going back

July 31. End of the summer, regardless of the calendar, or the weather, or that popular three-month refrain. August is definitely Fall. I am trying to be ready. My trunk is full of school supplies, both for me and for them. I've made my first reconnaissance trips into the timewarp of my classroom, the place where time seems to have stood still even though May 2009 is now "last year." It happens the same way every July: I make the long drive with a renewed awareness of the distance, the annual thought running through my mind as the odometer blinks forward: "Do I really do this every day?" It seems impossible and foreign, some one else's life. But then I arrive, finally, unlock my door and plunge in to the darkness, walking foward with my hand out to the light switch on the other side. I feel along the wall, surroundings not quite familiar, routine not quite remembered, but once I find the switch, flip it on, and look around, it's as if I never left.

The carpet is clean, true, my desk is uncluttered, the whiteboards are blank. There's a bit of blank slate in the air, but as my mental to-do list begins to fill itself in, the place mostly feels like home.

as a picture

The outfit was merely the era: some polyester print--wagon wheels, maybe?--blouse with a blue spread collar that matched the skirt. It's the countryside background, hands posed on a rail "fence", and the unfocused expression that make the photo unmistakably a school picture. That and the bangs climbing across my forehead at a steep though unsteady angle-- an unfortunate home haircut (not by me, but my mother) that would never otherwise have been recorded. For years I cringed at that portrait, hid the christmas ornament on which it was pasted on the back of the tree, but at least it clearly showed a moment in time.

My soon-to-be-seventh-grade daughter has had her share of "We paid for this?" pictures; I expect nothing different tomorrow. I will not, for one thing, be ponying up twelve extra dollars for Premium Retouching, or even eight for Basic-- yes, there are two levels of photoshop available for the middle school set. And again I say, "Seriously?" According to the graphic on the flier, Basic will remove what appear to be felt-tip pen spots added to the sample picture, while Premium "whitens teeth, evens skin tone, and removes blemishes, scars, and fly-away hair." And again I say, "Good grief." It's almost tempting, though. If the cleaned up packages weren't all near fifty bucks, I might buy one just to see if I recognize what I bet more closely resembles her future, post-middle school self.

so far

Everything is relative, and ain't that the truth. The money you have or the time you don't, the degree of surprise or disappointment. Whether it's worth it or whether it's not. Everything just depends.

Reaching what must be the midpoint in my marathon training, I've hit double digits. Two weeks ago, ten, and this weekend twelve. Miles, that is. At once. An eight-miler is somehow now recategorized as, "short," an adjective that I can still recognize as ridiculous even as I know it's now true. In the same way, all these numbers are big enough to inspire in others that slow shake of the head that's a cross between, "you're crazy" and "I'm impressed." My own reaction is more tempered. Don't get me wrong, I'm pleased with myself, but at the same time, the goal is 26.2. Less than half is not all that relatively speaking, which, we are.

I'll be curious to see how my perspective changes, or if it does, when I get to the end and look back. A year ago I had no earthly concept of what I could do; today I take it as a given. I find it hard to say, "I can't" and lately substitute, "I haven't." Because when I choose to, I'm certain that I will. What I've done is huge compared to what came before, but, still, it's only a fraction.

another pair

Scuffed rubber toes of red canvas Keds, one in front of the other on a gum-splattered sidewalk: that's the image in my mind. My feet, age five. The dirt path across the field that separated our subdivison from the shopping center, that wide plaza sidewalk that we strolled every day to the dime store-- McCrory's, not P.N. Hirsch--to buy candy bars or toy gunpowder caps or short-lived fish, the mosaic threshold of the Kinney's Shoes store a bit further down: it's all my recollection of a trip to the store to buy big kid shoes, white leather with suede racing stripes of red or blue, maybe green. As if I could run. As if all the pictures that I see with my mind's eye were gathered in that one day, or that one shopping trip. Could be. Either that, or my memory has conjured the visuals that accompany the story that I know is true. Could be. I remember sprinting down the carpeted store aisle to see how fast they would make me run.

A lifetime later, I sit next to two pairs of running shoes. Real running shoes, from a real running shoe store. One pair is months old and nearly worn out-- a first for me, ever. The other pair sits new in the box, laced and ready. My miles for today are already complete, but the little kid, or, maybe, the runner in me is tempted.

messages

"You must feel great. Good for you!"

"I do. Thanks! Now what are you going to do about school?"

His text had arrived out of the blue, as always. Always unexpected, never unwelcome, his notes always bring a smile and a question. "Slow night at work? Bored at home? Alone?" I can't help but wonder what prompts him to punch in an unpunctuated, "how are you," from two rivers away, but I never ask, and, sometimes, it's obvious.

But at first it's just the mandatory, "Not much," in response to my, "What's new?" so I tell him 160 characters of my can-you-believe it marathon story, and he tells me of 10 miles in Chicago and a 5K run for cancer, but the tone is too used-to, too don't-anymore. "Can't" doesn't suit him, so I pull out a reminder as tired as it is true:

"If I can do this, you can do anything," though the converse is equally true. More.

Later, he breaks what is likely an insignificant silence with college questions he's asked before. He has credits, hard-earned before the law changed again; to continue, he must pony up his trust along with inflated tuition in a different state, at a different school. I offer to make a few calls, to ask the tricky questions about ID and residence just to make sure. I tell him, "I know some people. It's no problem," and his, "yes, please," sounds relieved, though perhaps I am projecting.

By rights, he should be tired. He must be. He is. By now, he should have thrown his hands up and conceded. He won't. But by rights, he is wary. Skepticism keeps him safer, but all of it's so wearing. And yet wavering between determination and doubt, he once more sends me a message. How else could I reply?

a different era

I can picture it, easily. Grandma, Grandpa, Mom and Dad. A Sunday afternoon. A then-new portable black & white TV in the living room that must have been cramped. The original transmission of men walking on the moon, with Walter Cronkite setting the stage. I can picture it, though I wasn't a witness: my mother had some crazy idea about 10 week-old babies and naps.

I've often told her she should have propped me up in front of the television, just so I could say that I saw. Not that there would be in purpose in that; that history still wouldn't be my memory. As most of the events narrated or explained by Cronkite, it was just a little before my time. My image is from late in his career, sitting at the anchor desk with a symbol of the Iranian hostage crisis over his shoulder: an eagle in a cage.

Years hence, Iran's in the news, again or still, but now virtually all the headlines and commentary that come into my home arrive via individual screens; news on our televisions is rare, save elections and the occasional catastrophe. Besides Obama, I'm not sure what my daughter will remember from the history of her childhood. I made sure she had no first-person memories of 9/11: she was only four. She hasn't complained about that yet, but, being her mother's daughter, I expect some day she will.

in print

I'm not entirely corrupted, but close. I'm kind of, more or less, doing my part. I still pay for the delivery of the local paper, four days, if not seven. Not that I ever unfold the newsprint as I carry it to the recycle bin from the yard. If it were still possible to cancel a subscription through the newspaper's website, it would already have been done. But as it stands, I read its stories online, the subscription fee nearly a charitable donation to a futile cause.

Books, I figured, were still less fragile than the fourth estate. Despite the fact that I've read fewer of them this year than ever in my life. A handful, no more. Few enough, I bet, to count on one hand. I am entirely out of the habit. Or at least I thought I was, until in three days I read two. It was like old times: I sat and read until I was finished, and then, the urge renewed, I went on to something else. It was like old times, except for the fact that I never laid hand on a book. Instead I read the Kindle versions using the freebie app for my iPod.

My 12 year-old is pretty sure this is a desecration; she may be right, but I'm not so sure. I'm positive there are consequences, unintended and otherwise, of this electronic shift. But to go from, "I need something to read," to possessing a new book in seconds? That's pretty much magic, to me. Not needing decent light in the room or even two free hands are bonuses as well. So far, I seem more likely to pay up for the convenience than for the paper version, so much that the ease of spending another $9.99 every time a craving or even boredom hits could in fact become a problem. I've been resisting the urge all day. Perhaps the bottom line will get me back to the library. In the meantime, there are worse habits than giving a writer another sale.

all wet

Yesterday, as I finally stepped out to run, the sky began to clear and the steady rain that had fallen all day slowed to a sprinkle then quickly disappeared. I was disappointed. A week ago, I ran further and more easily than I ever had in my life, and by the end of those eight miles, I was soaked to the bone. I trust you see the connection. What the heat and humidity had been taking out of me, a cooling rain put right back in. Finally, I felt like a runner, one who had a reason more concrete than just sheer power of will to believe she'd get to the end of 26.2. I may have even made a wish for every remaining summer Saturday to be equally wet. I should have thought that one through.

Or at least been more specific with my precipitation requests. Because I would never have asked for a summer storm to mark the beginning of a 32-mile bike ride, but that's what we got today. One wouldn't think anything could be that cold in July, but perhaps that's why some of it came down as hail. And yet instead of running for cover, we got on and pedaled through, eyes half-closed against the wind-driven water. "It's better than being hot," was more convincing after the downpour slowed and then stopped, but in the end, despite squishy shoes and a damp car seat-- perhaps the third time, I'll remember dry clothes-- I'm pretty sure that's still true.

Visiting

I may be a tourist, but at least I am a tourist who walks fast, stays out of the way, and knows how to use public transportation.

I'm just sayin'.

But then again, given that a fair number of establishments here can also be found at Disney World, maybe it's too much to expect visitors to act any different. Just an observation.

Not that I don't love the Chicago part of Chicago, as my resident friend once described it. Except for the sports teams, it's got so much goin' for it if I'd ended up here as part of that twenty-something Midwest tour, I don't think I'd ever have gotten home.

Another life, perhaps.

Meanwhile, it's time to head back to where the pizza is cracker-thin and the public transportation is non-existent. I'm looking forward to being there, too.

Happy Independence Day

That was a good day, too.

more like it

It's the phone ring, the door bell, the in and out, the up and down. It's the door standing wide open. It's shouted good-byes and, "Will you please take us?" and a flip-flopped walk down a hilly half-mile that no longer seems too long. It's swimming and skating and long, convoluted stories that don't mean anything to anyone else. Pit stops for frozen custard or tacos. It's conversations that start in the middle; it's notes left in the mailbox. It's showing up uninvited but not unwelcome, it's ten hours later and then, "See ya tomorrow." It's summer, suddenly, with a friend in the neighborhood, finally. The girl is happy, and so is her mom.