Scabies:
Global Warming:
The Great Depression:
Sunday, March 15, 2009
A Short List of Things WORSE Than the Last Metro North Train Back To New Haven After a Night in New York City:
Scabies:Global Warming:
The Great Depression:
Monday, March 2, 2009
What I Learned From a Sidewalk
A Blogger I know has been running a series of themes on his blog lately. This month's theme is "What I Learned From a Sidewalk". The post below is from last summer, but it fits his theme so I have put it here, (as per the instructions on his blog), with a link connecting my post to his theme page. There are often some interesting and well-written posts on his site, so go and check it out.
For Proust, it was a mouthful of pastry mixed with tea that opened the floodgates and brought his childhood back with so much detail that it took volumes to describe it fully in his magnum opus Remembrance of Things Past. For me it was nothing so literary, nor so tasty. For me it was a sweaty run on suburban sidewalks on a humid summer Saturday.
I was in Delaware to visit my mom in the wake of her recent hip-replacement surgery. My wife and daughter were in Montana, so it seemed like the perfect chance to head out on a road trip with just me and Ginger, (the Vomitty Wonder GoldenDoodle) in our 1999 Volvo sedan. I mention the car here not because it affects the story in any way, but simply because Ginger and I spent eleven of our 36 hours this weekend in the car and it struck me as rude to leave the car out of the narrative entirely. Now that the car has had its cameo, I shall not mention it again.
Anyway, I got to Delaware early Saturday afternoon and sat with my parents as Barack Obama introduced his Vice- Presidential selection, Delaware Senator Joe Biden, to the world. My parents and I do not see eye to eye on politics. We don’t even see eye to bellybutton. So as we watched Senators Obama and Biden give their short speeches, we nearly came to blows. At one point I remember towering over my mom as she commented on the foreign-ness of Barack HUSSEIN Obama’s name. I may have even said something like, “Oh Yeah?!? Why don’t you grab your cane and STAND UP and say that? Old Lady!” The atmosphere in their living room grew a little testy.
So at some point in the back-and-forth about flag lapel pins and abandoned first wives, I decided I should go for a run. For some reason I was having a hard time making myself run that week. The weekend before, I did a great 12-mile training run up East Rock and back, twice. But ever since, my enthusiasm for running had disappeared. So I took the impetus provided by a good political mud fight and turned it into the spark that got me out the door and onto the sidewalk for a run around my parents’ suburban neighborhood.
After just a few blocks I found my feet had an agenda. They took me out of Foulk Woods, into Chalfonte, through Surrey Park and over to McDaniel Crest, and then into Fairfax. (In northern Delaware each subdivision has a name and, to those in the know, those names carry much information about the socio-economic status of the people who live there.) I went by Bonsall Park, Fairfax North Park, and Fairfax South Park. I ran by 228 Waverly Road and 113 Woodrow Avenue--the first two houses I lived in as a child. Between the two houses, I passed by St. Mary Magdalene Elementary School, where I was educated from kindergarten through sixth grade.
As it turned out, I was on a tour of my childhood without having planned any such thing.
I ran by our old houses and the houses of my old friends, and the McDonalds where they used to sell ten cherry pies for a dollar on Washington’s Birthday, and the Wawa convenience store where I used to buy baseball cards, and the park where I used to play Little League Baseball, and the other park where we used to build rock-and-clay dams across the creek to create swimming holes, and Chris Campion’s house where his dad had Playboy magazines hidden in his sock drawer, and Mrs. Quinn’s house where we used to earn a dime for every Japanese beetle we could pick off her rose bushes and place in a Mason jar with gasoline, and the even-other park where we took archery lessons and got to shoot arrows at helium balloons as they floated up at the ends of long strings. The sidewalk took me by all these places and at the end of my run it was clear to me that I had one heckuva happy childhood.
As an adult I look at suburbia as a sterile place where cars rule and people don’t know their neighbors. But the suburbia I grew up in was different. To me it was far from sterile. In fact, it was fertile ground for imagination, friendship, and just-plain-fun. All the neighbors knew which family I belonged to. By the summer between fifth and sixth grades I could pretty much ride my bike anywhere in a 20-square mile area with our house in the middle. My grandmother and several aunts, uncles, and cousins lived in that same 20-square mile area, as did many of my teachers and all of my friends.
I felt free and trusted and powerful in a way I am afraid to let my daughter feel. She does NOT have the run of the neighborhood. She does not have family every few blocks where she can stop for a drink if she gets thirsty. She might never know the freedom I had as a child to just explore the world without thinking of it as a dangerous place. Growing up in suburban Wilmington, Delaware in the 1970s was a real gift for me. I developed an ease and comfort in the physical world that allowed me to feel alright about going away to college. My security in the world made it okay for me to join the Peace Corps and live in Yemen for two years after college.
The freedom my parents gave me on my bicycle left me with a strong desire to see what is around the next turn or over the next hill, or even in the next country. I never realized it before that run, but my childhood in Delaware set the stage for so much of who I am today. My run over the sidewalks of my childhood could not have come at a better time in my life. It was a good reminder for me of a time when the future was all in front of me and the only limits were those I placed on myself.
By the time I got back to my parents’ house our political differences were long forgotten and I had a good visit.
For Proust, it was a mouthful of pastry mixed with tea that opened the floodgates and brought his childhood back with so much detail that it took volumes to describe it fully in his magnum opus Remembrance of Things Past. For me it was nothing so literary, nor so tasty. For me it was a sweaty run on suburban sidewalks on a humid summer Saturday.
I was in Delaware to visit my mom in the wake of her recent hip-replacement surgery. My wife and daughter were in Montana, so it seemed like the perfect chance to head out on a road trip with just me and Ginger, (the Vomitty Wonder GoldenDoodle) in our 1999 Volvo sedan. I mention the car here not because it affects the story in any way, but simply because Ginger and I spent eleven of our 36 hours this weekend in the car and it struck me as rude to leave the car out of the narrative entirely. Now that the car has had its cameo, I shall not mention it again.
Anyway, I got to Delaware early Saturday afternoon and sat with my parents as Barack Obama introduced his Vice- Presidential selection, Delaware Senator Joe Biden, to the world. My parents and I do not see eye to eye on politics. We don’t even see eye to bellybutton. So as we watched Senators Obama and Biden give their short speeches, we nearly came to blows. At one point I remember towering over my mom as she commented on the foreign-ness of Barack HUSSEIN Obama’s name. I may have even said something like, “Oh Yeah?!? Why don’t you grab your cane and STAND UP and say that? Old Lady!” The atmosphere in their living room grew a little testy.
So at some point in the back-and-forth about flag lapel pins and abandoned first wives, I decided I should go for a run. For some reason I was having a hard time making myself run that week. The weekend before, I did a great 12-mile training run up East Rock and back, twice. But ever since, my enthusiasm for running had disappeared. So I took the impetus provided by a good political mud fight and turned it into the spark that got me out the door and onto the sidewalk for a run around my parents’ suburban neighborhood.
After just a few blocks I found my feet had an agenda. They took me out of Foulk Woods, into Chalfonte, through Surrey Park and over to McDaniel Crest, and then into Fairfax. (In northern Delaware each subdivision has a name and, to those in the know, those names carry much information about the socio-economic status of the people who live there.) I went by Bonsall Park, Fairfax North Park, and Fairfax South Park. I ran by 228 Waverly Road and 113 Woodrow Avenue--the first two houses I lived in as a child. Between the two houses, I passed by St. Mary Magdalene Elementary School, where I was educated from kindergarten through sixth grade.
As it turned out, I was on a tour of my childhood without having planned any such thing.
I ran by our old houses and the houses of my old friends, and the McDonalds where they used to sell ten cherry pies for a dollar on Washington’s Birthday, and the Wawa convenience store where I used to buy baseball cards, and the park where I used to play Little League Baseball, and the other park where we used to build rock-and-clay dams across the creek to create swimming holes, and Chris Campion’s house where his dad had Playboy magazines hidden in his sock drawer, and Mrs. Quinn’s house where we used to earn a dime for every Japanese beetle we could pick off her rose bushes and place in a Mason jar with gasoline, and the even-other park where we took archery lessons and got to shoot arrows at helium balloons as they floated up at the ends of long strings. The sidewalk took me by all these places and at the end of my run it was clear to me that I had one heckuva happy childhood.
As an adult I look at suburbia as a sterile place where cars rule and people don’t know their neighbors. But the suburbia I grew up in was different. To me it was far from sterile. In fact, it was fertile ground for imagination, friendship, and just-plain-fun. All the neighbors knew which family I belonged to. By the summer between fifth and sixth grades I could pretty much ride my bike anywhere in a 20-square mile area with our house in the middle. My grandmother and several aunts, uncles, and cousins lived in that same 20-square mile area, as did many of my teachers and all of my friends.
I felt free and trusted and powerful in a way I am afraid to let my daughter feel. She does NOT have the run of the neighborhood. She does not have family every few blocks where she can stop for a drink if she gets thirsty. She might never know the freedom I had as a child to just explore the world without thinking of it as a dangerous place. Growing up in suburban Wilmington, Delaware in the 1970s was a real gift for me. I developed an ease and comfort in the physical world that allowed me to feel alright about going away to college. My security in the world made it okay for me to join the Peace Corps and live in Yemen for two years after college.
The freedom my parents gave me on my bicycle left me with a strong desire to see what is around the next turn or over the next hill, or even in the next country. I never realized it before that run, but my childhood in Delaware set the stage for so much of who I am today. My run over the sidewalks of my childhood could not have come at a better time in my life. It was a good reminder for me of a time when the future was all in front of me and the only limits were those I placed on myself.
By the time I got back to my parents’ house our political differences were long forgotten and I had a good visit.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Snow Day?
What is it about a snow day that is still so exciting? I am 43 years old and I have been out of school for a long time, and yet during the winter I pay obsessive attention to the weather. If, on the extended forecast I see that there is a chance of snow six days from now, my clicks on the National Weather Service website double. As the potential storm gets closer, my clicks increase exponentially.
This is partly explained by my voracious appetite for all things having to do with the weather. In fact, if I had life to do over again, I truly would consider studying meteorology. I am fascinated by the weather. But this fascination alone is inadequate for explaining my enduring and utter excitement about having a snow day.
As an adult, the anticipation of waiting for the six a.m. phone call from the school secretary is the closest I get to re-experiencing the excitement I used to feel on Christmas Eve when I was a kid. Yet I am not sure why this is so.
Maybe the underlying need is one for unpredictability. Life with a child, a dog, a spouse, a traditional 8-to-3 job, and little in the way of unscheduled time leaves small chance for major disruptions in my life. And it is the unforeseen major disruptions that can go a long way to keeping life interesting.
Along with the craving for disruption I also have a real love of weather extremes. I like to be out in the elements when they are doing their best to challenge people. I lived in Hodeidah on the Red Sea coast of Yemen for two years and I experienced a high temperature of 125 degrees one time. I went out for a walk in it. It was the kind of heat that forced people indoors. Those who had to be outside were like cats, hugging the slim slices of shade that clung to north facing sides of buildings in the early afternoon when the heat felt like a hammer on your head.
A few years later I moved to Montana and walked to work early one morning at 29 degrees below zero. In both cases I felt exhilarated by being out in the some REAL weather.
Maybe an official declaration of a Snow Day is evidence that the conditions have approached some level of drama that I crave both in my life and in the weather?
Whatever the reason, I am here hoping my heart out that tomorrow is a snow day.
This is partly explained by my voracious appetite for all things having to do with the weather. In fact, if I had life to do over again, I truly would consider studying meteorology. I am fascinated by the weather. But this fascination alone is inadequate for explaining my enduring and utter excitement about having a snow day.
As an adult, the anticipation of waiting for the six a.m. phone call from the school secretary is the closest I get to re-experiencing the excitement I used to feel on Christmas Eve when I was a kid. Yet I am not sure why this is so.
Maybe the underlying need is one for unpredictability. Life with a child, a dog, a spouse, a traditional 8-to-3 job, and little in the way of unscheduled time leaves small chance for major disruptions in my life. And it is the unforeseen major disruptions that can go a long way to keeping life interesting.
Along with the craving for disruption I also have a real love of weather extremes. I like to be out in the elements when they are doing their best to challenge people. I lived in Hodeidah on the Red Sea coast of Yemen for two years and I experienced a high temperature of 125 degrees one time. I went out for a walk in it. It was the kind of heat that forced people indoors. Those who had to be outside were like cats, hugging the slim slices of shade that clung to north facing sides of buildings in the early afternoon when the heat felt like a hammer on your head.
A few years later I moved to Montana and walked to work early one morning at 29 degrees below zero. In both cases I felt exhilarated by being out in the some REAL weather.
Maybe an official declaration of a Snow Day is evidence that the conditions have approached some level of drama that I crave both in my life and in the weather?
Whatever the reason, I am here hoping my heart out that tomorrow is a snow day.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Our Week In Vermont
We spent our school vacation week at a house in the woods of Vermont. It was just south of Brattleboro so it made for an easy two-hour drive. A stomach flu swept through our family at the beginning of the week, leaving us weakened but still happy to be there. We snowshoe-ed, ice skated on the pond, built a snowman, sat and read by the fire, and had a few friends come and visit. It was a good week. Our dog, Ginger, was in heaven. I don't have much to say about our week--just wanted to post some pictures.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Follow Through
Every time I look up at the corner of our dining room ceiling, I feel a tweak of sheepishness. Two years ago, I began to replace our cruddy old drop ceiling with a less-cruddy new drop ceiling that has a pressed tin-tile design. I had some problems with the adhesive and ended up re-doing large chunks of the ceiling, and now it stands 98% complete. The 2% incomplete section is the corner my eyes travel to every time I walk in the room.
It is undone because the ceiling is not flat in this corner—it slopes upward, leaving an irregular and problematic surface upon which to glue new tiles. I am not dumb, but I am also not very handy around the house, so I have simply walked away from the project without figuring out a way to make a new flat ceiling appear below an old, not-flat ceiling. The job is undone.
I start with this illustration to make a point: I have a problem with follow through. I get near 80% done with any major job or commitment and I start to lose interest. It happened in the Peace Corps, it happens when I tackle a major chore like cleaning out the basement or getting the yard ready for winter, and it sometimes happens in my relationships with people. I pull away before they have actually left my life. I noticed and put words to this habit of mine back in the fall, when I decided I needed to do something about it.
For me the first step to doing something about anything is simply noticing it. I am not a noticer and I am certainly not very good at identifying my feelings. Heck, I used to be able to go days without even realizing I was having emotions. So now I am working at noticing when I have settled into my pattern of pulling out and walking away. Along with simply noticing when it is happening, I am developing strategies for re-engaging with whatever is the matter at hand. And I am also working to simply build my stamina for tough, unpleasant tasks.
One task I decided to take on was running the Half at the Hamptons LOCO Half Marathon this weekend in Hampton Beach, New Hampshire. I decided back in November that I would train through the winter and try for a personal best half marathon time at the Hampton race. I knew that in order for me to actually set a new personal record, I would need to train consistently and hard through the winter. I also knew this was exactly the kind of commitment I would be likely to flake out on and find some reason to give up just weeks before the race.
I am back from the race and I can tell you right off the bat, I did not flake out and give up on the training a few weeks ago. I stuck with it through some tough weather, inconvenient schedules, and winter-induced inertia and managed to train hard right up through Friday of this week. No, I did not give up on the training at all.
But I DID almost give up on my goal during the race.
It was a beautifully sunny, cold, clear morning on the beach today and around 900 runners lined up for the 11:00 a.m. start. I could see in the pack up ahead the pacesetters for those who wished to run a certain time in today’s race. I know myself and I knew that I could not start up with the 8:00-minute mile pacers, though my eventual goal was to finish with them. I need to start races slowly and then speed up through the easier miles later in a race or else I simply crash and finish disappointed.
There was a good crowd of runners today—very friendly and supportive and the first few miles were good. I got to mile-marker four and found myself running with a group of about ten runners who were all following the 8:00 minute pacers, (Lisa and Cliff). I settled in just behind Cliff and locked onto the yellow bib pinned to his back. I was not feeling like I had a lot in me today, but I made up my mind that I was going to simply dog Cliff the entire way, and then sprint ahead in the last mile and see if I could finish in under an hour and 45 minutes.
To make a long story a little shorter, I found it very hard to keep up with Cliff and Lisa. I struggled with the temptation to drop back and then try to catch up later in the race. In fact, I had almost convinced myself that this would be the best course to take when I remembered that damned ceiling and its incomplete corner. I caught myself doing that thing I do where I back away from something I have committed to without even putting up a real fight.
So I dug in and just gritted my teeth and matched Cliff step for step. At mile eleven I pulled up alongside Lisa and asked her about the etiquette of using the services of pacers and then taking off ahead of them at the end in an effort to get a better time. She laughed and said, “That is what we are here for—take off and see what you can do.”
So when I got to mile twelve I thanked Lisa and Cliff and turned up my speed a bit. The final mile was along Ocean Blvd. in Hampton and the wind picked up in this beachfront stretch. I was hurting—my calves were tight and getting tighter with each step, my lungs were burning, and my head was screaming at me to slow down and coast in, knowing I would beat my goal of 8:00 per mile.
But my heart was saying NO NO NO with each pound. It wanted me to stick to my goal and work it until the last step across the finish line. So we held a quick committee meeting and my heart overruled my calves, lungs, and head and I gave everything I had all the way to the finish line.
In that last mile I thought about how I used to go to yoga classes a lot and loved them, but could never make myself do yoga at home. I needed to simply get to the studio and once I did, I would follow any instructions the teachers gave and work really hard at it. I also thought about the growth I am experiencing lately in my personal life and in my relationship with Erica. It is happening because Erica is out in the world learning important lessons and bringing them home to me and I am simply applying what she has learned. In both cases, someone else is doing the work and I am merely following along.
The same was true of the race today—until mile marker 12. Cliff and Lisa were doing the real work and I was simply following along. It wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t anything to be proud of either. But then, when I stepped out and around Cliff and Lisa and fought off my own efforts at sabotage, that was when I really learned something about follow through.
I finished with not a drop left in the tank. The clock said 1:42:56 when I ran over the finish line. That works out to be seven minutes and fifty-two seconds per mile. It was faster than I had hoped possible and the only reason I did it is because I didn’t listen to most of myself.
You know what—I have tomorrow off and I think I just might try to finish that stupid ceiling.
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