Such is Life

End of the World As We Know It

2012-02-09T09:54:00.000-05:00

I hate to be the one the break the news to you, but if youhaven’t heard yet the world is ending on 12/21/12. If you don’t believe me,Google end of world and see whatcomes up. Apparently, the Mayans, Hopi Indians and Nostradamus knew what ourfate would be long before we had a chance to mess things up pretty good on ourown. Other apocalyptic dates have come and gone, but this one is the biggie.And it’s less than a year away.

As a child, I worried about the end of the world so much Ihad two recurring dreams that haunted me throughout my adolescence.

In one, people are pouring out of their homes and beingherded to the end of my street to find out if they are going to Heaven or Hell,accessible by an up and down escalator. When I saw my paperwork was sending mein the wrong direction, I swapped it with someone formerly destined for Heaven.Instead of feeling relief on my ride to the sky, I experienced overwhelmingguilt and sadness about my actions, which would become my personal hell foreternity.

In the other, people are running into the streets, randomlydisappearing into thin air. I locked myself in a room with a stranger, thinkingwe were safe from whatever was happening, just as he disappeared with a poof. I’vesince learned this sounds like an event called The Rapture, where good peopleare called to Heaven at the end of the world, leaving everyone else to fend forthemselves. As I’m pretty sure I didn’t know what a rapture was at age ten, I’mhoping this was not an omen of things to come, as in my dream I was not one ofthe lucky disappearing ones.

There are different approaches to take when anticipating the end of the world.One is to throw caution to the wind, eat anything you want, stop exercising,and ring up the charge cards because no one is going to worry about collectingon your debt when the world is overrun with zombies.

Another approach is to believe salvation truly is possible,and we reap what we sow. While we’d all like to think that when and if JudgmentDay comes we’d be on the fast track to Heaven, we still have about 10 months tomake things right just in case.

For starters, drop all grudges. The weight of that angerdrags you down more than the person you begrudge, so let it go and you’ll bethat much lighter, making it easier to catch the updraft to up above.

It might also help to stop chasing down the latest andgreatest gadgets, because I’m pretty sure coveting anything – including thenewest phone- is like tying a rock to your soul, and the goal this year is totravel light.

And it’s never too late to build your heavenly resume bygiving back to others, because the more selfless we are, the lighter our egosbecome, allowing us to drift upwards like a balloon cut free from its weight.

They say if we can repeat a behavior for 21 days, it willbecome habit. So let’s make a habit of smiling. You remember smiling, right?It’s when you lift up the corners of your mouth and crunch your crow’s feet.Studies show that even a fake smile makes you and others feel better. So whynot give it a try? It’s cheaper and easier than stockpiling cases of water,batteries and duct tape, and perhaps in your time of need, someone you smiledat will remember you, and invite you to share their supplies with them.

As I think of it, preparing for the end of the world isactually pretty simple. Live as if you only have until 12/21/12 to save yoursoul. Then wake up on 12/22/12, and repeat. Perhaps if we all did this, wecould turn this into a world worth saving.

If it's Broke, Don't Fix It

2012-01-23T10:54:00.000-05:00

I have no problem calling the doctor if I suspect somethingcould be wrong. I’m not a “wait a few days to see if I get sicker” person. Ifit hurts, I’m on the phone. In fact, my doctor is one of my speed dials. I’dsay I’m not a hypochondriac, except that I’m pretty sure someone who is ahypochondriac is convinced they aren’t, so that remains to be seen.

It helps that I have a compassionate and patient primarycare doctor who doesn’t flinch when I provide her with my annual list of achesand pains to check out, which can be as long as Santa’s “good” list. And whilemy physical woes have verifiable causes and treatments, I’ve noticed adisturbing new trend. What would have been fixed immediately in the past nowseems to be optional, “given my age”.

Apparently, once we pass 50, doctors weigh the benefits offixing non-life threatening health issues against just how long we plan to bearound, sort of like a Vegas betting line on your longevity.

Checking on the persistent pain in my right arm from an oldcar accident, the specialist asked me how much I use that arm, because unlessI’m a pro tennis player, it may not be worth fixing. He may as well have toldme I’mno longer worth fixing, and that is a real eye opener. And this is the first Iever heard about a right arm being optional.

Inquiring about my painful bunion, I was told to just shoparound for sensible, wide shoes and live with it, as the recovery is long andmay not be worth it. Which makes we wonder if the recovery could possible takemore than 20 years- which is how long I hope to still be running pain free –and which will impact my life worse: recovery for a year or ugly shoes for therest of my life?

Inquiring to my dentist about straightening my teeth, he askedif I wanted to get into fixing that stuff “at my age”. “Oh, you’re right”, Iwanted to answer. “It’s just my face. Who even looks at it now that I’m over50?”

I even have a friend who moves easily forward and backwards,but not sideways, as she is limited by an old MCL injury that she was tolddidn’t need to be fixed considering she is not a professional athlete. Whichmakes me wonder if active people are more worthy of fixing, while the cerebralones should just learn to live with pain and limitations, as they don’t do muchbut sit around anyhow.

Whatever the reason, it’s clear I have joined the ranks ofhigh mileage cars and beloved aging pets, both of which eventually force thequestion of how many good years are left, and if the high cost of prolongingthe inevitable is worth it.

Left with no recourse, I’ve decided to see if I canlearn to accept my nagging aches and pains gracefully. So when you see melimping down the street in sensible shoes, smiling a crooked smile with myright arm dangling loosely from lack of use, just know that I’m happy inside,and that’s all that matters. At least to my insurance company.

Miss Predictable

2011-12-31T06:57:00.000-05:00

It happened twice in the same day at work. First, I sent anemail to the staff about an issue, followed by an individual email to someonewith an example. That’s when a co-worker popped up like a Jack in the Box andstated what was obvious to everyone but me: “So who got the 2nd message?”Unbeknownst, I’ve done the same thing for 20 years. First I send a group emailabout something “that affects us all”, and then I lower the boom with anindividual one.

In the 2^nd instance, a co-worker asked me wheremy magazines were, as apparently it was the first time in decades I missedsharing some on Monday, even though I had no recollection that this wasexpected behavior on my part. And in fact, she was right, as I rememberedrecycling them by accident. When I lamented to her that I didn’t realize I wasso predictable, she laughed and said I needed to find a new trick for AprilFool’s Day next year, as they were onto that as well.

Out to breakfast that Saturday morning, I reflected solemnlyon the fact that I am not nearly as mysterious and spontaneous as I fancymyself, only to have the waitress greet me with a cheery “Good morning… theusual?”

Once I started looking for it, my predictability wasundeniable, as evidenced by the following statements that came rapid fire: “Iknew you were going to say that”, “I knew you were going to do that”, “I knewyou were going to blow up when I said that” and the ever popular “You’ve told methat story about 1,000 times already”.

Which led me to the conclusion that I don’t actually need tobe present in my life to make an impact, so instead of engaging me inconversation or discussion when you already know what my response will be, justleave me out of the equation and insert the obvious and act accordingly. I amgiddy thinking of all the time I could free up in my life not having to carryout my predictable behavior.

Instead of trudging around work every day repeating myselfover and over again like a workaholic cockatoo, I could hire a full timetrainer and become the picture of physical fitness for my age, eventuallyqualifying for the senior Olympics and accepting the silver medal on the podiumon behalf of the USA.Or instead of choosing just a few charities to volunteer for with my limitedtime, I could volunteer all day, every day, and make the world a significantly betterplace while my coworkers wander in and out of my office, correctly predictinghow I would respond to each question they ask or situation that arises andproceeding on their own. Genius!

At home, my partner would assume all day absence meant I wason my usual schedule of running, food shopping and doing errands, but insteadI’d be taking rock climbing or scuba diving lessons, or re-learning the violin.Then I would finally start my long delayed book project while friends andfamily have witty conversations with an imaginary me, correctly predicting themoments that I would interject a wise remark or timely chuckle. Or they couldgo to a movie they know I would like, followed by my favorite restaurant and mypredictable dinner order and talk about how they knew that movie would make mecry. And while my predictable life isbeing lived without me, I would take French lessons so I would fit in seamlesslywhen I up and move to Paris.

I confide to a close friend my dream of escaping myrepetitive “Groundhog Day” life and moving someplace new where I can redefinemyself, make a fresh start, and live the life I’ve dreamed about. To which she smilesand aptly says “You say the same thing every New Years”.

And with that, I realize that even my dream of beingunpredictable is predictable. Leaving me with more to ponder next time I ordermy usual breakfast at my usual place.

Becoming Scrooge

2011-12-11T07:51:00.001-05:00

I have yet to get around to trading out my swimsuit drawer for my hat and mitten drawer, and its Christmas again. Didn’t we just celebrate that, and can’t it wait a few more months? My schedule is too full for festivities right now. Bah humbug!

I’m not sure when time started moving faster for me, but I estimate I’ve lost about a day a year since I turned 21, which adds up to 30 days, or pretty much the whole month of December. That might explain why my holiday spirit has been lacking.

Or perhaps it is because the heralding of the holidays that once started with the Bing Crosby Christmas special now proceeds with protests of whether the public tree with lights on it should be called a holiday tree or a Christmas tree. How about if we just call it “pretty” and leave it at that? And lately I noticed the jolly Santa sledding on an electric razor (a great gift for Dad!) has been replaced by Give a Lexus for Christmas ads, sending me into an anti-Santa spiral as I envy all the people who might really be getting a Lexus for Christmas, while I estimate my recent car repair bill to be paid off sometime in early 2013.

Over the years, my Christmas list has changed from ‘things I would love and can’t live without’to ‘things I need but can’t afford to buy’, to this year’s festive lament ‘please don’t buy me anything as I have no time to shop for you’. Needless to say, it has become painfully obvious that whether by choice or natural evolution, I am in danger of Scrooging myself, and turning into the cranky, joyless, workaholic I swore I’d never be.

But all is not lost, because those who know me know I can’t do anything half way, including this Scrooging myself thing. And if you recall the story, the ghost of Christmas’yet to come gave Scrooge the opportunity to change and re-capture the true meaning of the season before it was too late; which is not about carrying heavy burdens of shopping bags from the mall to the car, but about lightening the load for others we can help along the way with positive thoughts, words and actions and appreciating the same thoughtful gestures shown to us by others. And while I haven’t gone as far as screaming Merry Christmas out of my 2ndfloor window to passer bys, I have taken a deep breath and realized that I still have much to be grateful for, including memories of Christmas’ past.

Which leads me to my annual holiday story about my brother Stephen and me, retold every year as a reminder of the beauty of the season, youthful innocence and faith that anything is possible if you just believe.

I call it The Night We Saw Rudolph.

Twas the night before Christmas on Webb Street in Salem. Stephen is five years old and trying desperately to fall asleep amidst the holiday excitement and anticipation of Christmas morning.

I tell him that if Santa comes and he is still awake, he will fly right by and not bring him any toys. Just then, someone drove into the driveway of the liquor store that use to be our neighbor and put their brake lights on, causing the bedroom to glow in a bright, red light.

His eyes grew as big as saucers as he looked at the window, then at me, and muttered “Rudolph…!” just before falling asleep.

From that year forth, every Christmas Eve Stephen would turn to me and say,“Remember the night we saw Rudolph?” and we’d laugh at the memory. But as we grew to adults, I began to respond, “That wasn’t Rudolph, it was….” and before I could finish the statement he would give a little smirk and say, “SShhhh, it was Rudolph” and we’d just smile.

My brother has been gone 12 Christmases now, but I still tell this story to anyone who will listen. Because looking back, Stephen was right. It was indeed Rudolph.

Thankful, Part III

2011-11-21T08:50:00.001-05:00

This is the third year I’ve shared a list of things I’mthankful for. This past year proved more challenging than most, and I fearedhaving to skip this year’s column and hope for a better year ahead. But as itturns out, being thankful is less about having a lot of great things happen toyou, and more about reflecting on the small things that make the not so goodstuff bearable. So once again, I humbly share my 3^rd annual thankfullist.

Being humble, not having to eat humble pie. Lemon meringuepie. Kids who run lemonade stands. Seeing your friends’ kids grow up. Seeingyour friend’s kids have kids. Kidding around with them. Still feeling like akid on the inside. Accepting what you look like on the outside. Being outside.Acceptance.

Confirmation of acceptance to the Boston Marathon. Astrong tailwind. Feeling strong, physically and mentally. Getting out ofsomething what you put into it. Not putting anyone out. Not fearing theunknown. Knowing something for sure. Contentment.

Exercising your right to vote. Having rights. Exercising.Climbing Mount Washington. Not making a mountain out of molehill. Turning anegative into a positive. Turning a wrong into a right. Not always needing tobe right. Not being needy. Good news when you desperately need some. A massagewhen you desperately want one. Knowing the difference between need and want.Not being desperate. Just being, for a minute.

Bubble baths. A fluffy bathrobe. Dark chocolate. Thoselast three things, enjoyed in that order.

Having nothing to hide and nothing to lose. Going for it.Big ideas. People who say things like “What’s the big idea?” People who giveback to their community. Community service. Getting great service. Extendedbusiness hours. Expecting to get a bill for service and receiving a donation tocharity instead.

Generousdonors who make special events possible. Believing anything is possible. Nothaving flooding rain during your charity golf tournament. Friends who comeanyhow, and make it a record success. Asuccessful track record.

Driverswho let you pull out. Drivers who wave thank you when you let them cut in.Plenty of parking. No traffic. Not hitting the Kernwood Bridge. No wait for atable. No line at the registry. Realizing the police car behind you is notpulling you over.

Dreamingabout going to Paris with friends. Going to Paris with friends. A trip thatlives up to the dream. Dreaming of going back. Visiting Normandy. Rememberingthose we have loved and lost. Remembering how fragile life is. Living it.

Fresh air. Friends you can be fresh with. Friendlycompetition. The competitive spirit. The spirit of giving. Realizing the bestgift is not a present. No time like the present. Good timing. A whole day spentnot looking at a watch.

Watching funny videos. Using your credit card points tobuy a video camera. Making your own funny videos. Making fun of yourself.Friends who pretend you are funny.

Thecalm before the storm. A snow blower after the storm. Not losing your power.Not losing your cool when you do. Surviving the storm. Surviving a layoff.Knowing when to lay off of someone. Not laying it on too thick.

Aninvitation to an exciting event. Not getting invited to a boring event. Thingsthat turn out better than expected. Finding out the new way to do things reallyis better. Butter.

Rakinga big pile of leaves then jumping in it. Not getting injured doingaforementioned. Reaching into the pocket of a coat you haven’t worn since lastyear and finding $10. Score!

Escapinga close call. Escaping the office for lunch. Chipping in with the office for alottery ticket. Dreaming about what you’ll do with your riches. Not giving up onyour dreams. People who say “living the dream” when you ask them how they are.Sweet dreams, and someone to share them with.

Teachingold dogs new tricks. Teachers. Old dogs. Letting sleeping dogs lie. Lying inbed and thinking of all the things you are thankful for before you fall asleep.Thanksgiving. Giving.

Thanksfor reading.

The Tipping Point

2011-11-14T13:12:00.001-05:00

Life is about balance. It’s about knowing when to push, whento pull and when to leave things alone. It’s about making your statement loudenough to be heard, delivering it confidently enough to be believed, andstepping back so it can speak for itself. Continue to hammer your point in toohard or hang around too long, and your previously positive message runs therisk of ruin. In other words, you’ve passed your tipping point.

Lately, it seems the Occupy Boston encampment has passed its tippingpoint. Occupy has the potential to be a voice for change, because even if wedon’t understand exactly what they want, we are curious enough to listen whilethey figure it out. But recently, their physical location has received moreattention than their message, causing the shifting tide to turn into a tidalwave, washing over their camp and leaving the debris and ruins of what itdestroyed. At least that is what I saw when I walked down myself to check itout. No longer a gathering place for political ideas, it has become a gatheringplace for anyone who thrives on large gatherings, including drug dealers,thieves, transients and others with random, unrelated platforms hoping to stealthe spotlight. The Occupy camp has passed its tipping point.

Which led me to think about more ordinary tipping points inlife.

In a disagreement, it’s the point where you feel you’ve won,lost, or forgot what the point was. This is the time to call a truce. But toooften one side pushes too much for too long, reigniting the fire that wasalmost extinguished. My recent tipping point at work went something like this:

Me: You know, you are probably right.

Him: What? Ah, yes. Thank you.
Me: Ok, back to work! (here comes the tipping point…)
Him: You know, I’m right a lot more than you give me credit for.
Me: Huh? I thought we were done….
Him: I was right about that other thing a few weeks ago youfought me on, and remember that other thing five years ago you were wrong ontoo? My ideas are not as bad as youthink they are and it’s about time you finally gave me credit.
Me: Aaaahhhhhh!

As a teen, my love of yogurt hit a tipping point when mymother realized I liked it and added it to her weekly food-shopping list. FirstI was in yogurt heaven, feasting non-stop like royalty on my bountiful bacteriasupply. But soon, my appetite couldn’t keep up with the abundance, and insteadof being a yogurt-eating bundle of joy, I became the ingrate who let good foodexpire while others around the world were starving.

There’s even a traffic tipping point, where I know that ifI’m the last car to pass through the first green light on 1A in Lynn headedtowards Boston, I’ll hit every green light after. But if I’m the first car tohit red, my commute is doomed.

And perhaps there is even a life lesson to learn abouttipping, as demonstrated by my favorite childhood ride, the Tilt-A-Whirl. Tipin the wrong direction and you’d wobble back and forth weakly with no momentumjust waiting for the crappy ride to end. But tip in the right direction andyou’d twirl around at top speed, jowls stuck to the back of the cart from theintensity, catching your breath just long enough before the end to exclaim“What a great ride, I wish it didn’t have to end!” Not a bad ending for a ride.

Or a life, for that matter.

Scaring Up Some Memories

2011-10-25T13:41:00.001-04:00

Growing up, I was all about a good ghost story. Even betterif it was read in my darkened bedroom with a flashlight under the covers, whichI would be petrified to peek out from, as directly over my head in the ceilingwas a crawlspace door that accessed the attic, home to every ghost, goblin andcreature in my stories. I swear some mornings when I woke up, that cover wouldbe slightly askew, with dust particles on my covers suggesting something hadentered or exited as I slept.

What wasn’t living in that crawlspace took residence undermy bed, which I crammed with shoes, books, suitcases and anything else I couldfind to take up hiding space so there would be no room left for monsters. Buteven as I could see the suitcase handle sticking out from under the bed skirt,I’d be in such fear of the ankle grabbing beast that I mastered a flying leaponto my bed from my doorway, a move that would undoubtedly score all 10’s inthe scaredy cat Olympics.

But my bedroom was not the only haunted place in my house,as the portal to hell was located in our cellar next to the oil tank. At aglance, it appeared to be just a door leaning against the wall in a far, darkcorner, but as an educated monster hunter I knew too well that if I were to everjiggle that knob, all the horrors of hell would be unleashed into our house, ifnot the whole city. You can thank me later for never testing that door, as itremains in place today, undisturbed and unopened.

Eager to share my frightful fascinations, I would drag myfriends into such things as séances and Ouija board readings, a mixture of funand fear which always left me wondering if the board really did answer YES whenasked if the door in the cellar led to hell, or if someone merely pushed it in thatdirection to scare me. Eventually, I came to fear that Ouija board so much Iburied in it an undisclosed location in the City far from my house, convinced Imight accidentally call out an evil spirit that would attach itself to me forlife, knowing even back then that life would be hard enough without dragging anevil spirit around with me.

My driver’s license gave me the freedom to broaden my circleof Halloween haunts, with my favorite being the now defunct Haunted HammondCastle, a spooktacular oceanfront setting that made me freeze in fear as Ientered a room in the castle with three doors, one of which I was told wouldlead straight to hell. My hand shook as I turned the knob, fearful I wouldsomehow exit into my own cellar on the other side.

As I grew up, I ran out of friends willing to go spookingwith, and resigned myself to watching TV shows like The Scariest Places onEarth, where regular people are dropped into haunted spots to survive overnightwith nothing but a prayer and a camera. Of course the entire apartment wouldhave to be dark with just a few flickering candles, and the volume would bevery loud so I could hear the frightened whispers leading up to the predictablescreaming. But what I failed to hear one night was my brother, who liveddownstairs at the time, knocking on my door to find out what all the screamingwas about, finally letting himself in- his giant shadowy silhouette filling theframe of my living room door- scaring me so badly the only sound I could managefrom my voice box was a tiny squeak before the he said “What the heck is goingon in here?”

Now middle aged, you would expect me to be too maturefor such nonsense, but check under my bed and you’ll find it stuffed to theedges with storage boxes, shoes and luggage, leaving no hiding space formonsters. Just the way I like it.

My Own Worst Frenemy

2011-10-06T16:32:00.001-04:00

A few years ago,some syllabic genius mashed up the words Friend and Enemy to create the hot,new word Frenemy. In about 5 seconds so many people related to it thatit spread around the world like wildfire, quickly becoming as commonly used asthe toxic relationship it describes.

A proverbial wolfin sheep’s clothing, frenemies outwardly appear supportive and understanding asthey subtly sabotage your happiness, breaking you down so they can be creditedfor picking you up again. They follow you around like an emotional broom anddustpan, cleaning up after your meltdowns and messes, many of which they werethe cause of. They isolate you so you rely on them, undermining your attemptsat healthy relationships with worrisome warnings and malicious misgivings aboutthe intent of others. They are quick to warn you of possible perils, and arealways at the head of the “I told you so” line.

It’s a complicated relationship that in many ways can be harder to break offthan a boyfriend or girlfriend. I know, because I’ve tried for most of my life.

My frenemyappears kind and caring. But you don’t know her like I do. In fact, no onedoes.

We grew uptogether. We played at the same playgrounds. We went to the same schools. Wehung out at the same clubs. And because we’ve known each other our entirelives, she has adequate information to use as amunition to fend off myemotional growth which she sees as a threat to our relationship. Like ahorrible historian, she tracks my life by traumas, reminding me of my mistakes,missteps and misgiving over the last half century. She claims she does it tokeep me grounded, which she does as well as a pair of lead shoes.

If I’m obliviously happy for even a minute, she turns my laughter to guilt byreminding me of everything I should feel sad about. When I am excited abouttrying something new, she reminds me of my past failures- ‘to protect me frominevitable disappointment’, or so she says. And like an emotional energizer bunny, she is ever ready to burst mybubble with her wounding words as she whispers to me after a seeminglysuccessful speech “No one would ever guess you were a stutterer”.

Frenemiesremember everything you forgot, but not useful stuff like where you ate thatamazing breakfast burrito or what pocket you stashed that lost $20 bill in. No.They remember when you were tormented by bullies and hid in the school bathroomuntil the janitor locked the doors. They don’t remind you of things you wishyou could remember. They remind you of things you’ve tried your whole life toforget.

But ending thecycle is more complicated than it sounds.

Because I know myfrenemy as well as she knows me, I am well aware of the difficulties anddisappointments that made her the way she is. She is the person I use to be,the place I was stuck in for so many years. We’ve suffered through the sametrials and tragedies, but as I seek the strength to forge forward, she seekssafety in the familiarity of her failings. And as much as I’d like to breakfree and leave her depression in my dust, it is this string of sad memoriesthat binds us together.

And because I’mthe only one who truly understands her, I’m the only one who can help her. AndI have to help her, if I’m ever going to help myself.

Because I am my own worst frenemy. And we’ve got a lot of work to do.

The Rain or Shine Test

2011-08-25T11:43:00.000-04:00

There is nothing like an outdoors event in the summer, as the sun warms our seasonally tinted skin and helps us forget about the awaiting winter. When we plan these events weeks, months or years ahead of time, we do so visualizing perfect weather. And for the first 11 years of the Steve O’Grady Open, that is exactly what we had. Perfect weather.

But not this year.

This year we were cruising along with a record high number of sponsorships and raffle donations, bemoaning the fact that we had to close the tournament to some golfers because we sold out. Volunteer life was good, until one of my golfing Facebook friends posted an ominous note a week before: “looks wet Monday, augh”.

“Augh” was right, as I checked the 10-day forecast, which showed rain the day of our event. Huge rain. Flash flood producing rain. Potential golf tournament canceling rain.

And so the worry marathon began. Just as a watched pot never boils, watched weather never improves. In fact, it often gets worse. And although I realized there was not a darn thing I could do about it, my nervous system wouldn’t listen. By Tuesday, insomnia kicked in, prompting me to post blurry eyed 3 a.m. comments on Facebook like “We said rain or shine, right?!” and “Remember its for a good cause!” Wednesday, sleep comes in fitful intervals with nightmares of waterfalls, white water rafting and drowning peppered with talk radio in which every call is about storm preparation.

By Thursday, I’m so exhausted I fall asleep in my car during lunch with my sunroof open- wondering why Monday’s forecast can’t be as nice as today- and wake up 20 minutes later covered with tree residue while a guy with a camera stares at me through my passenger window, certain I’m now posted on some messed-up site called “random pictures of people sleeping”.

By Friday, I’ve developed a quivering tick in my left eye and wonder if my staff thinks I’m winking at them. Every email with the subject “golf” makes me sick to my stomach. Every missed call on my phone taunts me as no one leaves a message after they hear my fake chipper voice confirming “It’s on!”

I finally decide to take a weather worry day off, and not check again until Sunday night. But on Saturday an acquaintance sends a note that the weather seems to be changing, which prompts me to jump on weather.com and see that yes, it is indeed changing! In fact, the storm that had been previously spread out over several days is now centered directly over the golf tournament, indicted by a giant cloud/rain/thunder icon I’ve never seen on weather.com before that looks like the black cloud of evil hanging over Philadelphia in the final battle of Ghostbusters.

At this point, I become a human calculator doing the math on the losses that could potentially incur as the weather forecast worsens. It’s not much of a leap until I’m imagining a scenario where we not only don’t have a tournament, but we end up owing money- literally “in the hole”- resulting in no scholarships, kids being denied a college education because they have no way to pay, which leads to high unemployment and economic ruin. Then I remember some of that stuff has happened already without my help, which only makes me feel worse.

If you expect me to wrap this up with a happy ending, you are right, but not because the weather changed. We still had rain. Heavy rain. Flood producing rain. But on tournament day, as the early morning minutes ticked by, golfers began to show up. Then more. And finally, we found ourselves with a nearly full tournament despite having to shorten it to nine holes. In fact, it was a record year for us, so go figure.

It’s now the Friday after our tournament, and reflecting back on the worry that eventually turned into WOW, I’m relieved to have it all behind me. As I prepare to volunteer at another outdoors event tonight, The Derby Street Mile, the forecast of widely scattered showers signals significantly less stress. Until a co-worker runs into my window-less office a few hours before the race with a handful of dripping ice cubes, and screams, “I just caught this falling out of the sky!”

“Awesome.” I respond, with a twitch of my left eye. Here we go again.

Learning to Ride a Bike....Again

2011-08-12T11:17:00.000-04:00

Recently, I started riding my bike again. What was intended as cross training to supplement my running quickly turned into a trip down memory lane, as I realized how much biking has changed over the years.

Back in the day, I rode a snazzy pink number with a huge white banana seat and streamers flowing off the handlebars. I sat straight up, supported by a high backrest better suited for a Harley, as my helmet-less head bopped along to the rhythmic sound of the clicker attached to my back tire, which announced to the neighborhood that I was out on a roll.

We barely used kickstands, as the parking method of choice was ‘ditch and run’, and our bikes easily withstood the punishment we put them through. Flats were rare as the tires were so fat they look like they were taken off a monster truck and we could ride over nails and glass with no worries. In fact, we’d often leave the imbedded object stuck in the tire for the extra click it delivered with each rotation.

There was no fear of theft, as everyone’s bike was easily identifiable thanks to thoughtful customization like baskets on the front, bright plastic piping on the spokes and customized license plates- also useful for identifying who had beaten you to the penny candy store.

Learning to ride was as simple as balancing without training wheels, as there were no gears or gimmicks; just pedal to ride, back pedal to brake. But even these basic skills would be perfected for hours on the basketball court where we would practice riding with no hands, popping a wheelie, riding while standing on your seat, balancing your friend on the handlebars, and seeing who could create the longest skid mark.

Parents didn’t plan their summer days around giving kids rides, as everything was biking distance. Each morning, I’d jump on my banana bike and ride my free flowing locks to the playground to meet the camp counselor who had all sorts of activities waiting for me, including creating such parental presents as gimp comb holders for dad and pot holders made out of fabric loops for mom. Often I’d wear my bathing suit in case I decided to take a plunge at Collins Cove or Dead Horse Beach, after which I’d jump back on my bike and blow dry myself as I cruised to my next stop.

But bike riding today is not nearly as carefree as it used to be.

Getting ready to ride can take longer than the ride itself, as I suit up with special shoes that fit the special lock-in pedals, padded bike shorts, gel gloves and a government approved safety helmet, appearing ready to compete in the Tour de Salem.

I glide along silently, my torso stretched out almost flat, precariously perched on a tiny seat that barely fits my butt cheeks, trying to figure out why I need 21 gears and two sets of brakes when I was perfectly happy with none. My fragile tires worry me, as I ride equipped with a flat tire changing kit, portable tire pump and cell phone.

Stopping to do an errand is a project, as ditch and run is not an option with a bike that cost you a month’s salary. So you not only need to find a bike rack for secure parking, you also need to remove your quick release front tire and lock it to the frame and back tire using a wire cutter resistant lock that weighs more than the bike itself.

But for all that has changed, some things remain the same. Cruising along, I remember how much of the city you can take in during a ride, exploring neighborhoods you’d never find by car or foot. And there is a peacefulness to biking that is very different from the punishing pounding of running.

But these pleasant thoughts are cut short when I spy a patch of thick mud in front of me and instinctively back pedal to brake as my front tire gets locked up in the gunk, wobbles sideways and ditches unexpectedly. The adult in me does a quick assessment of injury and comes up with only a skinned elbow and scraped knee, while the kid in me whispers underneath my government approved bicycle safety helmet “Awesome ditch…I’ve still got it!”

Leader of the Band-Wagon

2011-07-19T14:09:00.000-04:00

When the Bruins made it to the Stanley Cup playoffs, this newbie fan who hadn’t watched a full game since shootouts replaced extra periods, and who thought our captain was an Irish player named O’Chara, not only jumped back onto the bandwagon, I was driving it.

That’s right, I’d be in the lead Duck Boat holding Lord Stanley’s cup over my head sitting on Zdeno Chara’s shoulders if I could. But please don’t begrudge me- I need the good news and distraction as much as anyone else.

And I’m not the only one arriving late to this party. Pulling into the parking lot of a sporting goods store at 7 a.m. the morning after to see if I could score a championship hat or tee (no such luck), I laughed to myself as I parked my car bearing Celtics plates in between vehicles sporting Red Sox and Patriots plates with not a Bruins plate in sight.

Later that day I drove by a guy walking down the street wearing a Tim Thomas shirt who must have felt like the MVP himself as he waved and smiled to beeps and cheers from passing cars, including mine. Today he’s probably sweating his butt off mowing the lawn in the same shirt, wondering how he can afford to send his kids to college, but on that day he felt like part of the team.

Times are tough- but when the hometown teams are winning, everyone is in a better mood. Even my mother who doesn’t know the difference between Chara and Charo (goochie goochie) asked me to set her DVR to record the duck boat parade so she could be part of the excitement, and what’s wrong with that?

It seems like Boston sports fans are generally described two ways: long suffering or spoiled. We’ve suffered some of the worst defeats (Bruins v. Flyers 2010- ouch!) and the most miraculous wins (2004 ALC Sox v. Yankees- a miracle!). And it is these extreme emotions that keep us perpetually heartbroken and elated at the same time, providing us with much needed exercise as we jump on and off the bandwagon depending on which team is hot at the moment.

And I will freely admit this is not my first ride on a bandwagon. I live with someone who religiously watched every painful Celtics game during years when the Herald couldn’t bribe someone to sit in our skybox. I’ve listened to screams of “you stink” and “stop throwing up trash” directed to our own team, as I suggested “you can do it” might be more encouraging. But enter the big three and the 2008 Championship vs. LA, and guess who is taking a couple of hours off from work to attend the Celtics Duck Boat victory parade wearing my World Champion tee screaming “I LOVE YOU RONDO!” as green and white confetti rained down on me; all this, while the die-hard, life-long fan toiled diligently at work.

Watching the joy and celebration of our championship teams makes me wonder what it’s like to feel on top of the world, to see your dreams and hard work culminate in a feat that is the pinnacle of your career. And for that one moment frozen in time- pure joy. Our personal payoffs for hard work are much less celebrated, and we may never experience that moment that so defines our career that we can sit back and think with a sigh, “I did it”. So we live vicariously through the achievements of our athletes, sharing their pain and joy, bonding with each other over heartbreak and happiness, always looking forward to the start of the next season.

So to you long suffering fans who lost a season during the hockey lockout and who bought their original chair when the “Old Gah-den” was torn down, don’t be haters! You have earned my total respect, and my new enthusiasm in no way diminishes your years of loyalty. Or to paraphrase a childhood song, “Make new fans, but keep the old. One is silver and the other’s gold.” Or in this case, black and gold.

Stubbornly Self Sufficient

2011-06-22T12:03:00.000-04:00

I secretly smile when I see a parent struggling with a child screaming “ME DO! ME DO!” because I know just how the kid feels.

From an early age I decided if you want something done, do it yourself. As a result, I’ve been self-sufficient my whole life- earning my own money, paying my own way, carrying my own burdens. It’s how I’ve approached my business, personal and volunteer life and so far, it’s worked like a charm. Or has it?

Car needs oil? I’ll add it myself. Copier machine jammed? I’ll fix it myself. Piece of lint on the rug? I’ll pick it up myself. I’ve gotten so use to doing everything that needs to be done that I have almost no time left for things I want to do- like nothing but breath, just for a minute.

And I feel guilty if anyone does something for me that I’m perfectly capable of doing myself, even if it’s their job. Like the smiling senior who bags my groceries- shouldn’t he have earned the right to relax in retirement instead of waiting on me when I’m perfectly capable of doing this myself? Or the wait staff in a restaurant- do they really want to hear my food idiosyncrasies of butter on the side, dressing on the side, everything that can be on the side on the side? And my heart sinks if I enter a bathroom to find an attendant cheerfully waiting to clean up behind me. Yes I know these are all honest ways to make a living, so please don’t take it the wrong way. Its not them, it’s me.

And my self-sufficiency does not stop at physical tasks; it extends to emotional issues as well. Bad day? Stop feeling sorry for myself; other people are going through a lot worse. Aches and pains? Just keep it to myself; no one wants to hear me whine. Feeling down? Just dig deep and keep on plugging. Even my leisure activities of reading, writing and running are more solo that social, so as not to pressure anyone else to feel responsible for my entertainment.

I’m thinking about this “ME DO!” lifestyle as I load 10 bags of mulch onto my push cart at Home Depot to the amusement of two strangers, and wonder how many years I’ll be able to keep this up. Do I like to be this way, or am I just saving myself from possibly being disappointed by anyone else? Does it inspire others to work equally hard, or enable them to do less? And if it is true that God helps those who help themselves, shouldn’t there be a posse coming over the hill to help me any minute now?

But there is no posse. In fact, it appears the more you take care of yourself, the more you are expected to take care of everyone else. I’ve purposefully or accidentally set the expectation that if something needs to be done, ask Beth. Beth gets things done. Which is mostly true, but as I get older, sometimes Beth is tired and just needs to sit down for a minute.

And as I do so, I sit next to a child screaming “ME DO! ME DO MYSELF!” stymieing his frustrated mother’s efforts to expedite the process of tying the tots sneakers. But this time, instead of smiling at the youngster, I think to myself ‘Be careful what you wish for kid; you might just get it.’

Measuring Time

2011-06-14T16:16:00.002-04:00

I always admired people who have a knack for remembering things like the names of our Presidents in order of their term, every state capital in alphabetical order and even the mascot for each Division I college football team.

I equally respect people who have such a keen sense of time they are never late for anything. I once knew a manager who began his weekly sales meeting exactly on time, starting with the most important information first, whether anyone else was there or not. It was a little extreme, a lot eccentric, but quite effective.

Even more amazing to me are people who can recite the month, day and year of a wide range of events beyond the obvious birthdays and anniversaries, including things like the day they got their driver’s license, the date they stopped smoking or even the date of a first date.

I have never been one of those people.

My sense of dates and time goes something like this (in order of oldest to most recent): before I was alive, when I was little, a wicked long time ago, back when I was in school, a long time ago, a couple of years ago, not that long ago, just a couple of days ago, a little while ago and now. Which seems to have worked out fine so far, as people appear to understand what I mean without my having to get into specifics.

Unless of course I’m cornered by a question I should know, like when a member of alumni relations at Salem State University asked me what year I graduated, assuming that would be an easy question for me to answer. I muttered some small talk as I miraculously recalled that I graduated Salem High School in 1978 and discreetly counted out four more years on my fingers under the table to figure out the answer. Since then I’ve been taunted by the chipper greeting of “Hi Beth, Class of 1982!” reminding me that an acquaintance remembers significant dates in my life better than I do.

Major local sports events fall into similar time frames. While its been a couple of years since the Patriots and Red Sox won a championship, the Celtics won one not that long ago and the Bruins were in the Stanley Cup Playoffs just a couple of days ago. Everyone knows what I mean without getting into specifics, which most of them will aptly fill in for me anyhow, conveniently concealing my ignorance.

But while I’m hopeless at remembering when things happened, I am great at remembering how I felt when things happened. So while I have to refer to my resume for the actual date I started working at the Boston Herald, I vividly remember that on my first day I wore a dusty pink pantsuit with huge shoulder pads and sheer sleeves (sadly, this is 100% true) and went to a Thai restaurant for lunch with the Marketing Director who got pad thai, and I got a bowl of soup. Perhaps my brain has no room for dates precisely because it is full of random, useless details such as these.

And although even I remember the iconic date of September 11, I still can’t easily recall the year. But I’ll never forget the fear of the unknown that permeated the office as employees begged to go home to be with family and the eerie quiet as I drove home later in the day when the world seemingly stood still as we all realized our world had changed forever, adding another dimension to my timetable, and everyone else’s; before 9/11, and post 9/11.

The Information Booth is Open

2011-05-24T07:10:00.000-04:00

All of these events happened over a recent weekend.

I buzzed through a drugstore to do a quick errand, and was stopped by a stranger who asked which of the two under eye concealers she held would work best for her, liquid or powder.

Onto the grocery store, where another woman asked me if the red lobster packaged in plastic wrap at the seafood counter was in fact dead, and if so what should she do with it. A few aisles later, she approached me again carrying two different wedges of cheese asking me which one would work better for fettuccini alfredo. Then in the food section, a man asked me what a kiwi tasted like and how you would eat it.

The next day, I’m in the shoe section of a department store when a young woman approaches me and asks if the sneakers she is holding would be good for fitness walking, as she is trying to get back into shape.

First let me eliminate the obvious, and say that I’m pretty sure they did not think I was an employee in these stores, as no one would ever hire anyone who looked or dressed like me on weekends. And yes, they were all strangers. I should also eliminate the fact that I was in any way, shape or form looking pleasant and approachable, as when I do errands I am all business, purposefully avoiding eye contact to get in and out as quickly as possible. So asking me a question when I’m in errand mode requires determination, courage and good faith that I look like someone who might actually know the answer.

More interesting is that this is not just small talk; these people want answers. And my answer could determine whether or not they buy a certain product. Who knew a middle aged woman with no makeup on running errands in a beat up blue blankie sweater could have this much influence over our local economy?

Even more interesting is the fact that I do indeed have the answers; or at least I think I do. And those answers -in order - were: powder, yes its dead, you could sauté it with pasta, parmesan, tastes kind of like a strawberry, cut it in half and scoop out the inside, yes they are fine and you can do it!

This should come as no surprise to anyone who went to grade school with me and remembers my arm perpetually risen like Horshack from Welcome back Kotter, in response to just about every question in every classroom and subject, prompting teachers to ask “Does anyone BUT Beth want to try to answer this question?” Granted I didn’t always have the right answer, but I wasn’t afraid to give it a shot. And if I didn’t know the answer, I would just ask more questions.

In fact, the older I get, the more questions I have. But they are not the kind that can be answered in the grocery store check out line. They are questions like: What is our purpose? Why do bad things happen to good people? and What happens after we die? But while I am still seeking the answers to my own questions, I’m still happy to try to answer yours.

And yes, if the Lobster is red, it is indeed dead.

Blankie Power

2011-05-11T11:10:00.003-04:00

That’s right, I have a blankie. Well, sort of.

It’s been on vacation with me and it’s chilled out at home with me. It’s been to every marathon expo with me, and waited for me at the end of each race. I’ve laughed in it and cried in it. It’s been with me when I cleaned my house, cleaned my yard, and tried to clean up in Las Vegas. It’s my ratty, old, blue shrunken sweater covered with pulls and pills. And although I’ve lost track of its specific origin, I estimate its age at over 20 years – longer than I’ve known most of my friends, and about the age my child would be if I had one. Its been washed and worn so many times it’s almost transparent, and now requires a shirt to be worn under it in public; which is just as well as it has shrunken so much it barely covers my belly bulge. If I were in grade school, I’d draw a heart and write inside of it Beth + Sweater = TLF (true love forever). Why do I love this sweater so much? I have no idea. I just do.

From a very early age, we develop an attachment to materials that bring us comfort, starting with the blankie. Blankie goes everywhere! Blankie makes us happy! Blankie + me= TLF! Which is all good, until something very bad happens to blankie. I’ve heard horror stories of blankies falling apart in the wash, falling out of a carriage or falling out a car window, but I’ve never heard a story about a baby falling out of love with one. Its appeal is undeniable, irresistible and inevitable. My blue sweater is the adult version of my blankie, and I’ll bet you have one too.

My late Uncle’s “blankie” was his orange plaid shirt, so much so, it’s hard for me to picture him not wearing it. Literally, as he is wearing it in almost every family photo over the years. He had a highly responsible job, and his orange plaid shirt signaled the simple things in life that made him happy: family time, leisure time, his yard, the sun and his shirt, not necessarily in that order. And I’m sure if you monitored his blood pressure, it would be lowest when he was wearing his signature shirt. Much like my sweater, his shirt took quite a beating over the years, so my Aunt did what any proud family matriarch would do. She tried to replace it with a new one, which anyone who has ever tried to replace an original blankie knows is an exercise in futility. My Uncle’s love of his ratty old orange plaid shirt became the stuff family legends are made of, with my favorite story being how that shirt mysteriously found itself buried in the bottom of the trash one day, only to come back on the back of my Uncle as he calmly watered the grass in it the next morning.

I’ve seen many examples of blankie-like comfort clothes over the years, from the “power tie”, worn as a security blanket to big negotiations, to “fast socks”, superstitiously worn to important races and even “lucky underwear”, worn for reasons I’d rather not know. As logical adults, we know clothing does not have magical powers, and even Superman was still super without his cape. Still, certain pieces of clothing trigger such strong memories and emotions that they become almost impossible to part with.

Hanging in my attic, there is an old XXL sweatshirt, its neck and wrist bands barely attached by a few threads, full of holes and covered with stains, soft from the many washings in an attempt to remove them. It has escaped the trash for 12 years only because it was a favorite of my late brother Stephen- his version of my beat up, beautiful, blue blankie sweater. I’m tempted to put it on to see if its magical powers can be transferred to me, but the magic was in the man, not the clothing. So I keep it not for the power of the blankie, but for the power of love- something even stronger.

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

2011-04-26T08:34:00.000-04:00

Just after the New Year, my work computer started acting strangely. Our relationship gradually deteriorated until it barely responded to me, finally sending me a desperate plea to insert a disk into its drive or it would dump our memory. Although my mind told me to back up my files first, like a scene from a horror movie where the possessed hand has an evil mind of its own, I witnessed myself shutting the computer off even as my brain was thinking “NO!”

Anyone who knows me, knows I’m always full of great ideas. Or more specific, I’m full of a couple of good ideas, surrounded by lots of crappy ideas that probably shouldn’t be acted upon, an impulse I’m still trying to control. And as I continue the long and painful process of recreating every file I’ve ever used for the past 20 years lost in the aforementioned computer meltdown, I started to think about other times my impulsive nature has gotten me into trouble.

Back in grade school, my early aspirations to be a writer combined with my lack of popularity resulted in what I thought was a fantastic idea to write a murder mystery incorporating my classmates as characters. It worked like a charm, and my star was rising with each page in my pathetic plan to make me the pinnacle of popularity. That is until one of my main characters told me I looked like “a pig at a luau”, causing me to go home and promptly set my hand written manuscript on fire, along with the flowered shirt that inspired the comment. I immediately knew this was a bad idea, but it was too late to save the cremated copy. At the time, I thought ‘they’ would all be sorry. But the only thing that ended up being sorry was myself, as I burnt what was evolving into a pretty good murder mystery, killing with it my reputation.

I would love to attribute this impish impetuousness to the silliness of my youth, but after decades of debacles, one of my biggest blunders was yet to come.

In fall of 2001, the anthrax scare was in high alert following a letter sent to news anchor Tom Brokaw, which included the deadly substance, described in the news report as ‘brown and granular’. Shortly after, one of my co-workers at the Boston Herald showed me a newspaper he had found in our cafeteria, with a similar looking substance sandwiched inside our sports section. As we debated whether it was anthrax or bran muffin crumbs, I grabbed the substance and inhaled it to prove how sure I was that it was safe. Later that night, still isolated with my co-worker in the HR office while the Hazardous Materials Team tested the substance and news trucks waited out front for the results (it was indeed a bran muffin), my only response to their repeated questioning about why a manager would inhale what my co-worker suspected was a lethal substance was “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Those who say actions speak louder than words have not heard some of my classic faux pas, which literally scream out “Could you please help me remove my foot from my mouth”. These include the time I told an employee I loved her Halloween costume only to find out she wasn’t wearing one, bumping into a business associate in downtown Salem on a Saturday morning saying I hardly recognized her without makeup as she told me she just had a makeover and gestured to the beauty store right behind her, and asking a co-worker from another department when her baby was due again, only to be told her daughter was now 4 months old.

Every now and then, though, one of my brainstorms turns into brilliance, including ten years ago when I got the bright idea I could run the Boston Marathon. I could not run a mile at the time and had no clue what special joys winter training in New England would bring. But thanks to friends who shared my uneducated and unadulterated, albeit naïve, enthusiasm towards this goal, I can’t imagine the past 10 years of my life without running. My all time favorite marathon training memory remains a bitterly cold, early morning run in February 2003. As my friend Lisa’s ponytail froze into a concussion causing clump and my eyelashes sported icicles, I turned to her and stated the obvious, “This seemed like a good idea at the time…”

And as it turned out, it was.

Can't We All Just Get Around?

2011-04-06T11:13:00.002-04:00

There are about 4 million people born in America each year, and I have no idea where they are all going to park. I use to think that the fear of not finding a parking spot was reserved for older, fragile folks with mobility issues. Lately, however, this concern has become more cross-generational than geriatric.

Pulling into the parking lot at a popular local grocery store on a weekend afternoon, I join the creeping caravan of cars circling the lot, like a macabre game of metallic musical chairs. At the twinkle of a taillight, every car within a quarter mile puts their blinker on to indicate ownership of the soon to be vacant spot, including the car in front of you who slams their car into reverse as they send you the death stare, daring you to pull in and suffer the unspoken consequences, leaving me to wonder if a sale on laundry detergent is worth the wrath of road rage.

I decide to forgo my food shopping for now, and instead head to downtown Salem, where I quickly find that the percentage of cool shops and restaurants cropping up in the city is disproportionate to the number of parking spots to accommodate potential customers. Lack of parking is like the cold shower of impulse buying, putting a damper on your shopping desires once you realize that while you can see the object of your desire, you just can’t get there.

Working in South Boston, I should be use to this. During our woeful winter of 2011, I once drove around an entire block of empty parking spots being reserved with everything from air conditioners to beach chairs to a set of golf clubs; a giant frigid flea market where customers were not welcomed. I slowly circled past the store I had intended to shop at, once, twice, three times before finally retreating back to work, wondering if what our economy really needs to get it going is more parking spaces.

Then there’s Cambridge, where resident parking is so rare that once you find a space, you try your best to never drive again. Cars sit in their prime parking spots like old trophies, glory long gone, plowed in by snow banks in the winter and collecting dust in the spring, while their owners commute on the T, beg friends for rides and walk for miles telling anyone who will listen about the great parking spot they found right outside their door 2 years ago, where their car still sits.

Near the Boston Herald, there are a handful of free, non-metered, non-posted parking spaces that have remained overlooked by the city, an oasis in the desert. Each morning, there is a line of double-parked cars, their rhythmic blinkers signaling in unison, as they await the exit of a night shift employee to snatch their parking prize. Unfortunately, the entrance to the Herald parking lot is in the midst of this parking panic, and each day as I slowly drive pass them with my blinker on, they mistakenly assume I am trying to cut into their territory, and their silently swearing faces behind their windows remind me of the wedding scene in The Graduate. Good morning to you, too!

Several years ago, a friend of mine lived in Nahant near Short Beach, and I had an open invite to join her on any given weekend at this beautiful spot. Which sounded great until I realized there are no legal non-resident all day parking spots within walking distance. After multiple stake-outs and failed attempts, including a disastrous and embarrassing shot at strapping my beach chair to my back and riding my bike, I finally discovered there is exactly one parking space walking distance from the beach where you can stay all day without a resident sticker and without getting a parking ticket. Even though my friend has long since moved, I sometimes drive by my prized spot to see if it remains free for all. Where is it you ask?

Nice try, but that’s my spot.

I Don't Travel Light

2011-03-08T12:14:00.000-05:00

Some people appear to float effortlessly through life, gliding along with their feet barely touching the ground, surrounded by a quiet calmness that evokes a peaceful, easy feeling in all who are graced by their presence.

I am not one of those people.

I stomp through life with the grace of a baby elephant, my heavy hoofing echoing through the halls at work and resounding down the roads of Salem. I pound the pavement with a caustic cadence that causes everyone I approach to turn and look behind them; runners, walkers, dogs and even a scampering squirrel, frozen in fear as he stares at me over his little rodent shoulder. Like a domino game, for years I would turn and look behind me as well, finally realizing it was my own stomping feet of fury that was demanding such attention.

Let’s just say I would not qualify for any job that required me to sneak up on anyone. I am as subtle as a tsunami, and phrases such as “Let me get out of your way”, “Watch out!” and “Here she comes!” are as common to me as “hello”.

If I were a fighter, I’d be introduced as a mini flyweight, standing in my corner at 5’1’’, a scant 105 pounds. And like a fighter, dainty is not a word to describe me. Nor would you want to get into the ring with me, as I’m deceptively strong for my size.

On any given day, I can be seen carrying the equivalent of my body weight in ‘stuff’ everywhere I go, be it work, the gym, or a volunteer event. Climbing three flights of stairs to the office, I am loaded up like a camel prepped for a trek through the Sahara balancing a pocketbook, briefcase, gym bag, two plastic grocery bags full of coffee supplies that threaten to cut the circulation off to my left wrist, and a half sheet cake that says Happy March Birthdays.

Recently while on vacation, I went on a zip line adventure, which required us to carry our own heavy gear to the top of the mountain. When the youthful guide asked if I needed him to carry my gear as it might be too heavy for me, my friend burst out into laughter saying “Don’t let her fool you…she could carry her gear AND you up the mountain!”

I’ve carried more than my share of weight my whole life, both physically and emotionally. I can still feel the weight of brother Stephen as a baby, my petite frame carrying him up the creaking stairs to bed, his slumbering self almost half my size. It’s a weight I carry with me still, the pain of his death absorbed into my constitution, making me feel heavier per square inch than a moon rock.

Like a sad Santa, I trudge along with my sack full of useless emotions and hurtful experiences, wanting to drop it and run, but fearful that another poor soul who is not strong enough to withstand the load will have to suffer its burden instead of me. So onward I march.

But there are rare moments of clarity amidst the turmoil, when I temporarily break free of the gravity that grounds me, like a balloon breaking free of its weight, and I feel light. Magnificently light.

Air is light. Clouds are light. Angels are light.

Realizing I’m not quite ready to lighten up that much, I pick up my sack and march back into my purposeful life, determined one day to find out exactly what that purpose is.

One Bad

2011-02-15T12:47:00.000-05:00

Great article. I always enjoy your columns. You say what I’m thinking! So go the kind and generous Facebook comments from friends after I posted a recent column to my homepage. They are the type of comments that make you hope you are half as good as your friends think you are. I’m appreciating the encouragement until I follow a link where someone reposted my article and there it is- a critical comment.

Let me just say, I do this for fun. I do it for the enjoyment of the written word. And I do it to get all of these thoughts out of my head so I have room for more. I’m hardly a professional, so I’m not hardened to being judged about the quality of my work. Worse, this comment from a total stranger wasn’t about the quality of my work at all – it was about me, personally. Suffice to say it stung enough to erase every positive word that had come before or would ever come after. I call it the mysterious power of the “One Bad”.

You all know what I mean by the One Bad. It can apply to any instance where we are flooded with flowing affirmations, until we hit the brick wall that is the One Bad, making us second guess everything. Leading me to wonder why one critical voice, even if spoken in a whisper, is heard so much louder than hundreds of encouraging words.

I’m running the Boston marathon! Again? When are you going to stop? I lost 5 pounds! You are way too skinny. I got a promotion! I thought your company was going out of business. I’m going to write a book! Everyone thinks they can write a book.

Even when we know we can’t possibly please everyone we still try. Especially at work, where we are forced into a caustic camaraderie with people we would never normally spend the bulk of our lives with. While we can sometimes make lifelong friends in the process, there’s always at least One Bad. My One Bad came in the form of an anonymous note left on my desk a few years back that went something like this “Everyone thinks you play favorites”. Even knowing immediately whom the note was from and why he left it (it had to do with my displeasure at his taping dead flies to his computer terminal), it still bugged me. Why did he have to use the word EVERYONE? The friendly interrogations that followed brought disbelief and confirmation that the source was as suspected and speaking only for him, but it still stung.

While you expect to not have happy customers in the business world, even the volunteer world is not immune. As I basked in the glow of the finest event I had ever had the pleasure of volunteering on, raising nearly a quarter of a million dollars for a beloved charity, the comment I remember is “So-and-so (name withheld to protect the mean) said they heard it was a disaster and no one came”, making me 2nd guess the success that seemed so obvious, and causing me to wonder if this was Two Bad - as in ‘so-and-so’ plus the person who made sure I heard the hurtful comment- or a thinly disguised One Bad, where the person implying that others are saying bad things is the true source of discontent.

Lately it seems the One Bad is a daily occurrence. In my excitement about an upcoming trip, I ask everyone about my intended destination, even though the odds are that the more I ask, the closer I’ll get to the One Bad, which sounded something like this: “Watch out for the dog filth everywhere”. Great, thanks!

And as I go online to look up the address of a local restaurant that got great reviews, someone had attached a photo of cockroaches to the posting board that unfortunately did what it was intended to do. It made me second guess the pages of rave reviews and eat once again at my tried and true spot.

The worst thing about the One Bad, is that it is so darn effective. One person’s negativity can drop our spirits like an elevator on the way to the penthouse that suddenly plunges to the basement. And if you look closely, you’ll see the One Bad is overjoyed to watch your pride and happiness drain to pain, happy to see you as miserable as they are- at least for that moment.

The truth is, we probably aren’t as great as our friends think we are, but we are not as bad as the One Bad would have us believe either. And if following my lifetime dream to write makes me vulnerable to criticism from others, in the long run its all good- even the One Bad.

Life in Perspective

2011-02-01T14:43:00.000-05:00

We’ve all been there at one time or another, listening sympathetically as someone complains about his or her ‘day from hell’. And at the same time that we feel compassion, we can’t silence the little voice in the back of our head that whispers ‘I’ve had a lot worse days than that’. We don’t do it to be insensitive, or to belittle their misery. We do it because we are human, and our memory bank is the essence of who we are. Forming a personal perspective is a lifetime process that begins at birth and continuously evolves as we add new experiences to our repertoire.

There is nothing more genuine than a young child’s pure perspective of life - joyous and full of wonder, as everything is experienced for the first time. But as we age we interact differently with the world around us, and our perspective of the same things can change, often tarnishing those shiny silver memories.

Back when I was a kid and Revere Beach still had rides, I was awestruck by the Boston skyline as seen from the top of the Mickey Mouse roller coaster. It beckoned like the Emerald City, sparking and bright, full of opportunity and unknown riches. But after commuting to Boston for over 20 years, I’ve peeked behind the curtain and realize it’s not as glorious when you are one of the hard working munchkins trying to keep the gears in motion.

Several years ago I begged a friend to visit the Polar Caves in New Hampshire with me. My recollection was of cavernous hollows big enough to go spelunking in if you were so inclined. But 30 years later, as I struggled to fit through the tight chasms- even taking the ‘old fart’ walkway around one particularly tight fit- I almost wished I hadn’t tarnished my magical childhood memory by trying to relive the experience as my super-sized senior self.

In the perspective of a young life, school and friendships are such a huge part of our daily existence that any type of social rejection can be crushing. It’s a pain parents feel helpless to relieve, even if we lived through similar struggles. Thinking back to the years I was teased and harassed, no one could convince me that things would ever get better. In perspective, those struggles made me more determined to succeed in life, but could have easily broken me as well.

That's the thing with perspective- you have to earn it yourself, usually the hard way. You have to live long enough to be able to turn around and compare where you've been with where you are today to fully realize what it took to get here. Often, decisions made when we are too young to understand their full implications can change the direction of our lives forever.

Perspective is not a clear-cut proposition, as shared experiences can change us in different ways. For some, the life changing news of death or illness shakes us to the core, causing us to find a renewed purpose and appreciation of life. But for others, bad news begins a spiral of negativity where only the sadness and tragedy of life is highlighted, like Pooh’s chronically depressed friend, Eeyore. Which leads me to wonder if it is our experiences in life, or how we respond to them, that truly shape who we become.

I’m pondering that thought while waiting in line to buy a coffee on yet another stormy morning, when an exasperated child, covered in snow and wearing boots that appear to be two sizes too large, bursts through the door with his mother and exclaims to everyone “This is the best winter ever!” which of course brings the house down with laughter. “That depends on your perspective” I said, with a hint of sadness at the memory of myself as that same child, my wonder now turned to weariness at the thought of the long road that lies ahead.

New Year Non-Resolutions

2010-12-28T16:19:00.000-05:00

This year, I’m forgoing the traditional path of goal setting, and taking a new approach for my resolutions. Instead of compiling a list of things I will do, I am making a list of things I will absolutely, positively NOT to do in 2011.

This year, I will NOT blow past pedestrians in the crosswalk or beep my horn at the car in front of me one second after the light turns green. I will not zoom past school buses with their red lights flashing, pass on the right or cut someone off as they try to merge. I will not crash my shopping cart into parked cars, or toss trash out of my car window.

I will NOT leave my sidewalk un-shoveled to the peril of pedestrians, mail carriers and runners, nor will I leave two feet of snow on my hood to crash into the driver’s windshield behind me because I am too lazy or late to bother pushing it off.

I will NOT cough into someone’s face, or offer my hand to shake after sneezing into my own. I will not drag my martyr self into work when I’m contagious so I can infect everyone else, nor will I call out sick just because I have sick days and need to use them or lose them. I will not heat up fish or burn popcorn in the office microwave, or wear so much perfume that you can locate me by smell alone.

I will NOT jump into the newly opened register line at check out, bypassing those who have been waiting much longer, or hold up the line begging the cashier to honor a 10 cent off coupon that expired weeks ago. I will not be rude to service employees trying to do their job, or take my frustration out on the messenger of bad news. I will try not to be the messenger of bad news. I will not judge a book by its cover, nor will I cover for someone who should get the book thrown at them.

I will NOT take the last piece of paper without replenishing it, be it toilet, tissue or copy machine. I will not put something back that is broken for the next person to think they did it. I will not place blame, point the finger or pass the buck. I will not ask you to split the check if I get a steak and you get a salad.

I will NOT look for the easy way out, wimp out, or cheap out. I will not talk down, talk over or talk negatively about others. I will not exaggerate, commiserate or irritate. I will not hold others responsible for my personal happiness or lack of it. I will not blame the past, or waste today worrying about tomorrow. I will not stand by, stand back, or stand around when I can do something.

I will NOT compare my misery to others in a no win battle of whose life is worse, or forget that we all carry our own burdens. I will not expect the worst, or have unrealistic expectations. I will not quit, complain or compromise. I will not follow blindly, be blind to the truth or turn a blind eye to injustice.

I will NOT work the system, cheat the system, or be a product of the system. I will not curse the darkness, but will light a candle instead (actually, I think someone else said that, so never mind). I will not talk softly or carry a big stick. I will not stick it to anyone, nor will I stick to the beaten path. I will not let sticks or stones break my bones, or words hurt me. I will not have double standards, lower my standards or stand for nothing. I will not overindulge, overanalyze or over share.

And for once, I will NOT regret what I didn’t do in the New Year, because that was my goal from the start.

A Wonderful Life, Revisited

2010-12-20T06:40:00.001-05:00

"Strange, isn't it George, how each man's life touches so many others, and when he isn't around it leaves an awful hole."

If you attributed this opening quote to Clarence the Angel from Its a Wonderful Life- congratulations! You have successfully been hypnotized by the holiday hype sadly synonymous with the Christmas season.

Who wouldn’t feel festive after watching poor George Bailey living a life of obligation, working long hours day after day in the same drab office, living in a broken down home barely making ends meet so that others could fulfill their dreams? Ironically, being in the business of dream fulfillment meant that George had to forgo his own dreams along the way. And he lived with that regret until it became unbearable, carrying the weight of his responsibilities right to the edge of the local bridge, prepared to let it sink him once and for all.

Merry Christmas everyone!

They say It’s a Wonderful Life was unsuccessful in its theatrical debut because it was deemed too depressing as it showcased the despair of a time when our country was at war, families were struggling to buy and maintain their homes, and greed was gaining ground over goodness. Sound familiar?

If you have never seen the movie and are now intrigued, I’m warning you the spoiler is coming. Just as George is ready to jump into the river with the weight of the entire town on his back, a fledgling angel named Clarence swoops down to show George what life would be like without him. Apparently without him, Bedford Falls turns into something like Las Vegas, beautiful women become old maids, formerly good-hearted citizens become mean-spirited drunks and greed prevails. Could one person really have such a huge impact on so many lives?

Maybe.

And for me, that maybe is everything. In a time when so many are looking for guarantees and certainties about their future, we know deep down there is no such thing. And who among us hasn’t at least sometimes hoped that the despair and sadness we have gone through isn’t for naught, and that there is a master scheme we play an important role in. We hope the karma of our good deeds will eventually bring a better life for us and those we love. We hope, because we can never truly know. But that hope drives us forward day after day. And that ‘maybe’ is worth living for.

Which leads me to my annual holiday story about my brother Stephen and I, back in a more innocent time. A time when he was young and full of hope and belief in all things good, and I was full of teenage skepticism. Its my personal version of “Yes Virginia, There is a Santa Claus”, retold year after year. I call it The Night We Saw Rudolph.

Twas the night before Christmas on Webb Street in Salem. Stephen is five years old and trying desperately to fall asleep amidst the holiday excitement and anticipation of Christmas morning.

I tell him that if Santa comes and he is still awake, he will fly right by and not bring him any toys. Just then, someone drove into the driveway of the liquor store that use to be our neighbor and put their brake lights on, causing the bedroom to glow in a bright, red light.

His eyes grew as big as saucers as he looked at the window, then at me, and muttered “Rudolph…!” just before falling asleep.

From that year forth, every Christmas Eve Stephen would turn to me and say, “Remember the night we saw Rudolph?” and we’d laugh at the memory. But as we grew to adults, I began to respond, “That wasn’t Rudolph, it was….” and before I could finish the statement he would give a little smirk and say, “SShhhh, it was Rudolph” and we’d just smile.

My brother has been gone 11 Christmases now, but I tell this story to anyone who will listen. Because looking back, Stephen was right. It was indeed Rudolph.

And although my brother may not have realized it at the time, he truly did live a wonderful life. As do we all.

Giving Thanks, Again

2010-11-22T13:19:00.002-05:00

Nothing like a holiday called Thanks-giving to remind us to stop and give thanks for all that is good in our lives. What good, you say? Look closely and you’ll find it in unexpected places. It’s in the twinkle of a giggling child’s eyes. It’s in the warm hug of someone you love when you walk through the door after a tough day. It’s in a moment of sincere understanding. It’s even in the vending machine when you push the button for one candy bar, but two fall out- score! Like a trail of bread crumbs through the dark forest of life, these small moments of gratitude lead us to better and brighter days ahead. So once again, I’d like to share some of the small moments throughout the year that cause me to pause and give thanks for the simple pleasures of life.

A good night’s sleep. The smell of freshly washed sheets. Flannel sheets. The sound of rain on the window at night. People who don’t rain on my parade. Discussing whether dogs can really smile or not. Smiling dogs. The first summer hot dog cooked outside on the grill. Cool sunglasses and a beautiful sunny day to wear them on. The light at the end of the tunnel, being that light for someone else.

A shoulder to lean on, lending a helping hand. Realizing how far we’ve come. Letting go. Poems. Justice. Poetic justice. Laughing so hard my stomach hurts. Not catching the stomach bug that plagued the rest of the office. People who say "Bless You" when you sneeze. Counting your blessings. Kids who leave sand castles and snow angels behind. The feeling of warm sand between your toes. Angels, on earth and in Heaven.

DVR and not having to miss my favorite TV shows. The luxury of doing nothing for an afternoon. Curling up on the couch with a comfortable throw blanket. Comfortable silence. Silencing doubters. Working up a sweat. Not sweating the small stuff. Small miracles.

A flattering driver’s license photo. A dependable car. Seeing a speeding car whiz past you then seeing it pulled over by police a mile later. Taking the high road, getting the low down. The road less traveled. Making a difference. Knowing the difference between right and wrong. Admitting you were wrong. Not rubbing it in when you were right. Listening to talk radio on my way home from work. Disagreeing with the talk show host. Living in a country where we can openly disagree. Strawberry shortcake with a biscuit and extra whipped cream.

Being pleasantly surprised, pulling off a surprise. Earning extra bucks on my rewards card. Discovering an item you thought you were splurging on is on sale. Turning in a $5 lottery ticket and winning $10 on the next one. Winning sports teams. Team efforts. Good sports. Good times with friends. Good timing. Friends who help you move- literally and figuratively. Moving on, moving up. The perfect haircut. Friends who like your haircut even when it’s not perfect. Not having to be perfect all the time. A card that expresses the perfect sentiment. Being sentimental. Cheese.

Kids who dance for no reason. Babies with their whole future in front of them; seniors with proud history behind them. Kettle corn at the fair. Being treated fairly. Treating the stranger behind you to a cup of coffee. Doug’s famous coffee. Being a regular at your favorite restaurant. Being adventurous enough to try a new restaurant. Crispy bacon.

New sneakers, and running in them. Being able to run. Not running away from a challenge. Challenging myself. Setting a difficult goal. Achieving it. Qualifying for the Boston Marathon. A long downhill after a steep uphill. A hot steam after a cold run. The cold ocean after a hot run. GPS. Knowing where you are going. Getting lost along the way and ending up someplace even better.

Looking forward to another year of things to be thankful for.
Another year.
Being thankful.

Memory Triggers

2010-10-26T16:39:00.001-04:00

For the past few months at work, a coworker has taken new interest in me. He walks by my office a little too much. He looks at me a little too long. He smiles at me a little too wide. We’ve known each other for years, but this energy was something new- something he couldn’t quite place. Until he burst into my office one day and yelled triumphantly "New Zoo Review"!

New Zoo Review was a kid’s show in the 70’s featuring an assortment of adults dressed as animal characters including Henrietta the Hippo and Freddie the Frog. Thankfully I didn’t remind him of Henrietta the Hippo, but I did remind him of the host of the show who was one of the few adult characters. Emmy Jo sported a Marlo Thomas-like flip hairdo, short dresses and high boots- exactly what I happened to be wearing at that moment when he and I Googled images from the show, laughing at the resemblance that had triggered his long forgotten childhood crush.

A memory trigger is the result of one or more of our senses reacting to something that instantly brings us to a different place or time, eliciting the emotions associated with the memory. A random sight, smell, taste, touch or sound can release a dam of pent-up memories, immensely powerful in their recollection- both positive and negative.

I bit into a memory about a month ago when I tasted a date walnut energy bar at a race. Within seconds, I was 7 years old again at my elderly neighbor’s home. I was sitting in Ethel’s kitchen, wearing white knee socks and a plaid dress, my two adult front teeth looming large compared to the baby teeth awaiting their eviction, as we drank tea and snacked on her homemade date nut bars still warm from the oven. I would stroll by her house after school to see if she had a baking pan cooling in her front window- an open invitation to stop in for a visit. I hadn’t thought of Ethel for decades, but the flashback made me smile and say a little prayer for her kindness and excellent baking skills.

Earlier this year, singer Teddy Pendergrass died. And like a Bewitched episode, in the wiggle of a nose I was transported to the middle of the dance floor at EJ’s disco in Rowley. It was the late 70’s, and I was dancing my dupa off in my disco duds as the band played "Get Up, Get Down, Get Funky, Get Loose". A flashback so strong it led me to reconnect with long lost college friends, to toast Teddy’s passing and our own shared history.

While memory triggers can be powerful, their influence can also be subtle. It’s why some of us friend, date, or marry people who remind us of others we miss or care about. It’s why people have "their song" to remind them about the reasons they fell in love in the first place. It’s why restaurants offer comfort foods that conjure up warm memories of home cooking. And it’s the stuff holiday traditions and home remedies are made of, as we try to recreate feelings of love and caring that soothed us in the past.

During a recent interview, an applicant talked excitedly about the prospect of working for a well-known media company. Fresh out of college with a communications degree, she was thrilled to be interviewing for a position that so closely matched her education. She sat perfectly straight on the edge of her seat- literally and figuratively – with a spark in her eyes that I hadn’t seen in years. 20 years to be exact, when I interviewed in the same office, full of similar hope and excitement at the prospect of working for a major metropolitan newspaper.

At the end of our meeting she thanked me for my time, and I thanked her for triggering the long lost memories of pride I felt at the start of my own career. As I walked her to the lobby, I caught our reflections in the front window and noticed that same spark again, only this time it was in both of our eyes.

In the Blink of an Eye

2010-10-12T15:55:00.002-04:00

Think of all the times you’ve heard or uttered "I’m bored"; bored with the moment, bored with your job, bored with the predictability of your life. You long for something exciting to come along and shake things up. File this feeling under the ‘be careful what you wish for’ category, because in the blink of an eye life as you know it can change- not always for the better.

This is an article I keep starting, but can’t seem to finish. Because each time I think I’m done, I hear another story sadder than the last one. Stories that continue to remind me of the fragility of life.

During the span of one week at work, there were two unexpected family deaths. The seemingly healthy 33-year old nephew of a coworker never woke up one Sunday morning, and the sister-in-law of another, a personal trainer in her 50’s, was found dead of unknown causes. As tragic as these losses are, the world does not stop and wait for us to finish our grieving. Both have returned to work, moving slower and slumping lower under the enormous weight of their grief. We pass each other and nod, acknowledging the sad, silent bond that connects us.

At an early morning blood test last week, a stranger shared with the waiting room that his boss and good friend died just a few hours prior. He was 53 years old, had been diagnosed with esophageal cancer just 10 days prior. While the doctors were planning his long-term treatment options, he quietly passed away in the middle of the night. Such a sad story, but they are all sad stories. So many, I’ve rewritten this entire column twice, replacing each tragedy with a newer, more recent one.

But out of some tragedies, come stories of hope, courage and second chances.

A few months ago, a member of the Wicked Running Club in her 20’s found out why she was feeling so tired, when she was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Her strength and openness about her cancer diagnosis and chemotherapy treatment have resulted in an outpouring of compassion and love from friends and family alike; positive energy that I’m convinced have healing powers stronger than any drug.

And very recently, two prominent Salem citizens came close to a world without them. One nearly choked to death on a bagel lodged in her throat as she rushed to work, her life saved by a stranger who happened to be passing by. And another suffered a severe knee injury, resulting in the discovery of not one but two undetected life-threatening blood clots- an unfortunate accident that likely saved his life.

In the blink of an eye, there is a collision of what you thought your life was, and what it could have been if circumstances had been different. And somewhere in the middle lies a new appreciation for the ordinary day.

On an ordinary day about a month ago, I finished a lunch hour run on the Esplanade and crossed the street to work, heaving happily from the exertion; appreciating the beauty of the crisp early fall day. Suddenly, a car in front of the building surged backwards at full speed to secure a parking spot, coming so close to hitting me that the rush of air bouncing off my body made a loud, dull thump. The horrified faces of the witnesses and shaking body of the driver who didn’t see me until too late confirmed how close I had come to a life I’m scared to imagine.

It takes a while to feel the full impact of a ‘close call’, but once you feel it you remember it forever. It feels like a gift. It feels like a second chance. It feels like an opportunity to find a new appreciation for the simple beauty of another ordinary day.

A Simple Hello

2010-09-28T17:00:00.001-04:00

When I was a kid, after school and weekends were blank canvases to fill with imaginative ways to have fun. One of my favorite self-invented games was called Hi. Hi consisted of me walking around my neighborhood saying Hi to strangers, and keeping track of how many greeted me back. So as not to appear obvious in my intentions, I would discretely keep track with my fingers. My right hand would count those who responded positively - because I thought it was the ‘right’ thing for them to do – and the left hand counted those who snubbed me. Once a hand was full I would run home to my cardboard fort in the yard, and record my findings on a Scribble Pad: "5 hellos, 1 grouchy guy". Then I would eat a piece of candy and start over again, fueled by a sugar Hi.

Obviously, this was well before ‘don’t talk to strangers’ became the melancholy mantra of all parents, and my game would be frowned upon by the current generation. But it is one I still play today, intentional or not. And one I’ve mostly had great success with.

For a simple two-letter word, Hi carries a lot of power. It can begin a friendship, or end a fight. It can lift a spirit, or bury a hatchet. It can start a conversation, or end loneliness. It’s beautiful in its simplicity, requiring a minimal effort to make a memorable impact.

My 19 years and counting career at the Boston Herald started with a simple hello extended to a first time attendee at a newspaper conference. Several years after we met, my friend was hired as Classified Ad Director at the Boston Herald, and recruited me to join him soon after.

As a member of the Wicked Running Club, sporting a club singlet at a race will attract as many hellos as there are fellow club members, reminding us that we are part of a greater group of friends; friends who support and encourage each other to achieve our individual goals.

And I once said hello to a woman sitting next to me on a plane as I flew solo to the Chicago Marathon in 2003, chatting feverishly about my upcoming race and the causes I was raising money for. As luck would have it, my fast friend turned out to be a New Balance representative and a major sponsor of the race, resulting in a huge shipment of New Balance sneakers delivered to the Boys & Girls Club of Greater Salem a few months later.

But as simple and innocent as Hi can be, I’ve found out the hard way that it can also raise undue suspicion when interpreted as an entry for evil intentions. Last winter as I finished a cold run with a friend on a Saturday morning, we saw a little boy at Forest River Park pulling his sled. "Hi!" I yelled instinctively, "How’s the sledding?" He allowed himself a quick glance out of the corner of his eye, and continued on with his head down, looking sullen and sad. My running partner, who works at a Salem school, turned to me and said matter-of-factly "Don’t you know you’re not suppose to talk to children you don’t know?" "Of course I know that," I said awkwardly, recalling the innocence of my childhood Hi game, and sadly realizing how different the world is for today’s kids.

But one of the funniest Hi gone wrong stories I’ve heard was from my friend Lisa who, while boating with a friend, pulled into an unfamiliar cove where boaters were enjoying a leisurely afternoon. As they cruised around looking for a mooring, Lisa smiled and waved enthusiastically to her floating friends, only to find herself being waved over by the Harbormaster for some questioning. Apparently he had received several complaints about an unfamiliar and suspiciously friendly female boater, who they feared was ‘casing the cove’. So much for the myth of the implied boating bond.

Not one to be easily discouraged, I still say hello to strangers, but my approach has become more subtle, usually just a smile accompanied by a silent head nod. "5 hellos, 1 grouchy guy" I note to myself as I exit a local coffee shop, reminding me that while some things have changed, other things have remained the same.

Clean Criminal

2010-09-15T12:50:00.000-04:00

It’s easy to find me at a party. I’m the one picking up your dirty plate the moment you put it down and fluffing up the couch pillow when you get up from your seat. I’m consolidating food trays and washing the dishes so you can relax and chat with friends. Which would not be surprising, except for one thing. These are not my parties- I just act like they are. Perhaps it is my "I’m not worthy" attitude that fills me with guilt at the thought of relaxing while someone else waits on me. Or maybe I’m so appreciative of being invited that I overcompensate by making sure I leave your house even cleaner than it was before I arrived. Or it could be that my social awkwardness is easier to handle when I keep myself busy, making exciting small talk such as "Can I take your plate?"

At a recent cookout for my running club (which I was also not the host of), I helped with everything from serving food to cleaning up. Not because I had to, not because I was asked to, just because I was there. And at the end of the event as guests left full and relaxed, I was starving and badly in need of a nap, leaving one departing guest to ask if I had been elected as Club Janitor. If so, she laughed, the job was mine, as no one else in his right mind would ever want it.

Being born with a ‘janitor gene’ is not a role I relish. Why would anyone choose to live a life tormented by trash and distressed by disarray? I can’t eat a meal at home unless I’ve washed every pot and pan I cooked it in. I can’t leave the house for work until the bed is made. I can’t relax and watch TV at the end of a long day if I spy a spot of lint leering at me from the rug. And while having someone energetically sweeping behind you might be great in the sport of curling, it is not as endearing if you are simply trying to walk across the kitchen floor without being harassed about the dirt falling off your sneakers.

I’m not the only one suffering from this alleged affliction. Grabbing a coffee at a local shop where you add your own cream and sugar, I wait patiently as a woman well beyond retirement age, also a customer, uses a napkin to wipe up the mess left by others into her hand, and tidies up the sugar packets. "I was always the clean up girl", she says with an apologetic laugh as I stare into the eyes of my future self. And in the restroom of a local restaurant I spot a tiny tidier, no more than 12 years old, dutifully wiping down the wet sink, sealing her future fate as ‘one who randomly cleans up behind others’.

But there is another Salem citizen who may have us all beat. He spends his days cleaning up the entire city of Salem. Not because he gets paid to do it, and certainly not because he created the mess- just because he likes things neat. You will often see his bags full of other people’s trash lined up along the fences of public areas ready for pick up, an act of altruism so genuine it deeply touches the heart of this fellow picker-upper.

The life of a scouring scoundrel is not easy, and I’m often blamed for throwing things out that I never knew existed in the first place. Your favorite sweatshirt is missing? "Maybe Beth threw it out." Can’t find yesterday’s newspaper? "Beth probably threw it out." Those missing paintings from the Gardner Museum? "I think Beth threw them out." Apparently innocent until proven guilty doesn’t apply to a defense of acute cleanliness. Nor does anyone feel the need to apologize when they find the allegedly tossed trinket, as if my reputation as a clean criminal makes me deserving of blame regardless of my innocence. Reminding me that having a ‘spotless’ reputation is not always what it is cracked up to be, and that is a dirty, rotten shame.

Retail in the Old Days

2010-08-24T11:48:00.000-04:00

Standing in line at a downtown store, an elderly gentleman unloads his items onto the counter, explaining to the cashier looming down at us from his disproportionately high seat, that his check was late this month but he can come back Monday to pay. From his authoritative post, the clerk responds "That’s $25 and I’ll see you Monday" bringing a smile to the customer’s face and mine, because it reminds me of the way local retail use to be.

Back in the day, I was even smaller than I am now, but so was Salem. It seemed like everyone who lived or worked here had been here forever. There were no strangers to be afraid of as we strolled around the neighborhood, little big shots being tracked by our watchful neighbors like a human GPS system. There was rarely a minute we were out of sight of someone who knew us, including the business owners who greeted us by name.

There was an Eaton’s drugstore near my house on Bridge Street, complete with an old-fashioned soda bar. I’d unscrew the seat to make it as high as possible, then sit at the counter with my legs dangling, reading Tiger Beat magazine and sipping on a root beer float or vanilla coke served in a fancy aluminum holder. I’d order a bottle of coke syrup to go (an old fashioned stomach ache soother), which would take its place on the refrigerator door next to the ever-present bottle of paregoric syrup, sold over the counter. Although I’m not exactly sure what it was for, it cured just about anything, if only by the threat of having to ingest the horrible concoction if you didn’t attest to sudden good health.

Pennies today are so undervalued we leave dishes at the registers for those who can’t be bothered keeping them. But when I was little, a penny could buy happiness. My friends and I would walk the streets scanning the cement for change, then head over to Kuzmar’s Market or Riley’s store near Collins Cove Beach for penny candy. We’d empty our pockets onto the counter, where the patient owner would separate our pennies from lint, candy wrappers and other tiny treasures. I could see candy nirvana through the glass, as I pointed to my favorites, which included wax soda bottles, fake cigarettes, pixie straws and bullseyes which I’d carefully unroll so I could eat the white middle first, caramel coating last.

I would buy things at Daniel & Low’s (now Rockafella’s) just because they had a payment system powered by a rocket ship- or so it seemed. All payments were sent to the office via a tube in a pipe that took off like a shuttle to the moon, rumbling through the building towards its distant destination- an accountant on the 2nd floor sitting behind a curtain, much like the Wizard of Oz.

Back to school shopping meant a visit to Almy’s department store in downtown Salem, where you could take a break for a seat and a snack at their lunch counter. It was common to see a long line of carriages full of merchandise to be put on layaway where it could be paid for over time. They even had their own discount warehouse store in Shetland Park, which also housed Duchess Shoe- open Saturday mornings only, to a long line of bargain hunters.

Eventually I upgraded my clothes shopping to Jack’s in downtown Salem, where I established my first charge account- a piece of cardboard paper on which they recorded your purchases and payments in pencil, interest free.

Long before leash laws existed, even our dog Chris had a neighborhood routine where everyone knew his name. His loop included a stop at Kuzmar’s Market on Bridge Street and Sobocinski’s Market on Webb Street, where they would toss him a bone- literally. I later found out that Sobocinski’s was actually named Tri Day Market, but as was customary back then, we referred to the business by the name of the owner, attesting to the close community bond we shared.

But growing up in a city where "everyone knows your name" was not always a good thing, as any mischief you were involved in would be promptly called in to your parents before you could run home to defend yourself. Reminding me that amidst even the best memories are some things we’d just as soon forget.

A Tribute at the Top

2010-08-06T12:03:00.001-04:00

Thoughts of climbing Mount Washington started when running friends talked excitedly about entering the lottery for the Mount Washington Road Race- a brutal uphill climb of 7.6 miles which, admittedly, many participants walk at least a portion of. This led Doug to comment, "If I have to walk up Mount Washington, I might as well climb it." Before he could take it back, I signed us up to join local attorney and friend Carol Perry on her annual hike to remember her late husband Paul.

Paul Perry was a state trooper, killed in a helicopter crash on February 22, 1995 at the age of 39. An avid hiker, he had a strong affinity to Mount Washington, and prophetically asked Carol to spread his ashes there if he were to pass away first. Four months after Paul’s tragic death, Carol fulfilled this sad promise much too soon, as she hiked towards Heaven surrounded by family and friends and released his ashes over the landscape he loved, beginning what is now a 16 year tradition.

I did not know Paul in life, but if the saying is true that you can judge someone’s character by the company they keep, I know Paul in spirit as a man with great love for family, friends and nature. A love returned many times, over as the hike has expanded to over 80 climbers in its 16th year, including friends of friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, spouses, and the next generation of hikers, ensuring this tradition will continue even beyond our lifetimes.

We assemble at the bottom, and Paul’s good friend Ray speaks with great emotion as he pays tribute to the mountain and asks us to treat it with the respect and admiration it deserves. The same respect and admiration being paid to Paul on this day, whose spirit has become one with the awe inspiring landscape. We break into smaller groups based on goals and pace, and begin our ascent. Climbing Mount Washington is harder than I expect. There are no meandering packed dirt paths to leisurely stroll along. From the start you realize why it is lovingly referred to as "the rock pile", as you carefully navigate your feet from rock to rock, progressing to hand over hand boulder climbing during the ascent.

The analogies between climbing and life are everywhere. It speaks of difficulties made easier with the support of family and friends, pushing past our fears to achieve our goals, and forgiving ourselves when we stumble along the way. It’s a combination of enjoying the moment while planning our next move. As we climb, we learn- about ourselves and each other. We talk of things we’ve done, and things we’d like to do. We talk of others we have loved and lost, and discover we are connected in ways we never knew. A young girl I hike with shares memories of my late brother Stephen as a Little League coach, and another hiker and I share fond remembrance of our friend Danny Peterson, who lost a hard fought battle with cancer years ago. As hikers add and shed clothing layers, we chuckle to see an assortment of race shirts from Doug’s events over the years. Along the way, we learn more about Paul, in whose memory we hike, and whose spirit is felt all around us.

It’s an exhilarating experience to arrive at the top, turn around and see how far you’ve come. If only all of our achievements were so physically apparent, we’d realize how much we have accomplished in our lives. In a photo taken at the peak, I look relaxed and happy with no sign of civilization around me. In the background, the line between Heaven and earth appears blurred, as clouds hover over the tips of the mountain peaks.

Climbing back down to earth when you were that close to Heaven is difficult. There is less conversation as we spread out and hike at our own pace, and my pack seems heavier as it fills with thoughts of obligations and duties that wait at the bottom. Then I think of Carol and this closely knit group of family and friends, climbing back to their lives without Paul, talking already about visiting him again on this great mountain next year. Remembering what I learned on the mountain that day, I remind myself that life, much like hiking Mount Washington, is best lived one step at a time.

Past My Bedtime

2010-07-28T13:00:00.000-04:00

The email invited me to meet college friends at 8 p.m. on a Tuesday night. I check my calendar, and find the date conspicuously empty amidst a week full of places I need to be and things I need to do. You might think I’d be excited at this stroke of scheduling good luck. After all, these are people I was close to that I haven’t seen in years. Still, it’s 8 p.m. on a work night and what I really want to answer is "Sorry that’s past my bedtime."

In fairness to myself, and so I don’t sound like a total dud, my days start early, including a 5 or 6 mile run at 6 a.m. And I’m at my desk at least an hour before I need to be, mainly because I have a "salary" job, which translates to "there’s no way we could afford to pay you by the hour". So the earlier I start, the better the odds of me getting out of work in time to head off to an appointment, a charity meeting or a running clinic. Its not that I’m doing any less in a day, I’m just starting earlier.

But it wasn’t always that way. I kept a different clock in college. I’d schedule my first class to start as late as possible to balance off my late nights spent disco dancing (a topic for another article). Back then, it was unheard of to go out with friends before 10 p.m., as most clubs didn’t get busy until 11. Grabbing a late night breakfast at a 24-hour Pewter Pot was the thing to do, and in hindsight I pity the poor wait staff that had to deal with the likes of us ordering bacon and eggs at 2 a.m. in our disco duds. To top the night off, I’d write my term paper when I got home, possessed by post-disco adrenaline, pounding feverishly on the typewriter at 3 a.m. like a scene out of The Shining.

It’s not that I have any less stamina now, I just use it up earlier in the day. Stamina is about maintaining momentum, as Newton’s Law states, "A body in motion will remain in motion". Give me a long run, followed by a long day at work followed by a long meeting at night, and I’m up to the task- as long as I don’t take a break in the middle. Because as Newton’s Law also states, "A body at rest will stay at rest". Inertia is my enemy, which is why I’m mowing the lawn at 2 p.m. on a Saturday afternoon in the same clothes I ran in at 7 a.m. for fear of not being able to get up again once I sit down. Apparently, I’m missing lots of fun stuff that takes place after 8 p.m., or at least that’s what I’m told. There are music shows and comedy shows, plays and movies, dances and parties, fairs and fireworks. But my best dates are with my DVR, which free me from prime time prison and allow me to watch late night shows on my early schedule- a plan that doesn’t work out so well for major sporting events. From the NBA Finals to the World Series to the Super Bowl, my excitement about our team vying for a championship is tempered by the frustration of knowing I will fall asleep less than 30 minutes into the game, after closing my eyes ‘for a few seconds’ during a commercial. I will inevitable wake up hours later with a full body shudder as my eyes dart open to see the late night news signing off.

But back to my invite which awaits a reply. I decide to fight the old fart urge and attend, only to find others have already responded by asking if we could meet earlier, maybe some morning for coffee, or brunch perhaps. "What a bunch of old fogies!" is my relieved response, my boring lifestyle secret safe for another day.

Remembering Pep

2010-07-13T14:06:00.001-04:00

Although Pep Cornacchio spent nearly all of his 89 years in Salem, I didn’t know his first name until I read it in his obituary. To me, he was just "Pep"- a fitting knick name for someone with such unparalleled enthusiasm and energy for the hometown he loved. So much so, I half expected "the City of Salem" to be listed as one of the family members he sadly leaves behind.

I came to know Pep the same way so many of us did, through his dedication and commitment to community service groups and philanthropic causes throughout the City of Salem. A regular fixture at Boys & Girls Club and Stephen O’Grady Foundation events, he would exclaim "God Bless You" each time he saw me, his large hands warmly enveloping mine with a strength reminiscent of his years as a football star. "You do good work" he’d say with a knowing smile. Because community service was something Pep knew well. His long list of altruistic accomplishments could make the most dedicated volunteer appear lazy- a list of organizations and causes so long, I could hardly read them all without taking a nap in the middle.

This jam packed daily schedule that would exhaust the best of us is exactly what kept Pep motivated. He was energized by the many events he felt blessed to be able to participate in, and inspired by the companionship of his fellow citizens. His family marveled at his intensive daily schedule, which he methodically planned hour by hour, from morning through evening, including everything from funerals to weddings, from meetings to fundraisers. This posed quite a challenge to Pep’s family when he could no longer drive himself to the multitude of events he felt compelled to attend, but where there is a will, there is a way. And while Pep had plenty of will, so did his family who coordinated their efforts to make sure he didn’t miss a beat. And with his multitude of friends, transporting Pep to where he needed to be became a team sport via a personal transit system with more daily stops than the MBTA.

If you wanted to know more about Pep, you had to look no further than his collection of lapel pins, which doubled as his resume, representing various pieces of his life from his military service to his community service. They told of the places he had been, and people he had met along the way. And if you took the time to ask, he would happily tell you the story behind each one of them. Even one of my Boston Marathon pins made the cut.

Simply put, Pep was a great citizen, unusual in a time when people rarely plant their roots in the same place for more than a few years, nevermind a lifetime. And amidst the speculation that we are becoming an increasingly self-centered generation, Pep was the antithesis of this trend. He had a tremendous sense of gratitude towards his community for providing him with so much opportunity and fulfillment in his life. So much so that he made it his life calling to return the favor.

Behind the public persona, Pep was blessed with a loving extended family that spanned several generations, wonderful friends of all ages from every walk of life, and a strong faith that was the foundation he built his wonderful life upon.

And a wonderful life it was. God Bless You, Pep. You will be greatly missed.

Backhanded Compliments

2010-06-30T08:46:00.002-04:00

I am the brunt of a running joke in my house with this punch line: "Why don’t you write a letter?" This comment generally follows any incident or experience that leaves me feeling disappointed, disillusioned or downright disgusted. At face value, I suppose it is complimentary, as I have been known to write letters that get things done. My successful track record over the years includes coupons for free meals, free hotels and most recently, free chicken salad (the result of a complimentary letter). But there is a tone and taunting about this tag line that tinges on the sarcastic, with the unspoken part being why I should write a letter. Is it because I’m a principled person? Is it because a business might appreciate knowing what they are doing right or wrong? Or is it because I’m a raging lunatic who is never satisfied?

A few nights later I’m having dinner with friends when we order a round of drinks that sound delicious and look beautiful, but tasted like kerosene. "Beth, will you ask if we can get something different? You’re so good at that stuff." Hmm, what exactly is the ‘stuff’ I’m good at? Am I good at politely asking for help without being insulting? Am I good at speaking up for others when they are in an uncomfortable situation? Or am I just good at complaining?

Even in my volunteer life I am not immune from caustic compliments, as one generous supporter said he donated because I was ‘relentless’. Hmm, do you mean relentless as in passionate about the mission of the organization? Or relentless as in you donated so I would stop stalking you? His honest answer, delivered with smile, was "Perhaps a little bit of both."

Backhanded compliments are interesting as they can reveal something about both parties, intended or not. A good example of this is a co-worker who is half my age. Although he is very fit, he is not a runner. Still, he decided to run a half marathon with no training because, as he said, "If you can do, then I can do it". Hmm… as in, I’m a huge inspiration to you? Or as in, if I did it, then it can’t be that hard? The Monday morning after his hot and hilly run, he stopped by my office and dropped another backhanded bomb. "I was thinking of you during the race. I thought I was going to die, and I kept saying I can’t believe Beth ran a marathon!" Meaning you can’t believe I had the inner strength and endurance to accomplish such an impressive feat of athleticism? Or meaning you can’t believe a woman twice your age kicked your butt?

Women are particularly susceptible to these backhanded blunders. Because of our inherent insecurities, we’ve developed selective hearing that will zoom in on the one word that changes the intended compliment into an intentional assault. A young girl thought she was shooting me a compliment when she said "You dress cool for an older woman!" which my brain quickly shortened to "You…. old woman". In fact, any statement that begins by saying how beautiful, thin, fit, smart or stylish someone is, is immediately nullified when followed by the phrase "…for an older woman".

Thinking I’m getting too sensitive in my old age, I decide to stop reading so much into things, and be more accepting of compliments regardless of the form they come in. The litmus test comes as I’m playing with my friend’s granddaughter, who in between giggles tells me sincerely "You’re so pretty" followed by this kicker "…just like my grandma". And as my friend and I share a knowing look that feels both the pleasure and pain in that statement, I give her a big fat kiss and tell her that’s the best news I’ve heard all day.

Grasping for Words

2010-06-16T12:26:00.002-04:00

Writing comes natural for me. Good, bad or mediocre, thoughts flood out of my brain like a stream overflowing its banks in a storm. Handwritten ‘chicken scratch’ notes full of to dos and not-to-forgets that only I can decipher are strewn all over my desk and car. People who know me know this about me, as I’ll often stop mid conversation to pull out a notepad and scribble down an idea.

Over the years, I’ve received not one, but three well intentioned gifts of mini voice recorders to make my life easier, two of them from the same person who forgot they already gave me one. The perfect gift for me, right? Wrong. Because while my thoughts travel from my brain to my writing hand in the express lane of the information highway, there seems to be a perpetual traffic jam on the route leading to my mouth.

I’m not talking about forgetfulness or a bad memory- that’s a topic for another article. This is the frustration when you absolutely, positively know the word you want to say, but can’t verbalize it. Perhaps it goes back to grammar school, where my stuttering required me to spend part of each day with a speech therapist, staring into a mirror sounding out my vowels. I eventually learned to speak slowly so my mouth could catch up with my brain, but lately the awkward pause between knowing what I want to say and saying it has become… excruciatingly… long. So long there could be three topic changes in the conversation before I finally say the word I was trying to say 20 minutes ago. So long you can now pull your short hair back into a ponytail. So long we now have a woman President.

Which pretty much rules me out for game shows like Jeopardy! where contestants ring in milliseconds after the phrase is read, confidently responding not just with the answer, but with the answer in the form of a question. And as Alex Trebek reads: "This poet took the road less traveled and that made all the difference" I change the station before they respond, but I know the answer. ‘Its what’s his name’ I think to myself, ‘that poet who wrote the other poem about woods and how tired he is or something like that. You know, the one who likes fences’. Finally, at 2 a.m. I awaken from a restless sleep and WHO IS ROBERT FROST? comes shooting out of my mouth in a tired triumph, seven hours too late for the bonus round.

This happens at the office also, as the staff participates in an impromptu brainstorming session when I innocently ask "Who was that guy who sold the sports directory a few years ago?" hoping to jog loose the name teetering on my memory shelf just out of reach. I quickly learn the danger of word association as a team sport, and pray no one at work ever forgets my name. "You mean that short guy who thought he was so cool?" "Wasn’t he the one who use to stink like onions?" "No, he she means that bald guy who use to fake call in sick every Monday." JOHN SMITH I finally scream emphatically as the name comes to me, mercifully putting a stop to this impromptu personality assassination.

As frustrating as this stalled speech pattern can be, when camouflaged as a well placed pregnant pause, it sometimes works to my benefit as people helpfully insert their thoughts which are often wittier than the words I was grasping for in the first place. In a way, I’ve become a walking Madlibs game, with my (adjective) friends inserting missing (plural noun) to complete my (adjective) thoughts. And when I say my friends know me so well they finish my sentences, I really mean it.

Marathon Soundtrack

2010-06-01T11:16:00.001-04:00

You see them every day; runners with little white buds stuck in their ears, the dangling cord bouncing merrily with their stride, leading to a box strapped to their arm or tucked into clothing. Inside that box are hundreds of songs, meticulously selected to make the miles go by faster. Not every runner needs a soundtrack, and many- like myself- would prefer to share the miles with friends. But as I stand on the starting line of the Eugene, Oregon marathon in early May with 26.2 miles in front of me, my only running companions are my goal of qualifying for Boston, and my ipod shuffle.

The starting gun goes off, the ipod goes on, and Whitney Houston reminds me I have just one moment in time, when I’m more than I thought I could be. Inspired, I start off a tad bit too fast, and spend the next few miles trying to reign in my enthusiasm so I don’t burn out too early.

At mile six I feel fantastic, as Eminem asks me if you had one shot, or one opportunity to seize everything you ever wanted- would you capture it or just let it slip? Capture it! I yell aloud to confused faces around me. At 13.1 miles, Bon Jovi belts out Ohh, we're half way there, woah livin' on a prayer…we'll make it - I swear and I take that as a positive sign that this day will go even better than expected. After 16 miles of tranquil green parks that wrap around the meandering Willamette River, I’m doing so well I envision the surprised face of Doug as I cross the finish line well under my goal time, waving victoriously to We Are The Champions by Queen.

But at mile 20, my energy wanes, and my pace slows. The cushion time I banked early on begins to fade away, as I question everything from my training, to my diet to whether there really is a God, because I could use a sign right about now. As I struggle to keep a positive attitude, a runner comes up from behind, gives me a half hug, and says "I’ve been watching you- you’re doing great". Not waiting for an answer, she continues on, as I notice the name on her bib is LAURA- my friend who passed away that same week. As if my ipod can read my mind, Train sings I need a sign to let me know you're here… I'm calling all you angels and I promise along with the lyrics that I won't give up if you don't give up, because if an angel made the effort to come down and lead me to the finish line, the least I can do is follow her.

And follow her I do. Over the final 6.2 miles I kept that angel in the green shirt in my line of vision. This despite a feeling of nausea I could not shake, calf cramps and Steven Tyler taunting me to Walk This Way. Wondering what I was thinking when I downloaded that song, I click forward only to hear I hope someday you’ll get the chance to live like you were dyin’. How appropriate, because I feel like I’m ready to keel over right about now. With three miles to go, my average time is dead on to what I need to maintain for the rest of the race, a task that seems increasingly impossible. I test my commitment by walking a few steps, until Nickelback reminds me every second counts cause there's no second try. Thankful for the reminder, the angel in the green shirt and I trot on.

At 26.1 miles, I pass through the gates of historic Hayward Field at the University of Oregon. There is no victory wave, just my stoic face fixed on the giant clock over the finish line that confirms I’ve arrived two minutes too late and ticking. I feel like a bride jilted at the altar, dragging a 26.2 mile train of disappointment behind me. How could my own body stand me up like this? I reach down to shut off my ipod, but not before Christina Aguilera whispers After all you put me through, you'd think I'd despise you, but in the end I wanna thank you 'cause you made that much stronger. Thanks for making me stronger, but I wish I was two minutes faster instead.

Although I’ve never had a baby, I imagine it is similar to running a marathon. Despite months of physical and mental preparation, the actual experience is so much harder than you imagine. And when your body is screaming ‘what did you make me do?!’ you swear you’ll never put yourself through that pain again. But when you see the positive outcome of your efforts, a spontaneous rush of joy comes over you, erases all your pain, and Stevie Wonder sings Isn’t She Lovely. For me, that moment came as I hobbled over to retrieve a printout of my net time (the actual time based on when you crossed the starting line), and through my salt caked, sweaty eyes, I see the magic number 4:05:50. That’s four hours, five minutes and 50 seconds- good enough to qualify for Boston with just 9 seconds to spare. A lovely sight indeed.

My marathon playlist:

Ain't No Stoppin' Us Now, McFadden & Whitehead
Ali In the Jungle, The Hours
All Star, Smashmouth
Amazing, Aerosmith
Authority Song, John Mellencamp
Bad, Michael Jackson
Calling All Angels, Train
Don't Rain On My Parade, Glee Cast
Don't Stop Me Now, Queen
Everyday, Bon Jovi
Fighter, Christina Aguilera
Fire Burnin, Sean Kingston
Gives You Hell, The All American Rejects
Going the Distance, Cake
Gotta Be Somebody, Nickelback
Have a Little Faith in Me, John Hiatt
I'll Be Missing You, Puff Daddy
I Got You Babe, Sonny & Cher
I Gotta Feeling, Black Eyed Peas
I Will Survive, Gloria Gaynor
If I Could Turn Back Time, Cher
If Today Was Your Last Day, Nickelback
Independent Women Part 1, Destiny's Child
Its a Beautiful Day, U2
It's My Life, Bon Jovi
Kryptonite, 3 Doors Down
Live Like You Were Dying, Tim McGraw
Livin' On A Prayer, Bon Jovi
Lose Yourself, Eminem
Musta Got Lost, J. Geils Band
My Time, Fabolous
My Way, Frank Sinatra
One Moment In Time, Whitney Houston
Run This Town, Rihanna & Kanye West
Say Hey (I Love You), Michael Franti and Spearhead
Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It), Beyoncé
Survivor, Destiny's Child
That's Not My Name, The Ting Tings
Touch of Grey, Grateful Dead
Tubthumping, Chumbawamba
Viva la Vida, Coldplay
Walk This Way, Aerosmith
Wanna be Startin Something, Michael Jackson
We Are The Champions, Queen
Whoomp There It Is, Tag Team
Wish You Were Here, Pink Floyd
Without Me, Eminem
100 Years, Five For Fighting

Have an inspiring running tune to share? Send it along to newsgirl01970@yahoo.com.

Defining Ourselves

2010-05-19T10:36:00.001-04:00

Just over a year ago, I ran the Great Bay Half Marathon with some friends from the Wicked Running Club. The route ran along a gorgeous ocean stretch of New Hampshire I never would have seen otherwise, which is what I love about long distance racing. As we coasted along on a peaceful country road, my friend Stephanie sighed aloud "This is where I feel most like myself".

One by one my friends confirmed with enviable certainty that they knew exactly what she meant about feeling at peace with herself surrounded by nature. But I remained quiet, because I am still trying to remember a time when I felt at peace with anything.

That race was over a year ago, and I’m still pondering her statement - no surprise to anyone who knows me. I can analyze, assess and debate an idea to ad nauseum. At my most annoying, I’ll do this with a decision about what to eat for dinner, but larger life questions seem more deserving of the amount of time spent thinking about them. I ponder in my car, at my desk and before my eyes close at night. I put a thought on the shelf for a few days, then take it down and ponder it again. Stephanie has long since moved on since she made that statement, but I’m still stuck on it. How is it possible that I don’t know who the heck I am?

There are many ways we define ourselves in the course of a lifetime. The government identifies us by our social security number. To our family, we are our relationship, be it parent, spouse, child or sibling. To our employers, we are our job description or resume. But those definitions rely on the influence of others, and my soul searching is more similar to ‘if a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it still make a sound?’ In other words, who are we at our core, stripped from all outside influence? A difficult question, as our lives become so intertwined it’s like trying to extricate a bittersweet vine from an oak tree.

Since I was a child, I’ve had a feeling that I’m supposed to do something important. I don’t know what it is, or when I’m suppose to do it, but I’ll know when the time comes. There have been moments when I’ve thought "is this that thing I’m suppose to do?’ but since concluded that the nature of a ‘life calling’ is that you don’t need to question it- you instinctively know it when you see it. Which by definition means, I still don’t know what it is.

So I took a personality test to help put me on the right life path, only to find out the person I need to be at work, home and in my social life is the exact opposite of who I am when I’m alone. Which makes me wonder if too much of my life is spent meeting obligations and expectations, and too little is spent paying attention to my younger self tugging at my sleeve reminding me that I’m running out of time to fulfill my destiny- whatever that may be.

So I took a logical approach and treated my quest like a job search, complete with a resume of traits and characteristics, only to realize the essential ‘me’ really is a list of opposites- sad yet hopeful, scared yet confident, secure yet searching. In fact, I’m just about everything at any given moment during the course of a day, as unpredictable as New England weather.

And that’s when it dawns on me. The question that I have been pondering for so long- "Who Am I?" - is also the answer.

Because I am someone who is constantly wondering who I am, and what my role is in the world. And while my answer to this question is not as simple or concise as Stephanie’s one liner- it is distinctly mine. And it is definitely who I am.

Saying Goodbye

2010-04-27T08:54:00.002-04:00

Every goodbye begins with hello.

Our hello came at a newspaper conference in 1985. A new manager at 24 years young, I trembled as I entered the meeting room full of strangers. There were several reasons why I sat next to Laura that day. Maybe it was her striking resemblance to Meryl Streep. Perhaps it was her gigantic inviting smile. Or maybe it was fate. But more likely it was because she spotted me sweating nervously as I hugged my notebook and called out "Come sit here next to me!" as if we had been forever friends. And from that day on we were.

Living in different states, we saw each other rarely. But our friendship did not suffer as we built a strong bridge of letters, phone calls and emails to span the distance. Ten years older, Laura was like a big sister to me, offering encouragement and support, and ending every communication with a heartfelt "love you". Laura had a smile with the power to transform everyone around her. It was the physical embodiment of her inner strength- formidable and unbreakable, even when presented with the unspeakable diagnosis of terminal cancer. She announced the news just once, then promptly gave the disease the cold shoulder, refusing to give it more energy than she thought it deserved. Fifteen years ago she was given less than five years to live and live them she did.

She met and married the love of her life. She traveled to her beloved Ireland and was inspired to create Laura’s Irish Cottage in Connecticut. She adopted a puppy, who she outlived, then adopted another. Her doctor’s optimistic estimate of five years soon stretched to 10 years, and with the word ‘cancer’ passing her lips so rarely I almost forgot she was sick. She planted a tree and watched it grow. She planted a perennial garden and waited anxiously for the next year’s blossoms. She made plans for days, weeks and even years ahead not because she refused to believe she was dying, but because she preferred to believe she would live.

Despite her brave front, it became increasingly difficult to ignore the elephant in the room that was her disease. When she was too weak to climb the stairs in her home, they installed a chair lift which she joked was used to transport her aging dog with arthritis. On another visit I noticed a wheelchair ramp, which she said was installed to make it easier for her to transport her groceries into the house. And during one visit when she sported a wig for the first time, she apologized for being too lazy to do her hair, and laughed a hearty laugh when her husband walked into the room and asked her if that was a cat sitting on her head. She loved to talk about anything and everything, as long as it had nothing to do with cancer. When asked how she felt, she’d say "God is keeping me around for a reason. He’ll let me know when its time." Her faith and optimism were contagious. Perhaps too much so, as my visits became less frequent as I too came to believe Laura would outlive all of us.

A few weeks ago, I sent an email to make plans to visit in June, not realizing she was planning her own funeral at the same time. In defiant optimism, Laura ordered a summer nightgown from the Land’s End website "just in case".

Laura passed away on April 24, fifteen years after being told she "might" have five years to live. And live she did- every minute, every hour, every day. And there is no better tribute I can pay to my friend than to try to do the same.

Beyond Driving School

2010-04-14T10:28:00.000-04:00

The words Student Driver were painted on all sides of the vehicle, along with a giant sign on top just in case you missed it; acting like a warning label about what was inside. As the young adult carefully showed off his parallel parking skills, I recalled the sort of things we needed to memorize to get that coveted piece of paper known as a learner’s permit. This included essential knowledge about what constitutes a "thickly settled area" – which is more than just our midsection after Thanksgiving dinner. I’ve driven for 35 years now, and have never once said "darn, what is a thickly settled area again?" But I have gained enough driving wisdom to offer a few addendums to common rules of the road for the newbies out there.

NEVER DRIVE DISTRACTED. But assume that everyone else does. With vehicles full of gadgets- from cell phones to ipods, satellite radio to GPS systems, DVD players to TV sets- it is often the actual driving that becomes the distraction, with the rules of the road threatening to ruin their multi-media auto entertainment experience.

ALWAYS STOP FOR PEDESTRIANS IN THE CROSSWALK. That is, if they use the crosswalk. Many pedestrians shun the safe haven of road crossings altogether, and instead launch sneak attacks from in between parked cars. Others prefer the ‘what are you going to do about it’ approach and jaywalk as they stare you down and hold up their hand in a STOP signal forcing you to slam on your brakes so hard everything not tied down lands on the floor. Including your heart.

GREEN MEANS GO. Green actually means wait for drivers who consider yellow to be the new green as they floor it to beat the red light. In their unrelenting effort to not let anyone cut in front of them, they will come to a dead stop blocking the intersection. Thus securing their place as next in line, and leaving you basking in the glow of the green light as if reflects off their rear panel while you sit through another light cycle.

UNLESS POSTED OTHERWISE, RIGHT ON RED IS ALLOWED AFTER A FULL STOP WHEN TRAFFIC IS CLEAR. Right on red is also the new green. New Englanders are always in a hurry to go nowhere and will turn right on red whenever they darn well feel like it. And if you do not defer to the impatient right on red-ers, you will get a bonus vocabulary lesson which reads something like George Carlin’s Seven Dirty Words skit.

FOLLOW THE POSTED SPEED LIMIT. And in doing so, be prepared for the wrath of harried and hurried drivers who will subject you to angry tailgating, beeping and assorted hand signals as they blow by you- hopefully right into a speed trap.

USE YOUR DIRECTIONALS TO INDICATE A TURN. This assumes most drivers actually know where they are going. More likely, they will get caught up in their multi media auto experience and swerve dramatically without warning as they break out of their trance long enough to realize they are about to miss their turn. While others will use their blinkers merely as a suggestion of what they ‘might’ do, reserving the right to boot it and go straight as you try to pass them.

I’ve driven over a million miles since I got my license, and learned at least as many lessons along the way. But the hardest driving lesson of all is that our lives and well being are not just in our hands, but in the hands of the strangers we share the roads with. Which is why your parents will wait and watch until you safely pull into the driveway before they can breath again. Because it’s not just your driving they are worried about, its everyone else’s as well.

So drive safe, drive smart and most importantly- drive alert.

Or better yet, leave the car at home and take up running instead.

My Last Column

2010-04-01T09:37:00.000-04:00

All good things must come to an end, including this column. I’ve enjoyed sharing memories with you over the last year, and dedicate this last article to my Nana Stella.

Her story is one shared by many Salem families, whose roots were planted here thanks to a brave choice by prior generations to come to America for a better life. My grandmother was the chosen one in her family, sent here by boat as a young teen, never to see her family in Poland again. On that journey, she met her husband, and they bonded over a combination of seasickness and homesickness.

Growing up at Nana’s house, we learned that life was about working hard and providing for your family. She did not show love by showering you with hugs and kisses, or tickling you until you cried "Uncle". She said, "I love you" with her cooking, and we’d say "I love you too" by asking for seconds. Nana could whip up a meal out of a chicken neck and a piece of salt pork, so good you’d ask for more. She could scale, de-bone and fry up a piece of flounder fresh from Salem Harbor so fast it would barely stop flipping around long enough to eat, and so good you’d run out and try to catch some more.

Fluent in Polish, she spoke only English at home so she could learn the language. The exception was Polish Mass, which I dutifully attended with her Saturday afternoons. I can still feel the rib poke she’d give me as I nodded off to the lullaby of indecipherable Polish prayers. Later that night, we’d watch the Lawrence Welk Variety Show under the guise that my Nana was babysitting me, when I knew it was really the other way around.

A proud and independent woman, her life changed the day she was mugged walking home alone from downtown Salem. Not only did they take her change purse; they took her quality of life when they roughed her up as she fought to keep her pocketbook- and her dignity- before they knocked her down to the ground. Back then, doctors made house calls, and I remember him somberly walking to her bedroom with his black medical bag, and hearing guarded whispers about her condition through the closed door.

Despite her life of toil and tribulation, or perhaps because of it, there was one thing my Nana did enjoy- a good trick. She would always pick the "trick" when she had a choice of "trick or treat" and loved April Fools Day. She would devise the lamest, most obvious tricks imaginable- like putting flour in our shoes or telling us there was a spot on our shirt- and howl with laughter when we pretended to fall for it. But later in life when she was in a nursing home and the days ran together in a thread of monotony, she lost track of what the date was. Which made it even easier to pull a fast one on her when April Fool’s Day would roll around.

I remember the last April Fool’s Day trick I played on her. I called to say I couldn’t visit because her favorite coffee shop had burnt down and the roads were blocked by fire engines. Not very funny, but it was all I could come up with at the time. She was worried about the fire, sad that I couldn’t visit, and disappointed about her coffee- until I walked in a few minutes later, coffee in hand, and said "April Fools!" She hesitated for a minute, and then her chest began to heave silently. I thought for a moment that she was crying, but then realized she was laughing so hard she wasn’t making a sound. Perhaps she was laughing because it was funny, but more likely she was laughing just because she was thankful to have something to laugh about. "You think you funny" she finally whispered to me. And I agreed, I did.

My Nana died in July of 1991 at the age of 98, but I think of her every April Fools Day when I play this trick on my co-workers. The morning of April 1st, I send a note alerting them about some type of disaster that will surely ruin their day, instructing them to go the bottom of the message and/or open the attachment for more details, which of course says APRIL FOOLS. And every year the joke is on me when I realize that no one in the office reads my messages to the end, and they all go into instant panic mode, which spreads like wildfire until I’m laughing so hard I really do start to cry. Partly beause its that funny; partly because no one reads my memos.

So this year I couldn’t miss an opportunity to honor my Nana by reaching out to as many people as possible, and find out how many of you really do read my articles to the end. And if you made it this far, you probably figured out this is not my last column, but it is April Fool’s Day.

Thank You Very Much

2010-03-14T07:21:00.000-04:00

Having an “attitude of gratitude” has become a new catch phrase in these difficult times, and a lesson I learned years ago. I grew up in a house where good manners were drilled into us and reinforced daily. We were taught to always say “please” and “thank you”, even if the words only shot out of our mouths after a parental poke in the back as a gentle reminder. And on major occasions such as Christmas and our birthday, one of our final gifts would always be a box of thank you notes, along with the cautionary warning to “make sure you write them so people can read them”.

Writing a proper thank you note is no joke. Once I learned this, I no longer ripped open every present in a frantic frenzy, but would instead grab a notebook and carefully jot down each gift and who gave it to me for the purpose of thanking them later. Which was not nearly as stressful as the note writing itself. One misspelling, missing word or ink smudge meant ripping up the card and starting all over again, usually ending up with twice as many tiny envelopes as successfully written notes.

Eventually, I learned to cut down on waste by writing a practice note that I would methodically copy over word for word onto my official stationary. I even researched how to write important letters such as thank yous, and began incorporating those ideas by including a thought about how the gift would be used. “Thank you for the nice, warm mittens Aunt Edna. I can’t wait to wear them to my next snowball fight” I would carefully scrawl ‘so people could read it’.

But as the years passed, life brought many trials and tribulations, and thank yous were no longer just for gifts. There was so much more to thank people for, and writing a note seemed woefully inadequate. How do you thank your friend who held your hair out of your face when you were sick from a bad reaction to anesthesia? Or your boss who sat with you the day you returned from your grief leave as you tearfully struggled to get back into your old routine? How do you thank the businessman who, after being approached by thousands of charities a year, picks your humble group to make a substantial donation to, changing thousands of lives in the process? Sometimes we are so deeply grateful that the phrase ‘thank you’ seems overused and inadequate, and synonyms are seriously lacking. I even have a friend who ends every other statement with the words “thank you very much” which cracks me up, but doesn’t help to reinforce the deep responsibility and emotion this simple phrase attempts to express.

But the observation I’ve found most interesting is that it’s the people who do the most good for others who are the worst at accepting thanks, almost as if the recognition of their kindness or good deeds will somehow cheapen or diminish their intention. They casually fluff off their actions by saying ‘it was nothing’, refuse to accept any form of recognition, and generally poo-poo any idea that involves identifying them as a generous or kind person. The truth is- being able to graciously accept a sincere thank you is as important- sometimes even more important- to the person who was the recipient of your kindness than it is to you. So if you truly enjoy helping others, be a good sport and allow them the pleasure of thanking you in return. It’s part of the territory of being philanthropic. Think if of it as setting an altruistic example to inspire others to perform their own acts of kindness. Just take a deep breath and repeat after me, the 2nd most important phrase after thank you. It’s “you’re welcome”.

In the End, We Only Judge Ourselves

2010-02-25T11:46:00.000-05:00

For weeks during my cold commute in and out of Boston, talk radio heated up with debate about the candidates vying for our open Senate seat. "Blah, blah, blah…" they droned on, "blah, blah, blah." But one evening as I sat at the stop light on 1A in Revere pondering what really happens in the building formerly known as "The Green Spot", I heard a word I don’t normally hear in politics. "Blah, blah, TRIATHLETE." Huh? Did they say Scott Brown is a triathlete? So I turned the radio up, listened a little closer and confirmed via internet the next day what I suspected. Scott Brown is hot.

But before you call me superficial, it is not entirely my fault. I grew up in the same society as you- one that puts heavy emphasis on physicality. And whether we like it or not, we are judged by others in a matter of seconds based only on our appearance - a sad irony considering our entire life can be shaped by the one factor we have absolutely no control over- mom and dad’s genes. In fact, our appearance can affect everything from our love life to our value in the job market. And while it is unfair for something so superficial to carry such importance, it is a sad truth many of us learn at a young age.

I spent chunks of youthful years wasted with worries of being teased about my appearance. Getting ready for high school was like getting ready for battle. I would start with the tightest girdle available, a torture I wouldn’t dream of bestowing upon myself today. I did my hair for what seemed like hours. If it didn’t come out right, I’d rewet it and do it over again until I got the perfect Farrah Fawcett-ish flip. I would dress, redress and dress again worried that every clothing and hair choice would provide more fodder for fools to harass me. But no matter what I did it, it was clear my lot in life was to be a target for teasing. I can still feel the pit in my stomach walking down the long main corridor in high school, hugging the wall as I passed by the cool cliques, praying to be invisible which was preferable to their scrutiny. And while I can laugh now at some of the lame names I was called, I still feel the pain of that young girl who found the most difficult part of school not to be her studies, but being studied and judged by her own classmates.

But who really determines where we fall on the beauty scale- others or ourselves? In hindsight, I believe that in the range from The Elephant Man to Olivia Newton John, I was probably somewhere in the middle, and it wasn’t my appearance at all that made me a target for bullies- it was the fact that they knew their words could hurt me. My weakness was not my early development, but my low self-esteem about it.

At some point in our lives, we have all been subject to the storm of judgements that rain down upon us. The difference is that some use their self-confidence as a raincoat, letting the critiques roll off, while others are like giant sponges, absorbing criticisms and carrying the weight of those hurtful words their whole life.

So who suffers a harsher reality check - the child who discovers that not everyone thinks they are as pretty, handsome, smart or talented as their parents told them they were? Or the child who never received that validation in the first place, to the point where they can’t accept a sincere compliment without thinking of it as a charitable donation? In the end, it is up to us to make the life changing choice to judge ourselves as harshly as we are judged by others, or to foster the self-respect that projects our true beauty to the world.

Which brings me back to Scott Brown, who is still hot. But less because of his physical appearance, and more because he is so obviously confident and comfortable in his own skin, even when he too was being criticized because of his appearance. And while I won’t disclose whether Brown got my vote or not, I will disclose that I have wrung out my sponge, and am investing in a heavy duty raincoat as more showers are expected.

Sometimes Socially Awkward

2010-02-12T12:24:00.001-05:00

I stare at my empty Facebook status line for a minute, and type "Beth O’Grady is… sometimes socially awkward at holiday parties". Within minutes, my wall is flooded with sympathetic responses: "Who isn’t?" "Me too!" "Me three! " "I’m ALWAYS socially awkward!" and my favorite, "Ask me about my Christmas martini story!" It became quickly apparent that I’m not the only one who, when inserted into a party situation, goes from a composed, articulate, confident woman to a stuttering, nerve-wracked, watch-checker planning my escape.

What is this phenomenon that allows me to be perfectly comfortable on a high-pressure sales call, conducting a department wide meeting or acting as host for a charitable event, yet unable to carry on a normal conversation at a house party. At a recent holiday get together, my exit lines included wishing my Jewish friend a jolly "Merry Christmas!" and exclaiming loudly "Hi, how are you?" as I hugged someone goodbye that I had spoken to all night, causing me to leave the party desperately desiring a goodbye do-over.

Speaking at a large event is different from the intimacy of a social situation. In a way, it is less personal when you are representing the greater good, rather than just trying to be yourself. Give me an opportunity to talk about a cause I believe in, or to thank someone for his or her good deeds, and you better grab a comfortable seat. But when I’m the one seated on the sofa clutching a plate of cheese and crackers, being asked "So what’s new?" I’m tongue-tied.

You would think it would be easy for me to converse, considering I just have to rehearse the wittiest answer to the question "So, are you still running?" which is ironic as I was alive 43 years before I bought my first pair of running shoes. But it beats answering the 2nd most popular question, "So, how’s the newspaper business?" which is an immediate good mood killer. Actually, I’ve never been good at small talk. I like big talk. I like big talk about big issues. Even better if the issues have no right or wrong answer, so the conversation is more about feelings than facts, such as "What is our purpose in life?" "Is there life after death?" and "What makes one person evil and another kind?" These are conversations that generally do not take place over shrimp cocktail.

In fact, I’ve always been this intense when it comes to conversation. At around age 10, I remember drawing diagrams of the universe in my room with my friend Betsy, to illustrate my belief that there was a planet hidden behind the sun just like earth that we can’t see because the gravitational force of the universe kept it out of sight. Betsy just started at me, nodded, and asked if we could play with our Barbies instead.

Or perhaps it has to do more with the limited time factor than the topics of conversation. While you might think that seeing someone only once or twice a year would result in stimulating catch up conversation that lasts for hours, for me it’s just the opposite. Intimacy can’t be rushed in a few minutes. It unravels slowly over months or years of shared experiences. It takes trust and understanding to earn the confidence to confide. It is much easier to delve into deep discussion that unravels over hours of road running than a forced five minutes over a cup of eggnog.

But don’t cross me off your 2010 holiday guest list just yet. This year I’m going to do better. I’m going to be more prepared for possible topics that could come up during conversation, and when all else fails I’ll ask the one question that everyone seems to be able to relate to "Do you find party conversations awkward or what?"

Same Weather, Different Age

2010-02-01T13:04:00.000-05:00

My heart sank as I watched the national weather service foretell of the enormous East Coast blizzard that hit mid December. To make matters worse, I was listening to this forecast from Chicago, on what was suppose to be a long anticipated, stress-free weekend getaway.

It started with a cryptic email weather warning from my mother just after we settled in from the airport. "I know you just got there, but maybe you should try to get a flight home. They are predicting a huge snowstorm and the airports will be closed". The only difference between my mother and TV weather broadcasters is an official degree in Meteorology, so I hesitantly turned on the weather channel and hoped for the best. Instead, I heard the worst. "We are tracking a snowstorm of mammoth proportion bearing down on the East Coast", "20 or more inches expected in Washington, DC", "Boston should be under the full effects of the storm early Sunday afternoon", which was the exact time we were expected to fly home. And just like that, my vacation weekend became a 3-day vigil of watching, worrying and whining.

But I wasn’t always this stressed about the weather. In fact, I use to be quite the opposite.

As a kid, I would pray for snow and lots of it. I wouldn’t be happy unless it was a full blown Northeaster with so much wind driven snow that I’d have to jump out the 2nd floor window onto the back porch to shovel the back door open from the outside in. My mother would bundle me up in so many layers my limbs wouldn’t bend. I’d waddle out to build my snow fort, which I would load up with dozens of snowballs in preparation for attack. If it were a weekend storm, my father would toss us into the car with our old-fashioned toboggan and head to Gallows Hill Park for survival sledding. No plastic saucers for us. Our sleds had steel blades so sharp, you risked being impaled if you rolled off and into the path of oncoming traffic. If you couldn’t afford a sled, you would use a piece of cardboard, which worked well once you mastered the trick of hanging onto the slippery sides with your mittens. Otherwise, you’d slide off and come to a dead stop mid hill, unable to get out of the way due to excessive bundling, watching horrified as the screaming faces of kids laying stomach down on their bruising bobsleds bared down upon you. I’d stumble home from my winter play day, one mitten on, one mitten lost, crooked hat caked with frozen snow and face flushed from freezing fun.

But somewhere over the years, I stopped seeing the magic in the weather, and started to see anything but a nice day as a major inconvenience.

Instead of sleepless nights spent thinking about snowman building, my dreams are disturbed by the distinct crunch of the city snowplow barricading my driveway. Could I possibly be the same person who would crouch outside my mother’s bedroom door, straining to hear Al Needham read the school cancellations on the Salem station, and bursting into happy hysteria when I heard the magic words "All schools, every school, in SALEM"?
Back then, every season, every storm was a new playground. When I was 7, a giant summer downpour inspired me to run up to my room, put my bathing suit on, grab the shampoo and a bar of soap and run outside to see if I could take a shower in the rain. As the door closed behind me, it slammed on the words of my father’s warning "run out that door now and it’s the last shower you’ll take this week" (word to the wise- even the heaviest rain does NOT wash soap out of your hair and eyes, so think twice before doing this). Now, instead of running outside in an excited frenzy, I run down the basement to see if it has flooded.

The same fall leaves that were a landing pad for a long jump, are now a long day of manual labor, and the summer heat wave synonymous with a beach play week now turns me into a sweltering ball of uselessness, drained of energy and crouching in front of the air conditioning for relief.

But before I admonish myself for having a bad attitude, I need to remember where I live. This is New England, after all, and talking about weather is the mainstay of our conversation. Its tradition for us to complain- its who we are, its what we do. And being the good student that I am, it seems I’ve earned my Master’s Degree at the New England College of Complaining.

Always Be Prepared

2010-01-13T13:41:00.001-05:00

The following story is 100% true. My boss walks into my office and says "What a day. I wish I had one of those hand grips that you squeeze to get my frustrations out." "Like this?" I say as I reach over and produce the exact item he is referring to. "Somehow that doesn’t surprise me," he says. "You probably have a slinky, too." "Like this?" I say as I open my drawer and take out a slightly rusty but still operational slinky, to which he just shakes his head and leaves.

First, let me clarify. I am not a hoarder, and you won’t find an episode of me on A & E tearfully asking for help amidst old newspapers and empty milk containers that I cannot part with. In fact, I am obsessively neat and enjoy nothing better than a good spring cleaning where everything that is not needed, not used, not worn and not nailed down goes into the trash. How then have I gotten the reputation of go-to girl for Neosporin, a cash-box, birthday candles, a ponytail holder and a can opener (all of which I was asked for and successfully produced before noon this morning)?

I’m not quite sure, to be honest with you. Perhaps I was inspired by Let’s Make a Deal with Monty Hall, where the host would ask audience members to produce the most random objects imaginable for a cash prize. "I’ll give you $50 if you can show me a red marble", and I would jot down the words RED MARBLE to remind myself that I could possible need that one day- a habit I continue 40 years later. Not a day goes by when I don’t make a note of something I need, want or vow never to get caught without again. I scribble notes at work, at home, on the run and on the road, and start each day transcribing my scraps into a long list, which I meticulously cross off as items are completed. Or perhaps my fear of being unprepared goes back to childhood when I was called out in front of the class for being the only student to not bring an object to Show and Tell- a devastating admonishment for a young child so eager to do the right thing.

Whatever the reason, my ‘always be prepared’ motto has served me well over the years. My list of things not to forget to bring to a marathon is almost as many miles long as the race itself, and my event box that I drag around from function to function is an evolving mix of must need items that no party planner should be without. Yes, the consensus at home, at work and even at play is that if you need something, I’m the person you need to see.

But even the best preparer in the world will one day meet her match, and mine came sitting in my mother’s doctor’s office, as he slowly and carefully explained the test results displayed on the screen. And as I clutched my lucky red marble, it occurred to me that my quirky behavior has been a way of imposing some control in a world where so much is out of my control. And while most things can be anticipated, there are a few we will never truly be prepared for.

A Not So New, New Years Resolution

2010-01-04T12:31:00.000-05:00

New Years Resolution- Three little words that conjure up nightmares of lifestyle changes that never happened, books never read, classes never taken, makeovers never completed and goals never achieved. Years of good intentions gone back can turn the exciting prospect of a New Year into a reminder of past failures and disappointments- discouragement so deep we are tempted to not even try lest we fail ourselves again.

But last year was different. Last year I decided I would be less talk and more action. OK, maybe not less talk, but certainly more action. So rather than set a million little resolutions destined to fall apart like a house of cards, I came up with one whopper of a resolution- I wanted to revisit my childhood dream of being a writer.

You remember your childhood dream, don’t you? We all had one. If you were lucky, you actually pursued it to fruition and became what you always knew you could be, what you dreamed of being, what you were meant to become. But many of us are detoured along the way and put off our dreams until we can get to them, until we have time to do it right, not realizing until too late that detours can be deadly to dreams, leaving us hopelessly lost.

But not this time. This time I said I would do it, not just think about it. So I told my plan to Doug. "What are you going to write about?" he asked. "I don’t know, all kinds of stuff." "Won’t you run out of ideas?" he added. "My problem is I have too many ideas- I’m like an idea machine." "Go for it" he said. So I did- 22 articles over the past 52 weeks to be exact. And while I’m not a best selling novelist or quitting my day job any time soon, I am finally writing. And I love it.

My first few columns were innocuous enough, but it wasn’t until I started writing about memories that I found my voice- not the reincarnation of Hawthorne or Shakespeare, but Me. The irony is that for most of my life, I couldn’t remember a damn thing. I’m not just talking about forgetful, I’m talking about full black outs with chunks of years and ages I have no recollection of whatsoever. But I do have random vivid moments burnt into my memory as clear as a photo. And in piecing these moments together, I discovered something great. I discovered that in writing about myself, I’ve been writing about all of us.

We share the same tragedies, fears and concerns, from losing a loved one to coming to terms with aging. A friend from the Wicked Running Club was one of the "poor kids" with the homemade Halloween costume, and another read my Thanksgiving column to her loved one to remind them of all they are thankful for as well. A runner at the Wild Turkey 5 Mile Run who came in first in her age group (70 years young) had no intention of running until she read my article about the race and put her sneakers back on. My staff and I received donations for our candy jar (including samples from Bubble Chocolate in Salem), and I found out the story behind the Lime Green Car (which is actually several cars). And the Christmas memories many of you shared with me about your own younger siblings and children warmed my heart and made me believe in Santa and Rudolph all over again.

So to anyone with a childhood dream stored high on the shelf gathering dust, or buried in your cellar under a mound of old wrapping paper and gift bags, take it out. Take it out and dust it off and rediscover that spark you once had that life can sometimes blow out. It’s still there. I know it is, because it was for me. And we are similar, after all.

The Night We Saw Rudolph

2009-12-10T13:04:00.000-05:00

Of all the memories I have in my life, some of my most vivid are of the holiday season. It was my mother’s favorite time of year, and she always tried to make it special. As a child I would get so cranked up about Christmas, I’d be a ball of stress the whole month as I carefully counted down the days on my advent calendar.

It would start the Saturday morning after Thanksgiving, as I watched cartoons in my pajamas with a notebook and pencil. Every commercial would feature something else that I positively, absolutely needed Santa to bring me. Just in case I missed anything, I would drag the huge Sears catalog which weighed half my body weight, up to my bedroom and carefully circle everything I didn’t realize that I couldn’t possibly live without until I saw it.

The tinsel on our tree was laid on so thick you could smell it burning into the giant light bulbs, so hot you could heat the living room with them. My mother featured various color themes over the years, from multi, to white to the well intentioned but woefully depressing blue Christmas. Before cable TV, we had only one shot at seeing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer or It’s a Wonderful Life, and it would make my entire day to know that A Charlie Brown Christmas would be on later that night followed by the Bing Crosby special.

The night before the long awaited day, I’d don my new flannel PJs and leave cookies and milk for Santa, carrots for the reindeer, and my wish list so long it could be bound into a novel.

Christmas morning we’d peak down the stairs and nearly pass out at the excitement of seeing multitudes of gifts under the tree. And that is the moment it would all go bad for me, as deep from within I’d get a feeling that I had "pulled a fast one" on Santa. I knew I had not been as good as he thought I was, and felt undeserving of his generosity. Thoughts of the tree getting thrown out, no more holiday lights or TV specials, and another 364 days until the next holiday would depress me so badly I could barely enjoy the day I had waited and worried about for so long.

Eventually the little girl grew older, and replaced her giant list of "stuff" with a very short list of health for our family, peace for our world and a brighter future for those in need. But before that, I got another shot at discovering the magic of Christmas through my brother Stephen’s eyes, 10 years younger than me. Which brings me to the title of this column.

Of all my memories, there is one special one that Stephen and I shared that has become a holiday tradition. It is special not only because we both vividly recall it, but because it perfectly illustrates how when practical vs. magical, magical is the winner. I call this story, The Night We Saw Rudolph.

Twas the night before Christmas on Webb Street in Salem. Stephen is five years old and trying desperately to fall asleep amidst the holiday excitement and anticipation of Christmas morning.

I tell him that if Santa comes and he is still awake, he will fly right by and not bring him any toys. Just then, someone drove into the driveway of the liquor store that use to be our neighbor and put their brake lights on, causing the bedroom to glow in a bright, red light. His eyes grew as big as saucers as he looked at the window, then at me, and muttered "Rudolph…!" just before falling asleep.

From that year forth, every Christmas Eve Stephen would turn to me and say "Remember the night we saw Rudolph?" and we’d laugh at the memory. But as we grew to adults, I began to respond "That wasn’t Rudolph, it was…." and before I could finish the statement he would give a little smirk and say "SShhhh, it was Rudolph" and we’d just smile.

Although my brother has been gone 10 Christmases, I still tell that story every year to anyone who will listen. And looking back, Stephen was right. It was indeed Rudolph.

That’s Just What Happens as You Get Older

2009-12-09T16:49:00.000-05:00

From a very young age, I felt older than my years. In my teens, I babysat my brother, 10 years younger. Whether walking him to the playground or bringing him to a Salem High School poster party, I was always aware that I was responsible for someone other than just me. In college, I worked in the Office of Academic Affairs, and spent more time with my professors than with my classmates.

My first newspaper management opportunity came when I was 25 years old. Young and petite, I had to project myself as older and wiser to avoid being viewed as "the little girl in Classified", trying to appear bigger and roar louder to be taken seriously, something the animal kingdom has practiced successfully for centuries.

Halfway through my 49th year, or "almost 50" as I call it, I still round my age up. I realize this is not the girly thing to do, but I’d rather have someone think I look good for an older age than like crap for the age I really am. The truth is, I have no desire to hide my age, and being a runner I have no choice. When the results of one of my first races was published in the newspaper, my mother said in horror "I can’t believe they printed your AGE!" But while being my age doesn’t bother me, feeling my age does.

Sitting at my desk typing, I notice a spot on the back of my hand. The dermatologist examines it carefully under a magnifying glass, and delivers her expert analyses: "It’s an age spot. That’s just what happens as you get older." Easy for her to say, as my fantasies of eternal youth are crushed and my countdown clock starts ticking.

THAT’S JUST WHAT HAPPENS AS YOU GET OLDER. That diagnosis wrote the verse I’ve heard repeatedly since then, like a song you hate but can’t stop singing. My morning back pain? That’s just what happens as you get older. Gray hair? That’s just what happens as you get older. Is it 1,000 degrees in here or is it me? That’s just what happens as you get older. I recently met up with college friends I reconnected with on Facebook. We remarked cheerfully how little we had changed over the past 20 years, until the menus came. In a scene reminiscent of a Wild West gunfight, we eyed each other silently, then simultaneously drew our reading glasses and laughed. That’s just what happens as you get older!

The funny thing about is aging, is the definition of "old" depends on who you are talking to. While I’m closer to be called "Ma’am" than "Miss" by a stranger, in the eyes of adults who knew me from childhood, I’m still a kid. Like a scene from Cold Case where a young person slowly morphs into their current age, we remain at our core the same evolving soul, albeit in a body that doesn’t always cooperate with our youthful intentions. While there is little I can do to stop my body from traveling along on its physical journey, I can open the door and drag my feet to slow it down. Not because I fear aging, but because I have come to enjoy living.

And that is what happens as you get older.

Tis the Season to be Thankful

2009-11-13T13:20:00.001-05:00

While it remains to be seen just how thankful Native Americans were to have the Pilgrims over for the first Thanksgiving dinner, this holiday has evolved into a day synonymous with gratitude. Even Facebook has a viral application asking members to list one thing they are thankful for every day in November, a task that has some stumped- but not me. Give me a year and I could list something I’m thankful for every day. Give me a day and I could list something every minute. Its not that I live a charmed life, or even an easy life, but I do try to look for those precious moment of gratitude and appreciation that can easily get crushed under the burden of our daily grind.

So with my apologies to spell check, and throwing punctuation and caution to the wind, here are a few things I find myself thankful for during this holiday season, in no particular order:

The first cup of coffee in the morning. Real whipped cream. Faith. Comfortable shoes. Freshly cut flowers. Little kid giggles and the grown ups who do silly things to cause them. Peace. Inspiring quotations. Meaningful discussions and agreeing to disagree. That I’m fit enough to climb the monkey bars at the playground, but wise enough to know that’s probably not a good idea. Inside jokes. People who know the difference between what needs to be said and what remains better unsaid. Roller coasters and friends that will still ride them with me. Everything water- from cleaning tears to the salty ocean to a hot bubble bath.

Venting my frustrations in a letter. Knowing when to send it and when not to. Compassionate doctors and nurses. Anything Coffee Time bakes. Wrinkle free/stain resistant clothing. Fresh starts and second chances. The first snow of the winter and the first spring day that signals the end of it. People who keep me safe and free: police, fire and Servicemen and women. My college diploma and teachers who helped me achieve it. Staff and volunteers from the Boys & Girls Club, Salvation Army, food pantries, shelters and other organizations that exist to help community members in need.

The gasping beauty of a star filled night sky far away from city lights. The Wicked Running Club and new friends I’ve met. My non-running friends I already had. Marathon finish lines and friends that cross them with me. Hand written notes. Vanilla birthday cake with buttercream frosting and the gift of another year. A tall non-fat 2 pump with whip cinnamon dolce on a cold winter morning. New pajamas. Traditions- honoring old and making new. Hope. Finding something I thought I lost. Losing something I never liked anyway.

Pep Cornacchio and the love he has for this City. Anything cooked with butter and garlic. Holiday lights that brighten up my December commute. Hearing my favorite song on the radio then turning the channel and there it is again- score! Long weekends and a job I don’t mind going back to on Tuesday. Talk radio when I can’t sleep. That peaceful tired feeling at the end of an accomplished day. Forgiveness- giving and getting. Theatre, music, art, books and the creative people who dedicate their lives to enriching mine. Newspapers and the people who read them.

That when I submit this article for publication, I will immediately think of hundreds of things I should have/could have/would have added to this list if I had the time. And for that I am thankful indeed.

Do You Really Want to Know?

2009-11-05T15:38:00.000-05:00

It was a simple question I’ve been asked thousands of times. "I haven’t seen you in ages" my long-distance friend home for a visit gushed enthusiastically "HOW ARE YOU?"

"How Are You?" she said. Three words and nine letters that elicit a mini panic attack each time I hear them. A reluctant "good doobie" from way back when, I try my best to be honest in thoughts and actions whenever possible. Partly because it’s the right thing to do, partly because its too hard to remember fibs, but mostly because I seem to have been born with an extra large guilt complex that won’t let me rest if I try to be anything but honest. A guilt complex so bad that as a young child preparing for confession, I kept a list of everything I did wrong- including the horrible sin of walking by my Nana’s house without saying hello- only to find out the light in the confessional goes off when you kneel, leaving me list-less and sinful. But I digress.

I try to be honest, but not brutally so where I blurt out hurtful facts just because they are true and need to be said. In fact, I’ve become adept at massaging the facts to appease my honest nature without leaving a trail of hurt feelings along the way. "Don’t I look like I lost a ton of weight?" my happy co-worker asks as she twirls around proudly displaying something I’m just not able to see. I smile and say "Wow… look at you!" which she takes as agreement and leaves happily.

Behind her comes a friend who just scored an unexpected invite to a hip party after work.
"Does this outfit make me look like an old fart?" "Define old fart" I respond realizing it’s a question that demands a Yes or No answer I’m unable to give at this moment. "I knew you’d tell me the truth… I’m going to go home and change first" she laughs. And it dawns on me how ironic it is that in my attempt to be truthful I have become an expert at not answering the question at all, a trick men learned years ago.

Its our own fault as women that men have been trained to sidestep such Yes or No landmine questions as "Does this make me look fat?" or "Does my haircut look ok?" Forgetting this deep-rooted self-defense mechanism, I ask my fiance a question I expect a truthful answer to: "Do you like my hair better short or long?" Staring at me as if I was cross-examining him in a court of law, he gingerly responds "Whichever way you like it is good." So much for honest feedback.

But of all these questions we ask on a regular basis, it is still "How Are You?" that trips me up every time. Synonymous with "Hello" and intended more as a greeting than a real question, it certainly does not require the soul-searching reflection I’ve come to give it. And as kind as the check out attendant at the grocery store is, I’m sure she doesn’t want a truthful answer when she says "Hi, how are you" in a sing songy voice while she scans my can of soup with the grace of a conductor’s wand. For a moment I’m tempted to answer ‘I’m obsessed with my family’s health, scared about what is going to happen if the next generation doesn’t read newspapers, and worried about a new mole that looks alot like photos I’ve seen of possible skin cancer. And you?’ but instead I chuckle "Do you really want to know?" expecting this to be a controversial answer. Instead she hums back "Great" apparently assuming my answer had been "good", which I understand is the preferred response of 99.9% of the human race when asked how we are. So why does this question haunt me so much, and why is it so difficult for me to spit out "good" even if it couldn’t be further from the truth? And does anyone really want to know how I am?

"HOW ARE YOU?" my friend asks me with her bright smile and kind eyes that just barely hide the pain I know she feels over her husband’s sudden illness. And at that moment I realize that for the same reason I know how she truly feels, she knows how I feel as well. We politely ask the question, but we already know the answer. "I’m hanging in there." I answer honestly. "Me too, my friend" she responds with a hug, "Me too."

The Best Race I've Never Run

2009-10-15T09:52:00.000-04:00

For many, the Salem/Beverly football rivalry is a Thanksgiving morning tradition. Back in high school, I would be up most of the prior night decorating the homes of football players (my apologies to the families who later had to remove miles of toilet paper from their property). I would attend the game in obligatory red, white and black, screaming cheers at the top of my lungs, arriving home for Thanksgiving dinner literally speechless, often freezing, and sometimes halfway hysterical from the high school drama that would take place in our sleep deprived high adrenaline state.

But football is no longer the only game in town. Six years ago a new Thanksgiving tradition came to Salem - the Wild Turkey 5 Mile Road Race. Introduced by Park, Recreation and Community Services Director Doug Bollen with help from former Boys & Girls Club of Greater Salem Director Tom Philbin, this race has quickly become the largest on the North Shore growing from 300 to over 1,000 participants, with proceeds benefiting Salem youth programs.

While this race has attracted runners from as far as Italy, it still remains fiercely local. More than just a race, the Wild Turkey is a reunion with a run in the middle. Amidst the hustle and bustle, happy runners greet their neighbors with hugs, handshakes and holiday greetings, sharing training tips and dinner plans. A true community affair, this event is made possible thanks to the generosity of local sponsors, food donors, the Salem Police and hundreds of volunteers. This race is the perfect way to kick off a holiday dedicated to indulging in as much food as possible. The 5-mile course is long enough to challenge an experienced runner, but not so far that it scares a recreational jogger. It gives hundreds of participants something to celebrate later, as they toast their victory over a well-earned turkey dinner, many donning their race shirts and turkey tattoos. From the popular "water" stop hosted by the Juniper Point neighborhood in Salem Willows to that annoying little hill near Camp Naumkeag, the Wild Turkey 5 Mile Road Race is a great way to start Thanksgiving Day.

In fact, it’s the best race I’ve never run. That’s right, it’s the biggest race on the North Shore, and I’ve never run it. Because I live with the Wild Turkey Race Director, my Thanksgiving morning goes something like this. The alarm goes off at 3:30 a.m. "You’ve got to be kidding" I say every year, surprised that 3:30 a.m. can still feel as badly as it did the year before. In early years, the mile markers were sprayed on the course, causing great dismay when we awoke one year to a dusting of snow covering the race arrows that had to be relocated and shoveled off at 4:30 a.m. "I think the line is over there, no… over there" we whispered in the dark as we drove slowly along the course, watching kitchen lights click on as we passed by. Another year, a torrential rainstorm threatened to hit race day morning. It held off until the last runner crossed the finish line, but not before days of emails asking if the event would take place "rain or shine". (Word to newbies: like it or not, races are not cancelled for weather).

6 a.m. on race day morning, the Boys & Girls Club hall comes alive as volunteers arrive, ready for the rush of early bird runners checking in with one thought in mind- ‘I hope I get a shirt’. Look around Salem on any given day, and you will see at least one Wild Turkey technical shirt jogging by. One of the first races to offer this five years ago, the turkey shirt is a hot commodity in running circles, available for a limited number of early registrants. Seeing the race bags so carefully lined up brings back memories from the whirlwind bag stuffing the prior weekend. With the help of volunteers from the Wicked Running Club, a massive assembly line is formed to collate over 1,000 race numbers, shirts, gels, flyers and promotional materials. Several hours and many paper cuts later, rows and rows of registration bags are lined up, ready to bring joy to their racing recipients.

7 a.m. on race day, the Boys & Girls Club is packing them in by the hundreds. Surrounded by Club member posters that read "Run Your Turkey Off" and "Thank You Runners", the Race Director fields every question imaginable, sometimes several simultaneously, on topics from volunteer locations, to course records, to bathroom issues. My usual post is locked away in a ‘quiet room’, furiously entering information for the post entries into the timing system. The excitement is palpable as the hour counts down, and the runners head towards Salem Common for the main event.

It’s 8 a.m. and outside the runners are off, but inside preparations are underway for food and drink to be available for their return an hour later. They arrive in sweating, heaving, happy clumps, the room vibrating with chatter as friends compare experiences and times. Some will wait to see if they’ve won an award, but for many, finishing is reward enough.

Our volunteer morning ends with a handful of hearty helpers cleaning the Club to its original state, with hardly a clue that over a thousand runners controlled the space a few hours earlier. The final stop on Thanksgiving morning is aptly to the Salem Mission, where appropriate food donations are dropped off. Its 11:30 a.m., 8 hours since we woke up, and we look every bit as worse for the wear as the last runner to cross the finish line. As we pause for a moment outside the Mission, an entering guest whispers "Its OK to go in. They are nice, and give you a hot meal". "Thank you, Happy Thanksgiving" we respond, remembering just how much we have to be thankful for.

To register or volunteer for the Wild Turkey 5 Mile Road Race on Thanksgiving Day go to salemroadraces.com.

Back When It Was Just Halloween

2009-09-24T13:57:00.000-04:00

Before Salem was known as the Haunted Happenings Hub of the world, before homes were transformed into Haunted Houses in mid September, and before giant Halloween stores would open overnight to meet our increasing demand for everything spooky, October 31 was just Halloween.

When I was young, homemade costumes were for the "poor kids". The coolest costumes came in a box showcasing a plastic mask through the transparent cover. We would deliberate at the store for hours. I want to be a princess. No! I want to be a ballerina. No…wait! Maybe I should be a cat! Regardless of which costume we settled on, immediate buyer’s remorse would settle in when we saw our friend’s plastic face. I remember the feeling of envy when Debbie showed me her Cinderella mask, complete with molded blonde hair. Why, oh why, did I go with stupid Snow White?

Preparing for our big night, we would strap on our plastic masks with the eye and mouth holes that never lined up right on our small faces. If you wanted to see you couldn’t talk, and if you wanted to sneak a piece of candy through the mouth hole, you couldn’t see. I remember sweating beneath the mask stuck too tightly to my face, my hair knotted up in the taunt elastic band so badly it would have to be cut off at the end of the night. One year I tried to punch some breathing holes into the plastic nose with a pen, accidentally turning my mask into a "princess pig" sending me into a complete Halloween meltdown when I was told I couldn’t get a new one to replace the one I had ruined.

Heading out on for the big night, I held my pumpkin head flashlight tightly, walking gingerly because I couldn’t figure out how to get it to stop flashing, so it only lit up every other step. I would trip down the street in my much too long 100% flammable princess dress, testing the strength of the poorly sewn seams by forcing it over layers of clothing like a sausage casing, as I tried to stay warm without ruining my look.

"Look at the cute little pig… or are you a princess?" total strangers would coo as they opened their doors to hand out treats. The night would start out with nervous whispers of "trick or treat" followed by polite "thank yous" as we shyly reached for a single piece of candy. But as the night went on and we got into the spirit of things, solo kids would meet up with other kids, and we’d become trick or treat "clumps", shuffling from house to house looking for lit porches and open doors. Once we realized no one knew who we were behind our masks, mini mob mentality set in and all politeness was kicked to the curb. The sugar high acted like truth serum, and we’d scream "Yuck!" and "Gross!" if the candy selection didn’t meet our standards. Presented with top of the line treats, we’d scream "Awesome!" as we loaded up by the greedy handfuls, candy spilling all over the sidewalk in our wake. "Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat…" we’d chant, hypnotized by the porch lights which beckoned to us with promises of Halloween heaven.

When I became too old for trick or treating, my little brother had just hit his peak. I was a big sister with over ten years of Halloween experience behind me and a driver’s license, on a mission to find the best trick or treat spot in Salem. I loaded Stephen and his Superman outfit into the car and headed to Chestnut Street where he proceeded to score full size candy bars and bags of chips. Forget standing out on the stoop in the cold…we’d be invited into their kitchens for homemade caramel apples, popcorn balls, and cookies fresh from the oven with a cold glass of milk. Occasionally his bag would become so heavy from a handful of change or a roll of pennies (Score!) that we would have to empty the stash into a bigger bag in the car before continuing on. That was the best Halloween ever, and I swear we snacked on our loot until it started to melt from the summer heat.

I’m afraid the innocence of those days is gone forever. It began to fade around the time we were warned to cut candy bars into small pieces to make sure no one had stuck razor blades in them, and not to accept any homemade items in case they were poisoned. The circle of homes you were allowed to visit got progressively smaller. First you were limited to just your neighborhood, then just your street, then just to homes you knew, and eventually you’d only visit relatives. School and home parties have replaced traditional trick or treating, which does not deter countless adults, who still remember how Halloween use to be, from stocking up on snack size candy bars and leaving the porch light on, just in case.

Its Not About the Candy

2009-09-11T11:23:00.001-04:00

I dare you to walk by my office during a workday without stopping in at least once. It is not my sunny disposition or my gift for gab that attracts coworkers to my office. It’s my candy basket.

But this is not just any candy basket; it is THE candy basket. While I can’t always personally meet everyone’s needs, my candy dish usually can. Need a chocolate fix? Come on by…I have milk chocolate and dark chocolate, nuts and no nuts. Not a chocolate fan? I have bulls eyes and licorice to name just a few. Need a fix that won’t wreck your diet? Grab a mint patty. Off to a meeting? You need a lifesaver. Its no coincidence that I happen to have every type of candy or treat that everyone in our office likes. It has taken many years of careful listening on my part, and we are not just talking about the candy.

One by one they flitter in and out. "What a day, I need a chocolate fix!" John huffs as he searches for a dark chocolate nugget. "I just had a great sales call" Natalie exclaims as she celebrates with a Kit Kat. "I need something to help me survive the traffic…" Darren moans as he grabs some bubble gum for the road.

It all started almost 20 years ago when I was hired as a sales manager at the Boston Herald. The first day of any job is exciting but also stressful, both for myself as a new manager, and for the experienced staff worrying about the worst case scenario but hoping for the best. Thinking about how I could break the ice and make an easier transition for all of us, I stopped by work a week prior to starting and hung a sign on my door: "Your new boss likes candy". For the rest of that week I worried about lots of things, but mostly about that sign. Would they think I was silly? Would they think it was demeaning? Would they think I take bribes? Why did I use that stupid word BOSS?

About 5 minutes into day one at work, the first candy bar arrived. "Hi I’m Scott, and I know you like candy, so on behalf of the staff I’d like to present you with a chocolate bar". That was just the start. One by one they came by to say hello, and either gave me candy or talked about candy. But it wasn’t just about the candy. It never is.

In these days of remote communication and email, the candy basket invites human interaction. It’s an open invite to come in and talk about whatever is on your mind. Sometimes it’s obvious, such as the co-worker who will grab a cherry twizzler along with a seat, and bemoan the issues of the day. Sometimes its as subtle as a sigh quietly released as they pick through the basket ever so slowly, knowing if they stall long enough I’ll say "What’s up?" Then there’s the grab and go which really is just about the candy, and that’s fine too.

During the candy trips, my co-workers and I have learned much about each other that we would not have known otherwise; information that has allowed us all to be a bit more understanding of each other’s perspectives. Our lives unfold five minutes at a time as I learn about hardships and happiness, family and friends, fears and hopes. We talk about deaths and births, triumph and tragedies, the past and the future. Rarely do we talk directly about work, except for how it affects them and their state of mind. I have learned that, for many, the office and the relationships formed here are an important part of their lives. I’ve learned how grateful many are that their job here has allowed them to be flexible for child care, to go back to school, or to care for an ill family member. I’ve also learned in a non-threatening way what they are not happy about which gives us an opportunity to make changes or to explain why "it is what it is" to invite better understanding of the business reason behind an otherwise unpopular decision.

Despite the fact that I am the only original staff member from my early days, the snack tradition has survived almost two decades. But the selections have changed to mirror current office cravings, and now feature weekly specials such as "healthy treat" (dark chocolate with almonds), "low cal pick" (mint patty) and the "Publisher’s Favorite" (lifesaver).

The importance of the candy dish is most apparent during its absence, when it has to be locked away during my infrequent time off. Returning from a short Labor Day trip, I barely pull the candy basket out of its storage before I can see the shadow of someone behind me, waiting.
"It wasn’t the same without the candy basket!" John says as he shuffles through the selections with a smile on his face. "So, how was your weekend?" And I smile as well, because it’s not just about the candy. It never is.

My life in ticket stubs

2009-08-29T11:55:00.000-04:00

One day in the early 70’s instead of tossing out my .75 cent movie ticket for a creature double feature, I saved it. And I never stopped. Almost 40 years later, my ticket collection represents hundreds of moments in my life captured on tiny pieces of paper.

At the bottom of my box is a confetti mix of colorful stubs from the old Salem Cinema on Essex Street, now a condo complex. My friends and I would ride our bikes to the Saturday afternoon double feature. Back then, movie tickets were generic and the color rotated to keep you from sneaking in. I would write the movie name and date on the stub along with my own rating system. As a budding critic, I made some solid choices such as giving American Graffiti and Jaws four stars each, but also had some questionable reviews like calling Roddy McDowell “CUTE” in The Legend of Hell House, which I also gave four stars (huh?).

Eventually, I left the security of Salem Cinema for the excitement of live theatre. My stubs attest that I have seen just about every musical ever made multiple times from Boston to Broadway, and was a regular guest of my Uncle Walter who had season tickets to the North Shore Music Theatre back when it was a summer only theatre in a tent. My most memorable theatre experience was scoring front row seats for my mother and I to see Damn Yankees starring Jerry Lewis at the Wang Theatre. As I smugly marched up to the best seats of my life, I found out they really were the best seats- but for the prior night’s performance. The pain of that mistake hurt my ego as much as the folding wooden chairs they kindly set up for us near the lighting booth by the exit door.

Before age caused me to worry about such things as finding parking spots and getting up early for work the next day, the highlight of my summer was the announcement of the concert tours. My stubs document performances by timeless musicians such as Stevie Wonder, The Eagles, U2, Aerosmith and Eric Clapton, as well as an intimate performance by The Wallflowers, who inexplicably performed at a Beverly High School dance in 1997 at the peak of their popularity (does anyone else remember this?). My most memorable concert experience was Don Henley at Harborlights in 2000. I was sitting in the ‘cheap seats’ when a stranger asked me if I wanted an upgrade as her friend could not attend. And an upgrade it was- front row center so close to Don Henley I could see the pills on his flannel shirt.

Along with my good concert experiences came the memorable fiasco that was the Parliament & Funkadelic concert in 1979 at the Peabody Ice Rink on Rt. 114. At the age of 19, I naïvely thought it was appropriate to dress up for concerts, including my nana’s antique watch necklace, which I last saw laced through someone’s fingers as they ripped it off my neck in the riot and mugging that ensued in the parking lot. Good times!

Thanks to working at the Boston Herald for nearly 20 years, I often served as host for our Boston Garden box where I attended such classic sports rivalries as Bruins/Canadians and Celtics/Lakers- complete with birds flying around in the rafters and fog hovering over the parquet floor. And my ticket stub to the US Open reminded me that before Map Quest and GPS, a wrong turn at 2 a.m. on a Saturday night coming home from New York can quickly land you in the middle of a scene reminiscent of the movie Judgement Night.

As I smiled at memories of these moments and the people I shared them with, I came across a raffle ticket with my name scrawled across the top in my brother’s handwriting.

I was at a newspaper conference in Philadelphia fall 1998, and returned to my hotel room to find a message to call Stephen as soon as possible. We barely talked at home, never mind when I was away, so a flurry of worst case scenarios controlled my thoughts as I nervously called to find out what the emergency was. As it turned out, he was trying to sell the last $100 ticket to the Boys & Girls Club $5,000 raffle, and had run out of prospects. It was the first time he had ever asked me for a donation or even talked about the Club for that matter, and I gladly committed to buying the last ticket with a verbal IOU. Before I got on the plane to return home, he had left me another message telling me that I won. It was not until his wake a year later than I found out he had tried to put my ticket aside and draw another as he didn’t want it to look “fixed”. Seeing that ticket with my name in Stephen’s handwriting made me smile, as it was he who had saved it, not me; I had found it tucked amongst his own ticket collection.

As I proceed to pack up my memories, I notice a dramatic drop off over the years. The collection I once added to several times a week slowly dropped to once a week, to once a month, to several times a year. And while I can vividly recall most of the events the stubs represent, I can hardly tell you what else I filled up my time with in recent years aside from work. In fact, this collection is as much a reflection of time lost as it is of experiences gained. And with that, I promise to not let my collection gather as much dust on the shelf, making more time in my life for the type of adventures and experiences that filled it up in the first place.

You Never Know Until You Try

2009-08-11T15:19:00.000-04:00

There is a hot debate going on right now among some members of my running club, and it concerns the idea of giving all finishers of an event an award as opposed to recognizing only the "winners". Some people believe this "everyone wins by participating" philosophy contributes to a feeling of entitlement, defeating the whole idea of good sportsmanship where you learn to lose (or win) with dignity. Others believe that by rewarding all participants, everyone feels a sense of accomplishment and pride.
While both viewpoints are valid, there is no easy answer. And from personal observation, I’m not so sure it is about the medals or ribbons as much as it is about what is inside each of us. I’ve seen some back-of-the-pack runners of all ages complete their first race bursting with pride they did not need a medal or ribbon to validate, and I’ve seen top finishers so disappointed in their performance that no award could take away the sting of what they considered a personal failure.
Which got me thinking less about the finish, and more about the fact that with all the pressures to win and succeed that bombard us from all sides, it’s a miracle we are strong enough to try at all.
There is something very brave about the act of "trying", whether it is running a race or running for office. Our results oriented, "winning is everything" world can intimidate the faint of heart who are unable to block out the negativity surrounding them. In both the professional and volunteer worlds, the mere mention of a new idea will inevitably elicit a list of potential disasters, suggesting it may be better to not try at all. "What if you can’t do it?" "What if no one comes?" "What if it doesn’t work?" "What if they say no?" "What if its too hard?" "What if you FAIL?" Negativity can paralyze us and leave us stuck in our safety, never knowing what could have been if only we had more faith than fear.
I work in sales, where the fear of trying can literally end a career. This fear was put to the test at the start of my employment with the Boston Herald when I thought it would be a great idea to throw an advertiser party. Who doesn’t love a party? Months of preparation, hours of event planning, and hundreds of invitations later, it was the day of my grand idea. A handful of Herald employees stood with me in the Rotunda at Faneuil Hall surrounded by food for hundreds as we watched a rainstorm pound down upon the city. It was the kind of rainstorm that ties up traffic for miles. The kind of rainstorm that makes you turn around and go home rather than attend a Boston Herald party. My only consolation was that our publisher, was in New York and wouldn’t be present to see this fiasco. "The Publisher just called. He decided to fly in for the party and is on his way from the airport." I quickly did the math on how much the company had spent for this debacle, and it came to somewhere around $80 per shrimp. Just then Pat walked in, not so fresh from his flight and one mile drive from the airport that took him over an hour. He glanced around the room and took in my debut disaster. The words he spoke next, I will never forget. "Tough break on the weather, but thanks for trying," he said "everything doesn’t always work out, but you still have to try. That’s the only way you’ll ever know if it was a good idea or not." Then he ate a shrimp.
That was one of those defining moments when someone has the power to crush you, or lift you up. Thankfully, I got a lift, and I’ve been trying things ever since. While it remains true that not everything has worked out the way I’ve wanted, for every disappointment I’ve endured I’ve also had some really great successes.
Which comes back to the original question. Should everyone who finishes be recognized with a reward for being brave enough to try at all? Ask a marathon runner and see what they say, then ask who has the right to judge which personal accomplishment is greater than another. Awards or not, we all know what is easily within our reach, and what we have to try really hard to achieve. And in that trying, comes the true measure of success.

The Impact of A Life

2009-07-21T08:23:00.001-04:00

Watching the spectacle that was Michael Jackson’s life and death made me pause to think about the impact of each of our lives. What is it that causes the world to stop and mourn one person, while so many other quiet heroes are laid to rest with little fanfare but no less impact on those around them? Our lives intersect many others in our lifetime, and those meetings and moments have the potential to change us forever. Some of the simplest gestures of kindness or a well-placed word of comfort can be as influential as any grand gesture. Here are just a few of my remembrances of special people who influenced my life in ways they may never have realized.
The first is Danny P. Danny and I worked together in the sales department of the Salem Evening News. Danny was all goodness- he loved life, and loved everyone who was part of his life. He could spin a bad day into something to be thankful for and his happiness was contagious. He was well known for his streak of consecutive Boston Marathons, so it was no surprise when I bumped into him and his ever-present smile in 2003 when I ran my first Boston Marathon. I was picking up my number, nervous and excited, giddy yet unsettled. After a warm hug, I related to Danny the story of my brother Stephen and why I was running. He said very sincerely "I know this about your brother- he has the best sister in the world and is so proud of you right now, and so am I." Simple words from a beautiful soul that made me smile throughout those 26.2 marathon miles. Danny never mentioned he was fighting his own long battle with cancer, which he would succumb to several years later. This past April as I prepared to run my 10th marathon to complete a personal goal, Danny’s Mass card fell out of a photo album. There he was with his life is good grin and Hawaiian shirt, and I was reminded once again that genuine and unselfish kindness truly can change the world in many small ways.
Another memorable personality in my life was Professor "C". His weather class at Salem State College was THE elective class to take. With his giant personality and booming voice he would draw you in from the first second to the last, and like a good movie, you would sometime feel a little sad that it was over. I can still see him at the start of class, his back turned waiting for us to be seated. Then he would suddenly and dramatically turn around and scream the topic of the day "CLOUDS" so loud you’d fly off your seat. Working in the Academic Affairs office, we became friendly and I looked up to him as a mentor. He entrusted me as Registrar for a national conference he was organizing, and despite my nervousness and uncertainty in this huge undertaking, he gently guided and encouraged me. He gave me just enough space to do it on my own, without deserting me if I needed help. That gentle balance between independence and guidance is one I try to maintain with my coworkers today, and has been the cornerstone of my management philosophy. Professor C’s wife passed away suddenly, and he followed not long after. I can’t help but think that he passed on in the same sudden manner that he used to open his classes, and that I am only one of many who remain influenced by his larger than life and death personality.
As Executive Director of our professional newspaper organization, my friend Morley has a Dick Clark sort of agelessness. Tall, stately and distinguished, he was an ever-present consultant and advisor for our classified group. Although I have known him for over 20 years and almost as many hair styles, the years have left Morley relatively unchanged.
Although he seemed a bit stoic and intimidating at first, if you looked closely there was a gleam in his eye that suggested a life of unspoken experiences. With his dry humor, he would add the phrase "for the good of the order" to the end of every meeting agenda, despite the fact that no one knew what the heck it meant, except Morley who would snicker when we read it. He was well known for signing his notes with the simple phase ‘Onward’. Years ago, I received a copy of an article that ran in the local newspaper regarding my speech to students at Salem High School about drunk driving, with a personal note from Morley that simply said "Well done- Onward". Years later, I discovered Morley knew all too well what my family was going through when I found out he had lost his son who had been paralyzed in an auto accident. A war veteran who participated the Normandy invasion, Morley’s simple "Onward" phrase captured the essence of his life’s force in that one simple word, a word I still use as a mantra to push beyond the obstacles and tragedies that threaten to obstruct our life’s path.
I feel grateful that the length of this article forces me to choose just a few individuals who impacted my life from a long list, a testimony to the importance each of us has in the world. Think of those who have impacted your life, and realize you have the potential to be that person for someone else. Our lives are intertwined in ways we can never fully realize, except for our faith that tells us we each have a purpose here on earth, either by our own actions or what we inspire in those we meet along the way.
Onward.

The Lost Art of Paying Attention

2009-06-29T16:27:00.000-04:00

With an overabundant choice of communication methods, it seems ironic that we are rapidly becoming incapable of the most common courtesy- paying attention.
Remember ‘paying attention’? It use to alert us that something important was about to be said- ‘If everyone could please pay attention, I have an announcement to make’. In the classroom, lack of it would elicit an outright threat- ‘Unless everyone starts paying attention, recess will be cancelled’. Paying attention use to be a very big deal, but lately not so much.
Driving to work, seatbelt strapped in with both hands on the wheel, I listen to a radio report about a study that found people who multi-task are not able to do anything very well, because it is not possible to pay full attention to several things at once. I wonder how I too can get paid to find out the obvious, as I slam on the brakes to avoid a car running a red light to take a left turn with no blinker. And apparently no hands, as they hold a phone to their ear while eating a breakfast sandwich. Instead of mastering the art of driving with their knees, perhaps they should master the art of paying attention.
Minutes later, another near miss when a pedestrian pops out from between two parked cars. Laughing, texting and wearing an ipod, he jaywalks without as much as a glance my way. Luckily for both of us, I was paying attention.
Enter the workplace, where texting during meetings has become an epidemic. In frustration, I channel my 2nd grade teacher and half jokingly ask my staff to let me see both hands on the table before the meeting starts to be sure they are free from electronic devices. As if on queue, someone’s cell phone starts buzzing in its holster. Yes it was funny, but in that frustrated ‘can’t win’ sort of way. And I realize I can no longer swim against the tide of technology that seems to have drowned out common courtesy.
But technology is just the latest in a long line of distractions. How many phone conversations have we suffered through that were interspersed with outbursts directed towards unseen children, pets or partners? And how many conversations have included comments on what was on TV at the time, accompanied by the sound of eating, or even the sound of someone ordering food at a drive up window mid conversation? And how many times a day do we utter "what was I just talking about" as a testimony to the rapid stream of events around us competing for our attention?
As usual, I am not immune to the subject of my own rant, and I understand the hypnotic allure of the "you have email" siren song that woos me in the midst of a budget meeting with my boss. He hears it too, and challenges me with direct eye contact to see if I glance away to peek at my computer screen. Ironically, this showdown is halted when his Blackberry rings, and he does not hesitate to take a technology time out to determine who is more important, the person sitting in front of him or the person texting for his attention. My answer lies in the silence broken only by the sound of tiny thumb typing as he texts back to the unknown interrupter.
Determined to have just one conversation that does not take place to the background music of computer typing, cell phone ringing, eating, cars honking or any other interruption, I return a lunch time phone call from a friend. Fully committed to the conversation, I close my office door and turn the volume down on my computer so I will not be distracted. As I launch into a recap of events over the past few weeks, I am aware of something I have not heard in a very long time – the silence of listening on the other end of the line. ‘Wow, she is really paying attention!’ I’m thinking, as the phone rings in my hand.
It’s my friend. "I’m sorry," she says "I must have hung up on you by accident. I was trying to hold the phone with my shoulder while I was doing the dishes. So what were you saying again…?"

The Changing Face of Friendship

2009-06-23T08:46:00.000-04:00

I overhear a young child at a pool whisper to his parents "I’m going to play with that boy over there". Without hesitation, he jumps in and commands the former stranger to "stand with your legs open and let me swim through them". In minutes they are fast friends, laughing hysterically. The logic is beautifully simple: ‘I’m a kid, and so are you- let’s play.’ If we could only continue that innocent approach to friendship our whole lives, no one would ever be lonely again.
In my youth, our little lives were not overscheduled with places we needed to be every day of the week, allowing us to make our own decisions about what sounded like fun at the time.
I know where the concept of American Idol started- in the bedroom of Debbie, age 9, who lived on the corner and owned a kick butt collection of 45 records. We would spend hours challenging each other to lip sync to the B side of hit songs, judging each other on dance moves, showmanship and knowing all the words. And long before online shopping was invented, my friend Tina and I would draw "stores" on Doodle Pads and exchange them so we could "shop" with our unlimited credit lines. We would then hop on our bikes and ride to Almy’s snack bar for "french fries and coke" which we would chant out loud the whole way for no particular reason except that it made us laugh. While I lost track of Debbie when her family moved, I remain forever friends with Tina and I’m grateful to have someone in my life who knew the ‘mini me’, with whom I can laugh about how goofy we were, and how goofy we can still be.
In high school, friendships become our safe place amidst the turmoil of hormones and peer pressure. We clump together to feel some sense of belonging, even if our group was comprised of those who don’t fit in anywhere else. I recall my high school years as "social survival", and I found a lifejacket in my friend Karen who, with her wit and humor, made high school bearable. But as time moved on we did too. We attended different colleges and went our separate ways. Some friendships survive these changes and some do not. Sadly, ours was the latter, despite our sincere yearbook pledges to be forever friends. Still, my memories of high school will be forever intertwined with memories of Karen.
Entering the workforce, we spend the majority of our waking hours with the same group of people each day, developing strong bonds with those who share a similar point of view. My work buddies understand the absurdities of our business like no one else can. We shares hysterical inside jokes that would draw a blank stare from anyone else, eliciting some of the best belly laughs of my life- the kind so deep that it makes no sound, your eyes tear up and your stomach hurts. One April Fools Day I left my friend Ellen a message to call Mr. Roach at A-1 Exterminators to place an ad. It was the lamest joke I’ve ever pulled, but she fell for it, which cracks me up to this day. Our work relationships may or may not survive as we move on, but the best memories of my newspaper career will always be my co-workers who filled my workdays with humor, camraderie and sometime shenanigans.
Related to work friends are my ‘conference friends’ who work at newspapers around the country. I have seen them once a year for over 20 years, but the distance between us and our rare meetings do not hinder our friendship. I became especially close with Laura, and while making plans to visit with her in New Mexico I stated "You know me, I’m not a lot of work." To which she quickly responded "Yes I know you, and you are a lot of work, but its so endearing that you think you are not." We still laugh over the accuracy of her insight. It is a true friend that recognizes our idiosyncrasies and reflects them back as strengths rather than weaknesses.
I went full circle in the friendship loop when I joined the Wicked Running Club. Much like those kids at the pool, the concept is simple: "I’m a runner and so are you- let’s run together." The acceptance is unconditional, and all-inclusive. It doesn’t matter how old you. It doesn’t matter how fast you are. And it doesn’t matter what you do for work. All we need to have in common to be friends is our running, and the simplicity of that friendship in the midst of a complex world is refreshing, irreplaceable, and reminiscent of the fast friendship we forged as kids.
I could write pages and pages about friends I have had over the years, past and present, and for that I am grateful. While I can easily keep company on my own, that only makes my friendships more rewarding as they are based on choice, not need. Some friendships are forever, some we outgrow, and some we sadly outlive, but all are unique in helping us to discover those parts of ourselves recognizable only to a true friend.

We Are What We Wear

2009-06-22T10:38:00.001-04:00

I’m staring at the person sitting across from me. Their lips are moving, but I can’t hear a word they are saying because I’m reading their shirt, which depicts a duck giving a rude gesture and the words ‘Ask me if I give a quack’. To put it into better context, this is a job interview and the person wearing this shirt is applying for a job… a customer service job. Although this was many years ago, I still remember how incredulous the applicant was when I told him I found his choice of clothing questionable. "No one will know what I’m wearing over the phone" he countered. "Ah, but you will." was my response.
The written word is a powerful thing, be it a newspaper, a heartfelt thank you note or the front of a shirt. And so it goes, wearing jewelry and clothing with a message sends a strong statement about who we are and what people can expect from us. And in that sense, we are what we wear.
Perhaps it is my English major background, but I have always had a penchant for clothing and jewelry with words on them, and still wear an original ‘Just Do It’ Nike tee I bought in college. That slogan was advertising genius, and gives me extra motivation for my weekend chores. How can I be lazy when the words JUST DO IT taunt me from my tee?
Even as I suspect I’m getting too old to wear clothing with words on them, I can’t resist adding to my collection. Just ask my fiancé, who has waited impatiently as I shop through stacks of witty wearables, reading them aloud as his eyes glaze over. Some of my favorites are ‘University of Wishful Thinking’, ‘Never, ever give up’, and a two sided tee that reads ‘consistency’ on the front and ‘longevity’ on the back. I also have several ‘be’ shirts (my initials) which read: ‘be.loved’, ‘be.involved’ and ‘be.you’. But my favorite is ‘Little Miss Sunshine’, because everyone who knows me gets the joke.
I also collect jewelry with words of inspiration. I have necklaces that read ‘believe’, ‘imagine’, ‘hope’ and ‘what you think you become’. My jewelry choice sets the intention for the day, and I recall that intention each time I check to be sure the clasp has not twisted to the front. The symbolism behind the message can change depending on the circumstance. Asked what my ‘imagine’ necklace means by a Boys & Girls Club member, I said, "Imagine how wonderful your life will be." When asked the same thing at work, the answer is "Imagine what we can achieve together." And both interpretations are true in their moment. My favorite necklace is an etched square with a star and the words ‘I wish I may’, conjuring up our wish upon a star childhood dreams when nothing seemed impossible.
I also received a beautiful bracelet as a gift when I ended my term as President of a newspaper organization. It is engraved with the words ‘Responsible, Productive, Caring’- an excerpt from the mission statement of the Boys & Girls Clubs of America. This gift sends so many positive messages that I can’t help but be inspired when I wear it.
Even our unconscious clothing choices can speak volumes about ourselves. On a vacation to a ranch in Arizona, I participated in a program that combined horseback riding with psychology, where our interactions with horses were meant to reveal inner truths. In our final session, participants sat in a circle and spilled their guts about the lessons they learned. I remained stoic and silent, feeling silly that I didn’t have the intense revelation expected of me. When I expressed this to the instructor, I was surprised when he softly asked "Would you say it was true that you were always picked last for schoolyard games, and never really felt wanted?" "Hmmm…why would you say that?" I asked suspiciously. "Because you waited to see which horses everyone else picked and went to the horse no one wanted." Good guess, I thought. He continued with "Would you say you struggle with your self esteem, and put everyone before yourself?" "Why would you think that?" I muttered uncomfortably. "Because you are wearing a shirt with the number 2 on it…" which sent the group into hysterics. And he was right, on all counts, right down to the unintended yet accurate statement the simple number 2 printed on my tank top made. Did I buy the shirt for that reason? Nope. Did I recognize the truth in the message when someone else pointed it out? I sure did.
So the question I ponder is, can we change the world’s perception of us by changing our clothing choices? Or does the true person inside shine through despite our best attempts at camouflage? The answer stares back at me from the bracelet on my wrist that simply reads, ‘be who you are’.

A Well Scheduled Life

2009-06-18T15:08:00.000-04:00

"I can’t make it on December 3, I have something else scheduled that day." As I say the words, I look at my calendar book. Today is April 15. The receptionist on the other end is nonplused as she works to fit me in. It dawns on me this is nothing unusual for her. "Let me grab my 2010 calendar…" she says. Wait a minute, did she say 2010? How can I possibly "carpe diem" when I have an appointment pending for February 2010, and when did my life become so busy?
Truth is, I have been busy since the 1960’s. I just had different priorities. Instead of restructuring my department, I was building forts out of cardboard boxes. Instead of preparing dinner, I was baking cakes in my Easy Bake Oven. And instead of running to the drugstore to pickup a prescription, I was picking up a cherry coke and the latest issue of Tiger Beat magazine. Between stapling photos of Bobby Sherman and David Cassidy to my bedroom walls and lip synching to my 45 records, I was out straight!
In high school I was equally busy, juggling homework and babysitting with two jobs- one after school, and one at night. Fast forward to college, where I added a work study job to the mix, yet somehow found the energy to leave my waitress job at 11 p.m. to meet my friends at the "disco" before pulling an all-nighter cramming for a test the next day.
Enter the working world, where I still found it difficult to work just one job at a time. I held onto my waitress gig for years until one night when I was asked to wait on a large group, which turned out to be the owner of the newspaper where I was working as Classified Director and his family. As Oprah would say, that was my "aha" moment, and I quit that night. It was also the time I realized I could replace the time spent at my 2nd job with volunteer work, which would ultimately bring much greater benefits than a part time pay check.
Today, I volunteer on three different boards despite the heavy demands and long hours of my job. One year not too long ago in the "Perfect Storm" of volunteerism, I served as President of all three at the same time. Add a marathon or two a year to fill in the gaps, and there is barely a moment of the day that remains unscheduled. Oh wait, there is still some free time. Maybe I should write an article for the Salem Gazette.
While it appears crystal clear that there is something down deep in my soul that compels me to not let a wasted moment pass, my fantasy is a time when it will not always be so. I dream about slowing down and giving myself breathing room to separate what I want to do from what I feel compelled to do. I think about simplifying my life to the basics, then inviting back in those things I truly miss. But that is the nature of a fantasy- it is an illusion, not reality.
My reality is the bright pink calendar book, which still sits open as I wait on hold to find out where I need to be almost a year from now. It is full of appointments, plans and schedules. But it’s also full of hopes, dreams and promises to be kept.
On my refrigerator is this quote by Alfred D. Souza:
"For a long time it had seemed to me that life was about to begin - real life. But there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be gotten through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, or a debt to be paid. Then life would begin. At last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life."
And so it dawns on me now, these plans I have are my life. And my intention is to continue to live as full a life as I can cram into my hot pink calendar book pages.

A goal achieved; A brother missed

2009-05-13T14:32:00.000-04:00

I can tell I am going to have a good marathon as soon as I open my eyes. I can always tell. I do a quick assessment and my body feels rested and ready. I know I’ll finish, and I know I’ll finish strong. My goal to run 10 marathons will be accomplished today, my fundraising has exceeded expectations, and my friends are waiting for me. You would almost think I should be happy. But on this particular day, I am searching for something more.
In these moments before the completion of a goal I have worked towards for over eight years, I soak up the silence. It will be my only silence in a long day of running, strategizing, complaining, encouraging and cheering. I am completely alone, and that, it seems, is my problem.
A drunken driver killed my brother Stephen in September 1999. Late on that Sunday night in the early fall, as I stood at the doorway of the two family I shared with Stephen while the police officers awkwardly tried to explain that my brother would never come home again, that driver killed part of me as well.
It is almost 10 years since that day, and with the help of Stephen’s family and friends, the time was filled with good intentions and generous contributions and students grateful for the educational assistance they received in Stephen’s memory. Acquaintances smile and tell us how wonderful the events are, how successful our fundraising has been, and how Stephen will never be forgotten. My fear is not that Stephen will be forgotten, but that we may forget why he is gone, and how a driver’s irreversible decision to get behind the wheel intoxicated ended his promising life. Stephen should not be an angel, he should not be watching over us from heaven, and I should not be running 10 marathons to prove that I did not die with him that day.
I constantly struggle with balancing the "feel good" part of our philanthropic work with the anger deep in my soul that tells me something went very wrong in the universe for Stephen to be killed the way he was. And this is this feeling that I’m searching for in my quiet moments before the marathon- the feeling that tells me all of this truly does mean something, and that this reason will one day become apparent.
So as my feet rhythmically hit the ground mile after mile, I silently repeat my marathon mantra "stay strong… stay strong". But somewhere on Marathon Day on Boylston Street with .2 miles to go, despite the encouraging crowds and finish line applause, despite the company of my training partner next to me and my friends holding up Steve’s Team signs, my mantra slowly melds into "still gone… still gone".
The finish comes with high fives and hugs and something I didn’t expect…nothing. I await the emotions that should have poured out of me like a flood of tears released when the dam opened. I would have expected that my heart would be bursting with love and joy and accomplishment, a healthy mix of happy and sad that comes when you complete a goal for someone whom did not live to see it. But instead I was totally empty. So empty I swear I could hear my own footsteps echoing in my head as they slowed from a jog to a walk. So empty I heard my own teeth chattering as our bodies were rapidly cooled by the biting wind. So empty I almost forgot what it felt like when I was full, when I was complete, and before I died a little bit on that same day as my brother.
Its been a few weeks now, and quite honestly, I have been lost without my goal. Then I realized, I wasn’t just running for Stephen, I was running with Stephen. Whether I was alone or with friends, he was always in my thoughts and my goal was always in mind. It was what had been pushing me forward all these years. Crossing that finish line, the footsteps I heard echoing were my own. Because as I crossed that finish line, I crossed it alone, and I missed my brother Stephen all over again.

Running School

2009-03-31T15:13:00.001-04:00

Growing up, I always enjoyed school and the process of learning. I was a non-athletic ‘nerd’, whose only exercise was running up to my room at the end of my school day to read a book. I carried the deadly ‘teacher’s pet’ stigma that resulted in extra mentoring from the teachers, and brutal teasing from classmates. Nonplused, I continued to enjoy my moments of being asked to read before the class despite the ‘not again’ huffs and puffs around me, and continued to wait after the bell rung to talk just a bit longer with my teachers about the subject of the day.
I especially loved College where classes were no longer ruled by taking attendance and being quiet, but centered around discussions, ideas and opinions. Of all the lessons I learned, the hardest was from the paper that I received a ‘D’ grade for from a notoriously difficult English Professor who explained he gave me that grade because he knew I could do better. After a sleepless night of re-writing my essay trying to purge the old words out of my head and replace them with new ones, I submitted a revision. A few days later I got the paper back with the grade of ‘A-‘ followed by a note that simply read "now Beth…." I still have that essay today and smile when I remember how that teacher took the time to not grade me in comparison to others, but in comparison to what he thought I was capable of.
But all my classroom lessons could not teach me what I learned after my brother Stephen was killed by a drunk driver in the fall of 1999 at the age of 30. I was 39, recovering from an early diagnosis and treatment for breast cancer, and I had no idea where to start the healing process. Then one day I invested in a pair of sneakers, and decided to try running.
Because old habits die hard, my first shot at running was to do something that was familiar to me- I read about it. I read everything from Running for Dummies to 26 miles to Boston. I read before work, during lunch, and at night. But the real learning did not start until I finally laced my sneakers up and headed outside.
I started with fast walking, then run/walk, and finally a slow but consistent jog. I celebrated the first time I could run a mile without stopping, which soon became five miles. I ran during lunch with co-workers, sometimes talking about work, sometimes talking about life, sometimes not talking at all. I ran at night, through dark streets where inside lights reveal quick glimpses into the lives of others. I ran through weather so cold my eyelashes nearly froze shut, rain so hard that I labored to run through ankle deep puddles, and roads so slippery with ice that each step became a prayer not to fall.
I ran through the same neighborhoods for so many years that I saw their children grow up, knew their dog’s names and what time they watered their lawns. I passed other runners on their own journeys, so consistently that I worried for them when they were absent from my running route for more than a few days.
I ran through a range of emotions so strong that I’ve found myself crying during some of my runs. I ran through memories so deep that I’ve found myself at home after a long run, barely remembering the steps it took me to get there.
Somewhere along the way I got the crazy idea I could do a marathon in memory of my brother Stephen, raising money for the Boys & Girls Club of Greater Salem where he served as the Executive Director and the Stephen M. O’Grady Foundation, a scholarship foundation established in his memory. One marathon turned into two. Two marathons was upgraded to four, then this former non-athletic bookworm found herself setting a goal to complete 10 marathons by my brother’s 10th anniversary in 2009. My goal is to raise $40,000 in honor of what should have been his 40th birthday. At the verge of completing this goal, I can’t imagine what the past 10 years would have been like had it not been for the catharsis of running.
I’ve run through cities around the country, taking in sites that could never be experienced from a car, nor would they be so vividly remembered. I’ve experienced the joy, first of simply completing a race, then bettering my time with each attempt.
Through running I met my fiance Doug and joined the Wicked Running Club of Salem which introduced me to what I am sure will be lifelong friends who help me continue my running education. I transitioned from the reflective years when I ran alone, sorting through my thoughts with each step, to the interactive years, looking forward to my long weekend training run with friends, where conversation flows easy as the miles pile up. When I return from my long run, Doug will ask me ‘so what did you learn today?’- a question that never fails to elicit an answer as long as he has time to listen.
The thought that I have come this far and am so close to my goal is one that both excites and frightens me. I credit my 10-marathon education as being my emotional rescue for the first 10 years of missing my brother, and sometimes wonder if I have been running from my grief instead of running through it. The one thing I do know is that running has redefined me. It has improved my physical and mental health and shaped me into a stronger person, inside and out.
Although my goal for my brother will end this year, my running education will continue. Perhaps I’ll set a new goal- a goal just for me, not tied into grieving for my brother, but tied into living my own life with hope and curiosity for where this running journey will take me. Perhaps that goal will be chasing races in states I’ve never visited, chasing PRs when possible and chasing after happiness once again, running just a bit faster than the grief that always threatens to catch me.