tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47683563589401597712024-03-13T09:05:48.968-05:00A glass of lemonadeSqueezing life's sweetness...despite seeds in my throat, and juice in my eye.leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.comBlogger101125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-512402873481482262020-01-10T21:10:00.000-06:002020-01-11T12:00:05.655-06:00Be kind. Be loyal. Believe that you are brave: Ongoing life lessons from the sweetest girl in the world<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The sweetest girl in the world </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">and</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I talked a lot. Or rather, I talked; she listened. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">We'd see the headlights of a car during our predawn walks, and I'd tell her, "Just think. That driver probably had been complaining about having to get up so early, and now can't wait to get to work or school to tell everyone, "I saw the sweetest girl in the world this morning!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I'd fling open the front door after going for a swim or struggling through a spin class, announcing to her, "I thought about you the <b>whole time</b> I was in the pool/at the gym!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">If she was snoozing in the sun, I could only get three words out -- "sometimes a girl..." -- before she'd immediately rouse herself, not even waiting for the next words, "has to go for a walk. She just has to."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">So we'd go. As if she hadn't heard it a half dozen times already that day, I</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">'d remind her that she is indeed the sweetest girl in the world. Not only that, I'd say, "You're also the most loyal...the most kind...the most beautiful...the most courageous."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">At times, she didn't believe the last one. Storms scared Angie, and she always seemed kind of embarrassed to seek shelter in a closet, or to not-so-casually stayed glued to our legs. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">But before we filled out each others' lives, she'd been deserted on a country road, where she lived for a week before being lovingly lured away by a wonderful rescue group. For those seven days, though, who knows what weather she endured while waiting for whoever dropped her off to return? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">So whatever her response when the barometric pressure rose or dropped or whatever it does before a storm, or however she huddled once it hit, I reminded her how much courage it took to stay put waiting...and that she never had to worry about storms or anything else again. Worrying was my job, I'd tell her, and I was very good at it.</span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c76coQtHAAw/Xhk7db7tiUI/AAAAAAAAAso/rtsCCczm8KEepUyMN7G9greNbWwLQ3mmgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Angie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1157" data-original-width="1600" height="460" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c76coQtHAAw/Xhk7db7tiUI/AAAAAAAAAso/rtsCCczm8KEepUyMN7G9greNbWwLQ3mmgCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Angie.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">We said goodbye to our precious girl two days after Christmas. Outside my window right this minute, the rain is so loud and the lightning so bold and I miss her more than ever. This is the first storm we've had since she died, and I want to look after her. To remind her that I do the worrying around here. To assure her, most of all, that she is most courageous girl I've ever known.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I may have been the one who did all the talking, but Angie had much more to say than I. She reminded me that it was OK to be afraid, and to turn to those we love when we need reassurance and comfort. </span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mdTPxK9DKJw/Xhkz40doixI/AAAAAAAAAsY/0kG22lBrxqA1DMj5LaTtf7vsHW3V06eSQCEwYBhgL/s1600/Angie%2Band%2Bme%2Bwinter%2B2019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="817" data-original-width="890" height="366" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mdTPxK9DKJw/Xhkz40doixI/AAAAAAAAAsY/0kG22lBrxqA1DMj5LaTtf7vsHW3V06eSQCEwYBhgL/s400/Angie%2Band%2Bme%2Bwinter%2B2019.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">And when I'd tell her she is the sweetest, the bravest, the kindness and most beautiful girl in the world; when I'd exalt her big heart and pure spirit, I'm realizing now that I was also reminding myself of the person I need to be.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Now that Angie has left this sweet earth, I miss touching her while talking to her. But we still have conversations. These days though, I'm the one who's listening.</span>leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-58152608556406387372019-10-31T15:08:00.001-05:002019-10-31T15:08:06.712-05:00The choreography of CPR: How my co-workers at the Richardson YMCA saved a member's life<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pRWdNnwsVyQ/Xbrhl5skUsI/AAAAAAAAAqo/3vXN3XAyFZwtzZm0m9UUn6iO8SeeyI3KgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Y%2Bheroes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1088" data-original-width="1600" height="268" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pRWdNnwsVyQ/Xbrhl5skUsI/AAAAAAAAAqo/3vXN3XAyFZwtzZm0m9UUn6iO8SeeyI3KgCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/Y%2Bheroes.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nick Echtenkamp, Ashley Eger, Samantha Buehler and Mica Nix: The Y heroes who saved a member's life.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At the <b><a href="https://www.ymcadallas.org/locations/richardson" target="_blank">Richardson Family YMCA</a></b> where I work two afternoons a week, my co-workers saved a man's life. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">That's what it all boils down to, this 10-minute choreograph of care and compassion; of knowing what to do and doing it without hesitation; of trusting your own instincts as much as you trust those of everyone surrounding you:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Saving a life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">That's what my supervisor, Mica Nix -- instrumental in conveying calm and breathing slow, steady breaths into a stranger's lungs -- told her husband and four children when she came home that evening.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"I wasn't sure what I'd say to them," she tells me later. "But when I walked in the door, I just said it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">" 'You know what? I saved a life today.' "</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Her husband cried. So, quite honestly, did I, and I wasn't even there. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I'd been scheduled to work Tuesday; my shift would have started 15 minutes before an astute member noticed an older gentleman who appeared to be sleeping on the stationary bicycle. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But I'd woken up that morning feeling lousy, so had called in sick. </span><span style="font-size: large;">When I came in the next day, my friend and co-worker Ashley Eger -- who just happened to be working out on her day off -- told me what had transpired just 24 hours earlier.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Mica approached the man, noticed his tongue was out and he had no pulse. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"I tried to wake him, but he wasn't responding," Mica says. "I yelled at Ashley to go get Nick."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Nick is Nick Echtenkamp, our executive director. He's been CPR certified for decades; has lost count of how many people with whom he's shared his knowledge. But this was his first time to actually perform it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Mica and I just fell into step," he says. "She did A and I did B. Then I'd do A and she'd do B. We just knew what to do. You go over it and over it and when the time comes, everything just kicks in."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Meanwhile, Jessica Miller, who works at the front desk, called 9-1-1. Ashley and another member named Chris moved a half-dozen exercise bikes out of the way so Mica and Nick could lower the member to the floor to start CPR. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"The bikes weren't heavy," she says thoughtfully, as if the enormity of it all is just hitting her, "until we moved them back."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Samantha Buehler, program director of family programs, got the AED from the wall; the machine did its calculations, determining the man needed CPR, not an electric shock. Sam handed Mica a mask from the red bag holding the AED.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Nick, meanwhile, had assessed the situation: <i>Were the man's airways open?</i> Yes. <i>Was he breathing?</i> He was attempting, but it wasn't working. <i>Did he have circulation?</i> He had no pulse. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So Nick put one of his hands atop the other and began staccato, rhythmic compressions on the man's chest: </span><span style="font-size: large;">One-two-three-four-five...Mica counted till he reached 30 and stopped. Then she took a deep breath, exhaled her air into the man's lungs, and did it again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Nick's turn: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5...30 compressions. Now Mica's. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After two rounds, the man started coming to; he began breathing. He opened his eyes. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"I held his hand," Mica says. "When he regained consciousness, he squeezed it and smiled. I'll never forget that."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Everything she'd been taught, everything they'd all learned, everything they had practiced in their subconscious over and over and over -- all kicked in. The paramedics arrived; the ambulance took the man to the hospital.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; white-space: pre-wrap;">"It all worked out," Mica says. "It all worked out where we were. I think God puts people where they need to be for them to help. Everyone figured out what their role was."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; white-space: pre-wrap;">We never know, do we, what will happen from one moment to the next and change our lives forever. </span><span style="font-size: large; white-space: pre-wrap;">We could trip on a curb and crack our head on the sidewalk. We could turn a corner and meet the love of our lives. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Or we could go into the YMCA to ride a stationary bike for a half hour and have a heart attack. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; white-space: pre-wrap;">On a sunny Tuesday afternoon in October at a small YMCA in Richardson, Texas -- where everyone who works there is <b><a href="https://www.ymcadallas.org/locations/richardson/programs/swimming_lessons__teams/ymca_lifeguard_and_community_cpr" target="_blank">CPR certified</a></b> -- that's just what happened. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; white-space: pre-wrap;">My heart still pounds at the thought of it all. And thanks to these amazing people surrounding me and surrounding one special elderly gentleman -- his heart is still beating, too. </span><br />
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leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-78205092768662640612019-10-30T18:17:00.004-05:002019-10-30T18:17:58.055-05:00Thanking my son Charlie on his 26th birthday for never saying, "Please stop writing about me."<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f8ZBz-x2ag0/XboY5WkTDFI/AAAAAAAAAqU/fzt4Wjdp9YgXRWiYaNfUGT7gma4DJ0T7QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Young%2BCharlie%2Band%2Byoung%2Bme%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1379" data-original-width="1454" height="376" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f8ZBz-x2ag0/XboY5WkTDFI/AAAAAAAAAqU/fzt4Wjdp9YgXRWiYaNfUGT7gma4DJ0T7QCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/Young%2BCharlie%2Band%2Byoung%2Bme%2B.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The first time I wrote about Charlie for public consumption, he was a newborn. Needless to say, he had no objection. </span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Twenty-six years and probably millions of words later, he has yet to ask me to stop. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">For that, and for oh so much through the years, I thank him. </span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Here's a sampling of what I've shared about him through the decades; in other words, what he's amicably gone along with. They start when he's in high school, about the time I started this blog. I wrote others in <i>The Dallas Morning News</i>, which, sadly, I think are lost for the ages. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So I'll focus on what I have, and hope you enjoy them as much as I savored writing every word.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My apologies for getting a little carried away!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">On <b><a href="https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2009/10/being-gentleman.html" target="_blank">being a gentleman </a></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">On <b><a href="https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2009/11/shorter-and-still-pretty-sweet.html" target="_blank">getting his head shaved</a></b> (for the first time)<a href="https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2009/10/being-gentleman.html" style="font-weight: bold;" target="_blank"><br /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">On <b><a href="https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2009/12/opening-hearts.html" target="_blank">fostering our first greyhound</a></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">On <b><a href="https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2010/12/making-pact.html" target="_blank">making a running pact</a></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">On <b><a href="https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2011/07/teaming-up.html" target="_blank">being part of a team</a></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">On <b><a href="https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2012/05/belonging-here.html" target="_blank">belonging</a></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">On <b><a href="https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2013/06/ghouling-it.html" target="_blank">muddying up</a></b> with a friend</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">On <b><a href="https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2014/05/teaming-up.html" target="_blank">relying on relay </a></b>partners</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">On<b><a href="https://www.dallasnews.com/news/healthy-living/2016/05/06/for-mother-s-day-mom-reflects-on-son-s-gift-of-a-lifetime/" target="_blank"> graduating from college</a></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">On <b><a href="https://biz.centurylink.net/news/read/category/Lifestyle/article/the_dallas_morning_n-a_mothers_nightmare_when_your_son_goes_missing_in-tca" target="_blank">missing on a mountain</a></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">On <b><a href="https://www.dallasnews.com/news/healthy-living/2018/05/11/feels-like-the-hand-of-god-surviving-your-son-s-medical-emergency-when-it-strikes-out-of-nowhere/" target="_blank">having a seizure</a></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">On <b><a href="http://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2019/07/seizure-ing-day.html" target="_blank">not having another</a></b> (whew!)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">On <b><a href="http://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2019/07/when-your-oldest-friend-from-childhood.html" target="_blank">being a friend</a></b> and a brother</span></div>
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leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-42812233197282606252019-07-20T20:03:00.003-05:002019-07-21T13:07:29.107-05:00When your first friend from first grade gets married, how you could be anywhere but there? <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The kid on the right got married last week. The one in the middle was his best man. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Lee Hanig (whom I have long thought of as my son) and Charlie (who really is) have been friends since first grade at St. Mark's School of Texas. Charlie's last name starts with a G and Lee's with an H, so there ya' go. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The boys remained close through lower school and middle school, playing on the same or opposing sports teams; going on birthday campouts at my parents' farm (where the picture above was taken with my other all-but-son, Luke Smith); laughing and whispering and being total goofballs.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Then after Lee performed at the ninth-grade orchestra recital, he told Charlie he was leaving St. Mark's to attend Booker T. Washington School for the Performing Arts. Charlie, who did not inherit even a sliver of his mother's crying gene, cried and cried. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"It shattered my world," he says.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The next few years, the two played a little club volleyball together and both worked at The Purple Cow restaurant. Keeping up a friendship while in different high schools and having different interests, though, is challenging. Their college choices were thousands of miles apart; their experiences about as spread out, too.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Still, friends are friends; brothers (which is what Charlie considers Lee to be) brothers. And months without communication, they discovered, can be finger-snapped away by sharing a cabin in Colorado.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The first time Lee went with us to the YMCA of the Rockies, he and Charlie were a month away from third grade. The most recent was two summers ago.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">As a hiking kid, Lee amused us with his lollygagging, all the while licking on giant lollipop for sustenance. As a hiking adult, he sped up a little, switching to one giant baguette to sustain him for miles- and hours-long hikes. Charlie's backpack, on the other hand, was crammed with thick meat-and-cheese sandwiches, fruit, protein bars.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">My family has always adored Lee. He is so...Lee. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I can't remember him calling me, my sisters, brothers-in-law or my mom by anything other than our first names. While in Colorado with us, h</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">e immerses himself in the general hilarity of game nights; does jigsaw puzzles by the hour to the delight of my mother. He plays his guitar and sings with no prodding, also to the delight of my mother.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Lee played the guitar at my niece Julie's wedding, which was held at the Y of the Rockies. Lee is the one who told my mother that yes, we could stop at a dispensary (</span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">"I'm curious," </i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Mom said)</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">to just look around. But he put his foot down at her buying a lollipop and most certainly at trying to take a plant on the plane home (<i>"I just want to see if I could grow it."</i>)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Charlie last saw Lee almost two years ago. Charlie had stopped in Boston, where Lee and his then-girlfriend Fran lived, on the way to visit my brother and sister-in-law in Maine. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">When Lee and Fran got engaged earlier this year, he asked Charlie to be one of his groomsmen.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Charlie initially said a resounding yes. But this year has been kind of tough for us financially. Charlie's part-time job doesn't leave much for extras, and a month ago, he had to pay $700 for his car's air conditioning to be fixed. I was laid off in January and couldn't be much help. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">So Charlie called Lee to tell him he wouldn't be able to swing a trip to Boston. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I knew Charlie was disappointed, but he assured me it was OK. He'd record a toast; Lee's mom Deb said she'd make sure it was shown at the rehearsal dinner.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Then around noon on Saturday, 18 hours before the wedding, I read the toast Charlie had sent me. It made me cry. I called my sister Susan and read it to her. And maybe one of us said it first; maybe we said it in unison. But the crux was this: "Charlie has to go to Lee's wedding."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">So he did. We found a fare that wasn't outlandish and Deb said Charlie could share a hotel room with her brother. Charlie and I dashed out and found a suit on sale; alterations were completed by 7 p.m. Charlie boarded his flight 12 hours later and arrived in Boston four hours before the wedding to be Lee's best man.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Deb and Fran knew Charlie was coming, but Lee didn't. In true Lee fashion, he didn't seem all that surprised. But during the ceremony, Charlie told me, Lee turned to him and quietly said, "I'm so glad you're here."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">And in a Facebook note the next day, Fran wrote: "Lee was so happy Charlie was there."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">So there you have it. No moral here, unless it's that elbow to your ribs reminder: No one knows you as well as your childhood friends. I started to say "other than family," but maybe they know you even better...and maybe that's because they <i>are</i> family.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">What else can you do but make sure those mountains and miles and laughter and tears and teams and games and sandwiches and baguettes -- that they all count for something. Something strong, something beautiful, something everlasting. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">And you go ahead and spend money you don't have; you say thank you to a couple of loved ones for being so generous. Because this is one of those times when you just have to be there. For friendship. For brotherhood. For love. </span>leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-60268522137689615162019-07-11T20:20:00.002-05:002019-07-11T20:20:19.756-05:00Seizure-ing the day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a-hjQkkEva8/XSZ59M2CodI/AAAAAAAAAlM/RpPK31QO3VkTql80wlwl9rowwGV7pIv3ACLcBGAs/s1600/tra%2Bla%2Bla%2Bno%2Bseizure.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1178" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a-hjQkkEva8/XSZ59M2CodI/AAAAAAAAAlM/RpPK31QO3VkTql80wlwl9rowwGV7pIv3ACLcBGAs/s640/tra%2Bla%2Bla%2Bno%2Bseizure.jpg" width="470" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">For a few weeks, perhaps a month or so, after my son Charlie had a seizure and spent three days in the ICU, I kept a keen, not always subtle, eye on him. That wasn't hard, because he wasn't allowed drive for three months and thus, was in my passenger seat a lot.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">His neurologist -- whom we adored anyway, but even more so because he gave us good news -- was all but certain Charlie wouldn't have another seizure. But in the hospital last year, those days and nights, heart-lifting though they turned out to be, also had plenty of scary moments. Plus, being a worrier in general, I sometimes had to bite my tongue to keep from asking, "Are you OK?" too many times within a day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There was no telling what had caused everything to go a little haywire in Charlie's brain. Maybe it was stress. Maybe exhaustion. Or, as Dr. Ronald Bell, his neurologist, said, "<b><a href="https://www.dallasnews.com/life/better-living/2018/05/11/feels-like-hand-god-surviving-sons-medical-emergency-strikes-nowhere" target="_blank">sometimes it feels like an act of God.</a></b>"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We non-medical types stopped trying to figure it out, stopped starting our sentences with, "I wonder if it could've been..." We just stepped back and let time pass. Charlie was given the OK to drive. He moved back to Colorado, where he immersed himself in working and in hiking as he had for the two previous summers. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I loosened my grip on those remembrances and worries I had grasped so tightly, gently wrapping each in a box labeled "yesterday." I knew where they were, but unless something jolted my memory -- brushing up against</span><b style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2019/03/my-son-had-serious-seizure-year-ago-im.html" target="_blank"> the shirt I was wearing </a></b><span style="font-size: large;">the morning Charlie had his seizure, perhaps -- they simply stayed in their little cocoon.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">They began rustling just a little when Charlie moved home from Colorado in January. He was taking classes at TWU, studying to become a personal trainer, working about 30 hours a week at a German delicatessen. He was going to the gym after work, getting home around 10, eating late, and getting less sleep than I wanted to know about.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The week of July 4, Charlie was scheduled to work seven days in a row, and I could all but hear the jostles of that wrapped-up box of remembrances and worries. Charlie was exhausted; too tired even to exercise, which was so unlike him. July 3, he started work at 6 a.m., had barely 20 minutes to eat his lunch, and got home around 4:30. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">A couple of hours later, while I was having dinner with Mom and my sisters, he called.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Did I work today?" he asked. And then, "Do I work tomorrow?" And then, "I don't remember driving home."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I left the table and rushed home. At first Charlie said he felt better, then complained of a headache and threw up. I called his internist, who said, "Something's not right." </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pimrg6XlKvM/XSfehJ6TYLI/AAAAAAAAAlk/W4K-bs3GqkYTqIob2wUaYUwVnE-5xS5NwCLcBGAs/s1600/Chuckles%2Bin%2BER.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1049" data-original-width="1600" height="258" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pimrg6XlKvM/XSfehJ6TYLI/AAAAAAAAAlk/W4K-bs3GqkYTqIob2wUaYUwVnE-5xS5NwCLcBGAs/s400/Chuckles%2Bin%2BER.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A wiped-out Charlie awaits test results while camped out in the rather chilly ER.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Charlie, his dad and I spent five hours in the emergency room, where Charlie had a CT scan and a huge IV dripped its contents into his body. We came home well after midnight and, I confess, Charlie slept in my bed and I slept on the floor next to it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Five days later, we went for a follow-up appointment with his neurologist. Dr. Bell told us stories of his trip to Ukraine, and gave us a primer on European and Russian economics. We were held rapt, as we had been every time he came to Charlie's hospital room -- never in a hurry to leave; always a wealth of brain talk and fascinating stories. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">All this to finally say that Charlie is fine. Dr. Bell attributed Charlie's symptoms to heat stroke and to dehydration. Take breaks at work, he told Charlie. Sleep more. Make sure you drink plenty of water.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZK8qOrcD1cI/XSfe1EJOO2I/AAAAAAAAAls/lPkQoWT4ejMSgAjHiaP6gPjjwwa6N8GLgCLcBGAs/s1600/Chuckles%2Band%2BDr%2BBell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="1286" height="368" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZK8qOrcD1cI/XSfe1EJOO2I/AAAAAAAAAls/lPkQoWT4ejMSgAjHiaP6gPjjwwa6N8GLgCLcBGAs/s400/Chuckles%2Band%2BDr%2BBell.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charlie and Dr. Ronald Bell, his neurologist, sharing good news.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">On the way home, Charlie -- who has been a bit in flux about what he wants his future to hold -- told me he has decided to return to Colorado. I am, quite honestly, thrilled. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">His decision, I believe, is a thank you of sorts -- to God, or perhaps to fate. To the stars. To the universe and, of course, to our beloved voice of calm and bearer of good news, Dr. Bell. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">What each or all of them bestowed upon Charlie is way more than an all-clear. Instead, it is a nudge, a wink, an admonition: To go </span><span style="font-size: large;">where your heart is. To pursue what moves your soul. To revel in what quenches your spirit. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So what better way to express utmost gratitude than to do just that?</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kJby0BvixdM/XSffrXtFG2I/AAAAAAAAAl4/DG9Vv2Fq4oEezG7PP2wrnLwH88xYyoUOgCLcBGAs/s1600/chuckles%2Bdoing%2Bbackbend.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kJby0BvixdM/XSffrXtFG2I/AAAAAAAAAl4/DG9Vv2Fq4oEezG7PP2wrnLwH88xYyoUOgCLcBGAs/s400/chuckles%2Bdoing%2Bbackbend.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charlie, delighted to be 13,560 feet above sea level.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">My carefully wrapped and stowed-away collection of worries has been silent since Charlie's follow-up appointment. And as tempted as I am to lug to the dumpster this box that only I can see, I'm instead going to let it stay where it is. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Those three days in ICU were wrenching. Without a doubt, I have never, ever, ever been as scared in my entire life as when I found Charlie unresponsive after he had his seizure. I pray we never have to go through that again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But you know what? It happened. And we came through. So I'm keeping that box, which holds more love and grace, more caring and smarts that I will never quite grasp. For that, I am beyond grateful. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Which is why you couldn't begin to pry that crazy box from my soul, and certainly not from my heart.</span><br />
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leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-32133183052214956342019-06-16T13:48:00.000-05:002019-06-16T18:53:42.200-05:00Essays about and for my dad on this, our seventh Father's Day without him<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sgs1sOIxQEY/XQaNAFMVSVI/AAAAAAAAAko/uTw1sDwxPM0RK0gYagKOCsbPz9wJuJF1wCLcBGAs/s1600/Colorado%2Bwith%2BDad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="795" data-original-width="960" height="530" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sgs1sOIxQEY/XQaNAFMVSVI/AAAAAAAAAko/uTw1sDwxPM0RK0gYagKOCsbPz9wJuJF1wCLcBGAs/s640/Colorado%2Bwith%2BDad.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Above all else, my father loved his family. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Almost as much as us, he loved Father's Day. He loved his birthday. He loved Christmas. He loved being with those of us who adored him, who hung on his words, who got the hugest charge out of him.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">He loved, quite frankly, being the center of attention...or being so very happy for one of us that his cup, as he'd say, runneth over. Such was the case in this, </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">my favorite picture of him, taken at my brother Ben's wedding.</span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EIHHKQIrP6E/XQaLez0pZEI/AAAAAAAAAkc/nRbrypclXpgXicQ5HUYwb5DoRQpPi_NfQCLcBGAs/s1600/Daddy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="934" data-original-width="1600" height="231" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EIHHKQIrP6E/XQaLez0pZEI/AAAAAAAAAkc/nRbrypclXpgXicQ5HUYwb5DoRQpPi_NfQCLcBGAs/s400/Daddy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Dad's last Father's Day was in 2012, which my sister Susan and I are celebrating with him here. Our sweet Daddy died 46 days later. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bq9tpigdQNQ/XQaIg1xK_XI/AAAAAAAAAkI/yio2x4gNemsEuJn-DbDIHhueiTMVzShSwCLcBGAs/s1600/Father%2527s%2BDay%2Bwith%2BDad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="753" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bq9tpigdQNQ/XQaIg1xK_XI/AAAAAAAAAkI/yio2x4gNemsEuJn-DbDIHhueiTMVzShSwCLcBGAs/s640/Father%2527s%2BDay%2Bwith%2BDad.jpg" width="500" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Not a day (or even half-day) goes by that I don't miss him; don't hear him jingling coins in his pocket, don't hear him saying "I love you" (which he did all the time) or quoting poetry (which he also did all the time). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">He's still the first person I want to tell so much to, or to ask about something. Nobody told a story like Dad, and though I probably heard most of them about a million times, I'd give anything to hear even one of them one more time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Through the years, I've written a lot about him. He was just so...quotable. Endearing. Engaging. Loving. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">So perhaps as a gift to him, here are a few of my favorite essays I've written about him on this, my seventh Father's Day without my dad (a.k.a. the All American Boy, Mr. Wonderful, Dadaw, the Grand Poopaw).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Happy Father's Day, Daddy. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">On his ah...determination (OK, stubbornness):</span><br />
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<a href="https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2010/03/thinking-twice.html">https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2010/03/thinking-twice.html</a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">On living life joyfully</span><br />
<a href="https://www.dallasnews.com/life/better-living/2016/12/30/find-moments-joy-open-new-year-possibility">https://www.dallasnews.com/life/better-living/2016/12/30/find-moments-joy-open-new-year-possibility</a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">On oatmeal and hospital visits:</span><br />
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<a href="https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2012/02/appreciating-dad.html">https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2012/02/appreciating-dad.html</a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">On his optimistic attitude, even while in pain</span><br />
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<a href="https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2010/10/taking-away-pain.html">https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2010/10/taking-away-pain.html</a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Six days after he died:</span><br />
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<a href="https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2012/07/searching-in-sun.html">https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2012/07/searching-in-sun.html</a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Our first Thanksgiving without him:</span><br />
<a href="https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2012/11/reaching-for-dad-in-thanksgiving-sky.html">https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2012/11/reaching-for-dad-in-thanksgiving-sky.html</a><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">After he'd been gone a year:</span><br />
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<a href="https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2013/07/circling-back-dancing-however-clumsily.html">https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2013/07/circling-back-dancing-however-clumsily.html</a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">On his connection to Miss Inez the organ player and <i>Tennessee Waltz:</i></span><br />
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<a href="https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2014/12/tennessee-waltzing.html">https://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2014/12/tennessee-waltzing.html</a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">On why I missed him especially at the 50-year anniversary of the JFK assassination:</span><br />
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<a href="https://www.dallasnews.com/news/jfk/2018/11/20/moment-1963-changed-fathers-life-familys-life-world">https://www.dallasnews.com/news/jfk/2018/11/20/moment-1963-changed-fathers-life-familys-life-world</a><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">After he'd been gone five years</span><br />
<a href="https://www.dallasnews.com/life/better-living/2017/08/01/five-years-dad-died-imlifted-love-reminders-matters">https://www.dallasnews.com/life/better-living/2017/08/01/five-years-dad-died-imlifted-love-reminders-matter<span style="font-size: large;">s</span></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">If your dad still shares this sweet earth with you, give him an extra hug today. If he's gone, may you revel in the relationship you had, and hear his laughter all over again.</span><br />
<br />leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-24327962839281232742019-03-16T22:11:00.002-05:002019-03-16T22:11:53.508-05:00My son had a serious seizure a year ago. I'm finally ready to wear the shirt I was wearing when it happened<span id="docs-internal-guid-91d3059c-7fff-9ae4-f93b-3990d90eb7b2"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">One of my favorite running shirts has hung in my closet, unworn, for close to a year now. The last time I plucked it off a hanger and put it on, preparing for a few Saturday miles, was March 17, 2018. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s what I was wearing moments later when I heard a strange, loud, guttural sound coming from my son Charlie’s bedroom and rushed in to find him under the covers, stiff and unresponsive. </span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nGeTXumbeKQ/XI1XdDqbJlI/AAAAAAAAAis/MkjH1T64Kk8xjj_IhZsgXPutCBbc2EueACLcBGAs/s1600/Chuckles%2Bin%2BER.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="700" height="480" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nGeTXumbeKQ/XI1XdDqbJlI/AAAAAAAAAis/MkjH1T64Kk8xjj_IhZsgXPutCBbc2EueACLcBGAs/s640/Chuckles%2Bin%2BER.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s what I was wearing when I screamed to the 911 operator that I thought Charlie was dying; what I was wearing when paramedics and police officers filled our house; what I’m wearing in this photo his dad took of Charlie's uncles and me standing (and more than a little shell-shocked) next to Charlie’s bed in the ER at </span><b style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://www.methodisthealthsystem.org/news-center/2019/march/a-year-after-my-son-had-a-seizure-i-m-glad-i-tol/?fbclid=IwAR2plDz4fCvPvOcKpvmUZgsB6B0BaW8SV5Rb6XbUReniMSGRYvZaqNeusGY" target="_blank">Methodist Richardson Medical Center.</a></b><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s what I was wearing during tests to confirm Charlie had indeed had a seizure; what I used to absorb wayward tears when the tissue box was out of reach. It's what I took off that evening and hung in my closet, really not thinking about when I'd next put it on. An hour seemed a lifetime away; I couldn't even think about a year passing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And 365 days later, it's still hanging there. I may brush against it as I pull out a different long-sleeved shirt to wear; may swipe it to the side as I opt for another.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The shirt (and, admittedly, a quarter-size spot of dried blood on the wall by the front door which Charlie insists on not painting over) are the only tangible memories of those four scary and ultimately life-affirming days. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PbfmUgP9LWw/XI22q-hJ3FI/AAAAAAAAAjQ/wMM1any011slg9Nq0WJIOhG5l4pU2R8wwCLcBGAs/s1600/Charlie%2Bwith%2Btubes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="856" data-original-width="1280" height="267" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PbfmUgP9LWw/XI22q-hJ3FI/AAAAAAAAAjQ/wMM1any011slg9Nq0WJIOhG5l4pU2R8wwCLcBGAs/s400/Charlie%2Bwith%2Btubes.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">There are, of course, plenty of mindful memories, which have been flooding my heart this past week. They tend to be of utmost gratitude -- first and foremost, that Charlie is healthy and has had no repercussions nor needed any medications. They're also for my family; for friends and strangers who prayed for him; for the staff at Methodist Richardson who made us feel like he was the only patient they were taking care of. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Still, as this auspicious and joyful anniversary approaches, I confess to mornings when I surreptitiously peek at Charlie while he's sleeping to make sure he's...well, you know. Breathing.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I also confess to following -- in my heart at least -- my sweet son's shadow, so close to him that I almost step on the back of his workout shoes; so close I'd collide with him were he to stop short, turn around and see me there.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">My family and I (Charlie was out of it much of the time) will </span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">never forget those moments, those hours, those days of uncertainty and ultimately of exhilaration. We have learned that life really can change in -- feel free to mouth the cliches with me -- the blink of an eye, the snap of two fingers, the switch of a light. And for us, in an electrical current gone crazy in a healthy young brain.</span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qNSR20z0SaY/XI20zk9HdII/AAAAAAAAAjA/dz5osDP9ESgZ5E0tCK06LsdEtEPoNcJQACLcBGAs/s1600/Charlie%2Bon%2Bmountain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="641" data-original-width="960" height="426" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qNSR20z0SaY/XI20zk9HdII/AAAAAAAAAjA/dz5osDP9ESgZ5E0tCK06LsdEtEPoNcJQACLcBGAs/s640/Charlie%2Bon%2Bmountain.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Six weeks after his three nights in the ICU, Charlie went back to Colorado. He worked there for eight months, hiking hundreds of miles, lifting weights, spending time with friends. And, I'll venture to guess, not thinking for a moment about the seizure. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don't harp on it at all, really. Still, I do think the whole experience has given me the gift of perspective; it's helped me keep to a minimum any angst about money or losing my job or wondering what the future holds.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">For that odd little gift and for oh so much more, I am grateful. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Mother's Day after Charlie had his seizure, I wrote an essay about our experience for </span><b style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><a href="https://www.dallasnews.com/life/better-living/2018/05/11/feels-like-hand-god-surviving-sons-medical-emergency-strikes-nowhere" target="_blank">The Dallas Morning News</a>. </i></b><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">In it, I recounted a conversation I'd had with his neurologist, Ronald J. Bell, MD, who is on the medical staff at Methodist Richardson. Charlie had a follow-up appointment, and as we left Dr. Bell's office, almost as an afterthought, I asked this question: </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gRLJNkdwKVc/XI21snxOJGI/AAAAAAAAAjI/ZZ2m6TZ9DSYnMT-EHSoytFWTA0YCBuOcQCLcBGAs/s1600/Dr%2BBell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="263" data-original-width="350" height="480" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gRLJNkdwKVc/XI21snxOJGI/AAAAAAAAAjI/ZZ2m6TZ9DSYnMT-EHSoytFWTA0YCBuOcQCLcBGAs/s640/Dr%2BBell.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charlie with Dr. Ronald Bell, his much beloved neurologist</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Did you pretty much know when you first saw Charlie in the ER that he'd be OK?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">His answer surprised me. "Not at all," he said. "I don't know the punch line. All I know is to take the next step."</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Which is why, next time I run, I'll reach into my closet and, without even thinking about it, take my brown shirt from the hanger. I'll put it on for the first time since March 17 a year ago and then head out.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh who am I kidding? Of course I'll think about it. And with each step, my heart will beat out a thank you. Over and over and over again. </span></div>
</span>leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-15655918008439449022016-07-25T19:32:00.001-05:002016-07-25T20:56:52.028-05:00Reveling in the cool factor that IS Table 7<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RnVg-aeBBS4/V5adOiyS63I/AAAAAAAAAe0/mUSrrp4sAmoxR8B2tiPYqJDhA_2c9dwsgCLcB/s1600/Table%2B7%2Bdance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RnVg-aeBBS4/V5adOiyS63I/AAAAAAAAAe0/mUSrrp4sAmoxR8B2tiPYqJDhA_2c9dwsgCLcB/s400/Table%2B7%2Bdance.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">At the rehearsal dinner <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">of our ne<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">phew Sam, </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></span></span>my sister Susan and I were assigned to Table 7. There was quite a crew in the restaurant -- family of the couple, including Sam's two grandmothers; wedding party members and their significant others; a handful of clergy members (including some who had traveled from Wisconsin, where Sam attends seminary), plus Sam's and Katy's siblings.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sam has two sisters and a brother. Katy has a sister, plus several step-relatives, eight of whom also had Table 7 seat assignments. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Susan and I meandered through the crowd to our large round table in the corner, and we all introduced ourselves. It took a little repetition and a few <i>pssst! Remind me who that is?</i> -- but we finally figured out who went with whom and a little about each other.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Conversation was polite and nice and friendly, of course. And then -- what was it? What was that turning point that changed everything? It could have been when we sat down and Susan almost immediately proclaimed us to be "the renegade table." That did make us all smile and put us at ease and maybe even set the tone. But I'm not certain that was the moment I'm seeking.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Maybe it was glancing at the other tables, wanting the familiarity in Tables 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 to be in Table 7 as well. Or, most likely, it was a combination -- a sprinkling of serendipity, mingling with the fairy dust that seems to hover over happiness venues.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Whatever it was compelled Susan to make a proclamation: "We need to be known as the fun table," she said. "On the count of three, everyone start laughing really, really hard."</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FkRB5LVk0aI/V5abxog2NtI/AAAAAAAAAes/cfCsGe38y5MEFIQO72ZLkeQv1JhN2R05ACEw/s1600/Table%2B7%2BJuly%2B23%2B2016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FkRB5LVk0aI/V5abxog2NtI/AAAAAAAAAes/cfCsGe38y5MEFIQO72ZLkeQv1JhN2R05ACEw/s400/Table%2B7%2BJuly%2B23%2B2016.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So we did, which of course made us laugh even harder. Other tables looked over at us, amused. That opened us up and we kept talking and talking, feeling this mirth that just seemed to grow. At one point, one of the bridesmaids moseyed over from another table and said, "You all are having so much fun, I just had to come over and be close to all this."</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I said we needed to set up a Table 7 Facebook page. Susan decided that at the wedding reception the following evening, someone should request "Uptown Funk" and when we heard it, we'd all run to the dance floor.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The toasts to the happy couple ended; the stories and memories and hoo-haws and tears stopped, and we all went home. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The following afternoon, the wedding was beautiful and joyous. At the reception, we acknowledged the presence of fellow Table 7-ers with a wave, a smile, or with seven fingers extended. The first time "Uptown Funk" played was early on, and everyone was too busy talking or mingling or eating to dance. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">An hour or so later, the bridesmaid who had come by Table 7 the night before found Susan and me eating dinner. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"Table 7, right?" she asked. We nodded.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"I asked the DJ to play 'Uptown Funk' again," she said. "He said he doesn't usually repeat songs, but he will if you promise to dance." Then she said, "When I get married, I want Table 7 there."</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We were, quite honestly, kind of weary. But after hearing that, how could we possibly say no? We looked at each other, nodded a little, and told her that sure, we'd get out there.</span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hrQ1OLRh3eo/V5avI7zdMzI/AAAAAAAAAfU/KY1Fzh2UvT4yFTqyrYeAZxQ-tsKX4Zn4gCLcB/s1600/Table%2B7%2BDance%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hrQ1OLRh3eo/V5avI7zdMzI/AAAAAAAAAfU/KY1Fzh2UvT4yFTqyrYeAZxQ-tsKX4Zn4gCLcB/s400/Table%2B7%2BDance%2B2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When the music started, suddenly our whole Table 7-ers were next to us. We sashayed onto the dance floor, and one of us (I like to think it was me) suggested a conga line. I reached for Susan's sho<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">ulders, </span>and she weaved us around the other dancers -- even under a bridge of raised arms, where we were going the opposite way of everyone else.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But did the Table 7-ers care? Darn right we didn't. I laughed the hardest I had all evening; at one point, I turned around, and seeing our tablemates doing our crazy snake dance b<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">ehind me </span>made me laugh even harder.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When the evening ended, when guests were handed wands of streamers and <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">bells</span> and lining up to cheer on the newlyweds, Susan and I saw two fellow Table 7-ers. We joked about one day running into each other in a restaurant or anywhere else, and how we'd all just say "Table 7!" and start dancing.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Susan said, "Or if you're ever feeling down, just say out loud, 'Table 7.' You never know who might be around."</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"Table 7," said Landon, one of Katy's stepbrothers, "is a state of mind."</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">What more can I add to that? Except that when you sit at a table of renegades, you just gotta be open to laughter and to mirth. Because only then can you feel it -- that subtle sprinkling of magic<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">;</span> that fairy dust <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">which</span> brings us together, and which keeps us whole.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<br />leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-9522875807080687622015-08-09T18:11:00.000-05:002015-08-09T18:13:21.565-05:00Hiking heaven<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0yfxaiHKah8/VcfGuG_fxyI/AAAAAAAAAcc/igHj9pmaIc8/s1600/Non-destination%2Bhike%2BAug%2B4%2B2015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0yfxaiHKah8/VcfGuG_fxyI/AAAAAAAAAcc/igHj9pmaIc8/s400/Non-destination%2Bhike%2BAug%2B4%2B2015.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We
took the hike because that's what you do when you're in Colorado.
It's what we do, anyway, because the mountains call out to us. And if
we don't answer, if we get too caught up in just ogling their snow-capped loveliness, our
allotted time here passes and we're left grasping for them with a
sense of desperation, the what-ifs settling over our psyches like
impending afternoon storms. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In
their bountiful altruism, the mountains extend a magic looking glass in
front of our faces, giving us a chance to flash forward a week, a
month, six months. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Will just being caught up in their beauty have been enough? Will
we be kicking ourselves for not venturing out on these trails,
interwoven like a basket, each its own entity, yet together leading us back to the trail head, to our car, to <a href="http://ymcarockies.org/" target="_blank"><b>this cabin</b></a> we call
home for never long enough? </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm
never quite as brave up here as I'd like to be, or as I am when contemplating
what I will do when I get here, or when I look back thinking about what I probably
could have accomplished. This truism manifests itself on this hike with my son Charlie when, on a perfect
Tuesday in July, we come to a part of the trail that has been
washed away by floods two years ago. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On the other side of nature's ravine, the trail picks up, but reaching the other side would require more agility and less anxiety than I have at this moment. So despite him telling me, "You can do this, Mom!" I not surprisingly take a deep breath and tell him I think
I'd better go back.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A
half, a quarter-mile after our u-turn, I call out an
apology. We're walking single file; the trail is narrow, and if someone approaches, either they or we step to the side to let the other pass. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For what? Charlie asks. For not
believing in myself like you believed in me, I think. But instead I
say, “For being such a wimp back there.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He
seems to not even remember.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> We trudge on, backtracking down paths so rocky we can't look at the scenery lest we stumble; through the aspen groves; across a
meadow; up a pine-strewn trail. He's a forgiving sort and, like his
mother, more willing to forgive others than himself; more likely to
feel disappointment in himself than in someone else.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ItORIdBAL9I/VcfRwzQqtQI/AAAAAAAAAdE/ssWuQl83mfc/s1600/Non-destination%2Bhike%2BC%2B%2526%2Bme%2BAug%2B4%252C%2B2015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ItORIdBAL9I/VcfRwzQqtQI/AAAAAAAAAdE/ssWuQl83mfc/s320/Non-destination%2Bhike%2BC%2B%2526%2Bme%2BAug%2B4%252C%2B2015.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">With equal degrees of comfort, we're silent and we talk -- about school, about religion, about nothing at all. We contemplate lunch, re-savor last night's dinner, remember random answers from the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/?ie=UTF8&keywords=game+of+things&tag=mh0b-20&index=aps&hvadid=2014128299&hvqmt=e&hvbmt=be&hvdev=c&ref=pd_sl_58ouey9clc_e" target="_blank"><b>silly question game</b></a> our whole family has played (and guffawed over) for two nights now. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He and I have always felt an ease with each other. Here in the mountains, our comfort level is especially high -- him in front of me, moving more slowly than he'd like (and I'm not a pokey hiker, really!). When I call out to him or when he senses the footsteps between us lengthening, he pauses to let me catch up and to catch my breath. When stepping seems especially precarious, he turns around and extends his hand, which I reach for like a quicksand victim.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">By the time we reach the car, which is parked by a picnic table next to a stream, we've gone 5.8 miles. "Come on," he says, taking the words from me. We walk two-tenths of a mile more. "An even six," he says. And even more triumphantly, "This wasn't a destination hike, but it sure was a good one."</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vHuFL2VXwEw/VcfI-2ojgDI/AAAAAAAAAcs/nRHK52dCiYk/s1600/Non-destination%2Bhike%2Bsandwich%2BAug%2B4%2B2015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vHuFL2VXwEw/VcfI-2ojgDI/AAAAAAAAAcs/nRHK52dCiYk/s400/Non-destination%2Bhike%2Bsandwich%2BAug%2B4%2B2015.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We sit at the table and eat our sandwiches which, like all hiking sandwiches, started out thick and savory and are now panini-smashed. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">They're also sigh-worthy delicious. We take a few pictures, then head back to the cabin. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In a few days, Charlie and his friend will drop me off at the airport, then drive the rest of the way home. I'll wake up the next morning in my own bed and resume the running for which I've swapped out for mountain exercise the last five days. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It will be hot, so I'll wear shorts and a tank top and I'll carry water. I'll sweat and feel my heart beating, and if I gasp for air, it will because the atmosphere is sultry and not because it's too thin. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'll run five miles or six or seven; maybe 9 or 10 on Sunday. When I'm home, it's what I do. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But if I happen to glance into a mirror; if I catch my reflection in a car's windshield or in a storefront window -- for a few days at least; a week if I'm lucky -- I'll see behind me a range of mountains, a rocky path, and a kid who's not a kid any more reaching for my hand when I stumble. And I'll find myself thinking about next summer, breathing in courage for all I'm really and truly going to do when we're once more in the mountains. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-66509986400151929112014-12-31T21:47:00.001-06:002015-01-01T10:36:43.746-06:00Tennessee Waltzing<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-86b0G5yqyuM/VKS09rTS9LI/AAAAAAAAAaQ/GcUXRFXqEkk/s1600/Mom%2B%26%2BButch%2BThanksgiving%2B2014%2B(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-86b0G5yqyuM/VKS09rTS9LI/AAAAAAAAAaQ/GcUXRFXqEkk/s1600/Mom%2B%26%2BButch%2BThanksgiving%2B2014%2B(2).jpg" height="396" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom and my brother Allan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When I was growing up, we were lucky enough to have a cafeteria -- Radford's Cafeteria, to be precise -- around the corner. All these years later, I can still close my eyes and conjure up how it smelled. The aromas were mostly tangible: Fried chicken (which my dad wouldn't eat so we rarely had at home); plump macaroni swimming in cheese sauce the way nature intended (unlike our family fare of skinny noodles bathed in Kraft neon orange); liver and onions (which only our dear mother dared imbibe); desserts of every texture and weight.<br />
<br />
The permeating smell was more than food; it also brought in plastic flowers and -- pancake makeup maybe? That's neither good nor bad; just a statement of fact.<br />
<br />
But what I'm remembering now is the organ, and its steady stream of music serenading diners. At the helm was one <a href="http://sidedish.dmagazine.com/2012/07/03/blast-from-the-past-miss-inez-at-lubys-cafeteria/" target="_blank"><b>Miss Inez</b></a>, who, admittedly, we kids used to try to stump by asking her to play such decidedly un-cafeteria selections as <a href="https://video.search.yahoo.com/video/play;_ylt=A0LEV718saRUoTwAQ0oPxQt.;_ylu=X3oDMTBsa3ZzMnBvBHNlYwNzYwRjb2xvA2JmMQR2dGlkAw--?p=theme+from+shaft&tnr=21&vid=4CAAEA70BB1C96EBC8E64CAAEA70BB1C96EBC8E6&l=171&turl=http%3A%2F%2Fts2.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DUN.608014047783879945%26pid%3D15.1&rurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.dailymotion.com%2Fvideo%2Fxoh05_isaac-hayes-theme-from-shaft_music&sigr=1299lol36&tt=b&tit=Isaac+Hayes+-+Theme+From+Shaft&sigt=10u3j9b7m&back=https%3A%2F%2Fsearch.yahoo.com%2Fyhs%2Fsearch%3Fp%3Dtheme%2Bfrom%2Bshaft%26ei%3DUTF-8%26hsimp%3Dyhs-001%26hspart%3Dmozilla&sigb=12sv0fid8&hspart=mozilla&hsimp=yhs-001" target="_blank"><i><b>Theme From Shaft</b></i></a>.<br />
<br />
One song she played without fail was <a href="https://video.search.yahoo.com/video/play;_ylt=A0LEVibbsKRUiREAT_APxQt.;_ylu=X3oDMTBsa3ZzMnBvBHNlYwNzYwRjb2xvA2JmMQR2dGlkAw--?p=tennessee+waltz&tnr=21&vid=8E9B9137243E836FC7A98E9B9137243E836FC7A9&l=140&turl=http%3A%2F%2Fts1.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DUN.608033194745333196%26pid%3D15.1&rurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D_Ek3eCbfqp0&sigr=11behpl0g&tt=b&tit=The+Tennessee+Waltz+-+singer+Patti+Page+1950&sigt=11cipn3hu&back=https%3A%2F%2Fsearch.yahoo.com%2Fyhs%2Fsearch%3Fp%3Dtennessee%2Bwaltz%26ei%3DUTF-8%26hsimp%3Dyhs-001%26hspart%3Dmozilla&sigb=12rf6ntdm&hspart=mozilla&hsimp=yhs-001" target="_blank"><i><b>Tennessee Waltz.</b></i></a> The moment my father stepped through those doors, it was as if she'd been looking for him all evening. He'd hear the first notes, look surprised, throw her a smile, lift his palms upward, give her one of those facial expressions of his, and lock eyes with her in gratitude. Daddy loved that song; more often than not, he'd sing it, if not then and there to himself, on the walk home to us, then three-finger its melody on our piano at home.<br />
<br />
Flash forward -- oh, decades. Last Saturday, to be precise, the day my brother Allan turned 60. The original plan was for us all to go to<a href="http://elfenix.com/" target="_blank"><b> El Fenix</b></a>, Allan's (and Dad's) favorite place on the planet. But my niece Claire had the flu, so my sister Jeanne couldn't go. My sister Susan and her crew were going out to dinner with their daughter Julie and her new husband. I wasn't feeling all that great, but Charlie and I were going to go with Allan and Mom.<br />
<br />
Then Mom called to say that Allan had had Mexican food for lunch, as he always does on Saturdays after he gets off work. So she said she and he were going to go to <a href="http://highlandparkcafeteria.com/" target="_blank"><b>Highland Park Cafeteria.</b></a> I talked to Allan, and he said we can all go to El Fenix in a week or so.<br />
<br />
The next day, Mom called to tell me about their evening. She asked me to guess what she had to eat; I guessed (correctly) liver and onions. She raved about the vegetables and the portraits of the U.S. Presidents lining the wall. <br />
<br />
Then she told me about the music.<br />
<br />
"Oh, honey!" she said, her enthusiasm even greater than it was about the food and portraits. "There was a lady playing the piano; you should have heard her."<br />
<br />
She paused. <b><br /></b><br />
<br />
"Oh," she said, "you'll never guess what the first song she played was?!<b>"</b><br />
<br />
We haven't talked about Radford's Cafeteria or Miss Inez in years and years and years. But maybe because it's the holiday season and I miss my dad as much as I feel his presence, I didn't need a hint or a nanosecond or even three guesses to know exactly what the organist played.<br />
<br />
"<i>Tennessee Waltz</i>," I said.<br />
<br />
Which, no surprise to me -- nor to Mom either, when she thought about it for a second -- was exactly right. leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-86680741046539346572014-11-30T19:47:00.001-06:002014-11-30T19:47:07.047-06:00Reveling in the rhythm<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WdjkeqbmNXo/VHvHxMY4i6I/AAAAAAAAAaA/A88kZV9nmH0/s1600/turkey%2Btrot%2B2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WdjkeqbmNXo/VHvHxMY4i6I/AAAAAAAAAaA/A88kZV9nmH0/s1600/turkey%2Btrot%2B2014.jpg" height="330" width="400" /></a></span></span></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The day before Charlie and I were scheduled to run the <a href="http://www.thetrot.org/" target="_blank"><b>Turkey Trot</b></a>, he volunteered to be a guinea pig -- excuse me, research subject -- at <a href="http://www.ieemphd.org/" target="_blank"><b>IEEM</b></a>, the exercise-research facility where he worked this past summer. This particular study involved locating a nerve in Charlie's calf (which apparently was as eek-inducing as it sounds) that connects to the part of his brain which regulates blood pressure during exercise. After it was found, tests were done to determine the brain/nerve connection. Or so I think; I'm too embarrassed to ask Charlie to explain it to me again.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Five hours after the test began, I went to pick Charlie up so we could pick up our race packets at <a href="http://www.lukeslocker.com/" target="_blank"><b>Luke's Locker</b></a>. As the researchers were removing the various leads, Charlie asked about exercising. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Oh, after 24 hours, you should be fine," he was told. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Charlie and I looked at each other. Then Charlie asked about running eight miles -- a distance he neglected to mention he had never run before -- 17 hours later. It was the researchers' turn to look at each other. After a brief silence, he was given a reluctant OK, with the stipulation that if, at the 3.1-mile/8-mile split, we'd head for the shorter finish line if he wasn't feeling well.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thanksgiving morning dawned glorious and cold. We ate oatmeal and a banana, layered up and headed out. We took our places in the corral for timed runners, and when the gun went off, so did we. We'd decided to stay together till the split, then go at our own pace. Those first couple of miles, we did well keeping tabs on each other, somehow sensing each other's proximity despite the thousands of runners sharing the streets with us. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To ensure we wouldn't lose each other, we'd stopped by <a href="http://www.sportsauthority.com/home/index.jsp" target="_blank"><b>Sports Authority</b></a> the day before and bought walkie-talkies, the whole idea of which amused us mightily. Aside from the entertainment factor, we figured they'd come in handy if we did get separated (as we did at <a href="http://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2013/12/i-have-to-write-this-now.html" target="_blank"><b>last year's Trot </b></a>and this year's <a href="http://mychiptime.com/searchevent.php?id=8459#" target="_blank"><b>Race for the Cure</b></a>), and thus curtail post-race wanderings looking for each other.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When we saw the arrow pointing one way for the 5K and another for the 8 miles, I could sense Charlie right behind me, and also that he was up for eight. So we kept on, maintaining a steady pace as we got into the rhythm of the run and of each other. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In previous Turkey Trot races, port-a-potties were -- if not everywhere, at least every so often, and more than one at each location. This year, though, though, there were hardly any. So when I spotted one around Mile 4 or so, I told Charlie to go on; that I needed to stop. He started to continue, then asked if I wanted him to wait for me. Sure, I told him, if you don't mind.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My hands were obviously more frozen than I realized, because by the time we started running again, we'd lost a few minutes. I could tell that was fine with Charlie, because he seemed to be lagging just a bit.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Are you OK?" I asked.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Hanging in there," he said. "I'm fine."</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We passed Mile 5, Mile 6, Mile 7, running up some hills and down others (while I tried to remember who had told me this year's course was flat). When we could see the skyline, I picked up the pace. As we got closer, I yelled, "Just two minutes!" When the finish line was just a few breaths away, Charlie dashed ahead and crossed just before I did. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I couldn't stop smiling; neither of us could. We accepted our plastic-wrapped medals -- the first I've ever received in a Turkey Trot! -- and put them around our necks. We hugged each other and headed for the banana and power-bar tables. We saw our dear friend Yolanda, plus recognized a couple more runners. We had our picture taken, then headed home and to Thanksgiving dinner at my sister Jeanne's.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We had a wonderful time that morning, as we have in each of the races we've participated in. Some we've only started together; this was one of the precious duo <a href="http://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2013/10/crossing-finish-line.html" target="_blank"><b>we finished together</b></a>, too. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Charlie turned 21 the end of October. In two months, he leaves for a semester in Austria. He won't be home till July, and we've made a bit of a pact to limit communication to the occasional email, plus (isn't it funny how old-fashioned this sounds?) letters or post cards.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">All of which makes this race -- these miles together; the meals, the hugs, the talks and the silliness we share -- all the more precious.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I think back on this Thanksgiving, on his first 8-miler that I'm tickled beyond words to have experienced with him, I will, of course, remember exalting in the finish. Even more though, I will feel incredibly lucky, undeniably blessed, to sense each other's presence -- whether looking over a shoulder or scanning the crowd ahead -- every step of the way.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Oh, and the walkie-talkies? We didn't need them. Which, truth to tell, doesn't surprise me. Not even a little bit. </span></span><br />
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leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-17655856650120439192014-11-02T15:57:00.000-06:002014-11-02T15:57:14.115-06:00Embracing time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TSJ1O76TUyE/VFanIrey73I/AAAAAAAAAZw/DCfSEKeqqE4/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TSJ1O76TUyE/VFanIrey73I/AAAAAAAAAZw/DCfSEKeqqE4/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
My mother likes to be awakened by the sun streaming through her window. Not me; I prefer my morning runs to be finished long before I even think about squinting. But this morning, that changed -- for me at least -- with the backward turn of our clocks.<br />
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From this Sunday through spring, unless I start running at 5 a.m. (which is doubtful, though I like the idea of it) I'm going to need to carry sunglasses along with water, raisins and an old driver's license for ID.<br />
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It's an annual event, this borrowing an hour of sunlight from dusk and presenting to dawn -- with a bit of a flourish -- these precious 3,600 seconds. The deeper we go into the cave of year's approaching end, though, the less light the days offer anyway. But for now, the morning gift is fresh and new; the evening dearth of light, a bit perplexing. We have to remind ourselves why the sky is dark when we leave work, and to psyche ourselves up to face it head on.<br />
<br />
We can think of this tossed-around hour as an extra one, which <a href="http://www.npr.org/" target="_blank"><b>NPR</b></a>'s Scott Simon (who keeps me company on my Saturday morning runs) said in <a href="https://www.blogger.com/goog_633730375" target="_blank"><b>this essay.</b></a><a href="http://./"></a> An hour in which, he told us, we can at least dream of reading "a book we made the time to buy, but have never been able to find the time to read..."<br />
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Or this which made me take a quick and deep breath: "to have another hour to talk with our parents again, or pat a family pet we loved."<br />
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Time, and this isn't exactly profound, is weird. It's iffy and fickle and makes no guarantees. It seems at times limitless; at others, way too finite. Yet those are among the reasons we cling to it, and bargain with it; battle it and coddle it. Say what we will about it, we want to very much for it to be our friend. Because of everything that time is, above all it is precious.<br />
<br />
So on this, the first official day without Daylight Saving Time, what can we do but honor, not just the hour that most of us probably slept through, but minutes and moments that make up our lives. Of course we'll fall short. Huge chunks will pass in a heartbeat; minutes will drag by.<br />
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And then forgiving resilient souls that we are (or try desperately to be), we'll stand up straight and dust ourselves off. We'll put on our sunglasses and, vowing to be ever aware and ever appreciative, we'll open the curtains to let the morning light stream in.leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-9174452329687145922014-10-12T19:32:00.000-05:002014-10-12T19:32:04.085-05:00Folding in kindness<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ve-_qdHgqSo/VDsX_tji90I/AAAAAAAAAZY/TmK4X8S2rZ0/s1600/folded%2Bclothes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ve-_qdHgqSo/VDsX_tji90I/AAAAAAAAAZY/TmK4X8S2rZ0/s1600/folded%2Bclothes.JPG" height="400" width="380" /></a></span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">When it comes to laundry, I don't mind Step No. 1: Throw it all into the washer. After that, what little element of fun that might be construed from the process (and believe me, "fun" is a stretch of an adjective) disappears pretty quickly.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My mother, however, doesn't mind any part of doing laundry. In fact, she rather likes it. Yes, even the folding and putting away portion -- which I enjoy about as much as I relish unloading the dishwasher. In other words, not at all. If Mom used her dishwasher (<i>Oh, honey, I just prefer washing by hand, and I really don't use enough dishes to fill it up</i>) I feel certain she wouldn't mind unloading that either.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">A few days ago, Mom carried her laundry basket with from-the-hamper clothes to the lone washer-dryer in her small apartment complex. When she got there, both machines were stuffed with anonymous shirts, towels, undies and jeans belonging to one of her neighbors. Without a second thought, Mom removed the clothes from the dryer, folding them on top of the washer. Then she transferred the clothes in the washer to the dryer, and started her own load.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">She walked back to her apartment and, because it was dark by then, didn't return to the laundry room till the next morning. When she did, she saw this blue Post-It.</span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UOonDiammd8/VDsYgL_7ZiI/AAAAAAAAAZg/LAcQaKrhcVc/s1600/Mom%27s%2Blaundry%2Bnote.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UOonDiammd8/VDsYgL_7ZiI/AAAAAAAAAZg/LAcQaKrhcVc/s1600/Mom's%2Blaundry%2Bnote.JPG" height="320" width="309" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">If you can't read the handwriting in my professional-quality photo, this is what it says:</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>Whoever folded my laundry, God bless you! I'm having such a hard time with a lot of things and you made me feel 1,000 percent better. Thank you! </b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">There are, of course, lessons to be gleaned from this --- lessons about kindness, about caring; lessons about looking out for a stranger, about expressing gratitude. Beautiful lessons that remind us being nice is really so easy, doesn't take much time at all, and can change a moment or a day or an outlook.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">But basically, I think, what sums it up is this: a reminder that, no matter how dark the forest or endless the tunnel or deep the ocean of sorrow, someone really does care. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Maybe it's someone you know. Or maybe it's the soon-to-be-84-year-old in Apartment A, the one who didn't even consider piling your clothes on top of the dryer; instead, automatically and painstakingly folding them, one by one by one because -- well, they were there. And because someone -- in this case, you -- could probably use a little help.</span></span><br />
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<br />leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-31580151643894044222014-08-04T20:38:00.004-05:002014-08-04T20:51:23.490-05:00Finding Dad in the sky, and the world stops spinning <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-goKBelND29s/UdhWP2ZPLdI/AAAAAAAAASg/H55RkfekPWI/s1600/Twin+Owls+Panorama.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-goKBelND29s/UdhWP2ZPLdI/AAAAAAAAASg/H55RkfekPWI/s1600/Twin+Owls+Panorama.JPG" height="219" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our dad's here. We just need to know where to look </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Not all that long ago, my sister Susan told me she sees our dad in the sky. I knew exactly what she meant. The moment he died, that's <a href="http://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2012/07/searching-in-sun.html" target="_blank"><b>where I looked to know he was gone. </b></a></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And during these 750 days or since, I seek him out above this earth, too -- nestled inside and between the stripes and plaids and polka dots of clouds; in the brightest star and in the one I have to look slightly away from to see. I track him down in the variegated gray of an almost-solid sky, in the blue of a clear one, in the orange of a sunrise and its blood-red twin at the end of the day.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My dad loved the sky -- its moon, its constellations; how lightning shattered its stillness. He was enamored of fluffy white clouds; mesmerized by the more portentous ones that signaled the approach of storms and (if his wish was granted) tornado warnings. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"The weather," he'd tell us when he knew we were scared, "is always changing."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It was, I think, his way of telling us that the world keeps moving, too, Last July 23, the realization he had been </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2013/07/circling-back-dancing-however-clumsily.html" target="_blank"><b>gone for a year</b></a> </span> </span><span style="font-size: small;"> jostled us into the acute reality that time really does pass. Now, 365 days later, the calendar pages have turned again, fluttering past round two of birthdays and holidays; past countless clouds and a dozen full moons.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">One spring morning, while running under a clear sky the color of my dad's eyes, a pale white streak I hadn't seen five minutes earlier appeared over my head. </span>Maybe it was a cloud, or maybe the visible swoosh from a plane I hadn't seen flying overhead. It didn’t mar the
clearness of the
sky; not at all. Instead, I looked at it as a divider sorts, mysterious and
mesmerizing,
separating the earth under my feet and the ethereal mystery too high above me to grasp. Well into another season, I still take comfort in that, though really can't quite say why.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Even so, when I think about my dad dying (the reality of which, quite honestly, can still astound me and break my heart all over again), I often feel as if I'm on a swivel chair. Spun one way, Daddy's here. Whirled the other; he's gone. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Sometimes I give it a spin, and when it stops, I feel slightly dizzy and have to put my feet on the ground to steady myself. And
while I may not be sure where I am, I know enough to look to the sky. Because there -- between the clouds, behind a star, directly into the sun -- is where I can always find my dad.</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UgrXKoaY3dQ/U8r6lsCozxI/AAAAAAAAAZI/EsWjiNIxVyI/s1600/siblings+&+Mom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UgrXKoaY3dQ/U8r6lsCozxI/AAAAAAAAAZI/EsWjiNIxVyI/s1600/siblings+&+Mom.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And now we are six...but truly, we'll always be seven.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-28337101518634854312014-05-04T20:19:00.001-05:002014-05-23T12:27:22.723-05:00Teaming up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8LPxufA7YQQ/U2bRJflJu8I/AAAAAAAAAXw/dIIJBzG1M9k/s1600/Relay+1+%25284-26-14%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8LPxufA7YQQ/U2bRJflJu8I/AAAAAAAAAXw/dIIJBzG1M9k/s1600/Relay+1+%25284-26-14%2529.jpg" height="253" width="320" /></a></div>
If you're going to go to <a href="http://hendrixwarriors.com/index.aspx?path=mtrack&tab=trackfield" target="_blank"><b>a track meet</b></a>, let me suggest you pick a sunny day in April. When you get there, the air will still have enough of an edge so you can carry and sip from a cardboard cup of coffee, knowing that within a half-hour you'll pour it onto the grass, craving something colder.<br />
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You probably don't need to know anyone competing because the spirit of the day will engulf you as soon as you walk toward the stadium. You'll hear blurred excited voices, and flurries of footsteps. The P.A. system blares <i>YMCA</i>, with periodic interruptions from a voice announcing the first call for the girls 800; the last call for the high jump; the start of the hurdles, the triple jump, the pole vault.<br />
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You'll be alternately amused and awed by the bodily twists and turns, the exaggerated jumping jacks, the high steps and kicks that make up various athletes' warm-up routines. <br />
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If you hardly even know their names, that doesn't matter all that much. But if you are lucky enough to know (or quite probably love) a competitor, and perhaps even have surprised him by showing up, that makes the colors of the uniforms that much brighter, the vividness of the sun even more blindingly beautiful, the entire experience even more memory-making profound.<br />
<br />
He seems to sense this too -- this added bonus of faces from home cheering him on -- because he seems to scan the crowd when he
jumps extra far, or when he fouls, or when his hand releases the
baton into the outstretched hand of his teammate. You're pretty sure he
doesn't notice you're wearing the blue and silver earrings he gave you,
the pair you lost and almost cried upon finding a month or so later. You don't care. You're wearing them for luck, for support, for that connection that really can't be measured in mementos or things.<br />
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The coach walks by, glances his way.<br />
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"Go Charlie!" he calls, clapping his hands twice above his head. "Another big day!"<br />
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The event begins. You hold tightly onto the chain-link fence separating the observers from the athletes. You're mesmerized as you watch your competitor swing his arms before his favorite event, the triple jump, feel the breath in his lungs as he pauses, as he inhales composure and channels confidence. <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8Wf-B27mUwE/U2bC2SJhluI/AAAAAAAAAXc/BZ-2eeYqhIs/s1600/Triple+B+(+4-26-14).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8Wf-B27mUwE/U2bC2SJhluI/AAAAAAAAAXc/BZ-2eeYqhIs/s1600/Triple+B+(+4-26-14).jpg" height="640" width="373" /></a></div>
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You find yourself taking a synchronous deep breath as he sprints toward the jumping line. When he lands in the sand pit and starts clapping because he knows he's done well, you realize you've yet to exhale.<br />
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With each movement, each event, you catch yourself marveling at his prowess, staring at his muscles in action. You make yourself look away; he'd be mortified if he knew. You walk to the car, pull out an umbrella because the sun is unrelenting and the stadium seats shadeless. When the announcer calls for the girls in the 4X100 relay to come onto the field, you put down the umbrella and walk down the metal steps.<br />
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You love relays. You could watch a dozen in a row for two weeks straight and never lose that sense of jaw-dropping awe at the timing, as one hand reaches forward and the other back. More quickly than a finger-snap, than the blink of an eye, that exchange has to be perfect.<br />
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As the girls round the corner near where you stand, you get an unexpected catch in your throat. You don't even know these runners, but the precision takes your breath away. The boy -- the young man, your son -- you have come to watch has told you where to stand so you can watch him hand off to the anchor the baton he's received 100 meters earlier.<br />
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You see him coming. Good heavens, did you realize he was so fast? You're screaming out his name now, jumping up and down as the nanoseconds unfold and he gets closer to his teammate whose arm is outstretched and waiting.<br />
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You feel the earth move but stand still at the same time.<br />
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You see the cluster of runners, strain to watch the exchange. The anchor reaches back, trusting trusting trusting as he starts moving forward, hardly looking behind.<br />
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The dark-haired runner you can't take your eyes off stretches his right arm out.<br />
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The baton connects his hand with that of his teammate, who then grasps it tight and runs toward the finish line.<br />
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You stand on tiptoes, stretching to see what's happening down there. The colors and uniforms are a blur, but then you see someone familiar jump high into the air, hear that yell that could come only from him.<br />
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Third place -- just two-tenths of a second slower than the second place winners; three-fourths of a second slower than the winner. That means the team earned a place on the podium. Later, you learn they broke a school record, and are the first 4X100 relay quartet to stand there.<br />
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You're more tired than you thought you'd be -- as if you were the one warming up, the one jumping, the one focusing first on the baton and then on the finish line. It's field day at summer camp all over again, and you feel sunburned, satisfied, and starving.<br />
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You'd love to rehash the day, the events, the meters and the seconds with the kid you came to see. But you also know that right now, nothing is more important to him than being with those with whom he spent not only today, but the countless hours of practice and camaraderie that brought them here.<br />
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So when he says, "Do you mind if I have dinner with the team?" you answer him no, of course you don't.<br />
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And truth to tell, you don't merely mean it. You mean it with all your heart.<br />
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<br />leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-366383766222078092013-12-07T17:35:00.000-06:002013-12-08T18:32:47.104-06:00Inhaling the sweet scent of a perfect Thanksgiving weekend<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have to write this now. I have to write before the scent of the last few days fades away, and I find myself sniffing the air, or my sleeve, or my pillow, hoping for an olfactory remnant I might have overlooked, one that will bring Thanksgiving weekend back all over again.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You know how some days are filled with moments you want to tie together with twine and put into a drawer with your favorite t-shirts and softest socks? They don't come around all that often, and truth to tell, what makes them special isn't anything you'd find in a movie or a book, or something anyone other than you would care to watch or to read.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">They tend to occur quickly as a finger snap; occasionally lingering as long as a few castanet clicks, maybe once in awhile even stretching to the length of the last lyric of a favorite song. You know that very second they're happening, and you smile, and you feel like honey was poured into your very soul. You vow you'll remember and then, by the time you get home or the sun drops below the horizon, you've forgotten.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">But I determined when the first bit of goodness tickled my nose that I would remember. It must have been Thanksgiving morning, as my son Charlie and I jogged together from our perfect parking place to the starting line of the Turkey Trot -- which, this year, was blissfully next to a corral for the timed runners. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I remember how happy Charlie and I were watching my nephew/his cousin Paul cross the 8-mile finish line, and walking to our car with him, his sister Julie and her boyfriend Tyler. I freeze-frame moments at dinner, as well as the game we played and how much we laughed.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Saturday morning, my run merited a gold star -- which I knew before I'd even reached the corner because it felt so good. I didn't even realize till I checked my watch 6.2 miles later that I'd never run that distance so fast. But what keeps touching my memory is gazing at the blue, blue sky and being almost-stop awestruck by the storybook V-formation of geese -- whose honking as they headed south jostled me from my running trance.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Just now, a day or so later, I find myself taking a deep breath, wanting to recount on the exhale even more moments from a weekend that Charlie and I each marveled at during those days -- more than a few times, and completely out of context.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Instead, I'll tug at a roll of twine, snipping off one piece, two pieces, a dozen. I'll wrap each one around a moment, a smell, a piece of sky, a drop of honey. I'll scoop the pile into my arms, shifting a little; freeing my fingers enough to open a drawer. As I lift my wrists, the little bouquets will fall inside. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I'll close the drawer and, just for a second, my eyes. I'll inhale deeply, holding onto my breath, onto the scent. Then I'll open my eyes as I empty my lungs, fill my soul, and allow myself to linger. Just -- but really never quite -- long enough.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-42074551651619200702013-10-27T13:59:00.003-05:002013-10-27T22:13:08.375-05:00Komen and going<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There are many reasons to run <a href="http://www.komen-dallas.org/events/komen-dallas-race-for-the-cure/" target="_blank"><b>Komen Dallas Race for the Cure</b></a>. Some are obvious and huge; namely, the ever-growing number of women with breast cancer</span></span>. The race, with its 20,000 runners and walkers, plus who-knows-how-many police officers, volunteers and spectators, raises awareness and money to fight this awful disease.<br />
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The numbers make you shake your head with disbelief and horror. The Komen represents that staggering, hard-to-wrap-your-head-around number of people whose lives have been touched, whose stomachs punched, whose psyches left reeling, by this disease.<br />
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But it also reminds us that each number is a person -- someone honored or memorialized by pink rectangles on the backs of runners and walkers, or t-shirts emblazoned with photos of loved ones who fought the good fight, but who ultimately succumbed.<br />
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As my son Charlie and I fast-walked to the Race for the Cure starting line on October 19, we drew near a man wearing a yellow long-sleeved t-shirt. On the back were words that said something like "Here in memory of my wife," and the likeness of a smiling and beautiful woman. A few feet ahead was a young man with a similar shirt and the words "Here in memory of my mom."<br />
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I looked over at the husband and told him how sorry I was for his loss, and that he was doing such a good thing by being here. Clumsy, yes, but I wanted to say something to acknowledge the sorrow that must be so all-pervasive.<br />
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Charlie and I got closer to the starting line, and he tugged on my arm to stop walking so we could sing the national anthem. The gun sounded; Charlie and I started off together, and he quickly took off. For the first five minutes or so, I could see him up ahead, his fluorescent half-zip jacket and matching ear band weaving through the spreading-out crowd. I lost him in the dapple of leaves, and focused more on my own breathing and pace.<br />
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When I crossed the finish line, I looked around for Charlie and was surprised to see him almost immediately. He was talking to a young man who somehow looked familiar (but who, as it turned out, Charlie had never met until 10 minutes earlier).<br />
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I introduced myself. He had a beautiful smile as he motioned to Charlie and said, "Man, he kept me going."<br />
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Charlie said, "We kept each other going."<br />
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He explained that during the third mile, he felt himself slowing down a bit. Then he saw someone in his right-side periphery who a moment earlier had been on his left. The person -- who turned out to be this young man -- said, "C'mon. You can do it."<br />
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They stayed pretty much together. At one point, the young man said he felt like he was going to throw up. Charlie said, "No, you've got this. C'mon."<br />
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They crossed the finish line together and started talking. That's when I came up. I asked what had brought him here. Turns out I should have asked "who." He turned around to show me the pink rectangle on which he'd written "Running for Granny Moss" in black felt-tip pen.<br />
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"My grandmother's a two-year survivor," he said.<br />
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"That's great," I said. "How's she doing now?"<br />
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"Good," he said, "but I lost my granddad."<br />
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I said I was sorry and asked when. Last summer, he told me, and I told him that my dad and Charlie's grandfather had died in 2012. He expressed his condolences.<br />
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"What did your grandmother say about you running today?" I asked.<br />
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"She doesn't know," he said. "I just decided to do this. I'd never run a race before. I'm going to go see her and bring her a bunch of stuff."<br />
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He turned again to Charlie. "Man, you are ripped," he said. "I bet you don't smoke or dip or do drugs or drink carbonated drinks, do you?"<br />
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"No," Charlie said, equally amused, embarrassed and flattered. "I haven't had a soda in four years. You look like you work out, too."<br />
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"Oh, I do construction," he said. "This was really rough though."<br />
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He told us he hadn't eaten before the race. I said he really should eat a couple of bananas or something. I also noticed the cotton race shirt he was wearing. Cotton -- as any resident fitness nag, former running-store employee or frequent runner will tell you -- absorbs moisture, which can be mighty uncomfortable. Therefore she'll tell you (as I told him), the fabric isn't the best for working out.<br />
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"Oh thanks," he said. "I didn't know that."<br />
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As we talked and our heart rates slowed down, the northerly breeze became obvious again. I was getting chilly and then noticed the cotton t-shirt our new friend was wearing seemed stuck to his body. He was starting to shiver.<br />
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Charlie and I had carried our own race shirts as we ran, mistakenly taking them with us to the registration table, where we picked up timing chips. When I saw how cold our new friend looked, I handed him shirt.<br />
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"Here," I said. "You need it more than I do."<br />
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He was pretty muscular, and said he might bust right out of it.<br />
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"Take mine," said Charlie. "It's bigger."<br />
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"Wow, man," he said, pulling his own sweaty shirt over his head and putting on Charlie's dry one. "Thank you."<br />
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I told him how much we enjoyed meeting him. We reached out our hands to shake, but instead hugged each other. Charlie held out his hand, and Monty (oops; I let his name slip) engulfed Charlie (who's a hugger anyway) in a big bear hug.<br />
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Monty walked away smiling and just looked so darn happy. Charlie and I stood there for a moment; for a second, I thought I was going to cry. I think Charlie was taken aback emotionally, too.<br />
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"That was worth every minute of sleep we missed, all the traffic, the cold -- everything," I said.<br />
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"It was," he said. He slipped his arm through mine and we walked -- <a href="http://healthblog.dallasnews.com/2013/10/at-race-for-the-cure-the-grateful-runner-is-highly-amused-by-how-well-a-friend-understands-her-shenanigans.html/" target="_blank"><b>first to try to find my friend Laura,</b></a> and then back to the car. All that day, which turned out to be really busy, periodically one of us would mention Monty.<br />
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"I wonder, did he just wake up and decide he wanted to do this?" I asked, totally out of context of anything we were doing or talking about. But Charlie knew exactly what I meant, offering his own wondering<b> </b>a few hours later.<br />
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"Do you think he went right to his grandmother's house? I wonder what she said," he asked.<br />
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We'll probably never know; our questions were, in all likelihood, rhetorical. What we do know, though, is that Monty and his grandmother put faces on huge and almost unfathomable numbers of those touched by breast cancer. That complete strangers can find commonality in shared steps and requited support.<br />
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And that this caring person and loving grandson unknowingly gave a mom and her son yet another connection, yet another something sacred and shared.<br />
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<br />leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-29965305023500850232013-10-05T20:03:00.000-05:002013-10-10T21:21:07.029-05:00Crossing the finish line<br />
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My son and I don't often -- as in we never -- run together. <a href="http://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/search?q=marathon" target="_blank"><b>We had great plans to run the half </b></a>portion of the White Rock Marathon (as it was called back then) his senior year of high school. But Charlie did something to his knee while playing volleyball, and while the details elude me, I do recall that not wearing knee pads was a significant factor.<br />
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His physical therapist was pretty specific about the race, saying (or perhaps he shouted) <a href="http://aglassoflemonade.blogspot.com/2011/11/changing-course.html" target="_blank"><b>NO RUNNING.</b></a><br />
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Charlie's knee healed, but then track season started and thus, the two of us running together was out. He graduated; summer came. Any race we would have trained for would have taken place while he was in college.<br />
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Last fall, his freshman year at <a href="http://www.hendrix.edu/" target="_blank"><b>Hendrix College</b></a>, we did run the <a href="http://healthblog.dallasnews.com/tag/hendrix-college-5k/" target="_blank"><b>5K over Parents' Weekend</b></a><b> </b>(a.k.a. the Campus Kitty). It was tremendously fun, but we didn't stay together. One of us had youth, long legs, and inherent ability on his side. We met up after it was over and recounted our respective miles and a good time was had by both.<br />
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When Parents' Weekend rolled around again, we of course signed up for the race again. As part of his shake-your-head-at-all-he-does training, he's been running on the (gasp) treadmill (for which I've forgiven him) -- a pretty steady 3.1 miles at a pace (surprise) faster than mine.<br />
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I assumed that on race day, we'd start out together and, in an echo of last year, he'd be waiting for me at the finish line. But when we began talking about the upcoming weekend, what he said surprised me. <br />
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"Mom," he said. "I have an idea. Let's run together, and when we cross the finish line, we can hold hands and raise our arms like the marathoners do."<br />
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"That's great with me, but are you sure?" I answered, secretly tickled beyond words. "You're so much faster than I am."<br />
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"Of course I'm sure," he said. "It'll be fun."<br />
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And it was. First of all, the race was much better organized than last year. We had NUMBERS! Plus there were water stops and someone on a bike showing runners the route. But mostly, it was great because we were running together.<br />
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At a point or two, Charlie talked while we scurried through campus. "Look," he said, pointing to a building as we crossed some railroad tracks. "That's the language house" (where he'll live his junior year and speak only German). I tried to answer, but could barely get out two words: "Can't...talk..."<br />
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We passed some fellow runners, grabbed cups of water, reveled in the relatively cool weather and in the orange and
rising sun. I'd lent Charlie one of my Garmin Forerunner 10 watches, and
we'd compare paces as we ran and the time each mile took us. <br />
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Way too soon, we saw tables set up and people gathered at what could be nothing but the finish line.<br />
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"Mom!" he said, jostling me out of the zone I tend to get into when I run. He reached for my hand with his own and, as planned, we held them far above our heads.<br />
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Then, because he is his mother's son, when we looked at our watches
and realized the course was a bit short and that we'd only gone 2.9 miles instead of the 3.1 that make up a 5K,
he said, "Let's go!"<br />
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We ran a couple more blocks, walked back and picked up our allotted share of apples and bananas and energy bars.<br />
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We couldn't talk about our race right then because we had to change clothes and go to a meet-the-professors breakfast.<br />
Throughout the rest of the day and the evening, though, we did. We reveled in the beauty of the morning and of the campus and, most truly and especially, what we had accomplished together.<br />
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The rest of the weekend was fun, too. Charlie got a haircut from a white-haired barber who looked him right in the eye while doing a questionable Elvis impersonation. We had great meals. Charlie painted his face and chest school colors -- black and orange -- and cheered at the top of his lungs for the girls' volleyball team.<br />
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I remember all those when I look back on those precious 36 hours. But when I put my shoes on in the morning to run, or when I let thoughts that aren't particularly positive block out my blessings, or most especially when I look at a calendar and all but see the pages blowing movie-like away, I remember those 24:37 minutes on a beautiful fall day in Arkansas. A day my son and I held our hands high above our heads and, together, crossed the finish line. Just like the marathoners do.<br />
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<br />leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-63303416575207938232013-07-23T11:54:00.002-05:002013-07-24T10:11:20.219-05:00Circling back & dancing (however clumsily) forward<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My father died on July 23, 2012. It was a Monday, and for awhile thereafter, we tapped out time's rhythm by that day: One week since Daddy died. Two weeks. Five. Eight. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">As the multiples of seven slipped through our fingers and into the fog surrounding us, we began measuring by a certain day of the month: September 23. December 23. January 23. May 23.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We have watched the calendar pages blow away like they would in an old black-and-white movie, marking off the milestones that make up our lives without him: his birthday and each of ours; every full moon, every season, every holiday (Father's Day was especially hard). </span></span> <br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And now, somehow, it's been a year since Dad died, which could as easily be two days or three weeks or 10 years or 20. I don't want my father to be dead at all, and I certainly don't want him to have been dead for a year. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So what happens the day after a year has passed? When I see a man pull a white handkerchief out of his pocket, will it take me a second more to remember that Daddy used to always carry one? Will I smell chili and not immediately think of the pots of it (and the mess) he'd make while we in Colorado? Do I forget the words to "The Creation of Sam McGee," a major player in his poetry repertoire?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Maybe I just become a veteran, a longstanding member of that club none of us wants to join, the one made up of shell-shocked children whose parents' deaths have made them inextricably adults.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">His death made me feel vulnerable, but also invincible. So to be honest, I think part of me believes that once the calendar page flips over, we'll no longer be under the comforting quilt that wraps around our shoulders and protects us from anything bad. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I can forget to wear sunscreen and I won't get sunburned. I can eat as much peanut butter as I want and not gain weight. Storm clouds may gather while I'm running, but I know they won't release their torrents until I'm home safely. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I lost my father, I alternately whisper or scream from under the cloth; isn't that enough?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">This popped into my head last week, when I was desperate because I didn't know where my son was. Charlie said he was going to Tom Thumb to get a can of tuna, and then (because I wasn't in the mood to cook) pick up dinner at a nearby restaurant. He'd skipped the part telling me that he'd do those things after volleyball, which I'd forgotten that he plays on Thursday nights. I only knew he'd been gone more than an hour, and that the grocery store is five minutes away.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Before he called, I paced the sidewalk, willing the comfort quilt not to slip as I looked up at the stars and thought, "No no no no no. My dad died and that's more than plenty."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My father taught me how to ride a bike and how to drive a car, how to take a refrigerator of seemingly disparate leftovers and turn them into a culinary work of art. He taught me to love coconut, and that crying is OK, and that being tone deaf should not stop anyone from belting out Christmas carols.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">He taught me to be kind, to cherish my brothers and sisters, to pick up dropped items with my toes. (He tried to teach me to dance, and to believe more completely in myself, and that airplane turbulence is nothing to fear, but those continue to be works in progress).</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">He didn't teach me how not to miss him. And as awful as parts of this year have been, as many paper towels and shoulders I've soaked with my tears, I'm realizing -- in miniscule doses -- maybe that isn't knowledge I'd want imparted. I will always miss him. And for that gift, I am eternally grateful.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span>leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-67137151838457807212013-07-07T18:46:00.002-05:002013-07-07T18:46:43.722-05:00Climbing higher <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-goKBelND29s/UdhWP2ZPLdI/AAAAAAAAASc/2JZ9IfuHtGE/s1600/Twin+Owls+Panorama.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-goKBelND29s/UdhWP2ZPLdI/AAAAAAAAASc/2JZ9IfuHtGE/s1600/Twin+Owls+Panorama.JPG" title="" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We</span> <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">are here in Colorado -- my sister Susan and her family, our mom, my son Charlie, his friend Lee, and I. Charlie and Lee have known each other since first grade, when the G and H of their surnames first soldered their bond in an alphabetically seated classroom. The link has been tight at times, and looser at others, but they've kept their friendship solid for 13 years now -- even after Lee began attending a different school in tenth grade, and despite their college choices being 800 miles apart. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Lee was last with us up here -- six? seven? -- summers ago, and another week in July a year or two earlier. Back then, the tops of his and Charlie's heads barely reached my shoulders. The boys lollygagged through hikes, preferring to play on the boulders outside the cabin where my parents always stayed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This summer, we'd no sooner arrived than they were talking about doing a major hike. Less than 36 hours later, we started out on a build-up six-miler called Twin Owls. But at just about the one-mile mark (which meant Charlie and Lee were about twice that far), we heard thunder. So I, the self-designated hike master (</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">admittedly relieved because I could see the boys beginning to clamber up rocks)</span> opted for a scamper down the path we had worked fairly hard to ascend. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">By the time we reached the trail head, of course, the thunder was barely a faraway echo, and the sky crystal clear. But in the interest of time (my niece Julie needed to leave for the airport to pick up her boyfriend), instead of attempting Twin Owls again, we hiked to Gem Lake -- a steep, shorter, and too-familiar hike not far away. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That almost-four mile jaunt was just fine for me. The boys, though, weren't satisfied. The perceived taste of the top whetted their appetites for -- if not the Twin Owls apex -- that of a tougher, longer, steeper, above-the-treeline actuality. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That's simple to understand, really. It's like anything you come close to grasping -- then catch yourself at the cusp of letting yourself think you already have. The love you've waited for all your life, maybe. Or a perfect pesto, or that driest of martinis. If you're a surfer, maybe you can all but feel that wave of serenity under you, the one that holds you aloft while the ocean roils below.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Until -- if ever -- you truly taste on your tongue whatever you are reaching for, until you feel it on your fingertips, until you see it even when you close your eyes, it absorbs you and holds you rapt. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Charlie and Lee decided to sate their craving by climbing a mountain called <a href="http://www.rockymountainhikingtrails.com/flattop-mountain.htm" target="_blank"><b>Flattop</b></a>. I've done that hike with each of my sisters and also with a cousin years ago, and can vouch for its breathtaking vistas, its oxygen-deprived air. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Neither of the boys slept well the night before the hike. Lee told me in the morning that he'd woken up at 2 a.m. and decided he might as well get up and make his peanut-butter sandwiches. (He also packed a baguette and a box of Twinkie knock-offs, but that's another story).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He and Charlie reached the summit -- 4.4 miles from the trail head -- in two hours and 30 minutes. Even before they glanced over their shoulders and saw that last vestige of trees, the boys said they had a hard time moving their legs because the oxygen was so thin. But what they saw -- and you know it must have been astoundingly beautiful for 19-year-olds to say this kind of thing -- made every gasped-for breath worthwhile.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Before beginning this hike, they had decided that they -- along with the three other classmates who had spent time in Colorado with us through the years -- would climb <a href="http://climbing.about.com/od/coloradosfourteeners/a/LongsPeakFastFacts.htm" target="_blank"><b>Longs Peak</b></a> together the summer before their senior year of college. At 14,259 feet, Longs is the highest point in <a href="http://www.nps.gov/romo/index.htm" target="_blank"><b>Rocky Mountain National Park.</b></a> Its name evokes reverence; those who have climbed it, awe. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">After ascending Flattop, the idea of Longs became more than words strung together, more a possibility than a lark, more an adult aspiration than a daydream shared between childhood friends. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The route up Longs is 6.2 miles farther than Flattop. Getting there takes 12 hours at the very least, so hikers are strongly encouraged to begin around 2 a.m. to ensure they're off the summit when afternoon thunderstorms begin. Flattop was way above the tree line, but Longs would bring them 2,000 feet closer to the sky.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Although Longs, quite honestly, holds no great appeal for wimpy me, I understand its allure; I appreciate its invisible but very real bridge that connects childhood to adulthood. Which is why, ever since they shared this with me, I'm crossing my fingers, picking pennies off the sidewalk, scanning the sky at dusk for that very first star.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My wish is a bit tangential, a sidestep off the trail leading up Longs or down Flattop. I want Charlie and Lee to remember being on top of a mountain the summer they were both 19 -- within touching distance of a thousand clouds, at the starting point of a dream. To hold close what they told each other up there where the air was almost too thin to talk, and what they promised themselves. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And in days or months or years to come, when life is crazy and Longs seems so very far away, I hope they can bring back the feeling of being on a mountaintop with a friend whose connection goes far beyond alphabetical. Of remembering what it feels like to be standing tall, high in the sky, believing with all your heart that anything is possible.</span><br />
<br />leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-35697647878219197262013-06-08T19:09:00.003-05:002013-06-09T14:32:09.517-05:00When Mom slashes her shin, we siblings start texting<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I could show you the picture my sister Susan shot of our mother's shin wound, and Mom would helpfully and happily point out where the doctor lifted the skin to show Mom the bone hiding in plain sight underneath. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The wound-causing accident occurred as Mom headed for the shower Saturday morning. She apparently brushed against the tile-and-wooden sign on a bookshelf and it fell off, hitting her poor little shin. (The sign, in a note of irony, said "Home Sweet Home." And I'm a bit mortified to realize, I gave it to her.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Mom called Susan, calming saying, "We need to go somewhere," and Susan rushed over. I'll spare details of the crime -- I mean accident -- scene. Suffice to say there was a lot of the red stuff involved, and it wasn't pretty.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Susan drove our very calm mother to the emergency-care clinic nearby, and then the text messages between her, our sister Jeanne, brother Ben, and me began.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The first came after Susan took this picture of Mom. You can see how she's looking intently at what the technician is doing. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Susan:</b> "Always smiling. Home Sweet Home sign fell on Mom's leg."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Ben:</b> "Oh, no! Stitches?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Susan: </b>"No stitches. Open wound. Doc hasn't come in yet."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Me: </b>"What does that mean,<i> open wound</i>? Don't they want to close it?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Jeanne:</b> "My head is between my knees. It's just as well I'm not there. I'd be the daughter in the next examining room with oxygen."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Me:</b> "Haha and I'd be fighting you for the spigot." </span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Susan then sent us all the picture of the shin wound, which I will spare you (and me).</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Susan:</b> "Enjoy."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Me:</b> "I'm going to put in stitches if no one else will. And then I'm going to throw up." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>Susan:</b> "Hahahaha. Maybe 'open wound' is the wrong term. Skin tear?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>Jeanne: </b>"Hmm. Maybe worse."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>Ben: </b>"Looks like more of a scrape to me."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>Me:</b> "Artery rip?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>Susan:</b> "Doctor said deep gash, some clots. Ugh. I want to go home."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>Me:</b> "Why did the doctor have to say CLOTS? I'm down for the count."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>Susan:</b> "It doesn't help that she takes a baby aspirin."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>Ben: </b>"Has Mom gotten the doctor's life story yet?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>Me: </b>"He's coming over for Thanksgiving. And I'm going to purge the baby aspirin I just ate."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>Susan:</b> "Poor Mom. It hurts. She has no questions for the doctors, just kind comments."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>Me:</b> "Chuckles (my son Charlie) said, 'If we could incorporate Oma's personality to everyone in the world, there would be world peace.' "</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>Susan: "</b>Tell Chuckles to button it. You can't imagine how deep the cut is. Scary."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>There's a few more back and forth texts -- some silly, some not, including (for instance) TV doctors and neighborhood doctors, none of whom we've seen in decades, but all of whom 'each of us remembered with much amusement.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>Susan:</b> "Two docs are in there now. Mom's amazing. She's watching the whole thing. They can't sew it. The skin is 'ripping.' "</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And then, "It's OK. Stitched. Just the top of the wound isn't holding together. She has to keep it elevated and iced."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> You can see how the texts start out with one medical theory -- a scrape that can't be stitched -- and how that changes. Mostly though, what struck me as we were typing, and what strikes me now reading them again, is the comfort and camaraderie and amusement that comes with being a sibling in a tight-knit family. And yes, how very lucky I am. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Not long after Susan's last text, Jeanne sent this photo to all of us. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mnUL8AKhoVY/UbO_gzL5xqI/AAAAAAAAASA/f793sQbfjvc/s1600/Mom+&+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mnUL8AKhoVY/UbO_gzL5xqI/AAAAAAAAASA/f793sQbfjvc/s1600/Mom+&+5.jpg" /></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">It's Mom at the birthday party for Jeanne's grandson (Mom's great-grandson) Eli V.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She didn't stay there long -- just enough to have some cake and kiss the birthday boy. Oh yes, and to enthusiastically recount how the doctor lifted the skin on her shin, and she could see the bone at the base of the gash. </span><br />
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leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-47630941499796207412013-06-01T17:06:00.002-05:002013-06-02T21:41:21.277-05:00Ghouling it<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My son and his best friend ran a <a href="http://www.runforyourlives.com/" target="_blank"><b>Zombie Race</b></a> today. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">For the uninitiated, that's one of those crazy who-would-want-to-do-one-of-those? activities involving mud, obstacles, water, more mud and, oh yes, people dressed like zombies who chase you around trying to steal your three flags (i.e. red strips of fabric) and thus, render you dead. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Did I mention there's mud? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Charlie spent Friday, the night before the race, with Luke. They woke at the crack of dawn and Lynne (Luke's mom and my dear friend) drove them and Laura, Luke's girlfriend, to the race site in Forney. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">A day or so earlier, Charlie had offhandedly asked if I wanted to go watch them run. I hemmed a bit and hawed a little more. Probably not, I finally said. Saturdays are my mornings to run and -- especially if I haven't been during the week, which this week I hadn't -- to go to yoga class.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Oh, that's fine," he said. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Friday around 6 though, I began reconsidering. True, maybe the glass of beer I had with a friend opened my spirits a bit and figured into my change of heart. Mostly though, skipping the chance to share this event with my son -- who was almost giddy at the idea of doing it -- gnawed at me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">In a day or a month or a year, I asked myself, which would I remember? Surprising Charlie by showing up, and then getting to watch him race? Or going to a yoga class that yes, though beloved, would probably blend with all the other yoga classes? (Unless, of course, this would be the one where I actually did go crashing to the ground instead of merely anticipating I would).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The answer was embarrassingly obvious.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Charlie and Luke signed up for the 8:30 wave (race lingo for a group that starts off together). When I saw them talking to Lynne and to Laura, I called Charlie's name. He turned, looked surprised and oh so happy to see me. He gave me his big smile, and hugged me hard. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">He and Luke trotted off to the starting line. We took our places by the last mud pit and waited, amusing (and ooking out) ourselves by watching people crawl on their bellies like slime-encrusted reptiles through gnat-encircled muck. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We finally saw Charlie and Luke a field away, running toward us. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">They reached the mud, flopped down on all fours without hesitation, and made a valiant slosh through the final obstacle -- yeah, smiling even. Then they climbed a tower, slid down into a rather filthy water trough, were chased by a few more zombies, and got their well-earned medals. </span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-L_a-5ghChCc/Uaplzj5JfhI/AAAAAAAAAQM/jmWousEta8I/s1600/zombie+after.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-L_a-5ghChCc/Uaplzj5JfhI/AAAAAAAAAQM/jmWousEta8I/s400/zombie+after.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">They didn't shower right away, instead recounting their journey and making plans for the next. Heck, Lynne and I got so caught up in the moment, we even started talking about doing one of these. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We all stuck around for awhile, not wanting to leave this oasis of mirth and music. A giant screen showed a video of the Village People singing <i>YMCA,</i> so what choice did we have but to join in?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">All this happened
hours ago. I came home, swam some laps, relived the race some more with Charlie, ate too many
pita chips, called my best friend, and haven't done much of anything
else. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">But the precious few hours from this morning follow me like a happy shadow. Long after Charlie's washed that last bit of mud from his ear, they'll echo in my heart, as all good decisions should.</span><br />
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<br />leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-53391300425352881612013-05-26T18:46:00.002-05:002013-05-28T22:09:35.404-05:00Grasping for air<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mGP3lacovnQ/UaKehy3XzjI/AAAAAAAAAOo/-qUNf9Xx2VY/s1600/Dad+and+his+girls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="137" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mGP3lacovnQ/UaKehy3XzjI/AAAAAAAAAOo/-qUNf9Xx2VY/s200/Dad+and+his+girls.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">When my father died, I stopped worrying, and began not taking myself quite so seriously. I started getting out more and sweating the small stuff less. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I turned off negative comments from people who don't really matter, and instead focused on the positive (or at least constructively critical) ones of those who do. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Or such has been my aspiration. On some days, during certain moments, amid various circumstances, I feel I'm grasping it. But on others -- half? three-fourths? a third of the time? -- I end up holding a handful of air...and holding onto it for dear life.</span><br />
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<br />leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-809203477771128742012-11-19T21:13:00.000-06:002012-11-28T14:29:14.519-06:00Reaching for Dad in the Thanksgiving sky<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EInKk6a4l4Y/UKrz8hGisEI/AAAAAAAAAOM/JDEMJ6DrjX0/s1600/AX235_4747_7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EInKk6a4l4Y/UKrz8hGisEI/AAAAAAAAAOM/JDEMJ6DrjX0/s1600/AX235_4747_7.JPG" title="" /></a></div>
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<span id="internal-source-marker_0.8941864884629107" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The turkey was my father’s bailiwick, his self-assigned, by-default duty Thanksgiving morning. I'm pretty certain he'd have rather conjured up one of what we called his "concoctions" -- an artistic jumble of whatever he found in the refrigerator. But our family's Thanksgiving dishes tended to be more basic than he'd care to tackle: green beans; mashed potatoes; dates stuffed with walnuts and rolled in sugar.</span><br />
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<span id="internal-source-marker_0.8941864884629107" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So post-sunrise f<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">ound him contemplating the bird, still frozen in a sink full of water, its neck stinkily simmering on the stove. At some point during the next few hours, it thawed, or thawed enough, for Dad to cook it one of two ways: He either popped a lemon, lime and orange into its gross-the-kids-out cavity and baked it in a pre-heated oven. Or he'd put the stuffing-less turkey into a cold oven, crank up the temperature for a few minutes, then turn it off for hours.</span></span><br />
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<span id="internal-source-marker_0.8941864884629107" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Either way, it came out moist and delicious. Not that Dad had an opinion on the finished product. He wouldn't eat turkey, or chicken, or anything with feathers. The story goes that when he was a boy, growing up poor in San Antonio, he plucked so many feathers off his family's supper-bound chickens that he vowed once he grew up he would never eat another. Nor pluck one, for that matter. Nor, if he had his druthers, smell one.</span></span><br />
<span id="internal-source-marker_0.8941864884629107" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span id="internal-source-marker_0.8941864884629107" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">But on Thanksgiving, he never questioned the turkey's presence -- or his role in its being there -- on the table. </span></span><br />
<span id="internal-source-marker_0.8941864884629107" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span id="internal-source-marker_0.8941864884629107" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">This year, for the first time in more than a half-century, we won't have Dad's turkey on our table. And though each other's presence will be palpable, all of us won't be together in the shoulder-touching way that's as ingrained into our lives as gravy stains on Nana's white tablecloth. </span></span><br />
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<span id="internal-source-marker_0.8941864884629107" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span id="internal-source-marker_0.8941864884629107" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Mom leaves for Maryland on Tuesday to spend Thanksgiving week with my brother Ben, his wife Meg, and her parents. My sister Jeanne will be hosting dinner at their lake house for her immediate family and her son-in-law's parents and sister. My little group will be at my sister Susan's house. </span></span></span></span><br />
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<span id="internal-source-marker_0.8941864884629107" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We won't have turkey; last I heard, my brother-in-law is grilling fish. I'm fine with the no-turkey aspect of it; really I am. I prefer fish to turkey anyway. Jeanne's having turkey, but I'll wager none of our respective Thanksgiving menus will include the ubiquitous creamed onions or mashed turnips -- staples that few but Dad devoured. The couple who always baked Dad a much-ballyhooed mincemeat pie isn't coming this year.</span></span><br />
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<span id="internal-source-marker_0.8941864884629107" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Thanksgiving will mark one day short of four months since our precious father died. Last November, he wasn't in the best of health, and two years ago we all brought him Thanksgiving dinner at his latest rehab facility. Still, as dad to five of us and grandfather to nine, he was the patriarch, the one who made everyone feel welcome; the generous host who said the blessing until he got too choked up to continue, and then one of us would step in. </span></span><br />
<span id="internal-source-marker_0.8941864884629107" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span id="internal-source-marker_0.8941864884629107" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The closer we get to Thursday, the more I am getting too choked up to continue. As Thanksgiving and Christmas approach, I can almost <span id="internal-source-marker_0.8941864884629107" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">visualize, and all but feel the constants we've counted on for more five decades being tossed into the air from our collective cupped hands. </span></span></span></span><br />
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<span id="internal-source-marker_0.8941864884629107" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span id="internal-source-marker_0.8941864884629107" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Some will drift down like snowflakes, landing in pretty much the same spot they always did. A few will catch a breeze and be scattered to the horizon of our memories. Others will return next year, falling like glitter onto shoulders.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span id="internal-source-marker_0.8941864884629107" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span id="internal-source-marker_0.8941864884629107" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And the rest? Sprinkled like stars which, if we stand on tiptoes, we can almost reach up and snatch from the sky.</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>AP Photo/NASA</i></span><br />
<br />leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4768356358940159771.post-59248210309410683822012-07-29T16:04:00.000-05:002012-07-31T21:18:58.438-05:00Seeking Dad in the sun<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-78IQhg4eEfk/UBWk5VaCYII/AAAAAAAAAN8/53HB4gdjb3s/s1600/sun.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-78IQhg4eEfk/UBWk5VaCYII/AAAAAAAAAN8/53HB4gdjb3s/s400/sun.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<b style="background-color: white; font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></b><br />
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.9565277816727757" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My father died while I was running. It was a Monday morning; eight hours earlier, we had all said our goodbyes. The hospice nurse told us she thought he’d make through the night, so when I woke up and saw neither a text message nor heard a voicemail, I let out my breath a little, put on my shoes, and took off.</span></b><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For the first couple of miles, I listened to NPR. A little before 6:30, suddenly any sound seemed superfluous, so I pulled out my earplugs and looped the cord around my fingers. </span></b><b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My eyes moved from the sidewalk to the sky, an endless blue canvas without even a sprinkling or a swath of white. </span></b><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b id="internal-source-marker_0.7336857668124139" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Without even thinking, I said out loud, “Where ARE you, Daddy? Are you in the sun?”</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That’s where my friend Judy looked -- a year shy of a quarter-century ago -- for our mutual friend Gary when he died. On this recent Monday, it seemed the natural place to look, and the normal question to ask.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I finished my run around 7, went into the kitchen, cried just a little, and drank some water. I jumped when I heard the phone ring. It was my sister Susan.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I called Daddy’s room when I woke up,” she told me. “The nurse said, ‘I can’t believe you’re calling right now. Your dad didn’t show any of the usual signs during the night that the end was close. But just now, he took a breath, and it was over. It was very peaceful.’ “</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I could talk again and after I’d wiped tears and sweat from my face, I realized I needed to ask her something.</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hey Sister," I said. "What time was that?” </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“About 6:28, I think,” she answered. “Just before 6:30.”</span></b> <br />
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<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">photo: Erich Schlegel</span></i></span></b>leslie barker http://www.blogger.com/profile/13052334419363797857noreply@blogger.com4