Millisecond

The lady in the pink shirt tried to kill me. Well, not really, but she was the last thing I saw when it happened, when my world upended to the screech of tires on worn pavement and the smell of burnt rubber. There, in the suspension of impossibly-slowed time, her pink shirt blotched my field of view like paint splattered onto a clean window. I don’t remember much beyond the abysmal and suffocating pink hue.

Earlier, pink was the furthest color from my mind. Blue, in fact, held my interest, as in a deep blue sky. Fall had arrived and, with it, the deepest, clearest blue sky I had seen in a while. The haze of an exasperated summer had lost its tenuous grip on the city and slowly waltzed out of town like a spurned lover. In its wake, a comforting breeze rifled through the still-green leaves of equidistant trees planted along the wide sidewalk. The starkly blue sky cut an outline around the tall trees and the block buildings that rose even higher. The city sighed in relief and basked in the relative chill of the changing season.

Red blasted my senses. A coppery taste filled my mouth, warm and unsavory. I coughed, but instead of a forceful exhale of unneeded air, I wheezed like a balloon with a tiny leak. A dark red covered my hands and my arms. The red lights flashed on the street beside me. A red bag rested next to me. A woman wailed in a red anguish.

White crept into my vision, blotting out the red like a rising tide slowly engulfing the sand on the beach. It receded and brightened, and I could hear the ocean even though I was nowhere near it. Then, as if someone had entered the dim room and flipped on a bright light, the white was all I could see like a flashlight aimed at my face. It felt warm and inviting, not unlike the blue sky I had seen earlier. My inner eye fluttered, shutting and closing like a squeaky swinging door until in came to a final rest. I wondered why the lady in the pink shirt had wanted to kill me as my thoughts fluttered into the slight breeze and the silence slowly engulfed me.

 

Act III Coming Soon (Too Soon)

In a few weeks, I’ll turn 48 years old. I’m rapidly closing in on the half-century mark. Let the records show that this is happening against my will and without my approval, but so it goes. Yes, I realize that age is just a number and that 50 is the new 40 and all that other bullshit that we tell ourselves to not feel shitty about the onslaught of time, but let’s be real; it sucks.

As a writer, I can’t help but view life in the form of a story, a very long, and often boring one, but a story nonetheless. The typical story has three acts, and since the life expectancy of the average male in this country is around 76 years old that puts each act at about 25 years, so in that perspective, I’m closing out Act II very soon. It’s a very sobering realization.

I’ve spent the last few months thinking about this and what it means. When I began Act II, if you will, I could only faintly hear the tick-tock of that eternal clock. Quite frankly, I just ignored the damn thing. I had more time than anything, so what did I care. The arc of the story in Act II is all about the long runway of possibilities, which seem infinite. Looking back, I realize I was more than a little careless. I wasted time on things that didn’t matter, engaged people who ultimately didn’t matter, and allowed myself to lose focus.

The problem is entropy. In general, everything migrates toward disorder, especially if you’re not paying attention. Life gets away from you because of the distraction created by the creeping disorder that surrounds you. The next thing you know a decade has zipped by and you haven’t accomplished what you set out to do, or things simply haven’t turned out the way you expected them to (and whether you like it or not, it’s your fault; blaming others is a fool’s errand). The image of trying to herd cats comes to mind. Some of my cats have long since wandered down the street. It’s more than a little disappointing.

But there’s nothing like an artificial milestone to raise the cackles of discontent. A slight shuffling suddenly becomes a full-on sprint. Half-shut eyes spring open in surprise. It gives a certain clarity that may have been lingering in the background waiting to be called into action. I’ve always done my best work on a tight deadline. I hate this about myself, but it’s true. Give me more time than I need and entropy rears its ugly head. Tell me I have only an hour to do a five-hour task and I can part the seas to find the path to redemption. Well, Act III is the ultimate deadline, and there’s no better time than now to re-focus, re-energize, and reassert myself in my own story.

I’m going to start by removing all distractions, those things that allow entropy to take hold. I’m going to double-down on my life goals that I haven’t achieved yet (one of those goals is getting a book published). While I can’t reclaim the time I’ve wasted, I will be more careful with the time I have. This story isn’t done yet.

 

Pine Mountain: Mimi Slater

Mimi Slater is one of the primary characters in a prospective novel called Pine Mountain. Here’s her character backstory.

Maria Robinson was the first of ten children born in 1950 to a poor family in the foothills of the Appalachians in a town called Pine Mountain. Her father was known for being a deacon in the local Baptist church, but to Maria he was a drunkard and an abuser, and that mattered more than any religious facade he built around his family. As her siblings proliferated, she found herself duty-bound to help her overwhelmed mother care for the new babies that arrived every other year without fail.

It was from the mouth of one of those babies that survived, her brother Bernard, the fourth and final brother, that she obtained the nickname Mimi. He had great difficulty saying her given name and settled on Mimi, which the whole family adopted until it eventually became the only name she knew. Everything in her life revolved around caring for her siblings because her mother needed the help and her father demanded it. Nothing was hers, not even her room, which she shared with four of her sisters.

Hers was a life of drudgery early on. Although she went to school once she was old enough, even that was not an escape from the family life that weighed on her. She often missed school to work at home, so much so that she fell behind and began to dread going to school and feeling so lost. At least at home, she knew what she had to do. She struggled to read and even basic math was a challenge for her. Her frustration was such that she didn’t resist when her father kept her at home for good after the eighth grade, which she was destined to repeat again anyway.

After she turned 15, she found her escape when she met John Slater, a man ten years her senior, who worked with her father at the local textile mill. Like Mimi, he had dropped out of school, but unlike her, he was not bound to a life at home. He courted her secretly and promised her a much better life than what she had. A few months into their courtship, she found herself pregnant. Her father, fearful of losing his most reliable worker among his brood, beat her senseless and forced her to marry John. He didn’t like John, but her pregnancy forced him to concede to their marriage to maintain the standing of the family name in the community.

Not long after they were married and moved into a house near her parents, Mimi lost the baby when complications emerged during the pregnancy. John blamed her for the loss of what he was sure was his first son. Further efforts to have children proved futile and Mimi realized that the passion she had briefly experienced in their courtship had faded and been replaced by a simmering contempt, but they stayed married because Mimi didn’t know what else she could do. Instead, she continued to help her mother with her siblings and take care of John when he returned home from work.

Eight years after that first pregnancy had ended, Mimi was pregnant again, and she had her first child, a son, whom John named Eric after his uncle whom had been like a father to him. In quick succession, she had a girl that John named Randi (he had wanted another son) and a boy named Mark whom John named after another favorite uncle of his.

Like her father, John was abusive. He didn’t strike her often, but a day didn’t go by without her feeling inadequate in his eyes in some way. She turned a blind eye to his alcoholism. She never had the courage to confront him or leave him. Instead, she sat stoically by his side until his death before his fifty-third birthday.

Her children should have been her salvation, an outlet to a better perspective on life, but it didn’t quite turn out that way. They outgrew her in ways she never imagined or completely understood. Her sons distanced themselves from her, and her daughter rebelled. Just as they were coming of age, John died, and all hell broke loose. Eric left for college and never returned. Randi became pregnant, but she didn’t know who the father was and instead moved in with another man who had lived down the street from them. Mark drifted away disappearing for long periods of time after he graduated high school before he finally moved out for good in his early twenties.

By her fiftieth birthday, Mimi found herself alone in the dilapidated old house she had lived in since she married John. Her parents were long-deceased and her numerous siblings had left town moving further into the Appalachians or, in some cases, into the cities and towns at the foothills of the venerable mountains. Her job at the local grocery store kept her afloat, but just barely.

Randi lived in Pine Mountain and would visit her often with her young daughter in tow. Although Mimi loved her granddaughter, the little girl was petulant and prone to manic temper tantrums that left Mimi shaking with anxiety. Mark would go weeks without calling or visiting her, but he lived in the city and had a busy life of his own. Eric had moved away for college and moved to New York City where he had a big job and a gorgeous wife and a young son, neither of whom had Mimi met. She hadn’t spoken to Eric in years, but to be truthful, she hadn’t made an effort to do so. He hadn’t left home under the best of circumstances. She had resigned herself to losing her oldest child forever until he knocked on her door one day.

The Things We Cannot Keep – Chapter 3

I watched the big windows in the bedroom light up with the sunrise. The moon had kept the room bright all through the night, but as it receded the dim shimmers of dawn clawed across the Cascade Mountains in the east and then brightened into a swirl of pinks and oranges before the sun crowned the jagged mountains. I tossed and turned in the early morning hoping to find some semblance of sleep before the daylight pulled me from the bed, but I threw in the towel as my mind raced around all of the scenarios that had led us to this point.

I sat up on the edge of the bed sliding the balls of my feet on the cool hardwood floor. All was quiet in the cabin save for the usual creaks of an old house. I stood up and stretched and walked over to the windows still aglow in the soft sunrise. Outside, a glorious September day began to unfold. The sky, clear as far as I could see, seemed to sparkle in the yawning daylight. A cool breeze ducked into the crack of the window and chilled my legs. It felt good, relaxing. For the first time in a long time, I felt good or maybe I just felt different so far removed from my life in San Francisco.

The lake simmered beneath my window, a mist coiled across its surface as if it were a giant cauldron. The Adirondack chairs still sat at the edge of the dock, empty but watching over the peaceful lake. The serenity of it all brought back many good memories from decades ago.

Dad liked to fish off the dock in the early morning. There were many mornings when I spent time here as a kid that I’d wake up and find him sitting on the edge of the dock in one of the chairs with the fishing rod wedged between his knees. He’d have a cup of coffee resting on the arm of the chair that was so hot I could see the steam rising from its mouth. He’d lightly tug the rod and then take a sip of coffee and repeat the movements over and over until a fish grabbed his line. On some mornings he’d catch a fish or two, and on others, his bait would go unnoticed. On those mornings when the fish ignored him, he’d curse his luck as he reeled in his line for the last time. He’d down the last of his coffee or toss the remnants into the lake. Then, he’d lean his rod against the back wall of the porch and slink inside the cabin to take a nap.

Dad never said much while he sat there fishing. Sometimes, I’d tiptoe outside, he hated it when we made too much noise on the dock when he was fishing, and sit on the gray planks next to him. He’d say “good morning,” but not much else. I’d glance at him from time to time, but mostly, I’d stare out over the glassy lake watching his line cut through it like a surgical knife making a precision cut.

He looked so serious when he was fishing as if he were studying the countenance of the lake for clues about where the fish were. In all my childhood memories on the dock at Baker Lake, he was younger than I am now, but I always noticed something about him that suggested time was slipping away from him like the crinkles at the corner of his eyes, the graying hair that flared back from his temples, or the loss of firmness in his chin. I noticed these things. I don’t know why, but they jumped out to me even when I was too young to appreciate their meaning. Of course, as I got older, I learned what troubled him most. Time makes you irrelevant. One day you wake up and you no longer matter.

I heard the door squeak and clank shut beneath me. I looked down from the window and saw Hank shuffling toward the lake. He still wore his t-shirt and pajama bottoms and his feet were bare. His disheveled hair looked like a crashing wave atop his head. He had a beer in his hand and took a sip as he walked toward the chairs. I watched as he plopped down into one of the chairs on the edge and leaned back. He took a long swig of the beer and sat it down on the arm of the chair. He sat motionless looking out over the lake.

I watched him there for a few seconds, stunned by how much he resembled Dad. Replace the beer with a coffee cup and put a fishing rod in his lap, and Hank could be Dad from all those years ago. Nostalgia gnawed at my gut, but I pushed it down with all of the other things that I didn’t want to feel and grabbed my phone to check the time. It was just after seven in the morning. I put on my old Stanford hoodie and hurried down the stairs.

Hank hadn’t bothered to start any coffee. Maybe he didn’t drink it anymore, but more likely, he didn’t think of anyone but himself. I started the coffee maker before I walked out onto the dock to join Hank. He didn’t turn around when the door clanked shut behind me, and I didn’t make any effort to be quiet. My footsteps thumped across the old planks, the wood rough beneath my bare feet.

I sidled into the chair next to him. “Good morning,” I said as I sat down.

He kept his eyes on the lake for a moment longer. Then, he glanced at me and replied, “Good morning.” He took a sip of his beer and returned his focus to the lake.

“A little early for a beer don’t you think?”

He looked at the can as if he were reading the label for the first time. He rolled it around in the palm of his hand. “Aren’t you a little old to be wearing a college sweatshirt?”

I laughed, and Hank did too, but only half-heartedly as if it weren’t really a joke.

“Are you supposed to be drinking alcohol?”

“No one told me I can’t.” Hank seemed aggravated by my suggestion. “Why did you buy it if you thought I couldn’t drink it?”

“I didn’t. That’s Robbie’s beer. He brought it.”

Hank considered this and took another sip from the can. He looked at me defiantly for a moment and then resumed his soliloquy with the lake. The steam continued to evaporate on its surface in the increasing warmth of the sunrise. I watched a bird fly across the lake shuddering its wings above the water.

“Do you want some coffee?” I asked sensing that the coffee maker must be done by now.

Hank considered it. “Actually, would you grab me another beer?”

I shot him a look but he kept his eyes on the lake. I relented. “Sure.”

Hank remained in the same catatonic trance when I returned to the edge of the dock with a cold beer in one hand and a hot coffee in the other. I shoved the beer in front of him and that broke his trance. He thanked me before he popped it open and took a long swig. I sipped my coffee and kept the cup in my lap as I sat back in the chair. A bird whooped on the edge of the lake. I heard a flutter of wings but I couldn’t see anything take flight. A slight breeze rustled my hair. Hank remained silent.

The sky ripened into a deep blue above us. The mist went about its merry way across the surface of the lake receding to the tall grass at the edge. The sun cast a warm, golden glow onto the dock and the back of the cabin. Save for the flap of wings or the erratic call of a bird, the world around us was muted. Normally, I’d relish the silence, a break from my usual hectic days, but here, sitting next to my older brother, an enigma in his own right, I could only anticipate what would or needed to be said next. I formed one-sided conversations in my head, but none seemed a good entry into my brother’s world. Finally, Hank relieved me of my internal anguish.

“I wish things were different,” he said.

I turned to look at him, but he remained focused on the lake. I wasn’t sure how to respond, but my hesitation didn’t discourage him from continuing.

“I wish Dad were here so I could take back my last words to him. I really do. I was angry then. I felt like a disappointment, not just to him, but to myself as well. It put me in a bad place. After all that happened, my biggest regret is what I said to him when they dragged me from the courtroom.”

His words floated across the lake and stared back at us, stark and unflinching. I’d been careful not to mention Dad during the drive up, and I had advised Robbie to do the same. He had reluctantly agreed despite his contention that Hank was a grown man and had to take his lumps. I’d argued that he’d taken his lumps for the past 20 years and that what he needed now was his family, or what was left of it.

“We all make mistakes,” I replied. I tried to think of Hank as one of my patients to keep myself steady and calm, but I could feel the old emotions rising up in my chest like the remnant of a greasy meal. I swallowed the words I wanted to say.

Hank nodded as if he had come to the slow realization that what I said was true. “Some more than others,” he said. He took another sip from his beer and then crushed the can between his thick fingers. He balanced the crumpled can on the arm of the chair.

The door behind us squeaked open and clanked shut. The sound reverberated past us and across the lake. It startled me in the moment, but I shook it off as Robbie’s heavy footsteps approached.

“You guys are up early,” Robbie said as he stepped in front of us and took the chair on the other side of Hank.

“What time is it?” Hank asked.

“8:30-ish,” Robbie replied as he glanced at the screen of his phone. He sat his phone on the arm of the chair and looked at us expectantly. Unlike us, he had combed his hair and changed out of his pajamas.

“That’s not early,” Hank said.

“It is for me,” Robbie said.

Hank laughed. “I can’t believe you’re a grown-up.”

“Why not?” Robbie asked. He made no attempt to hide his irritation. I could see the redness rising in his face like some sort of warning light.

Hank looked at him in mocking disbelief. “Because you’ll always be my baby brother. It’s hard to imagine you as anything but that.”

Robbie took umbrage at his comment. He’d never learned how to keep his emotions in check or how to keep a straight face. He was like our mom in that regard.

“I’m almost 40 years old. I’m hardly a baby. At least I’m – “

“He’s here to celebrate your freedom, Hank,” I interrupted. I knew where Robbie was going, and I had to cut him off before he inflamed old wounds. Our long weekend was just starting and to have him and Hank already fighting would make for a miserable experience. There had been moments on the drive up when I thought the trip would unravel before it even began, but I had managed to keep Robbie at bay while giving Hank room to venture out into the world he’d but shut off from for so long even if his part of that world had been taken away.

The Hill at the End

On Sunday, I ran a marathon in the rolling hills of West Virginia at the home of West Virginia University in Morgantown. I see why the WVU mascot is called the Mountaineers. The further east you go on the main thoroughfare through the town the more it drops off a cliff. That same street happens to be the last mile of the Morgantown Marathon. I’m sure the guy who set up this race had the best intentions (the net proceeds from the race go to benefit U.S. veterans) but he also has a sadistic streak because who puts a steep hill at the end of a marathon?

To be fair, it would be impossible to run a race through Morgantown and not have a hill on the course. The town is wedged into an outcrop of the Appalachian mountains, which are not as beautiful and dramatically rugged as the Rockies but they certainly aren’t lacking in steepness. This particular course featured 2,000 feet of elevation gain over the 26 miles. It was enough to make even the most experienced runner quiver in his sweaty running shoes.

Going into this race, I knew it’d be a challenge. In addition to the hills, the weather didn’t look too favorable. The “low” temperature was predicted to be 69 degrees Fahrenheit, while the high was forecast near 80 degrees with mostly sunny skies. Such temperatures may be ideal for a run-of-the-mill day out on a Sunday, but for running a race, these temps were closer to dangerous than favorable. I had never been more thankful for cloud cover than I was when I walked out of my hotel on Sunday morning. It was slightly cooler than expected, and those clouds stayed around for most of the race. It was still hot for running, but not as bad as I had expected.

Before the race I had reviewed the elevation map of the course in disbelief. I didn’t see how I was going to run the whole race and still finish. Hills chew through a lot of energy, something that must be managed carefully over a race the length of a marathon if you hope to finish. If you’re not careful, you’ll hit the proverbial wall sooner than later on such a course. I was prepared to walk, if necessary, when I encountered the biggest hills. It’d be better to recover than run out of gas before I finished the race.

Early in the race, I felt particularly strong. I settled into third place behind two stronger runners and held that pace until I hit the biggest hill on the course. At that point, when I looked at the long climb ahead, I pulled up and began to walk. I used the time to consume some food and pounded my way up the hill at a good walking pace. Only a couple of runners passed me. Before I crested the hill, I began to run again feeling refreshed and reinvigorated after my brief respite.

After that big hill, all of the others seemed illegitimate as if their status as hills had been revoked. I cruised through the next few miles and even managed to catch one of the runners who had passed me. The race was going extremely well. The stretch of miles 23 and 24 were along a river trail and were as flat as could be. I felt great despite having crossed the 20-mile point. At mile 25 I grabbed some water as I ran by the mile marker and turned the corner in the last stretch of the race. That’s when I saw the obstacle that stood between me and the finish – the hill from hell.

Almost the entire final mile of the race was up hill. Not only was it a steep climb, but it was completely exposed to the sun as there were no trees on either side of the road. By this time in the race, most of the clouds had burned off and the temperature hovered in the 70s. Seeing and feeling this felt like being squashed under a giant boot. I pulled up and began walking again. The finish line would have to wait.

Before I crested the hill at mile 26, I began running again. The finish was slightly downhill, so I let gravity give me a hand. My time was still a respectable 3:17 despite the walking. Having conquered the course, I felt good. This wasn’t a course for personal bests.

That hill at the end was a real bummer even though I knew it was there before the race started. I couldn’t help but draw a parallel between the race and writing. There seems to always be a big hill at the end when it comes to finishing a novel, and I don’t mean completing the novel itself. The hill is perfecting it or getting it to the point where it’s ready to go beyond the draft phase. It seems insurmountable, but it requires focus even if that means slowing down and taking much longer than I’d prefer. That walk to the finish can be maddening, but it’s worth it when you cross the finish line.

Episode 4: Donna Quixote

The key under the planter had rust stains, little splotches like the liver spots on the backs of her hands. She tried to brush them off with her fingers to no avail. She’d clean it when she got inside the house. She scanned the vacant street behind her. The quiet abandonment of workdays and school days meant she was alone for the moment. She felt free from the eyes of the neighborhood.

The door knob popped when she turned the key. As she stepped through the door, her foot hit something solid. The package. The EMTs must have placed it inside her door when they took her away. She bent down slowly to pick it up and cradled it in her arm as she walked to her kitchen. She sat it next to the other package on her counter. Like that package it had no return address, but she could tell they were from the same person because the handwritten labels were very similar.

As she took her medicines and chased them with cold, unexpired water from her refrigerator, she stared at the packages. She wondered who sent them and why. Once the blood pressure cup released her arm and she had written the reading down in her log, she returned her attention to the packages. She tore open the first one.

Inside was an old Folgers coffee can, not the new plastic ones, but an old tin one with scrapes and dents. The color was more burgundy than red with gold writing across the face. She imagined she had seen this before, but she couldn’t recall where. She had stopped drinking coffee years ago. Something rattled in the can when she pulled it from the box. She removed the plastic lid, which had been so stretched over the years that it almost fell off unforced.

Pictures and letters were stuffed the inside of the can, so many that she almost couldn’t get her hand inside to pull them out. She pinched the edge of one of the letters and pulled it from the can. She recognized her writing and the address right away. Her heart beat in her throat and her eyes welled. She had to sit down.

She cradled the can in her arms as she sat down in the recliner. The letter had been addressed to her ex-husband, one of many she had sent to him after he had left and taken her children away. She peeled back the flap of the yellowed envelope and removed the folded paper. This letter had been a short one, only two pages. She flipped open the letter, which was dated October 5, 1979.

As she read the letter, the old feelings returned. The sense of loss overwhelmed her. The words on the page wailed at her much like she had mourned the absence of her husband and her two daughters. She only read the first paragraph before she folded the letter again and shoved it back into the envelope. She stuffed it into the rattling can. She shook the can again and peered into it trying to determine what was bouncing around in the bottom. She turned it upside down and shook it until a sparkle of gold tumbled from its lip. The ring landed in her lap. She pinched it between her fingers and took a close look at it. A moment passed before she realized she held her ex-husband’s wedding ring – the one he had worn when they were married.

The plain, gold band had scuffs and scratches on its surface, but it still gleamed in the light like a twinkling star in the night. She rolled it between her fingers. A flood of emotions pushed her back into the squeaky recliner. She stared at the ring a bit longer before she dropped it back into the can and replaced the flimsy, plastic lid. She sat, breathless and bewildered, wondering why her ex-husband would send her these things.

Donna retrieved the other package from the counter, but before she opened it, she examined the handwriting. It didn’t look like her ex-husband’s writing. He could barely write the way it was. If she remembered correctly, his handwriting was bulky and shaky like that of a child’s. The writing on the package was rounded and decidedly feminine like hers would have been had she ever focused on such things.

She tore open the package carefully as if she were afraid of what she might find. Her fingers slid along the edge of one of the box flaps as she opened it, and she winced in pain at the paper cut opened on her index finger. At first, it was just a slice of skin on the side of her finger, but then, blood flushed the superficial wound. Pain radiated through her hand. She put the finger to her lips and held it there until the pain subsided. She put the package aside and ambled into the kitchen to attend to the wound.

With a fresh bandage on the cut, she returned to the package and opened the flaps. Another letter, not ancient like the others, sat on top of several wooden picture frames. She ignored the letter for a moment and pulled the pictures from the box. The first one showed her and her husband on their wedding day on August 5, 1971. She stared at it in disbelief. A tear trickled down her cheek.

She peered into the box at the next framed photo, which was her with her two daughters, Emily and Ann. They were still little girls then. The picture had been taken in the backyard just beyond the wall in front of her. She looked that way as if she could peer back in time and see them playing on the tire swing that hung on the big oak for so many years even after they were gone.

The last photo in the box was a family portrait taken just before her husband left with the girls. Donna looked at the pained expression on her face. She remembered that day well. She put the pictures back in the box and pulled the letter toward her face. She squinted at the swooping words on the page as she slowly read it. Her heart thrummed in her chest and her breath hitched until a sob escaped. She crumpled the letter in her fist and crammed it back into the box before she pushed it to the floor at her feet. She sat back in the recliner as tears rolled down her cheeks. The refrigerator purred to life filling the anguished silence for a moment. Her ex-husband had died.

Living, Not Existing

My daughter and I had a great discussion this weekend, one of many that we’ve had over the years. I sometimes forget she’s only 13 until I put her and her brother in the same room. It started with an article about the 76-year-old who recently completed the Western States 100 trail race in under 30 hours becoming the oldest finisher of the grueling race. It’s a feat when a young person completes the race, but for a septuagenarian it’s downright miraculous. I can only admire the man and his determination, but mostly, I respect that he’s living life vs. simply existing.

This gets the crux of the conversation that I had with my budding philosophic teenager. One of the my favorite aphorisms that I’m constantly repeating to the kids is that if you’re not challenging yourself, you’re not growing. There’s a corollary to this that I don’t share, and that’s if you’re not growing, you might as well be dead. I save that morose offshoot for myself because, let’s face it, I don’t want to depress the kids; I just want them to make the most of their talents (and move out and get off the parental dole), but there’s a whole lot of truth to that corollary.

I see it all the time – people who are just there floating in space like a jellyfish waiting for something to happen to them rather than making things happen for themselves. They’re quick to bemoan the perception that they’re a victim of some unseen force and slow (if ever) to see how their lives are a collection of their own decisions. This gets to another aphorism that I push onto my kids: you are the result of your own decisions. Don’t blame anyone or anything else; it just makes you look dumb. It’s safe to say I don’t adopt the jellyfish persona.

During our conversation about the oldest finisher in Western States history, my daughter said, “that sounds like something you’ll be doing when you’re that age in a few years.” I forgave her for conflating 30 years into such a short time frame. While I don’t know if I’ll ever want to attempt the Western States, I do know that I will never get to the point of sitting around and waiting to die, and that’s really all simply existing is. I don’t understand that mentality. As long as I wake up each morning, I’m going to make the most of it. I’m certainly not going to waste time doing pointless things, staring into space without a meaningful thought in my head, or imagining all of the terrible things that could happen should I try to live my life.

If my kids are clear on anything, it’s that my wife and I intend to make the most of the the years ahead. They’ll be lucky if they can keep up with us. We’ll become a veritable game of Where’s Waldo once they move out. I have no intention of allowing the moss to grow under us. Life must be lived. Simply existing isn’t an option for me. Now, about that Western States race…