I was asked to write an 1100 word max (uh-oh already) article for a local publication. Topic? Running.
As luck would have it, I know a little about both of these things - writing and running, namely because I think I used to enjoy them. Even more importantly, I used to
do them. Cheers to Amelia Earhart for saying it best with such accuracy and brevity:
"The most effective way to do it, is to do it."
(Nike, please put the check in the mail to her descendants.)
So, I ran an ugly 10-miles this morning, came home, showered off the paradox of disappointing and encouraging disgust, and just finished reading some of my former writing material. Nothing bypasses questionable self-talk faster than actionable proof. While it may not be up to Pulitzer qualifying standards yet, I was at least successful in finding several pieces which never made it to this blog, as well as the first chapter of a maybe-might-be-published someday memoir.
In an effort to
just do it, I am sharing some of those findings below and will continue to write - both here and elsewhere. Oh, and I just signed up for a marathon 6 months from now to see if I can tackle at least one kind of qualifying standard...
Here's hoping Amelia isn't the only one who could fly.
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I used to author "Beth's Top Ten Lists" for my former running partner. Letterman-esque in fashion, they covered work, family, and life topics. I stumbled upon this one which I put together in an effort to start running together again and training for a race after a way too long hiatus.
Beth’s Top Ten List for Reasons Why an Easy-Peasy Run Makes
Total Sense
10. We are
runners. Well, at least one of us is and
if we equate running on the greenway with running for president, halfway
capable seems largely appealing.
9. We have little lives,
nothing else to do, and all the free time in the world. It’s not like either of us has ever won the
Nobel or Pulitzer Prize.
8. We are vegan. Well, one of us is and the other one would
like to make fun of that. In person – as
he runs out of sustenance. Like so much
maize – which you’ll remember, means corn.
7. Help us, Brian
Kopack! Help us! We need to remember how to run together! And your training plans worked magic for all
of us the first time. Boston was a-MAY-zing.
6. We have endurance. Well, yours has no doubt decreased. But neither have you had to endure any menial
stir stick stories for a while. So, when
those are reinstituted, you’ll pretend to listen by saying “what, what” like
you’re Puff Daddy laying down background vocals on a new track.
5. We have personal
trainers. Though I’m still not sure what
that means. Or what we’re training for,
really.
4. Substitute running
partners have placed gifts in my mailbox, said
“good job,” told me to “have a great day!” and given me Hallmark cards on
recurring intervals, including Kwanzaa.
In retrospect it’s only your lack of effort that made you a total
running stand out.
3. There have been
times when I’ve been so miserable running without you that it was almost like
having you there.
2. I can tell you are
still a crap lawyer by the mere fact that this has somehow turned into my idea.
1. You see, this hobby is filled to the brim
with unrealistic MFr’s. MFr’s who
thought their ass would age like wine.
If that means it turns to vinegar, it does. If it means it or the running gets better, it
don’t.
(We are not gettin’ any younger, dude. Let’s go already.)
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Found this written 3+ years ago, but was afraid to post for fear my Mom would stumble upon it out there in, you know, "that iDevice internet cyber web thing." Writer's license taken; no offense to my mother intended. I adore her and have no desire to have her baked goods withheld from my diet - even during training.
It's Monday morning. Which means if I don't call my little sister by 7:45am,
she will call me. The conversation will commence as it always does, with her
stating that
my Mother is driving her nuts (and yes - even though for the last
36 years I've been telling her she was adopted, we have the same parents). I
indulge her with my ensuing inquisition and we laugh together. She lives just
under 4 hours away, and I miss her.
There were many, many years when I did not miss her in the least. I suppose
for the first 17 years of my life that was because she was right there next to
me, growing up with me, annoying me, watching me, sharing life with me. But
when I went off to college there was an immediate void. Not so much mind you,
that when she came for a visit I stayed with her in my dorm room the entire
party-infused night instead of hanging out with Andrew McGinnis down the hall.
Whew. Andy.
I was happy to have her again by my side at Ohio State, sharing that new season of life
with me. Without question,
that night was far more fun than the night, years
prior, she and I had found ourselves in a heated argument inside our parent's
bedroom. While we don't look much alike, we were like Siamese twins when it
came to the loud, nasty mouth gene pool. Apparently, or at least how the story goes, I won said heated argument
and my prize was a horse-like brush being hurled through the air at me. However, thankfully my award was not bestowed with enough
speed that I didn't have time to hit the deck and watch as it lodged itself into my
parent's bathroom door. As I wished her good luck, part of me actually wanted
to help the little squirt. Instead, the prideful big sister part of me walked away, smugly pretending I
was going to be handed yet another prize as I walked through the one remaining
unscathed door in annoying silence.
Today, the post-it note which she carefully placed over the hole in the bathroom
door resides in my closet, right next to the Strawberry Shortcake plaque she gave me for Christmas when she was seven and I was ten. It reads: "Dear Mom and Dad, I am sorry about
your door, but number one you should have gone with solid oak and number two,
Beth moved out of the way in time. Please don't be mad since we're not mad at
each other anymore either. Love, Sarah."
Not mad at each other is an understatement, as love her I do - as we continue to share this beautiful life and all the crazy
stories together. Especially the ones about her Mom.
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I think they call this "realistic fiction." Otherwise known as "story of my life, you can't make it up."
Her mother had taught her many things, namely, that “one day
when you become a mother you’ll understand.”
How right she was, not that Mary-Kate – MK to her friends –
would ever admit it. She loathed
admitting anyone knew more than she did, let alone her own mother.
But that was when she was a typical teenager. Twenty-five years plus later and about to
send her only child off to college, she finally understands. And, as luck would have it for her friends,
only pretends she still hates it when they know more than she does.
MK’s Mom, Ellen, was born and raised in a generation where
“things” were not discussed; rather, grace and class were demonstrated by what
you did not say. Restraint apparently took more strength than
throwing a right hook or jabbing at an offender with cutting words. Yet, mess with her kids and the gloves were
off.
“Hi, Mom,” MK squeaked out.
“Are you sneezing or crying?” her mother responded over a
cell connection and hundreds of miles.
“I can’t take this.
Why does she have to leave?” MK rhetorically pleaded. “I teach college
classes on the side, you know I could totally have homeschooled her.”
“You’ve done your job,” MK’s mother said matter-of-factly of
her oldest granddaughter. “This will be
tough, but you will both get through it and your relationship will be even
better.”
Ellen was always the optimist. While you wouldn’t want to catch her on one
of the few non-sunny days, she was never without positive reinforcement,
especially on the mothering front.
Once recently, she told her still-learning-to-show-restraint-with-her-words
daughter that they (Ellen and MK’s Dad - because ‘they’ have always been
“they”) were at a get together a few weekends ago with two of their long-time
couple friends. Everything was going
swimmingly and per usual - lots of food, lots of conversation presumably about
their grown kids who would always be “kids,” and lots of happy in the hour(s).
“She’ll be fine, she always is,” Ellen told the other women
as they asked about MK and her empty nest.
Of course the better question would have been asking about how much MK
loves stereotypes and clichés, but nothing kills alcohol flow like generational
disparity.
The three men began laughing over stories about their
respective jobs, mostly surrounding labor relations. Joey, the husband of one of the couple
friends, owns his own company where, ahem, not all of the employees have cards
of the green variety; however, his job in a prior life was the topic of the
evening’s discussion.
“I may have been a collector of sorts,” Joey began. “You know, of things which certain suspect
people living in the outskirts of Philly could not necessarily afford
initially, or pay back in a timely manner when people like me told them face-to
face-ish that the bank also knows they cannot cough up anything other than
nicotine phlegm.”
Joey’s wife, Carolyn, cringed. She was a debutante back in the day. MK’s Mom did not belong to the Carolyn Coiffed
Fan Club.
“Oh, Joe…” she said in her best I love the little people
voice.
“What about that bothers you, Carolyn?” Ellen asked, poker face
intact.
Ellen had a way of dealing with her dislike of certain
people which subdued not only the offenders real-time, but also her propensity
of wanting to choke them out subsequently causing a scene absent of grace and
class.
“It’s just…it’s just that I wasn’t allowed to date ‘those
kind’ of people that Joe had to deal with when I was growing up.” “Didn’t your parents tell you that you
couldn’t date anyone that didn’t, you know, measure up?”
Ellen also had a way of dealing with anyone who was
intolerant of the entire human race.
“No. My parents liked
people for who they were and how they made you feel based solely upon how they
treated you. It was a pretty simple
methodology that they employed, actually,” she responded, again miraculously
without tone or eye rolls.
“Well,” Carolyn went on obliviously. “Even worse than those people, my parents said, were Italians. I could NEVER date those kind.”
“Now that I think about it, my parents forbade me to date
stupid people,” Ellen said without hesitation, grace, class, or apology.
They shared a look and
a grin that only they understood after all these years.
Comfortingly, MK comes from a long line of hot-tempered
Italians and Irishmen alike, all of whom adore family even more than they do
homemade pasta, Jameson’s, or putting idiots in their place.
And she knew now just as she always had, that in the midst
of generational “things” and life changing seasons, she would always have these
kind of precious exchanges and memories – both old and new.
-------------------------------
I've been writing these kind of poems and gifting them to family and friends to mark milestones for as long as I can remember.
I’ve loved
you since before I met you, all 37 weeks of feeling you move,
And when
you arrived on February 23rd the absolute thing it did prove;
That it
was not possible to love anything or anyone more than this beautiful little
being,
I could
not fully believe or understand the joy I was holding and seeing;
Through
sleepless nights, nervous days, and uncertainty as a new mother,
I didn’t
know much about what to do, but I knew there was no other;
No other
place I’d rather have been, hugging you, rocking you, watching you breathe and
grow,
And today,
no longer a baby, but today I do know;
That you
are an amazing human being, filled with kindness and compassion and love,
Sent to
this earth, our family, your friends as a precious gift from above;
From your
first words, to your first walk, to your first hurt, I remember it all so
clearly,
Sixteen
years later you are still, and shall always be – loved so dearly.
I miss my girl. And I have missed writing. Time to take another run at it.
...1100 words and a 3:39:59 marathon, here I come.
