Fall

Fall is probably my favorite season to run. This is partly because fifty degrees (or somewhat lower) is my ideal running temperature, but it’s more than about climate. A primary reason is that the smells of fall in Maine have a nostalgia for me. The scent of decaying leaves and earth, the moistness of morning wet leaves on bricks or pavement, or frozen brightly-colored leaves crunching beneath my sneakers as temperatures, sometimes slowly and other times way too quickly, drop below freezing, remind me of my childhood.

When I run, I breathe deeply to capture the smells and fill my lungs with the cold Autumn air. Fall produces my favorite smells, better than baking bread or apple pie or freshly mowed grass. Getting outside and experiencing it from ground level is tantamount. I run through the leaves as they lay in piles against the side walks’ curbs, swishing my feet right through them, trying to kick them up just to get a stronger whiff.

I walked to school most grades; I wasn't on a bus route. I loved school and anticipated fall with enthusiasm and a sense of a fresh beginning with each new grade. Walking down Maine Avenue to Perry School in the first grade with my Mom walking beside me, my sister in a stroller, is a fond memory. At recess, I would always go to the little piece of dirt or tree area at my schools, a path or bushy area and play pretend. I wasn’t much of an athlete, playing various ball games, so the blacktop held little appeal for me. I’d always go toward the periphery, toward the smallest spot of nature. I’ve never been a concrete or blacktop type of girl; I’ll take the dirt road and the wooded path any chance I get.

Running or walking outside in the early mornings of fall give me a boost of energy and happiness as I reminisce and fondly remember positive parts of my childhood. I know if I make the effort to get myself out in the mornings before work, my whole day will flow more beautifully. Funny how memories can be of the strangest things – not events as you might expect, but smells.

What smells bring you back?

(photo: Southwest Harbor, ME)

The Yellow School Bus

I got behind a yellow school bus on my way to work last week. It made me late. But... how lucky I was. Seriously.

I had to wait (kind of a long time) at three stops before pulling ahead of it toward downtown. That wait left me smiling and made my whole day. That wait brought me joy in a most unlikely place.

It must have been the first day of kindergarten. The kids were so small, I couldn't imagine they were more than three, but they must have been five. I guess I'd forgotten how small they were as they started elementary school, their little heads barely high enough to see out the windows. Their backpacks stretched down three-quarters of their bodies to the backs of their knees.

There were just one or two children at each stop, but they were each surrounded by an entourage -- Mom's with cameras, Dad's with video cameras, grandmothers carrying wild younger siblings flailing in their arms trying to get down and possibly join older brother or sister on the big yellow bus. There were smiles on all the adults and some of the kids. One little girl jumped up and down as she saw the bus approach. One little blond boy looked like he'd just seen a ghost - all serious and focused on this new task at hand. One Mom began running beside the bus, kiddingly, as it rolled down the neighborhood street, waving to her little girl all the way. One Mom ran out into the middle of the road and took a photo of the back of the bus as it rolled slowly away. She will always remember it taking her little boy off to bigger and better things, beginning the next leg of his journey -- new friends, new subjects, new school.

Back to School

Over the last several years, as neighbors' cars were packed with their college kids' belongings getting reading for journeys to Boston or Virginia or Orono, I didn't give it much thought. My feeling was one of detached happiness -- how exciting for the kids, going off to the college of their choice, beginning the next phase of their lives. How exciting for the parents...beginning the next phase of their lives and having "arrived" at a bit of success for raising children to this point.

When our car was being packed last year to take Matt off to freshman year, I was still filled with happiness, albeit a more focused and anxious happiness. We were all four jumping into the abyss, the unknown, and I did so with nervous excitement.

This year, sophomore year for Matt, is different. It's different because of the knowing. It's no longer an unknown. This August, as his two neighborhood best friends packed up for their freshman years away, I noticed. I pondered it. I was no longer detached from the other neighborhood kids. This summer, some had told me outright they were nervous to go -- very bright kids with lots of friends and successes already in their young lives. They seemed more nervous than I would have expected and more than I remember being as I set off myself so many years ago.

Now, I knew what the parents were going through - the fear, nervousness and mixed emotions of missing them already and happiness at what lay ahead. It was no longer ethereal; now my view of the situation was based on my own reality. My nervousness, for Matt, has abated; he has led himself well. But in other ways, this year was tougher seeing others' departure through different eyes and no longer clinging to ignorant bliss.

I tear up when I hear the truth in Harry Chapin's Cat's in the Cradle - "Well, he came from college just the other day. So much like a man I just had to say, son I'm proud of you. Can you sit for a while?"

Away at a Camp in Maine

Early July, I self-published a small travel memoir, Away at a Camp in Maine, through Createspace.com, an arm of Amazon. I wrote the book eight years ago; it had an agent in NY for six but she was unable to sell it. Wanting closure and my message to finally get out into the world, I decided, reluctantly, to self-publish. For my own validation, I wanted to publish through what I considered "regular" channels and held out for a long time. Perhaps that can now happen on the next book....

I share this because within the first few days of publishing, I determined it was SO right to have done it. I dedicated my book to my Aunt and Uncle who owned a camp on Crescent Lake in Raymond. I spent my childhood there and then they sold it when I was twenty. I also dedicated it to Sarah, the woman who bought the camp from my relatives and rented it to us for ten years when my boys were young. My Uncle died at the end of 2008; my Aunt, just a few weeks before my book came out. They never read it. However, Sarah's email when she received my book in the mail was enough to make it all worthwhile. She thanked me for writing it, for capturing the essence of it, for dedicating it to her...for being her friend.

Since then, the purchases by friends and their comments have far exceeded anything I could have hoped for. I was invited to an island off Boothbay Harbor for an overnight with a former colleague and my former hairdresser who moved away to Florida and I hadn't seen for 5 years. They invited me to celebrate my book. We ate lobsters bought right from the docks that morning and drank Marguerita's using cute little flip flop coasters I had bought her for her move to Florida. She said she thought of me every time she used them. Their group of women friends have two get-togethers each year...and they call themselves the "flip flops," partly due to my little gift. Wow. Who knew?

A neighbor of my Mom's sent me a card after reading. Their son owns a camp himself in Raymond so while visiting him, she and her husband set out to find the general store in my book, E. R. Clough. She said Rudy was salivating for some of the penny candy! They had a long conversation with the owner about the book, and in her card, she sent me photos of the store and a small brown bag they had put their penny candy in, just like the little bags I talk about in my story.

A colleague, after reading, said she had set out to find Crescent Lake. She described looking for the Fire Route but couldn't recall the exact number. They looked for the yellow farmhouse in the chapter titled Running the Camp Roads. They felt they were so close but just couldn't quite pin it down...and then they came upon the public beach with its sign Crescent Lake. Success!

The book is reminding people of their own camp experiences, and now they're sharing them with me. Childhood friends I hadn't seen in seventeen years invited me to dinner last week and we were right back to elementary school, middle school, snow mobiling, water skiing, and laughing, laughing, laughing.

I'm so glad to have published this book and am humbled and grateful from the response.

(Photos: Crescent Lake, Raymond, Maine)

Two Chairs

More often now, I see two chairs placed strategically in peoples' yards for relaxing, chatting, sipping iced tea, reading, and visiting. These chairs come in all shapes and sizes - new, brown wicker Pottery Barn chairs with brightly colored cushions; wooden or plastic Adirondacks stained natural or painted bright reds or greens or pastels of pale yellow or blue; old Victorian rod iron chairs with their paint chipping; simple white plastic chairs bought at Target. By strategically placed, I mean they're sometimes set far from the house and are facing the best view in the yard. If there is a small patch of garden, they may be facing it, or toward the sunset. If there is a small pond, they may be placed at the water's edge.

This trend is wonderful. I am enthusiastic that people are looking more toward ways to enjoy the simple pleasures. You don't need to live on the ocean or in an incredible house to have a beautiful view; your own yard's flowers and a full moon shining over your back lawn are beautiful.

My concern though is that the chairs I see are always empty. I never walk or run or drive by a garden with two chairs and see people sitting in them. Do I just miss the people? Do I just pass by at the wrong time? It's always my experience so I can't help but wonder if they're just part of the scenery, too, not the attempt at relaxation and an escape into nature. Are they, like the entire yards, just viewed from a kitchen window over a sink while clearing the supper dishes or from the living room sofa while watching T.V?

The chairs being placed outside may be step 1 in our process toward adding more peace and beauty to our days. Step 2 may come in time; we'll sit in them.

(photo: West Falmouth, Maine)

The Beach to Beacon Road Race and my Godvoice

Placed 30th of 100 winners in the Feature Article category of the 74th Annual Writers Digest Writing Competition 2005; 18,000 submissions; 500 winners among 5 categories

I took up running at thirty-six, and just like going back to college or having children later in life, the depth of what it has done for me, both physically and mentally, is phenomenal. I grew up never getting dirty, never sweating, never exerting myself enough to be injured. Now, my favorite times to run are either late at night when it is snowing (the quiet is palpable) or in the rain, when my sneakers come down hard in puddles and soak my legs, when I am all alone outside, absorbed in my thoughts and the physical strain of finding my limits.

Now, I love to smell the changes of season -- decaying leaves and earth; an early morning rain in summer hitting dry, hot pavement; woodstoves in the early winter evenings; the overwhelming scent of lilacs, pine. I lift my face to pelting rain and lick falling snowflakes as I run. I have seen the sun rise and set; I have experienced the "runner's high;" and on one occasion heard my Godvoice. Running has awakened all of my senses, and nothing has made me feel more alive.

Ironically, my taking up running had nothing to do with me.

In 1997, my husband lost every hair on his body within a 10-week period. Prior, he didn't even have a receding hairline. It was, at first, frightening as he visited doctors to determine if there was something medically wrong, and then, for him, traumatic as the realization set in that his hair may not come back. Doctors could give him no explanation other than it may be caused by stress.

My husband's response was to shut down. He stopped everything that was "him" until he became himself again, which he believed (hoped) he would.

He has always been a runner. If this was caused by stress, the worst thing he could do was stop running. I saw early on that I could not tell him anything. This was something he had to work through on his own; it was deeply personal. I had no intention of staying with running; I only thought my taking it up may prompt him back to it, and then I would stop. Initially, I could not run from one telephone pole to the next.

Within a few weeks, I could run a mile without cramps. After giving birth twice, with everything loose, I could actually do it. Juggling a full time job with two young boys, I found that thirty minutes alone a luxury. Each time, I would run a little further before walking. I increased mileage gradually, but each day I would not let myself walk earlier than the time before. At two and a half miles, I was still walking some, but less each day.

Then I visited a friend who had run the Boston Marathon. I asked her how she could possibly run three to four hours. What did she think about? She said she meditated or prayed. Of course she did. I was beginning to understand. She responded matter-of-factly, "You just do it. You just don't let yourself stop." Oh, you just DO it. Well, OK then.

I never walked again. I ran as far as I could every day, each day further than the time before. And I LOVED it. It was as much about my head as my body. I asked my husband his tips, how to swing my arms to assist not work counter, how to breathe. He told me. He was interested in teaching me. I sparked his interest and re-focused some of his thoughts away from his hair.

About six months in, I knew what I had to do. I am not a racer (but then again, I wasn't even a runner). I told my husband I wanted to run the Beach to Beacon road race. Competition freaks me out and 10k is 6.2 miles which is a long way for someone who had never run further than three and a half. But none of that mattered. I announced I wanted to sign up, and I would feel so much better if he would do it with me for support.

He mulled it over and said he would. Behind my smile, my head was saying "YES" and pulling my fisted arm down from skyward in success. To run a race, he would have to train; he would have to start running again. And he did.

The first time I felt the "runner's high" and oozed excitement, my husband, with disbelief, asked me to describe it. In his lifetime of running, he had never experienced it. It has come to me only on a few occasions, occurring only when I push beyond my comfort zone. It is obviously a chemical thing, endorphines released from my brain or something, but the feeling is one of clarity and outer-body sensation.

It was at one of these times that I heard my Godvoice. A guest on the Oprah show years afterward spoke of her Godvoice, and I knew what that woman was talking about. I had not had a term for it; it is hard to describe the indescribable. It was a complete thought without words and it was not mine. My voice said, in summary, "This is not it for you. The running is just showing you what you’re capable of when you truly put your mind to something." The thought was so alarming that I strained for it to continue, to happen again, to tell me more. It would not.

My husband and I ran the Beach to Beacon 10k road race that August. Throughout, he stayed just off my left shoulder, slightly behind me. He ran at my pace, 9-minute miles, which undoubtedly killed him to watch lesser runners passing him. One passer-by said to him, "You make this look easy!" He was barely exerting, but he was smiling. He simply supported me through the whole race, so like him.

As we headed up the final hill into Fort Williams Park, he began barking orders at me, "You go for it! Pass that woman! GO!!!" Startled, I gave it everything I had, and the girl who had never sweat crossed that finish line, at exactly my goal time, one year from not being able to run from one telephone pole to the next. My husband cruised in behind me, smiling. He was smiling because I had done it; I was smiling because he had done it.

The next year, he ran again himself, at his pace. Cheering him on the sidelines brought me to tears. My husband was coming back.

He now runs the Beach to Beacon every year (and I run the neighborhood). In training, he sometimes takes twelve mile runs through the hills of West Falmouth. I tell him no hair makes him faster. At forty-eight, he still has almost zero percent body fat. If he keeps it up, maybe he too will (finally) experience the runner's high if he will push himself outside his comfort zone.

I can only wonder what his Godvoice might tell him.

(photo: Portland Head Light, Cape Elizabeth, Maine)

Favorite Books for Summer Reading

I’m not compelled to finish every book I pick up. Too many books, too little time to do that. I re-read some books. My favorite books are those which touch me deeply or resonate with something I am going through at that time. My favorites usually have vivid, rich characters I can understand, not necessarily like, but are three-dimensional and with whom I can identify. Here are some oldies and newbies - potential summer vacation reads. Enjoy!

Nonfiction
The Secret, Rhonda Byrne (audio book) 2008
On Writing, Stephen King 2000
Bella Tuscany, Frances Mayes 1999
The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron (audio book) 1992

Fiction
The Help, Kathryn Stockett 2009
Water for Elephants, Sara Gruen 2006
The Twilight series, Stephenie Meyer 2005 (can't deny it!)
Beneath a Marble Sky, John Shors 2004
The Secret Life of Bees, Sue Monk Kidd 2002
The Divine Secrets of the YaYa Sisterhood, Rebecca Wells 1997
Where the Heart Is, Billie Letts 1995
The Shell Seekers, Rosamunde Pilcher 1987
The Prince of Tides, Pat Conroy 1986
The Bridge to Taribithia, Katherine Paterson 1977 (appropriate for middle schoolers)
Tuck Everlasting, Natalie Babbitt 1975 (appropriate for middle schoolers)
To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee 1960

(photo: Camden, Maine)