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.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
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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