I'm No Musician

          I have two articulate, intelligent friends that I'll call John and Jane Doe. One day John told me that he and Jane agreed that public schools teach children how to be losers and failures, and in general make kids feel bad about themselves.  I was flabbergasted because, as John knows, I'm a public school teacher.

          "It's interesting that you and Jane have that opinion when neither one of you have experience in education," I said.

          "What are you talking about?" John was incredulous.  "Both of us attended public schools."

          And I love listening to the cello.

          People who have attended public schools have opinions based on their experiences as students.  They may have positive and negative memories of good and bad teachers.  Those opinions are important and should be part of a discussion on how to improve our public schools.  But changes in the schools shouldn't be based on the opinions of people who have no background in education and no experience in teaching.  Changes should be based on input from teachers themselves, and based on solid research.

          Interestingly, John has told me on other occasions that he couldn't do what I do; that he doesn't know how I do it.  Apparently he does know that I'm doing it all wrong.  To be fair, when I told John that I didn't realize he thought I was producing losers and failures each year, he said I'd misunderstood him.  Hmm.  By the way, John and Jane would describe their own public school experiences as positive, and each has a pretty healthy dose of self esteem.  I'm sure neither one of them would describe themselves as losers. 

Iron Lady

My parents separated and divorced when I was about ten years old.  At first, Daddy visited us on our birthdays and Christmas and we spent weekends at his place at the beach.  But slowly the phone calls and visits decreased, and by the time I was around fifteen years old, he had disappeared.

Mom was left to raise us four kids.  She struggled to make ends meet and I imagine it was exhausting to do everything by herself.  I raised four kids too but I had a husband who helped me.  I don't know how Mom managed, but day after day with no one to help her, she did.

When I was 21 years old I heard that my father had had a stroke.  I traveled south to the hospital and twice went to see him.  I don't remember what we talked about and the visits were short.  But I do remember that I told him I loved him, which wasn't something I said very often.  And he said, "Me too, Bug."  That was the last time I saw my father; he died a few days later.

I'm glad I got the chance to tell my father that I loved him because I did love him.  But it wasn't until I was married and had my own children that I fully understood what a lousy thing he did, abandoning his four kids after the divorce.  I forgive him and I still love him, but he wasn't a very good father.

On the other hand, Mom, who is 88 years old now, is still there for me.  Even though we may get impatient with each other, or hurt each other's feelings, or I might not make the choices she thinks I should make, I know she still loves me.  I know that if I need anything at all I can call her and she will help me.  Her strength has been a safety net for me all of my life.  Thanks, Mom.  I love you.

The Blues

          It was a hot May afternoon when I decided that a Jamba Juice would hit the spot.  I found my Kindle and hopped into Kevin's car, which was parked behind mine in the driveway and drove to the large shopping center a few miles from my house.  I parked in the shade of a big tree, got out and walked away from Jamba Juice and toward Ross.  I passed Sylvan Learning Center, a Christian store, and a fabric store.  I went into Ross and wandered around but nothing caught my eye.  I cut across the sunny parking lot and went into Jamba Juice.  A few minutes later, armed with my Pomegranate Pick me Up I headed back to Kevin's car.  I got out my Kindle but the low battery warning flashed so I closed it and sat in the car under the shady tree with the windows down, drinking my smoothie.  It was a time to relax before going home to feed the dogs and get some work done around the house.
          I had almost finished my Jamba Juice when I heard loud talking and laughing.  I looked around and saw a large woman sauntering slowly across the parking lot, several yards from my car.  I noticed that she looked bald under her brightly colored hat.  I wondered if she was the same woman I used to see around downtown, who had once come into Kevin's wine bar for a glass of wine and had paid with piles of loose change.
          "Hello there," a voice nearer to me said.  I looked over and saw a woman's large sweaty face peering at me through the open passenger window.
          "Hello," I said.
          "I've been watching you for a while all the way from over there," she said, waving her hefty arm toward the back of the parking lot.  "How are you?"
          "I'm fine.  How are you?" I asked, automatically.  I had a sinking feeling that she was either going to ask me for money, or tell me about Jesus.
          "I'm just fine.  I'm not going to ask you for money," she said as if reading my mind.  "I'm just going to ask you to get me some chicken," she said looking over at the KFC.  "I'm so hungry."  She moved her arm from where she rested it on the shopping cart she had brought with her and leaned into the car window until her armpits were propped up by the door frame and her shoulders and head were inside the car.
          "I'm just so hungry.  I want some chicken," she nodded again to the KFC.
          "I just spent my last $5 at Jamba Juice," I told her.  It was true.
          "No you didn't," she exclaimed.
          "Yes I did," I insisted, picking up my empty cup and wagging it towards her.  "I just finished it."
          "You paid $5 for that?"
          I was suddenly embarrassed at my extravagance.  "$4.65," I said as if that was a better price.  "I have some change here that you can have."  I began scraping sticky coins out of the console space next to me, ashamed to feel relief that my purse was tucked under my feet on the floor of the car.
          "Oh man, I'm so hungry," she said again, holding out her hand for the change.  "This isn't enough.  What about back there," she said pointing into the hatchback space.
          "Maybe there's money in here," I offered as I pulled Kevin's leather jacket from behind my seat and began digging into the deep, cool pockets.  Empty.
          "You going on a trip or something?  What's all those suitcases?"  She was looking at Kevin's belongings in the hatchback.
          "My husband's a musician.  That's his equipment."
          "Really?  A musician?  What kinda music he play?"
          I didn't want to say.  "The blues," I said.
          "Oh, in San Francisco?" she asked.
          "No, here in places around town."
          "That right?  What's he play?  What kinda instrument?"
          "Keyboard," I told her.  I was worried she would ask me which songs he played because although I've been to my husband's gigs many times, I never remember any of the tunes.
          "I'm hungry.  Don't you have another dollar somewhere?  How about an ATM card?"
          "Sorry," I lied.  "That's all I have."  I looked at the round face and sweaty forehead.  She had small dark eyes, a broad nose, and that turned-in sort of mouth that toothless people have.
          "I'm so hungry.  I'm just so hungry."
          "I understand," I said, slowly looking away.
          "Well, all right then."  She pushed her body off of the car and leaned back onto the shopping cart.  "I'm just so hungry," she said as she and the rattling cart slowly headed off toward the KFC.  I waited for a minute or so then started the car.  As I drove home, I could hear her voice echoing in my head.  "I'm so hungry."

Girlfriends

When I was six, I had my very first best friend.  Myrth was quiet and funny, with fair skin and brown eyes.  I was fascinated by her hair, which she always wore in ringlets.  Every day I watched the dance of those light brown spirals that dangled from the top of her head down past her narrow shoulders.  They bobbed when she moved around our first grade classroom, and when she ran across the playground they bounced like ping pong balls on an episode of Captain Kangaroo.  I longed to cup one into the palm of my hand and feel it's soft curve, or gently tug the bottom of one and watch it boing back into place.  Out of respect for Myrth, I did neither.

I eventually talked Mom into curling my hair into ringlets.  With the bristly pink curlers snapped into my clean, damp hair, I went to bed full of excitement and anticipation.  Would my friends recognize me with my new hairdo?  I barely slept that night, imagining how it would feel with those pretty sausages wiggling every time I moved my head.  How fun it would be to share hairstyles with Myrth.  The next morning Mom brushed and fiddled and turned the locks around her fingers, but my hair wouldn't cooperate.  "Oh well, I guess your hair is too straight," she said, eventually brushing my hair into a ponytail.

After that, my longing for ringlets faded, most likely because it wasn't Myrth's ringlets I was enamored with, it was Myrth.  At age six, she was my very first friend and I was learning what it felt like to have someone special in my life who was separate from, and unknown to my family.  She wasn't the daughter of one of my mom's friends and she wasn't a cousin, or a neighbor.  She was someone I had met and made friends with all on my own.  I loved that there was another little girl who was just like me but with different hair and different clothes, from another neighborhood, and another family.  I looked forward to school every day where we would giggle and play together at recess.  I was special to her and she was special to me.  Even with boring hair, life was good.

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.

Confidence

          One day I was jogging my short route, feeling pretty good and knowing that I would be able to finish the route without walking.  As I was coming upon the intersection where I cross a busy street and then turn right to continue on to the end of my run I noticed an older man up ahead jogging at an awkward pace.  He was running on the same side of the street as I would be running once I turned.  He looked stiff and slow as he ran.  I wondered how I was going to pass him; should I go onto the street and pass him on his right, or should I pass him on the left and stay on the sidewalk?  I wanted to be encouraging as I passed, because I was always a little dismayed when someone passed me.  Should I say, "Hello" or "Good morning"?  Should I comment on the weather, or my run?  I thought about all of these things as I crossed and started down the street behind him.  As I ran, I watched ahead of me as he increased his distance, becoming smaller and smaller, until I couldn't see him past a curve in the road.

Jogging for Coffee

I like to think about ways to make my runs less stressful and more relaxing.  Here are some ideas that haven't worked out so well for me (you may have better luck):

I save any coins I find along my route and when I've collected $3.85 I'm going to buy myself a latte from Starbuck's as a reward.  I have a coffee mug in my dresser drawer where I've been collecting the coins since I came up with this idea about a year ago.  As of today, I've accumulated 47 cents.

I try to catch up with anyone walking before they change course and leave my route.  The other day I was almost to the corner which marks the end of my run, when I saw a man walking up ahead of me.  He was walking briskly and I had to push myself to catch him.  I was finally at his right shoulder getting ready to pass him when he turned his head to the right and spit.

I used to run early in the morning before work so that I could get it out of the way and feel good for the rest of the day.  In the winter it's still dark outside but there's little traffic and I don't mind running in the rain or the cold.  One morning I was jogging along and tripped over a bump in the road, fell on my face and ended up with two black eyes, a scraped forehead, a bruised lip, and general facial swelling.

Slumping

          I've been pretty excited about the success I've had since I started a jogging routine at the beginning of January.  I was convinced that my new shoes were magic.  By the middle of February and I was able to consistently run my three mile-ish route three days a week, without stopping to walk.  I felt like I would be ready for a 5K at the beginning of summer.
          Then I started having off days.  I couldn't even make it through my short route without walking most of the way.  That had only happened once in January after sharing a bottle of wine with a friend the night before, but this time I couldn't figure out what had gone awry.  After the first bad day, I reminded myself that everyone has off days.  Unfortunately, my next run was also difficult.  Once again, I had to walk much of the way.  After doing so well for almost six weeks, it disappointing.  It kept happening until I'd accumulated five bad runs in a row.  Since I only run three times a week, that's almost two weeks of sloppy jogging.
          I felt like I'd been fooling myself.  I was thinking that I was too old to begin running, and that those last six weeks were a fluke.  I was going to tell my niece that I didn't want to run a 5K after all.  I really wanted to quit and each time I forced myself out on the road, I felt like I was wasting my time.
   Today was a run day and I dreaded it all day long.  When I got home from work I put on my shoes, sweats and a tee shirt and headed out.  My knees began bothering me almost immediately but I tried to stay relaxed and I kept going.  After a couple of blocks, I started to feel better, or at least I wasn't feeling bad and that was encouraging.  I kept going and I did it.  I ran my entire route at a pace I was happy with.  Perhaps I had made it through the slump.
          This Wednesday when I go out for my jog, I might have a good run or I might have a not so good run, but either one is okay.  If it's not so good, I'll remind myself that it happens like that sometimes.  If it's good, I'll enjoy it.  Above all, I will try to remember to take it one jog at a time.

In the Beginning

The hardest thing about jogging is the thing you fall on.  Just kidding.  The hardest thing about jogging is just getting out there.  The second hardest thing is to keep going.  In light of these two obstacles, I have established two guidelines to help me get out and run.

First, I tell myself that I can quit jogging at any time and start walking, or even turn around and go home.  My entire goal is to put on my shoes and hit the pavement.  If I quit, I still celebrate and feel good because I made it through the front door.  Since establishing this goal, I've never deliberately tested it.  Make no mistake, there have been a few times when I've jogged a couple of blocks and felt like I couldn't go any further so I walked home, but I've never quit because I felt like I earned something just by being out there.

Now that running is becoming a habit, I'm working on the second obstacle.  There are a million reasons to stop and walk:  it's windy, I don't feel right, traffic, people are passing me.  My rule is that I have to complete my route.  I can run, jog, walk, or crawl, but I have to stay on my route.  I try to stay relaxed and keep my mind off of my discomfort.  I sing to myself, I practice conjugating Spanish verbs or I try to empty my mind and think about nothing.  If I absolutely have to stop, I ask myself if I can take just five more steps, or if I can make it to that mailbox, or that tree, or lamp post.  Sometimes that helps me get past the temptation to stop and I jog to the end of my route.  Sometimes I don't but then I refer to my first rule which is that I can stop and walk at any time.

These guidelines have helped me run regularly for six consecutive weeks.  I'm keeping my fingers crossed that it will continue.

Here I go Again

I have been around runners all of my life.  My father and brother were both members of their high school track and cross country teams and my brother continued running throughout his adult life.  My husband was on his high school and college track teams and later participated in the corporate Olympics.  He continues to be a runner today.  One of my sons was a member of his middle school and high school cross country teams.  My other son was a four-year member of his high school cross country team.

In spite of all of this influence, I have never been a runner.  In college my roommate and I decided to go running one night but after a couple of laps around the track across the street we collapsed in our dingy apartment, sweating, coughing and panting, never to attempt it again.  When I was living in San Diego my future husband supported my attempts to become a runner.  In those days, my boss at the bank also encouraged us to run with him after work.  It never lasted more than a few blocks and a couple of months.

In my 30s I ran around the neighborhood for awhile but I was busy having babies and being a mother, as well as a returning college student so I didn't keep it up.  In my 40s I purchased a treadmill and began walking and eventually running in the garage while watching television.  When the treadmill broke, I started running every other day early in the morning before work.  Throughout my forties and fifties, I ran a few months at a time but would fall out of the habit with any excuse (illness, surgery, the wind).

Now I'm 56 years old and am making one last stab.  I've agreed to run a 5K with my niece this summer.  That agreement, along with my ever tightening pants and the new running shoes I got for Christmas have been sufficient inspiration for me to begin running again.  It's official:  I've run three days a week for the entire month of January 2012.  I'm on my way.