Running Commentary #15
Saturday/November 10, 2012
There's been a heavy acorn crop this year. People have been pulling out brooms and climbing ladders to clear sidewalks, driveways, reach, stretch, and sweep roofs. Who would have thought something as tiny as a thimble would cause such a fuss.
As I ran a neighborhood street this morning, watching and listening to the early dawning sights and sounds of a new day, snapping noises could be heard, as acorn shells, unable to escape from the soles of my size ten running shoes, got flattened on the street. Popping sounds could be heard, made by car tires, catching an unlucky acorn that became a victim, made ready by non-motion.
The morning air was nippy. An intentional cross-training-walk-only, soon re-defined itself as a jog-along, with a hurry-up pace. I was soon generating enough body heat to come off brain idle and energize 'stream-thinking.'
The acorns are a dime a dozen.
Appropriate cliche, I thought.
Could that be an oxymoron, I wondered?
What about the dime a dozen?
Strange how the number ten bubbles up all the time.
My feet are size ten.
Big feet. Disappointment. Didn't exactly conform to mother's imagined Scarlett O'Hara's body
type.
I stopped in the street and picked up a half empty acorn shell and held it in my hand. As a child, living in the Hollow With No Name, half acorn shells weren't for squashing or throwing away; they were to be collected, stored, and used as tea cups for the king and queen of the woods dinner parties, or maybe just set aside to collect rainwater as a present for the Little People living in the woods. Acorns were purposeful; how-to-use ideas were forever arcing around an unbounded field of imagination. I tucked the half empty acorn shell safely into my pocket and fast walked on.
Acorns aside for a moment, Americans have had a trying couple of weeks. Jiggering with another time change, the national election, a destructive hurricane that ripped the East Coast, followed by nature thumping the same land mass with a snow storm. Usually, running overcomes stress. but, these events have not been normal; stress has trumped running.
Foremost, I was worried about my youngest son, Joel, in New York City. Living without electricity, or heat, and in the dark. Maybe no food? Now, that's serious business. Growing up, I was imprinted with Depression tales of the effects of hunger.
The morning jog-walk wasn't over. Forty-five minutes minimum. That's the self-rule. Then back to modernity and the continuing hunt for up-to-date news--on cable or the Internet.
Strange--all of a sudden, a vision of paper dolls floated into consciousness. With an extra dime, mother could buy us a book full of paper doll cut-outs. My sisters and I could while away an afternoon cutting out their clothes, re-dressing them, moving them about, having them talk to their cut-out friends, or move them in and out of cut-out three dimensional structures, we'd put together from the patterns in the book--or, we could fashion houses from twigs, moss, rocks, and acorns, found in the woods, bringing our creations into a physical world for make believe play.
With all the time spent Internet searching for news of the storm, Sandy, the economy, and election politics, I became aware of how irritating it was to find side pictures, with teasy headlines, of and about, the likes of Kim Kardashian, or Britney Spears, or a Lindsay Lohan, competing with important news that was actually affecting people's lives. These gals were frozen, like preserved insects, caught in amber. I wanted to slap my hands over my eyes. It was kind of like watching stills of a scary movie. Kim, Britney, and Lindsay, were such sad, painful, figures. Manufactured big boobs, glitzy jewelry, and slinky clothes, didn't make 'it feel better.'
Then, I got it. These are today's paper dolls. Only, you can't cut them out of a computer screen, cut out their paper clothes, re-dress them, move them about, have them talk to their cut-out friends. They are untouchable. They can't live in the land of play reality. They are edited, and re-edited; the un-reals captured by the glass screen of technology.
The Lindsay's, Britney's, and Kim's, are destined to be one dimensional. They can't enter the unseen multi-dimensional world of the Little People, spirits found in the caves, hills, and woods, which surrounded the Hollow With No Name. While not seen--not wanting to be seen--the Little People are there to help and protect the Cherokee people. Too, they preserve memories and imagination. They adore music. Maybe they heard me singing to the music of my I-Pad, caused me to stop and pick up the half acorn, followed me home, smiled and watched as I took it from my pocket and placed it safely on my desk. Their duty of teaching a lesson was done for the day.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Running Commentary #14
Running Commentary #14
October 31, 2010 -- Wednesday
As I headed down the straight three mile stretch, on my way to meet Laura for our early morning Sunday run, the early fall landscape spread in front of me was the sight of an empty street. No people--only deer. This is a fairly typical sight the morning after a loosing UTX football game. Front doors shut tight, shielding sour moods. The deer, though, were out and about and rambunctious. Their mood was good; they had extra free street-room to run.
My car herded a mob of deer down a full block before they broke to let me through. For one glorious moment, I imagined I was Running with the Bulls in Pamplona--picturing and pretending for another mile I was in Spain. Then my thoughts drifted to yesterday, catching the remembered sounds of music floating by, generated by going to a concert--on purpose--actual live music.
This story begins with the Sunday family moving from the house in the hollow to Bartlesville. The two home structures were separated by about 100 miles of pavement and gravel and 100 degrees of cultural difference. The new, eight hundred foot, low mortgage G.I. Bill, Bartlesville house became the place I would live, from age 10 until age 16. This new house even included an inside bathroom--in my eyes--quite a palace.
To mother, 133 was Tara and, like Tara, would grow in size through the years. Over a fifty year period, 133, according to mother, just about doubled in square footage. One Thirty-Three, initiated the start of what I call mother's Gone with The Wind era. Her three daughters were safely out of the woods and she was hell bent on molding a trio of 'Charlotte O'Hara's.' High on the list of our 'genteelization' was music. My domain was the French horn and piano lessons. Baby sister got the clarinet and flute. Memory includes the sounds of a few piano scales from my older sister. Maybe, her latent talent was un-coaxable, as her piano sounds quickly fade from memory.
Baby sister was a different case. The sounds she brought forth from the clarinet and flute were so loud and discordant, mother moved her out of the house to a front yard chair for daily practice. I guess there were complaints from the neighbors because these sounds soon faded, too.
Mother then discovered I could carry a tune and decided I needed voice lessons. She found a teacher and took me in for an eye-to-eye meeting. Instructions were given to come back, with sheet music, for a second lesson. I did, and walked in with mother's selection--From the Halls of Montezuma--I think mother must have been trying to merge World War II and the Civil War. Or, maybe she got them mixed up. I was embarrassed; mother was proud; the voice teacher didn't quite know what to do. Imagine--Les Paul and Mary Ford; Rosemary Clooney; Georgia Gibbs; and Patti Page, were left on the shelves. Rock and Roll was just around the corner. But, I continued to sing and play the piano and French horn. Music became an important part of my life.
That is, until June 19, 1984, the day my eldest son, Eric, died. The day the music stopped. I took every radio out of the house; every stereo; the piano; sold all records, music books and sheet music from the 1950s. Music became painful; I wanted it gone from my life. And, it was. I made it so.
Yesterday, I went to a concert--on purpose--to listen to live music. A barrier of unimaginable psychic pain was breached. What causes deeply buried memories to make their way to the surface: What causes aged old unspeakable suffering to begin to heal? Driving down an empty street on a beautiful Sunday morning? Herding deer? Perhaps no explanation is needed. Yesterday, I went to a concert--on purpose--to listen to live music.
The Sunday run was beautiful.
October 31, 2010 -- Wednesday
As I headed down the straight three mile stretch, on my way to meet Laura for our early morning Sunday run, the early fall landscape spread in front of me was the sight of an empty street. No people--only deer. This is a fairly typical sight the morning after a loosing UTX football game. Front doors shut tight, shielding sour moods. The deer, though, were out and about and rambunctious. Their mood was good; they had extra free street-room to run.
My car herded a mob of deer down a full block before they broke to let me through. For one glorious moment, I imagined I was Running with the Bulls in Pamplona--picturing and pretending for another mile I was in Spain. Then my thoughts drifted to yesterday, catching the remembered sounds of music floating by, generated by going to a concert--on purpose--actual live music.
This story begins with the Sunday family moving from the house in the hollow to Bartlesville. The two home structures were separated by about 100 miles of pavement and gravel and 100 degrees of cultural difference. The new, eight hundred foot, low mortgage G.I. Bill, Bartlesville house became the place I would live, from age 10 until age 16. This new house even included an inside bathroom--in my eyes--quite a palace.
To mother, 133 was Tara and, like Tara, would grow in size through the years. Over a fifty year period, 133, according to mother, just about doubled in square footage. One Thirty-Three, initiated the start of what I call mother's Gone with The Wind era. Her three daughters were safely out of the woods and she was hell bent on molding a trio of 'Charlotte O'Hara's.' High on the list of our 'genteelization' was music. My domain was the French horn and piano lessons. Baby sister got the clarinet and flute. Memory includes the sounds of a few piano scales from my older sister. Maybe, her latent talent was un-coaxable, as her piano sounds quickly fade from memory.
Baby sister was a different case. The sounds she brought forth from the clarinet and flute were so loud and discordant, mother moved her out of the house to a front yard chair for daily practice. I guess there were complaints from the neighbors because these sounds soon faded, too.
Mother then discovered I could carry a tune and decided I needed voice lessons. She found a teacher and took me in for an eye-to-eye meeting. Instructions were given to come back, with sheet music, for a second lesson. I did, and walked in with mother's selection--From the Halls of Montezuma--I think mother must have been trying to merge World War II and the Civil War. Or, maybe she got them mixed up. I was embarrassed; mother was proud; the voice teacher didn't quite know what to do. Imagine--Les Paul and Mary Ford; Rosemary Clooney; Georgia Gibbs; and Patti Page, were left on the shelves. Rock and Roll was just around the corner. But, I continued to sing and play the piano and French horn. Music became an important part of my life.
That is, until June 19, 1984, the day my eldest son, Eric, died. The day the music stopped. I took every radio out of the house; every stereo; the piano; sold all records, music books and sheet music from the 1950s. Music became painful; I wanted it gone from my life. And, it was. I made it so.
Yesterday, I went to a concert--on purpose--to listen to live music. A barrier of unimaginable psychic pain was breached. What causes deeply buried memories to make their way to the surface: What causes aged old unspeakable suffering to begin to heal? Driving down an empty street on a beautiful Sunday morning? Herding deer? Perhaps no explanation is needed. Yesterday, I went to a concert--on purpose--to listen to live music.
The Sunday run was beautiful.
Running Commentary #14
Running Commentary #14
October 31, 2012 -- Wednesday
As I headed down the straight three mile stretch, on my way to meet Laura for our early morning Sunday run, the early fall landscape spread in front of me was the sight of an empty street. No people--only deer. This is a fairly typical sight the morning after a losing UTX football game. Front doors shut tight, shielding sour moods. The deer, though, were out and about and rambunctious. Their mood was good; they had extra free street-room to run.
My car herded a mob down a full block before the deer broke to let me through. For one glorious moment, I imagined I was Running with the Bulls in Pamplona--picturing andn pretending for another mile that I was in Spain. Then my thoughts drifted to yesterday, catching the remembered sounds of music floating by, generated by going to a concert--on purpose--actual live music.
October 31, 2012 -- Wednesday
As I headed down the straight three mile stretch, on my way to meet Laura for our early morning Sunday run, the early fall landscape spread in front of me was the sight of an empty street. No people--only deer. This is a fairly typical sight the morning after a losing UTX football game. Front doors shut tight, shielding sour moods. The deer, though, were out and about and rambunctious. Their mood was good; they had extra free street-room to run.
My car herded a mob down a full block before the deer broke to let me through. For one glorious moment, I imagined I was Running with the Bulls in Pamplona--picturing andn pretending for another mile that I was in Spain. Then my thoughts drifted to yesterday, catching the remembered sounds of music floating by, generated by going to a concert--on purpose--actual live music.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Running Commentary
Running Commentary: #13
Sunday, October, 14, 2012
It was still dark; the cold morning air held hostage by a strong, unfriendly wind. Welcome to the world of age group running.
What in the world was I doing in this IBM parking lot, already filled with hundreds of vehicles of all shapes, sizes, and models? Still too dark to determine colors.
Laura was sitting in the front passenger seat. She pulled out her I-Pad and announced, "There was no way she was getting out in that cold! The race didn't start for another hour." I got out of the car, though, scoped out the parking lot, and played like I was running. It had been a year since I'd run a 10K, and I thought a bit of warming up was warranted. Besides, I had to decide what 'visual' would run along side me this morning. Sometimes it's Eric; sometimes mother; sometimes I focus on my Indian self, and run across the plains like the old days; remembered scenes from The Man From Snowy River, with the fantastic Australian Brumby horses careening down impossibly steep mountainsides, creating a pictorial visual rush could be a selection; the number of times Laura has yelled, "Iron Will! Iron Will," so mental toughness would emerge to get me up a hill, are uncountable. Scenes from the movie, Iron Will, capturing the misery of a young boy completing the suffering of the Iditarod, are responsible for keeping it in the selection of possibles. Of course, the pain of a run, regardless of its length, are inconsequential compared to the horrific physical pain Eric and mother withstood, the last days of their lives. If they could stand it, so could I. Their stories are the ultimate driver. As Sue, my good friend says, "I hate that cancer!"
Laura finally opened the car door. "Time to go find the startling line,: she said. And, we did. We pushed our way into the middle of 1,600 other runners and settled on a spot that was not too fast and not too slow. Time to find out if our five months of training work was going to pay off. We stood a few minutes, talking off the nerves, ignoring the cold. Then, the crowd began to move forward. I never heard the start-horn. Too late--Our feet picked up the rhythm of a shuffle; my heart picked up its beat; the sounds of breathing began to run with the wind. What I'd decided to take along with me was Kurt's comment--"The blog needs a bit of drama." It would take some time for me to puzzle out an answer to--why the remark; 6.2 miles was just about right.
To search, first, I've got to return to ground-zero. Whether it's habit or a ritual, who knows? It just is. The start-line always begins with, #10 Highway, five years old, and Indian country. It's time travel in repeat. Recently, I got a glimpse of this process in the movie, Looper, except the actors in Looper were coming from future to present. I'm traveling from past to present. At the end of the first mile, as Laura and I were navigating the crowd and running side-by-side, my mind eased into the following scene:
I really didn't want to go to school. They made fun of me. Or, at least they stared at me. The girls did. I only paid attention to the girls. That's all I knew. All I'd every been around. My mother, my two sisters, my grandmothers, and aunts. All the men, including daddy, had gone to war.
My hair was blonde. My eyes green. My skin White. I had freckles. I knew my sister must be in this school, too. She was older than e. I didn't know where she was. I never remember seeing her get on the bus. She has black hair. Dark eyes. Dark skin. My mother thinks she is beautiful.
One time, I went into the girls bathroom and another girl followed me and told me I was going to the devil. I didn't know why. I never told my mother. But, I've been fighting it ever since. It's a problem, this trying to stay away from the devil. I was only five years old. First grade. I don't know whether it was the bad luck of having a birthday in December or my mother just wanting to get me out of her hair. But, school started in September. And, there I was.
I think the reason the girls didn't like me was because they looked Indian and I didn't. Maybe they were fullblood. Maybe not. I wasn't. Daddy was Indian. Mother White. But, genes play tricks, but also make wonders. My sisters looked Indian. Me, the middle, was different. Looking different on the outside in the Indian world, a part of you on the inside thinking and acting White, is just down right confusing. Besides, my mama told me I couldn't tell anyone I was Indian.
One foot here. One foot there. Daily walking is not straight or even. Year after year after year. The rubbing together of time doesn't always smooth out identity confusion.
Time and direction of those years is a gauntlet lined and divided by women. The female side is White. They face the men--the Indians. This is not a team. It's my family, rich with drama; seeds planted to grow a lifetime of drama.
Laura and I ended mile three; the wind blew us around a corner. We were into the hill of mile four. I was running fine by using the sounds of Laura's breath as a metronome. Perfect tempo for me. Laura must have gotten tired of my breath-drafting, as she surged ahead. I-Pod time. Vangelis--Chariots of Fire and Bill Haley's, Rock Around the Clock, pulled me through mile five and mile six. The last .2 distance? I ran like the devil.
Sunday, October, 14, 2012
It was still dark; the cold morning air held hostage by a strong, unfriendly wind. Welcome to the world of age group running.
What in the world was I doing in this IBM parking lot, already filled with hundreds of vehicles of all shapes, sizes, and models? Still too dark to determine colors.
Laura was sitting in the front passenger seat. She pulled out her I-Pad and announced, "There was no way she was getting out in that cold! The race didn't start for another hour." I got out of the car, though, scoped out the parking lot, and played like I was running. It had been a year since I'd run a 10K, and I thought a bit of warming up was warranted. Besides, I had to decide what 'visual' would run along side me this morning. Sometimes it's Eric; sometimes mother; sometimes I focus on my Indian self, and run across the plains like the old days; remembered scenes from The Man From Snowy River, with the fantastic Australian Brumby horses careening down impossibly steep mountainsides, creating a pictorial visual rush could be a selection; the number of times Laura has yelled, "Iron Will! Iron Will," so mental toughness would emerge to get me up a hill, are uncountable. Scenes from the movie, Iron Will, capturing the misery of a young boy completing the suffering of the Iditarod, are responsible for keeping it in the selection of possibles. Of course, the pain of a run, regardless of its length, are inconsequential compared to the horrific physical pain Eric and mother withstood, the last days of their lives. If they could stand it, so could I. Their stories are the ultimate driver. As Sue, my good friend says, "I hate that cancer!"
Laura finally opened the car door. "Time to go find the startling line,: she said. And, we did. We pushed our way into the middle of 1,600 other runners and settled on a spot that was not too fast and not too slow. Time to find out if our five months of training work was going to pay off. We stood a few minutes, talking off the nerves, ignoring the cold. Then, the crowd began to move forward. I never heard the start-horn. Too late--Our feet picked up the rhythm of a shuffle; my heart picked up its beat; the sounds of breathing began to run with the wind. What I'd decided to take along with me was Kurt's comment--"The blog needs a bit of drama." It would take some time for me to puzzle out an answer to--why the remark; 6.2 miles was just about right.
To search, first, I've got to return to ground-zero. Whether it's habit or a ritual, who knows? It just is. The start-line always begins with, #10 Highway, five years old, and Indian country. It's time travel in repeat. Recently, I got a glimpse of this process in the movie, Looper, except the actors in Looper were coming from future to present. I'm traveling from past to present. At the end of the first mile, as Laura and I were navigating the crowd and running side-by-side, my mind eased into the following scene:
I really didn't want to go to school. They made fun of me. Or, at least they stared at me. The girls did. I only paid attention to the girls. That's all I knew. All I'd every been around. My mother, my two sisters, my grandmothers, and aunts. All the men, including daddy, had gone to war.
My hair was blonde. My eyes green. My skin White. I had freckles. I knew my sister must be in this school, too. She was older than e. I didn't know where she was. I never remember seeing her get on the bus. She has black hair. Dark eyes. Dark skin. My mother thinks she is beautiful.
One time, I went into the girls bathroom and another girl followed me and told me I was going to the devil. I didn't know why. I never told my mother. But, I've been fighting it ever since. It's a problem, this trying to stay away from the devil. I was only five years old. First grade. I don't know whether it was the bad luck of having a birthday in December or my mother just wanting to get me out of her hair. But, school started in September. And, there I was.
I think the reason the girls didn't like me was because they looked Indian and I didn't. Maybe they were fullblood. Maybe not. I wasn't. Daddy was Indian. Mother White. But, genes play tricks, but also make wonders. My sisters looked Indian. Me, the middle, was different. Looking different on the outside in the Indian world, a part of you on the inside thinking and acting White, is just down right confusing. Besides, my mama told me I couldn't tell anyone I was Indian.
One foot here. One foot there. Daily walking is not straight or even. Year after year after year. The rubbing together of time doesn't always smooth out identity confusion.
Time and direction of those years is a gauntlet lined and divided by women. The female side is White. They face the men--the Indians. This is not a team. It's my family, rich with drama; seeds planted to grow a lifetime of drama.
Laura and I ended mile three; the wind blew us around a corner. We were into the hill of mile four. I was running fine by using the sounds of Laura's breath as a metronome. Perfect tempo for me. Laura must have gotten tired of my breath-drafting, as she surged ahead. I-Pod time. Vangelis--Chariots of Fire and Bill Haley's, Rock Around the Clock, pulled me through mile five and mile six. The last .2 distance? I ran like the devil.
Running Commentary: #13
Running Commentary: #13
Sunday, October 14, 2012
It was still dark; the cold morning air held hostage by a strong, unfriendly wind. Welcome to the world of age group running.
What in the world was I doing in this IBM parking lot, already filled with hundreds of vehicles of all shapes, sizes, and models? Still too dark to determine colors.
Laura was sitting in the front passenger seat. She pulled out her I-Pad and announced, "There was no way she was getting out in that cold! The race didn't start for another hour." I got out of the car, though, scoped out the parking lot, and played like I was running. It had been a year since I'd run a 10K, and I thought a bit of warming up was warranted. Beside, I had to decide what 'visual' would run alongside me this morning. Sometimes it's Eric; sometimes mother; sometimes I focus on my Indian self, and run across the plains like the old days; remembered scenes from The Man From Snowy River, with the fantastic Australian Brumby horses careening down impossibly steep mountainsides, creating a pictorial visual rush could be a selection; the number of times Laura has yelled, "Iron Will! Iron Will," so mental toughness would emerge to get me up a hill, are uncountable. Scenes from the movie, Iron Will, capturing the misery of a young boy completing the suffering of the Iditarod, are responsible for keeping it in the selection of possibles. Of course, the pain of a run, regardless of its length, are inconsequential compared to the horrific physical pain Eric and mother withstood, the last days of their lives. If they could stand it, so could I. Their stories are the ultimate driver. As Sue, my good friend says, "I hate that cancer!"
Laura finally opened the car door. "Time to go find the starting line," she said. And, we did. We pushed our way into the middle of 1,600 other runners and settled on a spot that was not too fast and not too slow. Time to find out if our five months of training work was going to pay off. We stood a few minutes, talking off the nerves, ignoring the cold. Then, the crowd began to move forward. I never heard the start-horn. Too late--Our feet picked up the rhythm of a shuffle; my heart picked up its beat; the sounds of breathing began to run with the wind. What I'd decided to take along with me was Kurt's comment--"All the blog needs is a little drama." It would take some time for me to puzzle out an answer to--why the remark; 6.2 miles was just about right.
To search, first, I've got to return to ground-zero. Whether it's habit or a ritual, who knows? It just is. The start-line always features, #10 Highway, five years old, and Indian country. It's time travel in repeat. Recently, I got a glimpse of this process in the movie, Looper, except the actors in Looper were coming from future to present. I'm traveling from past to present.
At the end of the first mile, as Laura and I were navigating the crowd and running side-by-side, my mind eased into the following scene:
I really didn't want to go to school. They made fun of me. Or, at least, they stared at me. The girls did. I only paid attention to the girls. That's all I knew. All I'd ever been around. My mother, my two sisters, my grandmothers, and aunts. All the men, including daddy, had gone to war.
My hair was blonde. My eyes green. My skin White. I had freckles. I knew my sister must be in this school, too. She was older than me. I didn't know where she was. I never remember seeing her get on the bus. She has black hair. Dark eyes. Dark skin. My mother thinks she is beautiful.
On time, when I went into the girl's bathroom, a girl followed me and told me I was going to the devil. I didn't know why. I never told my mother. But, I've been fighting it ever since. It's a problem, this trying to stay away from the devil. I was only five years old. First grade. I don't know whether it was the bad luck of having a birthday in December or my mother just wanting to get me out of her hair. But, school started in September. And, there I was.
I think the reason the girls didn't like me was because they looked Indian and I didn't. Maybe they were fullblood. Maybe not. I wasn't. Daddy was Indian. Mother White. But, genes play tricks but also make wonders. My older sister looked Indian as did my baby sister. Me, the middle, was different. Looking different on the outside in the Indian world, a part of you on the inside thinking and acting White, is just down right confusing. My mama told me I couldn't tell anyone I was Indian.
One foot here. One foot there. Daily walking is not straight or even. Year after year after year. The rubbing together of time doesn't always smooth out identity confusion.
Time and the direction of those years is a gauntlet lined and divided by women. The female side is White. They face the men--the Indians. This is not a team. It's my family, rich with drama; seeds planted to grow a lifetime of drama.
Laura and I ended mile three; the wind blew us around a corner. We were into the hill of mile four. I was running fine by using the sounds of Laura's breath as a metronome. Perfect tempo for me. Laura must have gotten tired of my breath-drafting, as she surged ahead. I-Pod time. Vangelis--Chariots of Fire and Bill Haley's, Rock Around the Clock, pulled me through mile five and mile six. The last .2 distance? I ran like the devil.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
It was still dark; the cold morning air held hostage by a strong, unfriendly wind. Welcome to the world of age group running.
What in the world was I doing in this IBM parking lot, already filled with hundreds of vehicles of all shapes, sizes, and models? Still too dark to determine colors.
Laura was sitting in the front passenger seat. She pulled out her I-Pad and announced, "There was no way she was getting out in that cold! The race didn't start for another hour." I got out of the car, though, scoped out the parking lot, and played like I was running. It had been a year since I'd run a 10K, and I thought a bit of warming up was warranted. Beside, I had to decide what 'visual' would run alongside me this morning. Sometimes it's Eric; sometimes mother; sometimes I focus on my Indian self, and run across the plains like the old days; remembered scenes from The Man From Snowy River, with the fantastic Australian Brumby horses careening down impossibly steep mountainsides, creating a pictorial visual rush could be a selection; the number of times Laura has yelled, "Iron Will! Iron Will," so mental toughness would emerge to get me up a hill, are uncountable. Scenes from the movie, Iron Will, capturing the misery of a young boy completing the suffering of the Iditarod, are responsible for keeping it in the selection of possibles. Of course, the pain of a run, regardless of its length, are inconsequential compared to the horrific physical pain Eric and mother withstood, the last days of their lives. If they could stand it, so could I. Their stories are the ultimate driver. As Sue, my good friend says, "I hate that cancer!"
Laura finally opened the car door. "Time to go find the starting line," she said. And, we did. We pushed our way into the middle of 1,600 other runners and settled on a spot that was not too fast and not too slow. Time to find out if our five months of training work was going to pay off. We stood a few minutes, talking off the nerves, ignoring the cold. Then, the crowd began to move forward. I never heard the start-horn. Too late--Our feet picked up the rhythm of a shuffle; my heart picked up its beat; the sounds of breathing began to run with the wind. What I'd decided to take along with me was Kurt's comment--"All the blog needs is a little drama." It would take some time for me to puzzle out an answer to--why the remark; 6.2 miles was just about right.
To search, first, I've got to return to ground-zero. Whether it's habit or a ritual, who knows? It just is. The start-line always features, #10 Highway, five years old, and Indian country. It's time travel in repeat. Recently, I got a glimpse of this process in the movie, Looper, except the actors in Looper were coming from future to present. I'm traveling from past to present.
At the end of the first mile, as Laura and I were navigating the crowd and running side-by-side, my mind eased into the following scene:
I really didn't want to go to school. They made fun of me. Or, at least, they stared at me. The girls did. I only paid attention to the girls. That's all I knew. All I'd ever been around. My mother, my two sisters, my grandmothers, and aunts. All the men, including daddy, had gone to war.
My hair was blonde. My eyes green. My skin White. I had freckles. I knew my sister must be in this school, too. She was older than me. I didn't know where she was. I never remember seeing her get on the bus. She has black hair. Dark eyes. Dark skin. My mother thinks she is beautiful.
On time, when I went into the girl's bathroom, a girl followed me and told me I was going to the devil. I didn't know why. I never told my mother. But, I've been fighting it ever since. It's a problem, this trying to stay away from the devil. I was only five years old. First grade. I don't know whether it was the bad luck of having a birthday in December or my mother just wanting to get me out of her hair. But, school started in September. And, there I was.
I think the reason the girls didn't like me was because they looked Indian and I didn't. Maybe they were fullblood. Maybe not. I wasn't. Daddy was Indian. Mother White. But, genes play tricks but also make wonders. My older sister looked Indian as did my baby sister. Me, the middle, was different. Looking different on the outside in the Indian world, a part of you on the inside thinking and acting White, is just down right confusing. My mama told me I couldn't tell anyone I was Indian.
One foot here. One foot there. Daily walking is not straight or even. Year after year after year. The rubbing together of time doesn't always smooth out identity confusion.
Time and the direction of those years is a gauntlet lined and divided by women. The female side is White. They face the men--the Indians. This is not a team. It's my family, rich with drama; seeds planted to grow a lifetime of drama.
Laura and I ended mile three; the wind blew us around a corner. We were into the hill of mile four. I was running fine by using the sounds of Laura's breath as a metronome. Perfect tempo for me. Laura must have gotten tired of my breath-drafting, as she surged ahead. I-Pod time. Vangelis--Chariots of Fire and Bill Haley's, Rock Around the Clock, pulled me through mile five and mile six. The last .2 distance? I ran like the devil.
Monday, October 01, 2012
Running Commentary #12: October 3, 2012
Sometimes the writing muse just goes into hiding; no courtesy whatsoever; no peeking around a corner, giving up a teasing smile, before scurrying off, again, into the darkness.What a dirty game she can play. My searching around for decent running commentary topics has found only emptiness; a topical landscape thoroughly scrubbed.
I wish I could find it--the small picture. Me sitting on the wooden school steps, with the group of Ute Indian kids. All with black, straight hair, and me, right in the middle--the 'toe head.' The picture was taken in Blanding, Utah. Mother didn't know it at the time, but Daddy would soon be on his way to Germany. The reason--WWII.
That paragraph you just read--it doesn't mean anything more than a pencil searching for creative juice. Why have I thought about this creativity stopper--making someone color within the lines--for so long? One thing I do know. If you put your finger on the Indian characteristic of, "I've gotta think about it for a while," and push that button, give yourself the million dollar prize.
I've pondered the problem long enough. The fizzle left my creative dizzle for a few weeks. Circular thinking has won the battle. Linear thinking lost. The Indians circled and beat the White guys this time. Any topic now goes, except, of course, money, politics, and religion. I grew up in a time where those three topics were completely off limits in polite society. No wonder I got caught in the tech bust, don't have the patience for long-winded, worthless meetings, don't want to learn the art of double-speak, and am curious why most folks look puzzled when you say, Siddhartha--as in Siddhartha the Buddha.
A famous Buddhist saying goes:
"Do not speak--unless it improves on the silence."
The silence is over. Time to ratchet up the blog again.
You might think Laura and I are just out there blind-assed running. Nothing could be further from the truth. We've got a plan and it's being put to the test this coming Sunday morning. It's IBM 10K time. I'll keep you posted.
I wish I could find it--the small picture. Me sitting on the wooden school steps, with the group of Ute Indian kids. All with black, straight hair, and me, right in the middle--the 'toe head.' The picture was taken in Blanding, Utah. Mother didn't know it at the time, but Daddy would soon be on his way to Germany. The reason--WWII.
That paragraph you just read--it doesn't mean anything more than a pencil searching for creative juice. Why have I thought about this creativity stopper--making someone color within the lines--for so long? One thing I do know. If you put your finger on the Indian characteristic of, "I've gotta think about it for a while," and push that button, give yourself the million dollar prize.
I've pondered the problem long enough. The fizzle left my creative dizzle for a few weeks. Circular thinking has won the battle. Linear thinking lost. The Indians circled and beat the White guys this time. Any topic now goes, except, of course, money, politics, and religion. I grew up in a time where those three topics were completely off limits in polite society. No wonder I got caught in the tech bust, don't have the patience for long-winded, worthless meetings, don't want to learn the art of double-speak, and am curious why most folks look puzzled when you say, Siddhartha--as in Siddhartha the Buddha.
A famous Buddhist saying goes:
"Do not speak--unless it improves on the silence."
The silence is over. Time to ratchet up the blog again.
You might think Laura and I are just out there blind-assed running. Nothing could be further from the truth. We've got a plan and it's being put to the test this coming Sunday morning. It's IBM 10K time. I'll keep you posted.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Running Commentary: #11
Running Commentary: #11
August 14, 2012 -- Tuesday
Reminiscing -- Going back to where it all started
Long ago, some Saturday's found me at the Indian Boarding School. My friend Nakita lived there in one of those small institutional houses built by the government. They were so drab. No color anywhere. Cheap, brown furniture inside the thin walls. Government issue. Brown dirt outside. No grass, flowers, or bushes holding it down. Blowing away on the wind. Losing more Indian land minute-by-minute.
I don't remember how I got to Nakita's government house, how long I stayed, or how I got home. Who took me? Who picked me up? I'm guessing it was mother. Who else would it be. I just remember the in-between. Wadding up pieces of paper into small balls. Using spit to make them hard. The ammunition Nakita and I divided up, as we took our places behind the only sofa or chair in the living room. Taking a couple of rubber bands saved in our jean pockets, we began to play war. Spending many Saturday's together, we never tired of this game.
Nakita came in and out of my life for a number of years after the games-of-war period. We became uncomfortable with each other. I was hop, skipping, and jumping back and forth between the White and Indian worlds; Nakita was one hundred percent Indian. Strange, I don't think I ever met her father. Nor, do I ever remember seeing her mother on those Saturday visits. The wind blew dust in my eyes.
One time, Nakita came to my house in the hollow to play. The day was hot. School was over for the summer. We had a bike. Where it came from, I don't know because I don't remember ever seeing it again.
We rode that bike, taking turns, up and down #10 Highway, outside of Tahlequah. The lazy, meandering Illinois River kept us company alongside. Whoever wasn't riding ran whatever distance the rider chose to go. There was only one rule to the game. Don't be greedy with your turn.
I'm certain I ran barefooted. Every year, I had my own ritual to initiate summertime. Throw off my shoes and run the rocky road from my house to the highway. When I could go the distance without feeling any pain, the feet were tough, ready for all the adventures of summer. It took a few practice runs to pass the test.
I don't remember any cars on the highway that day. No traffic to break our concentration. Just a steady cycle of one girl riding a bike, one running along behind, waiting her turn. No clouds. Squinting into the bright distance. Feeling the pleasant tickle of sweat. No conversation. Total focus.
Nakita was the runner. I'd just taken over the bike. "Wait!" I heard her say, as I'd just gotten up to full speed. "I can't feel my legs!" came the word sounds through the wind. I turned my head and could see she had fallen behind. She was in trouble and I braked. "Give me the bike to ride!" she shouted. "I think I've got Polio."
There was no worse word than Polio in our lives, other than War. I was stunned. I didn't know much about Polio, other than it was very bad. I was a sure-fire-alert word!
Nakita had come to a dead stop in the middle of the highway. Just a few seconds ago she had been running. This must be really bad. I turned and pedaled as fast as I could to help Nakita.
Kind of dazed, thinking about Polio, I got off the bike and turned the handlebars over to Nakita and watched as she was miraculously cured. She got on the bike and her legs began to pump in straight, furious strokes. It was a transformation. I stood and watched--dumbfounded. My eyes were in slow motion. Nakita started laughing as she faded away into the distance. I couldn't move.
"I tricked you. I tricked you!" I though I heard her say. I began to run and finally caught the bike. "You cheated, Nakita. I didn't get my turn. Give it back!" By now, though, Nakita had thought up a new game. Changed the rules. Whoever had possession of the bike was the ruler. She laughed again and told me she was just hot and tired and needed to rest. I was pretty dumb to believe she had Polio, she told me. She laughed again. I don't remember her laugh as being pretty.
I don't think I was angry with Nakita. But, I did feel shame. I must have felt shame because I've never told anyone this story before. But, I can tell you that whenever I have writing drought, two words are ever present and ready: truth and dishonesty.
August 14, 2012 -- Tuesday
Reminiscing -- Going back to where it all started
Long ago, some Saturday's found me at the Indian Boarding School. My friend Nakita lived there in one of those small institutional houses built by the government. They were so drab. No color anywhere. Cheap, brown furniture inside the thin walls. Government issue. Brown dirt outside. No grass, flowers, or bushes holding it down. Blowing away on the wind. Losing more Indian land minute-by-minute.
I don't remember how I got to Nakita's government house, how long I stayed, or how I got home. Who took me? Who picked me up? I'm guessing it was mother. Who else would it be. I just remember the in-between. Wadding up pieces of paper into small balls. Using spit to make them hard. The ammunition Nakita and I divided up, as we took our places behind the only sofa or chair in the living room. Taking a couple of rubber bands saved in our jean pockets, we began to play war. Spending many Saturday's together, we never tired of this game.
Nakita came in and out of my life for a number of years after the games-of-war period. We became uncomfortable with each other. I was hop, skipping, and jumping back and forth between the White and Indian worlds; Nakita was one hundred percent Indian. Strange, I don't think I ever met her father. Nor, do I ever remember seeing her mother on those Saturday visits. The wind blew dust in my eyes.
One time, Nakita came to my house in the hollow to play. The day was hot. School was over for the summer. We had a bike. Where it came from, I don't know because I don't remember ever seeing it again.
We rode that bike, taking turns, up and down #10 Highway, outside of Tahlequah. The lazy, meandering Illinois River kept us company alongside. Whoever wasn't riding ran whatever distance the rider chose to go. There was only one rule to the game. Don't be greedy with your turn.
I'm certain I ran barefooted. Every year, I had my own ritual to initiate summertime. Throw off my shoes and run the rocky road from my house to the highway. When I could go the distance without feeling any pain, the feet were tough, ready for all the adventures of summer. It took a few practice runs to pass the test.
I don't remember any cars on the highway that day. No traffic to break our concentration. Just a steady cycle of one girl riding a bike, one running along behind, waiting her turn. No clouds. Squinting into the bright distance. Feeling the pleasant tickle of sweat. No conversation. Total focus.
Nakita was the runner. I'd just taken over the bike. "Wait!" I heard her say, as I'd just gotten up to full speed. "I can't feel my legs!" came the word sounds through the wind. I turned my head and could see she had fallen behind. She was in trouble and I braked. "Give me the bike to ride!" she shouted. "I think I've got Polio."
There was no worse word than Polio in our lives, other than War. I was stunned. I didn't know much about Polio, other than it was very bad. I was a sure-fire-alert word!
Nakita had come to a dead stop in the middle of the highway. Just a few seconds ago she had been running. This must be really bad. I turned and pedaled as fast as I could to help Nakita.
Kind of dazed, thinking about Polio, I got off the bike and turned the handlebars over to Nakita and watched as she was miraculously cured. She got on the bike and her legs began to pump in straight, furious strokes. It was a transformation. I stood and watched--dumbfounded. My eyes were in slow motion. Nakita started laughing as she faded away into the distance. I couldn't move.
"I tricked you. I tricked you!" I though I heard her say. I began to run and finally caught the bike. "You cheated, Nakita. I didn't get my turn. Give it back!" By now, though, Nakita had thought up a new game. Changed the rules. Whoever had possession of the bike was the ruler. She laughed again and told me she was just hot and tired and needed to rest. I was pretty dumb to believe she had Polio, she told me. She laughed again. I don't remember her laugh as being pretty.
I don't think I was angry with Nakita. But, I did feel shame. I must have felt shame because I've never told anyone this story before. But, I can tell you that whenever I have writing drought, two words are ever present and ready: truth and dishonesty.
Wednesday, August 08, 2012
Running Commentary: #10
Running Commentary: #10
October 4, 2012--Sunday
Laura went one-on-one with herself in lonely sidebars during the warm-up part of this Sunday's run. I didn't listen too carefully. Just stuff about being so tired because of a family garage sale yesterday. Her feet hurt. She didn't know if her legs would make it this morning. We call this condition the "Ya-Da-Ya-Da" song and just ask for consideration in keeping the volume turned low because, depending on the 'Yada's' mood, there can be many verses.
We're rounding the home curve. Laura's mailbox, with water bottles perched on top, is in sight. We're working hard and sweat drenched as proof. The fist twenty minutes crossed off our hour and a half morning goal.
This distance is as good as it's going to get for me. For the second time, I've had to scratch from the Marine Corp Marathon; just too hot to run the couple of needed twenty-training miles. Peter told me it was dumb to train for a marathon during a Texas summer anyway. But, the fingers of a Sagittarius are trping this message: If someone says it can't be done, that's an invitation to do it--or, as the years have accumulated--at least, try it.
Try it, we did--like adding a long hill--going up about a mile; not down. The reasoning behind this morning test was, if we were really serious about running the IBM 10K, early October, we might as well get in a little simulation to bring out the stimulation. Half way up, these words were heard mixing it up with ragged breathing. "Laura, see that guy over there? He's passing us.: Laura kept her head down and plowed on. "Laura, look! He stopped. Not gonna happen to us." We hit a cross-street stop sign. I managed a "runners coming through." Eyes down, I noticed some spit on the street. This is kind of a runner's ritual thing. A few feet further, more spit. The guy's leading us home, I thought. If I could of mustered the extra breath, I would have burst into a chorus of an original gospel song--He's Leading Us Home. At least that's the way I felt when we got to the top--I'd reached heaven.
Catch-breath-hydration-time over. From what I can remember, the next twenty minutes were over in a hurry--time spent talking about some Jamaican father claiming his Olympic running son was fast because of all the yams he ate. We wondered, what's the difference between a yam and a sweet potato? A lot! But, Google also told me the U.S. government has confused the whole situation by labeling our sweet potatoes, yams. This may turn out to be one of the hidden, underlying causes of our screwed up economy. If the government can cover up the true identity of yams, there's no telling what lengths they'll go to, keeping 'higher-archy' shenanigans from us.
Then the subject jumped to the American Civil Liberties Union suing the State of Michigan over the low literacy rates in the public schools. The state's graduating their kids without knowing how to read! Who's to blame? What's to blame? It sure as heck isn't the teachers, according to Laura. Her breathing rhythm gets all out of whack when teachers are criticized; we dropped out of that topic after passing one mother pushing a baby stroller, two wobbly-legged baby deer, cars rubbernecking and us waving back.
"See that cat up ahead?" I said.
"Nope."
"He's sitting in the street, with his paws on the curb--right by your mailbox."
"I'm really hurtin'," said Laura.
"Speed it up. Looks like he's praying us in to home base." There's nothing like the sight of a praying cat for motivation.
Laura made it but didn't stop for a drink. "Gotta take a bathroom break," she yelled and headed for her house. Not much to say about that. If you've gotta go; you gotta go. Although a bathroom spot in-house, sure beats an outhouse. That final thought ended a Sunday successful run.
October 4, 2012--Sunday
Laura went one-on-one with herself in lonely sidebars during the warm-up part of this Sunday's run. I didn't listen too carefully. Just stuff about being so tired because of a family garage sale yesterday. Her feet hurt. She didn't know if her legs would make it this morning. We call this condition the "Ya-Da-Ya-Da" song and just ask for consideration in keeping the volume turned low because, depending on the 'Yada's' mood, there can be many verses.
We're rounding the home curve. Laura's mailbox, with water bottles perched on top, is in sight. We're working hard and sweat drenched as proof. The fist twenty minutes crossed off our hour and a half morning goal.
This distance is as good as it's going to get for me. For the second time, I've had to scratch from the Marine Corp Marathon; just too hot to run the couple of needed twenty-training miles. Peter told me it was dumb to train for a marathon during a Texas summer anyway. But, the fingers of a Sagittarius are trping this message: If someone says it can't be done, that's an invitation to do it--or, as the years have accumulated--at least, try it.
Try it, we did--like adding a long hill--going up about a mile; not down. The reasoning behind this morning test was, if we were really serious about running the IBM 10K, early October, we might as well get in a little simulation to bring out the stimulation. Half way up, these words were heard mixing it up with ragged breathing. "Laura, see that guy over there? He's passing us.: Laura kept her head down and plowed on. "Laura, look! He stopped. Not gonna happen to us." We hit a cross-street stop sign. I managed a "runners coming through." Eyes down, I noticed some spit on the street. This is kind of a runner's ritual thing. A few feet further, more spit. The guy's leading us home, I thought. If I could of mustered the extra breath, I would have burst into a chorus of an original gospel song--He's Leading Us Home. At least that's the way I felt when we got to the top--I'd reached heaven.
Catch-breath-hydration-time over. From what I can remember, the next twenty minutes were over in a hurry--time spent talking about some Jamaican father claiming his Olympic running son was fast because of all the yams he ate. We wondered, what's the difference between a yam and a sweet potato? A lot! But, Google also told me the U.S. government has confused the whole situation by labeling our sweet potatoes, yams. This may turn out to be one of the hidden, underlying causes of our screwed up economy. If the government can cover up the true identity of yams, there's no telling what lengths they'll go to, keeping 'higher-archy' shenanigans from us.
Then the subject jumped to the American Civil Liberties Union suing the State of Michigan over the low literacy rates in the public schools. The state's graduating their kids without knowing how to read! Who's to blame? What's to blame? It sure as heck isn't the teachers, according to Laura. Her breathing rhythm gets all out of whack when teachers are criticized; we dropped out of that topic after passing one mother pushing a baby stroller, two wobbly-legged baby deer, cars rubbernecking and us waving back.
"See that cat up ahead?" I said.
"Nope."
"He's sitting in the street, with his paws on the curb--right by your mailbox."
"I'm really hurtin'," said Laura.
"Speed it up. Looks like he's praying us in to home base." There's nothing like the sight of a praying cat for motivation.
Laura made it but didn't stop for a drink. "Gotta take a bathroom break," she yelled and headed for her house. Not much to say about that. If you've gotta go; you gotta go. Although a bathroom spot in-house, sure beats an outhouse. That final thought ended a Sunday successful run.
Friday, August 03, 2012
Running Commentary: #9
Running Commentary: #9
July 30, 2012 -- Monday
Laura was a no-show this morning. Today's run featured the familiar duo of me and my mind. The me, raised its hand to shade eyes and see if anyone else was on the track. The mind wondered if anyone was reading this blog. That silent question got me going. I warmed up by slowly running the yellow center line of the track for a start-to-the-day balance check; thoughts began popping in and out of my head about running, Indians, and pop culture.
All of these writings are telling a story--in the Indian way. I'll bet you the dime I found on the track the other day, by the time my story is finished, a circle can be drawn from its beginning to its end. It's just that it can take a long time to get from here to there. You see, Indian stories have five parts: "time, place, character (s), event, and purpose" (Fixico, p. 25). Time can be then and now; the importance is explaining the "why and how something happened." Place provides reference points to our experiences. Characters can be human or animal. Listeners form opinions; do they respect, disrespect, like, or don't like the characters. The event is the core of the story--this is where knowledge and the lesson, the purpose, is given.
Two miles of slow running begins to put me back in time. If I ever lost my Saturday movie money, my eight-year-old legs would walk the main street of town until mother finished shopping.
Saturday, in town, was where all the local news was exchanged. Stories told. Births, obituaries announced. Politics and business discussed. Tales of woe and boastful claims quietly broadcast. This was face-to-face social networking.
Often, I would sit on the bench in front of the dry goods store, if someone scooted over to make room, and just people watch. Or, I would walk around the circle path in front of the old historic courthouse, listening to the elders who were sitting around, talk the sounds of the sing-songy, poetic cadence of the Cherokee language. I thought the sounds beautiful; like listening to music.
It was healing tonic to hear the sounds of soft laughter and watch the side language of hand expressions. Hands gently moving; a slow twist of the wrist; palms up and open, making a verbal, aerial solo, in time to their movement. The hands made silent statements, filled with meaning.
The Cherokee language was not spoken in our home. Mother always told us the reason was our Grandfather, Andy Sunday, my daddy's father, didn't want his children speaking Cherokee. That meant all nine of them. There were two more children--Sequoyah and Laura. But, they died, way before learning to talk.
Mother's explanation always seemed incomplete and a bit off to me. That piece of family history had a ragged edge. You see, my grandfather, Andy, grew up in a home speaking both Cherokee and English. He was the eldest son of Jesse and his wife, Alice Hair. Since my Great-grandfather, Jesse Sunday, was the elected Sheriff in Saline County, Oklahoma, one of the nine districts making up the Cherokee Nation, in 1841, it doesn't seem likely he could have held this position without fluency in the Cherokee language. Just makes sense his son, Andy, could speak Cherokee.
Even daddy told me once that his father, Andy, was fluent in both English and the Cherokee language--in speaking and writing. During the early years before and after Oklahoma statehood, being bi-lingual, Andy often served as an interpreter in the courts at Tahlequah between the non-English speaking litigants and the Court. But, this was in the years before Andy, the Cherokee, and my Grandmother, the White preacher's daughter, married.
Whatever the reason, the Cherokee language began to vocally disappear from our family. Could my father speak Cherokee? It's one of those mysteries that will remain hidden in past history. But, the Cherokee language lay in the shadows of my young life, moving back into consciousness on those Saturday's when I missed the movie and could sit and listen to its musical sounds and enjoy the feeling of delight.
Three more miles have gone by; the water bottle is empty; my mind is drifting back to real time; playtime is over.
Interesting reading: Donald L. Fixico (2003). The American Indian Mind In A Linear World. Routledge.
July 30, 2012 -- Monday
Laura was a no-show this morning. Today's run featured the familiar duo of me and my mind. The me, raised its hand to shade eyes and see if anyone else was on the track. The mind wondered if anyone was reading this blog. That silent question got me going. I warmed up by slowly running the yellow center line of the track for a start-to-the-day balance check; thoughts began popping in and out of my head about running, Indians, and pop culture.
All of these writings are telling a story--in the Indian way. I'll bet you the dime I found on the track the other day, by the time my story is finished, a circle can be drawn from its beginning to its end. It's just that it can take a long time to get from here to there. You see, Indian stories have five parts: "time, place, character (s), event, and purpose" (Fixico, p. 25). Time can be then and now; the importance is explaining the "why and how something happened." Place provides reference points to our experiences. Characters can be human or animal. Listeners form opinions; do they respect, disrespect, like, or don't like the characters. The event is the core of the story--this is where knowledge and the lesson, the purpose, is given.
Two miles of slow running begins to put me back in time. If I ever lost my Saturday movie money, my eight-year-old legs would walk the main street of town until mother finished shopping.
Saturday, in town, was where all the local news was exchanged. Stories told. Births, obituaries announced. Politics and business discussed. Tales of woe and boastful claims quietly broadcast. This was face-to-face social networking.
Often, I would sit on the bench in front of the dry goods store, if someone scooted over to make room, and just people watch. Or, I would walk around the circle path in front of the old historic courthouse, listening to the elders who were sitting around, talk the sounds of the sing-songy, poetic cadence of the Cherokee language. I thought the sounds beautiful; like listening to music.
It was healing tonic to hear the sounds of soft laughter and watch the side language of hand expressions. Hands gently moving; a slow twist of the wrist; palms up and open, making a verbal, aerial solo, in time to their movement. The hands made silent statements, filled with meaning.
The Cherokee language was not spoken in our home. Mother always told us the reason was our Grandfather, Andy Sunday, my daddy's father, didn't want his children speaking Cherokee. That meant all nine of them. There were two more children--Sequoyah and Laura. But, they died, way before learning to talk.
Mother's explanation always seemed incomplete and a bit off to me. That piece of family history had a ragged edge. You see, my grandfather, Andy, grew up in a home speaking both Cherokee and English. He was the eldest son of Jesse and his wife, Alice Hair. Since my Great-grandfather, Jesse Sunday, was the elected Sheriff in Saline County, Oklahoma, one of the nine districts making up the Cherokee Nation, in 1841, it doesn't seem likely he could have held this position without fluency in the Cherokee language. Just makes sense his son, Andy, could speak Cherokee.
Even daddy told me once that his father, Andy, was fluent in both English and the Cherokee language--in speaking and writing. During the early years before and after Oklahoma statehood, being bi-lingual, Andy often served as an interpreter in the courts at Tahlequah between the non-English speaking litigants and the Court. But, this was in the years before Andy, the Cherokee, and my Grandmother, the White preacher's daughter, married.
Whatever the reason, the Cherokee language began to vocally disappear from our family. Could my father speak Cherokee? It's one of those mysteries that will remain hidden in past history. But, the Cherokee language lay in the shadows of my young life, moving back into consciousness on those Saturday's when I missed the movie and could sit and listen to its musical sounds and enjoy the feeling of delight.
Three more miles have gone by; the water bottle is empty; my mind is drifting back to real time; playtime is over.
Interesting reading: Donald L. Fixico (2003). The American Indian Mind In A Linear World. Routledge.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Running Commentary: #8
Running Commentary: #8
July 24, 2012--Tuesday
The day before Laura and family were to return from the coast, I was, once again, standing on the grassy knoll, overlooking the high school track, staring, and making up my mind what running drills I could talk my body into doing. Pin-pointed at the end of the stare, I noticed a host of young, lean, trim, male teenage football hopefuls, being pushed through systematic, physical drills. What a puzzling sight; the coaches were a visual oxymoron; they were fat. Looked like the only calories they were burning were blowing a whistle. Watching the contradiction gave me good reason to stall my workout for a few minutes. I never did make sense of it.
July 25, 2012--Wednesday
Glory be to humidity. I could have entered a wet T-shirt constest after the first twenty minutes. Probably wouldn't have won a prize, though.
Laura was back from the coast, full of stories and new information. For the first time, I heard about her love of fishing; A River Runs Through It? She loves this movie! Other days were spent sand castle building. To the beat of our feet, the castle building process was explained, along with a mention of disappointment that the guy giving castle building lessons was all booked. I learned sand-sculptors scooped up sand and let the water drain from the grains in order to create solidity. This part of the process was not working the days Laura was on the job because white grass seaweed strands had woven themselves throughout the sand; the water couldn't drain; the sand coudn't compact.
The sand castle report was coming at about the fifty minute mark. I had slowed to a walk; mental concentration was getting tough; humidity was playing bandit with energy; queasy tummy; definitely time to head back to water. Silence took over.
I call Laura, Top-Shelf Science Teacher. This satisfies my tendency to give people nick-names. Replacing names, I think, comes from an age old practice of American Indians to joke by changing names to identify Whites by various perceived characteristics. Today, I think my habit simply excuses my inability to remember people's names. Instead of Top-Shelf Science Teacher, though, we could just call Laura, TSST. This satisfies the popular need to reduce the English language to acronyms; the purpose being, to exclude and confuse others--or maybe, it's nothing more than mental laziness.
Laura is always devising interesting ways to teach science--to the young and old. This morning, she was into The Karate Kid and Mr. Miyagi's 'wax on' and 'wax off' lesson to Daniel-san. Laura had transferred Mr. Miyagi's car waxing lesson from Karate to the heavens. By moving the right hand in a right handed circular motion, one could remember the moon was getting bigger--it's waxing phase; the left hand, moving in a left handed circular motion meant the moon was in a waning phase, or getting smaller; clever teacher.
Considering my disappointing slow-down, we agreed tomorrow would be a rest day. New plan--meet at the track. Laura wanted to look at the football coaches.
Interesting reading: Portraits of "THE WHITEMAN" Linguistic play and cultural symbols among the Western Apache. Keith H. Basso with a foreword by Dell Hymes. 1992. Cambridge University Press.
July 24, 2012--Tuesday
The day before Laura and family were to return from the coast, I was, once again, standing on the grassy knoll, overlooking the high school track, staring, and making up my mind what running drills I could talk my body into doing. Pin-pointed at the end of the stare, I noticed a host of young, lean, trim, male teenage football hopefuls, being pushed through systematic, physical drills. What a puzzling sight; the coaches were a visual oxymoron; they were fat. Looked like the only calories they were burning were blowing a whistle. Watching the contradiction gave me good reason to stall my workout for a few minutes. I never did make sense of it.
July 25, 2012--Wednesday
Glory be to humidity. I could have entered a wet T-shirt constest after the first twenty minutes. Probably wouldn't have won a prize, though.
Laura was back from the coast, full of stories and new information. For the first time, I heard about her love of fishing; A River Runs Through It? She loves this movie! Other days were spent sand castle building. To the beat of our feet, the castle building process was explained, along with a mention of disappointment that the guy giving castle building lessons was all booked. I learned sand-sculptors scooped up sand and let the water drain from the grains in order to create solidity. This part of the process was not working the days Laura was on the job because white grass seaweed strands had woven themselves throughout the sand; the water couldn't drain; the sand coudn't compact.
The sand castle report was coming at about the fifty minute mark. I had slowed to a walk; mental concentration was getting tough; humidity was playing bandit with energy; queasy tummy; definitely time to head back to water. Silence took over.
I call Laura, Top-Shelf Science Teacher. This satisfies my tendency to give people nick-names. Replacing names, I think, comes from an age old practice of American Indians to joke by changing names to identify Whites by various perceived characteristics. Today, I think my habit simply excuses my inability to remember people's names. Instead of Top-Shelf Science Teacher, though, we could just call Laura, TSST. This satisfies the popular need to reduce the English language to acronyms; the purpose being, to exclude and confuse others--or maybe, it's nothing more than mental laziness.
Laura is always devising interesting ways to teach science--to the young and old. This morning, she was into The Karate Kid and Mr. Miyagi's 'wax on' and 'wax off' lesson to Daniel-san. Laura had transferred Mr. Miyagi's car waxing lesson from Karate to the heavens. By moving the right hand in a right handed circular motion, one could remember the moon was getting bigger--it's waxing phase; the left hand, moving in a left handed circular motion meant the moon was in a waning phase, or getting smaller; clever teacher.
Considering my disappointing slow-down, we agreed tomorrow would be a rest day. New plan--meet at the track. Laura wanted to look at the football coaches.
Interesting reading: Portraits of "THE WHITEMAN" Linguistic play and cultural symbols among the Western Apache. Keith H. Basso with a foreword by Dell Hymes. 1992. Cambridge University Press.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Running Commentary: #7b
Running Commentary: #7b
July 20, 2012--Friday
Slow-Mo today. Laura and family have abandoned Austin. They've headed to the Texas coast for an early 'adios' to summer.
Free time is disappearing; back to school days are looming. So, I've been given a five day test on self-discipline and perseverance--hold the line on daily running--'Suck It Up.' Bill Saporito wrote a great article, Survival of The Fitness, in the latest Time. It was all about what it takes to win the Olympic gold. It's not the most athletically gifted; it's all about mental toughness, enduring pain, and who works the hardest. Made me think we shouldn't have had a banner stretched across America's skies, "Mission Accomplished." Better to have a new one flying, saying, "Work Harder!"
On the morning before the leaving-for-the-coast farewell run, Laura told me that both her husband's and mother's car batteries had died--on the same day. She thought it odd and not a coincidence. Probably caused by the Solar Cycle 24. Her guess was, the neighborhood was sitting in a pocket of magnetic field weakness and the Earth needed the energy juice from car batteries to keep circling. Now, while she hadn't had time to do a house-by-house canvass for a dead battery count, Laura thought it was, on the spot, a pretty darn good working theory. We laughed, grabbed an ice cube and took off. Success! We located nonsense to start the run with a smile.
Before we'd turned the corner of the first block, here came more news from Laura. "I told the girls yesterday, that after 30 minutes of T.V., they had to turn it off and find something else to do for the rest of the day. After the whines came a surprise, They created and filmed YouTube movies for the rest of the day."
Whoa! T-Time. We've entered a magic zone. Like in the valley of Technologies of Expressions.
"Uh...how did they make a movie? On what," I asked, Laura.
"On their cell phones, silly."
"Well, you know I told you it took me three days to figure out how to post my first picture on Facebook, and I was so proud of myself, I've still got the feeling, and not wanting it spoiled, I haven't tried to post another since."
I guess my comment wasn't worth a follow-up because Laura just ignored me. Time to change talk-run tempo, anyway. We were coming in for our first water break.
"You know the air is getting dirtier.I can measure the quality of what we're breathing by bath taking. There are black flecks on the bottom of the tub after the water drains. This wasn't the case a few years ago. I know it's all the gunk flying in the air. The sweat in the hair traps it.Good thing I've got straight, grow forward, Indian hair, the polluted air debris just slides right out with a good shampooing."
Laura wasn't too interested in talking about hair pollution. Actually, the range of talk topics was light. Had to have been because when I later thumbed through my little spiral where I take notes at the water breaks on what we've talked about, the pages were blank. This was just a 'get it over with' and 'get on with it,' kind of morning.
July 22, 2012--Sunday
Walking to the high school track this morning, I spied a dime, half-way buried in the dirt. Did I bend over to pick it up? Of course I did. To me, dimes are precious.
Growing up, in our house in the hollow, there was no radio to touch the outside world. No music. No telephone. Just the Saturday afternoon movie in town, where mother would put me and my two sisters, so she could go buy groceries, with a stop-over at the ice plant to buy the family block of ice for the week. My hand can still feel the dime I was given to buy my ticket to get into the theatre and see the magic--Roy Rogers. Lash LaRue. The Lone Ranger. Red Ryder. Black and White images filling the screen with action. My fingers were squeezed so tightly around a thin piece of silver. Sometimes I kept it in my mouth to make certain I would never lose it.
In every single movie, the White cowboys or White army always won. No one ever explained to me why the Indians were always made to play the enemy. In those day, though, if you were on the enemy side, you lost.
On those going into town Saturday's, ever so often, regardless of all my protective rituals, my show money would disappear. And, when this happened, the only thing left to do was while away time by walking and exploring the few blocks of the town's main street until mother finished her Saturday errands. So, this morning, I stopped and picked up the dime and walked toward the track, on my way to run, listen to music, and explore a new morning.
July 20, 2012--Friday
Slow-Mo today. Laura and family have abandoned Austin. They've headed to the Texas coast for an early 'adios' to summer.
Free time is disappearing; back to school days are looming. So, I've been given a five day test on self-discipline and perseverance--hold the line on daily running--'Suck It Up.' Bill Saporito wrote a great article, Survival of The Fitness, in the latest Time. It was all about what it takes to win the Olympic gold. It's not the most athletically gifted; it's all about mental toughness, enduring pain, and who works the hardest. Made me think we shouldn't have had a banner stretched across America's skies, "Mission Accomplished." Better to have a new one flying, saying, "Work Harder!"
On the morning before the leaving-for-the-coast farewell run, Laura told me that both her husband's and mother's car batteries had died--on the same day. She thought it odd and not a coincidence. Probably caused by the Solar Cycle 24. Her guess was, the neighborhood was sitting in a pocket of magnetic field weakness and the Earth needed the energy juice from car batteries to keep circling. Now, while she hadn't had time to do a house-by-house canvass for a dead battery count, Laura thought it was, on the spot, a pretty darn good working theory. We laughed, grabbed an ice cube and took off. Success! We located nonsense to start the run with a smile.
Before we'd turned the corner of the first block, here came more news from Laura. "I told the girls yesterday, that after 30 minutes of T.V., they had to turn it off and find something else to do for the rest of the day. After the whines came a surprise, They created and filmed YouTube movies for the rest of the day."
Whoa! T-Time. We've entered a magic zone. Like in the valley of Technologies of Expressions.
"Uh...how did they make a movie? On what," I asked, Laura.
"On their cell phones, silly."
"Well, you know I told you it took me three days to figure out how to post my first picture on Facebook, and I was so proud of myself, I've still got the feeling, and not wanting it spoiled, I haven't tried to post another since."
I guess my comment wasn't worth a follow-up because Laura just ignored me. Time to change talk-run tempo, anyway. We were coming in for our first water break.
"You know the air is getting dirtier.I can measure the quality of what we're breathing by bath taking. There are black flecks on the bottom of the tub after the water drains. This wasn't the case a few years ago. I know it's all the gunk flying in the air. The sweat in the hair traps it.Good thing I've got straight, grow forward, Indian hair, the polluted air debris just slides right out with a good shampooing."
Laura wasn't too interested in talking about hair pollution. Actually, the range of talk topics was light. Had to have been because when I later thumbed through my little spiral where I take notes at the water breaks on what we've talked about, the pages were blank. This was just a 'get it over with' and 'get on with it,' kind of morning.
July 22, 2012--Sunday
Walking to the high school track this morning, I spied a dime, half-way buried in the dirt. Did I bend over to pick it up? Of course I did. To me, dimes are precious.
Growing up, in our house in the hollow, there was no radio to touch the outside world. No music. No telephone. Just the Saturday afternoon movie in town, where mother would put me and my two sisters, so she could go buy groceries, with a stop-over at the ice plant to buy the family block of ice for the week. My hand can still feel the dime I was given to buy my ticket to get into the theatre and see the magic--Roy Rogers. Lash LaRue. The Lone Ranger. Red Ryder. Black and White images filling the screen with action. My fingers were squeezed so tightly around a thin piece of silver. Sometimes I kept it in my mouth to make certain I would never lose it.
In every single movie, the White cowboys or White army always won. No one ever explained to me why the Indians were always made to play the enemy. In those day, though, if you were on the enemy side, you lost.
On those going into town Saturday's, ever so often, regardless of all my protective rituals, my show money would disappear. And, when this happened, the only thing left to do was while away time by walking and exploring the few blocks of the town's main street until mother finished her Saturday errands. So, this morning, I stopped and picked up the dime and walked toward the track, on my way to run, listen to music, and explore a new morning.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Running Commentary #7a
Running Commentary: #7a
July 17, 2012 - Tuesday
Joel called last night. He had just scrolled through Running Commentary #5 and was horrified to read his grandfather Sunday was abusive and his grandmother Sunday, Polish. Miriam emailed after reading #5, commenting that through the thick and thin of our forty year friendship, she was shocked to learn 'that' about my father. Apologies to all. I can see my arrangement of words wasn't quite right. The descriptions were for Laura's mother and father.
Joel, your grandmother Sunday was mainly English, German, and a little bit of Irish.
The following published synopsis of your grandfather Sunday was so then and remains true today:
My grandfather, Andrew Sunday (full-blood), and great-grandfather, Sheriff Jess Sunday (full-blood), were involved in the Cherokee communities and Cherokee politics (Bumpers & Littlefield, 2004). Before Removal, direct descendents of my great-grandmother represented the Old Cherokee Nation politically (Starr, 1984, p. 584-585). My father's public political service to the Cherokee Nation came later in his life. However, throughout his life, my father was a friend, advisor and educator to untold numbers of Cherokees. He was elected member of Ross Swimmer's and Wilma Mankiller's Councils. Unfortunately, my father unexpectedly died during his third term of office.
Trusting the above erases all confusion, horror, and shocks. Now, daddy may have 'tippled' now and then. But, physically abusive? Never. This is not the Cherokee way.
July 17, 2012 - Tuesday
Joel called last night. He had just scrolled through Running Commentary #5 and was horrified to read his grandfather Sunday was abusive and his grandmother Sunday, Polish. Miriam emailed after reading #5, commenting that through the thick and thin of our forty year friendship, she was shocked to learn 'that' about my father. Apologies to all. I can see my arrangement of words wasn't quite right. The descriptions were for Laura's mother and father.
Joel, your grandmother Sunday was mainly English, German, and a little bit of Irish.
The following published synopsis of your grandfather Sunday was so then and remains true today:
My grandfather, Andrew Sunday (full-blood), and great-grandfather, Sheriff Jess Sunday (full-blood), were involved in the Cherokee communities and Cherokee politics (Bumpers & Littlefield, 2004). Before Removal, direct descendents of my great-grandmother represented the Old Cherokee Nation politically (Starr, 1984, p. 584-585). My father's public political service to the Cherokee Nation came later in his life. However, throughout his life, my father was a friend, advisor and educator to untold numbers of Cherokees. He was elected member of Ross Swimmer's and Wilma Mankiller's Councils. Unfortunately, my father unexpectedly died during his third term of office.
Trusting the above erases all confusion, horror, and shocks. Now, daddy may have 'tippled' now and then. But, physically abusive? Never. This is not the Cherokee way.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Running Commentary: #6
Running Commentary: #6
July 15, 2012--Sunday
Today's goal: run one hour and twenty minutes.
During the last stretch, Laura led us into the round-de-round of a cul-de-sac. My mind was hollering to my feet--"Stop!" I looked to heaven and yelled, "Give me a vial of mental toughness.!!" The miracle of miles spent working hard appeared. The 'quit' was gone.
The things Laura and I talk about! Some topics are forgotten or voluntarily redacted from print. Sometimes the word sounds are familiar, with the same stories being told over and over; their re-telling underscoring the importance of a message or lesson.
The rhythm of words can be hypnotic. Running to the beat of the words making the stories puts me in the continuum of past-to-present. Laura's talk to me and my talk to Laura morphs into self-talk. There's no separation. The familiarity of the stories, their beginnings and endings soon blend; new stories are old stories.
Other stories cut-away, stand out and are put aside for pondering. In particular, Karen's odd question has stayed with me...."Why are there so few cross generational friendships and, why, in your case, why does this friendship work?"
Yesterday, running around a local high school track, I told Laura my sister's question continued to bother me. We were doing light track work, mixed with my definition of speed drills. As we hopped and skipped and huffed and puffed through high humidity, I suggested a theory of connectedness. It's possible, I suggested to Laura, that she'd and I had had a lot of emotional devastation in life and that we'd simply driven it underground--cauterizing feelings. Laura didn't agree or disagree. She just didn't say anything.
Maybe this is why I like running the school track. It's a circle. Life events occur in cycles and patterns. As the Oglala Sioux, Black Elk said, "You have noticed that everything an Indian does is in a circle, and that is because the Power of the World always works in circles, and everything tries to be round." I suspect, many of the lessons or messages in Laura's and my stories, are just reminders, bringing forth old lessons, on their way to coming full circle. This is one possible answer to Karen's question. Just a circle busy at work.
July 16, 2012--Monday
Laura begged for a rest; a slow two miles for me. Tomorrow, we hit it again!
[D. L. Fixico (2003, p. 43), The American Indian Mind, uses quote from N. S. Hill's (1994, xi), Words of Power]
July 15, 2012--Sunday
Today's goal: run one hour and twenty minutes.
During the last stretch, Laura led us into the round-de-round of a cul-de-sac. My mind was hollering to my feet--"Stop!" I looked to heaven and yelled, "Give me a vial of mental toughness.!!" The miracle of miles spent working hard appeared. The 'quit' was gone.
The things Laura and I talk about! Some topics are forgotten or voluntarily redacted from print. Sometimes the word sounds are familiar, with the same stories being told over and over; their re-telling underscoring the importance of a message or lesson.
The rhythm of words can be hypnotic. Running to the beat of the words making the stories puts me in the continuum of past-to-present. Laura's talk to me and my talk to Laura morphs into self-talk. There's no separation. The familiarity of the stories, their beginnings and endings soon blend; new stories are old stories.
Other stories cut-away, stand out and are put aside for pondering. In particular, Karen's odd question has stayed with me...."Why are there so few cross generational friendships and, why, in your case, why does this friendship work?"
Yesterday, running around a local high school track, I told Laura my sister's question continued to bother me. We were doing light track work, mixed with my definition of speed drills. As we hopped and skipped and huffed and puffed through high humidity, I suggested a theory of connectedness. It's possible, I suggested to Laura, that she'd and I had had a lot of emotional devastation in life and that we'd simply driven it underground--cauterizing feelings. Laura didn't agree or disagree. She just didn't say anything.
Maybe this is why I like running the school track. It's a circle. Life events occur in cycles and patterns. As the Oglala Sioux, Black Elk said, "You have noticed that everything an Indian does is in a circle, and that is because the Power of the World always works in circles, and everything tries to be round." I suspect, many of the lessons or messages in Laura's and my stories, are just reminders, bringing forth old lessons, on their way to coming full circle. This is one possible answer to Karen's question. Just a circle busy at work.
July 16, 2012--Monday
Laura begged for a rest; a slow two miles for me. Tomorrow, we hit it again!
[D. L. Fixico (2003, p. 43), The American Indian Mind, uses quote from N. S. Hill's (1994, xi), Words of Power]
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Running Commentary: 5
Running Commentary: 5
June 26, 2012, Tuesday
Hottest day, ever, for the month of June: 109
Laura got the job! Starting this fall, she will teach social studies and math.
We did a Watusi dance right in the street...plus, the jumping up and down was a great pre-run, cardio workout!
Seems like, 'It just doesn't matter,' is not used only for 2012 hill running inspiration. I told Laura that Al emailed last night. A Vietnam War memory returned to him after reading Running Commentary: 4. Murray's chant took him back for a revisit to Southeast Asia: Laos, Cambodia, and Thailand. "We would say ["It just doesn't matter"] from time to time...mutter it to ourselves and close buds."
Al went on to explain that Murray's summer camp yell, to the soldiers, meant that whatever the military asked them to do, in the grand scheme of things, did not contribute to anything of real importance. Sort of like the government. No matter who is at the helm, the career bureaucrats are destined to screw it up. Then again maybe, Al's email mused, it does matter in our own private worlds--our psyches.
Laura and I were quiet while running the next block, thinking about the information shared and the shaded meanings of Al's words. Laura broke the silence.
Passing a just-cut lawn, Laura told me her grandfather was a barber. Actually, her father, grandfather, great-grandfather, were all barbers. Polish barbers. My mother was Polish, and my sister and I were the first to marry outsiders, she added.
Laura continued with her story; one time, I took a pair of my grandfather's hair cutting scissors and practiced cutting grass. Then came a non sequitur: my father was mean. It wasn't that he drank; he was just physically abusive. Laura told me she left home as a young teenager to get away from him. But then, he finally left home to get away from us. We didn't even know when he died. Someone read it in a paper and called us.
After a couple of double takes, to blance the running talk, I said, "See, we have something in common. My grandfather was a barber, too...my little White mother's father. He was a big bear of a man, with hands to match. I watched those hands like a hawk, though, because the first thing I'd do when visiting my grandparents is fling open the screen door and run into the house. My grandfather would be sitting in his rocking chair, and I'd jump into his lap for a hug. I learned that his definition of a hug and mine were not the same. He would always take my hands into his large ones, squeeze them into tight fists, look at me, and smile--squeeze hard. It hurt.
When I was ten years old and walked down the long center aisle of the church, I stopped, stood on tiptoes and looked into the casket, eyes going stright to my grandfather's huge hands. They were still, and I thought, 'good.' I remember running back to my seat.
First water break; sucking ice cubes; cold water poured on necks. Laura mentioned her right foot wasn't working right; her hip kind of hurt; "Look! I'm limping."
"Come on," I said. "Time's up. Let's hit it."
Solo time the next morning. On our break days from running, Laura goes and does what Laura does. I walk and listen to a train load of thoughts passing by. They keep me company along with the sounds of Pink, Lady GaGa, Exile, Katy Perry, the Steve Miller Band, or whatever 'keep-it-moving' sounds Joel downloaded for me.
A few thoughts hop off and stay; most fade away to the land of the lost.
I didn't tell Laura my grandfather story to be a 'show me yours and I'll show you mine'-- completing a tidy pattern to make a cutsie story. Rather, it was shared to underline an old lesson. Stored secrets aren't too special when they are given a bit of light. They are always familiar to someone. Messy, maybe--but, familiar.
The grandfather-to-father story reminds me of what Harry Truman once said: "The only thing new in this world is the history you don't know." I think Harry was a smart guy, even though he got to be an American President.
June 26, 2012, Tuesday
Hottest day, ever, for the month of June: 109
Laura got the job! Starting this fall, she will teach social studies and math.
We did a Watusi dance right in the street...plus, the jumping up and down was a great pre-run, cardio workout!
Seems like, 'It just doesn't matter,' is not used only for 2012 hill running inspiration. I told Laura that Al emailed last night. A Vietnam War memory returned to him after reading Running Commentary: 4. Murray's chant took him back for a revisit to Southeast Asia: Laos, Cambodia, and Thailand. "We would say ["It just doesn't matter"] from time to time...mutter it to ourselves and close buds."
Al went on to explain that Murray's summer camp yell, to the soldiers, meant that whatever the military asked them to do, in the grand scheme of things, did not contribute to anything of real importance. Sort of like the government. No matter who is at the helm, the career bureaucrats are destined to screw it up. Then again maybe, Al's email mused, it does matter in our own private worlds--our psyches.
Laura and I were quiet while running the next block, thinking about the information shared and the shaded meanings of Al's words. Laura broke the silence.
Passing a just-cut lawn, Laura told me her grandfather was a barber. Actually, her father, grandfather, great-grandfather, were all barbers. Polish barbers. My mother was Polish, and my sister and I were the first to marry outsiders, she added.
Laura continued with her story; one time, I took a pair of my grandfather's hair cutting scissors and practiced cutting grass. Then came a non sequitur: my father was mean. It wasn't that he drank; he was just physically abusive. Laura told me she left home as a young teenager to get away from him. But then, he finally left home to get away from us. We didn't even know when he died. Someone read it in a paper and called us.
After a couple of double takes, to blance the running talk, I said, "See, we have something in common. My grandfather was a barber, too...my little White mother's father. He was a big bear of a man, with hands to match. I watched those hands like a hawk, though, because the first thing I'd do when visiting my grandparents is fling open the screen door and run into the house. My grandfather would be sitting in his rocking chair, and I'd jump into his lap for a hug. I learned that his definition of a hug and mine were not the same. He would always take my hands into his large ones, squeeze them into tight fists, look at me, and smile--squeeze hard. It hurt.
When I was ten years old and walked down the long center aisle of the church, I stopped, stood on tiptoes and looked into the casket, eyes going stright to my grandfather's huge hands. They were still, and I thought, 'good.' I remember running back to my seat.
First water break; sucking ice cubes; cold water poured on necks. Laura mentioned her right foot wasn't working right; her hip kind of hurt; "Look! I'm limping."
"Come on," I said. "Time's up. Let's hit it."
Solo time the next morning. On our break days from running, Laura goes and does what Laura does. I walk and listen to a train load of thoughts passing by. They keep me company along with the sounds of Pink, Lady GaGa, Exile, Katy Perry, the Steve Miller Band, or whatever 'keep-it-moving' sounds Joel downloaded for me.
A few thoughts hop off and stay; most fade away to the land of the lost.
I didn't tell Laura my grandfather story to be a 'show me yours and I'll show you mine'-- completing a tidy pattern to make a cutsie story. Rather, it was shared to underline an old lesson. Stored secrets aren't too special when they are given a bit of light. They are always familiar to someone. Messy, maybe--but, familiar.
The grandfather-to-father story reminds me of what Harry Truman once said: "The only thing new in this world is the history you don't know." I think Harry was a smart guy, even though he got to be an American President.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Running Commentaries:4
June 24th, 2012, Sunday
Will be: 102 degrees
Katydids and Rolly Pollies seem to be out. All other creatures are in hiding
Quite a kaleidoscope of happenings these past few days. One topic that's been dropping in and out of conversations all week is a feeling of exhaustion, caused mainly, everyone thinks, by the newly formed habit of daily trying to hear, read, process, and understand all the information bombarding us by our tech gadgets. There's no time to learn the lesson of the story.
Laura fell down a cliff last Thursday. I was certain the 'Running Commentaries' were doomed. She had taken her two youngest daughters and family dog for an afternoon of splashing around in Bull Creek. Climbing a hill back to their car, Laura slipped, assumed a facedown, spread-eagle, and slid the short distance to the bottom; she banged her head and landed in the creek. The EMS and fire department came to the rescue--seven guys in uniform strapped her on a board and carted her off to the hospital. Unplanned, Laura engineered all the elements of a summer afternoon blue-ribbon drama. All hospital tests cleared. Running was back on the schedule.
During Laura's two days of recovery, I queued up, Bill Murray's, 1979, Meatballs. On the morning run, the day before the creek tumble, Laura asked me if I'd ever seen Murray's rant, 'It Just Doesn't Matter,' which he gave to a group of summer campers, and, which, in her opinion, was the core of the movie. "You haven't?! Gotta see it!" Friday afternoon, I settled in to find out just what I'd missed.
Surprise! Before the 'It Just Doesn't Matter' scene came onto the screen and could then become a memory, buried memories of the times, in the 60's, at summer camp--Southern Baptist camp--Falls Creek, which was around Turner Falls in the Arbuckle Mountains of sourth-central Oklahoma, sprouted into real time. Three times a day, young Baptist campers gathered to eat, sing, and pray. Left over hours, were spent sitting around on limestone rocks practicing boy kissing. Cognitive dissonance lurks among Southern Baptists.
My little White mother's insistence of Sunday church, morning and night, Sunday school, Bible study on Wednesday's, vacation Bible schools, and summer camps, did allow a peek into cross-angled adult behavior. Recently, reading Massie's, Catherine The Great, page after page was filled with stories of eighteenth-century power lusting and material greed. Those Russians could have taken a few lessons from Oklahoma Southern Baptists. When I left home for college, at age sixteen, I never walked through the doors of another church until I was thirty-six years old.
Karen read my last three blogs and emailed that she "would like to read more thoughts about cross-generational friendships, why there are so few and, in your case, why this friendship works [with Laura]." After checking Laura's scrapes and bruises, this was the first topic of the morning run. Laura told me she would have to think about the question.
For me, those in the older category, teach about the past; keeping an eye on the younger generation provides glimpses of the future; peers provide the mirror to the present. This generational mirror reflects how we are, how we were, and how we can be. This thought offering (worth about 10%) was given to Laura; but, she continued to think.
After the first water break, Laura tackled Karen's question. To Laura, it seemed like most of the elementary school teachers she was around were 50 years of age, or older; the other age group were in their twenty's. Thirty and forty year olds were missing. She hypothesized that maybe this middle age group had just gotten tired of all the bureaucratic crap, or were having babies. She told me that one time she did go to Happy Hour with a group of 20 year olds. All they talked about was drinking and who they were chasing after. She thought them shallow. When they ran out of drinking and guy stories, they were on their cell phones and Facebook. Here they are, supposedly with these great lives, Laura continued, and they are taking pictures of their food and friends and posting this nonsense to each other. Laura was quick to say her comments were only representations of her experiences. She paused a second and then added that she preferred older people because they were more in the 'present;' better listeners; better conversationalists. Frankly, I was solely concentrating on trying to breathe and wasn't able to ask for her definition of 'present.'
I remember a UTX professor telling his class one time--keep friendships in your own age group, those older, and those younger. You will lead a richer life.
After yells of , 'It just doesn't matter; it just doesn't matter,' to get us up a pretty long neighborhood hill, the question of just what is metaphysics was put out there for discussion. Laura suggested it meant everything outside the physical. That's what meta means, doesn't it--above? Or, beyond, I added. But, I think it's more than that, was my second chime.
"Meaning what?" asked Laura.
Well, taking all the physical and the meta into consideration, you've got to think about the different ways people think. Whites, for example, think from straight line to straight line. What you see is what you get. Indians will take this straight line and add all living things in the environment, along with outer voices--those 6th senses we talked about a couple of weeks ago. The more information you've added, the more you've got to stir--round and round. Indian thinking is circular.
We laughed at the heavy running talk. Time for a water break.
Will be: 102 degrees
Katydids and Rolly Pollies seem to be out. All other creatures are in hiding
Quite a kaleidoscope of happenings these past few days. One topic that's been dropping in and out of conversations all week is a feeling of exhaustion, caused mainly, everyone thinks, by the newly formed habit of daily trying to hear, read, process, and understand all the information bombarding us by our tech gadgets. There's no time to learn the lesson of the story.
Laura fell down a cliff last Thursday. I was certain the 'Running Commentaries' were doomed. She had taken her two youngest daughters and family dog for an afternoon of splashing around in Bull Creek. Climbing a hill back to their car, Laura slipped, assumed a facedown, spread-eagle, and slid the short distance to the bottom; she banged her head and landed in the creek. The EMS and fire department came to the rescue--seven guys in uniform strapped her on a board and carted her off to the hospital. Unplanned, Laura engineered all the elements of a summer afternoon blue-ribbon drama. All hospital tests cleared. Running was back on the schedule.
During Laura's two days of recovery, I queued up, Bill Murray's, 1979, Meatballs. On the morning run, the day before the creek tumble, Laura asked me if I'd ever seen Murray's rant, 'It Just Doesn't Matter,' which he gave to a group of summer campers, and, which, in her opinion, was the core of the movie. "You haven't?! Gotta see it!" Friday afternoon, I settled in to find out just what I'd missed.
Surprise! Before the 'It Just Doesn't Matter' scene came onto the screen and could then become a memory, buried memories of the times, in the 60's, at summer camp--Southern Baptist camp--Falls Creek, which was around Turner Falls in the Arbuckle Mountains of sourth-central Oklahoma, sprouted into real time. Three times a day, young Baptist campers gathered to eat, sing, and pray. Left over hours, were spent sitting around on limestone rocks practicing boy kissing. Cognitive dissonance lurks among Southern Baptists.
My little White mother's insistence of Sunday church, morning and night, Sunday school, Bible study on Wednesday's, vacation Bible schools, and summer camps, did allow a peek into cross-angled adult behavior. Recently, reading Massie's, Catherine The Great, page after page was filled with stories of eighteenth-century power lusting and material greed. Those Russians could have taken a few lessons from Oklahoma Southern Baptists. When I left home for college, at age sixteen, I never walked through the doors of another church until I was thirty-six years old.
Karen read my last three blogs and emailed that she "would like to read more thoughts about cross-generational friendships, why there are so few and, in your case, why this friendship works [with Laura]." After checking Laura's scrapes and bruises, this was the first topic of the morning run. Laura told me she would have to think about the question.
For me, those in the older category, teach about the past; keeping an eye on the younger generation provides glimpses of the future; peers provide the mirror to the present. This generational mirror reflects how we are, how we were, and how we can be. This thought offering (worth about 10%) was given to Laura; but, she continued to think.
After the first water break, Laura tackled Karen's question. To Laura, it seemed like most of the elementary school teachers she was around were 50 years of age, or older; the other age group were in their twenty's. Thirty and forty year olds were missing. She hypothesized that maybe this middle age group had just gotten tired of all the bureaucratic crap, or were having babies. She told me that one time she did go to Happy Hour with a group of 20 year olds. All they talked about was drinking and who they were chasing after. She thought them shallow. When they ran out of drinking and guy stories, they were on their cell phones and Facebook. Here they are, supposedly with these great lives, Laura continued, and they are taking pictures of their food and friends and posting this nonsense to each other. Laura was quick to say her comments were only representations of her experiences. She paused a second and then added that she preferred older people because they were more in the 'present;' better listeners; better conversationalists. Frankly, I was solely concentrating on trying to breathe and wasn't able to ask for her definition of 'present.'
I remember a UTX professor telling his class one time--keep friendships in your own age group, those older, and those younger. You will lead a richer life.
After yells of , 'It just doesn't matter; it just doesn't matter,' to get us up a pretty long neighborhood hill, the question of just what is metaphysics was put out there for discussion. Laura suggested it meant everything outside the physical. That's what meta means, doesn't it--above? Or, beyond, I added. But, I think it's more than that, was my second chime.
"Meaning what?" asked Laura.
Well, taking all the physical and the meta into consideration, you've got to think about the different ways people think. Whites, for example, think from straight line to straight line. What you see is what you get. Indians will take this straight line and add all living things in the environment, along with outer voices--those 6th senses we talked about a couple of weeks ago. The more information you've added, the more you've got to stir--round and round. Indian thinking is circular.
We laughed at the heavy running talk. Time for a water break.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Running Commentary: 3
June 17th, Sunday, Father's Day
Laura held verbal court this morning.
Sentences can break apart; words evaporated and carried away by gusts of wind. To counter nature, for this morning's run, I brought a small spiral notebook to capture key ideas before they floated away. Later, when I opened the little 3" x 5," I saw I'd written a single word--Indian.
I've been trying to figure out a way to mention I'm Indian--American Indian--Citizen of the Cherokee Nation.
My friends don't care, or half-way believe it, as I am fair skinned, light haired, green eyed, and sport a fair share of freckles. If they could only see me in a line-up with my Indian cousins, I'd be picked out as the suspect, for sure. And, then as far as the State of Texas is concerned, they believe they got rid of all the Indians years ago.
Now, I know over the past five hundred years, the dominant White society in America has chosen to imagine the Indian has vanished. The myth of the noble, but savage Indian, is allowed to live in books, and movies, but has been carefully faded into the glory of the Western sunset. Since they've vanished, I, as an Indian, am not supposed to be here. The Indian part of me is ignored; never acknowledged.
At our first stop for water, Laura was pulling at the legs of her three-quarter length running pants. Between gulps, she admitted the pants were hot because they didn't breathe. But, she couldn't wear shorts; they would give her the 'Indian Creep.' She got a funny look on her face, then told me, this was what her mother always called shorts, covering legs that were a little too chubby--"Indian pants that creep up on you." I laughed. I can do that. I'm Indian.
Running by a busy lawn sprinkler, out came a flush of summer time memories. "Water coming out of a hose or sprinkler, smelling mossy when it hits the grass always makes me think of summer. That's the first thing," said Laura; "Second, coconut butter tanning lotion--the Coppertone kind; Third, charring meat on a grill. These are the important smells of my childhood summers."
"We were feral kids. Mom and dad left early for work and we were left alone. Our neighborhood didn't have a single fence separating houses; we had a whole range to roam; trails to carve; plenty of space to be free. I think it was when I was twelve, people moved into the house behind ours and put up a fence. From then on, summers were never as fun."
The first summers of my childhood were different from Laura's. I knew the smell of mossy, too, but, I didn't tell Laura of these things. My childhood summers were spent in the hills of Northeastern Oklahoma and in the Piute Allen canyon of Utah. My playthings were the sky, the stars, the rocky hills, and the grapevines. I was a feral child of the woods. I lay on the wonderful mossed ground, looking up to the heavens through the frame of green, ferny leafed branches, stretching higher than my imagination. This was my art; the space, the animals of the woods and those of the rivers and streams, my childhood friends. Even if they are now gone, they live in me. Those were my summers before moving to the land of the fences.
June 17th, Sunday, Father's Day
Laura held verbal court this morning.
Sentences can break apart; words evaporated and carried away by gusts of wind. To counter nature, for this morning's run, I brought a small spiral notebook to capture key ideas before they floated away. Later, when I opened the little 3" x 5," I saw I'd written a single word--Indian.
I've been trying to figure out a way to mention I'm Indian--American Indian--Citizen of the Cherokee Nation.
My friends don't care, or half-way believe it, as I am fair skinned, light haired, green eyed, and sport a fair share of freckles. If they could only see me in a line-up with my Indian cousins, I'd be picked out as the suspect, for sure. And, then as far as the State of Texas is concerned, they believe they got rid of all the Indians years ago.
Now, I know over the past five hundred years, the dominant White society in America has chosen to imagine the Indian has vanished. The myth of the noble, but savage Indian, is allowed to live in books, and movies, but has been carefully faded into the glory of the Western sunset. Since they've vanished, I, as an Indian, am not supposed to be here. The Indian part of me is ignored; never acknowledged.
At our first stop for water, Laura was pulling at the legs of her three-quarter length running pants. Between gulps, she admitted the pants were hot because they didn't breathe. But, she couldn't wear shorts; they would give her the 'Indian Creep.' She got a funny look on her face, then told me, this was what her mother always called shorts, covering legs that were a little too chubby--"Indian pants that creep up on you." I laughed. I can do that. I'm Indian.
Running by a busy lawn sprinkler, out came a flush of summer time memories. "Water coming out of a hose or sprinkler, smelling mossy when it hits the grass always makes me think of summer. That's the first thing," said Laura; "Second, coconut butter tanning lotion--the Coppertone kind; Third, charring meat on a grill. These are the important smells of my childhood summers."
"We were feral kids. Mom and dad left early for work and we were left alone. Our neighborhood didn't have a single fence separating houses; we had a whole range to roam; trails to carve; plenty of space to be free. I think it was when I was twelve, people moved into the house behind ours and put up a fence. From then on, summers were never as fun."
The first summers of my childhood were different from Laura's. I knew the smell of mossy, too, but, I didn't tell Laura of these things. My childhood summers were spent in the hills of Northeastern Oklahoma and in the Piute Allen canyon of Utah. My playthings were the sky, the stars, the rocky hills, and the grapevines. I was a feral child of the woods. I lay on the wonderful mossed ground, looking up to the heavens through the frame of green, ferny leafed branches, stretching higher than my imagination. This was my art; the space, the animals of the woods and those of the rivers and streams, my childhood friends. Even if they are now gone, they live in me. Those were my summers before moving to the land of the fences.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Running Commentary: 2
June 14, 2012
Yike-A-Doodles! Linda, the world class sentry, informed me this morning that yesterday's ramblings appeared on Facebook. The technology lessons keep on coming in a heap.
Early morning newspaper (hard copy) news line: ""Study: Cougars spreading across Midwest." If this meant, foxy, older women, I agree.
I bought a great purse last Sunday--a Sherpani. This bit of news doesn't have a thing to do with running, except every girl needs a feel good purchase now and then.
Laura said, "I can hardly breathe!"
"My chest hurts," I responded.
Can't you just feel the sympathy?
Currently (Noon): 86 degrees; 59% humidity. Readings not nearly north enough for legitimate whining.
At least this short exchange almost got us through the initial, very brief stay of emotional heavy rain.
All of these early morning wet clouds came from two causes: 1) Laura's carting around and delivering resumes and not finding instant employment. This letting go of one job was an act of choice. It's just that she's run smack-dab into the realities of today's marketplace. So far, the 'over-the-rainbow' job has been promised or filled. But, Laura's not a 'giver-upper.' 2) Laura and her handsome husband had an early morning tiff. At that bit of news, I laughed. From my perch, marital spats mostly fall into a category of funny.
Subject changed; laughing stopped; the sun came out. Running will do that to you. It robs time of heavy rain.
Joel didn't like the first blog. He said my writing voice had gone missing. Besides that, he told me he knew all those old family stories. Do I have to tell everything? Shouldn't mothers be allowed a couple of secrets? Even those jangled out of the deep memory universe, where the web lives, covering and holding dark, painful, and dangerous deeds of the past? No doubt about it; running's a jungle of untold, hidden stories. Maybe that's what the newspaper headline meant--older, wiser, cougars of the run (not on the run), are spreading these stories across the Midwest.
June 14, 2012
Yike-A-Doodles! Linda, the world class sentry, informed me this morning that yesterday's ramblings appeared on Facebook. The technology lessons keep on coming in a heap.
Early morning newspaper (hard copy) news line: ""Study: Cougars spreading across Midwest." If this meant, foxy, older women, I agree.
I bought a great purse last Sunday--a Sherpani. This bit of news doesn't have a thing to do with running, except every girl needs a feel good purchase now and then.
Laura said, "I can hardly breathe!"
"My chest hurts," I responded.
Can't you just feel the sympathy?
Currently (Noon): 86 degrees; 59% humidity. Readings not nearly north enough for legitimate whining.
At least this short exchange almost got us through the initial, very brief stay of emotional heavy rain.
All of these early morning wet clouds came from two causes: 1) Laura's carting around and delivering resumes and not finding instant employment. This letting go of one job was an act of choice. It's just that she's run smack-dab into the realities of today's marketplace. So far, the 'over-the-rainbow' job has been promised or filled. But, Laura's not a 'giver-upper.' 2) Laura and her handsome husband had an early morning tiff. At that bit of news, I laughed. From my perch, marital spats mostly fall into a category of funny.
Subject changed; laughing stopped; the sun came out. Running will do that to you. It robs time of heavy rain.
Joel didn't like the first blog. He said my writing voice had gone missing. Besides that, he told me he knew all those old family stories. Do I have to tell everything? Shouldn't mothers be allowed a couple of secrets? Even those jangled out of the deep memory universe, where the web lives, covering and holding dark, painful, and dangerous deeds of the past? No doubt about it; running's a jungle of untold, hidden stories. Maybe that's what the newspaper headline meant--older, wiser, cougars of the run (not on the run), are spreading these stories across the Midwest.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Running Commentary: 1
June 10, 2012
Laura is a terrific educator. Her dedication to teaching causes me to wish I had a son or daughter sitting in her classroom. Of course, mine are long gone, having marched through a public school system, many years before the time spent in school buildings was given over to the mundaneness of measuring what's learned by drilling into kids the answers to standardized tests. I think of Laura as a 'Kick-Ass' teacher. Full of creativity, dedication, and hard work. It's only the mean rules of bureaucracy holding back the implementation of her great teaching skills. The losers: the students.
This is only a fractional element of the Laura I've come to know, and this is the beauty of a running partner. Running provides the freedom to talk--to share--to listen--and often, not remember a damn thing the other person has said. From here on, though, I'm going to try and remember the topics touched and share with you. Your feedback is welcomed.
First, I'm just thankful Laura will run with me, as she is 32 years my junior. My running group trickled away over the years, mainly succumbing to bad knees and a preference for late afternoon wine. "Run by yourself," you say. Well, you try making it up a steep hill all alone in 100 degree Texas heat, with equally high humidity. Can only be done with a Laura behind you yelling, "Iron Will! Iron Will!" These words, of course are what got the young, Will Stoneman, through the fierceness of the 1917 Iditarod.
I'll admit it. I am a competitive person--but, only with myself. However, I am not the braggy kind. Though, I don't mind telling people my running partner, now, is the daughter-in-law of my former, long-time, running partner. In all fairness, she dropped out due to a debilitating illness; not knees or wine.
Second, I like to believe, given the age difference, Laura and I have lessons to teach each other and lessons to learn. We represent different generations. Although there are no distinct, agreed upon, definitional boundaries, Laura seems to be a Generation Xer; I am a Silent Generation baby.
So, what did we talk about Sunday morning? I was the babbler, verbally pushing Laura out of the way. I'd just come back from a visit with my 84 year-old aunt in Oklahoma, filled with tales of the increasing dangers of driving IH35 between Austin and Dallas. Highway 75, and then 69 into Tulsa, is no picnic. Trying to stake out the right to be on the road with all the semi-tractors is highway madness.
Laura and I brushed by the dangers of keeping family secrets. Out of the blue, I told Laura about my grandfather missing a curve on a lonesome road and running into a tree, dying instantly. No one saw the accident. He was alone. I've always thought he killed himself. Did you know my uncle, his son, was murdered? He was the only son and eldest to four sisters. Two of these sisters died of Alzheimer's. My mother, one of the four girls, did not. It was the baby sister, the survivor, I'd made the trip to visit. Their mother, my maternal grandmother, was known as a healer. People knocked on her door, late at night, for help. The family said she had 'the 6th sense.' She told my mother I did, too, but my mother was told to discourage the ability. I then told Laura, my younger sister, when she was about three years old, drew a very accurate picture of a naked man, showed it to my grandmother, who tore the drawing into pieces. I then stopped the ramble and told Laura that I didn't know why I'd blurted out all these stories.. I'd never shared them with anyone before. Twenty minutes down. Time for a a quick water break.
Talk slid along into the importance of maintaining friendships in different age groups; school being out and what Laura's two grade-schooler's and one junior-higher would do during the summer; how to lose weight; how to keep from gaining weight; Laura considering a goal of training for a marathon--eventually; cultural differences between small towns and cities; and, our old stand-by, what exactly was pop culture. We settled this week on a distinction of the battle between the Kardashians and the Shakespearians. Or, we supposed, some people, paying attention to these things, would say, the battle has been won. There is no difference. Mass media has total control of the minds of the masses and dictates thought.
Before we finished the 2nd twenty minutes of running, the question of why people have headaches was brought out for Sunday morning examination. Laura's explanation--we American's focus too much on ourselves--what's on the inside--our inner space. We spend too much time on 'I' and 'Me.' It's dark in there, stress filled, mucking around in that inner space. Gotta get the self out into the light.
Laura decided on a repeat loop for the final twenty minutes. We paid more attention to the neighborhood. Any new houses on the market? What freshly planted bushes and flowers had the deer eaten during the week. What oaks needed trimming and saying 'Hi' to neighbors. That was it. Run finished; a final drink. I felt good and at peace. "See ya Wednesday!"
June 10, 2012
Laura is a terrific educator. Her dedication to teaching causes me to wish I had a son or daughter sitting in her classroom. Of course, mine are long gone, having marched through a public school system, many years before the time spent in school buildings was given over to the mundaneness of measuring what's learned by drilling into kids the answers to standardized tests. I think of Laura as a 'Kick-Ass' teacher. Full of creativity, dedication, and hard work. It's only the mean rules of bureaucracy holding back the implementation of her great teaching skills. The losers: the students.
This is only a fractional element of the Laura I've come to know, and this is the beauty of a running partner. Running provides the freedom to talk--to share--to listen--and often, not remember a damn thing the other person has said. From here on, though, I'm going to try and remember the topics touched and share with you. Your feedback is welcomed.
First, I'm just thankful Laura will run with me, as she is 32 years my junior. My running group trickled away over the years, mainly succumbing to bad knees and a preference for late afternoon wine. "Run by yourself," you say. Well, you try making it up a steep hill all alone in 100 degree Texas heat, with equally high humidity. Can only be done with a Laura behind you yelling, "Iron Will! Iron Will!" These words, of course are what got the young, Will Stoneman, through the fierceness of the 1917 Iditarod.
I'll admit it. I am a competitive person--but, only with myself. However, I am not the braggy kind. Though, I don't mind telling people my running partner, now, is the daughter-in-law of my former, long-time, running partner. In all fairness, she dropped out due to a debilitating illness; not knees or wine.
Second, I like to believe, given the age difference, Laura and I have lessons to teach each other and lessons to learn. We represent different generations. Although there are no distinct, agreed upon, definitional boundaries, Laura seems to be a Generation Xer; I am a Silent Generation baby.
So, what did we talk about Sunday morning? I was the babbler, verbally pushing Laura out of the way. I'd just come back from a visit with my 84 year-old aunt in Oklahoma, filled with tales of the increasing dangers of driving IH35 between Austin and Dallas. Highway 75, and then 69 into Tulsa, is no picnic. Trying to stake out the right to be on the road with all the semi-tractors is highway madness.
Laura and I brushed by the dangers of keeping family secrets. Out of the blue, I told Laura about my grandfather missing a curve on a lonesome road and running into a tree, dying instantly. No one saw the accident. He was alone. I've always thought he killed himself. Did you know my uncle, his son, was murdered? He was the only son and eldest to four sisters. Two of these sisters died of Alzheimer's. My mother, one of the four girls, did not. It was the baby sister, the survivor, I'd made the trip to visit. Their mother, my maternal grandmother, was known as a healer. People knocked on her door, late at night, for help. The family said she had 'the 6th sense.' She told my mother I did, too, but my mother was told to discourage the ability. I then told Laura, my younger sister, when she was about three years old, drew a very accurate picture of a naked man, showed it to my grandmother, who tore the drawing into pieces. I then stopped the ramble and told Laura that I didn't know why I'd blurted out all these stories.. I'd never shared them with anyone before. Twenty minutes down. Time for a a quick water break.
Talk slid along into the importance of maintaining friendships in different age groups; school being out and what Laura's two grade-schooler's and one junior-higher would do during the summer; how to lose weight; how to keep from gaining weight; Laura considering a goal of training for a marathon--eventually; cultural differences between small towns and cities; and, our old stand-by, what exactly was pop culture. We settled this week on a distinction of the battle between the Kardashians and the Shakespearians. Or, we supposed, some people, paying attention to these things, would say, the battle has been won. There is no difference. Mass media has total control of the minds of the masses and dictates thought.
Before we finished the 2nd twenty minutes of running, the question of why people have headaches was brought out for Sunday morning examination. Laura's explanation--we American's focus too much on ourselves--what's on the inside--our inner space. We spend too much time on 'I' and 'Me.' It's dark in there, stress filled, mucking around in that inner space. Gotta get the self out into the light.
Laura decided on a repeat loop for the final twenty minutes. We paid more attention to the neighborhood. Any new houses on the market? What freshly planted bushes and flowers had the deer eaten during the week. What oaks needed trimming and saying 'Hi' to neighbors. That was it. Run finished; a final drink. I felt good and at peace. "See ya Wednesday!"
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