The Day After Christmas

T’is the Day after Christmas and all through the house

creatures are snoring including my spouse.

Stockings and wrappings are strewn about the room

as the cleaning won’t commence any time soon.

We play with our toys, eat leftover cookies and ham

and stay in our jammies just because we can.

Eleven months from now we will begin the next crazy,

that holiday frenzy that leaves one day of lazy.

So, feet up!  You’ve earned your day of rest.

Cheers to some sanity, I wish you the best!

Happiness Equation

“Yeah, yeah,” I hear you say. “Another person with a recipe for joy….whatever.”

Yep, there are a gazillion and a half of these floating around the universe.  I even bought the book that made happiness a whole, darned project.  Just bear with me because this equation is simple, do-able and I DARE you (double-dare, even) to argue against it.  

This equation is a simple pick-me-up to lift you out of the daily doldrums.  It won't change your world unless you decide make it a habit.

First of all, let me introduce you to the factors in this equation:

Company – as in good company, like companion.  Your chosen companion can have two or four legs, but it cannot be virtual – he or she must be a living, breathing being that you can touch at that moment (not on a screen or hand-held device).  And I mean GOOD company.  Not somebody who picks away at your possible flaws or rants about the universe incessantly.  This being must be somebody who lifts your spirits, makes you think interesting thoughts and generally brings a smile to your face.  Leave the negative, energy sucking folks at home.  (no negative side effects noted)

Fresh Air – who can argue with that?  No matter how cold, or hot, there is nothing like sucking real live outside air into your lung sacks.  If you live in a place where FRESH air is scarce (and instead the air you breathe is full of nasty particulates) then you need to search around until you find some – I’d recommend green, mountainous areas or a breezy shore.  (side effects might include oxygenated blood that leads to clearer thinking)

Exercise – simply put, just move some muscles and increase your body’s need for oxygen by a smidge.  A walk is the best example.  Just walk out your front door and walk around the block.  This alone is guaranteed to bring a fresh outlook on a previously unremarkable day.  If you don’t believe me, then I’ll prove it (actually, you will).  Right now this very minute I want you to walk out your front door and walk down the street.  I don’t care if it is dark, raining, frigid or scorching hot.  Just do it……….Now, you can’t tell me that you don’t feel refreshed, re-booted and ready to move forward.  You can’t deny that you feel better now than before you went out.  (side effects include getting stronger over time and increased stamina in all activities)

Each of these factors on their own is likely to raise your mood a notch when taken alone.  However, when put together into an equation they exponentially raise the Happiness Quotient.  That is why I am hesitant to say “this PLUS that PLUS the other thing EQUAL happiness,” because that isn’t really true.  The equation really is more about multiplication.  Put these three factors together and they multiply the effects of each other and the result is all good stuff.  Confused?  Just stop thinking and try it.  NOW!

 

Grab a friend or two (or dog or family member), put on a jacket or whatever it takes to get you outside and go for a walk, run, bike ride or hike.  Upon your return, just try and argue against the notion that you feel better, both mentally and physically, than you did before you left.  It had better be a strong argument with plenty of evidence, or your own personal recipe that brings this kind of joy to your life instead, otherwise I’m gonna call hog wash on you.

A Touch of Magic

Girls on the Run, a non-profit organization that I feel great pride to be part of, wraps up each season with a Celebratory 5K.  During the ten week season the girls meet twice a week for practices that incorporate lessons about living intentionally by making positive choices with, of course, running!  The goal by the end of the season is for each girl to complete the 5K and celebrate their awesomeness.  When all 20 teams with 250 total girls come together for this event, the sight is inspiring and oozing with Girl Power!

We do our best to make this a fun and non-competitive event with hair painting and face tattoos, balloons and bubbles, and fun prizes topped off with a special finisher’s medal.  Generous people come out to volunteer, giving up their Saturday morning to brave the wet and windy weather, and these volunteers are what make this party possible.  Not to mention the 50+ amazing volunteer coaches that meet with these girls every week.

Whether you run, volunteer or just watch, I guarantee you will be inspired by the hard-working young girls, leaving with cheeks sore from smiling and bubbles of joy in your chest.  But I have found that part of what makes this celebration so unique are the individual moments, of which there are probably hundreds, that are just plain magic.  I’m always thankful to witness these little sparks of connection.

As volunteer coordinator, my focus is to get the dozens of volunteers organized and in place and also to match our volunteer Running Buddies with GOTR girls.  You see, we like to make sure that every little girl runs the race with her own personal cheerleader.  Often times they bring a parent or neighbor to run with them, but there are quite a few whose parents cannot keep up with their fast little feet.  Thankfully our community is chock full of people anxious to run with the little cuties.

Early on I was approached by a Mom and a frowning, freckle-faced little girl.  Mom said, “Ellie needs somebody to run with.”  Standing next to me was one of my dozen co-workers from the YMCA who volunteered to come out in the rain to support the girls.  Tasha, who spends her days making nutritious meals for the Y preschool, had never been to a GOTR 5K but was excited to be a Running Buddy.  I introduced the Grown-up Girl to the little red-head and they were bound together for the morning.  Strangers until now, they joined Ellie’s team for the Happy Hair Station, warm-ups and team cheers.

Following the race Tasha, normally a slow and thoughtful speaker, came running up to me with face still flushed from the effort of running 3 miles and began talking a mile-a-minute, or maybe three-miles-a-minute.  “That was so much fun!” she exclaimed.  She narrated the run with obvious enthusiasm.  She said that Ellie was a dash-and-walk, dash-and-walk runner, which accurately describes probably 75 percent of the young runners.  Ellie had seen some boys up ahead that she knew from school who had teased her now and then.  From that moment on she had a single goal – to get in front of those sassy boys and show them what strong looks like!  Together Tasha and Ellie worked hard and passed those young fellows with ease.  The elder told the younger to remember that moment next week and always, especially at school when the boys might try to make her feel small with teasing comments.

 

Tasha summed up her experience as a Running Buddy as the highlight of her month, at least!

A while later Mom and Ellie, smiles cracking both of their faces in two, tracked me down to say goodbye, and to thank me for pairing Ellie up with Tasha.  Mom told me that just the night before Ellie had said, “I’m NOT doing that run!” and was nervous and worried that she would be alone.  They shared more anecdotes and I told them how much that run meant to Tasha.

The connection between the adult Tasha and the young Ellie was a spark of magic.  They may never see each other again, but I’m certain they will be thinking of one another for a long time.  I don’t think Tasha will ever forget her small freckled friend.

I am certain that there was a virtual electrical storm with all of the sparks that happened on that blustery morning.  I was only able to witness a handful of joyful transformations myself, but that was enough to fuel my passion for this program and excitement looking forward to the next season - hopefully with more schools and more girls involved than ever.

The next time you hear of an opportunity to get involved with Girls on the Run, give it a shot.  You may get more out of it than you think!

Freakin’ Fruit Fly Frenzy

For the last week I have kept the vacuum cleaner in the kitchen, hose cocked and ready.  Every 30 minutes or so I get a nervous and grumpy look from my dog as I fire up the noisy machine and brandish my wand.  Sometimes my husband or daughter helped by standing at my side to point here and there while I, holding my tubular weapon deftly in my right hand, swoop and parry, sucking up all the tiny bodies in my path.

You see, we have been suffering from what my 13 year-old calls the “Insect Apocalypse from which we are all Gonna Die!”  In other words, we are battling a particularly nasty plague of annoying little  fruit flies.

Of course we always expect the nuisance of those random, zig-zag buzzing buggars who zoom in on the scent of the perfectly ripe banana or freshly poured glass of red wine in the late summer months, but this is NOVEMBER and their numbers had been growing exponentially!  This was far beyond the normal occasional clapping of hands to catch the one hovering over the bowl of berries.

We reached the point where we were taking out the garbage and sterilizing the kitchen every couple of hours.  I put the garlic rope in the fridge and the bamboo plant outside in hopes of ridding the house of the bug breeding-ground.  No change.  Still a constant influx of tiny fruit flies to laugh in our faces and spit on our meals.  Even the cats and dog had begun to swat and snap at the annoying, face-crowding insects.

Now, I have always believed myself a humanitarian.  I insist upon freeing spiders, houseflies and bees that I had humanely catch in a cup against the wall or window rather than smushing them or leaving them to die.  But this swarm of miniscule, food-loving buggars had me researching and building deadly traps made of vinegar and dish-soap, and I

found myself celebrating each dead body I found floating in the toxic mixture.  I even fantasized about putting one of these fruit-fly-attracting concoctions into the open microwave oven to lure a cloud of tiny-winged offenders into the appliance and WHAM – slam the door shut and set the timer for 30 beautiful seconds during which I was sure I would see them sparkle and and explode like itty-bitty fireworks.

Then two nights ago we identified what we were sure was the breeding ground for this plague – a houseplant perched on the top of the kitchen cupboards.  Of course, we thought, the roots were rotting and the tiny flies were breeding and laying eggs in the rotting roots…right?  We banished the poor plant to the side porch, shut the door and waited for the scourge of flies to dwindle.

By morning the number of bugs seemed to have waned and I was so excited that I nearly pulled a George Dubble-ya and declared “Mission Accomplished” (thank goodness I avoided

THAT embarrassment).  But once the sun rose above the hills it was clear that the six-legged demons had merely slept in.  Eventually they arrived to annoy us in full force, as usual.

I cried “Uncle” and began my weekly cleaning routine, and that is when I make an exciting, yet disgusting, discovery.  I found EXACTLY where the late-night insect orgies had been happening and was able to put a stop to it immediately.  The bag of potatoes in the bottom of the pantry had become a shameful fruit-fly brothel and the off-spring of this debauchery was wreaking havoc upon our home life.  A brisk removal of the soft bag of nastiness, some scrubbing and a few more traps should end our agony soon enough.  Although there are still flying remnants of this hell zig-zagging our home, soon we should be able to relax and eat a meal without clapping out rhythms over our dinner plates, and I can sleep without vengeful dreams of creative torture devices for tiny insects.

As for that wrongly accused houseplant?  I brought it back into the house and apologized profusely.  Tropical plants don’t appreciate nights outdoors in November in the Pacific Northwest.  I don’t yet know whether I have been forgiven, but I will know soon if it chooses to wilt and turn brown in spite.  Time will tell.

Wish us luck.

The party is over....I hope!

What do you REALLY See in the Dark?

We’ve all been informed of the virtues of being an early bird.  But who wants worms, anyway?  Although there are plenty of other reasons to drag your warm and sleepy self from under the cozy blankets and out into the shocking fresh air, here is one you may not have considered:  Maybe you’ll see something really cool!

I like to get out for excursions in the pre-dawn darkness to see what else is out there.  Of course there are always a couple of other humans on the trails, but heck - I can see them all day long.  I really enjoy hearing the howling of the coyote party deep in the woods or the silence of the hungry owl swooping down upon its furry breakfast.

With winter darkness come the best discoveries of all.   Recently my running partner, Carol, and I have come upon an elusive creature: The giant, lumbering tentacled beast that I call Buelah.  From far off I can see her lumbering up the trail in the pitch blackness with her two huge glowing eyes rhythmically bouncing with the stride of her enormous padded feet.  Swinging around her are trunk-like tentacles that glow almost as brightly has her eyes and seem to sniff at the trail and bushes for delicious treats.  There are two of these curious appendages on the front of her massive furry body, and two more on her back that I have yet to see.

A re-creation of what we see coming
at us from afar.

Buelah clearly lives near this trail because we see her at about the same spot each day just before daybreak.  She is returning to her lair from a long night of feasting and carousing with her friends.  She will soon be snoring in comfort with her family, somewhere deep in the brush, while we humans bustle about with our daytime civilized activities.

Why haven’t you seen or heard of her before?  Because Buelah is a shape-shifter. In order to really see her you must stay back and open your mind to her grand beauty.  If you're not on your toes, you can easily miss Beulah.  My running partner didn't even notice her until our second or third encounter on the trail, but now she appreciates what she sees.

Each morning I stop Carol and exclaim, “There she is!” and we pause to admire her from a distance for a moment.  Once we get too close (and this happens to us every time we approach her) she cleverly disguises herself as two early-morning walkers with headlamps strapped to their foreheads while each carries a flashlight in one swinging hand.  It’s the perfect camouflage for such a large creature like Beulah, who can’t simply hide behind a bush or douse the light coming from her glorious, bright eyes.  This gentle beast knows that to live in peace with humans it is vital to conceal her true form.

When we pass a reach a safe distance away, Buelah becomes a single furry mass once again and continues the trek to her cozy den.  And we feel lucky not only to have seen her, but that we are fortunate enough appreciate her beauty.  Next time you are out in the dark, open your mind to see what is really out there.  Your imagination might surprise you.

Sketch of what I see with my mind's eye as we approach Buelah, just before she disguises her true form in the darkness.

Fog

As a child I was aware of foggy days before I even opened my eyes.  I would waken to the slow rhythm of the foghorn at the lighthouse down the beach.  Gazing sleepily out of my curtain-less window I could see nothing, the white cottony haze obscuring the boats, birds, islands and even the water itself from my view.

These days I live out of hearing range of the monotone marine honking and must rely on the the radio weather report or my plain old eyes to identify a foggy day.  

On this damp morning I embarked on my early run into the dark and was surrounded by soft puffs of light coming from streetlamps and the occasional car headlights.  The fog seemed to muffle the sharp sounds of life, bringing silence, until I reached the forest.  As I drew closer it sounded as if I was approaching a rain forest during a heavy shower.  In fact this was a shower, from the trees above – the cottonwood leaves drooping and dripping with heavy condensation deposited there by the slow moving clouds of fog, soaking the undergrowth and decaying leaves on the forest floor.



tangle-webs in the heather

My favorite element of the autumn fog is how it illuminates the countless spider webs – and not just the elegant orbs of the garden spider, but the tangle-weave webs hidden in the crannies of the neighborhood shrubbery.  These poor stealthy spiders that rely on their invisibility for survival are suddenly exposed for the world to see.  Good news for them is that we humans are less likely to accidentally walk into their fancy architecture and run off screaming and swatting at their sticky webbing plastered to our faces.  We are more likely to stop and admire their intricate artistry.

Although fog is known for decreasing visibility and blocking our view, I’ve learned to appreciate the damp, ground hugging cloud for the little things it brings to our eyes and ears.

A Note to My First Born

When you were born, the joy that accompanied your arrival filled a hole in your father’s and my hearts that we weren't aware even existed.  We felt as if we were bubbling over with so much love and excitement that we didn’t quite understand the intensity of these feelings or where they had come from.

Over time I came to realize that not only did you fill that hole, but you owned that piece of my heart.  When you felt joy, I magically felt it too.  When you were sad or uncontrollably cranky, screaming until your face turned a rainbow of colors, I felt cranky and wanted to scream right along with you.  Unfortunately for me it was, and still is, not socially acceptable for a grown woman to flail her arms and throw her head back, screaming at full volume when the moment strikes.

Throughout your early years you challenged me in every emotional way.  When you stamped your feet and attempted to exert your independence, I stood my ground (most of the time), desperately trying to NOT stamp my own feet in reaction, and tried to show that I knew better than you, even with your cute, chubby little cheeks and expanding vocabulary.

Throughout school there was many-a-battle, ranging from homework and grades to sleepovers and activities.  You always KNEW you knew best…until the occasion when the report card said otherwise.  We butted heads a plenty, usually arriving at a middle ground somewhere between total restriction from all activities and complete freedom.  Emotions became so entangled that sometimes it was difficult to tell who was angry and who was hurt…more likely it was both at the same time.  One heart feeling everything at once.

Yesterday we took you to your college dorm with a van packed to full capacity with your belongings and various personal trappings.  In anticipation my heart hurt for you, hoping that all your dreams would come true.  Yet everything seemed so perfect.  So happy you were, to set up a place that was all yours with friends who belong to you.  All of your tomorrows so full of potential and oozing with the future and countless things to come.  

We, however, were forced to leave and drive westward onto the highway in a van with one gaping extra empty seat, leaving that place of learning you now call home.  Against my better judgment I felt that hole in my heart opening up just a little, kind of like that empty van seat, the newly empty space stinging with a twang of loss, pain and longing.

But today, as we message and share with one-another, I feel that heart-hole filling up with the stories and pictures you are sending my way of your adventures.  Your friends who make you laugh and help you figure out how to hang your decorations in your new home give me hope.  Your new pals who need your help to solve the biggest problem of the day:  How to prop your door open with a spatula so that more friends will walk across the threshold of your lives to expand your world.  Your total excitement about learning new things, meeting new people and having new experiences fills my heart with contentment.

You go, girl!  My heart grows with yours.

Our Turtle Ran Away

 

A couple of days ago I sat here in this chair with a plastic cup in my hand that I picked up from the local Feed & Seed weeks before.  In the bottom were three wiggly meal worms climbing over one another that were supposed to be breakfast for my turtle.  I was amazed that they were still alive without food or water for such a long, lonely time.  Deciding to show mercy to the poor insects, I stepped out onto our deck to set them free in the plastic kiddie pool garden filled with turtle-edible plants.  Immediately they burrowed down into the damp dirt to safety with their tiny, jointed legs.

One month previous, during the warm August days, those strawberry, spinach and kale plants had grown so tall and lush that Alfie the Box Turtle used one as a stepladder to escape his garden.  This wasn’t his first successful attempt as an escape artist.  In past summers he would find the perfect sturdy stem, heave his shell up over the edge and CLUNK - land upside down on the wood planks of our sunny deck.  Stretching his long neck to use as a lever, he would right himself and proceed to march all around the deck.  Afraid of heights he would stretch that telescopic neck to peer over the side, then always back safely away from the edge to move in a new direction, much like those Roomba vacuum cleaners that bounce and reverse and eventually cover every inch of the surface.  After many tries he would end up crossing the threshold of the patio door to wander inside the house.  We were always alarmed to find the pool empty, but the crisis would end when he was spotted scooting across the carpet or resting under the sofa.

This dreadful time, after a few days of looking, we faced the reality that Alfie was likely on the lam.  Assuming that the mild-mannered reptile wouldn’t go far, we alerted the neighborhood and waited for a chubby-cheeked, grinning child to ring the doorbell holding our handsome fella in one hand. 

Days became weeks, and then stretched to a month.  No doorbell, no sightings, no shouts of “How did you get here?!” from downstairs when I hoped my daughter would come upon him under a shoe or behind a cabinet.  As the nights grew chilly, we would all shiver at the thought of our frigid, wet Alfie.  Our cold-blooded friend who cannot regulate his own heat and depends on the warmth of the sun, his heat lamp or heating pad to keep him warm, was outside with no heat source at all. 

Or was he?  Could he be snuggled on the lap of the Cat Ladies down the road, being fed sautéed insects and Crème de la Mango from silver dishes?  Maybe he took up residence in the garage of our Engineer/Mechanic Hobbyist friend at the bottom of the hill and has been going on joyrides in the red muscle car, snuggling up to the heat vent on the floor below the passenger seat?  On the worst days I worried that there was a family of raccoons enjoying a meal of Turtle on the Half Shell…  There could be some truth to all of that, but we’ll never know.

Yesterday while sifting through Facebook I clicked on the Critter of the Week video from our local Humane Society.  After five seconds my mouth emitted a shriek of surprise, happiness, disbelief and excitement all in one breath.  There our fella was with a brand-new facial profile (they dremeled his beak to a fine, handsome point) but with the same old chips and scars we know him by! 

Somebody, we don’t know who, dropped him by the shelter after-hours.  They found him somewhere, we’re not sure where, by the side of the road.  The only thing we do know is that he had been there, at the shelter, for one week.  That means that for 3 weeks he was unaccounted for!

Now, with our turtle safe back at home, we look at him and wonder what he went through.  We check him over for scars that might tell a story.  I haven’t found any biker club tattoos on his arms or diamond rings on his claws to shed light on his activities for the 21 days he was on the lam.  All we know is that he is vigorously active, voraciously hungry, and bolder and more confident than we ever knew him to be before this adventure.  Someday will we come across a litter of baby turtles that have his same strong profile and deep, red eyes?

I am delighted that on this rainy morning he is inside his heated home gorging on a pile of soft green peas.  When the sun comes out this weekend I will prune his garden and let him out for a wander in the sun.  Those three little mealworms had better be on their toes, because WATCH OUT!  Alfie is back!

GO HAWKS!!

What are we watching?  We are riveted, watching a few dozen well-paid athletes who make a living working out and challenging their bodies to their limits while building up false rivalries, and now put on a flashy display of fighting contrived battles against well-paid athletes from other cities, wearing different colors.

We study each of these green and blue athletes - their history, their skill, their personality… until we feel like we know them, are connected to them in some way and we cheer them on as if they are fighting our very own battles.  We cheer them on with passion, as if the outcome of this game will change tomorrow.  Our momentary happiness depends on the performance of these strangers tonight.

But tomorrow, or next year, our favorite personality whom we felt represented everything that is great about our state, our big city, what we stand for, might choose to play for a different team that offers a better deal, to represent the team in a rival city that has nothing to do with us.  Then that beloved athlete will no longer be wearing green and blue, and they will be wearing a color combination we have learned to despise for a reason we can’t explain with ease or logic, and he likely will no longer be loved by us.

Tomorrow, or next year, OUR team might be made up of different athletes from different regions, but the green and blue will tell us that they represent us and we will cheer them on and our momentary happiness will again be dependent upon the outcome of their contrived battle on the field.

I am sitting here in my own flickering blue glow, happy that the green and blue score is more than double what the other color has accrued.  My happiness is secure for this moment.  And then I will do the dishes, kiss the children goodnight and take the dog outside for her bedtime potty.  And tomorrow will be tomorrow, whatever the outcome of the game.  Go Hawks!

DAD - childhood memories

Turn the clock back 40 or so years and I can see exactly what my family was doing on a grey weekend day like today. 

     With full bellies after breakfast, a half dozen kids and two parents would be lolling about the living room reading the paper and listening to the radio.  Dad would notice a fresh-looking log floating in the cove in front of our house that had probably tumbled down the Puyallup River during the spring rains.  A quick look through the binoculars would confirm that this one, with its bark mostly intact and a little fresh wood exposed, was worth harvesting.

     He and Mom, or sometimes an older sibling, would pull out the dinghy, mount the outboard motor and hum toward the log before it floated out of reasonable reach.  This log harvesting wasn’t exactly legal but was not harmful either.  And besides – it kept our drafty old home toasty warm in the winter with plenty of dry wood to stoke the fire.

     My tall, strong Papa would drag that log up the beach, just high enough to safely start cutting.  Out came his chainsaw and we would all plug our ears while sweet-smelling chips flew in all directions.  He would turn the long, branchless tree into a pile of round, fat cookies.  In a race with the inevitably rising tide he would grab the ax and start chopping away.  We kids would scurry about a safe distance away on the beach searching for treasures and playing with the shore crabs until we were called to duty. 

     We were each required to stack as many splintery pieces as we could carry in our arms and haul our load up the steep grass hill to the side of the garage.   There the wood would be neatly stacked to dry out for the following winter.  Being the youngest I always took the smaller pieces, but it was hard work climbing all the stairs up from the beach regardless.  My folks are of the hard-working type and they expected us to be hard workers too.  Although incessant complaining was not tolerated, we certainly grumbled plenty to each other, out of hearing range of our parents

     One of the rewards of this manual labor was when the day ended much like it started.  We’d be lounging around the living room after a belly-warming dinner, basking in the warmth of a fire built from last year’s log harvest.  Dad, exhausted, would stretch out across the carpet, half napping, while my sisters and I drove our Hot Wheels racing cars all over Daddy Mountain.

     As us kids grew up and everyone was too busy for these communal projects, Dad reluctantly ordered and paid for cords of wood to be delivered to our driveway in a big noisy truck.  We still were called out to stack the wood, but this job was much easier without the steep hill to climb.  That purchased, delivered wood kept our house warm as well.  But I think those fires built with the sea-salty harvested wood, collected by my Dad and his strong work ethic that he passed along to all of us kids, made the coziest fires of all.

     Happy Father’s Day, Dad.  Thanks for all of the great memories and lessons along the way.

Smoker's Yoga

Bed-head hidden beneath a fisherman’s hat
 

Tired eyes masked with shades

He shuffles out the front door and pauses at the foot of the driveway

Taking a moment to feel the sun and breathe in fresh morning air before

Lighting a cigarette

 

Reaching for the sky

He raises his arms high over head in a slow, satisfying stretch

With wisps of smoke curling from his right hand

Posing, pausing long enough for his belly to peek out from under the worn gray t-shirt to greet the day

 

With a grunt, the stretch becomes a bend

As he stoops to snatch the plastic-clad newspaper from the pavement

While other shy body parts catch a glimpse of the morning from behind

 

Slowly rising with a deep inhale and a nicotine sigh

He nods and waves through his personal cloud at the passing dog and walker

 

 

 

Run For Your LIFE!!!

                No need to look over your shoulder.   There is not a gargantuan boulder thundering down the path in your direction.  No tsunami rolling in to sweep you out to sea.  Not even a cloud of voracious insects blocking the sun, ready to swarm and feast upon your exposed flesh.  I am merely talking about what we runners do every day.  We run for our lives.

I’m not talking about our physical lives, because we already know the countless health benefits of vigorous physical activity.  We know that running strengthens our bones and muscles and keeps our heart healthy.  The burning of calories keeps our bodies balanced between what we put in and what we put out.  Craving the occasional double cheeseburger with the works, or a generous slice of chocolate/peanut butter pie? Go for it, and then enjoy those added early morning miles as you work off each one of those delectable extra calories.  Running keeps our bodies in balance.

                But when I say that I “Run for my life,” I am thinking not only of my physical well-being, but the whole package; body, mind and heart - the sappy-sentimental-loving kind of heart. 

                Solo runs are cleansing.  Usually in the morning when the birds and frogs are welcoming the day, I head out for a plod on nearby trails.  This is a chance to clear my mind of the clutter of work and home life.  Undistracted by news-radio, bustling kids frenetically getting ready for school or the pile of laundry that has been waiting for me to for two days, I chug along.  I am able to plan the day, the week and reflect on life in general.  This is also my most creative time of day.  Could it be all of that fresh air hitting my brain that feels so rejuvenating, or just the fact that my only purpose for this one hour of the day is to move forward, one step at a time?  These morning runs are sometimes dreaded when the weather is frigid and wet, and the thought of staying in the warm, cozy house so inviting.  But these soggy outings are never regretted afterward.  Total refreshment never fails.

                Buddy runs are necessary.  At least half the time I meet my training partner for a run.  We help motivate each other to get out and push one another along.  Sometimes we meet for a workout - maybe a timed tempo run, hill repeats or the ominous track workouts.   Although my partner, an admitted track-junkie, has to hog-tie and drag me along to the sinister oval, I’m usually happy she did.  However, I believe it is not necessarily the physical gains from the training that are most beneficial.

 These buddy runs are our Mental Health Check-ups.  We vent about everything from work, to spouses, to kids, to undone chores, all in the safety of our private, side-by-side conversation.  We sometimes rage and swear and solve world problems, and our anger pushes us to faster times.  Other days are spent stopping, doubled-over belly-laughing, to a joke or funny story – on these days our times slow way, way down.  But we don’t mind how fast or how slow, because all of those big stresses that seemed so over-whelming when we got up that morning somehow have a new shine – a smaller, more friendly, do-able sparkle and now we are ready to tackle those problems, one bite at a time.

And then there are the group runs.  I sometimes think of our Sunday run as a Mob Run.  Anywhere from five to twenty of us meet at the trailhead for a social 1.5 to 2 hour run on the beautiful, winding trails of Galbraith Mountain.  The conversation is lively and completely uncensored, but everyone knows that what is said on the trail stays on the trail!  These runs prove to me that laughter is good for the soul because I always return home afterward feeling light and exuberant instead of pooped from the long, hilly miles.  What I do know is we would likely never meet weekly for a couple of hours to chat if we weren’t on the run.  These women and these runs keep me sane and happy and I don’t want to imagine living without them.

So, RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!  For all the parts of your life, for your body, mind and spirit.  Those couch potatoes and “you’re going to hurt your knees” naysayers don’t know what they’re missing!

               

                

Take My Wife, Please

                There is one four letter word that gets my hackles up, believe it or not.   Now, I’m no prude – I love lively self-expression filled with colorful words.  Sometimes it takes one of those “Seven Dirty Words” that George Carlin embraced to get the point across.  Those forbidden words can serve as a sort of punctuation, providing the perfect emphasis or pause.   In fact, I love to swear. 

But this particular word, although the meaning is benign, has the connotation of ownership or belittlement that makes my skin crawl.   At the top of my least favorite word list is ‘wife’.  Now, I’ll admit right off that there are times when this word is appropriate when explaining connections between people, but I think this term is incredibly over-used and in most cases can be replaced by a more expressive word or just a plain old name.  For example, “John and his wife are coming for dinner.”  Does John’s wife not have a name?  Do you not know her name?  Learn it.  Names are always better than labels.

“Is this your wife?” asked after a manly handshake and hello.  “Sorry, I’m not owned by anyone, but we are married.  My name is Sharon.”  I know, I know – a petty complaint and a little ridiculous. No big deal.  You can say the same thing about the term “husband”.  You are right.  My husband, my daughter, my dog – these are all merely explaining a relationship.  Honestly, I don’t kick and scream every time I hear the word (but you might notice my slight convulsions when that word is thrown in my direction).

But HERE is the one use that gets my lips-a-curling and my fangs-a-showing:  “The Wife.”   As in, “The wife and I are going on vacation.”  THE wife?   You can’t do better than that?  I use 'the' when referring to objects.  THE glass in on THE table.  THE radio is on THE wrong channel.  THE poop is in THE grass.  Do you ever hear “THE husband” except when someone is deliberately turning it around for a laugh?  It’s almost worse than ownership, because it rings of resignation.  “This is THE wife.  I don’t claim her as mine or anything.  She’s just there.  She’s like the furniture.  THE lawn.   She isn’t even a she, she’s a THE.” 

I may not be writing the words, but you can bet I’m picturing all of those colorful swear words in my head right now, just thinking about ‘THE wife’.  Feel free to join me in this visualization exercise.

 Well, now that I’ve gotten that off the chest, I’ll get the child off to school and start the day.  

Happy Friday to y’all – or whatever day it is when you read this.

March Forth!

                I am lucky enough to call myself a Patches Pal.  If you grew up in the Puget Sound area in the 60's and 70's, chances are you are also a Proud Patches Pal!  If you didn’t, well…I feel kind of sorry for you because you don’t know what you missed.  Each morning before school I sat shoulder to shoulder with my siblings, squatting on the shag carpet in front of the big old console television giggling at J.P. Patches and all of his goofy sidekicks, like just about every other kid within sight of Mt. Rainier.  Always in the center of the screen was his huge Grandfather clock, complete with Grandfather’s face.  We watched that show, and that clock, until it was time to rush out the door to catch the school bus at the corner.

                J.P. Patches was the mayor of the City Dump from 1958 to 1981. He lived in a shack with Esmerelda the rag doll and his gender-bending girlfriend named Gertrude (played by Bob Newman…in fact, most characters that visited were played by Bob Newman) not to mention his pet rubber chicken named Tikey Turkey. Today is March 4^th, always a special day at the Seattle City Dump. Mr. Patches declared the fourth day of March as extra special because this was the only day of the year that stated a command, “March Forth!”

                On this day J.P., who some knew out-of-make-up as Chris Wedes, would lead a raucous march around his shack. Mr. Music Man would play special marching music to encourage us kids at home to join the march and celebrate the day.  Never does this date pass that I don’t march a few steps in J.P.’s honor.

J.P. had a constant parade of visitors such as Ketchikan the Animal Man, Miss Smith from Miss Smith’s Delivery Service, Officer Patty-Wagon and Boris S. Wort – the Second Meanest Man in the World.  You could see Bob Newman sweating at times as he juggled all of his alter-egos, costumes and make-up in one show.  Visiting characters had to be careful when leaving the City Dump, as most of them fell into a seemingly bottomless pit right outside Patches’ shack door. He often warned them, but they never listened.   We didn’t see them fall, just heard their call for help fade as the victim fell far down into the dump’s abyss.

The best thing about this old show was that it was live, mostly improvisation and slightly subversive.  There were so often jokes, aimed more at adults, that made the characters AND the crew bust-up laughing. We children laughed along with them because we thought we were supposed to, but  we didn't really know why.  Last night I watched an old episode with my family (yes, I have a DVD set – you can borrow it if you promise to cherish every moment) where Ketchikan read an old classic story to the television audience, “Henny Penny”.  We watched the Animal Man catch the giggles when he reached the part about “Cocky-Locky” and proceeded to laugh himself off his chair while the crew egged him on.  My stomach still hurts from my own gut-busting guffaws!

To this day I can't listen to the classic jazz tune “In the Mood” without thinking of Mr. Announcer Man (his theme song) on Friday mornings giving his weather reports and general advice.  Was there ever a childhood birthday that we didn’t sit silently in hopeful anticipation, fingers-crossed, waiting for J.P. to see us in his ICU2 TV Set, wish us a Happy Day and tell us where in our house to find that hidden special birthday present?

Calling all Patches Pals:  Please join me today in a short march in honor of our childhood hero.  If you don’t have marching music, just find a pot and wooden spoon, chant with the beasts in the Secret Room, “OO-GA-CHAKA!  OO-GA-OO-GA-OO-GA-CHAKA!” and lift those knees high.  And March Forth!!

My oldest daughter's first Halloween.  I had to introduce her to my childhood hero.  So glad I did.

Blame the Dog? Heck yeah.

(Warning:  Contains potty humor)

There are few things better in life than my loyal dog, asleep on her bed at my side.

And almost nothing is worse than her deathly gas clouds wafting over our faces while we drift off to sleep (or at least TRY to).

I try to feel empathy for her intestinal woes and be patient.

I try to breathe with one long exhale, in hopes that the cloud will disperse and breathable air will return in time for the inhale.  But that’s one Big cloud.

The thought crosses our minds at the same time – is someone trying the “Blame the dog” game?  Should I smack my husband?  Is he about to mistakenly smack me?

But no.  Although my pup, like all dogs, has no fleshy cheeks that rumble and flap with the passing of gas and usually are of the silent-but-deadly type, these gaseous utterances have a slight sound at the beginning and end - much like a capital letter and a punctuation mark on a sentence.  Definitely coming from the dog’s exposed brown star.

I peek over the edge of the bed and see that she is as disgusted as the rest of us.  With the squeak of another eruption, her head pops up and she looks toward her tail, nose twitching.  “Dang…” I almost hear her grumble.  “What died in me?”

I turn away from her side of the bed and try to build a protective cave of blankets around my face, which works well enough to doze off for a while.

Just two hours later, I hear my beloved dog whimpering to get outside.  She’s a good sleeper so I know what’s going on.  As I shuffle across the dark bedroom floor toward the door, I’m hoping that whatever is knocking on her back door will ease her intestinal pain, and our own discomfort.

At last, Goodnight.