Derrick Henry and the Titans have been on a historic run the last few weeks, particularly in the first two rounds of the playoffs. Henry has been unstoppable in the Titans' upset wins over the Patriots and, last weekend, the Ravens.
Derrick Henry is the only player with two playoff games with over 175 yards rushing in the same season. He's the only player with three consecutive games of over 180 yards rushing. He's the only player over an eight game stretch in NFL history to have at least 1,250 yards rushing and 10 touchdowns.
And now, the Titans are in the AFC Championship game this weekend against a heavily favored Kansas City Chiefs' team. The city of Nashville and, really, the entire state of Tennessee, are buzzing with excitement over this run by the Titans. It reminds me of 1999, when the Titans played the Rams in their lone Super Bowl appearance, in the sense that everyone is talking about them.
I must say, thought, that it's been bittersweet for me not to be able to share the Titans' unexpected success this season with my mom. She absolutely loved the Titans. She watched every game, then listened to Mark Howard and crew on the postgame show. During the week, she listened to George Plaster and Willie Daunic on Plaster's radio show. All Titans' talk during the fall and early winter and she loved every minute of it.
After every Titans' game, especially the last few years before her memory failed her, I called her. We had a routine that made us both laugh.
If the Titans won, when she answered my call, I'd say "how 'bout my Titans?!?"
If the Titans lost, I'd say "how 'bout your Titans?!?"
In recent years, there were more Titans' losses than wins, or so it seemed. After losses, my mom would laugh that infectious laugh of her and ask "how come they're your Titans when they win and my Titans when they lose." We would laugh together, then break down he game, big play by big play.
As a gift to my mom, I framed the front pages of the Tennessean after the "Music City Miracle" win over the Buffalo Bills and the AFC Championship win over the Jacksonville Jaguars during the 1999 season, which she hung on the wall in the playroom of her house. She also hung on the wall an autographed painting of Eddie George and replicas of the Titans' logo and football helmet. She even had a ticket - still in a lanyard - from a Titans' game I took her to long, long ago. All of those hung on her walls in the playroom for more than 20 years, happy memories from days gone by for a Titans' fan like her.
Last Sunday, J.P. and I removed all of my mom's Titans' paraphernalia from the playroom wall (along with other sports memorabilia), in preparation for the upcoming estate sale at her house. It was cruel irony, I guess, to be taking down and sorting through those things in the midst of the Titans' unexpected run of success in the 2020 NFL playoffs. I was more than a little sad because I knew how much fun she would have had the past two weekends.
The word that comes to mind that best describes how I feel about the Titans' success is bittersweet.
It's been great to watch the games - and talk about the games and the team - with J.P. and Joe. Part of growing up as a sports' fan is watching your team, on pins and needles, living and dying with every play. In their lifetimes, they've never seen a Titans' team that went on a run like this, so it's been fun to share it with them.
However, with each win, I can't help but think about how my mom would've enjoyed this Titans' season. I feel cheated, in a way, that I didn't get to share it with her.
One last time.
How 'bout your Titans, mom!?!
Tuesday, January 14, 2020
Sunday, January 12, 2020
Joe Ovechkin
Early last week, Joe was eating breakfast before school. Suddenly, he yelped and said, "Daddy, I lost my tooth!"
"Where is it?" I replied.
"In my eggs!" he said.
Yep, there it was in his eggs - the first front tooth he's lost.
As you can see, Joe was very proud. He looks like a hockey player.
"Where is it?" I replied.
"In my eggs!" he said.
Yep, there it was in his eggs - the first front tooth he's lost.
As you can see, Joe was very proud. He looks like a hockey player.
Thursday, January 9, 2020
The Birthday That Wasn't
Today was my mom's birthday.
For once, I had a bit of a lull at work, so I took the day off. After Jude left with the boys to drop them off at school, I had a cup of coffee at Portland Brew in my neighborhood then drove an hour to Dickson Union Cemetery in Dickson, Tennessee. There, my mom is buried in her family's plot, beside her two sisters, Sue and Ann, and just below her parents, Robert and Mary Alice Ussery.
At heart and in many ways, my mom was a small town girl. It's appropriate, I guess, that she's buried in a cemetery in a small town.
Near the beginning of our week long vigil at St. Thomas Hospital last January - waiting for my mom's inevitable death after she suffered a stroke and brain bleed - I realized I had no idea where she was going to be buried. It was the one thing that had never crossed my mind and something that Tracy and I had never discussed. As I sat in the waiting room, my head spinning, I was lost until I ran into one of my mom's old friend's from Dickson. It was nothing more than serendipity.
Dan told me to call Tommy Marvin at Taylor Funeral Home in Dickson, Tennessee. "Tommy's a friend of the family," Dan said. "He'll know what to do." So, I called Tommy Marvin and true to form, he knew exactly what to do.
Tommy knew my mom and had handled the arrangements for my grandmother, Mary Alice Ussery, and later, for my grandmother's sister, Sara Dickson, when they died. I had met him a time or two, although I didn't remember him. I quickly realized he was a man my mom had talked about and liked, and had stayed in touch with after my grandmother died. I think she and my Aunt Sara took him to lunch a time or two. The point being, of course, is that he knew my family and, more importantly, my mom.
Tommy told me that he thought we had a family plot, or two, at Dickson Union Cemetery. He looked into it and, as it turned out, there was one spot left next to my mom's sisters in the Ussery family plot. I felt such sense of relief to know that my mom would be buried next to her sisters, whom she loved so much, and with her parents, too.
It's been a mild winter but it was a little cold and windy when I got out of my truck this morning began walking through the cemetery, looking for my mom's headstone. It was hard, at first, to get my bearings, and I zipped up my vest against the wind and continued walking. I was an odd sensation, walking alone through the cemetery, reading dates of death and birth on so many headstones in so many family plots. I thought about the fact that each one of the people buried there had been a cherished and loved family member - a mom, dad, grandmother, grandfather, brother, sister, son, daughter. So many lives lived.
Slowly, I got my bearings, and within 10 minutes or so, I saw the large, gray "Ussery" marker. I walked up and there I was, staring down at my mom's headstone. I sat down for a few minutes, lost in thought and alone with my memories.
As I sat there in the wind, I told my mom that the boys were doing fine and that Joe had been so very excited when he lost his first front tooth earlier this week. I told her the boys had fun playing basketball this fall. I told her I missed her. I told her I loved her. Then, I said a prayer.
I stood up and took one last, long look at my mom's headstone. Then, I walked back to my truck.
Happy Birthday, Meemaw. I miss you and the boys miss you.
For once, I had a bit of a lull at work, so I took the day off. After Jude left with the boys to drop them off at school, I had a cup of coffee at Portland Brew in my neighborhood then drove an hour to Dickson Union Cemetery in Dickson, Tennessee. There, my mom is buried in her family's plot, beside her two sisters, Sue and Ann, and just below her parents, Robert and Mary Alice Ussery.
At heart and in many ways, my mom was a small town girl. It's appropriate, I guess, that she's buried in a cemetery in a small town.
Near the beginning of our week long vigil at St. Thomas Hospital last January - waiting for my mom's inevitable death after she suffered a stroke and brain bleed - I realized I had no idea where she was going to be buried. It was the one thing that had never crossed my mind and something that Tracy and I had never discussed. As I sat in the waiting room, my head spinning, I was lost until I ran into one of my mom's old friend's from Dickson. It was nothing more than serendipity.
Dan told me to call Tommy Marvin at Taylor Funeral Home in Dickson, Tennessee. "Tommy's a friend of the family," Dan said. "He'll know what to do." So, I called Tommy Marvin and true to form, he knew exactly what to do.
Tommy knew my mom and had handled the arrangements for my grandmother, Mary Alice Ussery, and later, for my grandmother's sister, Sara Dickson, when they died. I had met him a time or two, although I didn't remember him. I quickly realized he was a man my mom had talked about and liked, and had stayed in touch with after my grandmother died. I think she and my Aunt Sara took him to lunch a time or two. The point being, of course, is that he knew my family and, more importantly, my mom.
Tommy told me that he thought we had a family plot, or two, at Dickson Union Cemetery. He looked into it and, as it turned out, there was one spot left next to my mom's sisters in the Ussery family plot. I felt such sense of relief to know that my mom would be buried next to her sisters, whom she loved so much, and with her parents, too.
It's been a mild winter but it was a little cold and windy when I got out of my truck this morning began walking through the cemetery, looking for my mom's headstone. It was hard, at first, to get my bearings, and I zipped up my vest against the wind and continued walking. I was an odd sensation, walking alone through the cemetery, reading dates of death and birth on so many headstones in so many family plots. I thought about the fact that each one of the people buried there had been a cherished and loved family member - a mom, dad, grandmother, grandfather, brother, sister, son, daughter. So many lives lived.
Slowly, I got my bearings, and within 10 minutes or so, I saw the large, gray "Ussery" marker. I walked up and there I was, staring down at my mom's headstone. I sat down for a few minutes, lost in thought and alone with my memories.
As I sat there in the wind, I told my mom that the boys were doing fine and that Joe had been so very excited when he lost his first front tooth earlier this week. I told her the boys had fun playing basketball this fall. I told her I missed her. I told her I loved her. Then, I said a prayer.
I stood up and took one last, long look at my mom's headstone. Then, I walked back to my truck.
Happy Birthday, Meemaw. I miss you and the boys miss you.
Saturday, January 4, 2020
Photographs and Memories
With an estate sale at my mom's house approaching, Tracy, Alice, and I have been doing our best to sift through 50 + years of photographs, mementos, papers, and keepsakes. It's an arduous, painstaking, and, for me, emotional task.
It's sad when you really think about it. Someone spends a lifetime accumulating, well, stuff. Sure, some of it is utilitarian but the majority of it is useful or has value only to the owner. Furniture my mom sat on every day and photographs of us, as children, she walked by and maybe looked at every day - if we don't take those items, they will inevitably end up in a landfill. That's hard to take, especially for someone as nostalgic as I am.
Do I save old family photographs lying loose in a shoebox? My report cards from elementary school at David Lipscomb? Notes and cards I wrote to my mom as a teenager? Christmas cards my mom's best friends sent to her 25 years ago that she saved? Lists and notes in my mom's handwriting that literally have no use to me now other than to possess something she touched and wrote? Old stuffed animals that belonged to one of us that she kept for reasons known only to her?
What about all of my dad's stuff that my mom saved? His flight manual? (he was an avid pilot) His undergraduate and medical school degrees? Photographs of him, alone, and him with us? Plaques given to him?
If I keep some of this stuff, what will I do with it? Maybe, and I mean maybe, I'll open a box sometime in the next decade, look at an old photograph or read an old note, then close the box and put it away. After the sudden, visceral feeling of, what . . . nostalgia, sadness, longing . . . I'll return to the reality. Boys to raise, bills to pay, and a life to live. Is it worth it to keep those things?
Am I just leaving a mess for my boys to clean up, someday, when I die? A ton of stuff to go through, like we're doing now and like my mom did when my grandmother died years ago.
In the past couple of weeks, I've found things I had no idea my mom had kept or I had completely forgotten about. Some were mine or about me (report cards, playbills, scrapbooks) and some were not (cards and notes from her friends). It's like an archeological dig through my family's history. I could spend hours - days, really - at my mom's house just sifting through, I guess, her life.
Not that I ever doubted it, but when I see all that my mom saved, I'm reminded - more than ever - of how much she loved us. And, also, of how important her family and friends were to her. Family and friends were the most important things in her life.
Her birthday is next week, January 9. She would have been 80.
It's sad when you really think about it. Someone spends a lifetime accumulating, well, stuff. Sure, some of it is utilitarian but the majority of it is useful or has value only to the owner. Furniture my mom sat on every day and photographs of us, as children, she walked by and maybe looked at every day - if we don't take those items, they will inevitably end up in a landfill. That's hard to take, especially for someone as nostalgic as I am.
Do I save old family photographs lying loose in a shoebox? My report cards from elementary school at David Lipscomb? Notes and cards I wrote to my mom as a teenager? Christmas cards my mom's best friends sent to her 25 years ago that she saved? Lists and notes in my mom's handwriting that literally have no use to me now other than to possess something she touched and wrote? Old stuffed animals that belonged to one of us that she kept for reasons known only to her?
What about all of my dad's stuff that my mom saved? His flight manual? (he was an avid pilot) His undergraduate and medical school degrees? Photographs of him, alone, and him with us? Plaques given to him?
If I keep some of this stuff, what will I do with it? Maybe, and I mean maybe, I'll open a box sometime in the next decade, look at an old photograph or read an old note, then close the box and put it away. After the sudden, visceral feeling of, what . . . nostalgia, sadness, longing . . . I'll return to the reality. Boys to raise, bills to pay, and a life to live. Is it worth it to keep those things?
Am I just leaving a mess for my boys to clean up, someday, when I die? A ton of stuff to go through, like we're doing now and like my mom did when my grandmother died years ago.
In the past couple of weeks, I've found things I had no idea my mom had kept or I had completely forgotten about. Some were mine or about me (report cards, playbills, scrapbooks) and some were not (cards and notes from her friends). It's like an archeological dig through my family's history. I could spend hours - days, really - at my mom's house just sifting through, I guess, her life.
Not that I ever doubted it, but when I see all that my mom saved, I'm reminded - more than ever - of how much she loved us. And, also, of how important her family and friends were to her. Family and friends were the most important things in her life.
Her birthday is next week, January 9. She would have been 80.
Wednesday, December 25, 2019
The Ghost of Christmas Past
(Pinewood Social. Opened today at 2:00 p.m., including the Creme coffee bar. The place is rocking, as I drink my coffee at the community table directly across from the bar.)
Every year, I plan on taking time off from work leading up to Christmas and in between Christmas and New Year's Day. And, every year, it seems like something comes up that prevents me from doing so.
This year was no different. A legitimate emergency arose in a case I have with a new client, so it was all hands on deck leading up to Monday, December 23. I also had an emergency hearing set on Monday afternoon at 2:30 p.m. Fortunately, we were able to work out an agreement and avoid the Monday afternoon hearing. Although the judge approved our agreement in court when I announced it Monday morning, I found myself at my desk, crossing items off my "to do list" as mid-morning turned into early afternoon.
I closed the office - or at least my part of it - around 2:00 p.m. and what remained of my staff practically ran out the front door. They turned out the lights as they left and I found myself, alone, sitting in my office gazing at what was, for me, a reasonably clean desk. Still, I couldn't really bring myself to leave.
Why?
I'll tell you why. Because I knew that the minute I got up to leave, I would be walking right up to the Ghost of Christmas Past.
My mom loved the holidays. She especially loved Christmas. The decorations. The music. Church. The basketball and football games on television.
Most of all, she loved getting together with family on Christmas Day. Cooking. Sharing a meal together. Watching the kids and, later, grandkids, play in the backyard. And, of course, the opening of presents, which can only be described as pure chaos.
Every family has its holiday traditions and every family does Christmas a little bit differently.
When it comes to opening presents, some families - like Jude's - typically open one present at a time while everyone else looks on and murmurs with approval as each present is opened. It's a very deliberate process.
That's not the way it was at my mom's house, however. Not by a long shot. First, we ate lunch, usually in the mid-afternoon. Scattered throughout the playroom, den, and kitchen, we sat together as an extended family and shared a meal together. Always, we had to remind my mom to make a plate for herself, because she was here and there, making sure everyone else had enough to eat. After we finished eating, the real fun began.
The youngest children - David Clark and Alice in the early days - delivered the gifts to the recipients, usually gathered int the playroom, from under the Christmas tree in the living room. In later years, Kaitlyn and Matthew took over until, finally, they passed the delivery responsibilities on to J.P. and Joe.
After all of the presents were delivered, everyone began opening them. At the same time. So, in roughly 10 minutes, all of the presents had been opened amidst a cacophony of "thank you's" and "I love it's". Balled up wads of wrapping paper flew everywhere in the playroom, as we (well, usually I) tried to peg any unsuspecting or unaware relative. The key, of course, was to look innocent after pegging someone, so they didn't know who had hit them with the wrapping paper ball. Predictably, it was a game I invented, and perfected.
I passed my skills along to all of the grandkids, of course. And especially to my boys, J.P. and Joe.
Always and I mean always, my mom feigned anger and irritation when she was hit by a wrapping paper ball. "Stop it," she would growl at us. Secretly, though, she loved it. At least that's what I told myself then, and that's what I'm telling myself now.
It was pure pandemonium and my mom loved every minute of it. No formality. Just fun. She was in her element on Christmas Day, presiding over the festivities.
I can see my mom, right now, sitting on the couch in the playroom, probably wearing a Christmas sweater of some sort, with her presents piled all around her, watching contentedly as everyone else open up their presents. Tracy, Alice, and I always had to nag and cajole her to open up her presents rather than simply watching others open up theirs.
But, see, that's who my mom was in a nutshell. She couldn't have cared less about what presents she received. That was an afterthought to her. Christmas, for her, like so many other things in her life, was about everyone else. Their happiness. Their joy. That's simply who my mom was. I can't describe her any better than that.
This Christmas, of course, is different. The last two or three have been different, too, but this one is really different because buy mom is not here. I've found myself slipping away to be alone more than normal - at church yesterday after communion, I walked outside and watched the sun set. Last night, as we sat down to eat dinner with Jude's family at our house, I walked out onto the back deck with a drink and sat quietly and, well, just remembered.
It's been a difficult holiday season for me, as I suspected it would be. I hate it, too, because it's my favorite time of the year. I've tried to be present, as much as possible, for Jude and the boys, but it's been hard, at times.
Merry Christmas, Mom. I miss you.
Every year, I plan on taking time off from work leading up to Christmas and in between Christmas and New Year's Day. And, every year, it seems like something comes up that prevents me from doing so.
This year was no different. A legitimate emergency arose in a case I have with a new client, so it was all hands on deck leading up to Monday, December 23. I also had an emergency hearing set on Monday afternoon at 2:30 p.m. Fortunately, we were able to work out an agreement and avoid the Monday afternoon hearing. Although the judge approved our agreement in court when I announced it Monday morning, I found myself at my desk, crossing items off my "to do list" as mid-morning turned into early afternoon.
I closed the office - or at least my part of it - around 2:00 p.m. and what remained of my staff practically ran out the front door. They turned out the lights as they left and I found myself, alone, sitting in my office gazing at what was, for me, a reasonably clean desk. Still, I couldn't really bring myself to leave.
Why?
I'll tell you why. Because I knew that the minute I got up to leave, I would be walking right up to the Ghost of Christmas Past.
My mom loved the holidays. She especially loved Christmas. The decorations. The music. Church. The basketball and football games on television.
Most of all, she loved getting together with family on Christmas Day. Cooking. Sharing a meal together. Watching the kids and, later, grandkids, play in the backyard. And, of course, the opening of presents, which can only be described as pure chaos.
Every family has its holiday traditions and every family does Christmas a little bit differently.
When it comes to opening presents, some families - like Jude's - typically open one present at a time while everyone else looks on and murmurs with approval as each present is opened. It's a very deliberate process.
That's not the way it was at my mom's house, however. Not by a long shot. First, we ate lunch, usually in the mid-afternoon. Scattered throughout the playroom, den, and kitchen, we sat together as an extended family and shared a meal together. Always, we had to remind my mom to make a plate for herself, because she was here and there, making sure everyone else had enough to eat. After we finished eating, the real fun began.
The youngest children - David Clark and Alice in the early days - delivered the gifts to the recipients, usually gathered int the playroom, from under the Christmas tree in the living room. In later years, Kaitlyn and Matthew took over until, finally, they passed the delivery responsibilities on to J.P. and Joe.
After all of the presents were delivered, everyone began opening them. At the same time. So, in roughly 10 minutes, all of the presents had been opened amidst a cacophony of "thank you's" and "I love it's". Balled up wads of wrapping paper flew everywhere in the playroom, as we (well, usually I) tried to peg any unsuspecting or unaware relative. The key, of course, was to look innocent after pegging someone, so they didn't know who had hit them with the wrapping paper ball. Predictably, it was a game I invented, and perfected.
I passed my skills along to all of the grandkids, of course. And especially to my boys, J.P. and Joe.
Always and I mean always, my mom feigned anger and irritation when she was hit by a wrapping paper ball. "Stop it," she would growl at us. Secretly, though, she loved it. At least that's what I told myself then, and that's what I'm telling myself now.
It was pure pandemonium and my mom loved every minute of it. No formality. Just fun. She was in her element on Christmas Day, presiding over the festivities.
I can see my mom, right now, sitting on the couch in the playroom, probably wearing a Christmas sweater of some sort, with her presents piled all around her, watching contentedly as everyone else open up their presents. Tracy, Alice, and I always had to nag and cajole her to open up her presents rather than simply watching others open up theirs.
But, see, that's who my mom was in a nutshell. She couldn't have cared less about what presents she received. That was an afterthought to her. Christmas, for her, like so many other things in her life, was about everyone else. Their happiness. Their joy. That's simply who my mom was. I can't describe her any better than that.
This Christmas, of course, is different. The last two or three have been different, too, but this one is really different because buy mom is not here. I've found myself slipping away to be alone more than normal - at church yesterday after communion, I walked outside and watched the sun set. Last night, as we sat down to eat dinner with Jude's family at our house, I walked out onto the back deck with a drink and sat quietly and, well, just remembered.
It's been a difficult holiday season for me, as I suspected it would be. I hate it, too, because it's my favorite time of the year. I've tried to be present, as much as possible, for Jude and the boys, but it's been hard, at times.
Merry Christmas, Mom. I miss you.
Sunday, December 22, 2019
Running the Table
As I've mentioned, I changed by diet about a year and a half ago. No bread, no potatoes of any sort, no pasta, very little sweets and, as it turns out, very little beer. My plan was to try it for 30 days and see how I felt. Now, here I am, almost 18 months later, still at it. It shouldn't be surprising, I guess, since I gave up meat and chicken on a lark - for almost five years - in my mid to late 20's.
It seems I have that kinds of personality - stubborn, obsessive, maybe a little disciplined (about some things, anyway).
I didn't change my diet to lose weight. Not really. I was curious if I could do it. The challenge of it, you know? Also, I wanted to see if I felt better. I do, by the way. I did think, though, that as I head into my mid-50's and beyond, my knees, back, and hips might feel better if I was a little higher.
I didn't weigh myself until I got a physical last May. And, of course, I had lost a significant amount of weight. More than 20 pounds. I had needed some new suits for work, anyway, but dropping so much weight made buying new suits a necessity. Actually, it was kind of fun to step up my wardrobe game, so to speak.
People have notice, which for the mosts part is nice. I laughed, of course (sort of), when a friend's legal assistant - whom I've known for years - asked me if I was okay. She was worried I was sick. I had to laugh.
For me, thought, the biggest difference I've seen has been my running. I've run consistently, with discipline, for more than 30 years. At times, I've run more yearly mileage than others but I've always run. There's never been a time in my adult life when I've gotten away from running, absent a significant injury (torn iliopsoas, plantar fasciitis, low back/hip pain, etc.). Even when I've been injured, I've been in physical therapy. Why? So I could get back to running. It's just what I do and who I am.
Running, for me, is like an old friend whom I've known and been close to for as long as I can remember. Always there for me. Always. Steady and dependable. Never fails to make me feel better about myself. Happier. More self-confident. Always the best listener.
So, what made me want to write this today was the neighborhood run I had yesterday afternoon, just after Jude's brother, James, and his family arrived for the Christmas holiday.
5 miles in my neighborhood - Belmont - 12South - an old route by the house we used to live in on Elliott Avenue. A route I've run countless times. The kicker is that I ran the 5 miles at a 7:48 pace. Comfortably, without pushing myself in any way.
And that's the really cool thing, for me. My runs as of late are almost all 5 or 6 miles and they're almost all under 8 minutes per mile, or right at 8 minutes per mile. Having dropped some weight, I'm training at a pace I hadn't run comfortably in 20, maybe 25, years. I've gone from causing at 8:30 or 8:40 minutes per mile to 8 minutes per mile, or less. And, again, at a cruising, conversational speed.
I haven't raced in ages. Right now, just getting out there and running, pain free, almost effortlessly, at age 53, at under 8 minute miles, is enough.
I'm thankful for good health. I'm going to ride this wave as long as I can.
Running the table.
It seems I have that kinds of personality - stubborn, obsessive, maybe a little disciplined (about some things, anyway).
I didn't change my diet to lose weight. Not really. I was curious if I could do it. The challenge of it, you know? Also, I wanted to see if I felt better. I do, by the way. I did think, though, that as I head into my mid-50's and beyond, my knees, back, and hips might feel better if I was a little higher.
I didn't weigh myself until I got a physical last May. And, of course, I had lost a significant amount of weight. More than 20 pounds. I had needed some new suits for work, anyway, but dropping so much weight made buying new suits a necessity. Actually, it was kind of fun to step up my wardrobe game, so to speak.
People have notice, which for the mosts part is nice. I laughed, of course (sort of), when a friend's legal assistant - whom I've known for years - asked me if I was okay. She was worried I was sick. I had to laugh.
For me, thought, the biggest difference I've seen has been my running. I've run consistently, with discipline, for more than 30 years. At times, I've run more yearly mileage than others but I've always run. There's never been a time in my adult life when I've gotten away from running, absent a significant injury (torn iliopsoas, plantar fasciitis, low back/hip pain, etc.). Even when I've been injured, I've been in physical therapy. Why? So I could get back to running. It's just what I do and who I am.
Running, for me, is like an old friend whom I've known and been close to for as long as I can remember. Always there for me. Always. Steady and dependable. Never fails to make me feel better about myself. Happier. More self-confident. Always the best listener.
So, what made me want to write this today was the neighborhood run I had yesterday afternoon, just after Jude's brother, James, and his family arrived for the Christmas holiday.
5 miles in my neighborhood - Belmont - 12South - an old route by the house we used to live in on Elliott Avenue. A route I've run countless times. The kicker is that I ran the 5 miles at a 7:48 pace. Comfortably, without pushing myself in any way.
And that's the really cool thing, for me. My runs as of late are almost all 5 or 6 miles and they're almost all under 8 minutes per mile, or right at 8 minutes per mile. Having dropped some weight, I'm training at a pace I hadn't run comfortably in 20, maybe 25, years. I've gone from causing at 8:30 or 8:40 minutes per mile to 8 minutes per mile, or less. And, again, at a cruising, conversational speed.
I haven't raced in ages. Right now, just getting out there and running, pain free, almost effortlessly, at age 53, at under 8 minute miles, is enough.
I'm thankful for good health. I'm going to ride this wave as long as I can.
Running the table.
Saturday, December 7, 2019
Oh, Christmas Tree
Last night, we decorated our Christmas tree. It's a beautiful blue spruce we picked out last weekend at Santa's trees. Tall and thick, with lots of branches. Almost a perfect tree, really. Jude strung lights - white ones, this year - on it a few nights ago. Last night, a Friday, was the first time this week we had a couple of hours free with nothing else going on.
As we unpacked our Christmas decorations, a wave of nostalgia almost knocked me down as I looked at all of our Christmas ornaments. Many of them are ornaments from my childhood that my mom gave me over the years. So many memories tied up in so many of the ornaments. Some she had given as a child and we had hung them together on our Christmas trees at our house growing up. Some she had given the boys when they were younger.
Damn. I had no idea how hard it would be to see those Christmas ornaments again. I hung a few of my favorites on the tree but, for the most part, I sat and watched Jude and the boys decorate our tree. The intensity of the moment caught me off guard. It stunned me, really. Parts of this deal - the grieving process, I suppose - are so hard for me, even now.
My mom loved decorating the Christmas tree, especially when we were young. I gave her such a hard time when she switched to an artificial tree after we were older and had families of our own. Our tree always would be haphazardly packed with ornaments on nearly every branch. There were no rules. Just hang the ornaments wherever they would fit. It was the ultimate family event for us.
On occasion, my friend and next door neighbor, Warren Lee Gilley and his sister, Terri, walked over and helped us decorate out Christmas tree. There mother, Sandra, insisted on decorating her tree just so, with little or no help from her children. It had to be just so. At our house, everyone was welcome to decorate the Christmas tree and to hang ornaments wherever they would fit. It was such a happy time every year. So much laughter. So much love.
And you know what? Our Christmas tree was beautiful every single year. A sight to behold, lit up with the lights in the living room turned off, heavy laden with our family's Christmas ornaments.
When I think of it now, as I finish my coffee at Red Bicycle in the Nations, I realize that the way we decorated our Christmas tree when I was a child - and the way my family decorates our Christmas tree - perfectly encapsulates the essence of my mom as a person.
No pretense or formality. What you see is what you get. Happiness and laughter. An openness to others. And a love for family stronger than steel.
It's going to be hard but I'm going to try to remember that, this year and in years to come.
As we unpacked our Christmas decorations, a wave of nostalgia almost knocked me down as I looked at all of our Christmas ornaments. Many of them are ornaments from my childhood that my mom gave me over the years. So many memories tied up in so many of the ornaments. Some she had given as a child and we had hung them together on our Christmas trees at our house growing up. Some she had given the boys when they were younger.
Damn. I had no idea how hard it would be to see those Christmas ornaments again. I hung a few of my favorites on the tree but, for the most part, I sat and watched Jude and the boys decorate our tree. The intensity of the moment caught me off guard. It stunned me, really. Parts of this deal - the grieving process, I suppose - are so hard for me, even now.
My mom loved decorating the Christmas tree, especially when we were young. I gave her such a hard time when she switched to an artificial tree after we were older and had families of our own. Our tree always would be haphazardly packed with ornaments on nearly every branch. There were no rules. Just hang the ornaments wherever they would fit. It was the ultimate family event for us.
On occasion, my friend and next door neighbor, Warren Lee Gilley and his sister, Terri, walked over and helped us decorate out Christmas tree. There mother, Sandra, insisted on decorating her tree just so, with little or no help from her children. It had to be just so. At our house, everyone was welcome to decorate the Christmas tree and to hang ornaments wherever they would fit. It was such a happy time every year. So much laughter. So much love.
And you know what? Our Christmas tree was beautiful every single year. A sight to behold, lit up with the lights in the living room turned off, heavy laden with our family's Christmas ornaments.
When I think of it now, as I finish my coffee at Red Bicycle in the Nations, I realize that the way we decorated our Christmas tree when I was a child - and the way my family decorates our Christmas tree - perfectly encapsulates the essence of my mom as a person.
No pretense or formality. What you see is what you get. Happiness and laughter. An openness to others. And a love for family stronger than steel.
It's going to be hard but I'm going to try to remember that, this year and in years to come.
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