Two Brothers

          Once upon a time there was a girl who loved her brother very much.  From as far back as she could remember, she looked up to him and believed everything he told her because he was older and wiser.  One day her brother went away to find his fortune in the world.  The girl was very sad, and she missed her brother and she thought about him every day.  She missed talking to him and she especially missed listening to him.  She missed his gentleness, his humor, and his wisdom.  She didn't hear from him for a long time and she worried about him.
          After being gone for a few years her brother came home but he was different.  He looked different and sounded different, and the girl was sure he didn't think about things in the same way.  The girl was very sad that the brother she remembered and loved was gone, but in time she came to love this new person and soon called him by her brother's name.  He seemed distant, fragile, and vulnerable, in a world so mean and unforgiving.  She loved him for his innocence and his vulnerability and the unassuming way he lived his life.
          Then one day, quite suddenly her brother became ill and he died.  And afterward, when she searched through his few belongings, she found that a trick had been played on her.  She discovered that he had been the same wise, patient, funny, kind, loving brother all along.

Attitudes

For the last five years, Dave and Sandy were weekly customers at our now defunct wine bar.  Always low key and friendly, it was fun chatting with them when they stopped in to pick up something for dinner, or while they spent the afternoon sitting at a table sipping wine.  Now retired, they describe themselves as old hippies and in a sense they are.  They grow lots of their own food in the back yard of their tidy home, they can fruits and vegetables which they share with friends, they even make their own laundry soap.  They always look for ways to help in the community and each have a Facebook page with posts about helping public schools, loving animals and the environment, and fighting narrow minded conservatism.

On the very last day the store was to be open, they came in and spent the afternoon and evening reminiscing with other customers, sharing wine and appetizers, and lamenting the closing of the store. By closing time there were just three of them; Dave and Sandy, and a volunteer named Ron who was washing glasses and wiping tables.  The couple was admittedly tipsy and had called their son to drive them home.  

A tall man in old clothes came through the door and sat at the bar.  He was unshaven and the dirty cap on his head covered most of his shaggy brown hair.  Dave picked up the bottle that he and Sandy had been sharing and poured the man a glass of wine and sat down next to him and began to chat.  The man wasn't making much sense and said something about the FBI watching him.  Sandy playfully tugged at the brim of the man's cap and made a silly comment.  The man became agitated and said that touching his hat was assault and he threatened to call his father who was a police chief.  Dave slowly slid the stranger's wine glass away from him which further aggravated the man.  Eventually Dave and Sandy's son arrived and he took his parents to the car, while Ron persuaded the man to leave.

Dave and Sandy and their adult son were sharing this story with us over dinner the other night.  They assured us that they had only meant to be friendly with the man, and hadn't meant to cause trouble, and it was true; Dave and Sandy were mellow, gentle people.  They laughed and shook their heads, calling the stranger crazy, an idiot and a jerk and made fun of him for threatening to call his father as if he were a kid.  I suggested that he might be mentally ill but no one seemed to hear.  Kevin recalled that Ron, the volunteer who was working there at the time, had referred to the man as a douchewagon.

If I was minding the store all by myself one night and this man walked in and began talking nonsense, I would have been scared.  But that evening at dinner no one talked about being afraid, and my "mentally ill" comment was lost.  We didn't talk about what these people have to do to survive in our community, how difficult it is for their families to help them, or how the system has to balance the personal rights and safety of people with mental illness, with societal well-being.

Looking Good

          One day after I'd gone running, my husband called and asked me if I was okay.
          "Yeah, I'm fine," I told him.
          "Well, Ed came into the store and said he saw you walking past City Hall.  He said that you looked uncomfortable."
          "I was running when I passed City Hall," I corrected him.  "I didn't start walking until I turned the corner." If I was going to beat up my knees three days a week I wanted credit for it.
          "Well, he said he saw you walking.  Maybe I got it wrong.  At any rate, he said you looked like you were in pain."
          "I'm fine," I said again.
          I like it when people see me jogging around town.  It's nice to get a little recognition. I'm always hoping they didn't see me wiping my nose on my sleeve, stumbling, or worst of all falling.  I don't like it when people see me walking.
          A couple of days later I saw Ed.  "Hi, Nancy," he greeted me warmly.  Ed is a very nice man.  He's the type of person who remembers your name after the first time you meet, and he never misses a moment to say hello and ask you how you're doing.
          "Oh hi Ed," I said.  "How are you?"
          "I'm fine," he said.  "I saw you walking past City Hall the other day."  I bit my lip and let the 'walking' comment go by.  "You looked uncomfortable."
          "Well, I've been trying to jog three days a week.  I'm going to run a 5K with my niece later this spring."
          "Oh, I see," he said.  "You seemed really uncomfortable."  He looked concerned.
          "Well, you know, I'm not so young any more." I gave a little laugh.  "My knees are bothering me a little bit.  Maybe I'll switch to walking after the 5K."
          Ed nodded.  "You looked like you were in pain."
          I know from seeing my reflection as I run past store windows that I'm not the most graceful jogger.  I look like I'm doing a sort of stumbling, fast walk.  I've tried to figure out what it is about my mechanics that makes me look awkward, thinking that it might help me jog more efficiently.  But nothing I've done seems to change how I look so I try not to think about it as I slowly make my way up and down the streets of our city.
          "Well, I have good days and mediocre days.  Some days are harder than others.  But you know..." I shrugged.  I looked at him.  He didn't exactly look like a runner, if you know what I mean.  What was his point?
          "Well, you looked really uncomfortable," he said again.
          I could feel frustration wrap itself around my ribcage.  "Okay, well it was nice seeing you," I said as warmly as I could.
          "You too.  Take care," he said kindly.

Quittin' Time

My running has become increasingly difficult.  My knee is hurting more and I'm not able to make it around my route without getting tired and stopping to walk.  I went to the doctor about my knee but I guess I wasn't satisfied with his answer (it's swollen, it's arthritis, wear a brace, get a cortisone shot), so I worry that I shouldn't be trying to run on it.  I mean to use my knees for several more years so I don't want to do anything now to ruin that plan.  I haven't had a good run for two weeks or more and I dread going out because I fear I'm going to poop out before my first mile.  I had decided that I would run the 5K I had promised my niece and then begin a walking regimen.  I thought about that every time I went out to run.

I reluctantly set out this morning and began trotting down the street.  My knee began hurting immediately.  I tried to ignore it but I began to worry that I was making it worse.  I thought about the promised 5K and became more discouraged.  I thought I would just walk the 5K to save my knee.  I started to think about telling my niece that I couldn't run a 5K with her after all.  I jogged along awkwardly for about a mile, until I got to the corner where I turn.  Then I gave up. "Fuck it," I said to myself.  I started walking.  I felt like crying.  I had been doing so well in January that I thought my new running shoes were magic.  Then it began to get harder.  Now I was a complete failure.

I began to think about all the ventures I had embarked upon in the last few years.  I had taken violin lessons for ten years and while I could play some simple tunes, I was not good enough to play without looking at sheet music and I was certainly not good enough to play in front of anyone.  Then there was my goal to learn Spanish.  I had taken all the Spanish courses offered at our community college and had even started a Spanish conversation group but my Spanish was dismal.  Then I decided to be a writer.  I wrote three novels but never tried to edit a single one; in fact I never even reread them.  There was volleyball, painting, dance classes all ending in mediocrity.  Everything I could think of that I had tried to do as an adult was a bust.  I continued walking slowly down the street along my route thinking about these failed attempts.  Now I could add running to the list.  Maybe I would never find that one thing that I was really good at.  

I thought about how I always got to a certain point and then never got any further.  What if it was because I made excuses so that I didn't have to do the extra work?  I never expected to be world class but I did expect to be better than I had ended up being.  I quit violin because I wasn't getting any better, but what if I had increased my practice time and forced myself to learn the skills that I thought were too hard?  I had downloaded hours of Spanish language practice podcasts but hadn't bothered to listen to any of them.  What if I had spent time each day practicing Spanish by reviewing notes from my classes, listening to podcasts and watching Spanish language television, or reading Spanish language books?  

Now I was thinking about my running.  Was I using my knee as an excuse to quit because it was getting too hard?  I stopped right there on the sidewalk and thought about it.  What if I made myself run even though I was tired and my knee hurt?  Was this my moment to face the hard work it might take to be able to run a 5K?  I turned and walked back to the corner where I had started walking.  Then I turned and slowly began to jog along the remainder of my route.

My Best Friend's Hands

          When I was in first grade I had my first best friend.  Myrth had fair skin, brown eyes, and light brown hair worn in long bouncy ringlets.  I spent my six year old school days with Myrth, sitting in the cool hallway playing Barbies or jacks, or running to the playground to jump rope or take a turn on the swings.  At lunch we sat together on wooden benches, talking and laughing while eating bologna sandwiches from wax paper bags.  Life was good.
          In addition to her ringlets, I was fascinated with Myrth's hands.  Her skin was so fair that the backs of her hands were often mottled with a faint lacy pattern.  I used to sneak peeks during the cool morning recesses and then compare them to my own tanned hands.  I wondered why mine never had the same pink pattern.
          At home one night after going to bed I woke up with a horrible stomach ache.  I began to cry and then got sick.  Mom heard me and helped me into the bathroom.  Daddy asked what he could do to help and Mom told him to hold my hand while she went in to clean up my bed.  Daddy reached for my hand resting on the toilet seat and that's when I noticed.  My hands had the same delicate pattern that I had occasionally seen on Myrth's.  I was sick but I was also thrilled.