FlipFlop

I heard the "flop flop" coming up the sidewalk behind me.  The sound was a familiar one, that of somebody walking in flip-flops.  But the tempo didn't register until she flew past me.  This was somebody running in flip-flops.  The girl that shot by appeared to be in very good shape.  She ran easily, not at all hampered by her footwear.  She was also talking on a cell phone, another testament to her conditioning.  Maybe she was running late or maybe she just liked running in flip-flops.  I don't know.  I must confess I was annoyed with how effortlessly she moved down the street.

There is nothing effortless about the way I run.  With each step, I feel age and gravity conspiring against me, pulling me back.  A focused attack is required to overcome these foes.  I don't have the spare energy to hold a cell phone, let alone talk on it.  I need footwear that helps not hinders me.  I run in running shoes, not tennis shoes, not cross trainers.  They must be laced and tied a certain way and to a certain tension.  If my shoes are a little too tight or loose, my whole run will be ruined.  Socks, too, must meet exacting requirements.  Not too thick or too thin or too long.  The slightest thing could be the straw that breaks the camel's back and leaves me gasping and trudging home in disgust.  I run with an iPod (mostly to drown out the sound of my own wheezing).  Once, the right side ear bud stopped working.  Within a couple of minutes, I fell apart.  In summary, I am a high maintenance runner.

So, a part of me envies the girl running in flip-flops.  It would be wonderful to run with such ease, to be carefree about it.  Even if I could, I would never run in flip-flops, however.  Just the thought of something crammed between my toes makes me feel a little nauseous.

Such shiny rings

I heard the music from somewhere up the street.  At first, I thought perhaps the coffee shop had propped its door open and cranked up the music system.  But it was hot out and the shop had just recently gotten its AC repaired.  It still had signs, posted in the windows, announcing the newfound cool.  Leaving the door open would defeat this benefit.  Plus, the music had a decidedly Country twang.  The coffee shop stayed mostly in the Alternative vein.  Yet, the sound was definitely coming from that direction.

As I neared the coffee shop, I discovered the source of the music.  A fellow had parked his car directly in front of the shop, rolled down all the windows, and was blasting his tunes for all to share.  To me, this seemed like more than just someone enjoying a hot summer day.  It felt like a cry to be noticed.  The choice of parking spots placed him next to the highest concentration of outdoor tables.  There were plenty of people milling about, sipping drinks.  I watched mister music as I approached.  Even though he was making quite a production of getting in and out of his car - front seat to back seat, no one else seemed to be giving him much attention.  I imagined that this was probably frustrating for him.  I quickly averted my eyes before he noticed that I was watching him.

I don't know why some people need to be noticed.  I tend to prefer blending in when I'm out.  I also don't know why I looked away and denied this poor fellow the attention he apparently craved.  Or maybe I'm all wrong about him.  Maybe this was the only open parking spot he could find.  Maybe he has a hearing problem and doesn't even realize how loud is radio is blaring.  Maybe he took off his shirt because it's really hot today.  Maybe the nipple rings are...um, I can't explain the nipple rings.

I have no swagger

I have concluded that I have a very uncool walk.  I've suspected this for quite some time and I think I'm finally secure enough about myself to admit it.  My stride is efficient and smooth but, when I catch my reflection, it looks a tad uptight or aloof.  As I stroll along, there is no sway in my shoulders.  From the waist up there is very little motion at all.  I assume my hips have ball joints but I could maintain my walk with simple hinges.

I was thinking about this yesterday, as I walked during lunch.  My super-white-boy rigid gait was all the more obvious as I followed a young man with a pronounced swagger.  As I trailed him, I analyzed his movements.  Each step seemed to be driven from his thighs.  His left leg would lurch forward, pulling him slightly to the left.  His right leg would then counter, keeping him moving mostly forward.  Every step included a low dip to the shoulder of the driving leg.  The back and forth motion was mesmerizing, like watch the speed skaters in the Olympics.  I found my head bobbing slightly to his movements.

I thought about mimicking his movements but I felt it best to wait until I wasn't right behind him. Imitation may be the most sincere form of flattery but not when it's confused with mocking.  I turned up a side street and walked until I found a quiet, isolated spot.  Then, slowly, I began to employ the motions I'd observed.  I was surprised at how quickly I found myself locked in the new groove.  I felt much cooler although walking this new way took more effort.  I wasn't certain if this was just because it was new to me or if my old way was just more efficient.  I suspected the latter.

I turned the corner and passed by the large glass windows of a vacant building.  I studied my reflection as I sauntered on by.  I did not see an uptight or aloof person.  No, what I observed was a person who was perhaps a bit drunk.  My attempt at swagger was definitely coming off as stagger.  I reverted to my highly efficient robotic stride and returned to work.

Lunch Choices

As I stepped out the door at lunch yesterday, I was torn as to where I should go.  There are a number of fine choices for food within a couple of blocks of where I work.  I was alone so I quickly ruled out any restaurant involving wait-staff and menus, etc..  In my mind, sitting at a table, waiting for someone to take your order, is fine if you've got someone to talk to.  Before the food arrives is actually the best time to have a discussion - before everyone is talking with food in their mouths and inadvertently spitting little chunks here and there (did I mention I usually eat lunch alone?).  When you are alone, this time before the food is just a lot of quiet waiting.  I feel sorry when I see one of these loners when I'm out with others.

Having narrowed my search to only eating establishments that could give me food relatively quickly still left me with quite a few choices.  I don't like to eat a huge lunch and I'm trying to avoid eating to much saturated fat.  This helped check a few more off the list of candidates.  I didn't have a ton of time so I decided a couple of the more distant options were not suitable this time.  I threw out a few more because I'd never eaten at them before and I just didn't feel like a new experience.  New experiences are fine sometimes but I have to be in the mood for them.

All this culling left me with the same three places I usually choose from.  Two of the places were basic sandwich shops and the other offered Mexican fare.  The Mexican joint was the only one of the three with free Wi-Fi.  If I'd had more time, this might have been a deciding factor.  To be honest, I think Mexican food is my favorite.  I love the taste but I also appreciate the packaging.  A burrito is such an efficient way to deliver a meal.  And it seems so very well suited to a fast food environment.  I think I could eat Mexican food every day and be happy.

I could simplify my life and just get a burrito for lunch every day.  I would be content, I know.  The only thing stopping me is a fear that this would be looked upon as weird.  I already go there often enough that one of the staff knows I prefer black beans over pinto.  I don't mind being recognized as a regular but I don't want it to get to the point where they worry about my well-being if I don't show up for a few days.  I don't know why, but I care about what the staff thinks about me.  I want them to understand that I am so much more than just a "burrito for lunch" kind of guy.  Because I am.  Just ask the folks at Subway.

Roots

I've been doing some casual genealogy work lately.  This is an interest of mine that I've dabbled in from time to time over the past decade or two.  My efforts tend to be cyclical.  I'll start enthusiastically, soaking up every tidbit I can find on the internet.  Soon enough, though, the sheer amount of potential data to mine overwhelms me.  Each generation back has twice as many ancestors to search.  The software geek in me wiles away hours trying to devise the most efficient method for storing, searching and presenting the information.  The joy of the hunt fades.  I save away what I have and I do something else for awhile.

Until recently, my work has mostly focused on my father's side of the family.  This was greatly due to the fact that my aunt has a wealth of information.  My "work" was mostly copying her notes and tagging myself to the bottom of the tree.  The information was fairly straight-forward.  My ancestors came to America from Norway and Sweden in the mid-1800s and settled in the Midwest.  Whatever happened in Scandinavia, for the most part, was a mystery.  I have the name of a town or two, here and there, but searching records in a foreign country goes beyond the level of effort I'm willing to put forth right now.

My last bout of research has focused on my mother's side.  Again, much of the fundamental information I have was provided by relatives who did the real work or saved the right documents.  My initial research on my maternal grandfather's family yielded results similar to what I had found on my father's side.  Europeans, this time from northern Germany, coming to America in the 1800s and settling on farms.  I knew the pattern.  Everything fit nicely with the charts from my father's side, with the ancestors going back a similar number of generations.

Then I started following my maternal grandmother's lineage.  These people were primarily English and Irish and they were apparently in America much longer than my other ancestors.  In my searching, I stumbled across another person's research containing all the names and dates I was looking for - apparently, a distant relative of mine.  This person's research traces back to the 1600s and the first colonies in Massachusetts.  I don't know for a fact that all of the data is correct but the parts I could verify were accurate.  For now, I'm choosing to believe it.  I rather like thinking of myself as a descendant of these people.

I've always regarded the pilgrims and colonists and even the revolution as things and events that were American history but not specifically my history.  Now, the chance to lay claim to it is tantalizing.  Still, there is also a chance that I'll uncover something that refutes the entire link.  Maybe it's time to do something else for awhile.

Saturday Morning Run

 I usually stay up very late on Friday night.  It is the one night of the week that is followed by a morning when I can sleep in.  I often stay up until two or three AM, watching worthless television.  Even though I go to bed late, I'm still usually the first one up Saturday morning.  I feel rotten, but I'm up.  This past weekend was a little different.  I went to bed at a respectable hour because I planned to get up early and go running outside.

Morning running plans always sound great the night before.  Saturday's forecast was hot and humid.  Getting a run in early while it was still cool made perfect sense.  I knew, however, that I needed to make preparations the night before.  I've made weekend running plans before and I know how easily they can be derailed Saturday morning.  Can't find the "right" kind of socks?  Well, maybe I'll just skip the run this one time.  Forgot to charge the iPod?  Better watch TV instead.  The smallest of inconveniences can become reasons to remain planted on the couch or in bed.  This is all the more likely if you are already exhausted from a late night.  Thus, I went to bed early.

Saturday morning rolled around and the "I don't want to run" me rolled out of bed.  I trudged downstairs, my mind frantically trying to come up with a justification for lounging on the couch.  I remembered last night's preparation.  I knew that my running clothes awaited me in the basement bathroom.  No excuses there.  A thought occurred to me.  Maybe, the weather had already gotten warm and muggy.  If it was hot, it would be unwise for me to go out.  After all, the rest of my family was sleeping.  If I collapsed in the street, they wouldn't miss me for hours.  Such action would be irresponsible.  I stepped out on the back porch.  A gentle cool breeze greeted me.  I grimaced and went back inside.

I looked at the TV.  It was off but I could imagine its sharp HD quality picture.  There was probably something mildly interesting on.  Maybe if I watched something educational, it would be okay.  Exercise for the brain.  A part of me already knew that this was a really lame rationalization.  If I flopped on the couch, the laid-out running clothes in the basement would be there, waiting to shame me when I went to shower.  No, educational TV was not a replacement for my morning run.  Still, the TV beckoned. 

It then occurred to me that I should at least check the news.  I would hate to trot out my front door only to find that there was some sort of emergency and that people were being advised to stay inside.  I hadn't heard any sirens or anything, still it seemed prudent to at least check.  I cautiously sat down at the edge of the couch.  It felt good but I fought the urge to lean back.  I grabbed the remote, turned the TV on and quickly switched the channel to CNN before I got caught up in some other program.  Dr. Sanjay Gupta was hosting a medical show.  There were no scrolls about any sort of emergency.  Dr. Gupta was interviewing a man about the benefits of running barefoot.  They also discussed how good running was for you in general.  I sighed and I turned off the TV.

As it turned out, it was a beautiful morning for a run.

Guys, it's still summer vacation!

My 8-year old, N, has been attending "Camp Invention", a day camp, running from 9 to 3:30 each day this week.  The camp literature states that it is an academic/science camp with an emphasis on math, science and history.  Based on N's recaps thus far, this seems to be pretty true.  He is enjoying camp.  At dinner yesterday, his summary of the day's activities took almost the entire meal.  The camp is a good fit for him and I think August is the perfect time.

I'm not sure if he would have been as thrilled with the experience if the camp had been in, say, June.  In June, he was still shaking off the previous school year.  The countdown to summer vacation was fresh in his mind.  A camp that met roughly during school hours, at a school, covering school subjects would have seemed like an extension of the previous school term - a delay to summer vacation.  June was meant for unstructured freedom.

But now, in August, the realization has set in that doing nothing all day can be boring.  Going to camp, meeting and making friends, learning, it's all good.  Even without the camp, I've noticed that by late summer, my boys start moving into school mode.  I'll find them working on projects that look suspiciously like schoolwork.  I suppose this shouldn't be surprising.  They spend most of the year in school, doing these things.  It makes sense that eventually they'd fall back to them on their own.

Yesterday, B asked if he could use the computer.  This isn't so unusual.  In fact, it's almost a daily occurrence.  I remembered that he was playing on the computer when I got home from work.  I reminded him of this fact but he explained that he didn't want to play games this time.  He wanted to type up the prologue to the novel he'd been working on.  By bedtime he had a couple of pages done and pleaded for a few more minutes to finish the paragraph he was working on.  Another one ready for school.

Loss

Our local news ran a story yesterday morning about a 12-year old boy who died at a neighborhood park on Sunday.  My son is 12 and the park is near our home.  Many of his friends and classmates live even closer to the park.  The name of the boy was not initially released and we spent the morning wondering and worrying.  It seemed likely that we would know the family.

By mid-morning, we'd learned the name of the boy.  We did not know him or his family but we had mutual friends.  I felt no relief at the news that it was no one we knew.  Even though I don't know the family, I do know what it is like to lose a child.  I try not to imagine the despair and profound sadness that has gripped their home.  No, I don't know them, but I am so sorry for what they are going through.

This morning's newspaper had a story about the incident with a few more details about what happened.  A couple of boys playing.  A tragic accident.  It was the sort of story that frightens and saddens anyone who has a young child.  The newspaper also contained the obituary for the young boy.  It focused on the joy he'd brought to those around him - a very touching tribute.  Obituaries are the brave face we put on for the public.  Their concise and terse nature forces us to distill our grief into a few well chosen words.  In truth, if we were given the whole page, we likely would not be able to express how much this person will be missed.  Being forced to keep it short is actually a blessing of sorts.

A family grieves.  And even though I don't know them, I grieve with them.  If the parents are like me then I suspect they have celebrated watching their children change and grow.  First words, learning to walk, going to school, watching your child grow up is an exhilarating, wonderful process.  Now, it stops, and this is yet another source of pain.  We are programmed to track these stages in our kids.  If your child dies, it's difficult not to take note as their peers reach milestones.  It's the pain that keeps on giving.

I suspect that right now, this family is consumed with grief.  I am also confident that, over time, they will find a way to carry on.  They will not "get better" or "get over it".  They are changed.  As much as becoming a parent changes who you are, so does losing a child.  I pray that their friends and family will recognize this and support them through this difficult time.