They posted the photos online several days after the race. Astronomical prices. Horrible photos.
And just who was that runner in blue that they captured, anyway? Lumbering along. Belly hanging out. Plodding steps. Mighty grim look on a tired, sweaty face.
Can’t they even capture a decent pose? Certainly he doesn’t look like that when he approaches the finish line. Certainly not. … Right? I mean…
Why aren’t you saying anything?
My grandfather was born in 1907, I told the kids. I was on the floor, and they were on pillows in a semicircle around me. I told them how in the summers we would camp in the woods in Michigan. How we had campfires in the evening.
Imagine it, I said. There we were in a clearing in the woods with trees all around us and a circle of stones with a fire burning in the middle. And there were old pine stumps in the fire from when they cleared the White Pine long ago, and that wood burned hot and bright, and fingers of orange flames danced toward the sky and lit our faces as we sat there in that clearing under the stars.
And sometimes, I told them, my grandfather would remember a poem he memorized when he was young. Because he was born in 1907, and they did things differently back then. Kids had to memorize poems. Long poems. Serious poems. And they had to get up in class and recite them from memory.
So sometimes he would remember one of those poems and start reciting a few lines, and we would all be quiet. Because if we said anything he might stop. Imagine it, I said. Sitting there with orange firelight on our faces.
Have you ever been in the dark someone would shine a flashlight on their face up from their chin and go, “Boo hoo hoo ha ha ha!” I asked. Yes! they shouted. Well it was kind of like that, I said. (Although truth be told, I was now mixing various childhood memories into a single story.) The orange light would be shining on him where he sat, and shadows would dance on his face as we sat in silence listening to his poetry.
I said all this as a way to explain why I was in their class that day. As a way to explain why I was there to recite poetry.
I told them about the woods and the fire and the dark starry skies of a lifetime ago. And I told them about my grandfather’s poems.
And they sat in their semicircle in silence. Watching me with wide eyes. Waiting for a poem.
Somewhere around 2.5 miles, I heard thunder. Just a little swishy roll somewhere in the distance. Not long after, I heard it again. More pronounced this time, starting overhead and rolling into the west, ending in a punctuated crash.
The clouds over the Hill Country were black. The wind blowing this way. Misty drizzle turned into rain. The wind turned cold.
I zipped up my jacket and took my glasses off. No problem. I had a long sleeve shirt under my running jacket. And even though the wind and rain were making my legs numb, I had gloves, so my fingers were warm.
And then, with slightly less than a mile to go, the skies opened up. I was soaked. My feet were sloshing in my shoes. My hair was lying limp against my forehead. I wondered what the people driving by thought. Crazy guy, look at him. What is he thinking?
And then, a familiar gray Suburban stopped. The driver’s side window rolled down, and Jodis stuck her hand out the window with a clenched fist held skyward. “Woo hoo! You go!” she shouted with a smile on her face. And then she drove off.
Jodis is a runner, too. But they have kids in school, so it will be years before she has that kind of luxury. The luxury to put on shoes and jacket and gloves and go out for a run not knowing how far you’ll go, not caring how long it will take, not needing to be back at any particular time.
Who cares if it thunders? Who cares if it rains? Who cares if it’s cold. Empty nest rules.
I’m remembering this. Almost two years ago.
An excuse to draw, I suppose. But not a bad something to remember. Do you?
What do you think of when you look at this?
Paint by numbers.
I sat there silent for a moment, staring at the screen. She started laughing.
What? There’s nothing wrong with that. I loved paint by numbers.
I nodded, smiling. She walked toward the door, smiling.
I think I’ll leave now.
In these days of negative temperatures in the Northeast and snow-snarled traffic jams shutting down cities, I hesitate to talk about the weather.
I hesitate to talk about how the cold front came thru and passed right by, leaving blue skies and sunshine and warm temperatures behind. I hesitate to talk about the mid-80s that were our weather on Friday. And I hesitate to discuss the weather we had this afternoon.
So let’s not do that, shall we? How about this, instead?
It was afternoon. The sky was … you know. And the sun was … you know. And I was watering the Apple trees, because it hasn’t rained appreciably here for a while. And this tree against the back fence was abloom, and bees were coming and going and rolling in the blossoms.
Can you believe it!?
The sky is clear. The sun is out. The leaves of the Monterey Oak are shining green/orange/brown. The ice of yesterday in the bird bath is melted now and warm. Bill is in his front yard in short sleeves and shorts mowing his yard.
It’s certainly not like this here.
Thursday was the new moon.
The sky was clear. The sun had just set. But there was no sign of it. Try as I might from behind the wheel on the commute home, peer as much as I might try at the darkening sky in the west, I could see nothing, not even a thin, thin crescent.
Friday, on the same commute, the crescent was there. Having wandered in one day far enough to the eastern side of the setting sun, it took no peering. There is was. Hanging in the sky above hills. A thin crescent moon descending into the west. With Mercury trailing behind.
© jumpingfish by David Hasan is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License
