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I went for a run last week. Recent weight loss tactics had been met with stiff resistance by my middle-aged body, and something had to be done.
I used to be a runner of some ability. Back then, I actually enjoyed going for a two... three... even four mile run on a regular basis. But my job, my age, a general tendency toward loafing, overindulgence, and a variety of other totally valid excuses had kept me from it for years—I was ready.
I went to the bike path in the pre-dawn hours of Sunday morning. It was good to be setting off on a run again, and I contemplated whether I should do a hard two-mile run, or pace myself and put in four.
I started strong, and other than the Clydesdale-like clip, clop of my flat feet slapping the asphalt, everything felt right. It wasn’t long, though, before I found myself desperately gasping for air, my lungs burning, as I simultaneously developed an alarming wheeze. I noticed there were colored spots dancing before my eyes (mostly yellow) and I had developed a tendency to veer left—a habit I was constantly reminded to correct when a tree limb along that side of the path would thwap me in the face (Yes, thwap is a real imaginary word). The stabbing pain in my side was rivaled only by the one in my back, and my heart seemed to be trying to evacuate my chest via my throat. I took my first break.
When I came to, I stood, brushed myself off, and foolishly continued to lurch forward. Glancing at my watch, I noticed that I had already put in eighteen minutes, counting my break, and I felt like I might be able to hang on for awhile yet, if I stopped another time or two along the way.
Twenty minutes into my run I took my second break. Doubled over, hands on my knees, I fought to maintain consciousness as I watched the sweat puddling at my feet and tried to decide if the ringing sound was in both ears, or just one. Bent like that, in the early dawn light, I could see a mark on the pavement indicating that I had run ½ mile. It then struck me that I hadn’t properly stretched before starting my run. In order to avoid unnecessary injury, due to my negligence, I decided the safest thing was to stop immediately.
Limping back to the car, I was menaced by a fairly sizeable dog, but I was pretty sure that being torn apart and eaten by the hound would hurt less than trying to run away, and I stoically maintained my gimping pace. I must have looked too pathetic to be given serious consideration, even as dog food, because the dog stopped barking and stared at me for another moment before flashing a knowing, dog-smile and trotting away. He had seen my type on the bike path before.
That was last week. The chafing on my thighs is beginning to improve and I can feel my feet again. I’ve decided to give the abstemious use of food and drink another try. One thing is certain—there will be no more of this monkey-business of running.
It can be a might hard on one’s ego to have a child return home after their first year of college. Suddenly, they’ve become worldly and wise, and you, it is believed by your loving child, have entered the early stages of witless senescence.
When our boys were small, I could tell them anything, and they would trustingly accept my words as true and correct. We’ve all witnessed kids quibbling, in the age-old debate that begins, “My dad is smarter than your dad!” If you and the other dad both happened to be present at the onset of one of these contests, you would glance at the other dad and offer an apologetic smile, knowing you really were smarter than him.
But eventually, this open acceptance of your wisdom begins to waver. It starts when you share information that you know is suspect, and they give you a hard stare as they mull over your words. You can almost hear the gears turning as the machinery of their little mind is locked in a struggle between their faith in your expansive knowledge, and the thought that maybe you really don’t know everything. This uncertainty in your abilities continues to grow until they hit their teen years, and they are convinced that, in fact: you know nothing, intentionally cause them embarrassment, and dress weird. Fortunately, you still know a little more than they do, and they grudgingly tolerate your lectures on the subject, though they’ll never confess it to be true.
It’s a hard day, though, when they return from that first year of college. Now, they see it as their duty to challenge everything you say, as they engage you in critical-thinking debates.
Dad, why do you always skip the Arts section of the newspaper?
Oh, I don’t really care for it much, I guess.
Why?
I don’t know! I’m just interested in other things—that’s all.
Is it because you don’t agree with what you see there, or you just don’t understand it?
Huh?
Look at the photograph of this painting. Would you describe this style as expressionist, realist or post-impressionist?
He holds up the newspaper and I look at the photograph, which I would describe as a one-legged frog, belly-flopping into a Jell-O salad. I decide that before being drawn further into this engagement of cerebral-jousting, the safest thing for me to do is fake a seizure. Which, I do.
If you try this, you will later want to explain that it is a recently diagnosed medical condition, with sudden and unpredictable onset, and that your doctor said it is best if you avoid strenuous mental activity. Then, the next time you recognize that you’re being pulled into a contest of intellectual gymnastics, rigidly contort your face and stare blankly at a corner of the ceiling. At this point, they will search out another victim—hopefully a younger sibling…the younger ones are accustomed to the abuse.
Eventually, your child will be out of college and have a family of their own—and it will be discovered that you are once again filled with wisdom. Then, your advice will be unabashedly pursued as your grandkids challenge the patience, will and intellect of their parents... it’s only fair.
Each summer, when we were kids, my brothers and I were sent away to spend two weeks with Grandma. I’m not sure if this was Grandma’s idea, or Mom’s.
One of the many rituals that we enjoyed each year was going to a creek, a place called Siever Springs, to do some trout fishing. I don’t recall that I ever caught a trout at Siever’s, but Grandma almost never got skunked, as she called coming home empty handed.
I tried to catch what should have been easy prey in this stocked stream, but I never had what fishermen call luck. Ti improve my odds, I would watch Grandma carefully, trying to copy whatever she did. She would pull out some extra line for a long cast upstream, and would land her baited hook with precise accuracy. I would pull out that same length of line, and spend the next 20 minutes untangling it.
Sometimes, Grandma would catch a chub, and she would come as near as I ever heard her come to cursing when she would say, “Nuts!" I caught chubs all the time. I was a chub-fishing pro. If catching chubs had been a good thing, I would have had my own televised fishing show. One day, I was catching so many chubs that I stopped reeling them in. I would just whip the tip of my pole up and over my head, snapping the line out of the water and slinging the unfortunate chub in an overhead arc before slamming it to the ground of the pasture from which we fished. "Nuts," I would mimic, before unhooking the stunned fish.
Sometimes, Grandma would invite one of our cousins who lived there in town. I liked them all, but for fishing, Tim was the best. Tim would also try to emulate Grandma’s actions in hope of enjoying success similar to hers. Trouble was, Tim would try to do this while standing right next to her. When Grandma dropped her line next to a rock snag, Tim would drop his in the same place. When Grandma’s line came out of the water, so did Tim’s. When Grandma would eventually shoo him away… Tim would fall in the creek.
Tim was great at falling in the creek. If Tim was walking along the creek, and there was a tree near the creek's edge, he always chose to pass between the tree and the creek… and fall in. One time, I had been fishing from my seat on a large log that was several feet from the creek. I got up to try another spot and Tim came over to fish from the log. As soon as he sat down, the log and Tim both rolled into the creek. I loved fishing with Tim!
I don’t fish much anymore. When I do fish, and the fish aren’t biting, and it’s hot, and the day is growing long, and the effort seems pointless—I remember fishing with Grandma, and wish Tim were along to provide a little entertainment.
Pulled a weed from my garden, and then I saw two
I got rid of that pair, it’s what gardeners do
You may not believe, that I then spotted four
Plucked up the quadruplets, and spied even more!
I pulled all that day, and into the night
My wife went to bed... and turned off the light!
I decided right then, oh, these weeds I would best
I would win the weed war, I would pass this weed test!
This went on for a week, and then a fortnight
My foe grew quite large, but I carried the fight
My skin was burned red, from the wind and the sun
I kept at my work, hoping soon I’d be done
Scratched, prickled and whipped, I lost track of the date
I saw spiders and toads, and even a snake!
I would not be put-off, from my mission, my fate
Even wove a weed-hat, to protect my thin pate
Pulling first with my left hand, then with my right
One pulled with great ease! The rest took all my might
It was then that I found that I couldn’t stand straight
I just hobbled and limped, in a strange weeder’s gait
The sweat ran in rivers, the skeeters did bite
I just couldn’t stop, with a weed still in sight
I'm obsessive compulsive, I know that it’s true
But with weeds in my rows, what would you have me do?
There were rainstorms and lightening, and even some hail
A tornado touched down, made me think I might fail
It was humid so bad that I thought I might die
And it only got worse, when the rain brought deer flies
May, June, then July, the months came and then went
My clothes hung in rags, I was tired and spent
My hands they were blistered, and gnarled like two claws
Scarecrow-ish I looked… but the crows just guffawed
I was nearing the end, I could see it quite clear
The weeds they were fading, looking weak, showing fear
Then quick as a wink, the great battle was done
I called to my wife, “I have done it! I’ve won!"
As I crawled to the house on my hands and my knees
Glancing over sore shoulder, my mind was now eased
I can say that for sure, it was well worth the strife
For the handful of beans, and zucchini for life
