A glass of lemonade

Stirring oatmeal

2012-02-04T17:03:00.000-06:00

My father is in the hospital again. Thus, a stop to see him is added to my morning routine, as well as to my route home. I don't mind; not at all. Were roles reversed, my dad would probably sleep in my hospital room. When my son was born and spent 10 days in neonatal intensive care unit, my dad was there every night into the wee hours -- even after I had gone back to his and my mother's house, where I was staying while Charlie was hospitalized.

During Dad's previous hospital stays, I've brought him oatmeal from Starbucks and various other goodies. During this one, though, I've been hesitant because his fluid intake was so closely monitored during his last visit. So I've just been bringing him the newspaper in the morning and a recount of my day in the afternoon.

Since he was admitted on Tuesday, though, his kidneys haven't been the source of concern like they were last month. So on Saturday, I stopped by Starbucks and bought oatmeal. I'd slept an hour past my alarm and thus didn't run till later, which postponed my visit. By the time I arrived, Dad had eaten breakfast hours earlier. He was nonetheless very appreciative, even as he lay on his side while a physical therapist and an aide cleaned a nasty-looking wound on his leg. It isn't healing properly; thus his hospital stay.

I sat by his bed and rubbed his back while the cleaning -- quite an intricate and arduous process -- was going on. Every so often Dad would grimace, but he didn't want any pain medication and, really, was quite stoic. He asked how I was, and whether I'd heard from Charlie, who's at a volleyball tournament in Florida this weekend.

Meanwhile, the aide was trying to distract Dad from the pain by talking to him -- truth to tell, like he was a bit of an imbecile.Or, in reality, like the old person with the skinny legs and flyaway hair she saw on the bed.

"Oh, aren't you cute?" she said. "I bet people tell you that all time."

She alternated talking to him and talking about him: "Oh, look how pretty his eyes are," she said. And then, "I bet all the ladies loved you in your day!"

I made myself focus on my dad and not on her words. I realize she was just trying to make conversation. Everyone at the hospital is beyond nice and caring, and my dad never fails to say thank you. His spirits are remarkably high, even though he hasn't slept in his own bed or felt the sunshine on his face or watched the birds from his living-room window for almost a week. If the anticipated treatment continues, he probably won't for several more weeks.

Today, Mom and I went to the care facility where he may be headed next while he gets massive doses of antibiotics through an IV. She was wondering how he'd take the news. "At least I can tell him this will cure the infection," she said.

Yes, God willing, it will. But I think what has struck me, like the north wind on my face while I ran this morning, is this: Even if the treatment works, it can't make my dad who he was -- the one in charge; the rock; the one always willing to go for a drive or to see something new or to help someone; the omelet-maker and steak-griller extraordinaire.

He still recites poetry, which his mother did to him, and which we kids grew up hearing. I bet each one of us can recite -- if not the whole thing, then at least 75 percent of Robert Service's "The Cremation of Sam McGee. When I visited Friday night, something I said reminded him of a poem called "Little Boy Blue." We looked at each other and said it together.

Dad still remembers with amazing detail the day Kennedy was assassinated and his subsequent reporting on it days and years later. He still looks at my mother like she was the 23-year-old he married 57 years ago this Monday, and he never fails to tell us, "I love you," when we leave.

Last night, I brought Dad some yellow flowers I'd picked up at Central Market and a bagel -- a food that has tasted good to him even on days when nothing else did. He hadn't eaten the bagel when I got there today, but after his wound-cleaning treatment he said he'd like it. So I went to the cafeteria and bought two little containers of cream cheese -- strawberry and plain -- for a quarter each. I sliced the bagel in fourths and asked which kind of cream cheese he wanted.

"Strawberry," he said. I spread it on the bagel and handed it to him. He thanked me and said, "Mmmmm," as he bit into it. A few minutes later, his lunch arrived. He offered me a taste, as he had his tuna sandwich last night. I declined (though I had tried the sandwich). Instead, I asked if he minded if I ate the oatmeal I'd brought him.

"Oh, please do," he said.

So I swirled in the brown sugar that came with it, then emptied in the packet of chopped walnuts and almonds. It was delicious, and I'm sure Dad will agree when I bring him some on the way home from church tomorrow.

Changing course

2011-11-25T17:56:00.001-06:00

My Charlie and I had planned to run the Dallas White Rock Half-Marathon together this year. We decided this last December, on one of those wildly glorious Sunday afternoons that seem to go on forever, the kind that, if the sun sets and you haven't made any pledges or promises, maybe you don't believe -- at least not today -- in magic.

We had driven to Swiss Avenue to watch my friend Laura run the anchor leg of her relay team. As we looked for her, Charlie tagged behind me at first; I don't think he knew what to expect at such a huge race. He may have been a bit overwhelmed at all the runners -- to say nothing of his excited mother's reaction to them. But by the time we spotted Laura, Charlie was yelling, too -- maybe not as loudly as I, but nonetheless yelling, cheering on people whose legs were giving out, but who kept on going.

Twice in the hour or so we were there, Charlie turned to me.

"I want to do this," he said. Hearing him say that made me so happy. I put my arm around his shoulders, told him yes, we'll do it together.

"Hold onto this moment," I said. "When we're training and things are hard, remember how this feels right now." I linked my arm in his as we walked to the car.

Months and seasons passed. I did my usual running, my occasional swimming, my semi-regular jaunts to the gym. Charlie stayed in the utmost of shape during track season, most of which intersected with club volleyball. Spring made way for summer, which too soon passed. School, and volleyball season, began anew.

We had every intention of following through with our plan to run the half marathon. Charlie hadn't been running, but volleyball keeps him in phenomenal shape. Plus, being 18, I had utmost confidence he could build up his mileage...which he did; the week after the volleyball tournament that ended the season, he ran five miles one day and seven another.

For his October birthday, I gave Charlie a pair of running tights, a stocking cap, an ear warmer, and a nifty pair of gloves that had an optional wind-breaker flap. He was thrilled, and so was I.

By then, he'd started playing club volleyball again. One day, he came home and said his knee had started hurting so badly he had to sit out much of practice. Though he wore knee pads, he'd still had a few knee ailments throughout the fall volleyball season -- not surprisingly, judging by the number of times he went flying through the air after a wayward volleyball, sliding across the gym floor on, yes, his knees.

"I cringe when he does that," I told the orthopedist. "The balls go flying, and they're usually so out of reach they're impossible to rescue."

"Yes," he told me, "but it's those one or two he does get that keep him trying."

When Charlie told the doctor he'd planned to run the Turkey Trot, which was 36 hours after our appointment, and the half-marathon 10 days later, the doctor shook his head.

"I don't recommend it," he said. "If your knee starts hurting even a little, stop. Having to sit out your volleyball season for an injury you exacerbated by running just isn't worth it."

He sent Charlie to a physical therapist in an adjoining office. Charlie was there for an hour or so, and the physical therapist told him no running, no volleyball, for at least two weeks.

I'd planned to run the YMCA Turkey Trot with Charlie. But when he couldn't, I decided I wasn't up to getting caught up in the excited mayhem of the Thanksgiving morning race. Charlie wanted me to go, but instead I ran eight miles in the neighborhood, and was perfectly happy with that.

I'm not going to skip the White Rock Half, which I haven't run in several years. But yeah, I especially wanted to run it with my son -- for, among other reasons, his calming influence (not that I get jittery before a race or anything). Mostly, though, I wanted us to do it together because he's a high-school senior, making this probably our last chance while he's still living at home. He nixed my idea of training for the 3M half in Austin, or for the Big D Texas Half in April, because track and volleyball will take up so much of his time by then.

I quite understand, as I do his wanting to defy doctor's orders. Several times since his appointment, he's said, "I want to run." Instead, we've gone to the gym, where he's ridden the stationary bike with zero tension, and worked with weights that strengthen his upper-body.

Am I disappointed? Sure, and I know he is, too. Yet as I write this -- on a Sunday afternoon, no less, much like a certain other one a year ago -- I realize this change in plans has taught me and, I venture, Charlie, a lesson or two:

Namely, that not every promise can be fulfilled. And that as earnest and eager as pledges can be, they, too, are at life's mercy. Yet, on Sunday afternoons such as this, despite certain pebbles and plummets on its path, I'm keenly aware that life itself is wild and glorious -- and as filled with magic as we -- and our dreams -- allow it to be.

Winning spirit

2011-11-06T16:25:00.001-06:00

The bittersweet truth about a playoff game is this: No matter how good you are, no matter how hard you work, no matter what your season record has been, only one team can take home the trophy.

As third-seed in the tournament, and, on paper at least, there may have been a naysayer or two who didn't expect you'd be vying for that trophy in the first place. Where you stand now -- in center court, or behind the bench (how could anyone sit down today?) -- is where the No. 1 seed was expected to be. Yes, that team; the one you fought last night, the one that, at the end of five heart-racing, hair-raising games, you finally beat.

You woke up this chilly clear morning knowing you're the underdogs, yet for once not fazed by the fact that during the entire season, this team you're up against lost only two matches. You lost 15, several to your opponent.

Today, though feels different. There's something in the air you can almost reach out and put in your pocket; it mingles with the smell of dry leaves and of pumpkin spices from the nearby Starbucks, creating an atmosphere of anticipation on this crazy, happy Friday afternoon.

Maybe it's the camaraderie: you've eaten your last six meals together, more than you eat with your families these days. Of the last 48 hours, you've spent two-thirds of them with each other.

Maybe it's the bleachers, crammed with the standing-room-only crowd of classmates, parents, teachers -- bleachers that during the regular season held only smatterings of your and your opponents' own moms and dads.

More than all that though, something else fills the air -- something you find yourself looking around for like you would a voice in the darkness, or the source of a tantalizing aroma you can't quite place. You can't hold onto it, but it takes hold of you, this belief you can't shake if you wanted to -- a belief in your talent and your tenacity, in twists of fate and in today. And mostly, a belief in yourselves, in each other, in your team.

All through the season, the coach has worked you hard. He's honed your talent, sharpened your skill, drilled into you that you have what it takes to be winners. He's gotten frustrated when you let your emotions overtake your prowess, when teams -- namely, the one you're playing today -- broke your resolve. But all along, he's believed in you.

Yesterday, when you asked him to wear a tie for this game, he told you he wants this team to win more than he has any other. The seniors were freshman when he started coaching. "I've watched you grow up," he said. "I want this for you."

So here you are in the championships. You come onto the court smiling, laughing, talking, cheering, doing high kicks, volleying. You warm up to music from Remember the Titans and Lord of the Rings, as well as songs from bands with names like Flo Rida and The Glitch Mob.

You're introduced -- 18 individuals whose spirit for the sport has mingled and made you blood brothers, whose passion has made you a team. Each one of you steps out from the line and waves, first to one side of the gymnasium, then to the other. The crowd roars.

The first game starts as the numbers in the bleachers grow. Guys who ran in the championship cross-country meet earlier today -- the ones that, as a group, you went out to cheer -- show up, some with faces painted blue and gold, or medals dangling from their necks. They scream chants that you, the players, have taught them -- these secret handshakes no other school, no other group, no other team would understand.

"This is B-Stet!" shouts No. 10, after No. 11 earns yet another phenomenal point.

"What up?!" answers everyone else on the team and, by season's end, the spectators as well.

When your team blocks a hit that leads to a point, the kid who shaved his head for the tournament leaps to the center of the court, raises his knee and belts out, "You! Shall not...!!"

"Pass!" screams the team and the classmates and the parents and anyone else who remembers this from the pep rally.

Seeing the cheers put into words and placed on a page seems strange, out of context. They're not meant to be captured, only to be pushed through charged and static air.

You win the first game handily. The second you lose, surprising yourselves. In the third, you fight to a tie, and then your opponent breaks the tie by the requisite two points. Game four is close; you play with grace and with heart, but you can't pull out a win. You congratulate the winners, accept your second-place trophy. You hug each other and some of you cry, boys whose moms say they haven't seen cry in years.

At home, you find a video of the game online. You flop on the couch and watch it, again and again and again. You nap, wake up, eat something, fall asleep again.

Maybe you don't voice it, but you inherently know that this day, this exact moment with these particular teammates, will never come around again. Sure, you'll play more games -- intramural and pickup and club. Those of you who don't graduate this year will fight your way through another season. But this exact mingling of dynamics, of energy, of passion, won't come along again.

You'll go back to school in a day or two, sit through classes, eat lunch, go home at the end of the day instead of heading for the gym. But forever you'll share this season, this tournament, this game. Your opponent may have taken the victory and the trophy home, but nobody can ever take away everything else, which forever belongs to all of you.

At odd moments through the years, in snippets or in waves, you'll remember this feeling. On an autumn afternoon, when the air is sweet and golden and for whatever reason you feel crazy happy, you'll get whiffs of pumpkin and locker rooms and leather. You'll swear you hear squeaks of shoes on polished gym floors, and cheers that you haven't thought about in ages. You'll sense something you can't quite grasp, but which has hold of you -- just like it did on the day you learned what it means to be part of something much bigger, much shinier, much more meaningful than even the most beautiful and sought-after trophy.

Teaming up

2011-07-05T17:02:00.004-05:00

We are here in Minneapolis, a cadre of volleyball parents from Texas, cheering on our sons at the 2011 USVA Junior National Volleyball Championships.

Where we live, boys' volleyball is a bit of an oxymoron, a head-scratcher. "Boys?" people ask. "I never think of boys playing volleyball."

But ours do. They live it, and they breathe it, and they have worked amazingly hard to get here. They are stunning and passionate players, their prowess even more pronounced in competitions such as these. They are playing against teams from California and Florida and Puerto Rico -- against boys who grow up playing this game that has so engulfed my Charlie and his teammates -- and holding their own with aplomb and grace.

On a glorious July 4 morning, I sit in the lobby of the Minneapolis Convention Center, finishing my oatmeal from Starbucks before entering the cacophony of referees' whistles and spectators' cheers. A white-haired man joins me; he tells me his two grandsons, whom he's here to watch, play in California.

"Ah, California!" I say. "When we see that's where a team we're playing is from, we quake a little in or boots."

"They've always played," he says. "My daughter-in-law strung up a net outside, and they play all day long."

I wish him luck, then stand to leave. I show the attendant at the door the red wrist band that identifies me as a paying patron, and carry my coffee to Court 14. Our boys are playing three matches here -- the first at 9, followed by others at 10 and noon.

At home, winning is almost a given. Here, although the boys are smart and they are skilled, as passionate about the game as they are to one another, it's a bit of a tightrope. Every team is here because they are better than good; every team believes that no matter what their ranking, they stand a chance.

We are ranked 23rd among the 17-year-old players. Our opponents this day are ranked 8th and 4th; I didn't even see what the kids from Puerto Rico are ranked, but they are virtually unstoppable.

Still, we believe; what choice do we have? So we moms do what we can to make our sons' dreams come true and, in the process, their dreams turn into our own. One day, we wear white shirts with our sons' names and numbers and maybe a photo ironed on them. On another, we wear black t-shirts emblazoned in red with our team name, HIGH INTENSITY.

One mom made signs for us to hold, each a letter spelling out T-E-X-A-S-!. Another brought red and white pompons for us to wave.

We scream and we shout so much that now, as the tournament draws to a close, my voice is hard to understand, raw from yelling.Our calls run an emotional gamut. "Get mad!" we scream, followed seconds later by, "Have fun!" and "Wipe those smiles off their faces!"

"Lighten up!" we juxtapose with "Hang tough!"

We get scared and we get silly, screaming "Remember the Alamo!" when our team is losing, and "Channel the Mavs!" -- hoping the momentum which propelled Dirk Nowitzki in many a fourth-quarter playoff game will somehow rub off on them.

At one point, a mom turns to me and says, "I don't even know what I'm saying!"

In blinks of an eye as our boys play, I find myself stepping back or floating overhead, holding in my heart all that matters right this very second, and just how important these moments and these games are. At the same time, I am looking through the boys' eyes a year, two years, a decade ahead -- looking back and remembering these precious days as a time when passion and teamwork were everything, when success was measured in spikes and blocks, in games and matches and post game how-can-we-do-better-next-time? discussions.

When your kids are young and just starting to play sports, you recite the parental mantra: "It's not whether you win or lose; it's how you play the game." As they get older, they learn, and you let them start realizing, that winning is great. Losing? Not so much.

Yet. Yet. Yet. Watching our boys -- their efforts; their attitude; the way they keep talking each other up; the way they put an arm around whoever might have be kicking himself for letting the ball fly out of bounds or hit the ground; their breathtaking and, in the end, heart-twisting effort -- you realize this:

Yes, winning is very, very very nice. But sometimes, it's exceeded only by -- or at least runs neck-and-neck with -- how you play the game.

Exercising Mom's options

2011-03-18T11:10:00.001-05:00

My mother is, quite frankly, rather adorable. When she reads that, she'll say, "Oh, honey, I wish you wouldn't say that."

But she is. She is sparkly and sunny, with energy and a figure that women one-fourth her age (she's 80) wouldn't mind having. For years, she was a primo lingerie salesperson at a department store in Paris, Texas, a 30-minute drive from where she and my dad were living. During the three days a week she worked, she wore a pedometer. Most days, she'd surpass the 10,000-step mark, meaning she walked at least five miles.

Since she and Dad moved back to Dallas, though, she hasn't been walking as much. Until my dad is more mobile, she spends most of her time with him. But since she is so spry and so spirited, and because I know first-hand the multi-layered benefits of exercise, I decided to make it my mission to get her moving.

So I bought her some no-cotton-moisture-wicking socks and a pair of tennies at Target. Then I picked her up and we headed to the Lake Highlands Family YMCA and her appointment with Clint Elliott, fitness trainer extraordinaire (and really nice guy). He asked Mom a variety of questions about her hobbies (gardening); her fitness goals (not sure; be stronger and just move more); what she likes to do (swim, though she hasn't in years).

Then Mom, being Mom, had to know more about Clint: What got him into fitness? Had he ever been to YMCA of the Rockies (a Barker- family favorite place)?

Clint started Mom off on the treadmill for about five minutes. I, the over-eager daughter, held my tongue, which would have suggested Mom take regular-size steps and walk her normal brisk pace. But she did what was comfortable, and thus, correct.

Then it was on to two leg machines, the names of which, yes, I should know. On one, she put her legs against a panel and pushed; the other, she put them behind a roller and lifted them.

"Oooh," Mom said, "I can feel this in my thighs."

"You may be sore tomorrow," Clint said.

"I hope so," Mom said. "I''ll feel like I accomplished something."

She did some arm exercises (on machines I also should know the names of), and then stood on a squishy round something-or-other. She did a pretty darned good job of staying vertical; Clint said she had "excellent balance."

For the cool-down part of Mom's workout, she stepped on the treadmill again. This time, she felt more confident. She upped the speed a bit, and raised the incline to 1.0 percent. She walked about five minutes, then said she thought she'd better stop.

We stayed for at least an hour. As we left, Mom said said she'd like to come back. Clint suggested next week, and asked when we'd both be available. I said I didn't think I needed to be there. Without a moment's hesitation, Mom agreed.

So next Wednesday at 1:30 p.m., while I'm sitting at my desk staring at a computer screen, Mom will be exercising her body, clearing her mind, strengthening her already-strong spirit. And bringing herself closer to a goal I so-casually-mentioned when we talked to Clint: Walking a 5-K with her third-born.

Icing on the cake (or at least the sidewalk)

2011-02-01T13:05:00.000-06:00

On this snow day, my son is sprawled on a chair that lends itself to sprawling. In one hand he holds the remote for the TV; in the other he holds his Game Boy. I look closely, seeing neither a pair of mittens nor a sled within reach. He has yet to ask me for a carrot, or a stovepipe hat, or bits of coal that could double as buttons.

I walk by him, and oh-so-lovingly say, "Go make a snowman."

He is still in his PJs, hours after the automated phone call from his school told us classes were cancelled, hours after he went back to sleep and woke up again, hours after he ate his first bowl of cereal. He has about as much intention of going outside as he does cleaning his room, or getting dressed, or reading for pleasure.

Not that I particularly blame him. The snow is blowing parallel to the ground, and when I opened the door to let the dog out, I felt the first stages of frostbite. Someone on the radio described the effect of the snow plus wind as "feeling like tiny arrows on your skin."

Admittedly, I know this first-hand, having been outside and (I'm almost embarrassed to add) gone for a run. Very very slow, but a run nonetheless.

I do wonder though, when did snow days stop being snowman days? Remember the magic of waking up and your feet are cold when they touch the floor? You look outside and see the slightest whisper of snow on the lawn and have the teeniest of flashes thinking....what if? You're shivering a little -- with cold or optimistic anticipation, who knows?

You smell the familiar smell of almost-burned toast and go into the kitchen to eat your oatmeal. The radio is on and the announcer is calling out the school closings. They're in alphabetical order, and if you never paid attention to your ABCs, you can bet you do right now. Then you hear it. Your school. Closed. All day long. You run into the living room and the good news is confirmed at the bottom of the TV screen.

You throw on your itchy warm clothes, call your friend two doors down and meet her in the front yard of the house between each of yours. You're freezing, but laughing like hyenas and trying to gather enough snow in your wet mittens to make a snowball to push down her turtleneck sweater.

At noon, you burn the roof of your mouth gulping Campbell's tomato soup and wolfing down grilled-cheese sandwiches. You rush back outside, and though there's hardly any accumulation, you snatch up what snow you can -- practically as it drops from the sky -- determined to build a snowman. One that wobbles on the brown grass, one that will be gone by this time tomorrow.

Months pass, then years then decades. Here I am in my kitchen, with no intention of going outside again today. I can look out the window, though, and still see that brown-flecked snowman. I turn my head and -- still in the den, still sprawled on the chair -- see my pajama-clad son, now on his belly with his computer in front of him.

He's doing whatever he wants to do today, just as my friend and I did years and years ago. A snow day will always be a snow day -- always magical, always remembered -- even if you never step foot outside.

Believing in Shadow

2011-01-01T00:40:00.001-06:00

I woke up New Year's Eve morning at 5:15 to meet up at 6 with a dozen people I didn't know to look for a greyhound that few (if any) of us had ever seen. In one hand, we held flashlights to shine across fields and behind bushes. In one pocket, we'd put treats our own dogs liked, hoping the missing girl would as well.

In another pocket or around our necks, we each had an extra leash. Because when you're looking for a scared and skittish dog -- one who had been mistreated in the past by the antithesis of the two-legged beings who were looking for her -- you have to believe in the mightiest of outcomes.

Most of us had our own dogs with us, too. We reasoned that Shadow, the moniker given this black, zipper-thin beauty, would be more comfortable seeing her own kind than thinking she was being pursued by the very creatures who had been so cruel.

I brought Newman, one of our foster dogs. Because he had once been a stray, I thought of him as a talisman of sorts, a magnet that would somehow lure Shadow out; a soul mate who would know what she was thinking, and could sense where she might hide. Plus, I may have harbored the hope that his presence would somehow show her that life can be more the life she had known.

The morning was beautiful. When I'd walked out the front door, the rain had just begun pouring down. But by the time we fanned out onto the area where Shadow had last been spotted, we could see the moon, the clouds, the waning stars. We were told to be quiet, and if we saw her to sit down, to avoid eye contact, to act bored. Then as she came closer, we could very gently put the leash on her.

But we didn't see her. So Newman and I got back in the car. We drove through the neighborhoods a bit, and I was overwhelmed at all the places she could be. When we got home, I gave Newman one of the bones I'd intended for Shadow. Then I went for a run, all the while looking looking looking.

My best friend was in town for a rare visit, and called when I'd finished running. I picked her up at her parents' house. We went for coffee, got manicures, walked through a few stores. At our last stop before lunch, I checked my email and saw the news about Shadow. She had run into traffic, miles from her foster home. She had been hit by a car, and she died. Even hours later -- even now -- every time I think of how scared she was and what she endured and what she never knew, I start to cry.

Yet when I listen closely, I hear whisperings -- not only of sorrow, but of lessons gleaned from Shadow. Lessons that came with a horrible price, and that I would trade in an instant for her to be alive, and loved, and safe. Yet lessons that, for me at least, are good to think about for the year ahead. They're very simple, really, and I will honor the brevity of her life by keeping them brief as well.

They are these:
To trust.
To try not to be afraid.
To believe -- even though and especially when it seems ridiculous to do so -- that somebody believes in you.

Godspeed, sweet Shadow. May warm arms engulf you, tasty treats fill your stomach, and flashlights and stars be guiding you home.

Making a pact

2010-12-05T19:41:00.001-06:00

The last time I ran in a race was the Turkey Trot, 13 months ago. I didn't think I missed racing; I've rather enjoyed just running for the sake of running.

But on Sunday, reading about the Dallas White Rock Marathon; watching it on TV in my dad's rehab room while he was in physical therapy; pondering the route to take my son to Sunday school to avoid marathon traffic, I found myself feeling a bit sentimental.

The day was glorious, sunny and cool and perfect. Plus my dear friend Laura was running the anchor leg of her relay team. What better reasons to head to Swiss Avenue to look for Laura and cheer her (and anyone else) on. I asked my son if he'd go with me. He didn't hesitate.

"Sure," he said.

I have run one marathon: Austin in 2007. I remember it in snippets: The sun rising as the starting gun went off. Walking through water stops and reluctantly resuming running. Crossing the finish line and eating chicken-noodle soup ladled out by kind volunteers.

I remember the training as grueling, particularly runs on Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve: twice around White Rock Lake in the windy sleet. So when I saw the runners on Sunday, I yelled and cheered because I knew what they were going through, and how hard they worked to get there. I knew that the three miles they had left to run probably seemed at times like 300, though during training, three became little more than the snap of a finger.

During my marathon, I was so appreciative of the bands that played, of the people who rang cowbells, of the spectators who looked at my racing bib and called me by name. With each of those memories, I could feel my smile getting bigger, my cheering more crazed, my tears closer to the surface than I would have imagined.

At first, Charlie just followed me -- not cheering; looking shyly at the runners -- as we made our way down Swiss Avenue, scanning the street for Laura. After a few minutes, when I'd turn to look at him, he smiled his big smile and looked me in the eye.

"I want to do this," he said.

Laura told me later that she heard Charlie's voice before she saw me. After she passed us, he and I headed up Swiss toward the side street where our car was parked. He was yelling by then, telling runners to stay strong, to stay focused. We didn't leave right away; instead, we stood on a corner, straining through sunlight to see names on bibs.

"I really want to do this," he said again.

"OK," I said. "Next year. Should we do the full or the half?"

"The full," he said. "Maybe we can each run half of it. Do you want to go first or last?"

"First," I said. "I get jittery anyway; I'd be a wreck if I had to wait for you to finish before I could start."

"I'm not sure when I can train though," he said, thinking about volleyball practice, P.E., track.

"We'll figure it out," I said. "Let's do this. Let's make a pact."

"OK," he said.

"Remember this, Charlie," I said. "Remember this minute, right now. Remember how good it feels, how much we want to do this."

We didn't hook pinkies or spit on the ground or sign a contract. I just put my arm through his as we walked to the car.

Taking away the pain

2010-10-29T13:48:00.002-05:00

You know how, when you're little and your stomach hurts or your throat itches or your head aches, your mom or dad will say, "Oh I wish I could have that instead of you"?

I never really understood that until A. My son was born and B. I saw my dad grimmacing in pain.

Dad has had way more than his share of ailments lately. A bad knee, congestive heart failure, a broken back. He has spent many more nights in hospitals and a rehab facility than he has his own home, in his own bed. Not a person previously known for his patience, Dad doesn't complain. Instead, he makes certain he knows the name of each medical professional (and there are a lot) who enters his room, and he thanks them when they leave.

When one of us pops our head into his room, his face lights up. He thanks us when we remember to bring him the newspaper. He appreciates every Schlotzsky's sandwich we bring him, every Starbucks drink, every milkshake -- even though he can hardly muster up an appetite for a bite, or for more than a tiny sip or two.

So when I went into the hospital room yesterday and his eyes hardly showed a glimmer, I knew he felt awful. When I called him last night from the car, he said as much: "Honey, I feel terrible." I had to hold my breath and keep quiet for a second so he wouldn't hear the sob that almost slipped out of my throat.

"Oh, Daddy," I said. "I wish I could have that pain instead of you, even just for a little while to give you a break."

"Aw, honey," he said. "It's going to be fine. The doctor said I'm healing; it's just going to hurt for awhile. I'm going to watch the World Series now, and besides, it's almost time for my pain pill."

I told him I had a morning interview, and that I'd stop by afterward. He said he was looking forward to something from Starbucks.

I got to the hospital around 9 today, just as my sisters and mom were arriving. I brought him oatmeal and a pumpkin latte. He had a few sips and ate more than half the oatmeal, something he hasn't felt like doing in weeks.

When the nurse came in, he turned around her name tag so he could read who she was. After the two orderlies straightened him up in bed, he asked them theirs, and thanked them too.

I told him I needed to leave, and bent down to kiss the top of his head.

"Love you," he said, as he always does when he says goodbye.

"Love you too, Daddy," I said. I walked out the front door and into the October sunshine, happy for its warmth and beauty, but still fairy-tale wishing he could be there -- even for five minutes -- instead of me.

Getting lost in the moment

2010-08-26T22:31:00.004-05:00

On any given weekend, the plaza in Santa Fe is bustling. Local artists come in from the pueblos, spreading blankets and setting up tables to display what they've crafted during the previous week.

Once a year, the Santa Fe Indian Festival overshadows this ritual. Artists from around the country work all year in hopes of being selected to display and to sell. They fill 600 booths in the plaza, as well as in blocks and blocks surrounding.

Their names are storybook sweet, as tantalizing as their talent: Daniel Sunshine, America Meredith, Aaron Brokeshoulder, Charlene Laughing. You whisper them to yourself, just to hear how the names sound aloud, how they feel on your tongue.

Wending through the streets and between booths, you find trios of women -- friends since forever, you can just tell, and wager they still refer to each other as "girls" -- wearing flowing skirts and broad-rimmed straw hats.

You watch as couples call each other over to inspect potential purchases. You stand shoulder-to-shoulder with turquoise-and silver- bedecked women whose hair is the color of tow-headed toddlers, their skin the hue of a Coppertone bottle, their faces textured like the un-ironed blouses that hang in my closet.

Men with tanned legs and brown sandals, their white hair pulled into ponytails, inspect black pottery vases or stand in line for Navaho fried bread. Females in the crowd try on silver bracelets, gently waving their wrists to make sure they've chosen the right size.

Others ask artists for a mirror to see how the shape of the swirly silver earrings looks against their faces. Couples photograph each other standing by the smiling jewelry maker or weaver or potter who sold them the piece of art they'll always remember this trip by.

The artists have come from Alaska, Utah, upstate New York. Some of the estimated 100,000 visitors walked a few blocks to get here; others flew from California or Florida or London as they do every year. Some, like us, happened into today because a few days earlier, a gallery owner mentioned in passing the spectacular nature of this weekend.

We began our wanderings together, the three of us moving from booth to booth. Then as one of us stopped to look at a piece that caught our eye, the others moseyed on. We'd catch up, reconvene, and the rotation would change.

At one point, though, I missed my turn. I was admiring a strand of serpentine, its discs the colors of the candy necklaces I'd wear around my neck and nibble when I was a little girl. I set it back on its velvet tray, and when I turned around, all I saw were strangers.

Getting lost can be a good thing. You can get lost in your passion, or lost in a person -- which sometimes (at least in that early, sharp-intake-of-breath stage) is one and the same. You can get lost in your thoughts, lost in your work. You can get lost in your pursuit of a goal attainable, or one forever beyond your grasp.

Yet my thoughts weren't so dreamy when I looked around and felt swept up in this sea of strangers. Quite honestly, I felt a little bit -- oh, not frightened exactly, just uncomfortable, akin in a way to finding yourself alone on a mountain trail when you thought for certain your sisters were right behind (or in front of) you. Or being the last person waiting for your suitcase long after the plane has landed.

I walked around the booths for a few minutes, pretending to be perfectly at ease. I struck up a conversation with two women who were amused at my funny-looking barefoot-running shoes. I called my best friend in Washington, D.C., and my sister Susan in Dallas, leaving voice-mail messages when they didn't answer.

I sent text messages to the friends I'd been with only moments before. Finally (though probably hardly any time had passed) I saw them. I felt a little stupid, but mostly I felt relieved. We walked around some more, picking up business cards from the artists whose work we liked.

The next day, we went back to the festival. We bought a few things we'd seen the morning before, and a few we hadn't. We shared a dish of chocolate ice cream as we walked around. I had a delightful time. When I thought about the previous day, I wondered (as you do in broad daylight after a terrifying dream in the dark of night) how I possibly could have felt so disjointed, so lost.

But I had felt that way. Though I'd prefer to think otherwise, I probably will again. Maybe next time, though, I'll take a deep breath and gather my gumption. I'll shake my wrist gently, getting a bit lost in how the silver bracelet catches the sun, and how cool and sweet it feels on my skin.

Being reminded

2010-08-14T17:20:00.000-05:00

You don't really notice the able-bodied people at the park. They walk quickly or they jog; they play baseball or kick soccer balls or careen down the slide.

Like summer heat and wayward tennis balls, they're just kind of a given. A nice one yes; seeing others outside conjures up a bit of camaraderie, of unification, a we're-all-in-this-together feeling.

It's the other people, those for whom moving is a bit of a struggle, that you find yourself noticing, and you find yourself rooting for. I crossed paths with two this morning.

The first was a man I first noticed almost a year ago. Though he still uses metal polio-type crutches, he's now alone. He no longer relies on his wife by his side, nor on his teen-age son or daughter behind him, each ready to stop his fall if he stumbles, or if a rubber-tip crutch gets caught on the sidewalk.

When I saw him today, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved button-down shirt, I said hello, then left the park for my run. By the time I returned 20 minutes later, he'd progressed almost two-thirds of the way around, one boldly cautious step at a time.

A block closer to home, I saw another man making his way with a walker, his back so bent he had to raise his head to smile at me and say hello. But he did smile, and he did say hello, and he did keep going.

Yes, it is skin-searing hot today. Yes, I started my run too late, when the coveted early-morning shade was barely mottled shadows on the sidewalk. Yes, I ran a mile less than what I had planned.

But these men reminded me of what I forget all too often: I have two legs that work, and a stalwart heart that keeps a steady beat. I have a cap to ward the sun from my face, and sunscreen to keep my bare shoulders from burning. I have cold water in a bottle, and a towel to wipe the sweat from my face. I have energy to go, and (mostly) good sense to stop.

As I walked that last block, I glanced at the sidewalk and saw it dotted with green pecans. Tiny and inedible, maybe on another day I wouldn't have given them much thought. But today I saw them as something affirming: Hopeful precursors of autumn.

Flying high

2010-07-08T17:42:00.011-05:00

The word "volley," I just learned, comes from the middle-French word volee, meaning "to fly."

This definition -- admittedly, a bit of a head-slap for the mother of a live-it-breathe-it volleyball player -- was refined, repeated and reiterated in Austin the first week of July. That's when my Charlie's team, High Intensity 16s, and hundreds more played their hearts out in this event.

More than balls flew. So did bodies, scores, spirits. They were lifted and they were pummeled, raised and thrown, tossed and crushed and lifted again. Everything these teams -- from as far away as Hawaii and Canada -- had learned, practiced, strived and sweated buckets for came down to these days.

The jaw-droppingly defined calves of these kids, their arms powerful propellers, bore witness to a work ethic shared, one surpassed only by a hungry desire to be there.

In backpacks under team benches, I could almost see Charlie's plastic bottles, two filled with Gatorade and one with water; his energy bars and almonds; the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich he asked me every day of practice to make for him.

I could picture these players I didn't know by name, but knew just the same, gathering gear for a variation on High Intensity's practices: Two hours four days a week, four hours on Sundays. I saw them at thousands of kitchen tables, eating late after-practice dinners, telling their moms about the drills, collapsing on their couches in front of TV sets, a bag of ice held on a sore muscle, or on a scraped knee.

By the time each practice rolled around, the previous day's difficulties were all but forgotten and the kids were ready to play again. By the time the boys arrived in Austin, nothing mattered but the games. The first ones began each day at 8 a.m.; the last, 12 hours later.

From Saturday through Tuesday, we family members yelled, we whistled, we did a modified wave. We watched our boys show grace in victory, dignity in defeat. We marveled at how the tide can turn, at the intricacies of momentum, and the beauty of having it on your side.

On the tournament's last day, during the third game of the set that would determine whether our team would go home or play again, one mom turned to me. "I get so worked up over this when I'm here," she said. "Then I get back home with everything else going on and I wonder how I could get so caught up it."

One look around the massive convention center, though, and we both knew. How could we not get caught up, seeing balls soar through the air like numbered spheres at a bingo night, hearing whistles of refs and spectators, smelling the passionate hunger to win?

In front of us, behind us, surrounding us were boys who had put in countless hours of practice to be in this exact place at this exact time. These kids, who for four days gave everything they had, were reaching even deeper inside themselves -- just for the privilege of playing one more match, one more game, one minute more. Of doing what they believed they were born to do: Fly. Higher than even their dreams dared them.

Springing to action

2010-04-12T22:57:00.001-05:00

As soon as my neighbor opens his front door and walks out to his truck, he'll see my surprise: Flowers. Gerbera daisies, to be exact. A dozen of them, with more to come, planted in the bed that divides our respective driveways.

Longer ago than I care to admit, Alex gave me money to buy -- something! anything! to fill that sunny space. It's a perfectly nice strip of dirt that would look perfectly nicer with some sort of color. Meanwhile, he doctored the soil, did some digging, plus installed a sprinkler system down the middle of the bed. (He's a former engineer and can do that sort of thing).

Since then, we've met periodically meet as we've gotten out of our cars. I've renewed my promise to plant; he says no rush. A few days ago, he offered me more money.

"No no," I said. "I haven't even started to spend what you already gave me."

Alex put his wallet back in his pocket. "When you need some, you let me know."

On this oh-so-beautiful spring day, happily remembering where I had put his money, I pulled it out and went to Home Depot. I walked around and around the garden area and decided on the daisies. I didn't buy too many; I know from being slightly familiar with myself all these years that buying many more would not be a good idea. They would A. Overwhelm me and B. End up dying in their plastic cocoons instead of thriving in dirt.

I smiled as lugged the plants from my car, felt almost giddy while planting them. I put the pots in the recycle bag in the garage, then went back out front. I am sitting on the porch now, awaiting and excited about Alex's reaction to my promise fulfilled.

True, those dozen red and yellow daisies I planted take up barely one-eighth of the strip of dirt between Alex's and my driveway. But I'm still pretty tickled. After all, we do what we can to bring color, to bring beauty, to bring flowers into our lives. Sometimes it happens all at once, but more often, I suspect, it happens as it did for me today: One leaf, one petal, one satisfying scoop of dirt at a time.

Running on

2010-04-10T10:16:00.000-05:00

One year ago April 7, I was laid off from The Dallas Morning News. It wasn't a bad day; it was beautiful and sunny and a lot of people hugged me and I cried a little but really not much at all. A friend carried my boxes to my car; another met me for lunch. I ran that night and woke up the next morning and life went on.

A month or so later, I started working at Run On, the running store where I had shopped for years. It was one of the best things I have ever done. I have learned so much -- including (if I may boast a bit here) what a primo socks salesperson I am. For someone who had never sold anything other than Girl Scout cookies (and those not particularly well) it was a huge kick.

I have also worked with some of the finest people imaginable. People who -- even on my days of feeling like the village idiot -- have made me believe I belonged there. More than half of them (including the manager and assistant manager) are young enough to be my children. Still, something about each endeared them to me, and I hope I know them forever.

I also met (mostly) wonderful customers -- walkers, runners and neither-of-the-aboves. Everyone who walks through those double doors has a reason, a story behind their need for shoes on that particular day. I loved finding out the whys; looking for a connection with even the most stand-offish or shy.

I liked talking to the new runners, convincing them (or at least trying mightily) that they CAN do this; that running is at its essence as simple and complicated as life's journey: Putting one foot in front of the other.

And in so doing, of course, no matter who the customers, helping them find the most comfortable pair of shoes they have ever worn in their entire lives.

My son has loved me working there. He runs track, and his coach is a fave of our store. Plus Charlie likes hearing my stories: About the people who are way too particular about their shoe size, and the few who really do have stinky feet. About the man who tried on eight pairs of shoes before buying...nothing. About the woman who runs to raise money for blood diseases, because her son died of one and her husband is struggling to survive his own. About the girl who ties her shoes so tightly that her mother needs a screwdriver to loosen the laces.

Run On became an important part of both our lives. Then, a month or so ago, my former editor at the DMN called. We met for coffee and she offered me my job back. I start on April 19. And though I am extremely excited about writing for a living again, the thought of leaving Run On was tougher than some people might understand.

Working there was serendipitous, a godsend, an alignment of the stars -- one whose purpose only those really close to me can fathom. It was more than a paycheck. It was a place; it was people. And I expect I'm going to refer to the store as "we" for quite awhile. As in "This summer we're going to start selling the Vibram (barefoot-running) shoes."

Truth to tell, I hope I don't catch myself when I do.

Taking our chances

2010-04-03T22:40:00.004-05:00

Judy, a beloved college cohort, emailed me today. She wanted to let me know that Alisa, one of our newspaper-staff friends from our Baylor days, had died.

Alisa was an editor at the Shreveport Times, and an ardent animal rescuer. She'd undergone routine back surgery, and all had gone as planned. But then she developed a blood clot in her lungs, and she died. Just like that.

I have reread Judy's email probably seven times since then. Eight, counting just now.

True, I hadn't seen Alisa in decades. Periodically she'd send me a note about something I'd written, and for a few days afterward, we'd share back-and-forth newspaper chitchat and catch up on people we both knew. I can't remember the last time we corresponded, which in some way I think contributes to my feeling beyond sad, beyond shocked.

As I write this, I'm sitting on my front porch. The sky is the color of vinegar-smelling dye, into which dozens and dozens of hard-boiled eggs are now being dipped. They'll be hidden tonight, and discovered under couch cushions and upside-down flower pots on Easter morning.

Even at dusk, I can still see the marigolds and periwinkles I planted today, having grown impatient with seeds that just take too long for my spring-hungry mind. The world is Oz, an outpouring of color I'm especially aware because of this part of Judy's note:

"Alisa loved spring, and her funeral was on a perfect spring day. She is buried up in Texarkana, under a tree, next to her beloved dad."

Just as I finished reading Judy's note for the first time, my best friend called. After I read it to her, I said what we all know, but which we take so for granted.

"Oh, Sister. Life is just so precious."

At work last week, we were talking about a first grader who had choked to death at her school. That tragedy led to a conversation about life's unpredictability, and how sometimes stuff just happens for which there are no answers. One friend told about a jogger she'd read about who was hit and killed by (this is true) a plane.

So does news like that make us stop running or driving or having much-needed surgeries or falling in love because we MIGHT get hurt? It could...but it doesn't. After all, we humans are a strong and plucky lot. Sure, life is inherently a risk. But we take our chances; what choice do we have?

Click here to read what I wrote about this -- almost four years ago to the day -- after a trip to a writers' conference in Hartford, Conn.

And rest in peace, sweet Alisa.

Thinking (tw)ice

2010-03-21T13:25:00.000-05:00

If you heard about an 82-year-old man who, on a snowy, icy and windy Sunday -- after taking his wife to catch a pre-dawn flight to attend her brother's funeral -- decided to drive 100 miles home before the sand trucks had ventured out, what would you say?

If you knew my father, your answer would be easy: "Oh, that Eddie."

Not much stops my dad. Not a nosebleed that can't be controlled; not a broken foot caused by kicking a stubborn sheep (who never felt a thing, by the way); not various falls to the ground; not a few serious skin cancers.

And certainly not a little (or a lot of) ice. After all, he had to get home. The dogs and donkeys needed feeding, the plants to be brought in from the front porch, a nap to be taken in his own chair.

Still, when my sister Susan told me at 8:30 this morning that Dad was on I-30 headed east, I first texted back: "Why?" to which she replied, "Cuz he's Dad."

"Eddie is invincible," I replied.

Just to make sure, though, I knocked wood, tossed salt over my shoulder and began my oft-repeated, "Please let Daddy (fill in the blank)" prayer.

She sent back a note two hours later: "I called the house and his cell phone and there's no answer," she said.

I saw that note after I saw the next one: "He made it," she wrote, and added a smiley face.

I called to tell him I was glad he was OK, and, yes, to admonish him a bit for driving in this.

"Well, it was slippery," he acknowledged. "The sand trucks hadn't been out, and there were a couple of places on the overpasses where I skidded a little."

"I'm so glad you're OK," I said.

"Oh honey, of course," he said.

There's a fine line between courageous and crazy, between determined and stubborn, between aware and oblivious. Frankly, much of the time, I'm not sure on which side my dad leans. But as long as he doesn't stumble, and as long as he keeps answering the phone, it doesn't really matter.

Watching out

2010-03-16T18:32:00.001-05:00

The man who came into the running store held the door open with his foot while he pushed a kid-cool wheelchair inside. He was upbeat and friendly as he maneuvered the chair to the shoe wall. I asked his name.

"Jeff," he said.

"I'm Leslie. Who's your friend here?" I asked, kneeling to look at her eye-level.

"That's Katie, my daughter," he said. "She's 13."

"Nice to meet you," I said.

Katie's brown hair was held back from her forehead with a white headband. Her tennis shoes were pink and white, her bare legs smooth and slender. She didn't answer when her dad or I spoke to her, or seem to understand what we said. But she tilted her face toward her father, and seemed comfortable and happy.

At one point, I asked if she'd like to hold the teddy bear we keep, along with other toys, in a corner for antsy children. "What do you think, Katie?" he asked, then answered me, "Thank you, but I think she's fine."

He talked to her some as he tried on the shoes. "Katie, I'm going to walk around the store for a minute," he said. Or "How do you like these, Katie?"

He bought the shoes and put the box on Katie's lap. When they reached the door, Andrew, one of my colleagues, dashed out from around the counter to open it for him. He came back to the desk where a few of us were standing.

"Do you know what's wrong with her?" he asked.

No, I told him, only that she didn't seem to be able to do anything for herself.

Andrew fiddled with one of the rubber bracelets on his arm. "My cousin's son is disabled," he said, "and his parents have started a foundation for him that raises money to buy playground equipment for disabled children. That's what this bracelet is.

"Do you think that man would mind if I gave it to him, and told him about the foundation?"

We looked out the window. Jeff had slid open the side door to his van and was lifting Katie's wheelchair inside.

"Not at all," I said. "Go! Hurry!"

Andrew quickly scribbled down the foundation's website, grabbed the piece of paper and ran outside. He returned a minute or so later.

"What did he say?" I asked.

"He said thank you very much," Andrew said.

Just another reminder that 1. I work with some really wonderful people. And 2. We really are all in this together.

Here's the website, by the way: http://www.patrickspalsfoundation.com/

Stepping out

2010-03-11T23:36:00.003-06:00

Sometimes at the running store, I'm still a techno-talk neophyte when it comes to explaining how one shoe differs from another. Still, I'm pretty good at matching feet to shoes. Or, as I like to tell customers, "helping you find the most comfortable shoes you have ever worn in your entire life."

But where I falter in shoe-speak, I find my footing in chitchat. I like learning what (if any) training someone is doing. Why that person has decided to walk, or to run, or to keep doing either, or to simply find shoes that won't hurt his feet. I have been with people for as little as 10 minutes, or as long as one-and-a-half hours.

When I fit them into the right shoes, I'm happy. When I can make them smile or laugh, I beam.

That said, here are a few faves from the last few weeks.

1. The history-wearer. The man named Rich didn't know the treasure he wore on his feet. He just knew the Brooks Adrenaline had served him well. So I brought out a newer model. He tried them on, proclaimed them perfect, stood up and walked around to make doubly sure.
At that point Daniel, our assistant manager, was passing by. "Oh my GOSH!" he said, spotting the old shoes. He picked one up, looked it over and said, "How long have you had these?"
"Ten years," Rich said.
"They're the original Adrenalines!" Dan said, calling over another colleague to look at them. "I've never seen these before!"
"You can have them if you'd like," Rich said.
Daniel thanked him profusely and put the shoes in a glassed-in section of the front desk. He printed out a label giving Rich credit for his donation. It was pretty exciting. I think we all felt a bit like winners in our own version of Antiques Roadshow.

2. The father & daughter. Confession: When the heavyset man came in wearing a White Rock Marathon t-shirt, I didn't think it was his. I am happy that it was, because it furthers my belief that anyone can have the passion, and that anyone can run.
He brought his daughter in. They're running her first half marathon together this Sunday, and he wanted her to have the right shoes. She's 13, a teen-ager who texted her friends between try-ons; a little girl who giggled when I told her the red Nikes were just right for her foot, and who pranced around to show her dad how they looked.
Interesting, what you can learn about someone in an hour-and-a-half. The girl's favorite color is red. She had just moved from her mother's home in another city into her dad's. She has a sister. He has a girlfriend who is coming in town to run the half with them. Father and daughter seemed so easy, so respectful, so comfortable with each other.
After she found her shoes, he decided he wanted some, too. Six pairs later, he decided on the very first ones he'd tried on, which were the same make and model he was wearing. That was fine with me; I enjoyed their company, and feeling part of something rather special.

3. The hero. The tall, blondish man said he was just starting to run again after five years. So yeah, of course I asked the story of why. He told me he was four months away from running his fourth White Rock marathon. One night, he was home with his year-old daughter when they next-door neighbor's house caught on fire. He ran onto his roof to spray it with water and protect it -- and thus his daughter and his home -- against the fast-approaching flames.
The firefighters, seeing how close the fire was, screamed at him to get off the roof. So he jumped, breaking both ankles. The day after surgery, he asked his doctor if he could run again. The reply: "Right now, you're lucky to be able to walk."
Five years later, he runs fewer miles in a week than what he'd run on a long Sunday run. But he's learned a lot -- about capabilities, about strength, about the human spirit. And he, unlike most of us, takes nothing for granted.

4. The size observer.
We noticed her shoes as she walked in: Four-inch patent-leather heels.
I fitted her into a pair or running shoes that seemed much more comfortable. She was happy with them; I was relieved when I was able to talk her into a bigger size. She was very nice but, as way too many customers are, overly concerned with sizes. Clothing, I can sort of see. But none of us has control over the size of shoe we wear.
I put her shoebox on the counter and took her to look at apparel. She selected a sleeveless top.
"I think I'd wear the small," she said. "What do you think?"
My eyes tried to avoid her cleavage (read: ample bosom) that was never intended to fit into the built-in bra of a small (or even a medium) size. We didn't have a medium so I tried to be diplomatic.
"Well," I said, "you're a bit...well endowed for a small, I think. How about if you try a small and a large and see if maybe the medium would be the right size. Then I could get it from another store."
"Oh I could never wear a large," she said.
She found a medium in another color and carried it to the dressing room. A few minutes later, she called me in.
"Look," she said. "The medium is just perfect isn't it."
It wasn't a question, so I didn't feel compelled to totally answer.
"That is such a pretty pattern, and the color looks really good on you," I said. "How does it feel?"
"It feels great," she said.
"That's the important thing," I said. "I think you should get it."

Passing fancy

2010-02-28T22:16:00.000-06:00

I have long been enthralled by relay races. By the choreography of passing the baton from one hand to another. By the split-second accuracy. By the blind faith each runner places in the other to make it all work.

Last Saturday, at the second track meet of the season, my son Charlie was part of the quartet of trust.

Basking in being birthday queen for a (snow) day

2010-02-12T12:21:00.000-06:00

Being reminded

2010-02-07T22:41:00.003-06:00

We humans tend to take life's basics -- running, walking, snort-laughing, listening, friends, music, raincoats, children, parents, pets, pasta, thunderstorms, sunshine, soup, silence -- for granted. This isn't a particularly bold or astute observation; still, it's one that needs to be pointed out at least a bit more often.

Tomorrow, you can be the one to do so. But today, it's my turn. Or, more accurately, it is that of a total stranger, one who didn't even realize she was taking a turn.

She came into Run On, the running store where I work, on Saturday. Truth to tell, if she walked right into my dining room right now, I probably wouldn't recognize her. But I do remember her story.

She sat down across from me in the store and told me her feet hurt. No wonder; she had just walked around White Rock Lake in shoes she knew needed replacing. If she were to do the Rock 'n' Roll Half Marathon on March 14, she told me, she'd better buy some new ones.

"You're running the half?" I asked. "How exciting!"

"Oh, I'm not running it," she said. "I'm walking. It'll be my fourth half-marathon. I do it with Team N Training."

(TNT is a program in which participants raise money to fight blood cancer and support patients. In turn, they are trained by certified coaches for various events across the country.)

"I've heard such wonderful things about that program," I said. "If you don't mind I ask, how did you happen to get involved with it?"

"My husband and son both have had forms of blood cancer," she said.

"Oh my gosh," I said. "How are they doing?"

"My husband had a bone-marrow transplant 16 months ago," she said. "He's had some complications, but he's doing OK. My son died last September."

"Oh no," I said. "I am so so sorry."

"He was 35. He had a wife and a precious 3-year-old daughter."

I was tying her shoes while she talked, tying them very slowly and deliberately, wondering whether I would start to cry if I said anything. I finished, patted her shoes, put my hands on my legs and sat up straight.

"What a beautiful tribute you're doing for them," I said.

"Thank you," she said. "I love it. I know it means a lot to my husband, and that it meant a lot to my son."

She smiled, paid for her shoes and a pair of socks, and walked out the door. She wasn't trying to make a point, or to teach a lesson, or to remind me not to take life for granted. She was just someone doing what those who meant the world to her could not do -- walk. Because she can, and because she loves them very much.

Running commentary

2010-01-06T21:59:00.001-06:00

I haven't asked her about this in awhile. Still, I am fairly certain that on the days that she works, my mother still jots down snippets to share with my dad when she gets home.

(Click here to read what I wrote about her a few years back).

When I work at the running store, I meet all sorts of interesting people. Like Mom says, everyone who walks through the door -- runner, walker, neither -- has a story. As we talk, I think I'll remember what each one had to say. But (surprise) I don't.

So I followed Mom's lead and started jotting down a few notes myself the last week or so. Here's who -- mostly for better, maybe one not so much -- I want to remember.

1. The pilot. She was laid off from her job as a corporate pilot about the same time I lost my job. Her smile was beautiful; her attitude optimistic. But when she started talking about aviation -- about why she loves to fly and why she misses it so -- her eyes filled with passionate tears. I recognized them, because once in awhile (less than I thought I would, really), I get that way about writing.

2. The half-marathon walker. As I fitted him with shoes, I think he told me four times that he weighs 260 pounds. What I liked about him, though, was that he finished last in a half-marathon last year.
"That is so cool," I said. "You finished it. And somebody had to be last."
"Yeah," he said, "once I got to the Katy Trail, I turned around and there were four police cars right behind me, just waiting to be able to open the road again. One of the police officers got on his radio and said, 'He just started on the Katy Trail.'
"When I crossed the finish line, everyone there shook hands with me."
"See?" I said. "They didn't do that for the person who finished next to last."

3. The Breast Cancer 3-Day walker. One of those women who's so naturally pretty you try not to stare at her, she walks faster than many people run. When I asked how she happened to start doing the 3-Day (did she have a family member with breast cancer?) she told me this:

"My husband's mother died of breast cancer when she was 40 years old. I decided that when I turned 40, I'd do the 3-Day for her, and keep doing it for every year she missed. I'm 47 now, and I'll keep walking for it as long as I can."

4. That uh, other guy. Ten minutes after we locked the doors and midway through his shoe try-on, his phone rang. He answered it, asked me for a pen and paper, walked to a nearby table, and spent a good five minutes talking and taking notes.

By that time (truth be told and despite what my mother says) I wasn't in the mood to hear the story of this chap with the name so Biblical I thought he made it up. Not that his extra thumb that had to be removed grew back more than a decade later...necessitating another amputation. Not that he wanted to bring a friend in to help him choose shoes -- someone who (apparently unlike me) could explain shoe technology to him.

So I smiled, walked him to the door, unlocked it to let him out. I felt a little dazed. Quite frankly, I still do.

Swilling champagne & chilling shrimp

2009-12-31T20:47:00.002-06:00

I stopped at Sprouts on New Year's Eve and left with a pound of boiled shrimp. The significance didn't hit me till I got home, unwrapped the package and started eating this longtime favorite treat of mine.

When I was growing up, cold, boiled shrimp signified New Year's Eve as much as black-eyed peas and resolutions. It was my brothers' and sisters' and my favorite part of our parents' New Year's Eve party...one of the few kid-friendly offerings we could nab when nobody was looking.

The parties were legendary. People (some invited, some not) danced. Champagne flowed. People danced because champagne flowed. The dignified SMU dean who lived down the block walked his wife home...then appeared at our front door after making sure she was asleep. On many a New Year's Day, we'd find party-goers in the bushes, sleeping off the previous evening's frivolity.

Tonight, I eat my shrimp and think about those parties, wondering when and why they ended. Only in retrospect do I realize what irreverently raucous evenings those were...ones that, depending on my mood and my level of loneliness, I'd kind of like being part of.

A waiting crate; awaiting fate

2009-12-27T10:17:00.001-06:00

I knew Macho would be gone, adopted to his permanent family, by the time I got home from work on Saturday. Still, when I opened the front door, I glanced toward the dining room, half expecting to see the big lug ambling over to greet me. He'd even started wagging his tail (a huge step) upon my arrival.

But alas. On the floor by the front window were the blue quilt and the white one. There were the two Milk Bones he never really liked.

Then I saw the crate (the HUGE crate, I might add) in the kitchen. My heart jumped. Maybe his new family had had second thoughts! Maybe they were still iced in! (despite temperatures that had climbed above the freezing point). Maybe maybe maybe...

Or, the most likely maybe of all, it awaits our next foster dog. One the cats might hide from for 36 hours before garnering their bravado, their affection, their awe for this big ol' lummox. One who loves a quilt fresh from the dryer, a little peanut butter mixed with his food. One whose soulful eyes have seen more than we really need or can bring ourselves to know.

Meanwhile, the crate is empty. The front window is, too. But after my runs, I still glance at it, expecting to see the face that, for two precious weeks, welcomed me home.

Loving Molly. Always.

2009-12-20T11:50:00.002-06:00

I admit I have not been a good friend to Molly. I used to walk by her yard almost every day, bringing her three Milk Bones. I'd talk to her, telling her what a good girl she was. She'd wag her tail, trotting to one spot to take the first, another for the second, the last for the third.

I'd say, "OK, Molly, have a good day. Love you," and walk home.

But the last few times I'd seen her, she hardly moved. I'd still talk to her, still drop bones in her yard. She looked thin, and it broke my heart to see her and feel so helpless. One day I put a bowlful of dog food mixed with an egg in her yard. But mostly, I am beyond ashamed to say, I'd avoid her yard. But today on the way to church, we were running late and so drove right by her house.

In the chain link fence, I saw three white flowers. And I knew. I started to cry. My son put his hand on my shoulder. He squeezed it; he rubbed it; he kept it there till we were almost to church.

"It's OK Mom," he kept saying. "It's OK."

She was a beautiful dog, a white German shepherd. She was friendly and sweet, wagging her tail for kids going to the elementary school a hundred yards away, brightening more lives than she ever knew.

I am trying to console myself thinking she is in a much better place, a place where someone pets her and loves her even when school isn't in session. A place where someone takes her on walks, and lets her run off the leash, knowing she'll always come back to them.

Click here to read what I wrote about her six years ago. Godspeed, Molly. Love you.

(Re)opening hearts

2009-12-14T23:42:00.006-06:00

When I suggested to my son that we foster a greyhound, his initial reaction was eagerness. But a few hours before Macho was to be delivered to our house, I found Charlie in the office, lying on a chair, petting his cat, being uncharacteristically silent.

"I'm not sure if I'm ready for another dog," he said.

We lost our Sally during the summer, and have been making do quite nicely (or so we've thought) with two cats. But we've missed her, and missed having a dog. (Click here to read more). My running pal and his wife have a houseful of greyhounds -- dogs I'm quite fond of, dogs that remind me of the pleasures of canine company.

Yet I understood what Charlie was saying. I empathized with his mixed emotions, felt my heart bruise at the idea of another dog stepping (albeit gingerly) into it.

"Charlie," I said, "no dog will ever replace Sally. We don't expect one to. We don't want one to; that's not the reason we're getting (even temporarily) another one."

"I know," he said. "I'm just thinking."

Macho's been here 24 hours now. He has slept, eaten, gone on a few short walks, conked out afterward, and played for perhaps a total of three minutes with a squeaky toy we bought him before he got here.

When Charlie got into the car after school, he didn't even rummage for his drive-home snack before he asked what Macho had done today.

We know Macho has already been adopted. We're just keeping him till after Christmas, when his forever family will bring him home for good. Meanwhile, we delight in hearing dog toenails on the hardwood floors again. Once more, dark-puddled eyes mesmerize us. We've pulled out the Milk Bones we'd bought for Sally and had yet to throw away. Macho doesn't seem that interested, but I rather like seeing them again.

Macho is big. He is white. He is a bit of a lummox, somewhat of an lug, the sweetest galoot you can imagine.We're pretty attached to him already. He slept in Charlie's room half of that first night here; right now, he's conked out by Charlie's bed for what we hope is a full night of sleep.

A half-hour earlier, Charlie was in the dining room, his laptop on the table, finishing his homework. He said something, which initially I thought was directed at me. Now, thinking back, I'm not so sure.

"I had forgotten," I heard him say, "how much fun having a dog is."

Encountering chance

2009-12-09T22:57:00.005-06:00

A few mornings ago, my mom, my dad, and my sister Jeanne were eating breakfast at a known-for-its-biscuits cafe. They were almost finished when Mom spotted a well-dressed woman sitting alone a few tables away.

"She looks just like Carol!" whispered Mom to Jeanne, referring to a woman with whom she used to work. Mom kept looking at the woman, who smiled and waved a bit.

She wasn't Carol, but Mom felt compelled to talk to her anyway. If you knew my mother, this would not surprise you in the least. If you don't know her, well, I wish you did. She is quite possibly the most interested, interesting, energetic and compassionate person you could ever hope to meet. Oh, and she's pretty adorable, too. But I digress.

Turns out the woman is 82 ("I couldn't believe it when she told me that!" Mom said). She's from New York (like Mom). Her first name is Lorraine; her last Coghlin (the same as Mom's sister).

"Honey," Mom told me later, "we probably talked for at least 20 minutes. We just had this connection."

Lorraine said that perhaps fate brought her and Mom together.

"Maybe we were meant to meet each other today," she said. "When I was working, a man came into the office not long after my brother had died. He reminded me so much of my brother, it was uncanny. I almost didn't tell him that, but I did.

"He thanked me, of all things. He said maybe he needed to be at my office that day for a reason. Maybe it was to help me find some peace about my brother's death."

"We just don't know, do we?" Mom said, repeating what she had said to Lorraine. She paused and I sensed she was also asking me, yet not expecting an answer.

In the course of their conversation, Mom told Lorraine how much she enjoys her part-time job in the lingerie section of a department store. By the time the two parted ways, Lorraine had decided to apply at Neiman's or Nordstrom's.

"It sounds like such fun," she said. "I'll let you know."

She and Mom exchanged phone numbers and email addresses. They vowed to see each other again. Before saying goodbye, Lorraine shared one more thought.

"This," she said, "is a miracle."

In 20 minutes, you can get your bangs trimmed. You can fold clothes, or jog two miles, or address a dozen Christmas cards. You can butter your toast and sip your coffee and catch up with those at your table.

Or you can channel my mom as you set your cup in its saucer and catch the eyes of a stranger. Someone who, for reasons you'll never know, just happened to pick the same place to eat, on the same day, at the same time, as you. Reasons that, 20 minutes later, really don't matter much at all.

Malaise musings

2009-12-08T16:10:00.005-06:00

When you don't feel good, you figure either:
A. Nobody else does. Or
B. Everyone is perfectly healthy except for you.

You squint when you venture outside to get the mail, whether the sun is out or not. When it's time to pick up your son from school, you hope you remember how to drive, and that your nose doesn't bleed, and that the ibuprofen lasts until you get home.

One day, you are so tired of feeling crummy that you tell yourself: Enough. You put on a red sweater to perk yourself up. You gather your gym stuff, make sure your podcasts have downloaded, make the bed.

At the gym, you're kind of in a daze. You think you're using lower weights than usual, but truthfully, it seems like so long since you've been there you can't quite remember what "usual" is. You consider trying the Stairmaster, or an elliptical machine, but the thought exhausts you.

In the dressing room, you're afraid to catch a glimpse of yourself. You haven't exercised in three days; no doubt you're now a certified chunkster with zero metabolism. You can't think of anything funny, or why you once thought you were in shape.

Then you get to your car, and as you throw your sneakers into the back, you realize (dare you say this?) you feel a teeny bit better. You think of the half-marathon you're scheduled to run on Sunday, the one you've all but told yourself you won't be able to do.

You reread the note from your nephew, with whom you've had a standing date on the starting line for three years now: "Not running? Auntie, you have to run!"

And you start to believe him (at least a little), and your friend who has all along said a variance on this: "You're not going to lose months of conditioning and training if you take an easy week. Save those legs and energy for Sunday."

So though you're not making promises, to yourself or anyone else, you're at least considering the possibilities. And you're pretty sure that when you pick up your son from school today, you'll talk about something funny, something that makes you laugh. Out loud, and for a very long time.

When life gives you lemons...make my lemon bread

2009-12-06T13:13:00.004-06:00

In modest estimation, I have baked close to 1,000 loaves of lemon bread. Most, foil-wrapped and bow-tied, I left on the desks of co-workers a few days before Christmas Eve. (The others I ate when no one was looking.)

Anyway, I'd start baking Thanksgiving weekend. By this time in December, I'd have about 30 loaves in the freezer. But I'm not working at the same place any more, and so I have baked nary a one.

Instead, I'm passing along the recipe. OK OK OK. It's no great secret. It USED to be a secret, but I shared it once before....albeit in a Dallas Morning News blog that nobody read (but me).

So here you go: My version of a recipe I kiped from a Farm Journal cookbook, that I in turn had kiped from the food-section office years ago.

Two things I'll admit about my lemon tea bread: 1. It's delicious. And 2. The notes from co-workers who made it part of their Christmas...became part of mine.

Enjoy!

LEMON TEA BREAD
1 1/2 cups sifted flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup sugar
1/3 cup melted butter
2 eggs
1 teaspoon lemon extract
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
1/2 cup milk
1/2 cup chopped walnuts or pecans

topping:
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 cup lemon juice

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In one bowl, combine flour, baking powder and salt. Set aside.
In larger bowl, combine one cup sugar, butter, eggs, lemon extract and lemon juice. Beat at medium speed for two minutes.
Add dry ingredients alternately with milk, beating after each addition. Stir in walnuts or pecans. Pour into greased 9-by-5-by-3-inch loaf pan.
Bake for 50 minutes, or till toothpick stuck into the center comes out clean. Cool in pan on rack 10 minutes.
Meanwhile, mix together 1/2 cup sugar and 1/4 cup lemon juice for the topping. Using a fork, prick holes in the bread. Pour lemon-sugar mixture over top.

When cool, remove from pan. Wrap in foil, tie with a bow, and give to a special somebody or two. Yes, they'll probably notice if there's a bite missing. But you may not be able to resist. Besides, once they taste it...they'll understand.

Snow daze

2009-12-02T07:57:00.004-06:00

My fingers are too grasped around a tissue to grab a camera and head outside to illustrate this. So maybe you can look out your own window at the snow, or close your eyes and revel in the magic of snow days.

First, much to my son's chagrin, this isn't one, at least not yet. He's at school, no doubt paying more attention to the falling flakes than to Aristophanes.

Here at home, you can't help but watch the snow either. To remember those mornings when you get out of bed and your feet are cold when they touch the floor. Of looking outside, of seeing the slightest whisper of snow on the ground, of having the teeniest of flashes thinking....what if? What if?

You're shivering a little -- with cold or optimistic anticipation, who knows? You smell almost-burned toast and go into the kitchen to eat your oatmeal and the radio is on and the announcer is calling out the school closings. They're in alphabetical order, and if you never paid attention to your ABCs, you can bet you do right now.

And then you hear it. Your school. Closed. All. Day. Long. You run into the living room and the good news is confirmed at the bottom of the TV screen.

You call your friend two doors down and you meet outside. You're freezing, but laughing like hyenas and trying to gather enough snow in your wet mittens to make a snowball to push down her turtleneck sweater.

By noon, after you've burned the roof of your mouth gulping Campbell's tomato soup and wolfing down a grilled-cheese sandwich, you rush back outside. There's still hardly any accumulation. Still, the snow falls.

And still, you snatch it up, practically as it drops from the sky, determined to build a snowman. One that wobbles on the brown grass, one that will be gone by the time school would be let out.

But there is no school. Today's a snow day.

Giblet musings

2009-11-25T22:51:00.005-06:00

We're counting the hours till it's time to niblets

The tasty turkey parts we call the giblets

The mere thought of them makes our vision blurred

Yum!! That tantalizing viscera of our big ol' bird.

How sad that some experience depravity

At never reaching inside a turkey's cold cavity

And grabbing a bag with the gizzard! The liver!

Such delectable thoughts make our legs start to quiver.

Then mincing it mightily with chunks o'the neck

Got celery? And salt? And bouillon cube? Check.

We simmer the mix till the smell from the burner

Starts our noses to hurt, our stomachs to turn(er).

Because, yes, we admit we've been telling a fiblet

We get slightly ill at the thought of a giblet.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING (anyway)

Leafing well enough alone

2009-11-23T17:40:00.006-06:00

My Charlie is out of school for Thanksgiving break. I'm glad he has the whole week off; school is tough and his days long.

So sweet mother that I am, I smiled at him as he lay on the couch...at least until the 17th time I walked by. I gently asked what he was doing on the computer (FOR THE LAST FOUR HOURS). I let him sleep, trying very hard to vacuum quietly.

But long about 3 p.m., I'd had enough of sloth. I strongly suggested a little together time; namely, raking leaves.

An hour later, he was still in his PJs. I raised my voice (but hardly at all) saying it wouldn't take long and that it needed to be done.

So out we went. I started putting the piles into bags. He said he wanted to rake a huge one and jump in it. So that's what he did. But not till I found my little video camera and shot this. I haven't mastered the art of editing (or, admittedly, filming). So start this at about Second 11 and go from there.

Raining silence

2009-11-15T17:02:00.005-06:00

I am sitting on the porch, hearing the rain before it starts. The air shivers; it rustles; it quivers a bit.

I call my son outside to affirm what I am, or am not, hearing.

"Listen," I tell him.

Charlie is quiet for a moment, then asks: "What?"

"Shhh. The sound. Do you hear it?"

"It's rain," he says.

But when he trots across the porch and stands on the sidewalk, he doesn't get wet.

He goes inside, and the rhythmic sound persists. Hearing it, yet seeing nothing but the orange tint of autumn's air, is an odd sensation. I feel as if I am somehow privy to the future, to a split-second secret of what is a breath away: The last batch of leaves to fall; stars to sparkle; wineglasses and hearts to shatter.

Within minutes, the rain is falling. Oddly enough, without a sound.

Volleybald champs!!

2009-11-08T17:47:00.004-06:00

Oh my. What a win! Guess maybe rubbing the kid's head for good luck helped.

Short(er) and still pretty sweet

2009-11-06T11:08:00.003-06:00

On Thursday, five days after the initial head shave, Charlie said his hair felt "uber heavy."

So back we went to Huey's barbershop. This time, Huey himself did the honors -- shaving what was left of Charlie's tresses. And not without asking several times if Charlie was SURE that's what he wanted.

Charlie was. So Huey shaved.

His parting words: "Charlie, the next step...is blood."

In the car, Charlie told me he wanted it short so, in case his team made the volleyball playoffs, everyone could rub his head for good luck.

We'll see how well that works. Playoffs are today at 4; the Lions are in 'em.

A shaved head?! Do Tell(y)

2009-10-31T14:44:00.006-05:00

About a month ago, my son Charlie (to distinguish him from all my other sons) decided he wanted to shave his head.

The reason? An upcoming volleyball tournament of course. (Why I missed that connection is beyond me.)

"Who else is doing it?" I asked.

He looked puzzled at my question. "Nobody I know of," he said. "Just me."

I asked again today, minutes before our jaunt to the barbershop.

"Because I'm me," he said. "Because I'm a little crazy. Because I'm the unofficial team cheerleader."

These are all true. He is very much his own person. Plus, as the youngest player on the varsity team, he doesn't always get to play. So he screams and yells and whoops during the game, usually coming home hoarse and happily wiped out.

I was fine with his decision. Pretty tickled, actually. So off we went to Huey's, where Charlie has had his hair cut since he was 10 months old.

As we sat and waited our turn, we couldn't stop smiling. When Huey's son called Charlie to the chair, I followed with my video camera (post to follow...soon!) We laughed like idiots as his beautiful dark brown hair fell to the floor.

And we agreed that yes, this was indeed a good idea.

Adam Kaplan meets the New York City Marathon

2009-10-27T08:55:00.003-05:00

I met Adam Kaplan at Enterprise, when we were both renting cars while our respective vehicles were being repaired. He mentioned running...and participating in the New York City Marathon...and how he'd lost 70 pounds...and I was intrigued.

So I tracked him down a few days later, met him and his wife at Starbucks, and wrote about him. Here you go: Click here to read more about this fascinating man with a dream & determination.

Rooting for my fave half-Ironman'er

2009-10-25T17:36:00.008-05:00

My nephew Ben and I have a bit of a running tradition going. As a Christmas/birthday gift two (three?) years ago, I ponied up for his Dallas White Rock Half Marathon registration.

It's something we both count on now. We drive to the race together, chat in the bathroom line, hug at the starting line, and meet up again two hours later. He's always waiting at the finish line, having crossed it 20 to 30 minutes before I do.

Last March, though, he agreed to pace me at the Rock to Victory half. It turned out to be one of my most inspiring and fun and memorable races ever. Read about it by clicking here.

All of this to say that on Sunday, Ben ran yet another half...13.1 miles at an jaw-dropping pace of 7:19. Oh, yes, and that's after having swum 1.2 miles and biked 55 of 'em.

Yep, my nephew is now a half-Ironman'er, having participated in this: The Longhorn Ironman 70.3 He finished 6th of 99 in his age group.

I couldn't be there, but my niece (his sister) kept me posted through text messages:

"He just got out of the lake!"
"We saw him ride by on his bike!"
"This is so cool watching him!"
"We've seen Ben five times now!" "
"He'll be finishing in about 10 minutes!"

I kept peeking at my phone, making sure I hadn't missed a message. It was a chilly and windy day in Austin; I kept thinking of Ben swimming in the choppy water...riding his dream bike...running on those long legs that stayed by my side for 13.1 miles in March.

I alternated between giggles, goosebumps and tears. They were all for Ben yesterday. Yet writing this now, I realize they're a tripod of life, or at least of mine: What strikes me funny, what takes my breath away. And yeah, what makes me cry: Tears of sorrow, tears of joy.

A kid and his mum

2009-10-05T15:20:00.001-05:00

Remembering Gary

2009-10-04T18:29:00.007-05:00

Twenty-one years ago today, one of the best friends I have ever had in my entire life died. Gary was 32. Thirty-two! With each year that passes, I'm struck anew by how young that is.

Gary was funny; he was smart; he was clever as all get out. We had a friendship whose depth was only equaled by its inanity. Even today, 21 years after he died, I still think of him when certain things (OK, or people too) strike me as amusing or absurd. I want to pick up the phone and call him, or write him a letter -- two forms of communication we relied on. I shudder to think (and am at the same time highly tickled) how little work Gary and I would have gotten done if he were alive in the email era.

After Gary died, I looked for him for a long time. Longer than I should have, really. I looked to find someone I could send silly post cards to; someone who would love the word "pumpkin;" someone whose insecurities surpassed even my own. Maybe that person would even associate gin and tonics with my parents.(They introduced Gary to that drink after he was mugged and, being new in town, could think of no one but my parents to call)

Somewhere in the middle of my search, though, I called it off. It could have been a dozen years ago; it could have been five, it could have been one. But one day I realized I will never find another Gary.

That isn't a bad thing; maybe it's a mature observation of sorts. I realized that what Gary and I had, and what anyone has with a friend or a lover or a family member, is a snowflake, a fingerprint -- any number of nouns singled out for being unique.

Maybe at some point, we accept that, as I did about Gary. We stop listening for an echo; we stop reaching for the ditto marks.

Instead, we take a deep breath, and exhale a thank you. Then we make a wish on that first star..and the second, and if need be, the third. We squeeze shut our eyes, and count to 100 by 2s. We roll the dice and we cross our fingers. We throw salt over our left shoulders, and we take a chance. Maybe we'll be lucky -- call it blessed if you will -- and our spirit & soul & sense of humor will meld again with someone else's. One more time. One more precious time.

Being a gentleman

2009-10-03T16:26:00.007-05:00

My son is going to homecoming within a matter of hours. It is his first time to go, his second to be on a date.

I'm not going to get into how handsome I think he looks in his black suit and white shirt, or how beautiful his date's wrist corsage is. Nor will I say how, during the two weeks since the girl said yes, he pops up with questions or comments seemingly out of the blue, seemingly out of context. Yet every time I know exactly what he is means, and I answer as best I know how.

Instead, I'm going to pass along two thoughtful bits of advice from two really nice guys. The first is from Daniel, assistant manager where I work. He said this:

"Tell Charlie that she would not have said yes unless she likes him, unless she wanted to go. So he doesn't need to worry about getting her to like him. She already does. Instead, he just needs to make sure she has a good time."

The other is from my nephew Ben. He's 22, majorly athletic, funny as all get out, adorable, sweet and, like his father and grandfather -- well, listen to what he says, and you'll know.

"Tell Chuckles to be a gentleman. I think that's one thing that girls appreciate, and not all guys are smart enough to realize it."

True words, and so well and sweetly spoken. Admittedly, the white shirt -- and the smile -- certainly can't hurt either.

Weeping for Molly

2009-10-03T08:27:00.005-05:00

I am going to tell about a beautiful white German shepherd named Molly. She lives next to an elementary school, and she revels in the hour before school, and the hour after, when children pet her head and talk to her.

Once a week or so, I have walked by her yard at night, carrying three Milk Bones for her. When she was younger, I would give her each one at a certain spot. I would say, "Love you, Molly! Have a good night," when I left.

Lately, she hasn't even heard me approach. She has lain in the yard, and truth to tell I have thought she was dead. I have left the bones, and prayed next time I drove by, she would be at the fence.

Yesterday I brought her three bones. She was thin; for the first time I could see glimpses of her ribs. I cried as I walked home. I watched TV for awhile, then scooped out some of my dog Sally's food -- which I haven't been able to throw away since she died. I cracked an egg on it, stirred it up, and carried the bowl to Molly's yard.

I called to her; I rattled the fence. Molly didn't move. She was lying down again across the yard, close to her driveway and parked cars. I was a little scared to go closer -- scared she might not be breathing, scared she might be hurting, scared the person who owns her would come outside and ask what I was doing. I have never seen him pet her, never heard him call her name...though I have seen him in the yard with her and seen her eyes follow his every move.

Not knowing what else to do, I walked home, crying harder this time, crying like I am right now.

I still don't know what to do. I want to wrap a blanket and my arms around her, like I did my Sally when her life was fading. Instead I will say a little prayer for Molly. A prayer that either she is OK, or that she won't hurt any more. And that maybe, before she says goodbye, one of those schoolkids she loves so much will stop by, ruffle her white fur, and call her by name.

Stepping out

2009-10-02T10:40:00.004-05:00

In June, I wrote about seeing a man with crutches gingerly making his way around the park by my house. His wife held onto his arm; his daughter was barely a footstep behind.

Click here to read what I wrote back then.

This morning as I finished my run on this glorious morning, I saw the man again. Yes, he still had crutches. But he held them more than used them for support; their rubber-tip ends hardly touched the sidewalk.

His wife wasn't with him; nor was his daughter. A younger man was by his side, a half-step or so behind him -- just in case the older man teetered a bit, or h'd wager, the older man teetered just a little, or lost his balance.

But I'm betting he won't do either. On such a delicious day, when sunlight streams through the not-yet-amber leaves and smoke rises from a chimney, more than autumn is in the air. I could also smell the unmistakable scent of hope.

Missing Sally

2009-09-27T22:10:00.004-05:00

Three, almost four, months have passed since the sweetest dog in the world died. Sally came close twice before then, starting last Thanksgiving. But our Lazarus girl survived, surprising us and her vet both times. And in June, she let those she loved know she was beyond tired, and that she was ready to say goodbye.

These days, when I put my lock in the front door and push it open, I expect to see her there. Or, at least, to hear her tail thumping on the hardwood, then her toenails clicking on it as she ambles toward the door. My son leaves a bit of scrambled egg on his plate, and for a split second I start to call Sally to finish it off.

I missed her tonight in another way. I'll preface how by saying I spent four nights in Santa Fe with two friends and two of their greyhounds, so I'm a bit more dog-attuned than usual.

Anyway, I went for a little flip-flops kinda walk awhile ago. I haven't been able to bring myself to get rid of Sally's fave Milk Bones, so I gathered three -- one in each hand, the other in a pocket -- to toss over the fence of a white German shepherd named Molly.

On the way back, I saw a woman walking. The sky was so dark that I didn't realize she had a dog with her until it stepped into the glow of a streetlight. She went ahead; the dog wagged his tail and brushed up against me. I petted him and talked to him.

When the woman whistled for him, I almost hoped he wouldn't hear. Or that another dog I hadn't seen would appear out of nowhere and follow her. And that the black dog would trot along next to me till we got home.

I'd open the front door, and his toenails would click on the hardwood. I'd give him a Milk Bone, and see if Charlie had left a piece of meatloaf from dinner on his plate.

While the newcomer ate, I'd open the cabinet in the laundry room, push aside a light bulb and some loose batteries, and reach for Sally's purple collar. But just as I was about to take it down, I'd pull back my hand. I'd instead kiss my fingertips, and touch them, gently, to what had graced the neck of the sweetest dog in the world. The collar, like the moniker and that certain piece of my heart, will always belong to Sally.

Personal packing

2009-09-25T19:21:00.005-05:00

Packing for a trip home, I am realizing, is as personal as the way you walk, or the way you whistle. It's as individual as the color you paint your living room, or what you take in your coffee.

My best friend has her father's packing gene. They pack a car the way they load a dishwasher: Everything fits like books on a shelf, like pieces into a jigsaw puzzle. One item out of place can cause the entire car to be repacked, the entire dishwasher reloaded.

In July, I went to Minnesota with my friend Laura and her family, and stayed in the cabins they rent every summer. They have been going there for so long that they have their own storage shed for items like blankets, barbecue grills, cans to hold gasoline for their boat.

The day before we left, Laura went into packing mode. She turned her sadness at leaving into efficiency: Into boxes went pillows and blankets, spices and life jackets. Into the truck went those boxes, and then to the storage facility. Three trips, three truckloads of stuff.

Hers is a choreography of sorts, one with grace and timing that grows more perfect each year. Though I did whatever she asked me, I also inherently understood that I was basically in the way. So I stood by and watched, mesmerized; half-smiling and clumsy, as I have done all too often on any number of dance floors.

As I write this, I'm in the final hours of my trip to Santa Fe. David and Jennifer, the dear friends who asked me to share their vacation, drove here; I flew in a few days later. We spent today, our last, in town, buying more in an afternoon than we had the entire week.

My friends' purchases included some really beautiful pieces of art. Shopkeepers swaddled each in tissue and bubble wrap, protecting the pieces and, at the same time, putting minds at ease that everything will be safe for the journey home.

We're leaving early tomorrow -- me in the air, they on the road -- so packing has begun. Not in earnest, and not in the stylized way of my best friend and of Laura.

I tossed a few things into my suitcase and gathered my dirty clothes into a pile. Dave and Jennifer carried their tenderly wrapped purchases to the truck, gently nestled them in, and then came back in the house. We're now all reading, working the crossword puzzle, and trying to decide what to have for dinner.

I like this sporadic method just fine. Last days of trips tend to make me sad, so the less I'm aware of packing (and thus, the end), the more settled and serene I feel.

In an hour or so, I'll put everything into my suitcase except what I'm going to wear tomorrow. If you looked inside, you'd see neither neither a jigsaw puzzle of order, nor a dance card filled. Yet it is mine. It is my walk, my whistle, the color of my living room and a cup of black coffee.

Heart & Soles: Saturday at the running store

2009-09-20T20:54:00.005-05:00

We at the running store saw our usual assortment of Saturday shoppers.

We'll start with the guy who was waiting when we opened the doors. The one who just wanted to talk: To the woman who was also waiting; to her as she tried on shoes; to me as I fitted him with his.

He told me about his brother and father who had died from heart attacks, and about his own heart attack four months ago. He told me he was running up and down bleachers a week-and-a-half later...unbeknownst to his doctor.

Then there was the charming family from Mexico City: Mom, Dad, 20ish stock-broker son and business-student daughter, and grandmother. I tried speaking my pigeon espanol; they answered me in English, which was fine and fun.

I loved the woman with three kids who is used to being oh-so-casual about her speed while racing. I always like talking to people like her, those who aren't as neurotic about how-far-how-fast as I uh...have been known to be on occasion.

Then she told me she's now training for a half marathon with a more aggressive friend. She made me laugh when she added, almost in a whisper, how she's determined to beat her husband in an upcoming 5K.

The man with bigger-than-big feet explained to me what he'd heard about determining foot size: By measuring the arches. I had no idea what he was talking about; I merely said "Hmmm. Interesting," and proceeded to measure him the old-fashioned way.

I recognized the older couple who came in late afternoon. We'd met a month or so ago. The wife (whose name, I found out, is Laverne) told me about Fit Flops. She even let me try one of hers on. That day, she and her husband had just returned from Hawaii. Saturday, she told me they go there every year. He's a retired Methodist minister, and used to have a church on the big island. Or Big Island; I'm not quite sure.

A really sweet couple came in later. He's training for his first marathon (White Rock in December) with a group from his church and needed a shirt. His wife insisted he get the shirt one that fit and was not on sale, instead of the one that almost fit and wasn't.

He had done a 10-mile run that morning; you could tell she was as proud of him as he was of himself.

"She was my water stop," he said. "She and the kids met me with water while I was running."

I was a bit intrigued by the distance of his long run. I've been building up my own to train for the DRC Half on November 1. I've done a few weeks of 10, one of 11, and one of 12. Which made me realize, after talking to him, that I could be training for the White Rock Marathon. Well, maybe.

I don't think I'm going to -- in fact,I can practically guarantee I'm not going to. But I just like the idea of being at a point in my running where I could (potentially) go for the whole 26.2. (Let's see how I feel in a few weeks when he's running 14 or so).

OK, that's it from here. Just a recap of a good day with good people. People who, assuming I did my job right, are bopping around on what no doubt are the most comfortable shoes they've ever owned.

The grace & guts of Diane Proud

2009-09-15T09:04:00.007-05:00

Diane Proud is gorgeous. She is lean and tan, and has big, white, beautiful teeth (yes, I always notice teeth). She is a world-class triathlete who coaches at Cooper Aerobics Center. She's not my coach, but after spending an hour with her -- just talking, mind you -- I felt inspired to do better.

I am honored to have met her. But the reason I did makes our conversation bittersweet: Diane has ALS, more commonly known as Lou Gehrig's disease. I met her so I could write about her battle.

Read more about Diane by clicking here.

The irony of her diagnosis is heartbreaking: Here is a woman who has taken care of herself her entire life. At age 50 or so, she turned fitness into her career. Yet she is battling a disease that will take away her ability to run, to swim, to do just about everything.

She smiled a lot as we talked, that beautiful, big-toothed smile. She reached for the napkins on an adjacent table, too, and wiped her eyes at the thought of what awaits her. Her amazing attitude, though, trumps everything. I hope I captured that in the column I wrote about her.

Want to help Diane and her fight against ALS? Then sign up for this Oct. 10 race in her honor. She plans to be on that course, too. Walking? Running? She's not sure; she just knows she'll be there

The race is called Run Proud for Dessert. She'd love to see you there.

No-cost confidence

2009-09-06T10:18:00.006-05:00

In my part-time job at a running store, I sell shoes. Lots and lots of shoes. Shoes to marathoners and half-marathoners. Shoes to people who have run for years; to those who are reviving their running program; to those who giggly tell me they are just starting out.

I sell shoes to teen-agers on track teams, and to those whose basketball coach tells them running will improve their game. I sell shoes to stiff-gaited or limping adults. They bring in printed-off sheets from their chiropractors or podiatrists, with listings of shoes recommended to alleviate the knee or foot or back pain.

Everyone comes in for a different reason. But all, in some way, share the same desire. Shoes, yes. But in another way and to different degrees, confidence.

So I oblige, because I really do believe in these people, most of whom I've never laid eyes on. I watch them walk and I choose the right shoes for their feet. I tell them why cotton is good for pillowcases but not for socks, and I listen to their stories.

I answer their questions. And I try to help them see that running, like life, is just a matter of putting one foot in front of the other: Step by faltering, fun, exhausting, exhilarating step.

Saturday was especially busy. And while I know I waited on several adults, the kids are the ones I remember. Like the 8th-grader who was so silly and so adorable that I smile even now remembering how she made me laugh yesterday. She danced, and she jumped around in her new shoes. She nudged her mother because the shoes she liked best were, as her mother predicted, the expensive pair. She ran the circumference of the store and back again.

Another woman came in with her two sons. One was 10, a kid who took off running around the store once I'd laced his new shoes. His brother, several years older, didn't say one word. His mother explained that he plays basketball for Special Olympics.

I keep thinking about the teen-age boy who drove about 30 minutes to get to the store. He's a high-school senior, and needed shoes for cross-country. He has a pretty big foot, and needed shoes with the maximum amount of support.

There were really only two pairs that fit. The first was kind of clunky and, because of the support he needed, a bit heavy. The second pair was lighter, more sporty. He asked how much each was. I glanced too quickly at the boxes, and said each was $100.

He decided on the lighter pair. He was happy, because as a member of a track team, he'd get 15 percent off.

This is when I start feeling awful. When I rang up his shoes, turns out they were $115, not $100. When I told him, his face dropped for a split second. Maybe most people wouldn't have noticed. But I have a teen-age son, so am tuned into his expressions, however brief, however fleeting. And this kid's reminded me of Charlie's.

I wanted to dig around in my purse and give him money to make up the difference. But I couldn't. So I apologized (again), and he handed me his (not his mother's) debit card. I put his shoes in a bag; he thanked me and left.

I'm sure once he gets home, once he wears the shoes to practice, once he wears them in his first meet, he'll forget about the other pair. At least that is what I hope.

I'll also keep hoping he has a PR (personal record) in those shoes. And that maybe, tied into the laces, absorbed in the heel, deep within the supportive sole, he'll discover -- without being quite able to pinpoint its origin -- a bit more confidence than he remembers having.

Missing you

2009-09-04T22:09:00.002-05:00

Friday night, my sister Susan met me at my son's volleyball game. Charlie played! They won! But I digress.

After the game, one of the moms Susan knew from eons ago started talking to her.

"I can't remember the last time I saw her," Susan told me when we reached the car. "But she told me she had missed me."

It's not that they were ever even close, so this struck us as a bit funny. Then we remembered a similar encounter at our niece's wedding. We saw a precious family friend we hadn't seen in years. She used to stay with Charlie one day a week, and would bring her granddaughter Genesis.

Genesis is now 14, a year younger than Charlie. When she saw me and her grandmother told her who I was, she hugged me hard.

"I've missed you!" she said.

I don't know if she even remembered me. Even so, she held my hand as we walked to where the cake was being cut. She didn't let it go until she wrapped her arms around my waist to say goodbye.

At the time, it struck me funny, in a sweet sort of way. But these two encounters have helped me see more clearly what missing someone can mean: That yes, you can miss them, even if you didn't realize you did. That seeing them again -- after a day or a week or 20 years -- can show you a bit of a void in your life. One that may be tiny and forgotten, but one only they can fill.

They go from being a hole on the beach that fills with sand and salt water the moment you stick your shovel in the sand, to one in the garden. There, an empty hole is huge, until you pop into it something green, something growing, something full of life.

Missing you indeed.

Good times never seemed so good

2009-09-01T21:47:00.008-05:00

My son has discovered Neil Diamond. More specifically, my fave song of Mr. D's: Sweet Caroline.

Charlie wasn't perusing a "very-very-old-songs-my-sappy-mother-loves" website. Nor was he listening to a radio station of my choosing.

Instead, he was introduced to the song by none other than his band director. Why? To play at football games, of course. Is that not the first song that comes to mind of that Friday night genre? Yes, and that other crowd pleaser, Steely Dan's Peg (which the band is also playing).

Just makes you want to hum along while listening to "two bits four bits" in the background.

So now Charlie is in the kitchen, doing his homework and revving up for Friday's game...not by choice, mind you. He just can't seem to get Sweet Caroline out of his head. He's humming away, and periodically breaking into song. Well, the words he knows at least.

Admittedly, I fill in the blanks, and we join ranks for "bah bah bah".

Yes indeed, good times never seemed so good.

Short & getting sweeter: the waning days of summer

2009-08-29T10:41:00.005-05:00

The temperature, which started in the 60s, will reach the 90s today. But this isn't a 90-degree day of spring. Nor, despite the calendar, a summer 90s.

Instead, it's a autumn kind of 90s. One with green, unripe pecans on the sidewalks; one where shadows fall earlier, and short sleeves don't feel like a sweater.

I started my run at 8:45 -- an unheard of time to begin even as recently as a week ago. But today it was just right. The sun didn't feel harsh. I didn't wish I'd remembered to bring a cloth to wipe my face. Strangers didn't look askance at my sweaty silliness for running in the heat of day.

In a few weeks, my running partner and I will base our 7 p.m. route on where we want to go and how we feel...not on which side of the street the sun isn't shining.

Back when the temperature was 85 at 7 a.m., time seemed stuck in summer's swelter. No shaking of the hourglass could make the sand rush more quickly to the other side, to the bittersweet bliss of cooler days and earlier evenings.

Today, though, was a reminder: Of what will be, and of what can be. Of potential and of promise that we look to the seasons to see, but which they only begin to reflect.

Kind words from a stranger

2009-08-24T19:17:00.009-05:00

I swam Monday, for the first time in weeks. No one was in the pool when I got there, so I took the lane closest to the dressing room, the lane with the steps leading into the water.

As I finished my first lap, I noticed a man sitting on the top step. He had dark hair and wore yellow swim trunks. His head was in his hands; he stared intently into the water as if he were lost in a deep daydream. I thought maybe he was waiting until I swam by so he could then move across my lane, under the rope, and into one of the empty ones.

But no. He was still in the same spot at the end of my next lap. Then my fifth lap. Then my seventh, and my tenth. For a few moments, I wondered whether he wanted me to leave so he could have that lane.

For several more, I let my imagination take me into the pages of an unwritten murder mystery. Who was he? Was he going to reach out and hold my head under water? Would anyone at the front desk be able to see through the glass what was going on and rescue me before I drowned?

Then he was gone. I didn't pay attention to where he went, but suddenly, there he was again. I finished my freestyle swimming. Then I reached for the two blue kick boards I'd stacked outside the water. I reached my arms across the top of them, then frog-kicked another up and down the lane.

When I reached the end, I took off my goggles. I tend to wear them quite snugly; I've seen my reflection in a mirror after my swim and cringe at my flushed face with their embedded outline.

So what he said to me surprised -- OK, shocked -- me.

"You look so beautiful swimming," he said with the slightest bit of an accent.

I didn't take offense; I wasn't creeped out. Nor did I want to slug him. Admittedly, I did think for a minute he was going to add, "And your face looks so old once you stop."

Truth to tell, I wouldn't have been surprised. I'm no idiot; I know that though I feel 30ish and I have nice shoulders, I am not exactly young looking, especially not after a swim.

But he didn't say that. He hardly even smiled, come to think of it. But I did, and I told him he had made my day.

His statement made me realize, albeit on a small and selfish little scale, the power of words. What it means to tell someone, even a stranger, a positive thought that crosses your mind.

I may swim again today. And no doubt will pay special attention to each stroke, wondering if what he said is true.

It's hot. Why won't people leave their dogs home?

2009-08-05T18:27:00.006-05:00

No doubt the person whose maroon SUV was on the Target parking lot this afternoon would tell you he loves his dog. Loves his dog sooo much that he doesn't go anywhere without her.

The irony of this is that he could have killed his dog. More quickly, in all probability, than he thought possible. Even when the temperature outside is in the low 80s (as it hardly ever is in Texas during the summer), the inside temp can rise to 102 degrees or more -- higher if the car is in the sun.

When my son and I went inside the store, I asked the woman at customer service if she could make an announcement about the dog. Maybe the owners would hear, and rescue their dog.

Charlie and I had gone to Target for eggs, cheese and Diet Dr Peppers..but kept shopping and buying things we'd forgotten we needed. We couldn't bring ourselves to check the parking lot.

After awhile, I asked the woman at customer service what had happened. She said she had checked with -- I forget the acronym -- security and wasn't sure what they had done.

We finally slinked out to our car with our six filled bags, afraid that the SUV would still be there. It wasn't, thank the good Lord. If it had, I've no doubt the dog would be dead.

A few Julys ago, I saw a dog -- a collie, for Pete's sake -- in a parked car in front of Petco of all places. I watched the owners go into the store and approached them. I was as polite as I could be, telling them I had just read how quickly the temperature inside a car can rise.

They looked at me with contempt and said it was their dog, and they knew what they were doing. When I told the person at the store, I was told that neither he nor the police could do anything about such stupidity.

Today, my friend Laura refuted that. She said that God forbid there's a next time, I need to call 911. Which I most certainly will. The pet owner could (and should) be fined $500.

Totally shook me up, the whole experience. So much so, that $70 and 30 minutes after arriving, as we put the stuff in the car, Charlie asked, "Did we get eggs?"

Um...no. Not that I particularly care.

Here we are, Komen & going in Minnesota

2009-07-15T11:34:00.005-05:00

My first morning in Minnesota (yes, I'm in Minnesota!!) my friend Laura (who comes here every summer)and I ran Race for the Cure in Brainerd.

I didn't have my trusty little video camera handy to record what happened after crossing the finish line. But when we returned to the cabin, Laura and I made up a little re-enactment.

Pedicure mirth

2009-06-29T19:35:00.004-05:00

I love getting pedicures, and Monday night's was no different. My calves were massaged, my toes rubbed, hot rocks held on the soles of my feet. Oh yes, and my toenails painted.

What made this latest one so special though, was the timing. I got there at 6:10; the place closes at 7.

"No problem!" I was assured. "You're not too late!"

Ten minutes later, I realized I was the only customer...client, whatever the proper lingo is.

I must explain here that the place I go employs only Asian women, plus two men (including the owner). The women have names like Heather and Donna and Nancy. They are delightful and friendly and tiny. And, because of the language barrier, they tend to be a bit reserved (except when they're giggling amongst themselves).

Tonight, though, all that changed around 6:30. Suddenly, it seemed, two of them were sharing the chair on my left and a bag of Cheetos. One of the owners produced a fresh deck of cards. He shuffled them and dealt hands to himself, two women, and the other man.

I don't know what they were playing, but it didn't really matter. Whatever the game, they were having an inordinate amount of fun. One would slap his or her hand of cards on the table, face up, and either laugh or make a face. Then someone would reach for an envelope and a pen, and write a score.

I felt as if I were the proverbial fly on the wall, albeit one whose calves were being rubbed and whose toenails were being painted. A rather vibrant shade of pink, I might add. One that I might have changed once I saw it on that very first toenail.

...On any other visit, that is. But I was having such a good time, I didn't really care. And still don't, even in the light of day.

Sweetest dog in the whole world

2009-06-16T17:22:00.006-05:00

When I was in eighth grade, my family's dog Sam died. Sam was black and white and had a funny shape on his back we said looked like a bird. On vacations, he often stretched out on the back seat of the car while we kids sat on the floor. He was sturdy and sweet and we loved him dearly.

The day he died, I wrote this in my diary with the pink cover: "Sam died. Best dog that ever lived."

If I still kept a diary, I would have written this on Tuesday: "Sally died. Sweetest dog in the world."

(Obviously, I deal with superlatives when it comes to dogs I love.)

Sally almost died over Thanksgiving. We thought she was close two weeks ago. But this little Lazarus dog pulled through both times. I'd look at her, and somehow know it wasn't her time. She just wasn't ready.

But Tuesday was different. Something about how she lay on her red blanket. Her cloudy eyes. Her tail that didn't wag every time she heard her name. How, even when I brushed her exactly as I'd done the day before, I never did hit her tickle spot.

My friend Kim crossed the street yesterday to talk about Sally. She reminded me that we humans are given a gift, albeit a bittersweet one: To determine the fate of these creatures who make our lives whole. To decide when this life just isn't good enough for them. To put aside our own pain and realize releasing theirs is more important than anything else.

I still can't quite grasp that Sally, who asked for nothing and was grateful for everything, is gone. I'm sure there will be many times I'll still hear her toenails on the floor. I'll sense her presence when I roll a hard-boiled egg to open it and expect to see her sit so she can catch the yolk I toss her way. I'll see her brown eyes forever.

And in my memory and my dreams, I'll watch her tail wag while I give my litany -- whispered now, or soundless in my heart:

"Who," I'd ask, "is so sweet...[wag wag]...and so smart[wag wag]...so pretty [wag wag]...so loyal [wag wag]...so kind [wag wag]...so wise [wag wag]...so brave [wag wag]...so much fun to be around."

And then with a dramatic flourish, I'd add, "And sooo stinky?! But that's OK. [huge wag]."

Godspeed to our Sally. Sweetest girl in the world.

Music to the ears...and heart

2009-06-14T16:41:00.004-05:00

Music is ubiquitous when it comes to exercise. We set up playlists; we charge our iPods. We put almost as much thought into our music selections as we do our running route, or how much weight we will lift.

Some purists swear the only way to run is without distraction of any sort. Other people focus solely on the music, so the exercise itself won't seem so difficult. And some use music as soundtrack, weaving its notes into the rhythm of their breathing.

I tend to fall into the last category. Sometimes I'm aware of what's playing in my ear. Other times, though, by the end of my run I couldn't even tell you a song I'd heard.

This is the kind of stuff I think about, especially at the almost empty gym on a sunny Sunday like today. What ARE people listening to? Maybe they're hearing a song for the first time, one they'll play again until they learn the words -- or will delete when they get home.

Maybe the song they hear makes them call a certain person when they get to their car. Maybe it was playing on the radio on their first date. Or they danced to it at their wedding.

Maybe a song pops up that has long reminded them of someone, of something, of a time in their lives when life was good, and they felt whole. Maybe that song pops up unexpectedly. Maybe for a long time, they couldn't bear to listen to it...but they couldn't bring themselves to delete it from their iTunes music library either.

And then one day, they realize the song is three-quarters through, and they're still listening. They haven't turned off their iPod. Nor have they skipped to the next song. They haven't shaken their heads as if, by so doing, they could get rid of its sound and its memory -- like water in their ears after a swim.

Maybe the notes they never thought they'd listen to without crying are just -- notes. Beautiful notes, combining to create a song that really is pretty. Whether it reminds them of anything, anyone, or nothing at all.

Or maybe that's just me.

Holding on for dear life

2009-06-10T17:57:00.003-05:00

I ended my run this morning with a half-lap around the park. Not far from finishing, I saw a threesome approaching me: A woman, a man, a kid who looked to be their teen-age son.

One of the man's hands tightly grasped a silver polio-type crutch. The other clung to his wife's arm. She in turn had her other arm around his waist. The boy walked barely behind them, as if ready to catch either one should his father stumble, or the crutch get caught on a pebble or a crack in the sidewalk.

I smiled a hello as I ran by. They seemed a bit too intent on the next step to do much more than make eye contact. I wondered whether the man had had a stroke, or if he had some sort of degenerative disease. Either way, I'm guessing they were walking -- not because they wanted to, but because a doctor had stressed the importance of motion.

A few hours later, I was driving to Barnes & Noble. In front of the Tom Thumb at the same shopping center, I motioned to an elderly gentleman to pass in front of me. He smiled and waved with only his pinkie; he needed the remainder of his strength, and his fingers to hold onto the grocery cart he was pushing to his car.

The two scenes lasted barely a half-minute total. But they made me realize a couple of things: How lucky we are to be able to walk, to run, to move on our own. And that no matter if we are or we aren't able, we all need something, or someone, to hold onto; to hold dear. Just in case we ever catch ourselves falling.

Brushes & bubbles & car washes: Oh my!

2009-05-31T15:54:00.003-05:00

I drop off my son at volleyball practice and think, "Hmm. I do believe I have time to get my car washed."

So I pull into my old fave place. I expect the person with the clipboard will approach me, as he always does. He will write down my license-plate number, as he always does. He will ask what sort of wash I want, as he always does.

I'll look at the choice and pick the same. Yes, as I always do. He'll say: "Fragrance?" I'll say, "Um....lemon-lime."

Today though, I was one of only two cars there. Nobody approached me with a clipboard; instead, I was signaled to drive to where the vacuuming usually began. There, a friendly fellow with a belly and a mustache told me the name of the place had changed, and so had the manner of operation.

"You stay in your car as it's washed from the outside," he said, gesturing to what has always been the secret cleaning tunnel where the car-wash drivers went. I looked and saw larger-than-life brushes and tsunami sprays of water. I knew I was in trouble.

"What if I panic while I'm in there?" I asked, only half kidding.

He laughed. "Oh, it's fun!" he assured me. "You'll see those big ol' brushes descending on your car and all the soap suds and it'll be really great!"

I knew I was in trouble. Still, I smiled (albeit nervously) and slowly drove to the entrance. The sign blinked: "Foot off brake. Put car in neutral."

I did as told. And then -- omigosh. Here they came. Huge brushes descending on me and my car. There was no escape. None. No one would hear me if I screamed. If I rolled down the windows, soap would no doubt fill the car and my lungs. Either way, I was doomed.

So I did the only thing I could. I squeezed my eyes shut, leaned onto the passenger seat, and I called my sister Susan.

"You are the only person in the entire world who will appreciate what I am going through," I said, laughing so I wouldn't start to scream or sob.

She appreciated every bubble, every swipe of the guillotine brushes. She stayed with me. After about three hours (ok, three minutes), I began to see, quite literally, light at the end of the soapy tunnel.

I felt as if I had just been on a roller coaster: Terrified. Shaking. Vowing never to do that sort of thing again.

As I was sitting outside, saying survivor prayers to the heavens, I watched a man get out of his fresh-from-the-tunnel car. He looked a bit shaken. I tried to make empathetic eye contact, but he was focused on merely putting one step in front of the other.

And, no doubt, vowing to keep a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels in his car. Cheaper than a car wash and, yes, far less terrifying.

Heart-rate monitor's working again!

2009-05-24T11:45:00.003-05:00

My running buddy, who doubles (usually good-naturedly!) as my adviser for all-things-technical, was a bit befuddled when I told him my heart rate monitor wasn't working.

"Didn't you just put a new battery in -- a battery I gave you and you still owe me $5.43 for?"

"Yep."

"Did you clean it, inside and out?"

"Yep."

"Let me take a look."

So he did what I hadn't -- synced it with my Forerunner. Yes, a "well duh" action for most people with a bit of technie sense...

Anyway, it worked. That was last week and it STILL works. I'd forgotten how much having that bit of information helps my running. So now, not only can I keep track of how fast and far I'm going, now I also know how my heart is functioning while I run.

It's a Garmin Forerunner 305, by the way, which is priced pretty well at amazon.com

I'm actually pretty pleased with how fast and how slow my heart is beating. I guess my annoyance when I first started monitoring this stuff has really helped. Hooray.

Wait. Shhh. I hear something. Some mildly irritating whisper in my ear. Oh yeah, it's that again. That mantra. Something about uh...patience (especially with myself) being a virtue.

Porch-sitting mull: Life is too precious to be petty

2009-05-23T21:16:00.007-05:00

I sit on my front porch as I write this. An old dog's at my feet. A little black cat paws frantically at the window, eager to be out here with us.

There's one sip left in the wine glass my left hand can reach. The breeze blows ever-so-slightly, though the longer I sit here, the noisier it gets. I'm thinking in a few minutes I need to take the sheets off the clothesline before the rain starts.

But first, I need to mull a little bit. About death, about life.

I just got off the phone from a close-to-an-hour call from an old (as in from elementary school) friend. John's beloved uncle & namesake died early this morning from that horrible ALS (a.k.a. Lou Gehrig's disease). He was 73; he would have turned 74 on the anniversary of Pearl Harbor.

Not three hours earlier, my sister called to tell me about the death of (bear with me here) the husband of our brother-in-law's work partner. After dinner last night, Diane's husband dropped dead of a heart attack. He was 55.

Two weeks ago, the father of my other brother-in-law died. He was 86, and had outlived his own father by 23 years. Still, Nick's death was still sobering and sad.

Meanwhile, one of my nephews graduated from college. His older brother was offered a job -- a good job! My Charlie is playing in a volleyball tournament in Richmond, Va. My niece, who received a masters degree a week ago, is getting married next weekend.

And somewhere within all those life events is me. Me, who has silly, often petty misunderstandings with people I care about.

What to do? Pet the dog, drain the wineglass, let the black kitty out if he promises to sit on my lap and not run away. To hug my Charlie when he gets home; to bleach his stinky knee pads. To cry at my niece's wedding, and to dance at her reception.

Mostly, to put it all into perspective. Which means, in part, to keep trying to be the person I need to be, and would like to be, and to prefer to think of myself as actually being. And please oh please, to remember what matters.

Runnng with (not like) a greyhound. Or two

2009-05-14T23:19:00.009-05:00

I ran with a greyhound Thursday night. Not like -- with. And not singular, but plural. One, two, three. But thankfully, I only held the leash of two at the most, one at the speediest.

My running buddy and his wife adopted two of last night's running team a year ago from Greyhound Adoption League of Texas (a.k.a. GALT).

The other, Chick, the curly-eared cutie you see here, is one of their two foster hounds.

As we all ran at what I considered to be a decent speed, Chick (yawn) barely broke out of a trot. When she or one of the other two did let loose, it was a beautiful thing to see. We forgot our own panting to watch their gentle breaths as they loped ahead of us.

It was a night with the slightest of stars and the mildest of breezes. And there we were, lucky to be leash-holding spectators, mesmerized by these beautiful canine creations moving with such ease, and with such God-given grace.

I saw my dog as a puppy today

2009-05-02T10:15:00.006-05:00

After four-and-a-half heavy, humid, breeze-less miles, my run was almost over. Just a half-circle around the park by my house and I was done.

As always on a Saturday morning, soccer-playing kids filled the fields; younger ones climbed on the jungle gym. People and dogs of all ages ran and walked the park's circumference.

I wasn't paying a whole lot of attention to those sharing the concrete path. But when I saw a woman -- more accurately, her dog -- I did a double-take. There was my Sally, my soon-to-turn 12-year-old dog, as a teen-ager.

Her eyes were clear; the black of her coat ebony, the white like snow. Even her collar was pure red: Fresh, unfaded, new.

Her whole body moved when she walked. She was eager, curious, attuned to every movment around her. I said a quick "hi" and her ears perked up as if she couldn't wait to hear more.

I turned around once after we passed. The dog's tail was still wagging, her head looking back and forth.

When I got home, Sally was lying on the rug in the living room. She lifted up her head when I came in, and wagged her tail when I called her name. These days, the black and white on her face and on her feet make gray. Her red collar is almost pink. But she is loyal, she is kind; she is smart and she is sweet.

I cannot make her curious; nor can I make her eager or young, and I am not sure I would want to. I am, instead, grateful for the dog Sally was and, more importantly, for the one she is.

I'm going to buy her a new collar today, one that is red and fresh and new. When I put it around her neck and scratch her head, I know she'll wag her tail. She'll sit when I give her a bone and, though she doesn't have the energy to walk around the park, she'll lie down at my feet when I read on the front porch, as happy to be close by as I am to have her there.

Cupcakes: gotta love 'em

2009-04-29T10:23:00.006-05:00

I'm not a huge cake fan. One bite (usually off someone else's plate) and I'm happy.

Cupcakes are a different matter. They don't tend to be particularly at-hand in my life, but they do have temptation potential. Just think of taking a bite of one, your choppers sinking through the cake part, leaving lickable icing on your front teeth.

Plus the name itself is so inviting: Cupcake. Say it again.

Then think of eating 17 of these pups in five minutes. That's what a New Yorker named Nancy Cummings did. Lest you think she's some jowly gal with permanent chocolate stains on her fingers, she is not. She's a yoga instructor, who called upon discipline, focus -- and a glass of water to dunk 'the cupcakes in --- to win the contest.

Click here to read the Al Dente blog about cupcakes.

Favorite spaghetti

2009-04-25T21:34:00.005-05:00

Around 6 on Saturday night, I realized I had no plans for dinner. So I asked my son what sounded good.

"Spaghetti," he said.

"You sure you wouldn't like to pick up Chinese food?" I asked, suddenly feeling a bit lazy or perhaps overwhelmed. "Or a hamburger?"

Then it occurred to me that for the last two nights, he's had pizza and -- I can't even remember. Oh yeah, whatever delights were served after his best friend's orchestra concert; namely, no doubt, cookies and a cupcake or two.

So I offered a staple from my childhood: Favorite Spaghetti.

"Sure," he said.

In my day, FS consisted of chopped (we never called it ground) meat mixed with A&P spaghetti sauce and stirred into (never served atop) A&P spaghetti (not pasta) noodles.

My slight improvise Saturday was adding chopped onion and garlic to the meat, then using Archer Farms (as in Target) brand. I put the pasta -- excuse me, spaghetti -- in individual bowls and ladled the sauce on top. But when I realized the noodles weren't quite done, I stirred the whole mixture together and heated it on the stove.

It was wonderful, and I learned something in the process. Yes, you can use meat with less fat. You can drain the grease; you can chop in an onion. You can serve it atop whole-wheat noodles. But when you end up stirring the whole schlop together, you also realize two things:

1. It's still Favorite Spaghetti. And 2. Try as you might, you can't mess with perfection.

A bit of a P.S. For lunch today, I asked my son if he wanted a sandwich, or leftover spaghetti. He compromised: Two pieces of bread with spaghetti in-between. Yum.

What happens when you reallly don't feel like running?

2009-04-21T22:16:00.002-05:00

The "I'm not in the mood to run" grouse is one thing. No excuses on that one, baby. You know the drill: 9 times out of 10, you just get out there and go. And 9.99 times out of 10, you're ever so glad you did.

Then there are the times you just don't feel well. General malaise, perhaps. Or sleep deprivation. Or a cold.

Perhaps you have some form of the dreaded (pardon this shiver-inducing word) crud. The kind you sometimes you forget you have till you start laughing and then can't stop coughing. The kind that wakes you up before dawn with a beyond-scratchy throat.

What to do? Your non-running (and some of your running) friends say, "Rest!"

But you are either so determined or so stubborn you...oh, you knew you'd go. More slowly perhaps, and perhaps not as long. But it's over, and even if you end up conked out for the rest of the day, it's done. And nobody can take that away.

Run run as fast as you can

2009-04-21T20:12:00.002-05:00

And whether it's a 6-minute mile or a 15-er, if you're doing your best, you'll feel as if you're flying.

I wrote about that in Tuesday's Dallas Morning News.

Click here to put your pace in perspective.

I want some pancakes

2009-04-20T08:36:00.005-05:00

I made my son pancakes for dinner a few weeks ago. He got the hugest charge out of that, for some reason. Maybe because I served them with broccoli and a baked potato.

Yes, I'm kidding -- not about the pancakes, but about the side dishes. Instead, the offerings were Canadian bacon and syrup puddles.

The last time I had pancakes was February 19, 2007, the day after I ran the Austin Marathon. Oh, wait; never mind. That was a waffle.

I need a pancake, though. maybe even two. I venture to say we ALL need more pancakes. Read this link to Mark Remy's Runner's World story and I bet you'll be scouring your cupboards for the Bisquick, and the pantry for some Aunt Jemima.

Mmmmm. We'd salute you, Mark, but we'd probably get syrup in our eyebrows.

Finding the extra oomph

2009-04-18T20:21:00.012-05:00

Running coach Chris Phelan casually asked whether I'd ever thought about a duathlon.

"Sure," I said. "I think that sounds fun."

Next thing you know, Chris -- whom I have heard referred to as "running guru" and "rock star" -- sends me a schedule. One that I didn't know whether to laugh or sob when I see it. THIRTY MILES OF BIKING?! (Take deep breaths, Les).

I am, however, happy to do the training runs. Which, this morning, was 13 miles. I wasn't feeling all that great, so thought, "Hm. Maybe I'll divide it into three parts, spread throughout the day." (Yeah, what a weirdo.)

Anyway, I ran about 10 steps and thought, "Oh, Lord. I hope I can make it for three miles."

I did make it three. Then four! Which when the rain started. I considered heading for home and thought, "Nah, maybe I can go six." Which turned into seven...and eight...and I ended up running 11!

I was tickled. Then after my son's track meet and a nap, I ran the other two. Truth to tell, I think they were harder than the first 11.

But the experience once again reminded me how amazing the human body is. How, when we really don't think -- physically or mentally -- we're capable of moving, somehow we're able to do both. We're surprised, yes. And even more, we're grateful.

STILL a non-exercise Friday

2009-04-17T16:05:00.002-05:00

OK, maybe I really DID need to take the day off...because the idea of moving outside (except to get the mail from the porch) sounds rather exhausting.

After ruling out most categories of Disease Deadly about what was bringing me down, I decided I am merely suffering from a case of GM; a.k.a. general malaise. Back-to-back naps helped. Perhaps another is in my future.

A non-exercise Friday...so far

2009-04-17T08:56:00.002-05:00

When I'm training for a race, I don't mind taking a day off. But when I'm not, I feel compelled to do...something! Oh yeah, other than clean the house and organize my life.

Today, I look out the window at the cloudy sky, knowing it would be perfect running weather. But...but...but...I can't let myself think about that. Besides, I tell other people to take a day off, and I know in my heart it's the right thing to do.

My body needs to rest, right? Yes, especially because (a confession here) I ignored my good sense last Friday and ran three miles. But they were three verrrrry slowwwwww miles. Really.

Inside the gym (but with a friend!) on a beautiful day

2009-04-15T21:56:00.013-05:00

Was today glorious or what?! Yesterday, too ... so where did I go in the afternoon but to the gym. Silly me. But it was worth being indoors because I roped -- excuse me, encouraged -- my friend and best-sport-in-the-world Laura to use a guest pass and stationary cycle with me. And an exercise I find beyond boring suddenly was rather pleasant!

Yet while we were pedaling away at the same level and the same speed, I was sweating like the proverbial piggy. And Laura? She was coolly chitchatting as if we were sitting outside on a breezy spring day.

Here we are after finishing the Big D Texas Half Marathon on April 5.

Not a DMN staff writer, but still a writer

2009-04-15T20:44:00.008-05:00

Granted, this first post will probably put you to sleep (even as it does me). But I have the slightest of reasons for writing it; namely, that you'll click on the link and -- well, I'll get to that in a sec.

Anyway (one of the greatest transition words ever, but I digress), I loved my job at The Dallas Morning News. I covered fitness, which included writing a weekly newsletter and a biweekly (as in every other week, not -- horrors! -- twice a week) column ... well, at least when I had something to say.

I, alas, was one of 200 DMNers laid off on Tuesday, April 7. My last as-a-staffer story ran a week later. Click here to read it, thus generating more hits on its page! I'm tickled that it was the No. 2 emailed story that day; I just like the idea of going out with a bang. Or at least a cap-gun shot.