
‘children’s sports teams’ and ‘snack list’ belong in the same sentence? You get a big pin, maybe two. Parents who drive their teenagers to school
and don’t require that the prince or princess exit the vehicle until they are
EXACTLY IN FRONT OF THE DOOR, you get two big pins and an extra pin for each
kid who thinks they’ll perish of exhaustion by walking 25 feet. That girl on the wireless provider
commercial who texts her friend across the table gets several pins through her
cell phone thereby rendering it useless.
Telemarketing scammers from “Credit Card Services” will get box of pins as
well as a complementary electric shock; think of it as a “gift with purchase”. And incompetent slack-jawed navel-gazing administrators
who overstep the limits of their mandate get an extra special pin, and a free <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">iLobotomy</i> from the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Medical </i>apps. To app
developers out there, I’ve thrown down the gauntlet. When
you make something really useful, give me a call. Until then I’ll be playing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Angry Birds.</i></div>Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-16056515093785848402012-02-10T12:14:00.002-05:002012-02-10T12:14:39.780-05:00Bring on the Wonder <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
January is a reflective month.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the antidote to the joy-and-light-and-food-and-drink-induced
mania of the holidays.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After December, many
of us set about making our lives right again, reclaiming health or goodness –
or in my case, closets – in the form or resolutions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Resolutions are, however, quick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not sure we give them a great deal of
thought and more often than not we’re picking up that cookie a scant eight days
after we’ve sworn them off for all eternity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I don’t know if they provide some humility or have a shelf life that induces
amnesia to our initial enthusiasm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Regardless,
they can be an annual challenge with which so many of us wrestle– and more often
than not – by which are pinned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Organization
is the bane of my existence and a foe that chases me eternally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More accurately, I chase it and am forever
one or two steps behind the chaos and clutter. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
I do somehow manage to pull myself out of bed at the crack
of dark most mornings to go for a run with friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some days we have a crowd, and other days
it’s just two of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the sparsely
attended mornings, the run is more a communion of quiet minds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I’m more often known for excessive
story-telling (particularly on hills – it’s the supreme distraction from the
incline), today the morning was cold – in the teens – and my friend and I were
quieter than normal for the first half mile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The effort of warming sleepy muscles in the frigid air becomes harder as
the years pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sky was velvet
black, the stars in abundance and Venus hanging low and bright in the pre-dawn
sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mentioned to her a particular
habit I was wrestling with, one of those resolutions that I haplessly thought
would be as easy to keep as it was to make.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My friend agreed, and then made a statement that struck me for its
elegant and simple decisiveness:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My resolution is to
live every day as if it’s my last.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
There can be many interpretations to this but I know for
fact that she wasn’t suggesting to throw caution to the wind and live life loud
and large, to spin in an external existence free from consequence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like so many of us, I can get caught up in
the daily routine and rigor of my days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ve been missing the opportunity to experience the wonder and beauty of
the details of these routines that provide root and foundation; these seemingly
inconsequential happenings are threads in the bigger fabric of life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When some of those are suddenly gone and the
fabric unravels, the hole left behind lays bare their importance and meaning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
This past year has been difficult in so many ways. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m getting to that age where my body starts
reminding me more <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">of</i> my age. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d changed jobs – twice – and worried more
about everything in this difficult economy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I found myself worrying more about the future and living less in the
present and this year I was reminded of this folly: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>on the last day of summer, my friend lost her
husband suddenly and without warning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When we who were his friends and neighbors emerged from the thickness of
our grief, we set about trying to resume our lives in a place seemingly tipped
off its axis, the orbit of the neighborhood altered with the addition of
unwelcome space.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
In the months that followed, I’ve personally felt his loss
not in large ways – he was a dear and cherished friend - but in little
ones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sitting in my home office, I’d often
glance up and see him coming back from work pulling up short of the driveway
and stepping out in his work uniform of suit and tie to grab the mail out of
the box.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other days I’d see him taking
the dog out for a walk, cutting the grass, walking down the driveway in his
slippers to retrieve the paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never
thought much about these at the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was only after he was gone and I’d look up from my desk and be met with a void
that I realized the impact of these small moments, these specks of memory in a
day in continual overdrive. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d come to
unconsciously depend on them; they were an integral part of my day, and I’d sorely
neglected to recognize their value.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Isn’t that how it so often is? </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
Too often I’m closing the barn door after the horse has gone
for yet another unauthorized romp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d grabbed that morning coffee and drank it
quickly without taking time to savor its aroma, how the cup feels so warm in my
cold hands, how perfect the first sip tastes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ve neglected to hear to the music of the rain as it hits my car in
traffic that has slowed from the weather, the wipers beating out
syncopation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve sat at the table with
my husband or children, reading the paper, no one talking and hadn’t the
slightest inkling how different it feels doing the same activity in an empty
room. Even this morning I cursed the cold air as I stepped out of my
house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But oh how that cold air assaults
my lungs with its frigid perfection, how alive and vital it makes me feel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tiny shifts and movement fight for attention;
it’s easy to overlook their importance when we come to unknowingly count on
them to give us balance.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<i>My resolution is to
live every day as if it’s my last.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
I know what my friend means: to live generously, free of the
petty ambivalence to which we can often be prey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To remove the blinders of our harried
existence and drink in and savor what we see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And to have gratitude and appreciation for the simple and fragile wonder
so abundant in our lives.</div>Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-77978010683485512011-12-16T17:39:00.001-05:002011-12-16T17:52:47.273-05:00Is There a Santa Claus?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";"></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">*Written for Robious Corridor, December 2011 </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Note: </span></i></b><i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">The Original Editorial, written in appearing in the September 21, 1897 edition of The (New York) Sun appears in </span></i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Normal <i>font. The updated additions are in italics.</i></span><i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Sun_%28New_York%29" title="The Sun (New York)"></a></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: large;">Dear
Robious Corridor:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: large;"> I am 8 years old. <br />
Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. <br />
Papa says, 'If you see it in Robious Corridor it's so.' <br />
"Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?<br />
<i> </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: large;"><i>VIRGINIA O’Handmeacookie</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">115 West Salisbury Road.</span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: large;"><br /> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: large;">VIRGINIA,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">First, its not polite to refer to your friends as “</span></i></span><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: large;">little”;
they are ‘vertically challenged’. <i>And yes,</i> your ‘little friends’ are
wrong. Totally, utterly wrong. <i>Like WICKED wrong. </i>They have been affected by the skepticism
of a skeptical age. <i>Or by the fact that
they’ve never had to do laundry - theirs or anyone else’s.</i> They do not believe except what they see. <i>Which is Nintendo, Wii Dance Party, Lady
Gaga and texts on their mobile phone</i>.
They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their
little minds <i>or posted on Facebook.</i>
All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little, <i>scratch that, ‘vertically challenged’</i>.
You know why I know this? <i>One Sentence: <b>DANCING WITH THE STARS</b>. </i> In this great universe of ours man is a mere
insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about
him, <i>and yet there is a show that displays
this intellect and insect-like movement against the canopy of music and
>boom< it’s entertainment and tops the Neilson ratings…</i>As measured by
the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge, <i>we can only reply “SUPERSIZE IT”.</i><br />
<br />
Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and
generosity and devotion exist, and<i>
frankly I know it because I have to pick up Santa’s socks and dirty Santa suit
after his 24 hour UPS run around the Earth.
Why he insists on travelling through chimneys and getting soot ground
into his suit at the sub-atomic level is beyond me. The “North Pole Dry Cleaners” is pretty fed
up too: how many “we tried as hard as we could to get the stain out but alas”
notes do they have to include before Jolly Old Saint Nick realizes that red
velvet and soot DO NOT MIX? Anyway back
to generosity and devotion…</i> you know that they abound and give to your life
its highest beauty and joy. <i> </i>Alas! how dreary would be the world if
there were no Santa Claus. <i>There would
also be no ‘Atkins Diet’. Why? The man CHOWS DOWN on cookies, milk, and hot
chocolate for 24 hours – ACROSS THE GLOBE! – It’s a veritable high fructose
corn syrup orgy. When he gets back to
the North Pole, his glycemic index is THROUGH. THE. GINGERBREAD. ROOF. All of a sudden he’s yelling “Mama
Claus? I want SALAD. Broccoli.
Tofu. THINK GREEN.” Green?
WE LIVE IN THE NORTH POLE. The
term “Winter White” wasn’t invented for nothing. The daylight lasts like 35 seconds. Is it dreary here? </i>It would be as dreary as if there were no
VIRGINIAS. <i>And for the record, Virginia
ROCKS. Especially Richmond. Particularly south of the river James. But no Santa?
</i>There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to
make tolerable this existence. <i>But
frankly if we wouldn’t have to live through Middle School, that would be
OK. I think EVERY KID would be happy to
trade a bit of poetry for skipping middle school. But NO SANTA?
</i>We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal
light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished. <i>Yup,
that eternal light thing. I heard you
lost it for several days after Hurricane Irene.
We had reports parents – without TV or internet in their powerless
neighborhood – had to resort to the most base and savage of methods to stay
alive: they had to GO TO THE LIBRARY.
They got confused by the books (no, they are not kindling) but it was a
great place to charge the iPod and surf the net…but I digress…</i><br />
<br />
Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! <i>Actually, there aren’t any fairies in the
North Pole. There are, however,
elves. And they are particularly
demanding. They have to make all the
toys and they gripe about the hours, poor working condition, and even convinced
one to become a Union Dentist. No lie.
Have you seen Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer?
Hermie is the real deal. He does
cosmetic dentistry and is working toward certification in orthodontia. Raffled
off a custom whitening tray to raise money for the Island of Misfit Toys. Did his thesis on the overbite of Bumble, the
Abominable Snowman. But back to you
Virginia, and your question about Santa.
</i>You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on
Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus
coming down, what would that prove? <i>Honestly,
it would prove nothing because – and I have this on Santa’s good opinion- most
of these ‘watchman’ dive into the cookies and milk for Santa and are in a happy
food coma by the time Santa is making his rounds. </i>Nobody sees Santa Claus, <i>because eating excessive loads of sweet
carbs brings on blissful sleep, </i>but that is no sign that there is no Santa
Claus. <i>As we all know, trying to prove a
negative is most troublesome. </i>The
most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. <i>Typically, that involves the santa coat
draped on the back of a chair instead of hung up in the closet. And unmade beds. And trash that needs to be taken out without
being asked. </i>Did you ever see fairies
dancing on the lawn? Of course not, <i>because
Fairies don’t live at the northpole and if they did and they were dancing on
the lawn, they’d perish of frostbite. B</i>ut
that's no proof that they are not there. <i>And
neither are pigs in flight. </i>Nobody
can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the
world.<i> Well, Steve Jobs tried, which
explains the plethora of iPads in Santa’s sack.</i><br />
<br />
You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, <i>but if you do that, your mom is gonna be
really really really mad. She can handle
the socks on the floor the garbage that needs to go out, but don’t – DO NOT-
mess with the cranky infant’s toys… </i>but there is a veil covering the unseen
world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the
strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. <i>And that’s because those big strong men would have to hoist themselves
from the couch, fling the remote away and say “NO NFL TODAY!” Yeah right, like that is gonna happen. </i>Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance,
can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory
beyond<i> ESPN Primetime</i>. Is it all
real? <i>Oh for heaven’s sake yes it’s all
real. </i>Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this
world there is nothing else real and abiding. <i>But… before you get your presents, please go to a dictionary and write
out a good definition of the word “abiding”, and use it in a sentence that
could be used on terra firma south of the north pole. I’m just looking out for your SAT scores, girl,
NOW GO GET ‘EM!</i><br />
<br />
No Santa Claus! Thank God! He lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years
from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will
continue to make glad the heart of childhood. <i>However, he will make this glad heart of wifehood elated if he avoids
the sooty chimney’s, uses the front door, picks up his dirty socks, and trades
the cookies for the Reindeer’s carrots.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Merry
Christmas Virginia and God bless us, every one.</span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Fondly,</span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif";">Mrs. Claus</span></i></span></div>Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-12930586066155438632011-12-11T08:36:00.001-05:002011-12-11T08:38:06.629-05:00Occupy Pepper<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I am the 99%.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
just like you and citizens everywhere who pay their tab yet have limited access
to an abundant resource horded by the 1%.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m talking about Pepper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ve
all been to a restaurant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Salt is
freely available, but of course we’ve been briefed for years on the ills of too
much salt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pepper, however, is a
different matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you get your
salad or your entrée, the server will appear with a pepper grinder the size of
a Louisville Slugger and ask “Would you like some freshly ground pepper?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the pepper grinding ceremony
begins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You sit expectantly as the
ground pepper appears on your dish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
server looks at you at first expectantly waiting for you to say ‘enough’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However the expression changes to one of
abject suspicion as the grinding continues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Any more than 3 twists of the grinder and their internal alarms go
off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all: you’re not doing the
work for the pepper; you’re just expecting something for nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Personally, I feel the whole thing is a
childish exercise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am perfectly
capable of seasoning my own food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
don’t need to sit there while someone does it for me any more than I need him
or her to cut my meat into bite-sized pieces.</div>
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Why is that pepper grinder so big?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whole peppercorns are tiny, but pepper grinders
are enormous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why is that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not like we’re splitting an atom here,
we’re smashing up a little dried dot of nothing. We recently had dinner at a
restaurant in Staunton, and the pepper grinders were – of course – unavailable
for us at the tables.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were also
enormous, about the size of an average arm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They could have easily been used at batting practice, or converted into
a floor lamp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The evil pepper-hording
management stored the grinders on a large rack attached to the wall, a
veritable arsenal of spice-grinding majesty in full view of the pepper-deprived
population.</div>
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And why are these giant pepper grinders only found in
high-falutin’ bourgeois restaurants?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Restaurants that cater to those with smaller wallets have salt and
pepper on the table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, the
pepper is pre-ground and tastes like dirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The little guy always gets the shaft.</div>
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Why can’t we use them ourselves?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is there some kind of liability attached with
grinding pepper?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it a dangerous
activity?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Has the government issued some
kind of mandate rationing our access to freshly ground pepper? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is this more big government creep? Or is it
just management being stingy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or is it
both?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sense crony capitalism at work
for sure.</div>
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Maybe it’s an industrial conspiracy to addict the consumer
to salt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s freely available.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The more you use it, the thirstier you get,
the more drinks you order.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Salt is the
cash cow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pepper doesn’t make you
thirsty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At best, it’ll make you
sneeze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll be using more napkins and
costing the restaurant money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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We need to fight this injustice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Because it can only get worse: the next thing to go will be the fresh
parsley garnish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OCCUPY PEPPER GRINDERS!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Demand that there be a redistribution of
pepper grinders to diners across America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When you go to a restaurant, grab that grinder out of the server’s hand
and use it yourself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Demand every table
be given a grinder. Protest corporate greed at establishments with limited
pepper access.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rise up I say, Rise
up!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>POWER TO THE
PEPPER!...er…Paprika!...er PEOPLE!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now: pass the salt, and order me another drink.</div>
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<br /></div>Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-33304380315398075022011-09-11T15:43:00.012-04:002011-09-11T22:51:07.283-04:00Requiem9/11/11 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">9/11/01</i><br />
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I don’t remember the weather in Orchard Park, NY that day. People in New York City remember their morning as ideal. “Crystal clear blue” - how many times did we hear that description? It was like that this morning in Richmond: quiet and peaceful. Just like that day. 10 years. I’ve just gotten up and made coffee. I turn on the memorial at ground zero in New York.<br />
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<i>I’m working in my home office. I go to the kitchen for a cup of tea, and return several minutes later. The red light on my phone is blinking. It’s a message from Michel, it’s simple and direct: “Turn on the TV.” I turn on the small set on a shelf above my desk that is normally off except for news. I can’t figure out what I’m seeing: black smoke billowing out of the World Trade Centers. I call Michel. His admin answers and I must sound frantic. “Don’t worry, Michel is OK, he’s not in New York today.” I say “Yes, I know that.” Of course I know that, I’m his wife. It is then that it occurs to me that he frequently goes to the World Trade Centers to meet with State Tax Attorneys. She puts me through to him. “What is this? What am I seeing? What happened?” He answers my question. I don’t understand. He says the same sentence. “Planes hit the World Trade Center”. I can’t understand this, I can’t process it, his grammar doesn’t sound right. It’s the word ‘Planes’ that keep tripping me up, the plural nature of it.</i></div>
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It’s a beautiful day there today. 8:46 am. A single bell tolls. The families are there and I’m struck by these people and how they are dressed: some are in their Sunday best, others in more humble attire, t-shirts emblazoned with a memorial image or slogan. Many carry photos of their smiling family. The people in these photos died in terror; there is no hint of it in the images, they didn’t know. They are frozen moments, hundredths of seconds in time. The families slice across ethnic and social strata; they all occupy a common class, bound in grief in thousands of different memories. Obama speaks, Psalm 46. Bush speaks, Lincoln’s letter to a grieving mother. Giuliani, more echoes. And then they start the heartbreaking roll call. This never fails to break my heart. The names, so many names. They are read one at a time; it will take hours I think. I wonder if it would be more poignant to have each name read at the same time as the others by thousands of those left to mourn them. A cacophony of despair, a towering vocal babel of their loss and mourning. These names are so varied, some are so common, dare I say American? No, that doesn’t fit. The day after the attacks, a French newspaper said “Today, we are all American”. I’m struck by the name “Adams” read over and over again. Could they be related somehow to the Nation’s founding father? Others have syllables and consonants that would make my tongue cramp. Did the whole world perish that day?</div>
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<i>My eyes are glued to the set. The South Tower falls. The newscasters talk about it being surreal, like something out of a Hollywood action movie, but it is horrifyingly real. I wonder how many people are in there. Tom Brokaw said something like “Thirty Thousand”. The hospitals are mobilizing, every ambulance on call. The Red Cross puts out a call for blood. Emergency rooms wait for the wounded. Cardinal Egan is giving last rights on the sidewalk. They switch to field reporters covered in ash and grit. It occurs to me that I’m supposed to fly to Boston tomorrow for work. There is no force in heaven or on earth that will get me on a plane in the near future. I pick up the phone and call my best friend and colleague BJ. “You’ve seen the news.” I say this as fact. He answers quizzically “What news?” They’d lost their internet connection before nine that morning. They know nothing. I tell him about New York, about the gaping fiery hole in the Pentagon. I’m frantic, frightened. I tell him I will not get on a plane. He reassures me that the safest time to fly is right after a hijacking. He can say this with detached logic, it’s just a concept right now; he hasn’t seen the images yet. My eyes are on the TV. There is a report that another plane has crashed in Pennsylvania. I gasp for air and scream into the phone “The planes are falling out of the sky!” How many more will crash?</i></div>
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The network runs a piece on the firefighters, how they are asked everyday by well-wishers about that day. It never leaves them. “The 10 House” , “54 and 4”, nearly 400 first responders were lost, more than ten percent of that day’s death toll came from those who went to the scene to help. The newscaster is interviewing the last survivor pulled from the rubble. Jenelle Guzman-McMillan spent 27 hours in the rubble, her head on the body of a firefighter who perished trying to save her and others. This is her first time back to Ground Zero. She grips the tissue in her hand and reflects on that day and the decade since. She has moved on, married, had children. She finds comfort in her faith; she mentions something about a Tabernacle church. The interviewer asks her how she feels to be back. She hesitates, measuring her words. “We all have to face our fears.” </div>
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<i>The second tower is gone. I call my father and break down in tears. He is quiet. I’m sobbing, incoherent. He asks about Michel. I realize he thinks he was there, that something may have happened. Reports of where the hijacked planes originate filter through. Boston, Newark, National or Dulles? They speculate on the fear of the passengers on board – did they know what was happening? There are reports of Palestinians handing out candy and celebrating despite Yassir Arafat’s condemnation. They show pictures. I don’t understand this. What kind of a civilization is this? This is joy? </i></div>
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<i>* * *</i></div>
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James Taylor sings “Close Your Eyes” – a lullaby I sang to my own kids over and over and over again. I feel the tears. There are many children there, I wonder about the young teens who probably have little memory of the mother or father lost. I wonder: do they remember only the faces because of photo? Is there some imprint of them somewhere from 10 years ago? They open the memorial to the families. They touch the names etched in the stone. A young girl does a pencil rubbing: ‘Patrick Qui…’. Tears on black granite, the names are all they have left that is tangible in this sacred place.<br />
<br />
Yesterday I had a thought: what of those working the airport security in Logan and the other airports that day? I used to tell people I was shocked more airplanes weren’t hijacked out of Logan. I’d flown in and out of it dozens of times and I remember the security being a joke. I’d put my bags on the x-ray belt and half the time they weren’t even looking at the monitor. They let those madmen through, they didn’t know. Were they paying attention? Were they as complacent as all of us? Do they carry unimaginable guilt at the role they played? They were our Maginot Line.<br />
<br />
And Bin Laden? He's gone, dispatched with two bullets from an unnamed SEAL. I'll admit it: I was happy when I learned he was gone. Was it joy? I don't think so. I don't know.</div>
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***</div>
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<i>I look at the clock. It’s after noon. I’ve lost 3 hours, I haven’t moved from this chair. I don’t know what to do. I get up, and grab my keys. I drive to our church, Nativity, a couple minutes away. I don’t do this, go to church in the middle of a work day. It’s empty, dark and cool. Light is coming through the windows. I enter a pew and drop to my knees, cross myself, and bury my head in my hands. “Please, God…” I don’t know how to pray for what I’m feeling. I want to believe God can see into my heart. I get up and walk to the memorial candles. I light three of them, one for each site. I kneel again and am so scared, I wonder about all we have lost and what will come. Later that day I'm home, Madeleine and Luc arrive home from school, ages 10 and 6. I ask Madeleine if she knows what happened. She says some bad guys flew planes into buildings. They watched a little on TV. Luc doesn’t understand. He’s 6, I explain its ok, that our military will go get the bad guys. He asks if there will be war, I answer ‘probably’. He starts to cry; he thinks bombs will fall in our backyard. I run and get the globe. I show him where we live. Where his grandparents live. Then I show him where the middle east is, Afghanistan. “It’s very very far away. You will be safe.” I’m struck at how certain I am of that statement. Michel comes home and we look at each other and hug for a long time. The news comes on, I have Madeleine watch. The video replay of the plane hitting the building runs. She says “That’s cool…” and I snap and yell at her. She says she didn’t mean it like it was good. I realize she doesn’t know how to respond to this, to process it. I think at 10 years old what she sees is a special effect like the movies. She’s too young and innocent to couple that image with very real terror and death. She starts to cry, she is scared by my anger and I’m ashamed. I hold my girl. What have we lost?</i></div>
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The coverage of the 10 year anniversary runs a segment on the SEAL unit. They interview a retired SEAL who now runs the SEAL Team Foundation. He was fishing that day and contemplating retirement. He didn’t retire. The interviewer asks him if he changed his mind because of that day. He answers “My mind was changed for me.” When asked if he was deployed to Afghanistan he pauses, his face giving nothing away. “I was deployed as required.” The coverage returns to the Pentagon ceremony. A military choral unit sings ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic’… Glory glory hallelujah…Flowers are placed on the benches dedicated to those who perished. The Pentagon is pristine, there is no evidence – beyond this memorial – of the plane that hit it. It is unscarred. They are at Shanksville now. White granite in a field of grass and wildflowers. It occurs to me that the terrorists thought to hit the symbols of Americas might: The World Trade Center was the symbol of our economic power, the Pentagon that of our military power, and that fourth plane was headed to the symbol of our government – the Capital Building. Ironic and fitting that ‘of, by, and for the people’ fought them from achieving their evil trifecta. And still… all that followed… how much have we lost? That day, members of Congress stood together singing “God Bless America.” Could they do that today I wonder?</div>
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<i>It’s days after the attacks. No planes are allowed to fly. I look up at the sky and it is so blue. There are no contrails anywhere to be seen. . There were few survivors at Ground Zero, fewer bodies. They aren’t finding much in the rubble. Despite this attack, I don’t feel like we as a nation are paralyzed. I feel like we are galvanized. Today though the sky is blue and American flags fly everywhere.</i></div>
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Madeleine is 20 and in college. I text her about James Taylor’s song; she loves it. She reflects today in simple words “Ten years ago, I was a scrawny little 10-year old who knew nothing of true hate, fear, or profound sadness. In an instant, I learned all three. Ten years later, I'm a not so scrawny 20-year old who knows nothing of life, but will always remember a day in which everything changed.” Luc is 16 and pays tribute on his facebook page to the young man who worked in the South Tower – a lacrosse player and volunteer firefighter known for wearing a red bandana – who perished while helping many escape. Jean-Marc was 4 and remembers nothing of that day. He watches the coverage with me, and I explain – during a re-run of the actual coverage – what was happening, what I was thinking. I’m sharing this history with him, tell him how I felt that day. </div>
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Memory is thick sometimes. How do you measure the time before and after that day? How do you measure what we have lost or gained? How can you measure the change? How do you balance these scales? I don’t know. I may never know. I may never understand, there are some things that are just too big.</div>
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Just now I look out the window, the sun is shining, the sky is so blue. I see Luc. 10 years ago he was worried about bombs falling in our yard. Today I see him, and he’s cutting the grass.</div>
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God Bless America.</div>
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Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-52092050796291928692011-08-11T07:37:00.001-04:002011-08-15T18:55:16.997-04:00Field of Dreams*<i>Written for the August/September issue of Robious Corrior Magazine</i><br />
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal">The start of the school year is just around the corner. We’ll head to the store to buy mountains of school supplies trailing our children who will bear a look of pitiful resignation: the summer is almost over. However, many will take to the fields for the ritual of Friday Night Lights. I love high school sports. It’s a joy to see athletes who have graduated beyond the ankle biter juice box leagues, flinging themselves around the field of play, passionate about sport, really<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> getting it.</i> However, there is always the few who wreck it for the many, who exhibit bad behavior and ruin it for everyone else. And it’s coming from the bleachers: <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“REF! ARE YOU BLIND???? THAT’S A BLATANT FOUL!!!!!”</b> Yes, I’m talking about the parents. Not all parents, just the nutty few. You know the kind I’m talking about: they are pillars of society, hold good jobs, keep their lawns neat, help elderly ladies cross the street. Put them anywhere near a place where their child is locked in athletic combat and they morph into a seething mass of screaming irrationality. They know their children’s sports stats thin-sliced to the nth factor, but ask them the name of their son or daughter’s math teacher and they look at you like you’re speaking in Aramaic. The cautionary tales abound of over-the-top sports parents – their patron saint is Marv Marinovich, who started training his son Todd to be an all-star quarterback at the tender age of one month. His father wondered how well a kid could be developed if ‘given the perfect environment’. So he set out to create it forgetting that his grand assumption neglected the very real fact that his kid would eventually have to inhabit a very imperfect world. I think Todd probably woke up one day and couldn’t even ask himself “what do I want to be when I grow up?” It was probably more like “WHO do I want to be when I grow up?” He was just a big grand experiment, an athletic monster to his father’s Dr. Frankenstein. The kid who was never allowed to have a Ding Dong growing up has spent most of the last 10 years in rehab. The moral of the story is this: <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">LET YOU KIDS HAVE A DAMN DING-DONG</b>. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The truth of the matter is that nothing kills the fun of kids sports like parents. The remedy is simple: we need to back off and shut up. Period. I know whereof I speak: My name is Monica and I’m a recovering sports parent. The following are my own stereotypes of over-the-top parents from my years of half-wit, unscientific and wholly undocumented soccer, football, hockey, figure skating, lacrosse, swimming, tennis, cross-country field research. Yes, I know: several of the aforementioned sports don’t use fields. Its allegory, get over it. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><u>The Early Achiever</u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">It’s a late summer football scrimmage. Parents are standing along the sidelines chatting, it’s a lovely late afternoon, the sun is just beginning to set. The air is fragrant with the smell of trampled grass. If you were to look at the field, you’d see novice football players and 4 coaches trying to coax some form of organized play out of them. It would – to the untrained eye – look like an exercise in cat herding. Next to you is a guy dressed in business attire. He’s shed his suit coat and loosened his tie. He stands there, unsmiling. “Look at them. It’s pathetic. You’d think those coaches would have prepared them better. Look – they can’t even run routes.” You look at him with a mixture of amusement and confusion; you wonder if he’s joking…you say gently, “Yeah, but… the kids are only SIX.” You hope you see some sense of logic enter the mind of this guy, but NOPE: you’ve met the Early Achiever. He (or she) is the guy (or gal) that didn’t make the cut in high school, or made the team but didn’t do anything extraordinary. He has ‘it’ all figured out. “It” is the reason why he/she didn’t make the team and usually heavily discounts an absence of natural athletic ability. And he is still bitter about it. On any given day his complaints are like a Chinese menu of excuses and the blame will fall squarely on the coaches, the athletic organization, or the mom who organizes the snacks. This guy may never graduate to full-fledged screaming in the stands because his kid will get sick of the constant grumbling and give up sports for something that will not attract the glare of parental attention, like Accounting.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>The Tennis Mom</u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">This sports parent almost exclusively appears on girls’ tennis teams. They are close cousins to their northern species, The Figure Skating Mom. They themselves typically belong to tennis clubs and are active participants in the sport. They are rarely seen out of their own jaunty tennis apparel, and are always well groomed. They have an overwhelming need to take over the tennis program and turn it into a junior version of the country club. They have somehow forgotten that parental participation shouldn’t extend beyond the checkbook and minivan. Some ban their daughter’s boyfriend from attending matches because “it’s distracting”. Their daughter’s seed on the team is inversely proportional to their mood. If another girl challenges their daughter for their spot on the ladder, they get so fiercely protective they make Tiger Mothers look like pussycats. They demand a buffet at each tennis match that typically includes the following list of snacks: “A sweet, a salty, Gatorade, bottled water, sandwiches, 7-layer Mexican dip” which is I believe more food than is needed for all participants in all 27 stages of the Tour de France. When challenged on the need for a catered affair, they will icily respond “IT’S TRADITION”. Do not – under any circumstances – reply “So is rampant obesity.” Jaunty tennis attire is not appropriate wear for a rumble.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>The Soccer Mom</u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Hasn’t this one been done to death? Yeah, I think so. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>The Lemon</u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">This parent is pretty bitter. A close relative of the early achiever, this parent’s child somehow manages to stay with the sport. The child can be gifted or not, a starter or not. The complaints aren’t usually about the performance of his/her child but about other kids out there, usually those that are better/faster/stronger. There is an inherent need to chip away at a performance. The amount of kid-bashing that goes on would make a Child Beauty Pageant Mother proud. Anything is fair game: their equipment, perceived dedication at practice, performance on game days, their ethnicity, shoe color, parents’ professions, suspected mental defects. They often accuse other players of cheating. You can spot these people from afar by simply looking a guy who is surrounded by other parents squirming to get away. One of my son’s plays the cello, and I tried to imagine a couple of parents engaging in this behavior at an audition. This is how I imagine it to go:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Parent A: Did you see Billy?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Parent B: Yeah. You know he’s going to get the first chair, he’s so good.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Parent A: Pfft. I know, pathetic. Do you know his private instructor? NOT EVEN EUROPEAN.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Parent B: Ok, but…</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Parent A: And his parents? They have the orchestra director WRAPPED AROUND THEIR FINGER. He gets to leave early because of his private lessons.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Parent B: Well, yeah, but the kid is nearly a prodigy, they’re saying “Julliard”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Parent A: With that instrument? YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. He doesn’t even have a BELGIAN BRIDGE.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Parent B: Well the music he plays, it’s so beautiful.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Parent A: WHO GIVES A CRAP ABOUT THE MUSIC?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">You get my drift. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>The Thief</u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">When I was growing up, there were these two girls who were incredibly gifted runners. Ridiculously so. They were a year apart and were breaking national age-group records in middle school. Their father was beyond intense. I mentioned him to my dad a few weeks ago and he replied “He was a monster”. If the girls didn’t run the time he demanded he was known to hurl empty soda cans at them and scream at the top of his lungs. I’m not sure if the girls ran out of fear or the need to please but by the time they were seniors in high school these girls who had competed at the national level were washed up, burned out, barely able to win a local meet and rebelling hard against their dictatorial dad. I competed against these girls and despite their handing me my rump in every single meet, I really felt sorry for them. I’d see them out on training runs and there was no joy in their face. They’d be out there pounding the miles with this look of – I don’t know – maybe, uncontained fury. I always wonder what happened to them. I couldn’t imagine running with that weight of my parents expectations on my shoulders. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">I used “Mr. G” as an example of the over-the-top parent, and we’ve all seen them out there. Their kid isn’t necessarily a national caliber athlete – that is wholly immaterial. What they have in common is that they’ve stolen the dream from their child. Whatever fun their child had is long gone and has been replaced by the expectation to perform at a certain level for the benefit of the parent. Somehow the term “extra-curricular activity” is lost in the equation. They morph from reasonable people to thinking the balance of the earth rests in the outcome of the sporting event. Their entire ego is wrapped up in it, and if their child (or child’s team) fails, they have failed, they lose too. They’ve forgotten the meaning of the word ‘spectator’. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">I witnessed perhaps the worst example this at a lacrosse game this past spring when a father was thrown out of the facility for verbally harassing and threatening the referee. I watched this man – who is probably a pretty reasonable guy – spin up and out of control the further his son’s team fell behind. His intermittent shouts turned into a full-throttled barrage of insults at perceived missed calls, accusations of favoritism and finally – the coup de grace – threatening bodily harm on the ref. Finally – after 30 minutes of the screaming (during which a substantial gap opened up between him and the next person) – the ref threw a yellow flag for an offense committed off the field of play. He motioned for the coach, met him mid-field and said – very loudly – “I want THAT MAN OUT OF THIS FACILITY NOW!” The father threw his hands up in the air and stomped away before he could be escorted out. I felt only pity for his son, who was left to finish playing the game. I wondered how he managed to play with the humiliatingly heavy cloak of his father’s public shame draped squarely on his padded shoulders. For these people, there is only one cure: <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DUCT TAPE.</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">As parents, we need to recognize that our child’s best might not be THE BEST. And while we may dream of our son or daughter reaching the highest pinnacle of sport, of imagining them standing on the top podium, belting out the Star Spangled Banner, the camera panning to a shot of you, the weeping parent who drove him 2 HOURS A DAY TO PRACTICE! WHAT DEDICATION TO THE CHILD! Cue the sappy music… STOP!!!! STOP IT RIGHT NOW. I know, it’s hard, but there is a cure. Be the ride, the financial sponsor, the reasonable cheerleader. Let the coaches teach them a bit about life using the field of play as the chalkboard. Let their teams be THEIR TEAMS; you can cry and cheer <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">for</i> them, not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">with</i> them, because you are – I’m sorry – an outsider. Back off, loosen the apron strings, and if you’re sitting on the side lines, for heaven’s sake put away your whistle. Most importantly recognize your kid’s dream as theirs and theirs alone. They should have sole dominion over them, they are entitled to it. And you’ll see that in play – not in sleep as Shakespeare suggests – what dreams may come.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">And if you can’t do that, then bring a big roll of duct tape. </div>Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-80088159095845149812011-06-12T21:42:00.003-04:002011-07-01T17:56:45.087-04:00Ghost Stories<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">I recently went to Boston for a work-related day trip.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> I foolishly left my phone charger behind and I'm convinced this small omission resulted in an upending of karmic forces that caused the delay – and finally – cancellation of my flight home to Richmond.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> I found myself in the unenviable position of being at the airport, my iPhone running on fumes, and not even a toothbrush in my possession.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> After grumbling to the<i> USAirways</i> representative about the weather (she unsurprisingly grumbled back.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Airline counter people are rarely known for their sunny dispositions), I made my way to the ironically named “Customer Services” desk to try and get a hotel for the evening.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> The closest hotel was not exactly close, located in the town of Winthrop.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> The hotel wasn’t your generic type of lodging, but an inn that the shuttle driver told me was a converted Jewish Community Center.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> I was later to be told it was a converted school.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Regardless, it was a converted something and I noted wood floors throughout and very high ceilings as I made my way to my room with complementary toothpaste but no brush.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> When I’d asked for both, the desk clerk went to a closet and rummaged through a small plastic basket.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Apparently they don’t often cater to stranded travelers.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> I was convinced my room was a converted squash court and soon discovered that the wood floors, high ceilings, and – I swear - paper mach</span><span style="font-size: small;">é walls resulted in it having the effect of an echo chamber: I heard people walking overhead and down the hallway all evening.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Voices carried, heels on the floor reverberated; it was like trying to sleep at a Celtics game.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">I awoke the next morning having gotten approximately 37 minutes of sleep (none of it consecutive) and felt a displacement and weariness down to my bones.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> The weather didn’t help: it was overcast and sprinkling outside.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> The inn was without a restaurant and the front desk clerk directed me to “walk two stop signs up the street” to a place called “The High Tide”.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> The walk up the street was longer than I’d anticipated, and depressing: every house seemed gray, and trees were dropping blossoms that were mashed and tattered on the damp sidewalk.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> The whole place looked tired.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> I entered the small town center I saw the effects of the recession everywhere: shuttered up business, empty storefronts.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Peeling signs on stores that hadn’t had a person cross the threshold in many a moon.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> One hardware store was still operating, rakes and shovels stacked against the end of one wall.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> I opened the door to “The High Tide” and a bell jangled.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Every head turned and looked at me from the counter and I felt like I’d interrupted a conversation.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> It was the kind of place that has disappeared from most towns and been replaced by generic chains with food as predictable and unremarkable as the clientele.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> It had a long counter with stools, a large grill at one end of the counter, </span><span style="font-size: small;"> a few tables, painted blue and white tin signs on the walls touting breakfast specials, the prices taped over many times.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> I was clearly a stranger here and after an awkward moment of silence that felt like an hour but was probably more like 5 seconds, I shook off my self-consciousness and made my way to the counter and sat down.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> I needed coffee and badly.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> I ordered my food and the cook – a thin, craggy older guy dressed in a ball cap and plaid shirt and who looked like the love child of actor Steve Buscemi and Gilligan – got busy on the grill.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">These were clearly locals and regulars; they knew each other and their banter easy, their regional accents thick as chowder.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Their dress reflected their blue-collar lives and I couldn’t have been more out of place in my business attire if I’d come dressed as Scarlett O’Hara.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> One guy got up to pay his bill, easily chatting with and hitting on the waitress.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> I guessed him to be in his 50’s, she a good 20 years younger, and he asked her to go to Vegas with him when he and his brothers take their mother for her 80<sup>th</sup> birthday.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Apparently, I found the place in the world where an appropriate birthday celebration for your elderly mother is a trip to sin city.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> He was loud and standing right next to me and it was all I could do not to turn and just look at him, to see what a character like this looked like.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> I somehow had the feeling that he wanted me to, so he could size up the stranger in their midst, quiz me on who I was, where I was from, what I was doing here.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">As I was sipping my coffee, I looked around the room and marveled that this place, for the most part, had probably remained unchanged since it opened.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> The only exception came when the waitress brought me my juice in a small plastic cup and was hit with disappointment that it wasn’t in one of those heavy contoured glasses found at diners.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> The plastic was an anachronism here, a disposable item in a place that had endured the years.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> The remaining patrons chatted about the murder of a young boy at the hands of his mother, his body found on a remote road in New Hampshire.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> “I just don’t understand it…why didn’t she just drop him off with someone, a relative?”</span><span style="font-size: small;"> <i> </i>“It’s like that mother in Houston who drowned her five children….” They debated the topic for a while – never once suggesting that perhaps mental illness was a factor at play in the commission of the crime – and an elderly heavy-set guy two stools down from me finally shook his head and ended the discussion with “She’s not from around here.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> She’s from Texas.”</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">My food arrived, my plate heaped with eggs, bacon, toast, and homefries.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> I could have taken the plate and shaken it and the food would have remained stationary: this café was either unaware or unconcerned with the ill effects of saturated fat.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> It tasted good.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Really, really good.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> I’d bought a book at the Airport and had it on the counter next to me.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> The man, who’d neatly explained the crime as a by-product of the suspect’s geography, looked over and asked “What are you reading?</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Is it good?”</span><span style="font-size: small;"> I explained that I’d bought it at the airport, but hadn’t started it.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> He asked where I was staying and I told him about the inn, and then offered up the information about the wood floors and the noise.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> He then offered up that the building was in fact a converted school… and the noise I heard?</span><span style="font-size: small;"> He had an explanation for that too.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> “Old buildings make noise.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> I didn’t used to believe in ghosts.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> But then I moved into the house of my neighbors.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> She’d died of cancer.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> He was so sad that he committed suicide after.”</span><span style="font-size: small;"> My first thought is WHY on earth anyone would willingly want to live in a house with such a history.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> But being the outsider I just nodded my head.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> “So, we had a ghost in the house.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> I’m sure it was him.”</span><span style="font-size: small;"> He went on to explain that he was an amiable spirit who didn’t like discord.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> If he started arguing with his wife or daughter-in-law, the ghost would turn on the TV or make things fall from the table.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> “He liked the house peaceful.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> He’s not in the house anymore though.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> He left when my daughter-in-law moved out.”</span><span style="font-size: small;"> He spoke so matter-of-factly, and the only thing I could manage to ask was “Do you miss him?”</span><span style="font-size: small;"> He replied with quiet sadness “Yeah, I do.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> He was a nice ghost.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Another man got up and made his way to the cash register.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> He saw my book and asked “Whatcha readin?</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Is it good?”</span><span style="font-size: small;"> This question is evidently the local icebreaker.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> The cook and two guys in stools at the other end of the counter started arguing about sports.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Boston fans are passionate about their teams, and it was at this point that I noticed the cook was wearing a New York Yankees cap.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> In Boston, this would be the same as wearing an “I Heart Bin Laden” shirt at ground zero.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> I couldn’t believe the chutzpah of a chowderhead rooting for the <span style="font-size: small;">Yankees</span>.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> I said – without thinking – “You’ve got a YANKEES cap on?</span><span style="font-size: small;"> HERE?</span><span style="font-size: small;"> IN BOSTON?</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Are you nuts?”</span><span style="font-size: small;"> He smiled at me and opened the buttons on his navy and white checked shirt to reveal a Yankees t-shirt underneath.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> “I gave up rootin’ faw the Red Sawx in 1968.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> What – I was supposed ta wait 86 yeahs?</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Fahget it.”</span><span style="font-size: small;"> I shook my head “Wow, you must catch a lot of flack.”</span><span style="font-size: small;"> He shot back quickly “I cook ya food – no one says nothin” and laughed. </span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">I paid my bill – where can you get breakfast for $6.25 anymore? – and made my way on the damp streets toward the inn and the shuttle to the airport for my flight home.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> During the trek back I had this thought that these were the most real people I’d met in a long time.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> But later, on the flight back to Richmond, it occurred to me that maybe they weren’t, that if I were to go back to the café tomorrow, I’d find “The High Tide” long ago boarded up, it’s tin signs peeling and hanging neglected on the walls and discover that the folks I’d met weren’t in fact real, but spirits from another time.</span></div>Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-40999803943918175452011-04-08T08:18:00.008-04:002011-04-09T09:48:35.107-04:00Notes on the Run - "Forces of Nature"<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>*Note: A piece I wrote for the April Issue of <b>Robious Corridor Magazine. </b>With a few edits.</i></span><br />
<br />
<div><span style="font-size: large;">I don’t know what it is about spring that makes me become so aware of nature. Summer comes and plants grow quickly or whither in the summer sun. In Autumn, the days shorten and the trees take their cue and drop their leaves. I’ve been through hurricane Isabel and remember feeling helpless against Mother Nature’s ultimate hissy fit and bad air day. Trees looked like a tangle of pixie sticks all over Salisbury. We get the occasional snowfall in Richmond, and on rare occasion an accumulation that causes everything slowdown and we have no choice but to go into a naturally-enforced time out. But for the most part, I tend not to be overly aware of nature. Until spring. I’m aware of it so much in my morning runs – most of which are in the dark. The first portent of the vernal equinox is the faint glow of dawn in the sky coming earlier and earlier each morning. It’s the raw scent of the warming earth and the sight of the daffodils ready for their seasonal debut. Recently at mile 14 of a long run, when my legs were tired and my fun meter near zero, I saw the first blooming tree of the season and those few simple blossoms of purple gave me a lift that carried me through the end of the run.</span></div></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">You can smell spring in the air. It’s the warming of the ground, the damp earthy smell that signals the awaking of it all. The bulbs push through the ground, flowers crack open the husks. Hibernating animals begin their sluggish awakening. I drive past Keswick farms and see the spring lambs. Spring is so restless, so relentless. Mother Nature is like that. </span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">I think of spring as this quiet awakening – the gentle warming, the patient progress of the plants, the minute or two of extra sunlight as the days pass. I love the feeling of rebirth after the months of light-deprived sacrifice. It’s the needing only a sweater instead of a jacket, and then short sleeves instead of long. Picking up my son after lacrosse practice and not turning on the car’s headlights. Cooking dinner and still having the sunlight lighting up the kitchen. It feels like renewal, like the real promise and start to the new year.</span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s a morning at the beginning of March. Spring is a couple of weeks away and it’s just a weekend before Daylight Savings time. The sun is coming up earlier every day. I finish the run with my friends and need to run a few more miles on my own. The sky is clear and it is so quiet out but for the raucous singing of the birds. I think they’re welcoming the warming air and the change in the light that makes them start building nests. There is a pair of red finches nesting in the spotlights at the corner of my house. They define the term “spring into action” and think about the irony of the phrase. In a couple of weeks I’ll be stocking up on Swiffers to tackle the yellow-green pollen that will have invaded every crevice of the house, and pop the occasional Allegra to combat my itchy left eye. Yup: that’s the extent of my seasonal allergies: an annoyingly itchy left eye.</span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">But Mother Nature can be volatile. She can bring floods and tornadoes. On this morning it is just before a monstrous 1-2 punch of earthquake and tsunami in Japan. Videos of the disaster show the water overpowering everything in its path, making matchsticks of buildings, picking up cars and buses and sweeping them away without slowing. This force of nature is horrifying and Mother Nature can render us dumbstruck with her ferocity and tempestuousness. She can make us feel so very small, so very helpless.</span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">On this morning, I don’t think of her destructive power. It’s a calm day, the morning light soft, the sky a bright blue. I hear the birds singing and the air is scented with the perfume of the warming earth. I see nothing but her quiet beauty and gentle loveliness. I keep running toward home, my shadow stretched long in the rising sun.</span></div></span></div>Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-34048089706470072502011-03-21T15:47:00.000-04:002011-03-21T15:47:38.253-04:00Notes to Self: Tobacco Road Marathon Race Report3/21/11<br />
<br />
Hey Pfitz<em>. </em><br />
<em>Yeah? You ran yesterday didn’t you… how did it go</em>?<br />
Well Pfitz, despite doing just about every mile of your savagery cum training plan, I didn’t feel fit. <br />
<em>Get out. How can that be?</em><br />
I don’t know. I just didn’t get my ‘marathon skinny’ going.<em> </em><br />
<em>Well maybe if you’d put down the chardonnay and candy…</em><br />
Don’t get all scientific with me<em>. </em>I get it. But I also think it’s because I haven’t done a marathon in 4 years. And I was<em>… </em><br />
<em>Yes?</em><br />
I was…<em> </em><br />
<em>SPIT IT OUT!</em><br />
I was kinda sorta scared.<em> </em><br />
<em>YOU? GIVE. ME. A. BREAK. </em><br />
First, stop stealing my punctuation. Second, UP. YOURS.<br />
<em>OK ok . I know, you’re probably all sore and cranky today.</em><br />
Meh, my quads are little sore, but I feel pretty good.<br />
<em>See, I told you I trained you good.</em><br />
Well, you know I missed my last planned 20 with that foot thing. And that did wonders to sprout the seeds of doubt already sown in my head.<br />
<em>Is this a race report or ‘The Grapes of Wrath’?</em><br />
You wanna test the ‘Cranky’ part of your “sore and cranky’ theory?<br />
<em>Um no.</em><br />
Then pipe down and listen, I’ll tell you about the race.<br />
<em>Oh. OK. Let me pull up a comfy chair.</em><br />
Sure, whatever.<br />
<em>Should I order in some food? You tend to ramble on.</em><br />
If you wanna keep those kneecaps I’d suggest you pretend you’re mute for a bit.<br />
<em>Sorry. Carry on.</em><br />
Thank you your highness. So, about a week before the race I started to kinda think ‘How am I going to get through this?’<br />
<em>It’s called ‘Taper Madness’, remember?</em><br />
Well, it was more than that. I didn’t have any explicit time goals, I just wanted to have a good race and not suffer badly. I wanted to finish and want to do another one. I didn’t want to be chanting ‘Never again….never again…never again…’ with each footfall.<br />
<em>I don’t think you could said ‘Never again’ 3 times with each footfall unless you’re talking really fast.</em><br />
Don’t – DO NOT – make me get the duct tape. OK, so I started to toy with the idea of Gallowaying the first half of the race.<br />
<em>Gallo-whoing?</em><br />
Galloway. Jeff Galloway.<br />
<em>Oh, the guy who ran the 10k in the 1972 Olympics? The guy who is the proponent of the wussy ‘RUN-WALK-RUN’ program?</em><br />
Yeah. He was a non-medalist in the Olympics just like you.<br />
<em>Ow.</em><br />
Anyway I’d done Galloway when I’d come back from injuries. And it was kinda fun and I thought “Why not?” The theory is that it delays the onset of muscle fatigue. So I made the decision to run at least the first half ‘a la’ Galloway. I also decided that if it was warmer, it would be smart to keep me from overheating.<br />
<em>Is that all it takes?</em><br />
You are treading on some thin ice dude.<br />
<em>I know, sorry. Some days I just crack myself up. How was the weather? Was the forecast apocalyptic? Your track record makes me think you pissed off Mother Nature something fierce. What – you don’t recycle or something?</em><br />
I have to agree with you on that. But apparently, Mother Nature and I are now BFF’s because IT WAS PERFECT. Seriously. 44 degrees at the start, maybe 52 at the finish. And the course – THE COURSE! - 20 miles of it was on a converted rail bed that was mostly packed earth. So nice to run on! And tree-lined throughout – near constant shade! Anyway, here’s how it all shook out:<br />
Michel and I went down the day before and I hit the tiny little expo. The merchandise was pretty thin and we both cracked up at the guy in a booth who was selling rugs. Oriental rugs.<br />
<em>Rugs?</em><br />
Yeah. Total non-sequitur for sure but gave us a hearty laugh.<br />
After the expo we went to buy Gatorade and bananas. Then we went to dinner at Bonefish Grill.<br />
<em>What – no pasta?</em><br />
I can’t do red sauce before a marathon and knew if I got some rice and bread or something I’d be fine. While waiting for our table we were sitting at the bar tables next to some people who turned out to be from Niagara Falls, NY. Small world. Then, on the other side was a mother and son who were running the race. They were really nice, had a great chat with both of them. By the time we got our table it was like 7:15 and I was getting itchy to just eat and get outta there. On the way home, we saw the incredible “Super Moon” on the rise. Nice way to end the night.<br />
<br />
I got up the next morning at 5:00 and the thought of eating anything was nauseating; I have such a hard time eating in the morning. I made some coffee and then mixed some Gatorade and chia seed gel with it. I’d bought bananas and instant grits but the only thing I could manage to eat was some of Robin’s granola bars she’d made for me and the Gatorade/chia mix. It was not a breakfast of champions but I typically run on a mostly empty stomach. My plan was to supplement along the way.<br />
<br />
Michel drove me to the start at the USA Baseball facility – I got there with about half hour to spare. It was 44 degrees out and I was wearing my bike-style CW-X shorts and a fitted tank. 20 minutes before the start, I ditched my jacket and pants giving explicit instructions to Michel to meet me at the finish with them. The race gets two thumbs up for having ample port-a-potties for sure. On my way there I saw the sign for the Beer Garden after the finish. My only thought was there has to be an easier way to score a couple free beers than running 26.2. The race does get a thumb down for starting late. The Half was supposed to go off at 7:00, the full marathon 15 minutes later. The half didn’t go off until 7:15 and by then I was really chilled. When we lined up for the start of the marathon, I picked up a ‘throw away’ sweatshirt from someone in the half and put it on to stay warm. My only thought was that Robin the germ phobe would be horrified.<br />
<br />
The gun went off at around 7:30 and off we went. I started easy and at eight minutes and 30 seconds my watch beeped for me to walk for a minute. I was very self conscious and made sure I walked off the road so as to not impede runners. I just KNEW there was someone out there sneering at me, but I just kept thinking “Yeah, and I’ll see you at mile 20.” Ahead of me, two women stopped to walk as well. At the two mile marker, I stopped for my minute walk as did the two women. They were also doing walk breaks. At this point I was looking for a darn port-o-potty with all the gatoarde I’d consumed. At mile 3 we turned off the roads and on to the American Tobacco Trail. It was really pretty – nice packed surface and lined with huge pine trees. At mile 4 I finally saw 1 port-a-potty and by the grace of God a woman jumped out just as I was running up. In and out and no wait. I exited and 100 yards later saw Michel in the throng of spectators, gave him the thumbs up and kept going. I looked for the two woman and saw the hot-pink top of one of them up ahead. I passed the 4:15 pace group in which my new friend Sondra was running. By mile 5 I’d caught up to the other two woman and we walked together. A guy ran buy us and said grumpily “You’re impeding other runners.” We weren’t walking 3 across at all – he was just a running snob. We started running again and passed grumpy guy. At our next walk break we walked single file and he went buy us. I’m sure he was feeling a bit self-conscious that he’d said something to us and we kept passing him with reckless abandon. About this time the lead runners had looped back and they went flying buy. I still get a thrill seeing people run so fast with such apparent ease. Lots of cheers from the crowd. We hit the turnaround at mile 7.5, and I looked at my watch split of 1:10:27. I was a little disappointed that it wasn’t faster, but I hadn’t been paying attention to the splits. I remembered Galloways benchmark that you lose about 15 seconds a mile with the walk breaks, but the math wasn’t quite working out. Oh well. I kept running and at this point one of the two women – Christine – and I had separated from the other. She asked me if I thought we could break 4:00 and I told her we might. At this point I did glance at the average mile pace for the running portions and saw they were in the 8:40’s and 8:50’s and I thought we might have a shot to make up some ground. We were still playing ping-pong with the grumpy guy and he was starting to look hot and sweaty. We saw a woman who was dressed up in St. Patrick’s day gear and I noted I’d seen her pass her on the way back from the first turnaround and that we’d made up some significant ground on her.<br />
<br />
At mile 11, we passed the spectator area and I tossed my hat, gloves, and arm warmers to Michel. My legs still felt very good, very fresh. At that point I made the decision to Galloway until Mile 20. I looked forward to the rest stops and it made the miles just fly by. In mile 12, Christine and I dusted grumpy man for good. She was in good spirits as well and we hit the half at 2:03 and change. I knew a sub-4 was probably out of the question but I really didn’t care. It was here I clicked ‘stop’ on my garmin instead of ‘lap’…and I didn’t realize until a good 30 seconds later. DAMN. <br />
<br />
At mile 15 there was a long incline – not steep, but there. And then at mile 15.8, my Garmin lost its signal. It’s amazing how easy it is to get hooked on the technology. I didn’t know what my running pace was so I just told Christine we’d have to go on feel. We crossed the main road to the other arm of the trail. We saw the 22 mile marker on the other side. I said to Christine “3 miles out, 3 miles back.” At mile 17 I saw Michel again at the spectators section. I hadn’t expected to see him there and it was a nice surprise. My legs were starting to ache just a little. It seemed like we were on a perpetual incline and I made the comment that it would be nice on the way back. The trail was just so beautiful and we saw some spectators who had with them a very large GOAT. Not something you see in a marathon every day for sure. At mile 19 and change we made the turn around and hit mile 20 at 3:07 and I quietly told Christine that sub 4 was pretty much out of the question; she was on pace for a monster PR and she was totally fine with it. My goal had been to finish anywhere between my PR of 3:48 and my PW of 4:10.<br />
<br />
It started to get hard. I sent up a prayer for a friend’s mom who was recently diagnosed with cancer. This mile was for her. I put on my iPod but it was more of an annoyance and I took it off after a couple of minutes. I was looking at my watch for the interval distance and we were both getting quiet. I started to think I was losing it a bit because I felt like we were on a perpetual incline – I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. I thought of my mom quite a bit, thought of when she was dying and how much harder that must have been on her than what I was feeling. I felt her with me out there; I could imagine her voice so clearly.<br />
<br />
I’d been good about hydrating and taking gels, but my legs and hips were aching. At mile 21 I heard a “Go MONICA!” from the other side of the train and saw Sondra – she was running a hell of a race! At mile 22 I saw the lady I’d met at the Bonefish grill. I realized I didn’t even know her name. At the mile 23 water station I took a cup of Gatorade and my stomach rebelled. I grabbed a cup of water and drank it down but I felt the wave of nausea rip through me. At the turn onto the main road with 3.2 miles to go, Christine’s husband Stuart jumped in. He’d run the half and was pumped up and chatty and said “Think of the PIZZA at the finish!!!” I thought I would vomit. The running was now a grind. A woman was holding a sign that made us all laugh: <em>Bloody nipples turn me on. </em>My left foot was cramping in the arch and my left hamstring felt like it was going to seize at any moment. My thighs and hips were very sore. We’d been shielded from the elements on the trail, and when we turned on the road we got a face full of wind followed by an uphill. I used my arms as much as I could and made a crack to Christine “That wind wasn’t really necessary was it?” I wasn’t even looking at my pace, just the distance left to the next mile marker and the walk break. Christine’s husband was chattering away and she finally said “Stuart: stop talking, it’s annoying me.” It's amazing how little tolerance you have for anything when you're uncomfortable. After the mile 24 walk break, my legs hurt to start running, my left foot cramping even more. I had a couple dark moments, wanting to just break into a walk and thought “Banish them, banish those thoughts.” The nausea was irritating. At mile 25, we did the quick walk break and that mile and a quarter seemed very long. At 25.3 I said “less than a mile to go!”… at mile 25.6 I said “less than 3 laps of the track!” Christine slowed just a bit and I said “Come on girlfriend, I’m not crossing that finish with anyone but you!” We passed the mile 26 marker and kept running. Up ahead we saw the 13 mile marker for the half marathon and a turn and I said “there it is! A tenth to go!” We made the turn and Christine said “Come on MONICA!” and we both ran as fast as our tired legs would carry us. I saw 4:07 on the clock, and I had a momentary wave of disappointment: I thought I’d come in under 4:05. It didn’t last. I crossed the finish line and stopped and bent over. My legs and left foot just ached. I was so happy to be done running. I gave Christine a big hug – she’d run close to a 50 minute PR – and got my finishers medal that I joked was the size of a hubcap.<br />
<br />
<em>Pfitz: So… what were your splits?</em><br />
Well, I’m kind of amazed. As much as I hurt those last 3 or 4 miles, I didn’t really slow down. My first half was in 2:03:21, and my second half was in 2:03:53.<br />
<em>Well, you can’t complain about consistency.</em><br />
Nope. Now that I’ve kinda figured it out a bit, who knows? Maybe I can run faster. It was kinda fun.<br />
<em>And the beer at the finish?</em><br />
It was most excellent Pfitz, most excellent.<em> </em>Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-19232691958284207312011-03-14T20:12:00.000-04:002011-03-14T20:12:36.860-04:00Happy in the Chase<i>Note: This is my Boston race report from the 2007 race. I'm posting it on my blog in homage to all my dear friends who are running the race this year! I hope my description gives you inspiration... proud of all of you!!!</i><br />
<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><u>Happy in the Chase</u></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Boston</i></b><b><i> Marathon, 2007</i></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="text-decoration: none;"><br />
</span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Be careful what you wish for.</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">I look out the window of the hotel.<span> </span>It’s 6:30 am and I see rain falling slantwise, wind whipping the flags on the flagpoles.<span> </span>I think of what I have said to my husband 2 days earlier <i>Why do these have to be so hard?<span> </span>Why can’t I run a race without having to battle the elements as well?</i><span> </span>It was a pure and simple whine.<span> </span>An emotional vent, a rage at the heavens.<span> </span><i>Poor me</i>.<span> </span>I get over it.<span> </span>Because you can’t run 26.2 miles feeling sorry for yourself; you might as well not even start.<span> </span>Suck it up, get your game face on, and roll.<span> </span>Make it a W<i>ho is the toughest? </i>Channel your inner Prefontaine.<span> </span>Make it one for the ages.<span> </span><i>I ran Boston 2007.<span> </span>I <b>FINISHED</b> Boston 2007</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Training for this race was a grind.<span> </span>Spring marathons are the hardest because the training is done in the cold and dark of winter.<span> </span>And I started in a bit of a hole: the Charlotte Marathon was in mid-December and was followed by some recovery downtime, a minor injury, and a nasty bout of the flu.<span> </span>The new year dawned with my not having run more than a mile in 3 weeks and the realization I had less then 4 months to prepare for Boston.<span> </span>And Boston is special.<span> </span>It’s not like any other race: it’s the big daddy, the Mecca, the Holy Grail, the “show”, the super bowl of running.<span> </span>Pick your overused cliché; they all work.<span> </span>You run in the shadow of giants.<span> </span>You breathe their air.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My training was flat.<span> </span>I logged more miles than ever, but I was tired.<span> </span>The Richmond/Charlotte double had taken its toll.<span> </span>There are people who can run marathon after marathon with little time in between.<span> </span>I am not one of them.<span> </span>I was weary - both mentally and physically - and my training reflected it.<span> </span>Most of it was alone.<span> </span>I missed the company of Franny and Robin on the long runs.<span> </span>Robin was sidelined with a stress fracture and Franny was taking time off for work and family obligations.<span> </span>I looked forward to the weeks after Boston - not the race itself - so I could take a step back from the monster miles, the stomach-burning tempo runs and catch up on my rest and my life. Boston was supposed to be my victory lap.<span> </span>In those intervening months of training I thought more than once <i>Be careful what you wish for.</i><span> </span>I had no time goals.<span> </span>I wanted to enjoy the run, the course, the crowds.<span> </span>I didn’t want to go for broke and crash.<span> </span>I didn’t want to run so hard that the course and experience would be nothing more than a tunnel-vision blur.<span> </span>I am guilty of the mortal sin of covetousness: I want that finisher’s medal, nothing more.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">With less than a week to go, the weatherman crashes my most modest of dreams with a single meteorological term that turned my knees to gelatin: Nor’Easter.<span> </span>What kind of word is that anyway?<span> </span>It sounds like something from Moby Dick.<span> </span>It’s a made-up term for a very real weather phenomenon. <span> </span>It is inches of rain and strong winds in bone-chilling cold.<span> </span><i>Shit</i>. I wonder about those predicted 30+ mph headwinds, with 50 mph gusts; <i>Could I take that kind of a beating over 26+ miles? Damn.</i><span> </span>I joke to my friends, <i>All I prayed for was “Please, let it not be warm.”<span> </span>I guess I should have been a little more specific on the downside.</i><span> </span>I laugh, I fret, I cry.<span> </span>There is no way I’m not starting this race.<span> </span>There is no way I’m not finishing. It probably won’t be pretty.<span> </span>It won’t be perfect.<span> </span>This is life.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Pre-Game</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">I arrive in Boston on Saturday, a day earlier then planned.<span> </span>The forecast for the bad weather has forced me to change my travel plans.<span> </span>I have wholly committed to running this race.<span> </span>But I have to actually GET to the starting line.<span> </span>My flight is not direct, and from the segment from Philly to Boston, there are no less than 4 other runners headed to the race.<span> </span>This gives me hope.<span> </span>When I arrive in Boston, I get my rental car and proceed directly to the runners’ expo at the convention center.<span> </span>The first order of business is to pick up my race number.<span> </span>I am bib number 17288.<span> </span>I pass the rows of runners with bib numbers in the 4-digits.<span> </span>I am humbled.<span> </span>I am a piker, a bush-league runner next to them.<span> </span>I find the line with my bib assignment and pick up my race packet.<span> </span>I then proceed past the rows of runners who have higher bib assignments.<span> </span>My head is held a bit higher. <i>Faster than you.<span> </span>Faster than you.<span> </span>And you and you and you.</i><span> </span>Most of the time running is not so much about being first, but about not being last.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The expo is jammed and frenetic.<span> </span>The highlight is “THE WALL”.<span> </span>Adidas has their campaign, their “Reason <i>XXX</i> for running the Boston Marathon”.<span> </span>Reasons range from the trite (“Chicks dig runners”) to the philosophical (“Cheaper than therapy”) to the inspirational (“Running for Joe who is stationed in Iraq”).<span> </span>Any runner can grab a “Reason #” bib, write down their reason, and stick it to the wall.<span> </span>I don’t even have to think about mine.<span> </span>I grab the bib, stick it to the wall, grab the Sharpie hanging from a string and scrawl my reason.<span> </span>I take a photo to memorialize it. <i>To run in the footsteps of my dad.<span> </span>– Monica C.<span> </span>#17288</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">BJ, Erin, and Reen will drive with me to the state park at Hopkinton.<span> </span>From there I’ll take a shuttle bus to the start.<span> </span>A day earlier, I’d chatted with a woman who was also staying at our hotel in Waltham.<span> </span>She was debating with how to get to the start.<span> </span>When I go to the front desk that morning to get a bowl for my 3 packs of instant oatmeal – my pre-race breakfast of choice – and to check out the howling wind and rain, I see her.<span> </span>Her parents and husband are in tow.<span> </span>It is 7:00 am.<span> </span>They are headed to Hopkinton.<span> </span>I’m not even dressed for the race.<span> </span>I tell her <i>Good Luck!<span> </span>Hang in there, stay warm.</i><span> </span>To myself, I’m thinking <i>ARE YOU CRAZY?<span> </span>It’s over 3 hours to race time.<span> </span>What do you intend to do?<span> </span>Freeze in the interim?<span> </span></i>I’m as equal a novice to the race as she, but can’t help to think – as she fights to open the door against the raging wind – <i>Rookie.<span> </span>It ain’t gonna take 3 hours to get to the start 14 miles away.</i><span> </span>I’m certainly not being humble, but her caution borders on the absurd.<span> </span>The look in her eyes transmits nothing but fear.<span> </span><i>She’s done before she’s even started.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My phone beeps in volumes those 24 hours before the race.<span> </span>Text messages flow like the rain outside. From Craig, my dear South African running friend/coworker <i>I will be sitting in my office with an umbrella open in support of your gallant and amazing run…</i>From Maria <i>Hey, what’s a little rain and wind </i>and from Michel, my husband, who aches to be here<i> U can do it.<span> </span>U know you can.<span> </span>I love you.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve been dropped at the State Park at Hopkinton.<span> </span>All roads in are closed for all but residents.<span> </span>The sheer volume of runners would overrun a town of its size.<span> </span>Shuttle buses will take us in from this point.<span> </span>I exit the car with a steady rain falling, winds gusting all around me.<span> </span>I’m in full Gore-Tex rain gear, and old shoes and socks are on my feet.<span> </span>A quick hug to Erin, Reen, and BJ, and I’m off across the parking lot to get on the first available bus.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After I’m dropped off, I make the half-mile trek to the “Athletes Village”. It sounds so Olympian, but in reality the athletic fields and parking lot of the local middle school have been appropriated and packed with a large white tent, more port-a-johns than can be counted, and school buses for the bag-check. During this half-mile walk, I phone my dad.<span> </span>I know he is concerned about the weather.<span> </span>I call to tell him that the rain and wind have substantially abated.<span> </span>I don’t want him to worry for the next few hours.<span> </span>The wind chill is there, but I have dressed for the occasion.<span> </span>The rain is a steady drizzle interrupted by the occasional downpour, but the weathermen have assured us that it will get better, if colder, as the race progresses.<span> </span><span> </span>At the village, I phone my friend Glenn.<span> </span>I’m trying to get a hold of Greta, his wife.<span> </span>Her bib number is also in the 17-thousands; we’ll be in the same starting corral.<span> </span>He tells me what she’s wearing.<span> </span>I change into my race shoes, peel off the rain-resistant gear, and check my bag.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I make the half-mile trek to the start and my corral.<span> </span>I’m making small talk with another runner.<span> </span>I remember nothing more about her than I’m sure she remembers about me.<span> </span>We’re passing the time, trying to forget what may lie ahead of us<i>.<span> </span>Wind? Rain? Who knows.<span> </span>Give me the strength.</i><span> </span>I whisper a plea, a prayer for courage.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At the corral, I look for Greta.<span> </span>1,000 people are in this area.<span> </span>Will I find a blond woman in a Kelly green jacket?<span> </span>With 2 minutes to the start, I miraculously spot her and make my way to her.<span> </span>My greeting is a frenzied <i>GRETA!<span> </span>WE’RE HERE!<span> </span>CAN YOU BELIEVE IT!</i><span> </span>The comfort and calm at seeing her familiar face is enough to distract me from my fear and excitement.<span> </span>The rain has turned into a drizzle.<span> </span>I’m in the middle of a crowd and the wind is more memory than reality.<span> </span>In hindsight, I can say I love this moment.<span> </span>We move forward.<span> </span>We are on our way.<span> </span>A woman on a public address system tells us to smile and wave at the camera, and our shuffle turns to a walk, then to a slow jog, then to a run.<span> </span>I hear the chirp of the computers as our chips pass over the timing mat.<span> </span>We are off.<span> </span>I’ve started my journey to Boston.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head:<span> </span>Miles 1-14</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">The race is storied for its downhill start.<span> </span>A guy weaves past me after we start to run wearing a snorkel and scuba mask.<span> </span><i>Wiseacre.<span> </span></i>I have practiced my downhill form during my training, and put it right to work, repeating to my self <i>Pop, pop, pop, hot like coals</i> to keep my turnover quick and light, and stay off my heels.<span> </span>I take a quick check of my watch after the first mile and see 9:14.<span> </span>Nice and easy, my muscles are cold and this is a nice warm-up.<span> </span>At this point, Greta speeds up and I wish her a good race.<span> </span><i>Running my own race: </i>this was a valuable lesson I learned in Charlotte, one I don’t intend to now forget. And while I don’t feel the wind too much at this point, I attributed this happy reality to the trees lining the streets and the densely packed crowd of runners.<span> </span>I run in the center of the road to avoid puddles along the sides.<span> </span>I stick right to the double yellow lines.<span> </span><i>My own yellow brick road.<span> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">By mile two, I am plenty warm and know my two technical shirts and wind-breaker are too much.<span> </span>Without breaking stride, I manage to remove one of my shirts and tie it around my waist.<span> </span>While I’d normally ditch it, it was a nice shirt and I’d worn it in Charlotte.<span> </span>It has sentimental value and I don’t have the heart to throw it away.<span> </span>I’ll pass it to Erin, Reenie, and BJ when I see them.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The running feels easy, and I click my watch every 5k.<span> </span>I’m not paying particularly close attention to the time, and miles are melting away.<span> </span>I have a very strange pain in my left ankle which is annoying.<span> </span>It hasn’t hurt up to this race.<span> </span>I write it off as a weird nothing and ignore it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In Ashland around mile 4 we encounter some islands as the road forks.<span> </span>A volunteer with a bullhorn announces <i>Runners to the right.<span> </span>Runners to the right. </i><span> </span>Funny.<span> </span>I’d have a hard time believing anyone would make a wrong turn with 16,000+ runners leading the way.<span> </span>Go figure.<span> </span>But as I pass him, he decides to interject a bit of Boston humor:<span> </span><i>Runners to the right.<span> </span>Yankees fans to the left.<span> </span></i>I laugh and say to two tall men running stride-for-stride next to me <i>Did you hear that?<span> </span></i>They shoot me a look and say <i>Why? Are you a Yankees fan?</i><span> </span>Yikes.<span> </span>They weren’t kidding about that Sox-Yankees rivalry.<span> </span><i>No, no, no.<span> </span>I didn’t grow up following baseball.<span> </span>I’m a nothing, a nobody.<span> </span></i>The one guy looks at me, and in his heavy Boston accent scolds me <i>You’re not a nobody today.<span> </span>YOU are running THIS RACE.<span> </span>You ARE somebody today.</i><span> </span>I smile at him and say <i>Thanks!<span> </span>Go SOX!</i><span> </span>It is the nicest thing anyone’s said to me that day.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My goal is to run on autopilot to get to Wellesley College, which is situated at about the half-way mark.<span> </span>There are stretches of rural road, empty of spectators, but beautiful.<span> </span>The course has some rolling hills, but certainly nothing like I faced in Charlotte.<span> </span>I focus on my form, and on the inclines I imagine a man with a fishing rod standing on a lamppost having hooked my shirt.<span> </span>He’s reeling me up the hills.<span> </span>It’s a great visual to keep my form correct<i>.<span> </span>Lean into the hill, keep my head up</i>.<span> </span>At the top of the hills, I can plan on a blast of wind.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There are some funny signs along the road, and at one mile marker one reads <i>Mile 6: Be happy you don’t have bulls chasing you</i>.<span> </span>I laugh out loud.<span> </span>I find I am smiling all the time.<span> </span>I can’t help it.<span> </span>We run through town squares, and they are packed with people.<span> </span>Before the race I had worried that the foul weather would keep people away.<span> </span>But as a Boston native assured me, this race is ingrained in the fabric of this city and its residents.<span> </span>A little wind and rain wouldn’t keep them away.<span> </span>They don’t disappoint:<span> </span>Adults hold signs, scream at anyone who ventures near.<span> </span>A Florida’s worth of orange slices are held out for anyone who needs energy, as are jelly beans, gummy bears, water.<span> </span>Children at the sides of the roads keep their hands out, hoping for a slap.<span> </span>I veer over and hit as many as I can.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Around mile 7 it starts to rain.<span> </span>Not hard, thankfully.<span> </span>A song pops in my head that Erin and I had been singing a day earlier on the way to pick up Reenie at the airport, a classic by Burt Bacharach:</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>Raindrops are fallin' on my head</i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed</i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>Nothin' seems to fit</i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>Those raindrops are fallin' on my head, they keep fallin'</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">It makes me think of all the worrying I had done about the weather.<span> </span>I had expected the absolute worst, but I’m running in conditions that are pretty decent.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>So I just did me some talkin' to the sun</i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>And I said I didn't like the way he got things done</i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sleepin' on the job</i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>Those raindrops are fallin' on my head, they keep fallin'</i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">My dad had called me the Saturday and Sunday leading up to the race.<span> </span>I could sense some urgency in his voice as he read the articles about the weather.<span> </span><i>Will they cancel the race?<span> </span>They haven’t done it in 110 years.<span> </span>They are talking about the risks of hypothermia.<span> </span>Be careful.<span> </span>Pace yourself.<span> </span>The winds are going to be bad.</i><span> </span>I reassured him that I had bought an entire duffel bag’s worth of gear, that I had closely monitored the weather, and that if I had to wear an entire gore-tex suit to stay dry, I would.<span> </span>Erin, ever the rational, reasonable judge, was also there to provide wise counsel.<span> </span>And Reen, all heart has chimed in <i>Quit yer bitchen.<span> </span>You’ll be fine.<span> </span></i>I was feeling good.<span> </span>I was in Boston.<span> </span>Nothing would keep me from this race.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>But there's one thing I know</i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>The blues they send to meet me won't defeat me</i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>It won't be long till happiness steps up to greet me</i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The conditions could have been so, so much worse, and all my worrying has amounted to nothing but wasted energy.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>Raindrops keep fallin' on my head</i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turnin' red</i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>Cryin's not for me</i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>'Cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complainin'</i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>Because I'm free</i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>Nothin's worryin' me</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After a couple of easy miles, the rain stops.<span> </span>I pass the half marathon point and look at my watch: 1:58:06.<span> </span><i>Wow.<span> </span>Didn’t think I was on a sub-4 pace.<span> </span></i>Before long, we enter Wellesley.<span> </span>We pass an open athletic field of a school, and the wind is pounding.<span> </span>I tuck myself off the shoulder of a taller runner.<span> </span>And then I hear it:<span> </span>A roar in the distance.<span> </span>I smile and know I’m coming up to the famed “Scream Tunnel” at Wellesley College.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It takes a full half mile to get there, and these women do not disappoint.<span> </span>I work with a Wellesley graduate, and I think to myself <i>Mary, these women are doing you proud.</i><span> </span>They scream and hold <i>Kiss me</i> signs.<span> </span>A man in shorts bearing the Texas flag stops at least a dozen times to grant their wish.<span> </span>I slap some hands and the screaming is deafening.<span> </span>Their enthusiasm kills the whipping winds, falling rains.<span> </span>We all feel something more in our steps.<span> </span>These women scream their siren song, but their bewitching tune is one that propels us forward, not crashing into the rocks.<span> </span>They are extraordinary.<span> </span>My ears ring for minutes after.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Everywhere I look, I see your face</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">My sisters Erin and Reenie flew in from out of town to cheer me on.<span> </span>My sister Nicole has small children at home; her presence here is impossibility.<span> </span>I miss her.<span> </span>The course is packed with spectators throughout. But if you want to move from mile to mile, it not particularly spectator-friendly.<span> </span>My friend, BJ, had taken the day off of work to squire them about.<span> </span>I’ve known him for years.<span> </span>He is family. After consulting train maps, they have concluded they could probably make it to one or two stops, but not until later in the course.<span> </span>I have told them that I’d rather see them later than sooner, and any time after Wellesley would be fine.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My thighs are starting to ache.<span> </span><i>Wow, kinda early.<span> </span></i>Those early downhill miles – despite being run with care – are taking their toll. <i>OK, this is going to hurt.<span> </span>Embrace the pain.<span> </span>Smile when you do.<span> </span></i>After passing through the scream tunnel, I spend the miles scanning the crowd for Erin, Reenie and BJ.<span> </span><span> </span>I figure they’ll probably be in the famed “Newton Hills”.<span> </span>But I search them out anyway.<span> </span>I’m also looking for a port-a-john that doesn’t have a line. At mile 15 and change, there is a screaming downhill into Lower Newton Falls.<span> </span>I’d driven it the day before and again chant my down-hill mantra.<span> </span>At the bottom of the hill, I see a free port-a-john.<span> </span>Someone sneaks in just before me, and I curse.<span> </span>I hate, hate, hate losing time like this.<span> </span>And I hate that I always seem to have to stop.<span> </span>But I also know something else: the first of the four famed hills is just up ahead.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The evening before the race, my sisters and I have eaten a wonderful meal at one of my favorite restaurants in Waltham, ‘The Tuscan Grille’.<span> </span>We were joined by BJ, and my dear friends Dan and Tammy Smith.<span> </span>It is a wonderful, laid-back gathering.<span> </span>I attack the breadbasket with gusto, even have a glass of beer.<span> </span>It feels like family, this gathering of ours.<span> </span>I have a view of the front door, and while we are eating, a man walks in.<span> </span>I do a double take. <i>Erin</i><i>!<span> </span>Reenie! Look at that guy that just walked in.<span> </span>The one in the beige Boston Marathon ball cap.<span> </span>Doesn’t he look EXACTLY like dad?</i><span> </span>I have so wanted my dad to be here to witness this event.<span> </span>He had run so many Boston Marathons, and despite his retiring from the sport 20 years ago, he is still - to this day - my running inspiration.<span> </span>But having returned from California that day, his getting to Boston by the next day is impossible.<span> </span>And yet here is his spirit.<span> </span>The same white beard and mustache.<span> </span>And the Boston Marathon cap to boot.<span> </span>We laugh at this coincidence.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I bolt from the port-a-john and make my way to the base of first hill.<span> </span>I’d driven these hills three times before the race, and they are familiar.<span> </span>The jury is split on these hills:<span> </span>Ask Boston veterans about them and half will say <i>They’re no big deal</i> and the other half will rule <i>They are death incarnate.</i><span> </span>As I drive them each time, I find that the truth lies somewhere between these two poles.<span> </span>I’ve trained hills, both up and down.<span> </span>Nasty, gnarly, steep, gut-churning hills.<span> </span>I throw them in the latter parts of long runs to simulate what I’ll face in this race.<span> </span>My friend Robin has warned me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I approach the first hill, I’m still scanning the crowds for my own personal cheering section.<span> </span>I turn to my left and there – standing all alone – at the base of the first hill, is the man I’ve seen at the restaurant the evening before.<span> </span>He is even wearing the ball cap.<span> </span>I laugh out loud <i>I can’t wait to tell ‘em this one!</i><span> </span>I know my dad is following every step of this race, checking my splits.<span> </span>He’s probably driving his wife Marlene nuts.<span> </span>And I know – know to my bones – that when he sees the next split, he won’t think the delay is due to fatigue, but to my cranky gut.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The man with the fishing pole pulls me up the first hill.<span> </span><i>Wow.<span> </span>That really wasn’t that bad.<span> </span>At all.</i><span> </span>I look down at my wrist and see the blue and yellow friendship bracelet my son, Jean-Marc has made me, just for this race.<span> </span>I smile and think of him.<span> </span>He, Luc, Madeleine, and Michel: they are right here with me.<span> </span>There’s a bit over a mile to the turn at the Newton Fire Station and the second hill.<span> </span>The crowds are thicker, and pushing into the streets.<span> </span>So many of these people are looking for someone, a racer out there on this course.<span> </span>I scan the road looking for my crew.<span> </span><i>They have 6 eyes, I have 2.<span> </span>Keep on looking.<span> </span>You’ll find them. They’ll find you.</i><span> </span>I see hundreds of faces, all friendly, none familiar.<span> </span>I pass the Newton-Wellesley Hospital on my right.<span> </span><i>So not going there today.</i><span> </span>On my left is the stately Woodland Country Club.<span> </span><i>Oh, for the 19<sup>th</sup> hole.</i><span> </span>I’m feeling surprisingly good.<span> </span>I’m blissfully unaware of my time and am confident going into these hills.<span> </span>The second one is the steepest.<span> </span>I make the turn onto Commonwealth Avenue at the Newton Fire Station.<span> </span>The assault and ascent to Heartbreak Hill have begun.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Running over heartache</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve been smiling non-stop since the start of the race.<span> </span>I can’t help it; this is the unexplainable magic that is the Boston Marathon.<span> </span>I start up the second hill, the steepest in terms of grade, and I still smile.<span> </span><i>This isn’t that bad.<span> </span>Just keep going</i>.<span> </span>In between the hills are sections of flat or downhill.<span> </span>In my head, I approach them as intervals.<span> </span><i>Two down, two to go.<span> </span>Regroup and attack on the next hill.</i><span> </span>The crowds are thick on both sides of the streets.<span> </span>They stand or sit in chairs.<span> </span>Some have drinks, others have pom-poms, signs, balloons.<span> </span>With their voices and presence, they carry us all over these hills.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At the base of the third hill, a man is running next to me.<span> </span>He turns my way.<span> </span><i>You look like you are enjoying this <b>way too</b> <b>much</b>.<span> </span>We <b>are</b> on the Newton Hills, you know.</i><span> </span>I have been smiling since my first step on this course.<span> </span><i>I can’t help it!<span> </span>How can you not smile out here!<span> </span>Look at these people!<span> </span>At my qualifying race the temperature was 19 degrees at the start.<span> </span>There were maybe 1,000 runners in the race.<span> </span>The course was empty of spectators from the half to the finish!<span> </span></i>He asks me where I qualified.<span> </span>I give him the Readers’ Digest version of my Richmond/Charlotte double.<span> </span>He laughs and points to his shirt: it is a Richmond Marathon race shirt.<i><span> </span>You’re kidding – you were at that race?! </i><span> </span>These spirits: they are all over the course.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I reach mile 20.<span> </span>The clock reads 3 hours and something.<span> </span>I don’t remember.<span> </span>Was it 3:02? :03?<span> </span>:04?<span> </span>I neither know, nor care.<span> </span>Six months before this race I would have been painfully aware of not only the hours and minutes, but of the seconds.<span> </span>What has happened to me?<span> </span>From where has this inner peace come?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ten days before the race, during my last long run, I’ve had an epiphany:<span> </span>I will dedicate these hills – particularly “Heartbreak Hill” - to those who are suffering heartache. Winter is the lean season.<span> </span>It is cold and dark.<span> </span>It is the time we use to remind us of how much we love the light, the warmth.<span> </span>Raised Catholic, I am aware of this time of Lenten sacrifice.<span> </span>In the grander scheme, this race is a caprice.<span> </span>I am lucky to be able to participate in it with such joy and abandon. I offer this very humble sacrifice to these people.<span> </span>I know each hill will take minutes to climb, and that they are undergoing pain that lasts so much longer:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Gillian</b>, my dear friend recently diagnosed with breast cancer.<span> </span>She is the mother of two young boys, and she and her English-born husband are a treasure to us here in America.<span> </span>Her Irish pluck and grace give all of us pause.<span> </span>Before undergoing her double lumpectomy, she informs her surgeon <i>Make the girls look good.<span> </span>I have a party to attend this weekend.</i><span> </span>She is extraordinary.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Mom</b>.<span> </span>She is suffering through the latter stages of dementia.<span> </span>She no longer remembers where I live, how many children I have or what their names and sexes are, the name of my husband of 20 years.<span> </span>She lives in a nightmare of confusion and fear.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>De</b>, my feisty brother-in-law.<span> </span>He has recently dubbed me “Spider Legs”.<span> </span>He’s a quietly funny guy who makes the best popovers and grilled chicken on the planet.<span> </span>He adores my sister, Erin.<span> </span>He lost his only sibling, several years ago. He injured his back – including a fractured vertebrae - in the early autumn and has been living in pain 24-7.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Pearl</b><b>, </b>Marlene’s mother.<span> </span>90 years old, feisty and independent.<span> </span>But fighting a recurrence of her cancer.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Jon.</b><span> </span>My brother-in-law is burying his father this day.<span> </span>His dad has recently lost a horrific battle with cancer.<span> </span>He was in his mid-80’s when he passed, his family with him at the end.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Franny’s mom.</b><span> </span>My dear friend Franny, “Miss Daisy”.<span> </span>Her mother has been recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.<span> </span>She is a warm, wonderful, and artistically talented woman, and her children are amazing, each of them.<span> </span>They are generous, solid, and strong, full of faith in and love for each other.<span> </span>A wonderful family.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Robin’s mom</b> who is battling lung cancer.<span> </span>Robin is my other rock.<span> </span>Solid, strong as iron, smart and sassy.<span> </span>I wouldn’t be here without her.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Cody</b>, my friend Mickey’s son.<span> </span>4 years old and recovering from stage IV neuroblastoma.<span> </span>Stem-cell transplants, hearing decimated by chemotherapy.<span> </span>Mickey runs his first marathon wearing a shirt with the words “CODY IS MY REASON”.<span> </span>A living nightmare for parents.<span> </span>They live month-to-month, worrying about recurrence, praying to God to spare their son.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Kirk</b>, another running friend, who has just buried his mother.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I approach the base of Heartbreak Hill.<span> </span>I am at mile 21 and a bit.<span> </span>I feel good.<span> </span>I start the ascent and feel the backward pull of gravity.<span> </span><i>Reel me in, Ishmael.</i><span> </span>I start my chant.<span> </span>I say these names as inspiration, as prayer: <i>Gill Mom De Pearl Jon Franny’s mom Robin’s mom Mick Cody Kirk. Gill Mom De Pearl Jon Franny’s mom Robin’s mom Mick Cody Kirk. Gill Mom De Pearl Jon Franny’s mom Robin’s mom Mick Cody Kirk. </i>I say these names over and over in my head, occasionally whispering them as I climb. Toward the end of this half mile climb, I condense it to one name, and I sound like the small ‘engine that could”: <i>Gill Gill Gill Gill Gill Gill Gill.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span> </span></i>The top of Heartbreak Hill is an illusion.<span> </span>You think you’re done, but then another small ascent challenges your grit.<span> </span>I have driven these hills and I know that when I see the steeples of Boston College I am done.<span> </span>I crest the first hill and keep charging.<span> </span>I turn a corner and see the steeples.<span> </span>I’ve never felt the second bit of incline.<span> </span>The hills are over.<span> </span>My legs are fine; I’ve not only survived, I’m ready to roll.<span> </span><i>Amen.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Hustle and Flow</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">The Boston College students are out in force.<span> </span>They are raucous with energy, youth, and beer.<span> </span>I am lucky to be running near one of their own.<span> </span>They scream <i>JOSH!!!!<span> </span>RUN JOSH!!!</i><span> </span>They have outstretched hands and I slap so many.<span> </span>I look to the steeples of the BC church, and as I turn the curve of the road feel a strong gust of wind.<span> </span>Then I hear it: <i>MONICA!<span> </span>FEVE! GO RUN GO!!!!</i><span> </span>I turn and see Erin, Reenie and BJ.<span> </span>I dart to them and they protest <i>WHY ARE YOU STOPPING?</i><span> </span>I untie my lucky shirt from my waist and empty the pockets of my windbreaker.<span> </span><i>Feeling great!<span> </span>I’m outta here!</i> I’m off.<span> </span>It’s a steep downhill and I pump my arms.<span> </span>Leg muscles be damned, we’ve got 4-something miles to go and it’s time to grind it out.<span> </span>At the 35 km split, I look at my watch. It reads 3:20:21.<span> </span><i>Holy shit! If I hustle, I can break 4:00!</i><span> </span>I’ve lost my ability to do precise math; I can’t figure exactly how much time I have to make up, but I start to move.<span> </span>A commuter train runs along the road.<span> </span>It is packed with people.<span> </span>I look up ahead to my left and see two runners, a rope tied around each one of their waists. They wear matching orange shirts.<span> </span>One reads <i>Guide, </i>the other <i>Visually Impaired</i>.<span> </span>They are both walking on the left side of the road.<span> </span>As I pass, I pat the blind runner’s back.<span> </span><i>You’re doing great!</i><span> </span>The spectators scream inspiration to this duo.<span> </span><i>Amazing.</i><span> </span>He is running this without seeing all that is before him.<span> </span>He can’t see the crowds, the buildings, the hills.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Somewhere around mile 23, I see the Prudential Building.<span> </span>The race finishes directly in front of it.<span> </span><i>Oh I am so close.<span> </span></i>Then I see the CITGO sign.<span> </span>The crowds are getting deeper.<span> </span>At an intersection, 3 college-aged kids bolt in front of me, pizza boxes in hand.<span> </span>We nearly collide.<span> </span><i>Taken out by 3 large cheese and pepperoni.<span> </span></i>If I could, I would have laughed out loud.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At mile 24, the 3 gels and the sickly sweet Gatorade I’ve consumed throughout the course wreak havoc.<span> </span>A wave of nausea rises up: I have over-carbed.<span> </span><i>Screw it.<span> </span>Do your best.<span> </span>You can puke at the finish.</i><span> </span>I’m really tired now, and I know I’ve got to manage this as best I can.<span> </span>Go too fast, and I’ll be heaving at the side of the road before the finish.<span> </span>Go too slow, and I’ll not only NOT break 4:00, I wont re-qualify for next year.<span> </span>We get to Kenmore Square.<span> </span><i>Holy cow, how will this end?</i><span> </span>Apparently, there is a hill going into Kenmore square.<span> </span>I never feel it.<span> </span>I’m running as fast as I can without ending in ignobility on the side of the road.<span> </span>And then I see it, a yellow sign of hope: <b>1 MILE TO GO.</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t know how I will react at the finish.<span> </span>Will it be like my first marathon – blissful, thankful disbelief?<span> </span>I know it won’t be like my second at Marine Corps, a grueling disappointing crawl.<span> </span>Will it be like Charlotte, the joyous, tearful shout of redemption?<span> </span>I don’t think so.<span> </span>It’s exciting, a drama played out in real time.<span> </span>My mind is focused, joyous and happy despite the nausea <i>Living the dream!<span> </span>I am LIVING THE DREAM!</i><span> </span>How often do we get to do this?<span> </span>How often do any of us get to live our dreams?<span> </span>The road dips under Mass Avenue.<span> </span>I see a woman in a pink running skirt ahead of me, and I make a dash for her.<span> </span>We make a quick right on to Hereford Avenue and a short block later, a left onto Boylston.<span> </span>A quick glance at my watch and I see 3:57:something.<span> </span><i>Oh man. </i>I see the finish line, a blue and yellow arch.<span> </span>I pump my arms.<span> </span>The crowds are ten or more deep.<span> </span>I’m sure the cacophony of voices is deafening.<span> </span>I hear nothing.<span> </span>Nothing.<span> </span>I’m running running running.<span> </span>My legs are on fire.<span> </span>My stomach is in my throat.<span> </span>I’m getting that medal.<span> </span>I’m steps from the finish line.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Spring in Boston</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">What is Spring?<span> </span>Is it a season, an aligning of stars, a state of mind?<span> </span>In my faith, we have celebrated spring with the Easter feast a short week and a day before I toed the starting line of this race.<span> </span><span> </span>Spring is the conclusion of the dark season, the end to fast and sacrifice.<span> </span>It is the hope and promise of renewal, the warmth of longer sunlit days, the seasonal promise of redemption and salvation.<span> </span>The day before Easter, snow fell in Richmond Virginia, the first and only snow of the year.<span> </span>I ran that day and saw cotton fluffs on the pink and white blossoms of cherry and dogwood.<span> </span>Neighbors were out, walking on the roads as the sun broke and we marveled at this anachronism, this oddity and fit of Mother Nature.<span> </span>She awes us with her ferocity, tempestuousness, and beauty.<span> </span>On Patriots Day in 2007, I have found all of these.<span> </span>Whatever I feared before the start of this journey –one that started back in December – is dissolved in the magic and healing that is faith and belief and hope.<span> </span>Whatever nature decided to put down as speed bumps on this course – be it wind, rain, or cold - are negated by the warm embrace of those who love and believe in me.<span> </span>The mountains that challenged me on this day – mountains of reality or myth – are leveled by the courage and example of those who grace my life every day.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I cross the finish line, arms up.<span> </span>I laugh out loud and celebrate all that is determination and strength and energy and life.<span> </span>I look at my watch, at the 4:00:10, and am not disappointed at not finishing under four hours.<span> </span>As in my first marathon, I am again reminded that the reward of the journey is not at the moment and measurement of its completion, but at the gifts that have been so generously bestowed upon me along the way.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am a Boston Marathon finisher. <span> </span>But I am more than that: I am a mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a friend.<span> </span>I’m smiling, and I am wholly content.</div>Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-48710137336241370592011-02-01T19:08:00.001-05:002011-02-01T19:31:55.564-05:00Birth of a Learning Curve<b><span style="font-family: arial,verdana,'trebuchet ms','gill sans',helvetica,tahoma,'lucida sans unicode',sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></b><i>*Note: A piece I wrote for the February Issue of <b>Robious Corridor Magazine.</b></i><br />
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In December, I ended a job I’d had for 7 years. I’d been on the job so long I could do it with my eyes closed, on auto pilot, hands free. I left to ‘pursue greener pastures’, to ‘expand my knowledge base’….in honesty I left to ‘pursue more dough’ and to ‘expand my bank account’. I’m as pragmatic as the next person and darn if those kids of mine don’t expect an education beyond high school.<br />
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Call me a sucker.<br />
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Leaving the old gig wasn’t an easy decision: I liked the company and people a lot. Then we were acquired by a giant logo so big it is only eclipsed by Coca-Cola. It wasn’t a bad thing at all; it just didn’t strike me as my thing. I like the ‘small pond’ ideal: it keeps me motivated, accountable. My last few days at my former employer were frenzied; I respected the opportunity for having worked for them enough to leave them with my whole effort. At the end of my last week, as I was catching my breath, I realized the finality of my situation. My first thought was this: <i>Here endeth the lesson</i>. I was closing a chapter on a book with the smug satisfaction that I’d move seamlessly on to the next chapter. <br />
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I was wrong. Very, very WRONG.<br />
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I started my new job in January. And within a few hours I was reminded of a couple things: Labor pains and the subjunctive tense in French. <br />
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OK, stay with me here, this may take some explaining.<br />
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I started in a similar job in software but in a completely new ‘space’. In software that means more the purpose of the application and less about the moon and stars. Learning a new space means not only what it does, but how it is applied across different business types. Which leads me to labor pains. <br />
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It suddenly occurred to me that learning is very similar to giving birth: you work hard, sweat, breathe heavily, fret, and wish to the heavens for it to be over. Then, when the process is done and you’re looking at the product of your work, you forget the pain. You feel joy and self-satisfaction. I’m convinced if anyone remembered how hard the learning curve is, they’d never switch jobs. I’m also wholly convinced that ‘lifers’ – those who stay with a company their entire careers – are not unmotivated or lacking in adventure, but remember how brutal it is to ‘ramp up’. <br />
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On to the French subjunctive tense. Learning this new software space and conquering all the unknowns transported me back to my days of learning a new language. You can learn the alphabet, get the hang of conjugating verbs, and learn some idiomatic expressions. During the process, you can giggle that a term of endearment is “my little cabbage”. The English equivalent is probably something along the lines of “sweet pea”. Produce, apparently, is the universal language. In English, we have pragmatic tenses. You know when to use them. But we have no subjunctive tense. It’s based on ‘maybe’, on feeling. This linguistic mystery is all too apparent in French. I personally think if the French had employed it during WWI instead of the Maginot Line, WWII could have been completely avoided. To me, it’s a complete mystery. <br />
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I remember my days toiling to understand this tense that French toddlers could pick up with such ease and wishing I had some Gallic Rosetta Stone. And now I look at my children struggling over algebra or some other concept with new eyes: I’ve forgotten the frustration. For years they’ve expressed theirs in a variety of forms but my response has basically taken the same form: buck up, put on your big kid britches, think, and deal with it.<br />
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And now, I’m in their place. AGAIN. I’m faced with the French Subjunctive in the form of a software space and the clock is ticking. And the labor pains start. I think back to Lamaze classes, that silly concept that regular breathing will help you cope. Until the anesthesiologist gets there. Regular breathing helps nothing but to keep you living. Between that and the birth, we have to just use our minds and hope like heck there isn’t a pop quiz. So here I am, mid-learning curve, in pain and breathing for all I’m worth. And I envy the future because when I get there, I’ll forget how hard these current weeks have been. I’ll feel the comfort of the learning amnesia. And I’ll fix dinner and smugly cluck to my homework-grumbling children to buck up, put on their big kid britches, think, and deal with it. But definitely not in the French subjunctive.Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-19077652854013228022011-01-17T09:36:00.000-05:002011-01-17T09:36:17.439-05:00Season of Lights<i>*Note* A piece I wrote for <b>Robious Corridor </b>Magazine in December...</i><br />
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It’s the time of year when the days get shorter. They’re still 24 hours long, but the sun takes a bit of a holiday for several weeks. The shorter daylight and cold air compel us to hunker down and more often than not, stay inside. I spent most of my life in the snow belt of western New York and learned the way to survive the gray skies, mountains of snow, and frigid temps were two face cords of wood and a sturdy crock pot.<br />
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When I moved to Midlothian eight years ago, I was immediately struck at the number of people who ran, walked, and biked throughout my neighborhood in Salisbury – even in winter. Granted, our much gentler climate allows for this luxury. <br />
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The neighborhood is lovely indeed – it’s streets a ‘bowl of spaghetti’ of turns and rolling hills, instead of the grid-like neighborhoods in which I’d grown up. I’m lucky to live in such a park-like setting which provides miles of roads for safe recreation. I’ve spotted the Albino deer, hurtled snakes, seen owls and hawks fly past. I chart the progress of the seasons with the budding and blooming of trees in the spring, the smell of honeysuckle in the summer, and the riot of color in the fall. But the winter running is often the hardest of all, as most of it is done in the dark. <br />
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The 6 weeks between Thanksgiving and New Years, though, provide a gift of light. The winter solstice – the darkest day of the year – falls right in the middle. After the seasonal chow-down of Thanksgiving, the Christmas lights start to show up on the houses, and each run through the neighborhood reveals another house or two that is lit up to celebrate the holidays and combat these long dark days. I’m wearing my own version of “Holiday Lights”: reflective clothing and a halogen headlamp that I refer to as my “miners light.” Getting out on a cold night and anticipating the next new set of lights then finishing up with my cheeks red from the cold and seeing my breath in the cold air, I’m transported back to my middle-school self running home for dinner.<br />
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<div align="left">The neighborhood is a friendly place. People rarely fail to wave when I pass them in a car or on foot. In the dark of winter, they often have their bright headlights on to see. And if they don’t, often times they’ll put them on when they see a runner or walker as if to say “Yup, I see you.” It’s just a funny observation I’ve made over the years that many drivers turn off their highbeams for oncoming cars but turn them on for people on foot, and I’ve taken to wearing a ballcap in the middle of winter to block the glare, a seasonal anomaly for sure. I went for a Christmas Eve run one year to do a tour of the luminaries. It was a crisp winter evening; the glow of the candles along the road was enchanting. Headed home around a curve in the road I saw an oncoming car. And – you got it – the driver turned on his brights. I was momentarily blinded, took a wrong step on a spot of crumbling pavement and tumbled head-over-heels into someone’s yard. It was not an elegant dismount. Fortunately I didn’t hit any of the luminaries and become the Richmond version of Mrs. O’Leary’s cow. To his credit, the driver stopped to make sure I was ok. Gasping for air – the fall had winded me – I thanked the driver for stopping and explained the source of my gymnastic exhibition. I then wished him a Merry Christmas and continued home to bandage my bleeding hands and knees. </div><div align="left" style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div>The mornings can be particularly dicey with people rushing to school and work, trying to beat the clock and I take extra care to avoid the routes that have a lot of traffic or blind corners. A week or two ago, I was running with my Tuesday/Thursday morning group. We were turning a corner on Kentford Drive in single file headed toward the Salisbury Golf Course’s water fountain. A car came caroming around the corner, its tires hugging the edge of the road. We were all wearing some kind of reflective gear and I was wearing my trusty “miners light”. In addition, the sun was rising and it was light out. However, the driver was either careless or distracted and all four of us were forced off the road to prevent being hit. Out of breath and incensed is not a good combination and we loudly grumbled the remaining tenth of a mile until we got to the water fountain. What if that had been a kid? What make of car was it? Someone had seen the first three numbers on the license plate; someone else mentioned the car was a Volkswagon. To which I laughed and said “BLACK ONE” and gently smacked his arm.<br />
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<div align="left"> </div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">After Christmas, the light displays are turned off, and are pretty much gone by early January. Then it’s just me and the occasional headlights. The temperatures dip, they days are pretty dark, and spring seems a long way off. And while the desire to hunker down is as strong as ever, I’ll still take to the streets for a run. And when I return, I’ll throw another log in the hearth and then fire up my crock pot. </div>Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-35297276693806812922010-08-26T20:50:00.013-04:002010-08-27T10:45:09.985-04:00Airplanes in the Night SkyEveryday we make choices. Do you need the jolt of caffeine or will decaf do? Has the workout allowed for the favorite lunch or are we going to be a low-fat citizen? Expressway or the road less taken? Most of the time the options are barked by some underpaid, disinterested hourly worker. There’s no urgency in the question or in the process of the decision beyond the few seconds that proceed or follow it. Despite how they may momentarily distract or irritate us, these choices are meaningless in the grand scheme of our lives. We make them often without really thinking about them. Most of the time we are barely paying attention.<br />
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On the other side, we have so many ways to occupy ourselves that personally I’ve lost the ability to listen. To be really listen. I can’t remember the last time I waited in line without whipping out my blackberry to check email or search the web, looking for a way to speed the ticking clock. I find myself so distracted by so much noise and static that often I lose the ability to sort out the wheat from the chaff.<br />
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I was waiting in the airport for my flight when I had a small lesson on clarity. I’m funny in airports: I’m always looking for a familiar face. I’ve never seen one, but I always look. All those people; I figure the odds are in my favor. Like most people, I try and find a seat away from all the strangers. I read the paper or a book, catch up on work, or return phone calls. But here I was with time to kill and without my tools to kill it: my flight was a bit delayed, the paper was read, and my toys of distraction – blackberry, laptop, and iPod – are out of juice. And not an outlet in sight. The result is a restlessness which is uncomfortable. Life is so busy sometimes I feel I’ve lost the ability to be still, to be quiet. It’s an ongoing effort to still the horses in my head that are ready to break from the gate. <br />
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I head to Legal Seafood near the gate to grab a quick bite to eat. It’ll deliciously kill the time. I park my suitcase against the metal bar the divides the small open-air restaurant from the adjoining gate and claim a seat at the end of some stacked tables designed for singles or small groups of fliers not looking for a privacy. I’m lucky on this night to find an empty seat – the rest of the tables are full. My seat is across from a neatly dressed woman who I take to be in business. She’s got a glass of red wine in front of her and she’s staring at her blackberry. She’s on the end and I’m across from her, and next to another traveler and his companion sitting side-by-side. I order my food and sit and think. The company for which I work has just been acquired and there is plenty to work through.<br />
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The waiter brings my glass of wine and I swirl and contemplate the straw-colored liquid. This woman across from me – I’ve just about forgotten she’s there. Until she starts talking. A quick glance verifies she’s on her phone. It clearly isn’t a business call. There is something about her voice. She’s speaking in low tones, but I’m so close to her. I can hear a looseness to it, a rawness. She speaks, <em>How could I have been so blind?</em> <em>It was all a lie…I thought it was real. For 3 years, I thought it was real. What would I know – it was the first real thing I’ve had. What do I do now?</em> I keep swirling my wine. I take a sip. I can't betray my eavesdropping ways. I’m so close to her. It’s odd how anonymity can give someone the feeling of privacy. She takes a deep breath, listening to the person on the other end of the line. She lifts her glass and takes a deep draw. She utters an odd <em>yeah…I know.. uh huh…</em> from time to time. She starts to speak again <em>I know. I know the smart thing to do is to move on. I just don’t know how to do it. I just want to call him, to beg him to make it like before. Pathetic. Goddamn, I’m so pathetic. Please, promise me you won’t let me do that…</em> her voice is quietly shaking. She’s really angry and sad and so all over the map. She’s momentarily distracted at the waiter as he puts down my food. She lifts her hand and catches his eye, points to her glass. She orders another without uttering a single word, her ear still listening to the person on the other end of the line. She keeps talking and I try and focus on my food, my wine.<br />
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Shortly, the waiter sets down another glass of wine and then clears her plate of nearly untouched food. The only indication that she’s aware of this is the change of her grasp from the empty glass to the full one. She says<em> I just want to get home. Fall into bed. Wake up when this is all over…</em>She swirls the red liquid; a bit splashes over the edge on to her hand. She lets go of the glass for a second and wipes the back of her hand on a napkin. She’s staring at the placemat, her eyes open, her breathing slowed and regular. Her emotional fatigue or the wine – or a combination of the two – is slowing her down. <em>I swear, between work and him, I’ve been moving so fast for so long, I think I … I don’t know. I think I missed my exit or something.</em> She utters a weary laugh. I’m ashamed at my eavesdropping but equally rewarded with this verbal gem. <em>“Missed my exit.” </em>I literally do that more often than I’d like to admit. I’ll be driving somewhere and will get so caught up in my thoughts that I miss the turn, the street. Recently, I blew through a red light without even being aware of the intersection. I realize this woman was speaking metaphorically, but I instantly boil it down to the dual demons of choices and multitasking. We’re so intent on both of these that we miss so many details – important or not. They are the threads of the fabric of our lives. I sit there and look at the dinner I barely thought about before ordering, and realize I haven’t tasted a bite.<br />
<br />
The waiter brings her bill and she mechanically retrieves her credit card. He processes it right in front of her with a clever little gizmo, and prints off three copies of her bill. She scribbles the tip and signs her name and slides one copy across the table to the waiter. She’s still on her phone. She says quietly <em>I’m fine. I’ll call you tomorrow.</em> She disconnects the call and lays her phone on the table. She swirls her wine – gently this time – and takes a sip, then pushes the glass away. She puts her face to her hands and rubs her face, as if removing evidence of the day. She rests her forearms on the table, her hands clasped as if in prayer. She’s looking at her hands then nods her head slowly; I hear a deep sigh. She unclasps her hands and studies her palms for a second or two. I’m struck with the idea that she’s astonished to find them empty. She stares at them for a second longer, then rubs one gently against the other, as if brushing away crumbs. <em>Ok then. </em>This is the last thing she says before gathering her phone and briefcase and heading out of the restaurant. I watch her, walking across the concourse to her flight home. I don't know her and am left with the feeling that - despite this - she is oddly familiar.Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-44467684731365851852010-06-13T21:27:00.001-04:002010-06-13T21:28:23.888-04:00Note to Self (Race Report for the Crossroads 17.75K)Dear Monica,<br />
<br />
Just a quick note to remind you of a few things. Please think of these as constructive criticism, not the heiney whomping you so richly deserve.<br />
<br />
<em>1. Confirm the start time of a race. Preferably the evening before the race as opposed to 30 seconds after you hear the starting gun fire.</em><br />
Putting the race in your calendar (but not verifying all the details), printing out the confirmation ticket 4 days prior to the race (but not actually reading it), and <em>thinking</em> you know the start of the race is not the same as <em>actually</em> knowing the start time of the race. I'm jogging to the start when I hear the gun go off. I'm thinking "Oh, kids fun run!" Until I see lead pack of very post-pubescent men round the corner. Sprint in opposite direction ("she must have taken the small bus to the race...") about two tenths of a mile and somehow find the packet pick up. Which has been broken down. Nice lady goes into truck, gets number and chip. She's pinning my number on my shorts as I'm putting chip on shoe. She tells me “you better hurry to the start before they break it down…we've radioed down that you're coming” and I sprint toward it thinking that I’ve just used up about 75% of the energy I needed for the entire race…As I pass the starting line – alone - a dozen or so marines cheer me. Humilitation: I ran your gauntlet. <br />
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<em>2. Turn on your Garmin well before you need it.</em><br />
Realize my garmin isn't on. Power it up and it takes half a lifetime to synch. Make a turn onto a street and hope I can see people in the distance. I do, but…mirage? Warm and humid. I have no clue how fast I’m running or how far I’ve gone since Garmin is still scratching its rump. Realize I'm a slave to technology. Wonder how Phiddipedes managed without even the cheapest of Timex choronographs. Catch the walkers ...then the speed walkers...then the back of pack runners. Finally garmin synchs. I haven’t seen mile markers, so I start scanning the crowd of runners for signs of techno running geeks who can give me some clue as to time and distance.<br />
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<em>3. As with starting time, make sure you KNOW the terrain.</em><br />
At mile 2, make a turn into Prince William Park. I’m wearing racing flats which have the advantage of being nice and light, but the disadvantage of not having a lot of cushion. The pavement has been replaced by packed dirt and this big rocky gravel. Ow. Wonder how I'll handle many miles of this. Fortunately the nasty gravel goes away after a while. About the same time I realize I forgot the headband for my hair. While we have hills/trails it is shade covered which is great, and the glasses now are used as de facto headband.<br />
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<em>4. In order to take care of essential pre-race business, see memo point #1.</em><br />
Since I got to race late I was unable to attend to certain pre-race business. Take a bio break at the mile 4 fluid/aid station. It’s very warm/humid and I hadn’t had time to take my pre-race gel or drink as much Gatorade as I’d wanted, so I make the decision to hit every station: 3 gulps of Poweraid, dump cup of water on back of neck/head. One highpoint is I actually execute this in the correct order, which is good because it’s BLUE Poweraid and I would have hated to look like one of those blue smurfycats from Avatar in my race photo.<br />
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<em>5. In order to not get frustrated at trying to pass a bunch of people on a narrow trail, see memo point #1</em>.<br />
The trail narrows and passing anyone is an exercise in patience. There are lots of up and downs and funky footing and it’s crowded on the trail. I keep weaving in and out of folks and try to be polite when I pass. There are times I wait rather than do the “gentle nudge past” (aka, ‘elbow shove’) because that person had the good sense to VERIFY WHEN THE RACE ACTUALLY STARTED. However, there is always the one guy. The one who is pissed when you try and pass, even though there is a mass of humanity in front of him. The one who thinks the only thing that stands between him and everlasting glory is NOT the 800 people in front of him, but the lady in the sweaty lime green sports bra next to him. We pass someone at about the same time, and then he tries to lose me. He speeds up and I just keep running my pace and eventually am even with him. He does it again. And a third time. I realize he is incensed he's getting passed by an old broad. I'm thinking "Dude, I started probably 5 minutes behind you." Cue eye roll. <br />
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<em>6. Take a peek at the course elevation before the race.</em><br />
Before I know it I'm about halfway thru. I have no clue what my elapsed time is so I'm just treating it as a hard workout. Then we hit hills. We'd had some up and downs but the trail is now road and these things are monsters. At 8.5 there is a hill so steep I can almost walk it as fast as run it (yes, I test the theory, what the heck, the race is a complete cluster at this point). Then steep down hills which are equally painful. And another half-mile long exquisitely painful hill. Exit park at about 9.5 miles into full sun. Move glasses from top of head to eyes: they are totally smudged and icky. Hit the 10 mile mark, and feel ok - legs are trashed from hills - I'm tired, its hot, and I just want to be done. But at least we’re on flat pavement. We make a turn on the street that goes to the National Museum of the Marine Corps and the finish. It’s uphill. At this point I want a quick death. Turn into entrance to museum - still uphill. And, well, I start grunting. Literally. Every exhale I'm sounding like Monica Seles hitting a killer forehand. Embarassing but I'm exhausted.<br />
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<em>7. There is no grunting in road races.</em><br />
Finally the uphill gives way to a gentle downhill. I see the finish line. I’m grunting louder and louder which is just disturbing. TO ME. I can't speak for those who were running near me. I cross the finish line and continue the gruntfest. A Marine hands me a bottled water and I hand it to another because I swear I can’t open it. He does it without asking questions because any Marine has good sense enough not to mess with a grunting, sweaty, stinky, exhausted, organizationally-challenged woman. And don’t even talk to me about the race photos…we're talking a Code Blue to the Makeup Unit.<br />
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<em>8. Marines run great races.</em><br />
All runners can appreciate a well-organized, well-staffed, well-stocked race. But there are also the very special ‘only the Marines’ intangibles that make these races so special: a strong "looking good ma’am", the funny signs planted at intervals throughout the race, my favorite pair being a photo of a barking drill Sergeant and “MY GRANDPA IS ABOUT TO PASS YOU…” followed by “IN HIS WALKER!!!!!”, a randomly called ‘OORAH’, and the finish line organization that is world class. Not to mention the fact that they bent over backward to the disorganized piker who couldn't even get to the starting line on time. And beer company race sponors. Which mean BEER AT THE FINISH. 9:15 am, Micholob Ultra, Breakfast of Champions. <em>Oorah</em>.Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-91497723765748387892009-12-16T20:31:00.018-05:002009-12-17T19:48:27.045-05:00Enduring Love<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt4k830QNs12tteJgDPYzB-EBLM3bVVb6_OHUoBWmH69nCXoXUwtg20puyNHnzaCwBDox0Nvt0Qf9d_1HemxDfTEgD2uuS22I57ADfDC7rT0zJlcV2v6BA8ZPiVkjXmWfMDI-uTA7zMkI/s1600-h/CodyBeachRun.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416013079872920370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt4k830QNs12tteJgDPYzB-EBLM3bVVb6_OHUoBWmH69nCXoXUwtg20puyNHnzaCwBDox0Nvt0Qf9d_1HemxDfTEgD2uuS22I57ADfDC7rT0zJlcV2v6BA8ZPiVkjXmWfMDI-uTA7zMkI/s200/CodyBeachRun.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 134px;" /></a><br />
<em>It is early morning in Manassas, Virginia. The sky to the east is just showing the first colors of purple and red. Mickey Johnson, 47, makes his way to the end of the driveway, ready to set off on a morning run. Today holds 6 miles, part of his marathon training regimen. He reaches the bottom of the driveway and looks down a small hill. It’s the hill his 3 children would ascend on their trip home from the bus stop. Justin and Daniela, his two older kids, would be ahead, bickering, laughing, their packs bouncing on their backs with the rhythm of their stops. Cody would be behind them. He was quiet, and air of calm around this normally frenetic child. Mick would wonder if it was the work going up the hill, the weight of the pack, or just the fatigue from a full day of school. Mickey smells the air. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath trying to catch a familiar scent.<br />
</em><br />
<div>It’s August 13th, 2009 and 12 friends who have never met meet for time at a Forum Event. All of these runners post on the Masters Forum of the Runners World On-Line Discussion Boards. While they normally share daily workouts, training tips, and race results on line, this “FE” gives them the rare chance to gather and share a meal before a race. They all agree that the Masters Forum is a special place, that it fosters incredible friendship. They have a digital community of runners from different walks of life whose foundation for acquaintance are the common bricks of running, cemented by mortar of dedication and shared sacrifice. They tend to be over 40, but the Masters Forum attracts those younger than, those who are looking for the sweet, grounded advice of those who have been around the block or the track more than a few times. There is a sense not only of kinship, but that they have each others back: a DNF is met with words of encouragement, a PR is a group celebration. There are even non-running topics discussed and shared: a new job, a child’s graduation, a move to a new city.<br />
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The organizer of this group, Scott Reiss, lives in the events home state. The others have travelled from a confetti of locales - Indiana, Virginia, New York , Maryland,– and will run multiple legs and double digit miles in the ‘100 on 100 Heart of Vermont Relay’ that rolls through the Green mountains from the Trapp Family Lodge one hundred miles to Ludlow, VT.<br />
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The next day, race day, is forecasted to be warm and sunny. These newly minted friends eat, laugh, and share stories. They review details for the next day’s race, fret about the weather, terrain, clothing, and food. This is what runners do: they sweat the details as much as the miles. However - unlike other races - they are here not to chase a PR or win an age group. They are here to honor a child they have never met: Cody Johnson.<br />
<br />
<em>Cody Johnson was diagnosed with stage 4 neuroblastoma 3 days before his 2nd birthday. He was born on the first anniversary of the 9-11 terror attacks and grew to be a feisty, spirit-filled toddler. Neuroblastoma is an “orphan” cancer: it occurs almost exclusively in children under the age of 10 and as such doesn’t benefit from research done on cancers such as leukemia and lymphoma that strike both adult and child populations. The average age of a child diagnosed with Lymphoma is 17 months, so young the child can’t articulate their pain. Like Cody’s case, 70% are not diagnosed until the disease has spread.<br />
<br />
Cody was admitted to Georgetown Hospital for 10 days of baseline testing. His radiology scans lit up, the cancer present in every part of his body. A round of high-dose chemo was ordered and required Cody to be in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU) for 31 days where Mickey slept every night in a chair next to Cody’s bed. Cody suffered from the treatment: he vomited a pitcher full of blood from cancer-infected adenoids. He suffered fevers and side effects from the toxic chemicals. Surgery was required to remove the remains of lung and kidney tumors, as well as his adrenal gland and surrounding lymph nodes. The final step in his 4 month treatment – during which he rarely was home for more than 24 hours at a time – was a stem-cell transplant. The transplant had complications - Cody had a reaction to one of the transplant drugs. His lungs filled with blood and he suffered congestive heart failure and partial kidney failure. His oxygen intake dropped to 30%; doctors worked through the night to save him. A priest was called to the floor to be on stand by. His condition was minute-to- minute for 9 frightening days. Mickey and his wife, Diane, kept vigil over their fragile son, praying for a miracle, praying for their 2- year- old to endure and pull through. He survived those harrowing days and greeted the nurses treating him by throwing anything he could reach at them.</em><br />
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The 100 –on-100 was not the first time the RWOL masters had come together to support Cody. In April, Bill Allen – a member of the 2009 US World 24-Hour Run Team - put out a call to the Masters Forum and organized a team for the Virginia 24 hour Run for Cancer - 24 hour Ultra and Relay. Bill had been deeply moved by Cody’s struggle and wanted to support the Johnson family. He found the race and was committed to participating, despite it being a few short weeks before the World Championships in Italy. Ten ROWL Masters made the trek – from Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, Mississippi, New Jersey, and Virginia – to run for Cody. Bill made a flag that each would carry.<br />
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One participant, Shannon McGinn, 33, drove from Rahway, NJ to run in Virginia. Diagnosed at 29 with breast cancer, she survived and took up the sport of running. This race is special because she is raising money to fight the illness that has so personally touched her. In doing so, she abandons her bib for the 113th Boston Marathon to be contested the Monday after this relay. It was to be her first Boston, but it matters little to her: she understands all too clearly the fight for life against this disease; Boston can wait.<br />
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Nine of the ten participants complete 50 miles during the 24-hour relay and each carry the “Cody’s Crew” flag. During the dark hours on the trail, Mickey thinks often of the pain his young boy endured; these miles become spiritual for him, an act of contrition, perhaps, that parents feel for not being able to spare their children from certain pain. Cody’s Beach Bound Crew of Pirates raises $1200 for Neuroblastoma research.<br />
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<em>Cody’s first treatment caused agony beyond imagination. While he’d learned to walk before the disease struck, he needed to re-learn the skill – twice – due to muscle atrophy caused by the cancer treatments. When Cody finished his treatments, Mickey looked at his own physical health and found it wanting. He took up running and put his sights on running the Richmond Marathon in November, 2006. Race day was unseasonably warm and as he struggled with cramps and fatigue over the last half of the course, he thought of his son – his image on his t-shirt and the words “Cody is My Reason” – and the pain he had endured. He thought of the treatments that would cause Cody’s lips to blister and peel, the mucositis that resulted in the degeneration of the lining of Cody’s mouth. Drinking milk from a bottle felt like drinking shards of glass. He thought of Cody’s first words, and how they related to the hospital, the drugs, his treatments. Mickey knew that his own fatigue and cramps were nothing, that the discomfort was temporary. He knew when his pain would end, that whatever agony he was feeling was but a small slice of what Cody had. Cody had survived his first brush with cancer; Mickey would finish this race.<br />
</em><br />
Race day in Vermont dawns cool but the sun will quickly heat up the course. Each team member will carry the Cody’s Crew flag during the relay. Eric Cheung of New York City is the lead-off runner for Team 1 of Cody’s Crew. He’d met Mickey at a Masters FE at the 2007 Philadelphia Marathon, and found him to be as ebullient and warm as the man on the boards. Mickey believed with all his heart that Cody was cured, but his son’s battle for health was a constant, the disease has a frighteningly high rate of recurrence. Eric could feel this weight on Mickey. “When the 100-on-100 teams were recruiting runners, I felt a strong urge to do something, anything to help.”<br />
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Somehow, this 6-year-old boy has infected these runners with his toughness and determination. During each of the 3 legs of this hundred mile relay, they’ll think often of Cody, this boy they know but never met. They feel a common mission, a common a purpose. None can put a finger on it; perhaps it is that Mickey could have been any of them, that Cody could have been any of their sons. Tobey Hobbes of Indiana would later reflect “The emotional energy and sense of purpose from these other 11 people was so contagious that you couldn’t help feeling like we were all one big family.”<br />
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When Karen Faber, 42, of Bowie Maryland, signed up, she knew nothing about Cody or Cody’s Crew. She stumbled upon a thread in the RWOL Masters Forum looking for a runner to fill in for a participant who had withdrawn. “At the time I knew very little about Cody or Mickey or neuroblastoma. But I liked to run and I wanted to see Vermont.” During her preparations for the race she frequented the Masters forum more often. “I started learning more about Cody… I read about the 24 hour relay in Hampton, and I found out that there was this big, compassionate group of runners out there…”<br />
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<em>It is 2 days before Thanksgiving, 2007. Cody is cranky, his belly is hurting. He’s a typical 5- year- old: he’s started kindergarten, he loves his teachers, he tests the rules. He gets tired and cranky at the end of the day but he loves getting on that bus with his siblings Justin and Daniela. Mickey and Diane take him to the doctor thinking he has nothing more than a virus. But the beast is back, Cody has relapsed: Scans show an enormous tumor on his liver. One of the top Neuroblastoma surgeons at Memorial Sloan Kettering declares the tumor inoperable. Mick and Diane refuse to surrender. They find a surgeon at Georgetown University hospital who will perform an 85% liver resection. Before the surgery, Cody goes through additional rounds of chemo to shrink the tumor. Santa visits the children’s Oncology unit at Georgetown University hospital. Mickey is there and uncertain how Cody will react; he has been in a foul mood all morning. Cody is angry; his world has been upended yet again. He’s had to withdraw from his beloved kindergarten. He has to have the toxic chemicals with their nausea and hair loss infused in his veins. He wants to be home with his family. He submits to the treatment but has tantrums in between: he is incensed at this intrusion in his life. Cody sees the bearded man in red and hesitantly approaches him, then wraps his arms around him and hugs him for nearly half a minute. A Washington Post reporter is on hand to capture the moment. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpYVc2KR0UFKxYg_471QGdouAw1nx7QWO1XiZHt7rEN2OPlCdT9bKxu9CHIHW9ZZAdiILZMjZUqzM8ESuZphmt2tKyco2f3WJD76FMzkbuoDK7ExDH2F07pfr7cpne-lpYL8R2fUy59jc/s1600-h/Cody-santa.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416013611191856978" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpYVc2KR0UFKxYg_471QGdouAw1nx7QWO1XiZHt7rEN2OPlCdT9bKxu9CHIHW9ZZAdiILZMjZUqzM8ESuZphmt2tKyco2f3WJD76FMzkbuoDK7ExDH2F07pfr7cpne-lpYL8R2fUy59jc/s200/Cody-santa.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 155px;" /></a><br />
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<div><span style="font-size: 85%;">“A gift for Santa too”, </span><em><span style="font-size: 85%;">Washington Post</span></em><br />
<em></em><em><span style="font-size: 85%;"> </span></em>Elizabeth Scott, 44, a native of Vermont, has been an active fundraiser for cancer research for years. “You start feeling powerless and that there’s absolutely nothing you can do to stop the march of this beast.” She relishes the opportunity to raise money to combat the disease, and with good reason: it has claimed nearly the entire side of her father’s family: Her grandmother, uncle, and father all perished from colon cancer. Her sister has fought breast cancer. A cousin had lung cancer, another is fighting an aggressive brain tumor. “Running races for cancer research funding has given me a bit of peace, and a feeling of control over this disease.”<br />
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Rick Knuth from Fort Wayne, Indiana competes despite a nagging hip injury. A devout Catholic, he feels participating in the event is a spiritual call, to give something. “I have been blessed with three healthy daughters and just can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for Mickey and Diane during Cody’s illness. Nobody should have to go through that.” During the difficult parts of the day’s racing he falls back on traditional Catholic prayers, saying countless Hail Marys and Our Fathers.<br />
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<em>Cody endures additional cycles of chemotherapy and radiation during that winter and spring. Cody never complains about going to the hospital, but he doesn’t always willingly submit to the treatments. He misses kindergarten, and is thrilled when he is able to attend his class’ Valentines Day party. He’s excited to be going back and when he arrives Cody had hugs for everyone: the secretaries, the school nurse, even the principal. He goes to his classroom and hugs both of his teachers. Back at the hospital, Cody is Jekyll and Hyde with the nurses, charming one minute, angry the next. Mickey worries at how Cody lashes out, at how angry his little boy can be. In hindsight he realizes Cody was fighting back the only way he knew how. He has such spirit – he enters a room and takes it over with his smile, his laugh, his devilish charm.</em><br />
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The day goes from cool to very warm with temperatures reaching the 90’s. The course is very hilly and there are stretches where there is no relief from the sun. The relay runners feel the fatigue and discomfort from the course and heat. They carry Cody’s flag and all think of him during the tough stretches. Elizabeth is suffering from nausea, as is Mickey. Despite his second leg of the relay being relatively flat, the lack of shade is crippling. “Although it was relatively flat the heat just sucked the life right out of me.” The thought of Cody and all he had gone through kept him from walking during this leg. After he finishes this part of the relay he finds an ice cold stream and jumps in. He thinks about Cody’s favorite place, the beach.<br />
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<em>Over the summer, the Johnson’s take Cody on a trip to Ocean City, Maryland,. The beach is Cody’s favorite place and it is a wonderful chance to be together without the intrusion of hospitals and doctors. The trip is a respite for the marathon treatments to come. In September, the Johnson’s take Cody to Memorial Sloan Kettering Hospital in NYC to undergo 3F8 antibody treatments. These treatments are designed to attack any remaining cancer cells in Cody’s body and are the best protocol available to fight neuroblastoma. It is a painful process, each infusion causing more and more pain, and morphine rescues are often needed during the 20 minute treatments. Cody is in MSK for 2 weeks and passes his 6th birthday in the hospital. The doctors are hopeful: the results of the tests show Cody is tolerating the treatments well. He returns to MSK in October, and again in November to undergo additional cycles. It has been a year since his cancer has returned and they feel a corner has been turned, that Cody is getting better.</em><br />
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While the afternoon conditions are tough, Cody’s Crew is smiling: they are having so much fun. They joke about not making unscheduled stops at the Ben and Jerry’s ice cream factory that they will pass. They crew for each other, provide water for their runners on the course. Other runners question Cody’s Crew about the flag, and they are happy to spread the word, to share the mission. Later in the day, they are cheered along the course by other participants who have heard of their cause. They feel like running evangelists, spreading the gospel of Cody.<br />
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<em>The Johnson’s hope is short-lived. It is December, 2008 and they are looking forward to spending the holidays together as a family. Just before Christmas, Mickey takes Cody to Georgetown University hospital for some tests. The whites of Cody’s eyes have developed some yellowing and the tests indicate increased bilirubin: something is going on with Cody’s liver. The doctors conclude that it is inflamed due to a virus, and work to get it stabilized. Just after Christmas, Cody begins to limp. He’d hurt his leg the last time he had been to New York City and this same leg is giving him trouble. Mickey and Diane pray it is related to the injury and the doctor thinks it may very well be. However, on December 30, 2008, a scan shows the presence of a bone lesion: the beast has returned.<br />
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The sun sets on the runners in Vermont. They have each started the third and final leg of the relay; they are closing in on the finish line. Teams 1 and 2 of Cody’s Crew run the third leg together. Their legs are sore and tired from the miles. Their feet hurt and the heat of the day has sapped much of their energy but the cooling air and the colors of dusk lift their spirits. They wear reflective vests, head lamps, reflective arm and leg bands. They see the faintly glowing figures of other runners. It is a spiritual, - almost holy - time for them.<br />
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<em>Time</em>. Runners seem to be centered on it, measuring miles and kilometers run in hours, minutes, seconds. Marathoners trying to qualify for Boston know all too well how long one second can be, the difference between standing on the starting line and sitting at home on Patriots day. But this evening in Vermont, the time it takes to run the course has ceased to have meaning. While these runners would normally want to speed through the miles as fast as possible – minimizing time - they instead savor it on this night. They remember how Cody loved his older brother Justin, and how his one wish was to be ten years old like him. That’s all Cody wanted, just a little more time. They have a new clarity of just how precious it is; Cody’s journey has given them that.<br />
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<em>The presence of the cancer so soon after the 3F8 treatments is not good news. More lesions are found Cody is scheduled for chemo and radiation to try and knock it out fast. However, the chemo can’t be administered until his liver resumes normal functioning. The doctors wait as long as possible, and then have to settle on half doses of chemo to prevent further damaging his liver. They are balancing the delicate scales of time: they need time for his liver to heal, but every day they wait is a day the cancer grows. Cody starts treatment at the end of January and is home in time to watch his beloved Pittsburgh Steelers play in the Super Bowl. Photos of Cody show him smiling wide, excited. But one can’t help but notice his yellowed skin. It’s incongruous, to see the beautiful smile on this evidently ill child. His liver numbers continue to deteriorate and the doctors have to suspend the chemo.</em><br />
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<em> </em>Bill Barnes of Boston runs the final stretch of the relay with Mickey. They will carry the Cody’s Crew flags over the finish line. It is dark out and they chat amiably about the relay, their previous runs that day, how they felt. The air is so cool they can see their breath. They get very quiet. At that moment, Bill experiences his first ‘runners high’. “It was extremely dark and our senses of sound, scent, and touch took over from our sense of sight. We ran in silence except for the perfectly cadenced footsteps and breaths… We were, simply, two runners doing what we love to do.”<br />
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<em>2 weeks later Cody’s stomach begins to hurt. When the Johnsons call the doctor, she tells them to come in the next day. This gives them pause: why wait, why not take him in now? She tells them gently that it is most likely the cancer, that it has spread. Scans reveal cancer covering 50% of Cody’s lungs. There are new spots on his liver in addition to the lesions on his leg; the progression of the disease is frighteningly fast. They cease all treatment. Mickey and Diane go into ‘Memory Making Overdrive’. They quickly plan a final trip to Florida, to get Cody back to his beloved beach. The trip is hard, Cody is ill and irritable. His skin is deeply yellow and people stare at him. He is quiet and tired during most of the time there; the cancer is wearing him down. They play miniature golf and he sits after each shot. He is only well enough to go to the beach one afternoon. They return home on March 1st and take Cody to Georgetown University Hospital for an evaluation. The cancer is rapidly advancing in his lungs and liver. Two weeks earlier Cody’s doctor had thought he might have 3 months left. She now says he has a week, perhaps two. His breathing is becoming more labored and he is in continual pain. They take Cody home with a morphine pump and oxygen. He is sleeping when Mickey and Diane have the hardest talk imaginable with Justin and Daniela: they have to tell them their little brother is dying.</em><br />
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Mickey would reflect on this time, this last leg of the relay. “There is nothing like running at night, along a lake, in the pitch dark with a friend and just listening to the sound of your shoes hitting the road.” He and Bill approach the finish line and see the cluster of the other ten members of Cody’s Crew waiting for them. “I can’t explain what I felt or what I remember at that moment. It was all just a blur. I remember all of the Cody’s Crew members hugging each other and the tears were flowing. It was all I had hoped it would be. I know my son was watching me and was very proud of all of us. I felt closer to Cody at that moment than I have since the day we lost him.” They crossed the finish line together, each of them holding their “Cody’s Crew” flag high. <br />
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Every runner at one time or another questions his or her reason for being out there, for running mile after mile without regard to weather, fatigue, discomfort. But what makes runners go out of their way to run for a child they’ve never met? It makes you wonder about the nature of friendship, particularly of these friendships. Are they friends because of the running, is the sport the cement that holds these people together? Or is it something more, that the running and the Masters forum were the springboard for all of this? They started out with a common denominator of running, but at the end it wasn’t about the running; it was about Cody, he was their reason. <br />
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Kerry Lambert, also of Vermont later reflects on the weekend. “Cody deserves more…he deserves a legacy, a positive legacy. If our run and this race can raise funds and awareness that get us even a smidgeon closer to helping another child with this horrid disease, then sign me up. Make me a shirt, give me the flag, point me toward the race. I’ll run because I can…and because Cody can’t.” <br />
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<div>Karen Faber – who joined the relay so she could see Vermont – left knowing she had been there for something much more meaningful than a weekend sightseeing trip. “I get a little choked up when I think about the weekend… I realized that I wasn’t just there to run a few miles in Vermont, I was there for something much bigger. I was there for Cody. I was there for an amazing kid that even after his death is doing great things through his parents and his dad’s running.”<br />
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Despite his tremendous loss, Mickey is overwhelmed by the generosity of both spirit and body of these people. “Runners are not afraid to work very hard for something they believe in. Where many people would just write a check from their check book to help, our team members did that plus wrote checks with their sweat, tears and pain.” He is humbled by their gesture. He intends to continue his fight and while his intention was to raise funds for a cure for neuroblastoma, he also finds he has collected willing volunteers who spread his mission a step, a block, a mile at a time. They are, after all, runners.<br />
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<em>Mickey loved the smell of Cody’s hair, loved the way it felt on his face when Cody would sit on his lap. He feels Cody with him, in his aching heart. He misses him so much. Mickey opens his eyes. He takes one last look down the hill; Justin and Daniela will be headed down to the bus later that morning. He turns and starts out on his morning run. Cody is his reason.<br />
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<em>Cody Johnson died on March 6th, 2009. He was 6 years old.<br />
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Donations to find a cure Neuroblastoma may be made to <a href="http://www.codys-crew.org/">http://www.codys-crew.org/</a><br />
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</div></div>Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-76071370864215915432009-03-11T19:02:00.016-04:002009-03-13T17:07:34.272-04:00Goodnight, MoonI’m driving south on I-95, a few dozen miles south of Manassas, Virginia. I'm listening to an audio book, but my mind keeps drifting. It is dark out, and I glance out the driver’s side window and see the full moon, bright in the sky.<br /><br />I’m reflecting on this evening and thinking of similar evenings I’ve had this past year. I’ve just come from the wake of a child who spent nearly 5 of his 6 years battling the vicious beast of cancer. I was trying to make sense of it and not making any headway. The moon caught my eye.<br /><br />I think back to last spring, when my Aunt died. She was in her late 70’s, and had been bedridden for many years after a stroke. In some ways, her death was a blessing. People talk of “quality of life” and hers was not one I envied. She’d had a full – if hard – life. She survived the sinking of the Andrea Dorea. She married and had 3 children, although her third child – a girl – was born severely disabled and institutionalized nearly from birth. She had a loving family. Her death was sad – she was a beloved family member. But she had had her fair shot at life. It may not have been even close to perfect, but she got to the starting line and ran the race. I could do the math on this one.<br /><br />In December, my family was hit with the sudden and very tragic death of my cousin Melissa. The last time I’d seen her alive was at her wedding, not 18 months earlier. A lifelong epileptic, her neurologist changed her medication so she could safely carry the baby she and her husband so wanted to have. Melissa was a feisty one, and I remember thinking when she was 12 or 13 that she was ‘an old soul’. I don’t know if I attributed it to her illness or her status of “first born’, but I had this vague notion that she was born a few years later than she should have; She always seemed to be a few squares ahead of her peers in the game of Life. As tough as she was, she was 10 times a sweet and loving and giving. She was the uber-aunt, adored by her nieces, the person ready to jump in and help at a moment’s notice. While she swore – as a 20-something year old – that she would never marry or have children, she fond her soul mate, a sweet, burly teddy bear of a man. At 37 she married, and from there they started their all-too-short journey. The medication switch fatally altered her blood chemistry, and shortly before Christmas, she collapsed. She was rushed to the hospital and put on life support. It was December in Milwaukee, and it was snowing. My Aunt later related while eulogizing her daughter that her condition was getting grim. Her niece pulled her over to a window – it was dark out – and she pointed to something under a lit street lamp: a single, perfect snow angel. There were no boot prints around the angel, and they grabbed on to this talisman of hope and comfort after Melissa died. I don’t know if we look for these ‘small miracles’ to help make sense of the senseless; as with so many situation, you find any port in a storm. I know – while it may have helped – there is nothing to balance out the loss of a child.<br /><br />As I speed down the 95, I glance again at the moon. While still bright, there is a slight bit of haze covering it. I think about these deaths, and about the one I have most recently faced.<br /><br />How do you reconcile the death of a child - a beautiful, lively 6-year old boy? Cody Johnson was this boy, a mere slipknot of a child who loved pirates, legos, and his family. The cancer was so vicious and without remorse it claimed 80% of his liver, his ability to live a carefree childhood, and ultimately his life. He endured more pain than most of us will collectively face in a lifetime. His parents are in awe of the courage of their son. His father, Mickey, told me he never complained, never ever put up a fuss of having to go to the hospital. That’s not to say that Cody was sweetly ignorant of his predicament: when he was subject to procedures he’d sometimes put up a fight, he’d lash out in anger, or be plain grumpy. He rebelled against this slice of his existence, the one over-inhabited with needles, chemo, nausea, and procedures that kept him from being ‘just a little boy’. I’m not sure if he was brave or didn’t have a memory that didn’t include a life without discomfort and pain. His resiliency was born of experience that predated memory. He just knew that this <em>thing</em> robbed him of kindergarten and soccer, and often interfered with swimming in a pool or his beloved ocean.<br /><br />As I entered the funeral home, I saw an incongruous sight: a white hearse parked behind a blue minivan. I’ve never been to the wake of a child – I have no experience against which to draw. I’m lucky in that sense. I don’t know how parents face this; I know there is no chapter in any child-rearing guide titled “Burying Your Child”. I know enough to know there are no words for a moment like this: There is nothing for a moment like this. I walk into the viewing room and see Cody’s profile peeking out of an impossibly small coffin. I’ve never met this child, and this is not certainly the way I wanted to. My eyes fill. I can think only of a pithy sentence: <em>It’s just not fair.</em> I see my friend Mickey and he looks strong but the fatigue and grief are etched around his eyes. I hug him tightly, this tough, sweet, genuine friend of mine. I suspect he is in the numb antechamber of disbelief and denial. I guess he is trying to get through the next days, the next horrible few days of saying goodbye forever to his beloved son, to be brave and solid and be like his hero, Cody.<br /><br />His wife, Diane, is beyond sorrow. When I embrace her I have a sudden realization that all the strength she garnered for her son is – for the moment – gone. She feels so thin and fragile, I want to hold her forever and help her support her impossibly heavy heart. I hold her face in my hands and I want to say something – ANYTHING – that will resonate, that will help her in the certain dark days to come. I believed he’d get better – it was easy for me. I could make the logic work, that the chemicals would do their horrible, wonderful magic and kill the thief that was trying to rob this sweet family of their child. But he wasn’t MY SON; I didn’t have that emotional investment. I could stand pat on the science and hope for the best. It’s emotionally cowardly, but I have to admit to its truth.<br /><br />It is this heartbroken mother who says something of such simple ferocity that I am left nearly breathless: <em>I can’t believe Cody is dead! I never thought he would die! Even when he was so sick, I believed he would get better, that one day he would wake up and just start playing with his toys…</em> She hoped beyond hope, and was betrayed by her hope and her child was taken and he is not coming back…what do you say to this? Nothing. I hug her again, tightly. She has been so brave, and devoted, and caring and still her sweet baby is gone. How can anyone make sense of this?<br /><br />I go to see the boy. While waiting in the receiving line, I watch streaming slideshows of him. Anyone can deduce from the photos he was a feisty kid, full of life, in the thick of everything. You see him smiling, mugging for the camera, kicking a soccer ball, wresting with his brother or his cousin, Chris. There is such LIFE to this boy. And when I approach the casket, I see that yes, the funeral home has done a nice job in preparing him, but it’s not Cody, at least the Cody I have come to know. Regardless of the genetic makeup of this tiny body lying so still in front of me, this is not CODY. Cody was perpetual motion, and animation, and LIFE. Like a blossom, the beauty is on the tree, in the air, near the sky; the husk of the flower is on the ground.<br /><br />I have a sudden realization and kneel before the casket and pray - not for Cody - but for his family. I pray for those left to mourn this brave, sweet child. I pray for his parents - for Mickey and Diane - that their grief will not consume them, that the beast will not further add to its tally of this family. I know this is a wound that will never totally heal, and like the beginning of his life, they will be living the horrible mirror image of a year of “firsts” where they will be desperately missing their boy and saying too often the word <em>without. </em>I know many people believe in heaven and an afterlife, and if there is one, then Cody is surely in it. If there is a God, I believe he is one that ushers children in without the scrutiny that is leveled on adults. I want to believe Cody is there; but even if there is no afterlife, Cody is still at peace and free from the pain, needles and chemicals. He may be gone from the earth, but he is most certainly not out of the orbit of those who love him.<br /><br />I speed down the I-95. That moon is still there. I reflect back on how I believed in Cody’s treatment, I firmly believed it would work. I’m trying to make sense of something that is senseless – it is the ultimate exercise in futility. There are those who try and find some meaning in such tragedies – but regardless of whether Cody is an angel in heaven, or his illness causes a philantrhopic streak to raise funds to cure the disease – there is NO WAY you can convince me that there is some earthly math that will balance each side of the equals sign. Regardless of the aftermath, there is nothing that will mitigate the ultimate loss of this child. There can be redemption and solace, but not a loss of memory; It is the very definition of grief.<br /><br />And now I look at the moon and wonder if my belief and hope were of any substance, like the light of the moon. I get angry for a moment – this moon is a fraud. It creates no light – it simply reflects the light of the sun. It hijacks it and passes it off as its own. Without the sun, the moon is nothing but a gray, barren, crater-pocked rock in orbit around our Earth. It’s a cold, lifeless place. But of course the moon doesn’t steal the sun, it redirects its light. And then it occurs to me: we are all like the moon. We would orbit this Earth, cold and barren but for the light and beauty of the warmth of something bigger than us all: LOVE. We are nothing without it.<br /><br />I want to believe - regardless of the final resting place of the souls of those who leave us too soon – that we carry with us an ember of their love and humanity. And I throw up a silent prayer to the moon and beyond for these parents of stolen children that they not feel some sort of misplaced responsibility to live <em>for</em> their lost child, but to live life – <em>with joy</em> – for having had the blessing that was this child, for however unfairly short was their time on our Earth. And that in reflecting the love for their child, it will light their way.<br /><br /><em>For Cody and Melissa<br /></em>Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-84415309580063044152008-11-09T09:50:00.017-05:002011-02-07T18:34:56.522-05:00The Son Also Rises<div><br />
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<div><i><b>“Hard work PAYS OFF” – Chant and Mantra of the Weaver Football Titans Senior football team, 2008<br />
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I was never a ‘real’ team-sport athlete. I think I was drawn more toward individual performance than that of a team. I ran Cross-Country and track in high school, and there certainly were team scores. But I was more keenly interested in - and aware of - the result I posted for each meet. If the team won but I’d had a bad performance, I felt no sense of victory; in some way, I didn’t feel I’d “won”, despite the points I may have contributed toward the team total.<br />
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My son Luc, however, is a different kind of animal: he is a born ‘team player’. He loves the camaraderie of a playing unit, doing his best for the greater good of his team, individual performance as a part of the machine of team competitiveness. He’s a social guy with an easy smile, sense of humor, and a fierce competitive instinct. He lives for game day. He’s one of those kids that is best when ‘it counts’. Even when he was a more junior player, I noticed a change in him on game day – a focus and determination that we in the running world refer to as ‘race day magic’. He’d get on the field and deliver. There was no joking on the sidelines. He’d sit or stand alone and intently watch the action on the field. His coaches would ask him to make a big play, he’d promise, then deliver on the promise.<br />
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He has been lucky to have been part of a youth program since the 4th grade, with talented, decent, and hard-working coaches who never confused winning on the field with winning in life. I would call the headcoach jokingly <i>The Man with the Whistle. </i>The coaches' job was to teach the game of football, but much more than that, they wove in lessons of teamwork, sportsmanship, and fair play. You couldn’t come to practice if you hadn’t completed your homework. They often told the players to thank their parents for having driven them to the game or to practice. Their style was about guiding these young teenagers through a slice of life using the field of play as the chalkboard. At the end of each practice, the team would cluster together around the coaches for a few words, and it would end with the head coach yelling <b><i>HARD WORK</i></b> and boys would reply <b><i>PAYS OFF! </i></b>They always left each practice and game with these last words.<br />
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The team played well, had a near-perfect record, and made the playoffs as they had in years past. However this season was different – this young team won its first ever playoff game and headed into the second round. Luc had a great season and seemed – to my untrained eye – to be all over the field in every game. His competitive spirit would show up when he’d make a great tackle, cause a fumble, sack the quarterback. But he was definitely part of a bigger unit. He’d jump up after a great play and find a teammate to do a raucous chest bump or share a high five. He never celebrated alone. He cheered his teammates accomplishments with equal enthusiam. He left everything on the field, even when the scoreboard would tell a story that would say well before the final horn declared <i>It’s over.</i> After the one loss during the regular season to a hated rival team - known for dirty play and unsportsmanlike conduct from the coaching staff on down – I watched the team, and my son, during the post-game coaches talk. It had been a warm and humid morning, and boys who had played sat exhausted, soaked with sweat and dirt, their faces grim. Normally, these gatherings were one of uncontained teenage joy, the only kind that can be expressed by those young enough to have little to worry about beyond the next five minutes. I watched my son, his helmet off. He bit his lower lip and I saw a tear fall from his eye. He wiped it quickly away. The coaches called out the names of 3 players, recognizing their effort. Luc was the third player called. The head coach said <i>I want you to look at him.</i> They turned their heads. <i>Luc never gave up. He never quit. </i>To me, that is the highest praise given. I’d seen Luc chase down a player and tackle him just as he crossed into the end zone. He fell on the other player’s legs, knocking his own wind out. I saw him on all fours, and then try and stand upright. His knees buckled twice, but he fought to his feet. He jogged over, then fell and rolled on the ground. He got up again. He would not come out. He did not want to sit a single down. The coach’s words were small comfort to Luc. He didn’t smile or acknowledge any sense of accomplishment. He would have traded the praise and the loss for anonymity and the win in a second.<br />
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The Weaver Titans were certainly underdogs headed into the playoffs, but my son had a fervent belief they could make – and win! – the league’s Super Bowl. One day I was making him breakfast, I asked him a question. In hindsight, I’m not sure why I asked him the question: was it my own ego at play? I’d heard from so many parents and coaches – dads in particular – about what a fine player Luc was. And of course I agreed with them because I’m his mother: To me, he’s potentially the second coming. I think it was also a bit of the runner in me looking for some kind of individual performance gauge beyond the team record. <i>Do you think you’ll make the Super Senior Bowl?</i> This game is the league’s equivalent of the All-Star team. He leveled his eyes at me and replied – without hesitation, <i>No</i>. There was no disappointment in his voice. I was confused. <i>Why not?</i> He gave me one of his easy smiles, <i>Because you don’t play in that game if you’re in the Super Bowl. </i>My 14-year-old son gave me the best lesson I’ve ever had with those simple words. Not only was he unconcerned about individual accolades, it wasn’t a factor. He wanted to share in a <i>team</i> honor. But bigger than that, I was struck with the depth of conviction in the <i>belief</i> that they’d win. Despite their record and ranking and a calculated match-up of team size and strength, this did not factor. He believed the team could and would win.<br />
<br />
They played the second playoff game and lost. If one could boil it down to the one thing, that one card they had that we didn’t, it was speed that we couldn’t match: If you can’t catch the guy, you pretty much can’t stop him. Our team fought valiently, they never gave up. Luc never, ever quit. Even when their top threat went sprinting toward the end zone, Luc was the last guy to chase him down and threw himself at him at the 4 or 5 yard line in a desperate - and ultimately unsuccessful - attempt to keep him from the end zone. The team kept trying. On their last possession, on 4th and something, it was the last shot. They were down 12 points and needed a score, and then some luck with an onside kick. They needed some last minute heroics. They believed. We – in the stands – cheered our boys on. The Titans QB shouted the cadence. The ball was snapped, and something happened. I’m not sure if it was a bad snap or a missed count or what, but the play never got off; it was over before it even started. And like that, the season was over, and my son’s elementary and middle school football seasons were behind him.<br />
<br />
At the final post-game team debriefing, the boys each took a knee on the field. They were so quiet. I looked at the group and couldn’t find Luc, although I knew he was there. An official from the league’s governing body stepped up and offered words of encouragement, praise in the blunt, tough voice of football to which I’ve come to expect. <i>I know you’re disappointed. But tomorrow will come and it will be a day of opportunity. Take that feeling with you to next season.</i> I’m not sure his words registered with any of the players. He then called the numbers of those players who’d been selected for the Super Senior Bowl. Luc’s was not one of them. Again, the individual athlete in me ached for my son, but my face and demeanor did not change. The <i>This is not about me or my expectations </i>was the Yin to the <i>This is what can happen when anything but the clock is the judge</i> Yang. A second later a father who was behind me tapped me on the shoulder. <i>Luc had a great game. </i>I smiled, <i>Thanks.</i> I don’t know if he felt my disappointment for my son, or my own ego. I was trying to anticipate my son’s face. I looked in the clot of purple jerseys and still couldn’t find him. Each coach spoke; many of them wept. They hurt for the boys, but I think they couldn't believe that the fun - the season - was over. The bond between these players and these coaches was nothing short of magic. And in the 5 years my son was lucky enough to be coached by these men, I was coached too. I learned how to take a step back, how to let my son play, to take my own ideas out of the mix and have faith in this wonderful group of dedicated volunteers. I watched as they gave these boys the well-earned confidence to play each game with enthusiasm and passion. I felt such sadness that their roles in my son's life had come to an end. They offered a some final words of encouragement then gathered the team in a tight mass. The head coach - the man with the whistle - yelled <b><i>HARD WORK</i></b> and they answered in unison and without hesitation <i><b>PAYS OFF!</b></i> and the meeting broke up.<br />
<br />
My son walked over to me; he was sobbing. His disappointment was overwhelming, his grief palpable. I hugged my boy who is a full head taller than I. I could hardly get my arms around his padded shoulders. I kissed his sweaty face. <i>Luc, I’m so sorry. I’m so proud of you.</i> He buried his face in my neck and let me hug him for a moment, then pushed away, inconsolable. He did not seek out his teammates. My tough son who never quit was now working through the agonizing math of shattering disappointment. He invested heavily in hope and was living the hard side of the equation of a sporting contest.<br />
<br />
I thought about how much courage it takes to do that, to believe that fervently and put so much hope and stock in that belief. To put so much emotional capital on the line. The disappointment can be crippling, and there are some who can somehow put it in context and move on, to dare to do great things with equal persistance, and those who retreat to the safety of banality and – to paraphrase Teddy Roosevelt – prefer the gray twilight and know neither victory nor defeat. I knew in some sense what he was feeling, and I thought long and hard about how he individually mourned his team’s defeat. But in some small way, I thought he was also mourning the end of the season, the end of this team and how he’d move on next year beyond the safety net of the players and coaches he knew and loved.<br />
<br />
I saw him walk off the field with his dad – we had come in separate cars for logistical reasons – and I wondered what that car ride home would be like. Teenage boys naturally gravitate to their fathers, and I envied not being the ‘go to’ person like I’d been when Luc was a young child. My heart ached for my son. I knew this was a necessary part of life, a key ingredient to the foundation of character: to face disappointment, to manage the process, to find the meaningful lesson. And most importantly, to move on to the next pursuit wiser, but with no less enthusiasm or fearlessness. I hoped he’d find the courage to believe again; I was certain he would. Like all parents, I prayed that one day he’d be on the winning end of the equation, and feel the uncontained joy of living the dream. But at the moment, I was Luc's mother; I just wanted my boy to be happy.<br />
<br />
I arrived home and he came down the stairs a few minutes later, freshly showered. His face was no longer a study in grief. <i>Are you hungry? </i>He smiled a bit, <i>No just really thirsty. Can I have a Gatorade? </i>I got my son his drink and put a frozen pizza in the oven, certain that his appetite would arrive soon after he quenched his thirst. He went into the family room and turned on the television. His sister came home from a babysitting job, and after hearing about the loss, she went to join him.<br />
<br />
The next day, he needed to run an errand, something for school. It was a rare opportunity for me to spend some ‘alone’ time with him; for me it was a blessing it came the day after this game. I didn’t mention the previous evening, just chatted about his homework project and what else he was planning to do with his day. There was a lull in the conversation, and he said quietly <i>I’m still bummed we lost. I can’t believe football is over. I can’t believe I won’t be playing for Weaver anymore.</i> I sat for a second more, waiting for him to express disappointment over not making the Super Senior Bowl. But he said nothing else. I told him a story of my biggest disappointment in high school track. <i>It was so disappointing, Luc. All those miles of training, and my relay team was passed with a hundred meters to go…</i> and then I told him how you move on, find the lesson. And that he should look not at the last loss, but all he’d gained from his years with his wonderful friends and coaches, how he learned respect, and fair play, and to “pursue victory with honor” – another cornerstone of the program. And how the hated rival may win, but in the long run he will have gained infinitly more. He nodded his head. He didn’t seem sad, but I could tell he was still working through the regret of the previous evening.<br />
<br />
We walked in the house, and within an hour two of his buddies were at the door - one a teammate, the other a neighbor. They'd been to a video game store and had bought Luc a game – a belated birthday gift. I went upstairs to fold laundry. As I walked up the stairs, I heard them chatting in the patois of teenage boys, sentances heavily peppered with the word <i>Dude. </i>I didn’t hear what they were saying and continued my ascent. And as I reached the landing, I heard the sweet, healing music of their laughter.<br />
<br />
<i>For you, Luc, and the men with the whistles.</i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijgQl6aTlOZEyg3gMDO6CryJk95Y2p_K30MGqcj6ST4M3I3Gl1sNnrtYeZVFwU3sTXRS9WciFCuGTJtuJ7uOiftMdRal9xME7ms7-t9_O5OnlduYUNjfefj75ZwNaqr_IuD_brRMvZNE8/s1600-h/Big+tackle.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267137131364463826" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijgQl6aTlOZEyg3gMDO6CryJk95Y2p_K30MGqcj6ST4M3I3Gl1sNnrtYeZVFwU3sTXRS9WciFCuGTJtuJ7uOiftMdRal9xME7ms7-t9_O5OnlduYUNjfefj75ZwNaqr_IuD_brRMvZNE8/s200/Big+tackle.jpg" style="float: left; height: 133px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbs5AbX2Xv0cb2XGiAVWMap_UXD6aE8CoRrXMKJ1MCi4jvZBpmkhc_Ja0BGdNHhBmVE5umVXtFK68LjVHDBLNnlnD3hcn3Ie9QpeJc3Rf6P3oddhLPFmM3ZGFl5w2sKbKyIuRysA-k1Gs/s1600-h/Weaver+Titans.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267140318126272386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbs5AbX2Xv0cb2XGiAVWMap_UXD6aE8CoRrXMKJ1MCi4jvZBpmkhc_Ja0BGdNHhBmVE5umVXtFK68LjVHDBLNnlnD3hcn3Ie9QpeJc3Rf6P3oddhLPFmM3ZGFl5w2sKbKyIuRysA-k1Gs/s200/Weaver+Titans.jpg" style="float: left; height: 133px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267017573995561314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP7-2fs-GBFxQj9Zn92ZaNiTyeRsTauhAiWX8l_KBIFIzIEwUuRBkLJhw4MUgMSnLk3fNt8qF6kpUomfHBNc1CTtSoFB6wVDcy7vW09QKMpFW2znNH11tGfb6PnraGiPMQAOtPAxFpN8Q/s200/549424659306_0_BG.jpg" style="display: block; height: 133px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" /></div></div>Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2234723183537749948.post-55613886576085575512008-08-24T20:24:00.010-04:002008-08-28T17:11:42.643-04:00The Alchemy of BronzeThe Olympic Games. One of the more compelling races was in Track & Field, the men’s 400 meter final. The world’s eyes were on LaShawn Merrit – the upstart – and Jerimy Wariner, the world champion and reigning Olympic gold medalist. The upstart had outrun the champ at the trials, but the champ ran flawless, fast, and nearly effortless heats. It was down to the finals. The two had been in a season-long battle, is has been a fierce and unfriendly rivalry, and were each 2-2 against the other. You sensed perhaps grudging respect - at best - between the two. Then there was the question given less attention: Who would win the bronze?<br /><br />The Bronze. Let’s face it: most Olympic aficionado’s can name a particular sport’s Gold medalist. But silver? doubtful. Don’t even ask about Bronze. Bronze is the red-headed step child among the noble metals. You hear the term “Golden Boy”, and “Sterling argument” – but bronze? It’s the mongrel among the purebreds, the alloy among its precious cousins. In the Games, Gold reigns supreme.<br /><br />As each competitor stands in his starting blocks during the athletes’ introduction, I can't help but notice their faces: they are certainly happy and excited to be there, but for whatever reason, feel the need to contain the smile. Their faces twitch, like they want to smile, like the kid in church who wants to laugh but knows the penance that awaits is not worth the momentary loss of control. These athlets want to yell, to scream “LOOK AT ME, I’M IN THE OLYMPICS!!!”, but gamesmanship or concentration suppresses it: “I’m icy cool, calm.” There’s a part of me that sees the high school athlete playing it cool, casual. I get the impression that during the pre-race intros and warm-up the goal is to be expressionless, to show nothing. I can understand the need for focus, calm, the need to bring one’s attention to a single point on the track, not spread it out among the thousands of spectators. But I can't help but wonder how much energy it costs to contain it.<br /><br />Merritt is all brash and braggadocio. And he is incredibly talented and fast. He’s the man, will win, the champ, anointed. HE BELIEVES. I believe him to be all these things, but also wholly lacking in humility. However, he’s in those starting blocks, not I. It’s his game. He's paid the price to be there.<br /><br />Wariner is hiding behind his shades: they are his trademark. They are an odd prop, big and mirrored and really don’t fit his face. When he takes them off, he seems almost a bit cross-eyed, out of his element; the deer in the headlights. Perhaps the shades keep his competitors from seeing his eyes, from those precious, telling “wells of the soul”. The man is tough and talented; but why shades? Is he like a thoroughbred in need of “blinkers”, is he that distractible? Do his eyes show his fear and make him vulnerable? I don’t know. All I know is they just look plain goofy.<br /><br />But here they are, these fast man-boys on center stage of planet Earth. The gun fires. And they run. They run fast. Really, really fast. The last 100 meters they are digging for any nugget of strength and speed. At the finish line, the brash upstart is ahead by – in sprint terms – a mile, and the champ comes in second. Following them is a pack: who will grab the bronze? It is David Neville, the “other” American, who dives –literally- across the finish line, belly-flopping after the finish to grab the final spot on the podium.<br /><br />Merritt is ecstatic. He boastfully proclaims that he is not surprised, that he did what he set out to do. His fierce rival, Wariner, it devastated. He buries his face in the American flag, there must be tears; the regret as thick as the air in Beijing. This is the price of unfettered arrogance and gamesmenship.<br /><br />The medal ceremony is the moment of reckoning. Merritt is cool, smiling but clearly contained. I think that he's trying to maintain some kind of image. It pains me to think that here he is, at the pinnacle of his sport, and he can't just let go. The official hangs the medal on his neck, shakes his hand. Wariner is grim, you can sense how unhappy he is to be on the lower podium, the discomfort and humiliation of being unseated by his rival, to have to settle for second. And then there is the bronze medalist, the afterthought of this race. He is the one that captures my attention. To get to the lowest rung of Olympic royalty he has literally thrown himself across the line onto the ground of the field of play. He has given every inch of his being to be there. The annoucement of the national anthem is given over the PA. In this race, it is the anthem of all 3 medalists. Merritt – who has barely cracked a smile - puts his hand over his chest momentarily, then re-thinks the gesture and lowers it. I think “What's this? Are you truly that arrogant? Is it too humbling to think that you are not a product of one, but that of all you inhabit, including your country? Is it too much to ask that while this is an individual achievement, you do so as a representative of your your nation? Would your golden cool somehow be tarnished by showing a bit of sentimentality?” Call me a nationalistic zealot if you will, but who has not watched those medal ceremonies and smiled, cheered, wept because of what - and who - these athletes represent? They represent us, and we can only wonder how incomparable that moment must be like to live. Wariner is stone-faced; his diappointment is palpable and he looks to be doing all he can do avoid weeping on the stand and showing the world what is painfully obvious <em>to</em> the world: he was not the strongest, fastest man on this day. And oh, how he wishes he were.<br /><br />Then there is Neville. In a few weeks time, I bet 99% of us won’t be able to answer the question “Who won the bronze medal in the 400?”, or “Who is David Neville?” but I really, truly don’t think he cares. He stands tall on the podium, hand over his chest, belting the anthem, a smile a quarter mile wide. Despite his being the 2nd runner-up, he is the one that captures the spirit of the games, the one which represents the Olympic ideal. The gold medalist is too smug, the silver medalist too disappointed, but it is the bronze medalist - the third place afterthought - who stands so tall on this steamy summer evening. He understands with all clarity how precious and rare it is to be right there, right then. With his effort, determination, and uncontained joy in that singular moment, he’d morphed from a sprinter to an alchemist and discovered the secret of transforming bronze into gold.Monica Cassierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16762260713305976416noreply@blogger.com5