On the Edge of Limbo

     Before this week is out, I will be unemployed. It is not as bad as it might have been, since I am old enough to have two separate retirement incomes coming in: one for civil service and one for the naval reserve. So, all things considered, I am luckier than many others in that I can afford to live on the money I have without worrying about paying the mortgage, utilities and taxes, etc. But there are challenges ahead and I am not sure how I will cope with them. For one thing, my third and final retirement is not of my choice, but due to government “efficiencies” that have lead to the cancellation of my company's defense contract. (Technically speaking, the government just failed to exercise the latest option year on my multi-year contract and let my time run out, but the effect is the same.)

     So far, I have tried to lay out, at least in my head, what I will do with myself. Besides the many projects fixing up our house, I am going through the motions of looking for another job - either another defense contractor position, consulting, teaching or something. I hope to get serious about my writing, but I am determined that I will do that whatever turns up. The point is that I need to be doing something to keep myself engaged. I have heard of too many who have just stopped living when they retired, just withering away because they assumed that is what you do.

     There are turning points in every stage of life and each has its own stresses, but each can have its own new beginnings. You may feel that you are about to take a leap into the unknown, but think of how bracing that wind can feel on your face.

Metro Closes Doors

The Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority (WMATA) has, over the years, conducted various public relations campaigns to convince the public of how wonderful the system is. One of these touted the slogan “Metro Opens Doors!” Ironically, the Metrorail trains have doors that will close on you like the jaws of doom. I have seen families of tourists forcibly separated because they were unaware, or did not have fast enough reflexes, to avoid being marooned on a station platform while other family members were off on a voyage of discovery that they had not anticipated.

Besides all the crashes and derailments that have made the news over the years, there is the deteriorated condition of the rolling stock. I have on my desk as I write this, a screw that I found on the floor of a Metrorail train. It is symbolic of the decline of what was once a model urban transit system. (The Washington DC system is second only to New York's in size and ridership.) Often there are cars with no heat in winter or no air conditioning in summer; other cars have leaked to the point that the dampness has led to mildew growth. (I call these foul smelling coaches “Legionnaire’s Disease” cars.)

A recent event I experienced only serves to highlight the sad state of affairs. While riding the Blue line I had to wait for several minutes, oddly enough because the doors would not close properly. We finally got underway when the train operator made a desperate announcement: all passengers were to watch the doors as they attempted to close, and, if they were stuck, to shove them closed! I do not know which valiant passenger literally threw him or herself “into the breach” as it were, but we eventually departed the station without further incident.

Going The Distance

Sometimes I wonder why I run marathons. I had never been an athlete, at least not in team sports, but I could always run. Over the years I have slowed down, but I still keep running. For some reason, however, it had never occurred to me to try running a marathon. I had to do a lot of running when I was on active duty in the Navy while training at Pensacola and had to maintain a certain level of effort after that to pass my annual physical fitness test for the reserves. But there was no compelling reason to run that distance, to go through what I knew was required of me. Maybe it was a combination of circumstances that just came together when I finally took the plunge.
In the weeks after 9-11, I had heard about an opening for the Marine Corps Marathon that October, but I realized that two or three weeks of preparation would not be enough. Then, too, I had heard somewhere about the Jeff Galloway method of taking walking breaks at regular intervals. That way your muscles could recover and you could last longer and feel better afterward. After all, the idea for most participants is to just finish; only a select minority of true athletes compete with the thought of winning. Something about it intrigued me enough to commit to signing up for the following year. I was 54. Somehow, it was important to me to find out if I could do it and so I resorted to what I call my “rock and rope” method of motivation. The idea is that if there is something you want to do but are not sure of, you figuratively tie one end of a rope around your ankle and the other end around a big rock. Then you throw the rock over a cliff, so that, even if you have second thoughts, you are committed. By paying the entrant’s fee, I had thrown the rock over the cliff and was now committed. My wife was skeptical, perhaps wondering if this was just some sort of mid-life crisis, but we reached an understanding. My goals were (in order of precedence) to not get injured; to avoid being picked up by the stragglers bus; and last, to finish. The deal was that if I did not finish, I would not sign up for another marathon. That is still the deal many marathons later. But for the first one at least she went with me to, as she put it, “claim the body.”
Following the Galloway training plan for first timers I gradually worked up my mileage, running for thirty minutes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, walking for thirty minutes on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and doing my long runs on Sundays while taking Saturdays off. Even with the training working up to distances of at least 20 miles, the actual event was still the great unknown. Since we live in the Washington DC area, getting to the race was a simple matter of getting up in the dark of night (or “zero-dark-thirty” as they say in the military), driving to a Metro station, parking and taking Metrorail. When we arrived I left my extra gear with my wife (who had also brought along a book to read to pass the time) and found my starting corral. Over the years many of the events of that day have blurred with those of subsequent races, but a few things still stand out. One thing that really struck me was the great variety of humanity participating in “the people’s marathon.” The Marine Corps Marathon does not have any qualifying time requirements, like the New York or Boston marathons and so you can see runners of many ages with varying levels of ability. There are also people who make it a performance event by dressing in colorful costumes. I was most impressed by the firemen who ran in full firefighting gear (except for their running shoes). My plan worked, for the most part, the way I had anticipated. I would run three minutes and walk a minute. Somewhere around mile 20, I had to start adding additional walking breaks and occasionally stretch out a leg muscle or two, but at least I would “beat the bridge” and finish the rest of the course. (Once you had crossed the bridge, you were pretty much guaranteed that you would be allowed to finish and would not be rolled up on the stragglers bus.) Of the 26.2 miles, that last “.2” seemed to be the hardest since it was uphill going toward the Iwo Jima Memorial. I finished in just under six hours.
In the years that followed I have run other races (more MCMs, National Marathons, and various half marathons and other distances, such as the Army Ten Miler). The practical “lessons learned” include: using “Glide” on various body parts to prevent chaffing (Glide is much better than using petroleum jelly since it provides better protection and is a lot less messy); incorporating stretching, core and upper body exercises consistently as part of my training program; using electrolyte replacements during the race (“Endurolytes” from Hammer Nutrition, for example); and listening to what my body is telling me and scaling back when necessary. But the most important thing about running a marathon is what you learn about yourself. I sometimes talk with individuals who are younger than I, are in better physical condition than I was at their age, and who in fact may be runners themselves, but for some reason feel that they could never do a marathon. Make no mistake, there are those who cannot and should not commit to running a marathon, but there are others who, if they took the chance, would find out what they can accomplish if they would only set their feet on that path. Once you have done it, you can look at other challenges in your life in a different light. There are more possibilities than you can imagine.

Suspicious Activity Report

Those of us who live and work in the Washington DC area are continually made aware of the threat of terrorism, an awareness bred not only by past events, but by efforts on the part of the Department of Homeland Security and local authorities. (One of these days, I swear, DHS will sponsor a "Bring A Suspicious Package To Work Day.") At any rate, the Washington Metro system is continually reminding riders to report suspicious items or activity. Just the other day, I was riding the Metro rail to work when a young man about twenty to twenty-five boarded the train. You can say what you want about "profiling" but this individual seemed to be auditioning for a place on the next security awareness poster. He was tall (about six feet) and was wearing a hoodie and sunglasses. The effect was a remarkable resemblance to every police artist sketch of a suspect wanted in connection with a convenience store stick up. To add to the effect, he was carrying an oversized attache case in one hand and had his other hand tucked inside a soft-sided lunch bag with a caution sign logo that read "Keep Out" on it. The attache case had wires leading out of it and, through a partially unzipped opening, I could see a red light blinking. I could not help thinking that his other hand held the "kill switch" for a detonator. It seems silly in retrospect, but I would not turn my back to this guy the whole time I was on the train and watched for any sudden moves on his part. When I left the train at my stop I wondered if I would be hearing anything in the news later. Nothing ever happened of course, the young man was probably just listening to his tunes from his boom box. But it does make me stop and think about how easy it is to fall into the trap of stereotyping people when we feel threatened by real or imagined dangers.

The Stepmother: A Chicago Memory

     For no particular reason, the other day I thought of John. He was a friend from my elementary school days back in Chicago. On my block lived my best friend Kenny, Howard, our mutual friend and sometime object of torment because he was German and took himself too seriously at times, the Scott brothers and an assortment of minor characters who interacted with us on occasion. But John was not part of the gang since he lived a few blocks away and didn’t mix with any of them. In fact, they didn’t get along with each other at all. I remember one winter when Kenny threw a slushball at John and knocked his glasses off. John was crying and I had to sympathize with him because I knew that it really had to sting. I had walked him home that day and we talked about it. Kenny could be really pigheaded sometimes. Anyway, John and I shared many interests and I would come over to his house to build models together. Anyone who has ever painted “flesh” on olive drab soldier figures knows what a hassle it is to cover the dark plastic and make it look good. John’s solution was novel - he painted them with gloss black and proudly proclaimed them to be “Congolese” troops. There was not a hint of racism in what he said, he just liked the idea. He was kind of rough around the edges and gave the impression of being tough, but I think that was in part because he lived with his dad, a widower who didn’t know how to impart more refined behavior. He felt awkward talking to John about some topics and thought what John needed was a mother’s touch.

     John’s father was lucky. He had met someone and after a period of seeing each other, they married. I remember her as a tall woman with red hair and a kind face. She always seemed nervous that John would not accept her as a stepmother and tried to reassure him through her kindness and consideration. I don’t remember John saying much about her, at least not anything negative or mean, but the effect on him was palpable. He was happy. The moment that crystalized that for me was at a parents meeting held at school. I was there with my mother and she had sat next to John’s stepmother and they struck up a conversation. As my mother related to me later, this poor woman was on pins and needles. Each student had to stand up in front of the crowd and introduce his or her parent and she had no idea how John would introduce her. I can only imagine the anxiety she felt. What I do remember is how John introduced her. As he stood up in front of everyone, he gestured toward her with an outstretched hand, his face beaming and eyes shining. “I’d like to introduce you to my mom!”

Tip and Teddy

When I reminisce about all the animals our family has had over the years, I always think of Tip and Teddy. They were gray tabbies, sisters from the same litter, that we adopted when we lived in a townhouse in Springfield, Virginia. We had just moved from Watertown, Massachusetts, where, as renters, we were not allowed to have pets. My three sons really wanted to have pets and we discovered that a neighbor a few doors down was looking to give away some kittens. Tip and Teddy were the last two to be chosen because, unknown to their parents, the neighbor’s children would always tell anyone who came to look at them that they were already taken. In spite of the fact that they were both female, we named one of them after Tip O’Neil (since we had just moved from Massachusetts) and to “balance the ticket” we picked a Republican, Teddy Roosevelt, as the namesake for her sister. Tip was considered to be the prettier of the pair and always acted ladylike. Tip became my oldest son James’ cat. She could always hear the school bus before any of us and would be patiently waiting at the top of the stairs to greet him when he walked in the door. She would “speak” to him in a manner that always seemed to be her idea of human speech. It almost sounded like ‘hello James, how was your day?’ James just wanted to decompress and we would have to remind him to talk to his cat.

Teddy was my cat. She was mouthy and her nose looked like it was pushed in, giving her a pugnacious appearance. She would sprawl across the floor in a most unladylike road kill pose and would hustle family members for treats, poking us with a paw to try to get a chance to lick the salt off a potato chip or help us finish our ice cream.  We learned that we had to keep doughnuts secured by a rubber band around the box, since we once found a box of a half dozen powdered doughnuts that had been opened and had just the tops of each doughnut nibbled off. Somehow or other, I developed her natural tendency to roll over into a stupid pet trick. She eventually learned to “roll over,” “sit” and “shake hands.” Her other outstanding quality was that she loved to play in the snow. Whenever it snowed, she would sit by a door or window and meow plaintively until someone would let her go outside. She would jump around in the drifts and have fun until she got cold enough to come inside. Tip, on the other hand, would just look at her incredulously. Later, as she got very old, she would still want to go outside in the snow, but would only last a few seconds before she would be crying at the door to come back inside.

We had Tip and Teddy for a very long time. Tip lasted eighteen years before she had to be put down. She was too frail and in too much pain. It was hard for my sons to understand at first, but it was the humane thing to do. Teddy lasted two more years before she too met her sister’s fate. We had them cremated and someday will work out a final resting place for the two sisters who were part of our family for so long.

A Day at Appomattox

     My nephew Daniel, a Staff Sergeant in the Army reserves, was in the Washington DC area for a few weeks while taking a course at Fort Meade. Daniel has already been to Iraq twice and to Afghanistan once and is about to leave for another tour in Afghanistan. Everyone in my sister's family in the Chicago area is in the funeral business and Daniel is also licensed as a funeral director. Through his research into the family history, he determined that his great grandfather, also named Daniel, served in the Civil War with the 20th Maine regiment, the unit made famous in the book Killer Angels for its role at Little Round Top at the Battle of Gettysburg. Daniel's namesake had joined the unit in 1865 and participated in the last battles of the war and was present at Appomattox Court House for the formal surrender ceremony of Lee's Army of Northern Virginia on April 12th, 1865. He survived the war and typhoid fever, but was later buried in a pauper’s grave in the Chicago area. Daniel was determined to give him a proper resting place and went through all the necessary paperwork to have him buried in a military cemetery next to Daniel's brother John, who had also been a Captain in the Army reserves. His quest during his visit was to see where his great grandfather had been, to walk the same battlefield, and to make the connection across the years from one soldier to another. I went with him to share the experience.

     The drive to Appomattox the day after Thanksgiving was a pleasant one. The weather was beautiful - sunny and mild. Most people do not know that Appomattox Court House is the name of the town and that the courthouse (one word) is only a building in that town. They also do not realize that Lee did not surrender his army in the courthouse, but in the home of Wilmer McLean on April 9th. The McLean family had seen the Battle of Manassas (known as the Battle of Bull Run in the north) from their home and decided to move to a quiet area to avoid the war. Ironically, the war came to them.

     The docent who led us on the tour was a Vietnam veteran who was knowledgeable and passionate about the sacrifices made on both sides. As we walked along the Lynchburg stage road we could feel what it was like. Lee's army, worn, but proud marched down the road led by Lieutenant General John B. Gordon. (Both Lee and Grant had already left.) The union forces for the surrender ceremony were under Brigadier General Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain of Gettysburg fame. As the Confederates marched down the road to surrender their arms and colors, Chamberlain ordered his men to come to attention and "carry arms," the soldiers salute. Gordon, at the head of the column, raised his eyes at the sound and instantly understood the significance of this act or respect. Wheeling his horse gracefully, Gordon dropped the point of his sword to his boot tip, and gave a command, at which the Confederate flag following him was dipped and his units, as they reached the Union ranks, responded to the "carry." As Chamberlain recalled later, "All the while on our part not a sound of trumpet or drum, not a cheer, nor a word nor motion of man, but awful stillness as if it were the passing of the dead."

     Daniel and I let it all sink in. It is hard to explain to some people why it is important to experience some things first hand, to make history come alive by walking the very ground where extraordinary events took place. For some of us there is a need to feel connected to the past, for it is part of who we are. I am grateful that Daniel wanted to include me in this very personal journey.

A Thanksgiving To Remember: A Chicago Memory

My Grandma was definitely not your typical American grandmother. Of poor German stock, she had spent the years of World War Two in some part of Yugoslavia. I could only remember the name of her village, Gocova, and had even tried to look it up in an atlas once, but had no earthly idea of how to spell it or even in what region it was. My mother and father had scrimped and saved to bring her over after the war and she eventually settled on the south side of Chicago in a quiet residential neighborhood with my uncle. You could take grandma out of the village, but you couldn't take the village out of grandma. She had that grasping, hungry, selfish way that years of enough to eat and a warm house to sleep in had never overcome. My sisters and I always dreaded making the trip from the north side to spend holidays at grandma’s. To begin with, she didn't let us be children - no running, no noise, no other children around the quiet well manicured neighborhood, nothing to do. Children were expected to sit and be quiet. No watching television, unless it was wrestling, of all things, and the magazines were all in German. But the worst of it was the meals we lived through. Lived through was the way I always thought of meals at grandma’s. Supper was always chicken paprikas, not the delicious and wonderful chicken paprikas I would discover quite by accident later in life, but a mean spirited watery concoction that offered little as food and even less for the soul. The recipe was engraved on my memory. First, she cut up the chicken and put the best parts in the refrigerator for her and my uncle to eat later. Then she took out a big pot, filled it with water and threw in a few pathetic potatoes and perhaps an onion. If any seasonings, such as salt and pepper or even paprika, went in the water it was never so much that anyone might notice or remember. The chicken itself was what I remember most. The backs, necks, and wings were thrown in and boiled until everything was done and what meat there was fell off the bones along with the ghastly pallid chicken skins. The thought of one particular Thanksgiving comes to mind. Our family had usually avoided Thanksgiving at grandma’s, but this one year, when I was ten years old, was an exception. Upon learning that we were going to grandma’s for Thanksgiving, my sisters and I faced the prospect with what could only be described as utter gloom. Then our mother informed us that grandma would be making turkey.

Our grandma? I had asked several times incredulously and was assured each time that it was true. My grandmother was actually going to make a turkey. My sisters and I sat in the back seat of the family car and wondered at that fact the whole trip down to the south side. We had arrived around noon. Shortly afterward, I wandered into the kitchen to see what, if anything, was going on. In the middle of the kitchen table was a rather large, pale, and as yet completely uncooked turkey. It was only after I was an adult that I learned from my mother that she had bought the turkey for grandma. Thinking back again, I remembered that even at ten, I knew a thing or two about cooking turkeys. There were preparations that had to be made. Stuffing, and vegetables, and potatoes, and cranberry jelly, and rolls. And turkeys took hours in the oven and had to be basted while a wonderful aroma would fill the kitchen. I remembered getting hungry and also worried. Then grandma had begun to cut up the turkey. She put the good parts in the refrigerator. Out came the big pot, in went a few potatoes and the back . . . the neck . . . and the wings. Turkey paprikas!

I hope your own family’s Thanksgiving dinner is a traditional one with all the trimmings and one that, perhaps, you might be even more thankful for than usual.

A Brave New World for a Late Bloomer

This is my inaugural post for a medium that I have avoided for quite a while, even though I have always considered myself a writer first and other things second. There are so many things that I am interested in that I don't know where to begin exactly. My hope is that others may find what I write to be of interest and that the process will lead to growth on my part as both a writer and a human being. As I gain experience, and with the help of any readership that might follow my works, my intent is to put more meat on these bare bones.