#463: 10 Mountain Miles

Yes, there are beautiful places. The Rockies can be so beautiful that words stick in your throat. Sunset over the Pacific can bring you to tears. The icy waters of Lake Superior on an August afternoon on the Upper Peninsula of Michigan can make you feel like you're stepping back in time. I love all these places, but my God do I love my Kentucky.

Today, I ran 10 miles in a little more heat than I would have preferred. We didn't get out of the house until late, and it's a good hour's drive to Cedar Hill in Nicholas County, so it was almost 1:00 and 75° when I finally strapped on my hydration pack and hit the country roads.

How to capture such a beautiful experience? I started out strong. The beginning of the course is a gentle slope along the north bank of Crooked Creek. Then, just past the 1 mile mark, you turn right (on this course, you only turn right,) and begin your ascent on Johnson Road. This is no ordinary climb.

Elevation chart for the Cedar Hill 10 mile loop

Johnson Road climbs 236 feet in just over a mile. And those little bumps at the top of the ridge are no joke either. As I trudged along, I remembered the day, weeks before, when I had tried to top this ridge at the end of a 20 mile run. I wasn't making that mistake today. I wisely put it at the start of today's run. I passed a family working in their front yard, planing flowers. Dad was swinging an enormous pick, and I was happy to move along, however slowly. A trio of yapping dogs, the first of many little packs I encountered, raced to meet me as I ran. I didn't confront them or even slow down. I ignored them, maintained my speed, and tried to look liked the biggest, baddest dog in the woods. None of them saw fit to challenge me, though one bully looking fellow jumped up and nipped at me at one point, snagging my shorts and nearly re-enacting the famous Coppertone ad... only this time with big blue compression shorts instead of a pale, pink bum underneath.

Beware of Dog

 The south face of the ridge drops as steeply and sharply as the north face rises. Running downhill is always a challenge. Running down what amounts to a ski slope requires courage, luck, and the brains of an eggplant. Only an idiot would try it. So naturally, I made the descent my two fastest miles of the day. No walk breaks coming down the hill. I'm not sure I could have stopped if I wanted to.

Once you reach the bottom, you begin a long, rolling run along the north shore of Beaver Creek. The Saltwell United Methodist Church welcomes you into the valley where you'll spend the next few miles among the shady trees. It was noon, so I didn't see a lot of critters. On the other hand, there is next to no traffic on this road, so there isn't much road-kill either. The only time I stopped all day was to pick up a decent sized box turtle and move him over to the side of the road, away from marauding truck tires.

A man driving a tractor gave me a thumbs up as he passed, some kind of dangerous looking machine in tow. Farther down the road, after he had pulled into his driveway, he gave me a holler. "How far you going?" "Ten miles." called back. "Where?" "Crooked Creek," I answered, and was gone into the woods again. I wondered what made him so curious. Maybe he just doesn't see a lot of men in earrings and lime green shoes out here. Or maybe he was once a runner himself. A cross-country star at Nicholas County High School back in the 50s. I smiled at the thought that he just might have run this same route back in the glory days. Part of me wished he'd lace 'em up and join me. But I was enjoying the solitude far too much to really want to share.

Lucky for me, my bird wasn't in a fighting mood.
From birdsofoklahoma.net

Just past the 7.25 mark, I started getting a little tingling feeling. I knew that there was a serious hill at the end of this course. My friend Sandy had warned me about it, but also promised a rich reward for the effort. The climb up the ridge on Gannett Road is just as high as the one on Johnson, only it gets there in half the distance. This isn't a hill, it's a pillar. Parts of it feel more like mountain climbing than running. But Sandy was right. The view from the top is really out of this world. Miles of rolling hills in all directions. Turkey Buzzards and hawks circling at eye level as they scan the ground far below for a little afternoon snack. As I crested the hill, there was a whoosh and a wild turkey flushed out of the tall grass about 10 yards ahead of me and flapped off toward the tree line. For a moment, I could look all around me and see nothing that had been built by humans. I wondered if this is what the Kentucky that Daniel Boone fell in love with looked like.

The hill from the gate to the house... don't suppose anyone
could just bring me down a bucket of ice and some Ben-gay?

The run back down the other side of this ridge isn't a run at all. It is a scramble. I was possessed by only one thought. "Don't fall." I said my prayers and gave myself over to gravity and the grace of God. I managed to get all the way back to the bridge over Crooked Creek with my Nikes pointing in the right direction. After that, it's one more brutal little hill that's steeper than a Pittsburgh Driveway, then a weary mile or so back to the cool porch, a cold drink, and a hot shower.

My friend Terry was waiting for me at the gate. "I can't believe you just ran 10 miles. I can barely walk from here to the house." I smiled, (I hope) and answered, "I am seriously considering driving myself up to the porch." I didn't. But I wanted to.

The Memorial Day cook-out was in full swing when I arrived. I grabbed a bowl of rice and beans, plopped an impeccably rare burger on top, and went out to select a rocking chair. On the porch, old friends chatted easily about ancient news and modern gossip. We laughed. We caught up. We listened to the frogs gallumphing down by the pond, and some kind of screeching bird that sounded for all the world like an angry monkey. Kentucky in the spring time is all green and blue and cool breezes and music. We had all of that and more. It was a perfect finish to a beautiful day.

Well actually, the apple pie and carrot cake were the perfect finish. I admit it. I am unashamed. Besides, holiday calories don't count, right?

Peace,
Pennsy

#423: Running Long, Falling Short

"I went to the doctor. I went to the mountains..." My soul has always found healing in the mountains. This Sunday, the Great Physician led me to northern Kentucky where I got a generous dose of just the right medicine.

I had time for two long runs before my Marathon in May. The plan was to do 26 this weekend, take two weeks for recovery, then go longer than 26 one last time before the race. When a friend invited me on a run through the serious hills north of Lexington, I decided that the climbing would more than make up for the lost miles, and plotted a 20 mile course from Millersburg to my friend Sandy's house, deep in the hollers of Nicholas county. Before the day was over, I was to learn just how much I had under-estimated those hills. I would also experience one of the most gratifying failures of my life.

A Mountain Locker Room

We met after church. The weather was lovely. At 72 partly cloudy degrees, the Bluegrass finally felt like spring had arrived. Mrs P dropped me off in Millersburg where I joined my friend Jeri and some fellow runners. It was great to be in shorts and a singlet after the long months of tights and treadmills.

Jeri

Jeri and I started down the road out of town and we were soon climbing. She set a pace that was a little quicker than I would have liked, and chose 5:00 run/1:00 walk intervals. I planned to run the first 5 or 6 miles with her, then she would turn back while I continued on for my long run. I figured I could take the challenge of keeping up with her stronger legs for a little while, but the pace and the hills soon told me otherwise. "I can't keep up with you, Jeri. I'll slow down and you go on ahead." She seemed mystified. "What? I thought I was trying to keep up with YOU." She had interpreted my attempts to follow her as an effort to push her. We switched to shorter run intervals, and the trip became much less of a trial.

Take me to the River

Bridge Over Peaceful Waters

Blood and Sweat, but
No Tears... Yet

We talked about running and grandkids and dogs and our marriages. We puffed up the hills and gasped at the beautiful views from their tops. When my teeth popped out of my mouth (again...) we laughed at the silliness of it, and when a misstep off the edge of the black-top sent me tumbling, we joked about other great falls we had suffered on the roads. When we rounded the bend that led us to the covered bridge at Colville, our time together seemed much too short. Jeri's husband was there waiting with water, and Jeri snapped some pictures of my gory looking leg before I trotted off down the road toward the remainder of my journey. The hills were brutal and beautiful. There were long, steep climbs followed by descents that always seemed too short. Sometimes the roads led me along a ridge where I could see for what seemed like miles. Other times I followed along beside creeks in deep valleys where ancient houses, trailers, and barns lined the road sides. Occasionally I would pass someone feeding horses or just relaxing on their porch. They would stare in puzzled amusement as I jogged along.

I encountered lots of other critters on my way. This isn't thoroughbred country. No million-dollar farms out here. These horses work hard for a living, and it shows. Their pastures and their coats are both a lot rougher than their cousins at Keeneland, but they are no less beautiful. Cattle knelt by roadside fences as if in prayer, and lumbered warily to their feet as I passed. An occasional snort from a muddy pen let me know that next winter's hams were rooting contentedly in the shade. And of course, there were the dogs. Working dogs are like working horses. No carefully bathed sissies out here. There were the big old shepherds patrolling fenced in yards. Shaggy giants roaring from barns. And then there were the Pits.

There is a certain amount of... how to put this?.. home-style chemical manufacturing going on in these woods. Years ago, that might have meant white lightening. Probably still does in some places. But things being how they are in the mountains nowadays, the products are more sinister. Meth labs are scattered among the shacks and abandoned out-buildings in the hills, and they take a terrible toll on our people. Of course, whether you're cooking meth or moonshine, you need a security system, and that often means dogs that are meant to keep strangers far away. A couple of bruisers charged at me as I ran, but I just raised myself up tall, didn't change my pace, and acted for all the world like the biggest dog in the woods. Once they saw that I was not weak or wounded, and had no intention of stopping to sniff around, they always settled down. One even sidled in beside me and trotted down the road quietly for a couple hundred yards. I'm not sure if he was  being a partner or just escorting me off the property, but it was funny having such a fierce looking monster on my heel for a while.

The terrain had been rough all day, but around mile 10, I started wondering if I hadn't bitten off more than I could chew. By mile 13, I was pretty certain that I had. I switched my run/walk intervals to 30 seconds. Soon I was walking 30 and shuffling 30 with an occasional break to sit on a roadside rock where I contemplated the insanity of a 50 year-old-cancer survivor trying to raise money by running marathons. Somewhere during mile 14 I said it out loud: "I'm in trouble here." Cell phone signals are few and far between out in the hills. I had to wait to get to the top of one before I could see any bars on my screen. "I'm about five miles from you, and I'm out of gas," I gasped to Mrs P. "I need you to come and get me." After she had dropped me off in Millersburg, she had gone on to Sandy's house for some R&R. She had a detailed map of my route in case I needed rescuing. The two of them hopped in Sandy's truck and headed toward me.

As Far As I Was Going to Go

Knowing help was on the way gave me heart and I tried jogging a little. I was in a very pretty valley and the road was as flat as I had seen all day, so the going was pretty smooth. I knew from plotting my route online that there was a mile long hill, the steepest of the day, waiting at mile 17. Around 16.8, I came to a pretty little crossroads with a beautiful country church standing silently by. I saw a large concrete pad that I knew must be the sceptic tank, and limped to it. This was as far as I was going to go.

I don't remember what I thought about as I sat there on that cement sewer. I'm not sure I thought of anything at all. I was well past the "stupid zone" where my brain shuts off and my legs take over. Both were exhausted now, and I sat quietly in that contemplative state like a soggy monk, waiting for deliverance.

Just a Little Road Rash

Sandy almost drove right past me. She expected me to be back around mile 15, where I was when I made my SOS call. When she and Mrs P pulled to a stop in the gravel beside the church. I wasn't sure if I would be able to walk to the truck or not. My wife got out to help me, and fret over the blood that was caked down my right calf. My fall with Jeri had left me pretty well scratched up and the blood thinners I take had done their work.

As we turned onto the ironically named "Johnson Road," I finally learned just how badly I had underestimated this run. The mile long climb was as steep a road as I have seen anywhere this side of Colorado. I couldn't have run it. I couldn't have crawled it. As Sandy swung the big crew-cab across the bridge and up the long drive that leads to her house, I knew that they had saved me as surely as if they had rowed up beside me in a lifeboat on a stormy sea.

At Last, a Friendly Dog

No joke: this was the toughest run of my life. Not even my marathon left me as drained and helpless at this trip through the mountains. Along the way, I had questioned everything from my attempts to raise money to my dreams of running another Marathon. I had doubted myself and my own strength. I had doubted my own intelligence! After only 15 miles I had decided to just give up. I sent up a flare. I sat by the side of the road and thought about what it felt like to surrender.

Then I thought about the reason I was running. I thought about Becky, fighting for her life against the chemo that was trying to kill her second bout of cancer. I thought of Raynee and the tumor in her brain that threatened to steal her from her husband and little children. I thought of the scar on James' scalp and the fire in Jaspal's eyes and always, always Coach Carrie's voice. "You can't do this, Bob." And Melissa. "I see you running a Marathon someday." And Mrs P. "I believe in you, Bobbo." I got up off my ass when I didn't have a drop of energy left and no hope in the world of finishing this course, and I by-God ran. I ran two more miles after I was sure I couldn't go another step.

How? Courage? Determination? Stubbornness? Stupidity? God? Yes, I think it was God. God, who created me to be a runner. God, who let the cancer almost kill me so I could discover my own strength. God, who appears in the eyes of every survivor, every caregiver, every doctor and nurse and kind friend I meet in my battle against a disease I hate.

The View from Sandy's Porch

The two great seasons of the church year are Christmas and Easter. Incarnation and Resurrection. God with us, and God redeeming us. The spirit of God is alive in the people I serve. They are my inspiration and my strength. Whatever courage I have, I learned from the warriors I have met in the gym and on the road. That's why I run. That's why I'm always begging for money. And that's why I will run that crazy race in May.

Not because I can't let them down.

But because they won't let me fall.

Peace,
Pennsy

#386: Brain Nuggets

I love words. I love my friends. And I have come to the conclusion that playing Words with Friends is an almost perfect waste of both.

We aren't fighting against cancer,  we are fighting for our lives.


If you want to be a decent human being,  get to know the person who gets paid to clean your toilet at work. They have something to teach you.


My heart breaks with joy every time I look in the pool and see the surprise and pride in Mrs P's face when she realizes that she is actually learning to swim.


My dogs drive me insane sometimes and that isn't their fault. I need to learn to be a better dog for them.

Don't tell me you're inspired,  tell me what you're inspired to do.

I could spend all day telling you how amazing I think cancer survivors are, and never spend a second bragging. I am humbled and proud to be counted among them.

Nothing really serious should ever be taken completely seriously.

It is amazing how good the rest of your life becomes when you know you could run a mile if you really had to.
There have been a lot of uniforms and costumes in my life: Boy Scout merit badge sash. Church choir robe. Shakespearean tights. Back stage blacks. I worked hard for each of them. But that yellow shirt is still my favorite.

If you really want to improve your kicking, you should buy some flippers,  the swimmer advised me. I can just throw it in the bag with my goggles, my heart rate monitor, and my yoga strap. Swimming. Running. Yoga. There is no exercise so simple that someone can't figure out away to sell you gear for it.

Wouldn't it be great if you could create something really useful by combining household dust, dog hair, and the cold brown puddle you find at the bottom of yesterday morning's coffee cup?

The most heroic people I've ever known had no idea that they were being heroes.

I have always had a crush on Lesbians and Piano Players. What's up with that?

The only real limit to our ability is our will.

It is hard to serve teenagers because they've seen all your crap before, and are unimpressed.

I get angry when I see the same vultures who celebrated her slow-motion suicide for thirty years pretending to care about Whitney Houston now that she's dead.


The quickest way to diminish your ability to meet the needs of the world is to neglect the things you need yourself.

You can fit a lot of stupid onto one little bumper sticker.


I don't know if they intended to be, but The Village People were right about the YMCA.

Young Man, I was once in your shoes
I said I was, down and out with the blues
I felt no man cared if I were alive
I felt the whole world was so jive

That's when someone came up to me
And said young man take a walk up the street
There's a place there called the Y.M.C.A.
They can start you back on your way

God has blessings for you beyond anything you can ask or imagine. 

If I ever get one of those tramp stamp tattoos,  I think I would like it to be the Chinese character for "butt crack."

Peace,

Pennsy

#381: Peeking Around the Bend

What's around the bend in Pennsyltucky?

In a way, it's a pity that we celebrate New Year's Eve by getting drunk. This is such a great day to be awake; to be mindful. 2011 was full of things worth remembering for me. And next year is so rich with possibilities.
In some ways, 2011 was a hard year, but even through the pain, we were blessed. We lost a lot of people we love, particularly our beloved brother Doug who fought cancer with such courage and faithfulness. Near the end of his battle, he spoke the words that just may go on my tombstone. He was lying in the hospital when he was told of a friend who had given his heart to Jesus in church that morning, Doug wept and whispered, "It's all going to be worth it." And so it is.

We lost our house, after a long game of chicken with Wells Fargo. The experience was sometimes painful, more often, it was just a pain, but we were blessed to have the support of our friend Donna, a realtor and a saint, (yes, it is possible.) I also have to thank Judge Scorsone who stood between us and the bank's lawyers long enough for us to complete the short sale of the property. And most important of all, our brothers and sisters, Bob, Bobbie, and Paul, who helped us to find a new "place for our stuff." We lost a house, but thanks to them, we were able to keep our home intact.

Me and my little licensed head-shrinker.

After delaying her studies for almost a year, while she was busy keeping me alive, Mrs. P finally got the chance to prepare for her LCSW, the credential that would make her a fully licensed clinical social worker. She lost weekends and nights of sleep with her head in the books. We even took DVDs with us on road trips so she could study in the car. Mrs P loves her kids and their families, and spends hours writing reports, assessments, and care plans for them. She drives hundreds of miles some weeks to visit them. All that study had to be crammed into the few cracks remaining in her regular schedule. And when the moment of truth came, she aced her exam. She's got a new title, and a new sheepskin for the wall. We have to get her new letter paper, but it's worth it.

Taz is as close to a lap dog as we're likely to get.

Our family grew in 2011. Maggie and Kizzie love our new house. They have thier own suite of rooms that we call "Cat Land." They are free to roam, lounge, and eat without canine harassment. Jake, our 10 pound puppy, turned in to a full grown Golden this year. He's a big boy now, but he can still break my heart with those brown eyes. Clare came to us from a family that should never have taken her in the first place. She runs her big brother ragged, and they frighten the neighbor children with their fierce wrangling, but we have high hopes that as she continues to grow, she may eventually develop a brain. Taz came just after Thanksgiving. He is a Blue Heeler, the smallest of our pack, but the toughest. Taz likes to yell when Jake and Clare are wrestling. We aren't sure if he's telling them to stop, or urging them to kill one another. We do know that he is sweet natured and the most athletic of all of us. He taught Clare to jump the baby gate into the Cat Land, so now we have two gates stacked on top of one another. And of course, there's Brady. He isn't our dog, but he's an honorary member of the pack. He's a thirteen-year-old Golden who spends most of time sleeping, or barking hoarsely for reasons we can never really make out. He grew up being treated like an actual dog, but in his retirement, God sent the Pennsy family to spoil him. We do our best.

With Erin. 30 years and still a beauty.

We traveled to Pennsylvania twice this fall. It was my first time home since I got sick, and I didn't realize how much I missed the forests and hills of Western PA. My 30th college reunion was full of joy and tears with old friends Jeff, Joellen, Marcia, and Erin. So was my first, live Steeler game for which I am ever grateful to my old high school classmate, Skip. He gave me a day I will never forget, and can never repay. I got to taste Mum's cooking again, to sleep in Gramma's house, to hold my sisters in my arms, and to run the dirt roads we used to walk when I was a child.

2011 was the year the doc told me I didn't have cancer any more. I resolved to live the life we had all fought so hard to save. I croaked and strangled pretty girls in No Way to Treat a Lady, my first musical in years. Played a melancholy old queen in the world premier of Stephen Metcalf's The Happy Hour. Returned to my beloved Actors' Guild in Glengarry Glen Ross, and End Days. And I got to play in the park again, with a turn as William, Lord Hastings in Richard III. I got my first gig as an acting teacher at our community college, which I loved. I'll act again in the spring, right after the marathon.

Jake and the Fat Man.

Oh yeah, that. The Fat Man is running the Pittsburgh Marathon on May 6. The reality of it hasn't quite set in, yet. I'm not sure it will until somewhere around mile 18 of the race. This time last year, I walked a mile and felt like I had won a gold medal. I ran a 3K in March, a couple of 5Ks in the Spring, then my first 10K on July 4. I got it into my head that I could finish a half-marathon, and in October, Mrs P cheered as I crossed the finish line. While I trained for that race, people contributed over $3500 to One for the Five, a project to honor fallen cancer fighters, and to raise money for the Markey Cancer Foundation. Soon, I'll be launching two more projects, one to help Actors' Guild, and one to help fund LIVESTRONG at the YMCA.

I never went to the YMCA when I was growing up. I was a Boy Scout. When I heard about a program at the Y to help cancer survivors improve their fitness, I jumped at it. I was expecting a free gym membership for three months. I got much more. The Y gave me what it has given so many people over the years: a place to exercise; a chance to meet friends; a way to discover a sense of purpose and value. I can say without shame or sentiment that I love the people I have met at  the Y. Love them so much that when my program was over, I went to the boss and asked for a job. For the first time in my life, I'm actually a little disappointed when I wake up and realize I have the day off.

What's next? I'm going to start studying to become a trainer at the Y. I'm going to run another half, and my first full marathon. I'll be playing in a production of Camus' Calligula this June. Mrs P and I are finally going to get rid of all the extra stuff we've been storing in boxes since we moved from Brooklyn. And of course, I'll be fighting any and all impulses to adopt any more animals. (On a related note, we'll be replacing the carpet in the den, as soon as Clare gives us the go-ahead.)

With some of the LS@theY team for the Reindeer Ramble.

So, in all sobriety I can say I'm the happiest Pennsy I've ever been. I love my wife more than ever. I have work that excites me. I have passion that makes me look forward to ten miles of asphalt on a chilly Bluegrass morning. I can't stop thanking God for giving me this second (or third? or fourth? or umpteenth?) chance to live.

2011? It was a very good year. 2012? Gonna be even better. Let's love it together, huh?

Peace,
Pennsy

#379: A Christmas Day Run

Nephew.. keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine. - A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens.


So here's how I kept Christmas this year:

‎32° 10.01mi/2:07:47 @ 9:15. AGL/ParkersMill Loop. Adidas Grey. 5:00 run/0:45 walk. Splits: 12:53 12:11 12:12 12:15 12:33 12:54 12:55 13:17 13:18 13:10.. Once you're off the highway, this is a beautiful course. Hills, farms, horses, South Elkhorn Creek. Perfect Christmas run.

It was still dark when the dogs woke me. I let them out and bundled up next to Mrs P for a few extra minutes. Before long, Clare started yipping and a smoke alarm started the chirp that tells you it's time to remove the battery and forget to replace it until the time changes again. I got up and fumbled with the thing for a while, then let the dogs back into the house and gave them breakfast. Put on a pot of coffee. Pulled on the running clothes I had laid out last night. Made some toast.


Even under the best circumstances, it's a bit of a chore to get Mrs P up and moving on Sunday morning. Of course, last night we were at church until late, then we came home and made our final preparations for Santa's arrival, (just in case, you know?) I was pretty confident she would be sleeping in this Christmas. The dogs returned to their naps, and I opened up mapmyrun.com to find a route for the morning. There is a road near our home I've been wanting to run, but it's pretty narrow and I worry about traffic. I figured Christmas morning was likely to be a low volume time, so I laid it out. 10 miles. Rolling hils. Country roads. Just my style.


While I was there, I did a search and checked out the route for the Pittsburgh Marathon. Man, it looks so brutal. There's a nearly 200 ft climb from mile 11 to mile 12. That's steeper than anything I've ever tried to run. I'm going to need to spend some time in the mountains this winter.


Once the sun had come out and the temperature had risen to a balmy 32°, I put on my warm-up suit and reflective vest and hit the road. The morning was just beautiful. The steely gray sky gradually warmed to clear blue as the day warmed my face. The first 3 miles are along a highway that I have driven many times. It's such a different perspective when you run. At one point, a bunny loped along ahead of me, by the side of the road. I'm not sure if he was running away, or trying to coax a tortoise into a race. We had fun for a few yards, anyway. My route took me past my beloved Actors' Guild, then turned toward farmland. This little road follows the banks of South Elkhorn Creek for a while, then climbs up toward Bluegrass Airport. Running past horse farms on a sunny morning is heavenly. Doing it on Christmas morning defies any language I can put together. I can't explain this, but when I'm running, I find the smell of horse manure in a field to be so exhilarating. It smells of earth and life and it's just so... I don't know... pure, you know? 


It got me thinking about Joseph. Poor, old, quiet Joseph. He had to walk a long way, a lot longer than I ran this morning. He had a young finance who had turned up mysteriously pregnant. He had a dream telling him he should marry her anyway. Now, he had the Romans calling him back to Bethlehem for a "census," whatever that meant. Probably more taxes. This was no way to start the winter. Then, when he finally dragged his little family into town, they couldn't find a bed. Wound up sleeping in the barn. Surrounded by animals. The smell of horse manure. I wonder if the carpenter from Nazareth took any comfort from that. Sitting there awake while his wife delivered somebody's child in the straw. Smelling the animals. Hearing their breathing and shuffling feet. And once it was all over, and Mary slept with the child on her breast. Did Joseph put his head down in the straw and look up at the stars, breathing in the earthy smells of the stable, wondering what just happened, and what it would mean for him and his bride-to-be? Before long, Joseph would be walking again, the Gospels tell us. This time, he walked all the way to Egypt while Herod hunted for the little boy hidden in swaddling clothes, riding in his mother's arms on a donkey laden with gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Myrrh. Just what a newborn needs. Maybe he could sell it when they got to Egypt to buy some tools. I wonder if Joseph had any hope in his heart, in the midst of all that confusion. He was doing his best to do the right thing, and it was turning out to be more difficult than anyone could have anticipated. He would marry the girl. He would raise the boy. He would pretend nothing was wrong, that he couldn't hear the snickers, that it didn't hurt to know his wife had been unfaithful. He did it for the sake of the child; for the sake of the woman. He did the right thing. And in a way, Joseph taught his son how to do the right thing; even when it hurt; even when it made no sense; even when it cost more than anyone could have imagined. 


I made it home just as Mrs P was wrapping the last present. She got a set of Harry Potter DVD's. I got two books on marathons by Jeff Galloway and Grete Waitz. We went out to Hunan for dinner, but didn't have the Chinese Turkey. Now, as I type, three dogs are stretched out on the floor, Clare is curled up in my chair, Kizzie is sleeping on a blanket in front of the heating vent in our bedroom, and Maggie is rolled up in a ball on our bed. Mrs P is reading. It's as perfect a Christmas as I can imagine. I hope old Joseph got to enjoy one or two in his life. That's the best part about Christmas. It's the night Hope was born.

He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms.

Peace, and Merry Christmas
Pennsy

#378: The Law of the Pack

Mom always tried to get me to write thank you notes. For reasons I cannot explain, I resisted her efforts. Wicked child. I didn't know what to say. As if "Thank You," just wasn't original enough somehow.

I've always wanted to be impressive. Umpteen years ago, this blog started under the title Pennsyltuckian.  I started blogging to share my deep insights into God, the Universe, and Everything with a world that was starving for my wisdom and eloquence. The more I wrote, the less impressed I grew with myself. The more words I typed, the more I realized how little I really had to say. The truth is, I didn't know squat about God, the Universe, or Anything. Fortunately, God's wisdom had a course of graduate studies in mind for me. I'm still not nearly as original, wise, or insightful as I want to be, but I do have a PhD in Gratitude. Here's an extract from my dissertation.

I am grateful for the Pack. I live in a world that idolizes the lone wolf, the man who can stand on his own two feet. He think for himself, takes care of his own, minds his business, and keeps his own counsel. I tried so long to be that man.

Maggie

We had cats for years. Lions live together, but most cats are lonely people. Given her 'druthers, Maggie and Kizzie would spend their whole lives curled up in a warm spot, purring quietly, contemplating the mysteries of the universe and occasionally taunting the dogs through the baby gate. Their encounters with each other can be civil and affectionate, even tender, but they always carry a tinder-box in their back pocket.  They will hop up onto the bed when the mood strikes them, but neither is much for hugging. You can love a cat with all your heart, but the cat will always her limits.

Leader of the Pack?

Dogs live in the Pack. They hunt together, sleep together, raise their pups together. The dogs in my life have shown me how to love without limits. We play in the rain. We run in the grass. They have welcomed me into their world, though I can't do a thing for them except scoop dry nasty chunks of food into a bowl a couple times a day. It's a poor substitute for the game they were created to hunt and share in the wild, but they are grateful. I love all the creatures who share my home, but I will never be "one of the cats." The dogs have taken me in as one of their own. They even let me think I'm in charge from time to time.

Humans are slow, weak creatures. Compared to our brothers and sisters in the wild, we are not fast or strong. We can't see our food or smell danger. Our claws are short and brittle, our teeth flat and dull. The one advantage a human has is a brain. We're smart. And our ancestors were smart enough to realize that the only way for us to survive was if we lived together. We learned the law of the Pack. Mrs P likes to tell me, "Everything we do is better when we do it together." As always, she is right.

"We are the Duck!"

When I lost my job, I found a group of people struggling together to make it in the world. We traveled in small groups, trying to sell insurance to people who, for the most part, didn't want to see our faces, let alone buy our products. It could have been a lonely, depressing life - and the truth is, I sucked at selling insurance - but I found a pack who cared about one another. We understood one another's struggles, and when one of us was in trouble, the rest of us were willing to come to their aid. A few succeeded in the business, most of us didn't, but all of us found strength and love in that strange, wonderful Pack.

Stolen image, but this is what crazy feels like.

When I lost my mind, Mrs P knew she couldn't pull me back to sanity by herself, and that I couldn't help myself, either. She took me to the nut house. I spent 10 days there, taking pills, walking the halls, living without shoelaces or a belt. Afterwards, I was in an outpatient program for a month. I met with shrinks and counselors and social workers and big burly types who always showed up when one of us got out of hand. Those people were great. But the most important part of my healing happened in the big room in the middle of the ward, when all the professionals were in their offices doing paperwork, and the nuts would sit together and share our stories. We were depressed housewives, battered lovers, broken-hearted soldiers, grieving orphans. We had been fired, raped, dumped on, cheated on, and born with wired crossed in our heads. Most of us knew what it was to face the choice between life and death, and many of us had tried to choose death. Some of us had days when the pain of getting out of bed was just too great. One by one, we would stop by their room, like a little den, and offer to listen. We didn't have to ask how they were doing. We knew. All we could offer was our presence. The safety of the pack. There were no miracle cures in the nut house. We all went in crippled, and we all came out limping, but we were all a little stronger for the time we had spent together.

If you've been following FMR, you know my cancer story. I'm always blabbing about it. I wonder if people get sick of hearing it. But then I think of the people who might need to hear: the people who stare at the ceiling in the dark, worrying about a cough or a lump or a spot of blood that shouldn't be there; the people waiting for the results of tests that will change their lives; the people who haven't yet decided whether to fight or give up; the ones whose hope is fading; the weary cancer fighters who feel like old lions, left behind to die; the ones who love people with cancer, who don't know how to help and don't know how to keep fighting. Most of the people who hear my story won't need to hear it, but some will. That's my job. They are my Pack.

The Strong Eight - cancer warriors

My Wife. My Mother. My sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles. The friends who call and pray. The strangers who weep and nod in recognition. The church that never gave up on me, when I gave up on it. The theatre who played on my behalf and welcomed me back when the time was right. The Head and Neck Support group who shared my whole healing journey with me, from puking and oxygen tanks to my first half-marathon. The men and women at the YMCA, some vets of the cancer wars, some simply people who loved us, who came together to sweat and laugh and cry for joy at the life we have been given. The lady at the gas station who told me she was having a great day because "I'm a ten year breast cancer survivor." The man who had just had his prostate removed and was afraid he would never make love again. A guy who won the Tour de France seven times. A woman who had just been told she had started her third relapse of ovarian cancer. The people who take the time to read FMR. They are my Pack. You are my Pack.

And so this is Christmas: The Feast of the Incarnation. Believe what you want. Celebrate how you like. In my house, we celebrate the day God turned to creation and whispered, "You are my Pack. I am one of you. We are more whole when we are together. You are the source of love in my life, and I am yours. We each have our own stories. We live our own lives. But our lives are better because we are together."

Emmanuel.

God is with us.

And we are with one another.

The Law of the Pack.

Thanks be to God.

Peace,

Pennsy

#368 I Wish I Were a Camera

If anybody ever asks me why I run, I'm going to take them for a drive down Colby Road. I would love to just post photos and videos of my run today, but my Kodak is too bulky and my phone takes very small resolution images, so I'll just have to try to put it into words.

I got a late start. I was up in plenty of time, Clare saw to that, but then I sat down with email and Twitter and Facebook and Coffee and Granola and the hour just got away from me. The drive took a lot longer than I expected. It was dark and a little foggy and by the time I arrived at 6:47, the rest of the Striders were long gone. I was relieved when two men in a car pulled up in the lot next to me. They were in running clothes, but were not part of our group. We exchanged greetings, and then went our separate ways. I turned on the little flashing lights that Mrs P bought me for night running, and started down Colby Road.

It was cool and comfortable in the dark. Maybe somewhere in the low 50s. I felt smooth and easy very soon, much sooner than usual. On the way home, I realized that this is because the first mile and a half is almost all down hill... which of course means that the last mile and a half is a heart breaker, but we'll get to that later. My breath came smoothly, three steps in, three steps out. I tried to stay slow, and thought I did a pretty good job. It wasn't until I got home and uploaded my run to Nike+ that I saw just how fast I had started out.

I could see nothing but trees and fence as I ran along. Occasionally a car came toward me. I tried to stay out in the lane long enough for the driver to see my jangling lights, then eased over to the side. There isn't much of a shoulder on most Bluegrass country roads. Usually there's just a ditch. I did not want to go exploring down there in the pitch black, 15 miles from home. The drivers all saw me in plenty of time and gave me a wide berth. They must have thought I was nuts. I suppose I am. Somewhere during mile 3, a magenta glow started to rise from the horizon ahead of me. Each time I came out of woods or to the crest of a hill, I could see the light growing as I continued east. "It looks like a promise," I thought as the sounds of animals waking up started around me. A lone cow lowed in a pasture. Some chickens stirred and a rooster did his rooster gig. Once or twice, a farm dog barked, checking me out, but not chasing as I jogged harmlessly past the gate.

Near mile 4, I looked ahead and saw a daunting climb. Three hills of increasing size rose before me like a roller-coaster. I remembered a mantra Jeff Galloway had mentioned in a podcast, and started repeating it softly to my self as I breathed out. "I love hills. I love hills." One step at a time, I found a way to enjoy every inch of them. Just before the crest of the last hill, around mile 5.25, I looked up and saw that the road was glowing gold. The sky was light by now, but I had not seen the sun yet. I could tell from the aura between the grassy banks on either side of the asphalt that I was about to see old Sol in all his glory. And glorious he was. I usually slow down a little to rest after a big climb, but now I was drawn toward the fiery warmth of the sun over the fields. Tucked into a little hollow at the top of the ridge stood a lovely church: High Point Apostolic. A perfect name, but an even more perfect message on the road sign out front. "When all my Strength is gone/ and I have no more Hope for tomorrow/ Lead me to the Rock." I laughed out loud as I spoke the words to myself. I wondered if the preacher could have known that a Fat Man would come running by on a 16 mile trek in the Saturday dawn. "Lead me to the Rock." I breathed. I remembered the days when my strength was gone. When hope felt more like wishful thinking than reality. I remembered the rocks God sent me then. My friends. My Mum. Mrs P. The theatre. When there was no way for me to get my little boat back to harbor safely on my own, God lead me to the Rock. And now he was doing it again. Right up and down the hills of Colby road.

Just past mile 6, I came to a big road. "Man! Am I in Winchester?" I didn't want to cross all those lanes of traffic, so I took a right turn along the shoulder and saw that yes, I had in fact run all the way to the next city. In my mind, I knew that it was only six miles from the starting point which was way out in the middle of nowhere, but I felt like a real marathoner for a while. There was a lot more traffic on the bypass. No more pastoral scenery. This was "Mall Land." Lowes. Walmart. Kroger. Rite Aid. Golden Corral. All the big boxes that are exactly the same wherever you go. You could have dropped me down on this road with a blindfold, and when I took it off, I couldn't have even told you what state I was in. So different from the distinctly Bluegrass pastures and farms I had just travelled through. I followed the highway as the cars zoomed by until my watch told me I had run 8 miles, then I turned around. I was eager to get back to the country.

I don't really remember much about the return trip. Only that I recognized very little of what I saw. One advantage of starting an out-and-back route in the dark is that everything looks new on the way back. I heard geese honking at each other. An Australian Shepherd woofed a warning when I ran past the goats who were safely behind the board fence and under their little black and white defender's care. Once a yippy little black dog of some kind actually ran out to the road and escorted me to the property line. I had my water bottle open and ready to squirt the little guy, but I was laughing so hard that I don't expect my aim would have been very good.

Climbing a very long hill, I looked down at my watch. 13.1 miles. I had just completed the distance of a half marathon. The last three miles were going to be gravy. I had two thoughts at almost the same time. First: I can absolutely finish this half in two weeks. Second: A full marathon, 26.2 miles, is a very, very long way. But then I remember when 5K was a long way. I remember when crossing the street was a long way. There's no telling how far we can run when we keep moving our feet.

I expected my energy to crash around mile 14. That was my previous long run, and that's how my conditioning has worked so far. When I extend past my longest run, the extra miles are hard and heavy-legged. That didn't happen today. Not even when I realized that I was going to have to climb most of the last mile. I kept remembering Melissa's motto from our training at the Y. "I don't quit when I'm tired. I quit when I'm done." So that's what I did. I ran to the end. 16.03 miles, just to be sure. I don't know when I've ever felt better.

The parking lot was empty, now. My lonely little Honda sat in the sunshine with a cool bottle of water and a soft, comfy seat waiting for me. I drove back to Lexington and stopped at Speedway for a bottle of chocolate milk and some Gatorade. Amazing, how fast you can chug a quart of chocolate milk when you put your mind to it. It was delicious. Then it was home to Mrs P, the dogs, and our friend Linda who spent the night here. I had some coffee and put this in my log.

55-65 degrees. 16.04mi/3:23:31 @ 6:50 AM. Colby Road. Red Pegasus. Intervals 5:00 run/0:30 walk. Splits: 11:54, 11:47,12:16, 12:04, 12:12, 12:20, 12:25, 12:22, 13:13, 13:00, 12:37, 13:08, 13:20, 13:22, 13:26, 13:33.

Now that I look at them, I can't help but marvel at how little of the story numbers can tell. This was a great run for me, in a lot of ways. But most of what made it great are things that you can't measure on a map. Life can be so fantastic when you put one foot in front of the other.


I just wish I could show you. I wish I were a camera.


Peace,
Pennsy

#360: Sabbath Run: Eyes Up, Chest Up

72 Degrees. 3.49mi/40:19. 8:17 AM.  Pegasus. Intervals: 1:00/mile. Splits:11:35, 11:34, 11:20. 62% humidity.

Diffused dawn glows in the bedroom curtains,
Squinting, I check the clock,
7 AM,
Late,
I am alone.

In the peaceful kitchen, she washes the dishes,
Sunday morning coffee brewing by the stove,
The fragrance wraps my face in its hands, and kisses me good morning.

Shorts, socks, shoes, shirt,
The full armor
Harder to skip the run once you're dressed for it.

I pad out to the kitchen,
Eyes up, chest up,
Drawn by the aroma of freshly ground beans,
And the promise of a good morning kiss.

French roast, granola, yogurt, blackberries,
Breaking the fast on a Sabbath morning,
Smiling silently from across the room as she reads the news,
And the dogs play tug of war on the couch.

Bowl empty,
Cup empty,
One more kiss for luck, and out the door.

The air is cool,
Cooler than it has been for many days,
But thick, somehow,
The damp seems to press against me as I walk through it,
Resisting me like a swimmer,
Just enough to remind me that it's there.

Jog a little, walk a little
The joints lubricating themselves
The blood flowing to the big muscles,
The butt, the thighs,
My ankles swing free and start to run,
The Papillons on the corner yap through the fence at me as I start my wrist watch,

And suddenly,

I've got all the time in the world.

An elderly walker smiles as we pass,
Exchanging proud good mornings,
All those drawn curtains are sleepy folks,
Missing this steely, sweaty morning.

The hills rise and fall quietly here,
Easy climbs up, gentle rolls down,
Rhythm of the land. rhythm of the feet.
Music of breath draws me forward into the morning.

Slowly, slowly,
All the first mile, I'm still getting warm,
Landing softly on the foot,
Swinging the arm smooth, fingers lightly furled,
Eyes up, chest up,
Like a winter engine pumping cold oil over shafts and valves,
Coming slowly to life,
Slowly, slowly.

A handful of golden leaves crunch underfoot,
The promise of Autumn,
On a late summer morning,
A sound I haven't heard before,
One I'll be hearing differently from now on.

From behind, a young runner in blue breezes past on the grass,
Unusual,
He does not greet me as he glides by,
His mind elsewhere,
The soles of his shoes wink at me till he crests the hill,
And is gone,
Untempted, I hold my pace.

Further along, a slower runner trudges around the corner and slips in ahead of me,
He is working hard, much harder than the boy in blue,
He hears me crunching behind him, and turns his shoulders to see who is following,
Just an old Fat Man,
Shamed, he presses his tempo and slowly floats away during my next walk break.

A handsome couple greets me as I move from sidewalk to street,
She smiles sweetly, he hails me loudly,
Half cheery neighbor welcoming the day,
Half old lion warning off a stranger,
His pride is safe from me this morning,
I "Good Morning" them and return to the sound of my run.

One last walk break, then the press for home,
Ignoring the young men with their tireless legs,
Ignoring time, distance, and pace
I race against myself, a Fat Man running for his life,
Picking up the tempo as the familiar hills and curves start to roll toward home.

No need for the numbers on my wrist,
My heart beats out the minutes,
My legs are the pendulum,
Tick-tocking the seconds to that tree, the next hydrant, another block;
Faster, faster, holding my form,
Eyes up, chest up,
Skipping across the asphalt like a flat rock on a calm lake,
Breath, two, three, Breath, Step, Breathe, two, three, Breathe, Step,
The rhythm of the morning, the music of the run,

Around a corner,
Breathing hard,
One more light post,
One more driveway,
Don't quit yet,
One more hill.

At the crosswalk, I stop my watch.
Shirt soaked,
Shorts sticking,
I squeeze the sweat out of my headband,
Into a warm, salty puddle on the concrete.

Walk it out, cool it down, check the time,
Not bad.
Not a bad way to start a holy day.
Not a bad way to remember the Sabbath.

The dogs greet me at the gate,
Inside, she is just coming out of the bathroom,
Soft and clean, I blow her a sweaty kiss,
She towels off to dress for church,
As I hang my clothes on the porch to dry.

Later, after the sermon, we exchange Peace,
Kissing softly, leaving me the taste of her lipstick,
I turn to Christus Rex,
Hanging above me in his crown,
No more nails, just royal robes and a gentle smile,
Eyes up, chest up,

Peace,

Pennsy

With thanks to Antonio Brown @antoniobrown84

#351: A Dawn Run for a New Day

No seriously, RIGHT NOW!

Since Clare woke me up at 4:30 with her "I need to pee RIGHT NOW!" whine, it was easy for me to get out for a cool morning run. First I checked my email, and learned that an article I submitted has been published on Viewshound, a site that accepts contributions from writers and bloggers all over the world. It's a post that regular readers of FMR have probably already seen, but it was cool to get validation from strangers. You know how I love applause.

I hit the street just before 7:00. Today is a speed day on my training schedule. I've arranged my program based on three runs a week: an easy run at the beginning of the week; a short, hard run on Thursday or Friday; and a long, slow run on Saturday or Sunday. That long run increases gradually over the course of my training period, leading up to the half-marathon in October. It's an easy schedule, not exactly designed to win any gold medals, but based on Jeff Galloway's program and intended to get me from here to the finish line without getting hurt on the way.

I checked Swackett to see how the weather was doing. The air was a clear 65 degrees as I stepped out of the driveway. After days of brutal, humid heat, it felt amazing to be breathing air that was cooler and dryer than my own body. I did my usual warm-up, which is a walk around the block, gradually mixing in a few strides of running until I am jogging back past the front of our house. I pressed my tempo right from the start. I would like to break a 10:00 mile this month, and I wanted to find out what that kind of speed feels like. I didn't get all the way down to 10:00, but I did run both miles at the same 10:26 pace: fastest ever for me. Since I knew I'd be tiring quickly, I cut my Run/Walk ratio in half, running 5:00 and walking 0:30.

It wasn't long before my mind was clear and my attention focused fully on my breath and footfalls. As I finished, I realized that I really didn't remember much about the run. My thoughts were all about maintaining my rhythm, pressing back up to tempo when I slowed down. I came home after this short, hard run feeling energized and ready to start the day. After a long one, I usually want to take a nap. This morning, I'm ready to take on the world.

On the home front, we are finally, really out of the old house. I went over yesterday morning and scrubbed the floors. The place is not exactly pristine, not by a long shot, but it's ready for the new folks to come in and start making it their own. We had a lot of troubles and a lot of joyful times in that house. I hope we left a little love behind for the young couple who will sign the papers today. I always called that house "MarthaPark" because of all the trees. I've named our new home "SummerShade," in honor of the little town in western Kentucky where Mrs P grew up. Here's her post about our move. It sums up our feelings well.

We have lots of big plans for the rest of the summer. A race to train for, a couple of trips to plan, a play to rehearse and open, and of course many, many musty boxes to sort. We'll thrown away most of it, sell some, and keep what we need or want. It's a liberating project. And I'm really looking forward to getting all those cartons out of here so I can have my garage/porch/carport back. (Lurkers contemplating a burglary run... save yourself a trip. It's all junk. I'd throw the whole mess away if Mrs. P would let me.)

Today feels like turning a corner. Closing the sale of the house is a milestone we have been looking forward to for a long time. I'm sure we both doubted it would really come. Now that it's here, we can move on to "the next big thing," whatever that turns out to be.

And I know I'll be ready for it. Heck, I've already got my run in today.

Peace,
Pennsy

#327: Strangers in the House

This turned out to be a little more mopey than I intended. Feel free to pass it over and I'll write about my long run tomorrow.

Winter in Martha Park

Mrs P is writing a report and I am under strict instructions not to disturb her, so I'm just going to meditate with you for a while.

I've mentioned before that we are losing our house. In order to avoid foreclosure, we are pursuing what is called a "short sale" where you sell the house for whatever you can get, then the bank decides whether or not to forgive the rest of your loan. At least that's how I understand it. Mrs P initiated the process while I was still very sick, so I'm a little foggy on the details. What I know for sure is that strangers are spending a lot of time in my house.

 OK, look. We are lousy housekeepers. Always have been. Mrs P an I both come from families of pack-rats. We've even inherited a lot of their stuff to supplement the junk we have collected over the past 24 years. Are we hoarders? I don't think so, but I can't watch that show on TV. It hits just a little too close to home.

Molly teaching Jake where to pee
in the dining room

Point is, it's embarrassing to have friends wander through our house. Having strangers do it... it's agony. I drive the realtor crazy. She calls to say she has someone to come see the house, and I hem and haw and mumble. I finally just asked her to talk to Mrs P. It's less stressful for me for some reason.

Baby Jake (rug cleaner in the background)

We've had some lovely people come through. Young couples looking for a "starter home," whatever the heck that is. Professional house flippers looking to make a quick profit, (good luck, fellas.) Families looking for an inexpensive place to live.

Yeah. Inexpensive. In 1998, we paid $71,000 for our home. We're trying to sell it for $56K. Less than half the balance on the mortgage. The Great Recession can get a little depressing, sometimes.

Usually, when they come, I take the dogs and go out back on the porch until they leave. That way I can imagine them judging us without having to actually see them turning up their noses at all the retriever hair and cat litter. And books. And tools. And shoes. And... you get the point. Today, I had chores to do, laundry to wash, socks to sort. I was not inclined to go hide while the house shoppers prowled around wondering why there were running shorts and brassieres hanging from half of our doorknobs. So we got a chance to chat.

The garage has some
structural issues

"What's the neighborhood like?" Great. Great neighbors. Generous people. A mix of ages, races, national origins. A diverse neighborhood,  Kind of a rarity in our city. "What are the problems with the house?" Well, there's that big hole in the wall where I passed out while peeing in the middle of the night last summer. There's the siding that blew off in a windstorm. There's the garage that should have been demolished when we bought the house, and is now a clear and present danger to the cats, coons, and possums who have taken up residence in there. "Why are you selling?" That's my favorite. I always want to tell them that it's haunted. You know, by the guy who hanged himself in the basement. But I don't have the courage. So I give them the thumbnail version. Laid off, savings gone, cancer, can't pay the loan, bank won't help, blah, blah, blah. All I need is violin music. I was folding Mrs P's underwear during both of these visits, so the pathos was just that much thicker.

NO! Not the
Get Well  Troll!

I noticed that the salesmen didn't seem to appreciate my contribution all that much. They were all "You could add this," and "all it needs is a little what have you." What it needs is a family who loves it as much as we did. That's what it needs.

Buddy enjoying Christmas
dinner while the humans
ate in the living room

Fifteen years isn't all that long, not really. Neither is 24, in the great river of time. But for Mrs P and me, it's a lifetime. I always used to marvel when people had to pack up their houses after decades, only to move into a room in a retirement home. We aren't that bad off, but we are having to let go of a lot of memories. Some are silly, like old show tee-shirts. Some are very hard like the vanity Mrs P's mother refinished for her, or the journals I have kept for every role I've played since college. Even the old, unused litter boxes are reminders of the many cats we have loved and lost over the years. There is no reason to keep them, in fact, it's kind of gross, but seeing them stacked in the corner reminds us of them and putting them on the curb feels like throwing away memories.

Kizzie trying to set
her bed on fire

In college, I read a short story by Stanley Elkin called I Look Out for Ed Wolfe. It's about a collections agent who gets fired for bullying people. He loses himself. He decides to sell or pawn everything he owns in order to find out just what his life is worth. It turns out to be about $1400 dollars. The realization causes a kind of psychotic break or break down or something. I don't remember the details. It's been a long time. All I know is that he winds up in a bar in Harlem screaming racial epithets and throwing all that cash up in the air for the patrons to have.I got the impression that he was committing suicide.

The ramp our brother-in-law built
 for Molly when she couldn't
climb the steps anymore.

If Mrs P and I tried to sell or pawn all of our stuff, it wouldn't be worth much. The books are musty. The records are ancient. The clothes are worn. The furniture is scratched or chewed or broken. The strangers who come through these rooms must think we live in a dump.

Mum quilting in the bedroom

But this is our home. These are our memories. This is the place where we learned to be husband and wife instead of married room mates. Where Mum came when I was diagnosed and stayed till my treatments were over. This is where we taught dogs to poop outside and nursed sick animals and played Scrabble with friends and spit in death's eye. I want them to know all that, these strangers. There is love in this house. Love that will haunt it like a ghost, long after we are gone. At least, I hope so. Look past the dust and the animal hair and stacks of boxes, and that's what you will find. This dumpy little shack is a house of love. But I don't think the realtor wants me to tell them all that, either. They just want us to pack up and get out so their clients won't have to listen to my sad stories any more.

Just pack it all up and go. It sound easy. But it's not.

Peace,
Pennsy