In the Same Vein

All human beings should try to learn before they die
what they are running from, and to, and why.
—James Thurber

It is Marathon Day in Boston. This year, I am not there to watch the crowds of people arrive from places around the planet. Even so, I know that there are people speaking many languages in the small town of Hopkinton, Massachusetts. They are filling up their belies with high carbohydrate breakfasts, then getting in lines for their numbers. The media are taking up whatever space they can find with their cameras and video equipment. Enthusiastic fans are competing with the local residents for a space where they will be able to see the race begin.

For many years, I would position myself at the top of Heartbreak Hill, not far from where the runners would finally reach the city limits of Boston. As each runner came up that stretch of pavement, looking tired and defeated, I would clap and shout encouragement. It was Jeff who had taught me to show up at the most difficult stretch of the route to cheer.

Jeff moved into my parent's attic one spring. His father had beaten him up for the last time. When my mother opened the back door that afternoon, she saw Jeff standing there with a bloodied face and a satchel full of clothing slung over his shoulder. It was not the first time my mother had harbored one of the children from that family. A little first aid, a home cooked meal and Jeff recovered enough to explain that his Dad was drunk again. Jeff had come home for spring break in his freshman year of college. His father had announced that he would not pay for any more school. It was time, his father screamed, for his son to go off to the war that was in Vietnam. No more would he have a son who shirked his duty and hid behind books to evade the draft.

When I arrived home from college a few weeks later, I could hear John Lennon's music filling the space that previously had only held empty suitcases and dusty photographs. Jeff said very little to anyone. Some evenings, after we had dinner together, he would linger long enough for a game of cards after the kitchen table had been cleared of dishes. Most nights he would go directly to his private space with the unpainted plywood floor and bare rafters stuffed with insulation. He would read, play music and only occasionally go out to meet one of his friends.

In a few weeks, Jeff had a job as an orderly in the city hospital. He applied for nursing school and was accepted. Whether he was truly a pacifist or whether he did it to spite his father, he received an exemption from the draft. His war was a private one. His spirit seemed full of inward battles fought in solitude. He ran, it appeared, not just from his abusive father, not just from the war he opposed, but to save his own life.

Each morning, before he dressed in his scrubs and walked down the hill to the city hospital, he ran. He arose earlier than any of us and left the comfort of his loft to run. He ran in the heat and the cold, in the rain and even in the snow. His goal was to run the marathon; not to win the race, but to finish. The first few times that he entered a race, it took him so long to finish that the race officially ended before he triumphantly reached the point where the finish line had been.

During the next two years, while he lived with my parents, I drove him to and from the site of several marathons. Even though Jeff’s race for life was directly opposite to my own, I understood the importance of a cheering section and a friend to reach out with some fresh water along the way. So, at several points along the route, I would stand until I saw him come into view. Then, I would begin calling out his name and enthusiastic encouragement until I saw his dazed eyes acknowledge me.

The physical demands of long distance running were foreign to me. I could not quite understand why someone would voluntarily put himself through such an arduous and punishing experience. Having a bleeding disorder, I had chosen a life that was structured to minimize injuries. By that time, I had already spent years listening for the early warning signs in the twinge of a sore muscle. The smallest of body aches could indicate the need for medical intervention for me. To win my race for life, no pain was a gain. It horrified me to see him limp in at the end of the race, doubled over in agony and exhaustion. His muscles would be cramped and his body contorted. The heat and dehydration left him depleted that he collapsed into the car seat for the return ride. Even more baffling to me was the way in which he recovered within hours. He would be up the next morning running as usual before going to work. It was a lesson to me to observe how his body could endure this amount of pain without fear or mental suffering. How different from the sense of defeat, self-blame and guilt that I felt when my body was hurting. How unlike the days it would take me to heal an injured joint or muscle if there was internal bleeding.

In spite of our different strategies for survival, Jeff and I had each experienced our own wounds. And although our reactions were so dissimilar, I understood his resolve and resilience. It is a winning combination and it deserves applause.

Memories take up more bandwidth in my brain the older I get. Perhaps this is true because I am acutely aware of having passed mid-life. For me, there is now more to recall from the past than there is left to plan for in the future. It seems that memories drift into my consciousness at the slightest trigger: a landscape; an odor in the air; a remark made by an acquaintance; a photograph; a tune. Some recollections are activated without any apparent cause. Most come in small tidbit-sized pieces, rather than long detailed illustrated narratives. In addition, I have no doubt that all of my memories have been altered by the passing of time until they represent a symbol rather than a truth.

In his book, “Waking: a memoir of trauma and transcendence,” Matthew Sanford uses the term, “healing stories.” He explains, “A healing story is my term for the stories we have come to believe that shape how we think about the world, ourselves, and our place in it.” He goes on to state that healing stories can be constructive or destructive to our sense of well-being; “They come together to create our own personal mythology, the system of beliefs that guide how we interpret our experience. Quite often, they bridge the silence that we carry within us and are essential to how we live.”

When I heard it said that our first memory reveals traits and values that we carry for the rest of our lives it echoed the concept of a personal mythology. I tried to sift through my earliest memories and determine which one was my first. My youngest childhood experiences had become so intertwined in the storytelling of my family that I had come to believe that I remembered them.

There was the story my father liked to repeat about my ability to outsmart his attempts to keep me from upsetting my dinner plate from the high chair onto the floor. One could think that would be a memory he would have preferred to forget. For me, the story seems a bit unsettling. I am sure I would not be nearly so cheerful with any child who exhibited this skill. However, when my Dad told the tale of purchasing one guaranteed-to-be-spill-proof baby dish after another, only to watch me overcome the newest foil within minutes, he seemed pleased by his daughter’s ability to solve problems. This was a part of my father’s personal mythology. I have no memory of ever sitting in a highchair spilling pureed vegetables onto the floor for entertainment.

My mother liked to tell the story of leaving me at school for the first day of Kindergarten. I entered the schoolyard and didn’t even glance back towards her to wave good-bye. When my Mom recounted this memory, it was usually with a tone of feigned disappointment that I had shed no tears when we parted. However, it was also evident that she was more than a little proud of raising an independent and confident daughter. This was a part of my mother’s personal mythology. I have recollection of this day, although it does seem like a story that is more in keeping with my true nature.

Both of these memories do, however, qualify as healing stories for my parents and for me. Still, I had a desire to identify my own earliest memory. Quite accidentally one day, I happened to see old news footage of Queen Elizabeth II in her coronation ceremony on June 2, 1953. Suddenly, I remembered that day. I would have been four at that time and I can think of no personal memory that pre-dates it.

My mother had a friend, Ruth, who had been a schoolteacher. Ruth and my mother had grown up not far from each other in Nova Scotia, Canada. Yet, they had not become friends until they both married and moved to the U.S. Ruth seemed much older to me than my own mother and much more serious. When in Ruth’s presence, I was instructed to watch my manners carefully. It was Ruth who had suggested that I must witness the Queen’s coronation on television that day in early June.

My parents did not own a car or a television. Mom and I probably traveled by city bus to Ruth’s home. The long steep flight of wooden stairs, which we had to climb to get to the second floor apartment, seemed endless. As I climbed up those stairs, I thought it a silly way to spend such a lovely day. After Ruth opened her door, we were all seated in front of a large wooden cabinet with a small television screen. Still I was not impressed. The elaborate costumes, the formal music, the newscaster’s play-by-play account of the historic event, the pomp and ceremony bored me. Ruth gave me a stern lecture about never forgetting this event. She seemed to sense that I was not really paying much attention. Therefore, she explained I would need to remember because I would someday want to tell my children and my children’s children that I had watched the coronation of a queen. I wondered why any child or grandchild would care.

At first, I was appalled that despite my resolution to forget it, I had indeed remembered that day. It seemed as if I had betrayed myself. Then I realized that I had not held onto the memory of the actual coronation. I had succeeded in my intention to remember what it is like to be a child. I do remember clearly what it is like to have legs that are short enough to make a flight of stairs feel very long. I do remember what it is like to have an adult tell you things about the future that are really from their own past. Furthermore, my transformation of the memory into a healing story is about quiet defiance.

Uncle Byron sat in his rocking chair watching the sun set. The supper dishes were removed from the big dinning table that in his childhood was used to spread out the meals for his nine siblings and whatever guests happened to come for a visit at mealtime. I pilled the dishes in the sink and heated the water over the wood stove to wash and rinse them clean again, I watched as Byron gazed out over the front pasture that sloped down to the road. The road had not yet been paved and an occasional automobile passing by would raise a sandy dust as it rumbled over the gravel. The kitchen window faced the maple sugar camp that Byron had operated since he was a young man. But, Byron did not look in that direction; instead his eyes were fixed on the display of color in the sky from the setting sun.

Slowly, Byron pulled out a cigarette paper and his pouch of tobacco. With the mindfulness of a Buddhist monk, he curved the paper with his fingers and filled the ridge with a small portion of dried tobacco. Then with care and gracefulness, that revealed how often he had practiced this ritual in the past, Uncle Byron rolled the paper around, licking it on the edge to hold the two ends together. The match he struck against the wood stove and as he exhaled he filled the room with the aroma of smoke.

He sat and rocked and watched the setting sun, seemingly unaware of the clatter of pots and pans. The women who were washing, drying and putting away seemed equally absorbed in their task. Byron had spent all of his life in that house, with the exception of his tour of duty in WWII. He had cared for his mother until her death and tended to the farm chores by himself when his five sisters and four brothers moved away one at time. He seemed during these times very comfortable in his solitude.

However, on the evenings when family and friends were in the house, Byron’s face displayed contentment. When the day was coming to a close, after each platter and plate, cup and saucer was set back in it’s spot in the china cabinet, people drifted back to the dinning room table. The deck of cards was shuffled and dealt to each player. The stories of neighbors and family were told and re-told. There was usually at least one joke about Byron’s elder sister whose Baptist faith scorned card playing as much as alcohol consumption. What would she think if she could see them shuffling and dealing for hours on end, or if she new that her own husband made beer in the basement?

Even Byron’s humor was tempered with compassion. He was a quiet man and when he spoke his words often revealed his empathy for those who were small or weak or ill. The night his youngest sister was killed in an automobile accident, it was Byron how received the telephone call. He sat by himself until dawn, not conveying the news to other family members. When asked, he said he did not want to upset their sleep.

When we arrived at the farmhouse for a visit or left to return home, Uncle Byron gave a hug that was so tight it seemed he did not want to let go. Had he suffered enough loss in his life already that his heart could bear no more?

Yesterday, we noticed a Green Anole trapped behind the glass door on our wood stove. We imagine that it climbed down the chimney, perhaps nibbling insects along the way, and then could not figure out how to climb back up.

When it was still there today, we became more concerned. We gathered the necessary critter rescue kit and freed the Anole to its outdoor habitat. After it was safely outside again, we watched as it gradually turned from the drab brownish color it had become inside the wood stove back to a brilliant green again.

In my childhood I gained a lot of experience capturing backyard critters of many sizes and shapes. Grasshoppers, toads, garter snakes, turtles and spiders were often placed in temporary habitats constructed in jars or terrariums with screened lids. One day, I entered the kitchen just in time to hear my mother calmly talking on the telephone. Her last sentence was, “I’m sorry, Jane, I have to hang up know. My daughter’s snake just crawled out from behind the stove.” As she lowered the phone, I could hear Jane screaming, “Did you say snake?” I learned by that experience that a snake could easily escape if an old hosiery stocking was used to cover a jar motel.

Eventually, my father created a special guest room for viewing spider webs. It had a wooden frame with twigs inserted along the inner side edges and moveable Plexiglas panels on the front and back. There was a corked hole at the top for dropping in a spider. Each spider created it’s own special web stretching the threads between the twigs. Hours of amusement were spent feeding the spiders before they were set free again. The web remained in the box. By removing the Plexiglas, it could then be spray-painting, placed on a piece of black construction paper, and labeled with the species of spider that had created it.

All the critter visitors were fed and given fresh water for a day or two, then released back to freedom where they had been found. My mother, who enjoyed it as much as the neighborhood children, usually taught the backyard nature study. The children arrived several times a day to assist and observe. Together we watched as toads shed their skins by sweating and larvae transform into butterflies. We learned that a preying mantis would drink water from a spoon held in front of it, tilting its head in a horse-like pose. Mom would bring out the identification books that we owned or walk us to the local branch library to find information about our current guests.

However, I learned more than how to identify these backyard critters. I grew to respect each of them as individuals and to value their companionship. By caring for them, I came to care about their safety and the survival of the planet we share together. It seems natural to me to reduce, reuse and recycle; not to waste limited resources; to tread softly upon this earth.

As I watched the Anole transform from the dusty color it had taken on inside the wood stove back into a green, melded with the leaves, I reflected that it’s not easy to get green. But, when the survival of all our relations is at risk, it becomes urgent.