Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Darth Vader

It's evidence of something -- whether of progress, injustice or surrender, I'm not sure.  It required epic strength to resist as long as we did.

We made it all the way to age 7 before our eldest son was allowed to watch the Star Wars movies. Duncan owes his deprivation to four people:  A pre-school classmate he barely remembers whose sadistic play habits and obsession with Darth Vader at age 3 thoroughly freaked me out; a benevolent older cousin, who recalled his own childhood nightmares about Darth Vader and cautioned us to wait; and his rookie parents.

Given the logistical impossibility of separation, Duncan's brothers suffered or enjoyed no such protections.  They watched Star Wars at ages 4 and 2.  So much for the Resistance.

I wax wistful and amused at my lost parental innocence.  Star Wars is gentle stuff by comparison to what came after those floodgates were opened... The boys have now seen the first 4 Harry Potters, The Avengers, The Hobbit, Home Alone (all 4), and are about to complete the Lord of the Rings trilogy, among others I've lost track of.  They laugh at the breakfast table about how "Kevin shot the bad guy in the wiener with the staple gun!"  They re-enact the battle of Helms Deep with their Legos, or on each other, arguing over the best way to kill an Orc.  Tucker brings the Lord of the Rings DVD cases to Junior Nursery for show-and-tell, introducing his 3-year old classmates the "Ohtches" (Orcs) and the Evil Eye of Saran.  Now it's my kid who freaks out the new parents.

The tragic deaths in Connecticut last month have prompted soul-searching and finger-pointing about the origins of evil in our culture.  A snippet on NPR this week had NRA leaders pointing fingers at video game executives and Hollywood lawyers who pointed fingers at the Bible for justification of our eternal fascination with violence and the unprovable link between our fantasy lives and violent behavior.  Like all parents, I can't think about Sandy Hook without imagining myself in the position of those parents, my children in their classrooms.  It's unbearable to ponder.  But even more unbearable is the thought that something could go so wrong in our parenting, or in our health care system, or in our culture, that one of my kids could grow up to inflict such harm.  Against the real potential for such horrific behavior, how do we responsibly grapple with the dark content of our fiction?

At this point, I don't actually worry about my sons taking a seriously evil turn.  I witness their kindness, sharing and comforting each other without adult enforcement.  Their moral reasoning grows day by day, rooted in an instinct for justice.  While we are far from out of the woods (a grabbed toy can still elicit retaliation in the form of near strangulation), I believe they are "good boys," not because they are compliant, but because I can see them reaching for good within themselves.  And one of the guys I thank most for helping them on their quest is Darth Vader.

It's not easy to find our way through the raging impulses that compose human existence.  Whether snatching the last brownie or smashing brother's Lego Temple of Light, there are so many ways, petty or grand, to do harm. But Darth Vader began an unending conversation in our house...  Why did Anakin turn to the dark side?  Where does anger come from?  Why was he so sad?  Why did he want to hurt people?  Why does he change back to the good at the end?  And (shocking realization), can kids actually teach their parents how to turn into better people?   The better we know Darth Vader, the more we love him.  Luke showed us that the only way to be rid of the mask was to love the guy behind it.  To seek his destruction only makes him stronger, by turning us into him.  

Without Darth, we wouldn't have been ready for Gollum.  Starting with making sense of names.  We get that Anakin became Darth, so we can kind of get how Smeagol becomes Gollum.  The road to redemption starts when someone (Luke, Froddo) comes along who reminds them of their former names, their better selves.  But Gollum's journey is much more slippery.  His evil is less mythically pronounced.  He is no fascist, orchestrating empires of tyranny; Gollum's is more the petty destruction of an addict, but with consequences no less lethal for those who get in his way.  His unreliability makes him scarier.

My son Reeve has long been one to embody the characters of his imagination fully (see http://ricketyladder.blogspot.com/2009/10/my-run-as-mermaid.html and http://ricketyladder.blogspot.com/2011/06/super-reeve.html).  What would he do with Gollum?  Before we even got home from The Hobbit (opening weekend, in 3-D no less, that's how far things have gone here), Reeve was twisting a popcorn butter-stained napkin into a ring and testing it on his finger for invisibility.  At home under the couch, Reeve found Harpo's "bagel," a circular rawhide chew toy that was the dog's Hanukkah gift.   Bagel no more... Like its cinematic inspiration, this unearthed "precious" provoked murderous thoughts as 3-year old little brother discovered its mysterious allure and determined he would have it, at any cost.  A rawhide chew toy to the head can do some real damage.  A teachable moment, as they say.

As we make our way through the 3 Lord of the Rings, following Reeve's own post-Hobbit ring misadventures, Reeve asks anxiously and repeatedly, "Is Froddo going to turn evil?'' ... (minutes later) "Is he turning evil now, Mommy?"  "Is he going to be evil at the end?" He doesn't ask why Saran is evil; somehow he gets that the "eye" is an icon of potential, not a real character.  The danger lies in what power it holds over us.   More than death, it is evil that preoccupies Reeve, who seems to get that even death can be accepted as long as you "turn good" in time.

And as Froddo resists the power of the ring better than Smeagol, new questions arise.  Watching me type just now Reeve asked, "But Mommy, it doesn't make any sense.  If Saran made the ring and it's evil, then how does it turn people not to any side?" Which led to a discussion of the meaning of power ("The Ring of Power, one ring to rule them all"), what people do with it for good or ill, how it works over time, whether regular people have more or less power than kings, children or parents, and how a lowly Hobbit could possible go up against Saran.

Don't get me wrong... Reeve loves the fighting, and the unredeemable Orcs justify mass killing without disquieting conscience.  He has adopted Legolas, the archer, as his new persona (instructions for building a quiver for Fresh Direct boxes available on request).  Watch out -- he takes aim at anyone and anything with the bow and arrow he did chores to earn.  But at age 5, Reeve is reckoning with our vulnerability to our desires for pretty and powerful things.  He is pondering what kind of strength Froddo needs to survive his journey into the fires of Mordor, knowing what happened when Anakin submitted to the volcanic fires and wanting desperately for Froddo to forge a different destiny.  He is sorting out Gollum's perplexing multiplicity.

Thanks, Darth.

  

Enter Harpo

He's my first online guy.  Blond, muscular, handsome features,  a little bad boy in him but mostly sweet, 4 and a half.  (or 32, in people years).  His name is Harpo.

It's been over a year since Wiley died.  The (human) boys have been begging for a dog for months.  We put it off.  Winter.  Tucker.  Australia.  Jordy and I wanted one too, but were we up to another critter to care for?  We had to admit, our pet-less year had provided certain freedoms in our otherwise constrained lives of present.  But Jordy was back from Australia and our excuses had run out.

I looked at shelter websites all over the New York area but found Harpo just down the hill at the Sean Casey Animal Rescue Center.  He was my top pick, based on looks and profile.  I'm a sucker for that tilted-head, goofy look on a guy.  He was old enough to be past puppy issues; young enough to be unlikely to die in the next 3-5 years.

I resolved to meet him on my own before introducing the rest of my guys, not wanting to encourage premature attachments.  My entrance to the dog unit set off a cacophony -- frantic dogs barking, wildly leaping from side to side in their cages.  In the far corner one dog lay quietly, not a whimper or a wiggle.  He just looked up, tilted-head, goofy but also sad get-me-outta-here eyes.

The next day all five of us took him for a walk.  Tucker howled with frustration when we wouldn't let him hold the leash by himself.  (He wasn't receptive to the he-weighs-60-pounds, you-weigh-28 argument.)  Everyone but Reeve wanted him instantly.  What do you think, Reeve?  "His eyes are too worried, like Wiley's."  But finally Reeve came around, concluding after much thought that dogs must just have worried eyes, and maybe he wouldn't be so worried if he came to live with us.

***

Harpo is uncannily Wiley-like in many ways, just dipped in yellow.  His build, the flop of the ears when he trots.  When it comes to dogs, I guess I have a type.  So he surprises me when he's not Wiley, for better -- no interest in trash, not even candy! -- or worse --biting through the no-pull harness, pacing at 5:45am needing to relieve himself, then howling with excitement when you reach for the leash (three boys untimely ripped from slumber = not pretty), enjoying 45, 50, 60 minute walks with no action, then pooping in the living room as soon as we're home, etc.

We thought Wiley was a handful, but we never really taught him to poop on walks -- he just did it.  What do we do now?  We didn't teach him not to eat through his harness -- he just didn't.   But lest we forget, the first 18 months of Wiley's residence with us was no walk in the park.  He bit an old man.  He ate every sweater I had.  He whizzed all over the house the first day.  He'd bolt when we needed to leave the house.  We had to partition the house to resolve the cat/dog turf war, turning the bedroom into a restricted West Bank for our depressed cats.  Somehow by the time Duncan arrived, it all worked out.  No whizzing, no chewing, no partitions.

So who is this guy?  What now?  What will our story be?

Our neighbors are none too excited about Harpo's arrival; he is suffering the unfair burden of a disputed history over appropriate uses of a back yard.   Even the best-intentioned friends say, "Just what you needed!  As if you didn't have your hands full enough with three little boys."

But when I doubt the sanity of taking an animal into our home, I watch Tucker curl up next to Harpo, stroking his head and saying his name again and again like an incantation of love... "Hahpo! Hahpo! Hahpo! Hahpo!" and (all 27 inches of) Tucker carrying Harpo's dog dish ever so carefully to give him dinner.  I remember how Duncan begs for Harpo to escort him to the bus and how he looks for Harpo from the bus in the afternoon.  I love the scratch of his nails on the wood floor, the sigh when he settles onto Wiley's old dog bed for the night (and he's a great sleeper), and the fact that I have someone to give the tasty chicken drippings to again on Shabbat while Wiley looks down from heaven, dripping envious drool.

The first night Harpo was here, he wanted nothing more than to be in the middle of the sleeping action (yes, even sleep is an action in this household), trying to get into every boy's bed.  Every night we sing "I love you..." to the tune of Happy Birthday to each boy; that night we also sang to Harpo whereupon Reeve, enthusiastic but still guarded in response to Harpo, burst into tears.  "I miss Wiley so much!" he sobbed.  Duncan burst instantly into tears as well, "Me too!" and Tucker too, just to make sure he wasn't left out of whatever it was we were crying about.  They asked the unanswerable questions about life and death and dogs, finally agreeing that loving and losing is definitely better than not loving at all.

They assured Harpo they were ready to love him too, and off four boys drifted to sleep.

Lou on the Loose: A Reality Show

Premise:
"Lou on the Loose" will feature TUCKER "LOU" GREEN, a recently TWO-year old boy, known by his family to "pack a lot of person in a little package."  A highly active boy who mastered walking, running, and climbing before his 1st birthday, at 2 Lou's curiosity takes an exceptionally task- and process-orientation, with both exciting and hazardous results.

Series Description:
The suspense and humor of the series will live in the tense space between his parents' pride at their son's intellectual ambition and the real disasters that ensue from his exploits.  In each episode, we will set LOU ON THE LOOSE in a new location, benign to the casual observer but – as viewers will come to anticipate – thrilling new turf for Lou.  Thrilling too for Lou's parents, whose gratitude at his engagement on a task, coupled with a vaguely isn't-this-a-great-Montessori-learning-exploration rationalization, overwhelm their better judgement. Inevitably distracted, his parents lose track of Lou just long enough for DISASTER to strike. At the end of each episode, Lou's humbled parents confess their errors, learn from their mistakes, and swear never to let it happen again.  Until the next episode.

EPISODE #1 (PILOT):  LOU ON THE LOOSE IN THE BATHROOM

It's the morning rush.  Two big brothers need to be fed, dressed, teeth brushed, jackets-hats-and-shoes on in time to meet the bus.  Lou is roaming the kitchen, taking his brother REEVE's favorite "guy" and calling it "mine," throwing scrambled eggs across the room, etc. When big brother DUNCAN goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth, MOM and DAD's relief that Lou follows makes them turn a blind eye when only Duncan re-emerges from the bathroom moments later.  Off-screen we hear the WATER still running in the bathroom...

We cross-cut between the FRONT HALL where Mom and Dad tie ratty show laces (that really need replacing, must remember), zip parkas (wow, these coats are filthy, must remember to wash) and try to tame wild cases of bed-head, and the BATHROOM where LOU IS ON THE LOOSE.

Standing on the toilet to better reach the sink, Lou has uncapped the toothpaste and is decorating the perimeter of the sink in sparkly blue gel.  This task accomplished, he moves on to an experiment in hydro-paper dynamics, in which he stops up the drain, fills the bathroom sink to the brim, and empties an entire box of Kleenex into the water one sheet at a time.  The tissues make beautiful gauzy swirls as he waves his hands through the water.  "Mo!" (more) he says to himself, looking at the empty box with furrowed brow.  So he scales the shelves for a new roll of toilet paper, extracts it from the Scott tissue wrap (which he adds to his pool - blue!  pretty!), and begins to unroll the toilet paper when he hears his Mom returning to check on him.  He feigns innocence as she rounds the corner, panic-stricken as she registers the sink full of pulpy white soup with still-running water.  "Lou, what have you gotten in to NOW?" she exclaims.  She swoops him off the toilet, opens it and begins to scoop whatever bits of wet mush still cohere into the toilet bowl.  "We don't put paper in the sink, Lou!  Paper is for wiping, and blowing," she tries to explain, failing to contain her exasperation.  He stamps his feet in protest, yelling "No!" as his creation flushes away.

The episode ends with Lou's parents seated side-by-side, interviewed by an omniscient off-screen FAMILY THERAPIST who asks them questions such as, "How could you have better engaged Lou's curiosity?" or "What part of this disaster was your responsibility?" or "Toilets are very slippery; how would you have explained your decision-making process to Child Services if Lou had been gravely injured?"  The parents mumble well-intentioned, self-depracating answers with promises that tomorrow they will do better.

ADDITIONAL EPISODES:

#2:  LOU ON THE LOOSE IN THE KITCHEN

Involving beer bottles, can openers, boiling water and carving knives

#3:  LOU ON THE LOOSE ON PROSPECT PARK WEST

Involving refusal to ride in the stroller, a flat tire, a Two-year old runaway and heavy traffic

#4:  LOU ON THE LOOSE AT THE DOCTOR'S OFFICE

Involving a very long wait; an altercation over another boy's Matchbox cars; and a desperate diversion involving an iPhone including nonsensical emails sent to Mommy's work clients, deletion of her contacts and memos, and the disappearance of essential Apps

#5:  LOU ON THE LOOSE AT TRADER JOE'S

Involving a lot of screaming, inarticulate demands for this, that and the other thing, an ineffectual "seatbelt" on a grocery cart, innocent victims of flying frozen peas, and a TJ's Associate who talks like a duck

#6:  LOU ON THE LOOSE AT LOWE'S

Involving the demise of tomato seedlings, impact testing of lightbulbs, an APB over the PA for a missing Two-year old, self-expression with spray paint, and a ride on a forklift

#7:  LOU BACK ON THE LOOSE IN THE BATHROOM

Involving experiments in flushing, such as Lego pieces, rubber lizards, Thomas the Tank Engine trains, and ballon pumpers; a basement backed up with black water; and an emergency visit from Andrew, the Metaphysical Plumber

Symphony in G major

ALLEGRO

Pidder pat pidder pat
Which one is it? Ma-ma? You got him?  Thanks.  CRY.  Silence.  Drifting...
Pidder pat pidder pat
Mommy, I had a bad dream.  Back to bed.  Snuggle.  Drifting...
Wiggle.     Wiggle.     Wiggle wiggle wiggle.   Time for sleeping.  I can't.  You can.  Twitch.
Still.   Sharp CRY.   Up.   Get him out before others wake.  Is he pulling on his ear?   Where's the medicine dropper?   Mum mum!
Nurse nurse nurse.  Drifting...  STARTLE.  6:40. 

Wake up!  Wake up!  Long sleeves, cold day, sweats in wash, settle for jeans.  NO!  YES. 
Milk first, then honey.  Sausages.  Eat!  I am!
GRRRRRRinding coffee.  WHEEEE tea kettle.  Fish sticks and apple sauce.  Where have all the water bottles gone?  Shoes!  Shoes!  Eat!  Eat!  I am!  I am!  Brush teeth, jacket.  Backpack.  No time for fooling!  Let's go!  

Street, cold, dark, trash.  A bus.  Passes.  Another.  Another.  Cold, dark, windy.  Three maybe five minutes to find out what So-and-so did at lunch yesterday, or did you know we have to have Gym in our classrooms this week?  So unfair.
Blinking lights, hugs, kisses blown through the window, little faces disappear.

Can I have a snuggle on the coach?  Ma-ma!  More fish sticks and apple sauce.  Cheese sticks and pretzels.  Thermoses and little boxes.  Bananas bananas bananas.  I want a waffle!  How do you ask?  Please?  With maple syrup, and a sausage.  I want a boiled egg!  I want Shrek cereal!  Time to get dressed.  But I need a red shirt!  Harry Potter wears a red shirt when he's on his Quidditch!  

Why are we rushing?  Because we're late again!  Why are we always late?  I don't know.  Jackets!  Hats!  Backpacks!  In the stroller.  EW!  Tucker has a poop!  Do you have a poop?  No!  SNIFF.  Yes.  Jackets off.  Upstairs we go.  Wiggle wiggle, roll over, escape.  Pin.  SCREAM.  Wipe.   JACKETS.

In stroller we go.  NO!  Arch back arch back NO NO NO!  Run to the corner, then in.  Run run run run run, WIPE OUT.  Ahhhh!  Boo-boo check?  Kiss kiss, good as new.  Run run run run run. 

Billy on street corner.  VRRRRMMMM, bus.  Did you know that an octopus squirts ink to hide from the shark so he can't find him to eat him-  VRRRRRMMM, street cleaner. 

Park.  Joggers, bikers, strollers, scooters.   Breathe.   Sky.   Wind.   I spy with my eagle eye.   Knock knock, who's there?  Ach...   Gezuntit!  Hahahaha..  Mama, nana!  More banana? 

Drop off, good morning!  Who are we today?  Superman?  Harry Potter?  Welcome to Red town!  Blue town!  We're going to make challah!  Have a good day.  Bye bye Mama!  See you later!  I love you.  I love you.  I love you.

ANDANTE

Walk home. Walk.  Check email.  Walk.  Text.  Walk.

MODERATTO

Tea, desk, tap tap tap tap, blog blog, email email email.  Phone call this, phone call that. 

Change laundry.  Clean up kitchen.  Phone call this, phone call that.  Post office.  Change laundry.  Email email email email. 

Photos.  Still.  Sad boy.  Excited boy.  Laughing boy.  Big boy.  Tiny boy.   Hot on mountain top.  Cold in blizzard.  Chasing, flying, swinging, swimming.   I can see the boys they used to be.

Write.  Email.  Text.  Change laundry.

Jacket.   Walk walk walk.  Phone call.  Walk.  Pick up #1.  How was his day?  He ate beans, rice, grapes, yogurt... He make a poo poo.  Again?   Heavy lids.  Succumbs to stroller.  Out...

Bump up, bump up, bump up, bump up...  Wheel in house.  Deep breathing. 

Heat left-overs.  Email, text, email, bills, to-do.  Phone call.  Still sleeping.  Email, text, change laundry. 

2:55?!

PRESTO

BUMP BUMP BUMP, back down stairs stroller goes.

RUN MAMA RUN.  Slalom stroller through Bishop Ford kids.  Past park.  Joggers, bikers, blurr.  Check clock.   Text while running.  Sweat.  

PICK UP #2.  How was your day?  Good.  We made Rainbow cake, and ate TWO pieces!  Great!

Bananas bananas yogurt yogurt granola bars.  Playground.  Blast-off!  No throwing sand!  Share!  Cheese sticks.  Veggie booty.  Five more minutes!

HUSTLE.  Park.  Joggers, bikers, blurr.  Sun in eyes.  Mommy, my chicks!  Yellow buses pass.  Duncan's?  HUSTLE HUSTLE.  Check clock.  HUSTLE.  Text - r u at bus stop?  Running late.  No answer.  Sweat.

Joe's Pizza.  Blinking lights.  Hi, sweetie!  How was your day?  Good.  Can we have a playdate with Ava?  Can we play Zoombinis?  Can I have a playdate with Charlie?  Can we watch Nemo?

ADAGIO

First, snack.  Then homework.  AW!  Rice cakes, cheese sticks, carrots, grapes.  Sharpen pencil.  Head bowed over table.

Superman makes a rescue, or Harry Potter flies a car while Lou disassembles the fridge or steals iphone ("po") for a TED talk or music video. 

Markers and coloring books.  Playdough and clay.  Dry ingredients and wet ingredients.  Cookies.  What should we make for-

ALLEGRETTO

He took my-!  He hit my-!  GIVE ME THAT! CRY.  Is that how we handle it?  Do you need a time out?  Try again nicely.  Offer a trade.  Let him have a turn.  Try that again?  How can you ask nicely?  You can solve this problem.  If you don't find a way to work it out, there won't be any XYZ...  When is Daddy getting home?  Soon.  AW.

Itadakimasu, Yoedvadyotkivanuk.  Dinner.  Use a utensil.  Knees stay under the table.  Don't lean on me.  Did we say thank you for this great dinner?  Thank you.  But it's not my taste.  Can I have more milk?  Three more bites.  How many?  Snarf.  But I don't like peas!  Have you been excused?  I have to use the bathroom!  Can I have some more milk?  You just had some-  Tucker, milk is not for pouring on your dinner!  Giggles giggles.  Eat.  How was your day?  Mortgage this, boss that, teachers-- Daddy!   Did you notice he was talking?  Sorry!  Remember to say excuse me.  Work this, that- EXCUSE ME!  And wait for an opening-  GUESS WHAT?!  (surrender) What?  (More wine?)

Bath time!  Five more minutes!  Legos.  Markers.  Flying cars and quidditch sticks.  Bath time!  But we had a bath last night!  Bath time.  Aw. 

Splash splash splash.  Bum bum this, bum bum that.  Spit.  NO SPITTING.  Shampoo.  But my boo-boo hurts!  Brush teeth.  Open up... Wiggle wiggle roll, pig pile!  Hahahaha!  Open so I can reach back teeth.  Tongue?  Enough, out.  Out!  No jumping, slippery!  Pajamas.  But I can't find my superman undies! 

Choose your books.  SNOW.  Wow, you read it yourself, Reeve!  Wiggle wiggle.  Mummum!  Mummum!  Pig pile.  Doggie Peekaboo.  That's right, there's silly doggie!   HP3.  What's that word?  "Persuade."  Daddy, I read the first page of chapter twelve by myself!  Wiggle wiggle.  Lunge.  Fly. But I want a snuggle!  You will have one.  That's all for tonight.  Just two more pages!  PLEASE!  Grimace.  Protest protest.  Bed time.

LARGO

Lou dinner take 2 with Choo Choo downstairs with Daddy.  Big boys in Bed.  Sing- I Love you, Reevie- I mean, Harry!  I love you, Harry!.... Shalom Aleichem.  Snuggle snuggle, I'm sorry for when we had tough words this afternoon, me too, I love you, I love you too, sweet dreams.  Sing again- I love you, Duncan, I love you, I love ... I need tissues!  Water.  Have to go pee pee.  Snuggle snuggle.  I love you, I love you too. 

Lou.  Mum mum.  Snuggle.  Water bottle.  Climb, crawl, giggle, lunge, sigh, lie, sleep.

Sleep.

Pidder pat pidder pat...

Around the Bend

When we were finishing the film about Mr. Jimmy Moore, my composer, John Keith, had the great idea to base the musical score on Mr. Jimmy's own footsteps.  John sampled his footfalls, using Jimmy's natural rhythm to give rise to the film's up-beat sound.

This May I got nervous as I searched for Mr. Jimmy on the crowded fluorescent-lit corridor at the VA nursing home.  The residents who could walk shuffled, gripping rails along the walls; many were wheelchair-bound.  What if he'd declined so much I couldn't recognize him?   But then he appeared. Though his face had aged a lot, I could never mistake the rhythm of that gait.

Mr. Jimmy passed away a few days before this Christmas.  His decline was rapid, according to his family, brought on by pneumonia, itself probably brought on by aspirating a food particle into his lungs.  It's painful for me to imagine Mr. Jimmy, who loved breathing hard on his runs, struggling to breathe and restrained to a bed.  Was he frightened?  I wish I could ask him how he felt, what he wanted, what he understood to be God's will in it all, what the final moment was like.  He  spoiled me by sharing so much about the defining moments of his life until now--including what it was like to lose his grip on his memory.  I grew to depend on him as a guide for life.

I am really struggling to say goodbye to my dear friend.  I slip into that particular form of magical thinking afforded by distance to pretend he is still "out there," and would answer my call, if I could just dig up the right phone number.  I enact the call in my imagination.  He would answer with his usual enthusiasm, "Well, HEY, Samantha!  How ARE you!?"  ("Hah are yew!?")  Before hanging up, he'd say, "You'll never know how much your call means to me.  I love you!"  ("Ah luuv yew!")

In between we might talk about things like running (of course) -- what to do about tight hamstrings?  How best to train for a marathon?  Should I run through a sore knee or plantar fasciitis?  What kinds of cross-training are best?   The merits of meat vs. vegetarian diets.   Or how running marathons helped prepare me for giving birth.  (I can still hear him chuckling during that one!)

Or about matters of faith and worship, where he remained an independent thinker.   (Though many of his fellow Southern Baptists eschewed alcohol, Mr. Jimmy believed Jesus wouldn't have turned water into wine if wine were evil.)  We might talk about Jewish and Christian ways of seeking a relationship with the divine.  Or about the relationship of doubt and faith.  In his reading of the Bible love trumped judgment.

Or about history-- lessons learned coming of age in the Great Depression (he theorized that the Depression was God's preparation for World War II, forging the fortitude his generation needed to fight and win.)  About the Mississippi of his childhood, the railroads, about cleaning up the mess the Germans made of Italian railroads, learning meditative techniques to survive intense pain and discomfort on transport ships across the Atlantic, and how such techniques can help in every- day life.  And about race -- about his hunting friendship with a Black man years ago, about the chasms between and shared fates of Blacks and Whites in Mississippi.

And always we'd talk about love and family-- How to handle constitutional differences with a spouse?  How to handle different stages with children?  What's the role of faith and Faith in marriage?   What was it like to say goodbye to his life partner?  What different kinds of love and friendship hold us in life after one's partner departs?

At the end of our chats, we'd usually remark again how unexpected it was to find such a friend in each other.  He'd be labeled a "Red-Stater," while I'd get branded a "Latte Liberal."  (What ridiculous labels!)  We were separated by 48 years.  His roots sank deep in rural Mississippi where he lived his whole life.  I can't get more Yankee, and I've wandered all over -- California, Mississippi, New York, Japan.  He attended community college, then devoted 42 years to dispatching on the railroad.  I've completed several degrees, and I'm still figuring out what color my parachute is.  When I moved in across the street on a short-term teaching assignment in 1992, we should have become nothing more than polite neighbors.  Instead he became one of my best friends. 

I recognize this point in The Story, when the protagonist has to say goodbye to the beloved mentor and step up to a new position in the Order of Things.  But I don't know exactly what that means, and I don't feel ready.  I am greedy for more -- more of his wisdom, his stories, his robust laughter and radiant smile, his quick footsteps that barely touched the earth, the comfort he provided that it's all going to work out down the road, around the bend.  From here on, I will need to listen for the rhythm of his footsteps to lead me where I can't yet see.

Staying Still

When Superman's grief for Lois Lane compels him to reverse time by spinning Earth backwards, there must be a moment when time stands still. Or actually two, since he then restores Earth to forward rotation. (Don't worry if your chrono-spatial-gravitational physics is rusty. I have the unfair advantage of my own little resident Superman.) Though this ultimate statis is not only fleeting, it's imaginary, it comforts me nonetheless. Because right now my life is a blurrrr of motion.

Which brings me to- THE MARATHON. Yes, I ran! Loaded up with homeopathics and mulligatawny soup (thank you, Cheri!), augmentin (thank you, David!) and two days of rest (thank you, husband!), I awoke Sunday, November 6th to a brilliant sunny day in New York feeling well and eager. Together with 47,000 runners I made my way via two trains, the Staten Island ferry, and a bus to the starting line on Staten Island. Frank Sinatra got me crying for the first of countless times to "New York, New York" as we crossed the start and began our ascent on the upper deck of the Verrazano Bridge, all of New York Harbor, the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, Brooklyn and the Atlantic below us. I was so thrilled to be there and so high on the enthusiasm of runners and the crowds that I ran too fast too soon, and I knew it, but I couldn't resist. Six miles in I found Jordy, Duncan, Reeve and our neighbor friends in the crowd, another adrenalin spike. A lull after parting from them, but another boost in Clinton Hill-Bed/Stuy where the crowds were spectacular. A gospel choir rocked us on. In Williamsburg I picked out two close friends from LA - another boost. Then a long hard road ahead... Are we in Queens yet? Finally the Queensborough Bridge - ugh. Like the transition phase of labor in child birth. Long, hard, the crowds gone, lower deck this time, the relentless rumble of vehicles passing on the level overhead. My right knee started to complain. My hamstrings were grouchy. At last - First Avenue in Manhattan. WOW, the crowds were suddenly many times as dense. Their voices exploded in my tired muscles like rocket fuel. God bless these strangers! I shot off. Briefly. Then remembered how far I'd come. By mile 18 I need to walk quite a lot. Living up to the meaning of its name, "the Hinterland," the Bronx felt like a purgatory from which I might never escape. And yet there were a Scottish bag piping troop, children with fruit and water, and a HipHop duo singing "Welcome... to the Bronx," over and over in the tone of a dirge, which somehow all comforted and amused me through to the final bridge back to Manhattan. From then on it was all low golden rays as the falling sun beckoned us to the final resting place. Harlem, Fifth Avenue, a woman who cheered specifically for me ("Go, Pink!") just when I needed it, a right hook into Central Park. Bare trees overhead, a fantasy of Frederick Law Olmsted (my guiding spirit of late) watching from a knoll with wonder at what his park has provided, winding familiar roads from so many races to bring me to this place, a final detour back out to Central Park South past my grandfather's New York Athletic Club, a surrender of my vain hope to make the New York Times as my time passed 5 hours, irrepressible cravings that this damn thing be OVER already, the finish line in sight, and suddenly - permission to stop.

But not. Like the relentlessness of time in general, we were not permitted to stop. The New York Road Runners Club knew what they were doing.  To stop is to freeze up.  They corralled us like so many cattle in a forced march that lasted about 30 minutes. Wrapped in silver plastic blankets that look like excess material from the lunar landing pods, supplied with bright orange "Recovery Kit" backpacks of energy bars, apples, and water, we shuffled toward the bivouacked UPS trucks conveying our personal gear from start to finish.  An hour and a half and two more trains later I was home to hugs from four boys, flowers, and champagne on ice.  (Lest I give the wrong image, I would be the one on ice, drinking champagne whilst in a bath of ice water.  Grim, but effective!)

The marathon generates a host of metaphors. Life's a marathon, not a sprint. We're in it for the long haul. I hit the wall. You've got to pace yourself. I'm a "finisher." Once upon a time most people employed such metaphors without ever having felt a marathon. But with so many people running them now, the marathon offers a common language, a short-cut. (Ask any NY finisher about the Queensborough Bridge - say no more!) Having run the New York Marathon in particular, I'd argue it has become its own metaphor. "You ran New York?" evokes the whole wild wonderful thing -- runners and crowds representing every walk of life, every corner of the Earth, together making the world's biggest party out of something really hard and inviting everyone to be a part of it. Thank God, I got to run New York!

I wonder how the day and weeks after the marathon felt to the other runners. I felt like I ran off a cliff. I had some regrets. I wish I'd run it better, yadayada. But mostly I had lost my guiding star. Many RUNNER'S WORLD magazine subscribers must run New York, as they had a special article on overcoming the "post-race blues." My friend and mentor, Jimmy Moore, would have done as they advised and plotted his next race (perhaps an ultra next time). But it didn't feel right to make a new "goal." After sitting with this unease for several weeks, I realized why. What I crave now above all is stillness. Is it an oxymoron to make "stillness" a goal?

I started running again three years ago to pull myself out of the rut I'd fallen into after giving birth to two kids, having given up exercise, feeling glum. Running has restored me in body and spirit, and I will keep the habit going forward. But as I reflect over these three years, I also ran to keep up. To keep up with my "Rocket Reeve," who kept me running through my pregnancy with Tucker whether I wanted to or not. To keep up with Tucker, who by 15 months was off like a shot himself. To keep up with the pressured schedules of 3 boys with 3 different school schedules, and an average of 5 miles of daily walking/running behind strollers to move bodies where they need to go. To keep up my energy when sleep is in short supply (always). To keep up with my advancing age, which I believe is governed at least in part by expectations. And to prepare for something as yet unknown - the next hard, long, important thing. But I'm frankly a little tired of being on the run.

Maybe it's the approach of winter. An instinct to hibernate. The immobility of things frozen. Nature's relief of obligation to grow, strive, change. Now that I feel I can keep up, I'm not sure I want to. Instead I want to slow the whole thing down. I don't want to venture so far. I want to be quieter. To escape time. The first step, I realize, is to let go of all this wanting and not wanting, of striving even not to strive. Instead I'm doing more yoga, attempting meditation (never been very successful with it, but then again, what is success?! Incense helps put me in the mood, at least, and makes the house smell nice too), writing in my journal, trying to move slower, breathe more, expect less. None of this comes naturally to me (as my friend Jonathan's "perfume" name for me, "Flurry," evokes). Would that it were as easy as halting the Earth's rotations!

Then again, I'm really starting to look forward to summer. By then the kids will be bigger. Jordy has saved up more vacation. Maybe we'll be able to hike Mount Moosilauke together for the first time! Or head east to Mount Katahdin... After all this stillness, I'll be ready for some action.

Little Touches

Last week I went to the funeral home to view my husband's grandmother the day after she died. My aunt-in-law, who along with her husband comprised the other two visitors, invited me to touch her too. I was so glad she did. I never would have done so on my own. Grandma's hair was very fine, her skin very soft despite the cool hardness of her cheek.

I keep thinking about this final touch, about the feeling of her body, living and in death, on my finger tips, my cheek, in my arms. I remember how frail she felt in recent years, as if I might break her if I held her too tight. To the end she welcomed a squeeze of the hand, a brush of our cheeks, a hug nonetheless.

She was a woman who, I sensed without having known her then, really enjoyed her body in younger years. She spoke often of the pleasures of summers sunning herself at the beach. She took great pleasure in good food. She told of sleeping in spoons with her husband, recalled by my aunt-in-law last week over champagne toasts to Grandma, and the joyous sensations of being pregnant. I remember her watching me breastfeed my babies with interest, once asking me, "What does it feel like? You know, I never had the chance to do that. They bound my breasts at the hospital to stop the milk." Her question didn't seem to carry a political pro-/con-breastfeeding agenda; it felt like she simply regretted the lost chance to explore a new sensation.

In contrast to Grandma's final years, when touch was limited to her cat and greetings/partings with visiting family, my days are overrun with little touches. I often wake up to a soft little foot tickling my tummy or lodged under my chin. I'm so used to the small fingers that lightly roam my neck and chest while nursing that I can forget the gift of this wee, ephemeral bit of tenderness. I have "snuggle requests" from the bigger brothers upon waking and before sleep, hand-holdings across streets, and kisses on heads of ruffled hair. I enjoy the embraces of my husband throughout the day, sleepy snuggles, and the brushes of our fingers and bodies amidst the bustle of packing lunchboxes and dressing boys for school.

We are still in the stage of family life where a kiss and a hug provide miraculous healing. Although the two bigger boys have achieved the rational capacity to question the mechanism for this effect, when push comes to shove comes to real ouch, they still want a kiss and a hug first. Two-year old Tucker puts his faith in both Band-Aids (for invasive, non-invasive, and thoroughly imaginary wounds - so much fun to open! stick!) and Kiss-Kiss/Hug-Hug remedies.

With three young boys, our little touches can get acrobatic. We recently built new Ikea beds and dressers for the boys' new "mountain" bedroom. As I climbed into a case to screw in tracks for drawers, my rear end must have suggested a horse, as Tucker promptly climbed on for a ride. At music class yesterday during the "free dance" portion, he required not only that I carry him, but that I flip him upside down repeatedly (exhausting!). The boys love nothing more than "Tough Time" with Jordy at the end of the day, which consists of Jordy lying flat on the floor while one-after-the-other the boys hurl themselves at him.

This morning Duncan, the big seven-year old, required a snuggle on the rocker, curling up pretending to be a baby again, arms gripping me hard. This fall Reeve took to crawling into bed beside me at night, so stealth that I wouldn't realize his presence until waking in the morning to the slow rise and fall of his breath, his warm back against my arm. To my relief and chagrin, he has quickly adapted to his new bedroom, sleeping as late at 7am in his own "big boy" bed.

These touches wrap me in a warm web of life, a web that reaches beyond memory to my mother's countless loving touches of little me. I fear the loss of touch that will happen as they and we age. It happens so gradually I often don't notice. No morning snuggle this morning with Reeve, and he is fine, and so am I. Then one day they will leave home. And one day Jordy or I will loose the other. I have to hope the gradual nature of the changes will make it bearable. And give me time to get a seriously snuggly dog.

Grandma once told me that one of the hardest things about getting older for her was the dissonance between the way she sees herself inside with how she knows others perceived her. In her mind's eye, she was eternally 40. Healthy, vital, teenage kids at home, in love with her husband. I am there now. Since 40 I've had a baby, got the chance to run a marathon, and enjoy good health and affection all around. I'm grateful for these little touches, and to Grandma for helping me see my bounty.