My Dogs Won't Get Out of Bed

My dogs won’t get out of bed. Can you blame ‘em? We’re in the depths of winter darkness, and wind is blowing rain against the windows with the sound of blowing sand. The drops cling to the glass leaving liquid jewels on the panes that sparkle under winter holiday lights. Trees are swaying under swooshes of cold air, sending debris to the ground with each gust.

And our government is taking away food access for the poor, and canceling health care subsidies - essentially cutting health care insurance for those who can’t cram yet one more expense into their monthly budget.

And leaders of this nation decided that might makes right, throwing their weight around like a playground bully,  invading and threatening smaller nations because they think they can. And they are grabbing people from their homes and workplaces in our own country in the name of immigration reform - but most of us see that it is in the whisper of bigotry.

And our elected leaders seem to be shell-shocked and seemingly unable to stand up for democracy. Rolling over onto their backs like submissive dogs at the park, hoping the larger dog will simply sniff their under-parts and then leave them alone.

The president speaks of dogs as the lowest life. “Fought like dogs” “Died like dogs” “They live like dogs” This man doesn’t know dogs. Dogs are the best people.  They want simple things - a bowl of food, time outside to sniff and explore, belly-rubs and ear scratches. They freely give tail wags, adoring looks and lap snuggles. 

A person like that has never noticed a dog doing the “tummy-yummy” roll on the floor after a hearty meal. He’s never been nice enough to a pup to get a tail wag or nose nudge on his knee. A person like that is not generous enough to give a dog a treat and receive a sweet tail-wag-thank-you for his kindness in return.

My dogs won’t get out of bed this morning. Can you blame ‘em?

Signs of Spring

It sneaks up on you. The puffy coat is left on the hanger in favor of a lighter fleece. The warm knit beanie stays in the hat basket when you embark on the morning outdoor adventure. Before you know it, the sandal strap tan lines on your feet-tops come into focus. The calendar says that spring starts in March, but these are the things that inform us that the season has really arrived.

Weeds pop up through the driveway cracks. Birds start their songs before the morning alarm wakes us and frogs fill the twilight with a chorus of croaking. Chilly morning drives to work still require the car heat cranked, yet the warm afternoons beg for a top-down (or window-down) drive home, wind blowing hair wild with loud thumping singalong music.

Before you know it the coat closet door will stay closed, and wide-open windows will bring warm breezes through the house around the clock. Shades might be drawn to keep the heat out, and hat wearing will return - this time with brims to protect our noses from resembling cherries. As much as I love summer, it’s time is not here yet. 

For now I will embrace all of the unremarkable, individual changes that, when taken together, signal that spring is creeping in, right under our noses, little by little.

Bright sun streams from above
Mud slips and squishes below
Spring trail joy abounds

Not THAT Sharon Stone

I know that I am not the only person to share a name with a famous person.  I have a friend named Micheal Jackson, and there is a Paul Newman in my community circle. But the majority of you folks haven't had the experience of pausing every time you state your name, preparing for a joke, a giggle, or the question, "THEEE Sharon Stone?" This happens when making appointments over the phone, when introducing myself to strangers, and even once at the US/Canadian border crossing. Approaching the booth housing the border agent, I reached out my car window to flash my NEXXUS card at the electronic reader  - then the American border agent sauntered out with a goofy grin and said, "Well, if it isn't SHARON STONE!!" with an exaggerated, humor-laden tone. Like I'd never heard that before...

When I was a young adult, Sharon Stone the actress was just beginning to make her way in Hollywood. I was aware of her presence because my then-boyfriend-now-husband's father would send little movie ad clippings from the newspaper with her name highlighted.  Her first movies included an Indiana Jones parody among other little known projects. We laughed about it and moved on. Mark and I were married in the summer of 1992 - I had always intended to keep my own family name, Stone, and not take on his.  I was born Sharon Stone and no marriage was going to change who I essentially was - so why would I change my name that I had owned for 27 years?

Turns out that the Other Sharon Stone had a big summer in 1992 as well - her breakout movie, Basic Instinct hit the theaters and she became a huge celebrity and household name. Now....have YOU seen the film? If so, you might be blushing as your mind pictures that ground-breaking (or should I say leg-crossing? leg-uncrossing?) scene. If you haven't seen the movie, let me just say that Sharon Stone, lacking a certain undergarment, was the first woman that flashed some lady-bits that had never been seen on the mainstream silver screen before. When describing the scene with said bits people usually whisper the word or use some indirect description or euphemism - as any respectable person would do. That movie and That Sharon Stone may have complicated my life a bit, but they have also brought about some gut-spitting jokes and guffaw-inducing conversations among my crew.

Don't get me wrong, I admire That Sharon Stone for her talent, strength and activism.  She is a great role model for women, young and old, and embodies body positivity for all. I'm not unproud that we share a name. It would be nice, however, to make an appointment over the phone and not hear the pause, giggle and the question, "THEEE Sharon Stone?" I do find it interesting, when meeting new people, to introduce myself and get the raised eyebrows and engage in the conversation that goes down the path. The jovial banter often results in the new acquaintance, especially if they are of the male type, blushing at their mind's image. I have a pretty open sense of humor and don't mind engaging in slightly offensive exchanges (or very offensive, if you are a close friend). My pals and I have even coined a new term describing a person who, in a skirt, sits indelicately - not crossing their legs or keeping their knees tightly together.

I will admit that I always enjoy hearing, in a group conversation of raucous laughing women, "Hey! Don't pull a Sharon Stone!" to get the attention of someone who might not be sitting like a good little lady. Being a good little lady is overrated, anyway. Why not live in full joy and not worry about whether you are a good, or maybe a smidge naughty little lady?

Reading the Waves

 I was a latchkey child in the early 70's, but don’t shed any tears for me. In my case, it was awesome. My mom was driven and needed to prove herself in the big, wide world, so for 12 hours a day we Stone kids were left to our own devices. As long as we had our chores done and dinner on the table when our working parents arrived home from their long commute, everyone was happy. I had 5 older siblings to play with or to boss me around - the pecking order kept things in line.

Our creaky 100 year old house with one shower for 8 people was located smack in the middle of Caledonia Cove - a rocky, barnacled beach around the corner from the Port of Tacoma. Summers were the best. We spent so much time on the beach and in the water - floaty toys, wet suits, rubber rafts and a rowboat - all central to my childhood  memories.

Often we would watch the shipping traffic, keeping an eye out for a good wake on which to play.  A big ship loaded high with shipping containers coming into port might create a row of waves that, when we floated on the surface of the water on an inflatable toy, make our stomach jump into our throats over and over and over again - bobbing out of control until the ripples petered out and the water was smooth again. On one occasion I remember losing sight of my sister as we both dropped into the valleys between two waves and I could only see the wall of water around me…until we both rode to the top of our respective wave and squealed to one another. Not all wakes were the same. Some tugboats pulling a log-boom were too slow to carve a path deep enough and by the time the waves reached the shore they were little more than disappointing ripples on the surface of the water. But others with a faster pace and deeper load could carve huge, high swells that would eventually roll into our bulkhead with thunderous crashes and sprays of white foam. Those were the waves we watched and waited for.

Today, many decades after those childhood memories were carved into my brain, I returned to the cove to send the last remnants of some loved ones back to that place we loved so much. My mother passed 3 years ago, my dad 6 years, and we lost my big brother to meningitis 19 years ago. As a family, we had ceremoniously scattered some of their ashes together, but we also divvied them up for each of us to deal with in our own, personal way. I had felt the need to hold onto my portion, although I’m still trying to figure out why - maybe the dread of letting go? I do know that now I have come to realize that it’s the memories that matter and not the things, the physical things that increasingly feel like they are weighing me down.

There was a light fog and the water was so glassy and still. We navigated the rounded, wave-
smoothed rocks and pebbles down to the shore, stopping to pick up the perfect skipping rocks, rounded and flat, to see how many splashes we could get with one skilled toss. As we walked I noticed a fast moving tug, with no load, heading around the lighthouse into the port. We found a spot and pulled out the ashes, mixing my mom and dad and brother together, right at the lip of the lapping water. But I was worried that as the tide went out, they would be left there in a soggy heap, instead of washing out to sea.

I said that we should wait until that wake comes to wash them away. Mark asked me, “What wake?” I pointed out the line of churning water-ribbon far out in the shipping lane that appeared to be following the long-gone tug boat. Then he saw it.  We paused and just a couple of minutes after I said how fun it would be to see a sea lion or otter, a huge dark sea lion, not more than 15 meters from us, appeared seemingly out of nowhere from the water with a big exhale, and then took a deep breath as he gracefully disappeared under the surface. Thank you, sea lion, for that gift.

We waited a few minutes until the waves came - little bumps in the water at first, then growing - crashing on the rocks of the lighthouse first as they worked their way down the beach to the ashes. The perfect waves. After ten or fifteen rolling crashes, the dust of my family members disappeared and completely integrated back into the nature we all loved so much. It turned out to be the perfectly perfect day - not dreadful or sad - just peaceful and reflective - much like the calm, silvery surface of the Salish Sea.

Going Backward

Every day my pups and I head out for an hour or so to release the poops and the Ya-Yas before I head to work and they laze about at home. Depending on the time of year, we may revel in the sunrise or enjoy the chorus of birds looking for love, or like today - view the path through a cylinder of foggy light shining from my headlamp.

We are fortunate enough to be surrounded by an urban trail system and have several routes to choose from. We try to vary the routes daily to stave off any boredom of "the usual". We all enjoy seeing a pair of glowing eyes of a night critter in the dark brush or the deep thuds beneath our feet as a group of deer flee our threatening presence. For Meg and Dobby and their talented noses, varying the route can bring sniff perks as well.  Duck poop by the pond is always a favorite, and the occasional beaver scent gives them a huge puppy-thrill. The forested trails bring familiar odors of squirrel, deer, and raccoon crossings with dog nostrils pressed against the leaves, brains calculating how much time has passed since the animal crossed the path. The most exciting walks include a coyote sighting/smelling and we have to pause as they inspect the area with their noses squished against anything the wild dog-relative may have stepped on, touched with its own snout or brushed with its gamey fur.

On this particular morning, lacking the sensory expertise of my pups, I decided I was bored and chose to take a trail BACKWARD!  This choice strangely felt revolutionary because we tend to stumble out the door in a sleepy brain fog and follow a route the way we have always followed a route. When I turned right instead of left, I felt a tug on the leashes. Dobby, my nervous one, looked up at me and I swear I saw her lips muttering, "but...but....we can't do that!". With my patient encouragement she and Meg led the way DOWN a trail that we normally climb UP.  

After the initial confusion, the pups fell back into their rhythm of trot, sniff, trot, pee, sniff and all was well.  It was ME who felt bewildered.  When we reached a turn, my brain said, "How are we here already?"  Descending a muddy trail that we normally climb, I was surprised at the pitch and slippy-slidey mud, and was forced to pay attention to where and how I stepped - actually using my conscious brain to navigate the terrain.  Once back to the alley that led home, I viewed homes and gardens from a completely different perspective, as if it wasn't my familiar neighborhood of the last 20 years.

This walk felt different. We were no longer stuck in the rut of the same-old-same-old. We appreciated different things from new perspectives. After we returned home, my dogs settled into the snoring of paw-twitching dreams, and I noticed that my brain was refreshed with a new approach to the day.  Maybe the word "backward" gets a bad rap. When we are bored or feeling "stuck", simply turning a different way, taking the opposite direction on an old path or looking at life from a new angle can bring a fresh outlook on the old and familiar. 

On the journey through our days

Backward or Forward

It's our choice how to view it

(Remember - your backward could very well be someone else's forward!)

Happy New Year from the Stone-Kerrs

Apparently it t'is the season for family update holiday cards and we're late to the party. In fact, we've never done one of these, but after reading others', I thought I'd take a stab at it:

The Stone-Kerrs are alive and well, enjoying all the good that Bellingham has to offer!

Ella turned 24 on February 24th 2024, which makes it not only her golden birthday, but she was born in the auspicious Year of the Golden Dragon in 2000, which only happens once every 60 years. But the Dragon year comes every 12 trips around the sun, so this makes it her own personal Golden Dragon year, making it, like, a double-golden

amazing year!  That must have worked, because she landed a job she loves, starting as the Assistant Manager at Claire's (we called her the A** Man for short) and then quickly promoted to Store Manager (now we call her Boss B*tch for short...and for fun).  She is just as sweet and sparkly as ever and spreads joy to many little girls!

Delaney continues to kick butt in the gym, and in fact is the Senior Wellness Coordinator at BP. She is employed by Premise Health to run the gym, help people get strong, do ergonomic consultations and teach classes to the many workers at the refinery.  I know many folks that work there and let me tell ya - it can get annoying hearing about what an amazing and kind daughter we have...and how much she kicks their asses in workouts.  Also Lou (that is what we call her) is wrapping up her master's degree at the University of Glasgow, where she spent a few weeks on labs in-person, but does the rest of the work remotely.  In her free time she enjoys getting trapped under her lap-cat, Geraldine, seeing Taylor Swift and hanging out with her partner, Michael.

Mark is enjoying his third year teaching at Lummi Nation School, inspiring kids with history, silliness and occasional costumes. This year he coached the XC team to a first ever team score (you need 5 kids to score and they had never had a full team!) and took a talented young athlete to compete at the State XC Championships.  The only drawback of Mark teaching at a tribal school is that we've pretty much given up hope of him EVER cutting his hair again....

I (Sharon) am still working at the YMCA with Girls on the Run, but have shifted a good chunk of my focus to grant writing for the Y.  It has been a fun change, and it feels good to use my writing hobby to do some good in the world.  I get to deep-dive into the many human service programs we have at the Y, talk 'em up and bring in financial support for the work we do in the local community.  AND I still get to spread joy to little girls with GOTR - which brings me a heck of a lot of joy too!

Meg-the-prey-driven-dog has lost her off-leash privileges due to an injured knee and me growing weary of tracking her GPS all over Galbraith for hours on my trail runs.  She and her adorable daughter, Dobby, still enjoy daily long leash walks on local trails.  Lyra the cat is...well...a cat - she's sweet and quiet, except for at 4:30 in the morning when she makes a racket, stomps on my chest and head butts me until I get up.  Alfie the turtle continues to entertain us with his ball chasing and toe-biting, but if you ask the other pets, he's just the annoying little jerk that bites them when they are napping by the fire.

We hope this finds you smiling and healthy and ready to tackle the upcoming year with gusto!

Lyra, Dobby, Meg and Alfie in descending order.

Just a Pebble

 As always, the morning run starts my day on the right foot, and not just literally.  Just me and my dogs, no podcasts or music to interrupt the swirling thoughts of the coming day.  Simply the pre-dawn quiet padding of our feet down the road or trail with an unfettered brain allowed to wander farther and deeper than my feet can take me. This morning, on a quiet residential alley that winds its way up to the trail, we paused as Meg squatted to relieve herself of last night's digested dinner. As always I diligently pulled a bag over my hand to retrieve her deposit. Once I made the grab and began to invert the bag, I noticed a pretty little pebble embedded in one of the soft, steaming logs. I felt a twinge of guilt as I tied off the knot and sealed the fate of this lonely bit of stone.

This diminutive rock had grey-and-white stripes with a jagged edge that sparkled in the beam of my headlamp.  I looked around and noticed that the humans who own this parcel of alley had blanketed the driveway in many such pretty little pebbles, likely ordered from a quarry and delivered to the address in the back of a dump truck, or perhaps purchased from the local hardware store in several 50 lb bags, hauled home in an SUV and spread lovingly and evenly with a rake.

How long had these tiny rocks congregated along this strip of alley?  Decades?  Crunched under the feet of school children walking to school, scattered by an occasional tire peel-out by an anxious driver, frozen into ice sheets in winter...these pebbles have endured.  

Before they were small bits, did they all belong to a single boulder before being blasted into bits to be sold as gravel?  Or did they come from a number of large rocks, with subtle different colors and textures, chosen together in a visual recipe proven to please the eyes of the humans who would purchase them?

These pebbles have stood side-by-side for years, and possibly came from one or more mother rock.  Today one of them has been removed from its cohorts.  It no longer fills its spot among brethren.  How would it feel to be separated from the place you've belonged for so long, that brought you comfort with simple familiarity? Will the tiny rock be missed by the new, tiny gap in ground cover? 

Is it such a bad thing to be swooped up into a mass of organic matter, sealed up and deposited into a public garbage can?  Then transported to a landfill to be mixed with other filthy, used and spent items that humans will never put thought to again -- all of these items taken away and no longer exist as far as we humans are concerned?  Maybe the tiny stone will become part of something again, or stand out as an individual, beautiful treasure to be found by wondrous eyes and itty-bitty
fingers some day?

Most days we do things.  We run, we eat, we drive, we pass humans and other creatures during our journey through the day. We leave bits of ourselves, physically and in our actions, wherever we go. We consume. In all of our endeavors, we encounter things big and small.  Our actions have consequences, from miniscule to huge, whether the outcomes are immediate or well into the future. Whether we are conscious of it or not.

Tortured Ted

NOTE: On this day (Jan. 3) I used a writing prompt (in bold below) and found myself in a certain senator's head in this moment in time. It's not a pleasant place to be and I hope it never happens again!

Staring at his reflection felt like looking at a stranger.  What had he become? He used to be the guy with an easy smile, always with a joke at the ready to put people at ease.  He was the one that friends would go to for advice or to share big news.  But now he was alone. Those same friends and colleagues would not return calls, and acquaintances pretended not to know him.

He tried to smile at himself in the mirror, tried to look like the jovial man he once was.  But something was missing - his lips turned up at the ends like they were supposed to, and he even managed to make a dimple appear in his cheek ever-so-briefly.  But the problem was his eyes. When his mouth smiled, his eyes didn’t smile.  There was no shine, no lines radiating out from the corners of his eyes to match his lips. Eyes don’t lie like lips can tell lies.

He had noticed that Heidi seemed to be holding back with him.  She was quiet and avoided meaningful conversation.  She moved in ways to avoid his touch, even stepping to the side when passing him in the hallway. Sure, she was used to his ambition.  As the good wife she had vowed to be so many years ago, she had always supported his decisions unconditionally,  but this time it was too much.  Around their girls she would create normalcy - family meals, small talk - but when the kids went to bed her silence became unbearably loud. “This stranger in the mirror…is this what she now sees when she looks at my face?” he wondered.

“She’ll get over it”, he murmured to his reflection. When his devoted wife questioned him on the decision to go ahead with this, he had reassured her that this was just another important step in his goal of winning the presidency in four years.  From their very first date, years ago, he was honest with her about his ambition to become the leader of the free world. When she agreed to marry him, she agreed to support him the whole way, through the good AND the bad.

As he groomed his beard, he continued to rationalize his defiance, “When he made fun of your looks,” referring to his wife in the next room, “Remember that I defended you!”  He and the president had a complicated relationship that had evolved over time. Even though POTUS had called him ‘Lyin’ Ted’ and accused his father of involvement in JFKs assassination, he knew that was just politics. Or at least the new politics he had embraced.  And now, he needed the president, or at least he needed his fanatical followers that slurped up every lie and conspiracy their dear leader spewed.

This was just a strategy. He thought that if he repeated the president's lies about voter fraud, pushed them in Congress and put on a big show for the big boss, the president’s minions would vote for him in the next round.  He knew that the effort to keep POTUS in office wouldn’t succeed, and honestly, he didn’t want it to work. Life would be easier with the loudmouth out of office. This was merely his attempt to win the affection of the 45’s base.

“It’s not lying,” he reassured his frothy face in the mirror, grumbling.  “It’s just doing what I have to do, to get what I want. Calling this anti-democratic is such an exaggeration. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

After plucking some rogue nose hairs, his grooming was to his satisfaction.  He once again tried to put on a friendly face.  This time he chose an open-mouth smile to showcase his white teeth.  His mouth widened and his lips again turned up at the corners.  But the eyes, rather than showing a twinkle of optimism, revealed a dull deadness. He remembered that old saying about how the eyes are the window to the soul. For a brief moment, he felt the hair raise on the back of his neck and his shoulders trembled in an involuntary shiver.

 

He shrugged it off, inhaled deeply and exclaimed to his reflection loud enough for his wife to hear the in next room, “You’ll see. I’m not being foolish. This will all be worth it when we’re in the White House.  You’ll see…”

A Good Man

I know I lost the Dad that most people knew a few years ago, bit by bit.  Dementia had slowly robbed him of his memories, his passions, talents and social warmth over the last couple of decades.  Although he did maintain an ability to banter with silly jokes that weren’t connected to a place or time.  The hospice nurses and social workers laughed and were charmed by his wit and wise cracks during their weekly visits

But today, when his physical body stopped breathing, rhythmically beating and creating heat…that is when his loss hit us so hard.  It’s easy to be lulled into a feeling of relief when we see his struggling body give up the fight and surrender to nature and what awaits beyond.  When we know that he will no longer have to fight the limits that illness had put on his body and mind, there is a sense of peace when we know it is over.  Dementia had slowly morphed our Dad, who lived his life by doing right by EVERYone even at the detriment of himself or his livelihood, to a confused and meek “old man”.

As he took his last breath, I still had this physical body to talk to, to touch, to treasure, with all of the lovely memories attached. But within hours after he passed, the nice young men with the gurney dressed in a hand-stitched quilt came and took my Dad away in an unmarked van at midnight.  My Mom, who had been stoic and ridiculously matter-of-fact until that moment, was greatly shaken by the physical removal of her life partner…her sidekick for 65 years, her co-parent of six children, sobbing like I’ve never heard her sob before.

We all knew that he would be leaving us.  He had been in hospice care for nearly 2 months and had been declining in physical, but mostly mental abilities for years.  But reality is hard and reality can really suck.  I think it’s okay to say that.  I think it’s okay to be really, really sad.

Life goes on, as we always say.  And it does…in kids and grandkids…and GREAT grandkids (of which Dad has three and counting)  But life also stops.  And we should all stop, and think, and raise a glass to Dad - a really really good man.

T'was the Christmas House

If you had walked into my childhood home during the month of December, you might have asked if Mr. and Mrs. Claus resided there.  You would have seen a fourteen foot tree in multicolor-glory packed with unique ornaments, a variety of nativity scenes, nutcrackers, toy soldiers and sparkly surprises on nearly every surface of every room.  The surprise of mistletoe hanging above the toilet might have triggered you to lock the bathroom door, just in case.  The miniature toy train chugged to holiday tunes while itty-bitty ice skaters twirled on the frozen lake.  When gazing out toward the view of the bay, you would spy a life-size Santa clinging to the boathouse chimney.

Mom worked on the sparkly details, while Dad took the job of lighting up the house, both inside and out.

My favorite job as his helper was to go through all of the light strings for the tree, inspecting every bulb and replacing as needed.  In those days you could revive a dead string with the repositioning of a wire, planting a fresh bulb, or by splicing a new plug onto the cord.  Nowadays I grumble as my early-learned skills are ineffective on the throw-away cheap light strings manufactured to be replaced, not repaired.  I relish the memories of the hours spent picking through the bag of bulbs and the nuggets of wisdom I received from my Pa.

Once he had the ropes of incandescent outdoor bulbs placed along the gutters and around the front door, my sisters and I would make toast by smooshing crust-less white bread into “dough” to wrap around a relatively clean colored bulb.  The heat of those old-fashioned C9 bulbs cooked the bread into a crispy little shell in a matter of minutes.  Making them was the point, but we ate the warm, sometimes gritty treats too.

When I was really little, Dad spent the late weekends of November chopping yule logs for every friend and aquaintance for miles around.  Glitter was added to spark colorful flames, along with the traditional berries and greens.  Come Christmas Eve we would drive around the neighborhood and plop the decorated hunks of wood on porches with a hearty “Merry Christmas!!”

Every fall our entire family became a Christmas Card Workshop.  You see, my dad is an artist and has painted beautiful things his whole life.  For a few weeks each year we would spend our Saturday and Sunday afternoons painting individual, original Christmas cards for everyone we ever knew.  Dad pulled out his water color tubes and pallets and we learned about color mixing and how water interacted with the pigment.  We had some examples to follow, but we were free to embrace our own creative impulses.  We painted and sent at least a hundred, if not more, very original and often extremely rustic cards every year.  After we child-labor elves grew older and busier, Dad printed his original cards at the family print shop and hand painted each card before Mom added a personal note and affixed the festive stamp.  I have saved them all.

Dad’s holiday music library is unrivaled.  From Johnny Cash to Elvis to Vince Guaraldi to the Nutcracker Suite, we had all the genres covered.  Not to mention Alice’s Restaurant was considered a MUST LISTEN during this time of year.  Holiday music would play for hours on end with never a repeated song.

Every single year, from the first of six children to the last of many, many grandchildren, Dad spent the last minutes of every Christmas Eve sitting beneath the sparkling tree surrounded by young’uns while reading aloud from The Night Before Christmas by Clement C Moore.  As he closed the tattered hard-bound book, we were enchanted, excited and ready to run off to bed in anticipation of Christmas magic.

This Christmas, as the more recent years have foreshadowed, our Papa is slipping far into dementia.  When I am able to make the trek over the mountains for a visit, otherwise quiet he announces, “That girl is here again!”  At other times he asks Mom repeatedly, “When was Christmas this year?” noticing the decorated tree and colorful lights surrounding the house, but not sure if the holiday is coming or going.  He then retires to his room to watch Jeopardy and fall into the comfortable, yet confusing routine of his new life.

He may not engage in the season like he used to, but the holiday magic he created for decades has passed on to a few generations of Stones and to others beyond our family.  Each December when the task awaits, I always look into my inner Puk (his family nickname) when I decorate and embrace the beauty and music of the season.  I am so grateful for that.

This winter I can’t help but feel the great weight of melancholy, as I no longer know how to connect with my incredible father whose gifts have gone silent - or so it seems.  I will do my best to carry on his lessons, and to continue to pass them on to my family.

Happy Christmas to All…and to all a Good Night!

My Leaf's Purpose

A while back, I can’t quite recall when exactly, I heard/read somewhere that if you catch a falling autumn leaf in the air before it touches the ground it is a sign of good luck.  I fell in love with that idea.  The thought of this leaf, with a lifespan of one single season having never touched the ground - will never-ever touch the ground - because I caught it in my hand.

For all I know I may have made this up in my own head or in a dream and accepted it as a real thing.  When I shared this superstition with the children with whom I ran through the forest (a perk of my job helping coordinate running programs at the YMCA), they asked, “Who said that?”  I couldn’t recall, but it didn’t matter.  We started turning our faces up to the trees, awaiting the random flutter of a yellow, crispy leaf to chase.  

This leaf we sought had never been touched, altered or interfered with by our modern, tech-obsessed world.  This leaf that  likely interacted with ladybugs, birds and other flying beings, but lived entirely separate from our terrestrial reality.  It turned it's broad surface toward the sun, and was later washed by the spring rain.  Battered by the wind, it clung to the tree with a strong and flexible stem along with it's green, chorophyll-fortified brethren.

Now weakened by the shorter, cooler days of the season's change and facing the inevitable fall to the ground  -- if caught it in the air by one of us, we might somehow save this innocent leaf from corruption!  It could remain a pure element of the natural canopy from which it tumbled.  Immortality?

Yet, that leaf did serve it’s life purpose.  Aiming it’s broad face toward the sun's warmth, it transformed solar energy into food for it’s mother tree.  Fruit and seeds were nourished by this energy to guarantee generations of trees to come.  And critters sheltered within and beneath for the spring and summer months.

Then the days get shorter.  Once these leaves wither and drop into our world below, who knows what might come of them?  Someone may rake, bag and send them to the dump.  Or maybe they all are doomed to be stomped by boots, rolled over by big rubber tires and turned into pulp.  Then mixed with litter and road run-off to be forgotten.  Hopefully they land in the soil from which the roots grow and become one again.

Regardless of the truth (or absolute nuttiness) of this superstition, we - the children and I, spent the next hour dashing side-to-side, on-and-off the trail, to try to snatch these brittle beings before they touched the earth.  In almost all cases we failed.  And we nearly flew off of steep banks or ran head-on into trees in our desperate efforts. We debated whether it was bad luck to shake the tree first to loosen leaves…and decided that  it would, indeed, be cheating.

At the end of the run I had one trophy, fallen from a maple, that practically jumped into my fist.  Spencer had nimbly nabbed a small handful of various sizes and colors.   Alisa had tried SO hard, zigzagging at every possible target, but she didn’t catch a single fluttering leaf the whole time.  As we boarded the vans I offered Alisa my prized leaf to take home.  She declined.  It wasn’t the same if the leaf touched another hand before your own.  I completely understood.

Since then I keep wondering if I just made up that whole “good luck” thing in my mind or in a dream.  But it doesn’t really matter.  We all could use a little hope, good luck and magic to make it through life.  And just maybe there is more to a leaf’s life purpose than we know.

To Wear or Not to Wear...Underwear?

This all started years ago.  Like any lifetime runner, actually like ANY runner, I love to recruit converts to our sport.  I had photocopied a walk-to-run program from a book to share with a curious fellow pre-school mom.  After six weeks or so she came up to me excited to share that she was running miles at a time and feeling great!  She had even convinced some friends to join her and she now had a real-live running group.   Then...she scooted up close to me and half-whispered, “Can I ask you a question?”  I nodded and waited.  She looked around to make sure that nobody was close enough to hear.  “Do you wear underwear when you run?”

“Yeah!” I answered without hesitation, not at all taken aback by the question.

She went on, “Well…then why do running shorts come with built-in briefs if you are supposed to wear underwear, too?” 

Have you ever had one of those moments when a question or idea just smacks you in the face and changes your perspective forever?  BAM!!  This was one of those moments for me. A palm-smack right to the forehead.

“Good point,” I stammered, “I haven’t ever really thought about it…”  She looked disappointed in my answer.  She was sure there was a TRUTH out there that only real runners knew, and I was supposed invite her into this exclusive club by sharing the insider information.  Watching her face go slack, I felt so ignorant and unworthy of my “mentor” status.

After that day I continued donning my undergarments, whether I was running or not, because that was what I had done my whole life.  However my husband, who is a high mileage trail runner, began to discard underwear completely.  He had fallen in love with compression gear and decided “Why wear underwear when there is cozy spandex?”  No matter if he is dressing for work complete with jacket and tie, or for a 3-hour run in the rain, the first item of clothing he puts on is a stretchy short or half-tight.  He sits on the chair and squeezes his muscles, much like sausage into its casing, into the black spandex container.

Over the years I have occasionally brought this subject up on long runs with friends.  I have been surprised by the range of answers and reasons that bubble up.  Mary dislikes briefs so much that she won’t even wear running shorts that include briefs - she’s all about smooth running tights with no creeping or binding, even in the summer.  Tammy agrees and adds, “For the record, there is ruthless mockery when ptl's (panty lines) are spotted in my group.”

Deb swears by finding the RIGHT underwear for running - high quality with no seams or fancy trim.  Denise likes a layer between herself and her tights, but is fine with the coverage the built-in brief that running shorts provide.  Mark prefers a lycra under-layer, even with shorts that have briefs, and avoids cotton because of the dreaded chafe risk.  Carol is all about business - tighty-whiteys at all times.

Here is a summary of my informal, non-scientific poll (of people I wasn’t too embarrassed to ask):

• ·         Some folks’ number one concern is panty-line with tights, yet others regard comfort as most important, panty-line or not.   (By “Some folks” I mean some women)

•          Most men like to go free and easy when it comes to tights.  They don’t claim that it has anything to do with panty-line.

•          A slight majority of men and women leave the undies at home when wearing shorts with built-in briefs.

•          Anything that chafes during a run, undergarment or not, gets donated to a local charity.

Apparently there is no one TRUTH to the question.  Going Commando appears to be a matter of personal preference.  People choose what works for them, or like me, they do what they do because that is what they have always done.  So…to wear or not to wear underwear? Whether you are a newbie runner or an old timer with thousands of miles under your feet, what you are wearing under your racing shorts and tights is entirely up to you!