Going Forth

Hang with me on this one. Although I might not have my ideas exactly ordered and clear, I do have some thoughts to share about homes, families, responsibilities, and so forth. And I think the stuff I’m thinking about is probably something most people can identify with.

A couple of weeks ago, DH and I sold the home that we bought from my siblings nearly eight years ago, the home my parents purchased in the late 1960s. Originally a parsonage for FBC, the house had a lot of history before they bought it and afterwards….well, let’s just say if they could talk, those walls would tell quite a story or two. We all loved it there. The high ceilings, the wood floors, the loooonnnnggg hall that went right down through the center of the house, the front porch with its chairs and swing, the floral wallpaper in the hall…everything.

When my father died in October of 1998, my friend June gently touched my arm and said, “There’s a lot of love in this house. I can feel it.” How right she was. It was that palpable. After we lost my mother two years later, none of us really visited the home too often…too sad, too many memories. When I decided to move back home, however, DH and I decided to buy it, and for over a year, he worked like a Trojan getting it “just right.” Sanding, painting, caulking, stripping wallpaper, retiling floors, redoing cabinets, building an island…he did it all.

We lived there happily for five years, and then experiencing a “scrounged up” feeling from living downtown, we decided to move to an older suburb, one with rolling hills and curves and trees and lots of privacy. The only trouble in Paradise is that we didn’t have a buyer for 511. Sure, we had lots of interested people, but something always seemed to happen.  Finally, the right couple came along, and even as I write this, they are busy making the house uniquely their own.

Sunday in church one of the stake leaders told a story about seeing the home in which he had grown up. Uninhabited, it had fallen into a state of disrepair, and he thought of how great it would be to purchase the house and restore it to its original best. Reluctantly, he realized that the likelihood of that happening was pretty dismal. However, he began to think of all the wonderful things that had gone on within the home, all of the great lessons that had been taught, the tears that had been shed, the laughter that echoed throughout the dwelling, and the people who had gone forth from the house.

He went on to talk about how he and his brothers had served missions and were now all married and raising children. All of these people, including their children, were affected by what went on within the walls of that now abandoned home. He realized that although the house was important, what was more important was what came from it. I had one of those “aha” moments because I realized that he was singing my song, in a manner of speaking.

511 Chesnut (yes, without the t) sheltered us for decades, and we all have fond memories of the happenings there. We even have memories and thoughts of the sights, sounds, smells, and textures of the structure itself. The front door was always a struggle to open, and even now I can see my mother sort of pressing against it and lifting the knob at the same time.  We always joked about how you had to put a little hip motion into it.

But what’s important is what came from the house and what we all took from it. Four adult children and their children are living better lives because of lessons learned there…and love shared. As I told Elizabeth the other day, the memories of 511 are in our hearts and psyches, and regardless of who lives there, the house is forever part of us.

The picture above says it all. Can you see the light burning in the window?  What does it say about coming in out of the cold?

Widen the Circle, Part II

Amanda, are you reading this? I hope so because you’re the one who’s prompted much of my recent thinking about the importance of friends. In a recent blog entitled “Widen the Circle,” I mentioned that Amanda and I had talked about the adjustments we both had to make in moving to new areas. Both of us realized the importance of making new friends, and both of us stepped out of our comfort zones to do so.

How did we do it? For one thing, we both became involved in book clubs. Before I moved back home, I asked DH what I would do with my time when not working or hanging out with him or cleaning my house…er, make that “homecaring.” I told him I thought I might start a book club. “Surely there’s someone like me in good old historic Southern Town USA,” I said. He looked at me and declared that no, there was no one like me anywhere. Gotta love the guy!

He was wrong. After being “home” for three months, I started a book club at the two-year college where I’m employed. That was nearly seven years, and it’s still going strong. There are months when only three of us have attended, but for the most part, it’s an active group of about seven or eight. We usually meet in a restaurant of the facilitator’s choice, and it seems to be working well. In response to the LDS Church’s focus on literacy, some friends and I started a book club, a.k.a. reading group, which grew out of our association in Relief Society. That was five years ago, and we’re still meeting regularly in a different member’s home each month.

Because of these associations, I’ve read books that I probably wouldn’t have otherwise, AND I’ve met some phenomenal people. Quick case in point: Kristi is quiet and demure at church, but I discovered quickly that she and Michelle LOVE Pride and Prejudice, the book and the movie. I’m thinking of one night when the two of them, with great passion, shared a movie clip of that misty morning on the moor with the rest of us. Speaking of people, Amanda too is part of a reading group in Atlanta. Since Paul has Tuesday and Thursday night classes, she decided to “widen her circle” by joining a reading group, and I’m extremely interested in a book she was telling me about, something to do with women and geography.

About the books themselves, we have some guidelines that we go by. Basically, we stick to novels, and in the church related group, we don’t read what one member referred to as “trash.” Of course, we all have different definitions of that so if someone is offended by a selection, then she doesn’t have to read it. What a wonderful way to get to know others better. We exchange ideas, socialize for a bit, and go away feeling a bit more knowledgeable.

A couple of months ago, I began attending a Bible study on Esther at First Baptist, and I enjoyed it immensely. It’s over now, and the facilitator has begun another one for the Wednesday night crowd called “Wising Up,” a study of Proverbs just for women. I’m loving it. I’ve always enjoyed learning, and this is great because there are no tests and no papers to write. Plus, I enjoy the camaraderie and exchange of ideas with the other women there. I discovered last week that I’m probably the oldest gal there, but that doesn’t matter. I enjoy being with young and old and all ages in-between.

One motive for writing this blog was to encourage people who are reluctant to move outside of their comfort zone to do so. Look in the newspaper for local events or happenings and GO. If someone asks you to join a book club, and you like books and people, say yes. Amanda did, and so did I.

Another motive was to write something that would fit Eleanor Roosevelt’s quote about people being interesting. Here it is: “If you approach each new person you meet in a spirit of adventure you will find that you become increasingly interested in them and endlessly fascinated by the new channels of thought and experience that you encounter. I do not mean simply the famous people of the world but people from every walk and condition of life. You will find them a source of inexhaustible surprise because of the unexpected qualities and interests which you will unearth in your search for treasure.”

Thinking and Doing

My three children have been on my mind all day today. Ever had a day like that? A day when something or someone just stays in your thoughts and heart hour after hour? I think what started it all was a photograph I found of Paul as a cute, smiling little kindergartner. Since it was already framed, I set it on a dresser in the guest room, and I enjoyed looking at it while ironing some work duds this morning. On the refrigerator, I have two photographs of my lovely daughters when they were about 8 and 5. They’re so adorable!! Really, they are. They’re standing in front of a table at their grandmother’s house in  their “jelly shoes” and fancy Easter dresses.

These images of the children when they were small reminded me yet again of the fleeting passage of time and of how dear they are to me. The fact that we don’t talk or see each other every day doesn’t diminish the deep love I feel for them, and for some reason(s), I just felt like reminding them.

One day many moons ago I came across a little prayer in a book by Marian Edelman entitled Guide My Feet. I’m paraphrasing so I might get it a little wrong, but the sentiment is there. “Lord, Thank you for the blessing of these children. Please bless them in their coming and going and thinking and doing.” In the past, I’d often say, “Coming and going and thinking and doing,” and they’d know immediately what I meant. I don’t say it to them so often these days, but those words and others are my constant prayer.

Since I’ve probably already embarrassed the heck out of them, I might as well go ahead and tell them what marvelous human beings they are and how proud I am of their many talents, perseverance, integrity, sense of responsibility, and good choices. They all “have their heads on straight,” and they all know where to go for guidance and answers to life’s questions.

Want specifics? I’ll leave that for another day. For now, I’ll just say I love the responsible and righteous way they’re living their lives. Carrie has her hands and heart full as a young mother, Elizabeth is busy with teaching and completing the final courses towards her Master’s, and Paul is adjusting to life as a husband, graduate student, and juggler of two jobs.

Hey, you three: coming and going and thinking and doing.

Widen the Circle

Last weekend Amanda, my sweet daughter-in-law, and I were talking about changes in life, and she mentioned how much she missed Myrtle Beach and expressed the hope that they’d move back there someday. Since she and Paul both grew up in the area, I’m sure it was hard to leave family and friends for Atlanta. When Amanda mentioned that the main friends they now have are from church and work, it got me to thinking about friends and the importance of keeping the old and of making new ones. Plus, it reminded me of a quote I read by Eleanor Roosevelt last week: “The narrower you make the circle of your friends, the narrower will be your experience of people and the narrower will your interests become. It is an important part of one’s personal choices to decide to widen the circle of one’s acquaintances whenever one can.”

Being back in my hometown has occasionally thrown me into the company of friends and acquaintances from the past. It’s enjoyable to rub shoulders with those with whom I share a history, people who know my “back story.” Being around Patty and Joan Ella this past weekend reminded me of the importance of roots, memories, and a collective past.

At the same time, new friends are wonderful too. Sitting with Connie at church Sunday reinforced that. We share the same faith, ups and downs with our children and grandchildren, a love of books, an appreciation of terms like feng shui and wabi sabi, excitement over terms like Namaste, and an appreciation for the several ways one can accessorize black. A couple of other “C” friends, Carol and Cindy from Church, have also added to my enjoyment of life back in good old Camden. So have dozens of other Relief Society members. Our shared sisterhood in the gospel of Jesus Christ centers our lives and provides a sense of community and belongingness like no other…unless it’s with family.

Then there are work friends, people I’d never even laid eyes on this time seven years ago but who are now people whose conversation and company I’ve come to enjoy. Four of us are heading to New York City the day after graduation, and almost daily we discuss some little detail of our trip. Martha ordered the tickets for West Side Story and gave me mine today. Lisa and I had planned to look at the times of the ferry rides to Ellis Island, but we were interrupted by a student who needed a listening ear. Again, these people were complete strangers to me seven years ago.

On Thursday of last week my sister Ann and I went to MUSC to sit with my sister-in-law while my brother was in surgery, and while we were sitting in the fourth floor surgical waiting room, I heard someone say, “Jayne” in a soft, almost inaudible voice. I turned to see Ellen, a woman with whom I worked when I lived at the coast. Talking to her conjured up all sorts of recollections of dear friends with whom I shared so many good times during our “trying twenties” and “catch thirties.” Er, I guess we shared much of our forties too. We went through marriages, children, divorces, remarriages, disappointments, promotions, and a host of other vicissitudes of adult life. June, if you’re out there reading this, I miss you…and Ella, Elaine, Mary, Gail, Millie, Judy, Linda, Murph, and Teresa.

Last but far from least, there are my blog friends, most of whom I’ve never seen eye-to-eye but whose voices have become familiar and important to me. They’ve stimulated my thinking and broadened my horizons. At odd times, I find myself thinking about one or another of them (of you!) and wondering how a certain situation is evolving. Right now, NoSurfGirl’s little girls are on my mind.

I’ve gone on longer than I intended. Sorry about that. My purpose was to stress the importance of friends and to let Amanda know what a feast she has in store for her as she travels through her adult years. Reading E. Roosevelt’s quote and thinking about friends has encouraged me to continue widening my circle of acquaintances and friends.

Cycle of Life

 It was beautiful at the cemetery this afternoon. Peaceful too. Despite the somber occasion, there was a certain stillness, a feeling of love and serenity that seemed to touch everyone there. Was it because of the love, loyalty, and dedication of the deceased to family, friends, church, community, and country? Was it because we knew that the 87 years of this man’s life had been full and rich? In recent years he had become quite computer savvy, and his progeny loved to hear him say, “Just google it.” Gotta love that! Was it because we were all moved by his legacy? Was it because of the sincere words of the minister and the soul stirring songs of the soloist?

I don’t know what made this funeral so memorable unless it could be, in addition to the above, the fact that watching his great grandchildren playing beneath the trees near the gravesite brought home the wondrous marvel of the cycle of life. I knew this man through his daughter and her siblings when we were children. Now Patty has grown children and grandchildren. Yesterday we were wearing our patent leather shoes to First Baptist Church, and today she was burying her father as her grandchildren sat in their parents’ laps and squirmed to be free.  

I looked at many of the older mourners and recognized them as the “grownups” from my youth. Then they were younger than I am now, and yet as a child, they had seemed so old and all-knowing. I glanced to the side of the funeral tent and saw my friend’s ex-husband playing with their youngest grandchild and found myself smiling. Turning to Joan Ella, I said, “I just love families.” She feels the same way, and we chatted briefly about the cycle of life.

Later DH and I returned to the cemetery and walked quietly among some of the plots. I especially wanted to visit the graves of my paternal grandparents. Can it have been 21 years since my grandmother Beatrice died? Yes. According to her tombstone, she died on May 2, 1988. 21 years ago I stood on that very spot, and at my Aunt Polly’s request, read The Giving Tree.

1988. So many people I loved dearly have died since then, and many, many others have come into my life. Just a quick example. My grandmother’s middle name was Emmaline (hope I’m spelling that correctly), and my youngest granddaughter’s name is Emma.  Is it because of her great grandmother, or is it because of Emma Smith? I don’t know. I just know that I love that little tyke and her siblings with a fierce love, and they weren’t even close to being in my life then. Their mother was only 12 in May of 1988. There’s that cycle of life thing again.

Aren’t families fabulous? Funny too. But then that’s a story for another day.

 

 

 

 

 

Thank You

This morning before walking I read a little from book on prayer, a chapter in Psalms, and a chapter from a book by Eleanor Roosevelt.  I woke  up before dawn today, perhaps in anticipation of Monday when Spring break ends and the daily grind begins anew. Those 5:25 a.m. days are killers! But I digress. What I want to share this morning is that after reading, I went walking, pink iPod shuffle attached to my jacket (it was nippy in SC early this morning). Because of the morning reading and quiet time with God, I felt more in tune with the spirit while walking. I’m pretty much always aware of Him in my life, but this morning’s awareness seemed more poignant and strong.

The first thing I noticed was the whitish fragment of last night’s half moon, and before long I saw and felt the presence of the glorious sun warming the earth. I also spied the puddles in the grassy areas of the track, reminders of the much needed rain that’s drenched our area lately. Ever since I was a small child, I often begun my prayers with a rote repetition that goes something like, “Thank you for the sun and the moon and the stars and the rain,” and I still do that. Even thought it might be repetitious, it’s sincere. I’ve always been thankful for heavenly spheres, sparkles, and sprinkles, perhaps because they serve as reminders that this earth is not all there is.

Depsite the music of the iPod, I could hear my footsteps hitting the hard-packed sand, still strong and unfaltering. Although I couldn’t feel or hear it, I know my heart was beating strongly, pumping the blood and oxygen to my limbs that would enable me to walk/jog the five miles. My lungs were doing their job too, and I couldn’t help but think of my father who suffered from chronic pulmonary disease and congestive heart failure.  What a blessing it is to breathe deeply without pain.

I could also hear the birdsong, sweet and melodious. I saw the blue, blue Carolina sky with nary a cloud in the sky. How wonderful to have eyes to see and ears to hear. Speaking of hearing, the music on my iPod is AWESOME. This morning I listened to chants of Gregorian monks 75 percent of the time I was walking, and that contributed to my heightened awareness of God’s beneficence. I must confess that lately I’ve been going through a jazzy blues period, so I tuned into a bit of that too. Hearing Etta James belt out “A Sunday Kind of Love” is grand. I’m so thankful for people with musical talents and for technology that enables me to enjoy it so easily. Now that I have a Blackberry, I can even listen to it on my cell phone.

And the people. What a magnificent thing a human being is! Young, old, short, tall, black, white, and all shades, shapes, and sizes were created by Him, and I got to see quite a variety of specimens at the track this morning.

Then there’s the mind, the human mind, the part of us that sets us apart from Fido and other creatures. As I walked and looked and listened, my mind was filled with the above thoughts and many others. I was able to recall events of long ago as well as recent happenings. Words of wisdom from both parents entered my mind as well as thoughts of my beloved children and grandchildren. Plans, thoughts, ideas, insights, and impressions all come from a two to three pound organ that looks sort of like a cauliflower.

I’m thankful to my Creator for memories, my mind, birds, sun, moon, stars, family, friends, music, health, my fellow (and sister) Earthlings, the ability to read and see and hear, my children, my heart………everything.

Bacon and Cornbread

 

 

This morning I had bacon and cornbread for breakfast, a combination I’ve never tried before and will probably not try again. Not because I didn’t enjoy it. I did. But I think the reason I enjoyed the taste sensation this morning is because of the events of yesterday and this morning. Yesterday after church, my children and grandchildren all convened at my sister’s house where we spent several hours savoring great food and each other’s fellowship. So many things went on that space and time prevent me from relating everything (besides, would you really want to read it?), so I’m going to focus on the main thoughts and feelings that I have today, the ones that led to cornbread and bacon.

Yesterday after eating a traditional Easter lunch, I went upstairs with my sister, her daughter, my daughters, and my little grandson Colton to watch family videos about 20 years old. Colton slept through most of it, but the gals surrounding him LOVED the video that had been compiled by my father many years ago. Much of the action took place at 511, the house number of my parents’ former residence, and there seemed to be tons of love, laughter, and conviviality. There was also lots of footage taken at celebratory events like Easter, Christmas, and birthdays.

At some point during the viewing, I think all of us realized that what we’d been experiencing at my sister’s house all afternoon had recaptured much of the same feelings we felt back then. At various points during the viewing, different family members wandered in and out to watch a few minutes before going back downstairs for a snack, an update on the Master’s, or maybe  a ride on Allen’s Polaris. It was huge fun to see the young adults of today as infants, toddlers, children, and teenagers on the video. We laughed at our fashion statements of former years and savored hearing the voices of our parents.

All of this was pretty awesome, but it took a call to Carrie this morning to put into words what I’d been feeling. Always in tune to the spirit of occasions and able to sense moods and feelings, this morning she said, “Mama, being at Aunt Ann’s with everybody there felt like being at Granny’s. Seeing the video with her on it reminded me of how much she always welcomed us and loved us unconditionally. I always felt loved at her house and never judged.“ Ditto, Carrie.

The cornbread and bacon? I baked my mother’s special cornbread yesterday using her square-shaped cast iron frying pan and took it to our Easter feast. Unfortunately, things got kind of crazy in the kitchen and we forgot to serve it. It sat covered with foil during the meal and throughout the afternoon until I discovered it later in the day. A few people took a nibble or two, and I brought the rest home.

This morning since Paul and Amanda were still here, I fried bacon just like my mother would have done, and they ate it with chocolate candy, chocolate milk, and hot chocolate. Ah, the strong constitutions of youth! After they left and I began cleaning the kitchen, I spied the cornbread and impulsively bit off a piece and followed it up with a piece of bacon. Um. Tasty. I liked it so much that I tried it again. I saw it as a way of bridging the old with the young, the past with the present, the then with the now.

Isn’t it amazing how memories can form a bridge across generations? It’s important for families to convene, spend time together, share bits and pieces of each other’s lives, and to talk about the past. Although we’re beings with free will who can make our own choices, the past is part of what and who we are.

P.S. I actually wrote this last night but was too tired to upload the pictures of the grandchildren and the young newlyweds.

 

Little Decisions

What a great day I’ve had so far. I’m on Spring break (yay!) and have had time to putter, think, remember, read, write, and think so far.  Something I keep thinking about is King David’s decision not to go to war with his men on the occasion that he became acquainted (?) with the desirable Bathsheba. My daughter Elizabeth and I were chatting a little about it over the weekend. Or rather, I was talking about it, and she was politely pretending to listen.

Anyway, back to the story. From that one seemingly small decision to “wait this one out” came a lot of aftereffects. He saw Bathsheba, slept with her, and later sent her husband Uriah to the battle front to be killed. Already we have adultery and murder that came from the choice to stay home. Then a baby is born who dies. Later, David and Bathsheba have Solomon who is known as a wise leader. Did the birth of Solomon absolve David of his sin and clear his conscience? Who knows? I sure don’t. In fact, it seems to me from reading Psalms that he was what I’d call “torn up” about something.

I’m not saying that David’s life was circumspect before this time or  that he would never have met Bathsheba if he’d gone to battle with his men. I’m just saying that it was a small decision that had big and long lasting consequences.  Relating it to today and our lives, sometimes our whole future and the future of our families can hang on a seemingly small decision. To make matters even more intriguing, sometimes we make these decisions without even being consciously aware of deciding anything!

Think about it. Have you ever decided to move to another area as opposed to staying in your hometown? Have you decided to drop out of school a semester and never made it back? Have you accepted a job somewhere and had it turn into a career? Gone to a party and met the love of your life? Stayed home and didn’t cross this person’s path?

April 6, 2005

 

 

April 6 is a big day in more ways than one. It’s the day the LDS church was organized, and it’s the day that my son returned to SC after serving a two-year mission in Mexico. As we chatted on the  phone for a few minutes Monday afternoon, he asked, “Do you know what today is?”Of course I knew. There are some things that a mother never ever forgets. Seared into my long term memory are memories of the day he left and of the day he returned.

 

April 6, 2005 was a sunny day with moderate temperatures. It was also a long one that seemed to drag on forever as his arrival time kept moving back. Originally set for 4:30 p.m., it changed to 7:30 and finally to 9:50. The last phone call letting me know about the later arrival came while we were at Chili’s in Myrtle Beach, and I remember how funny/weird/good it felt to be able to actually talk to him. For two years, we’d talked on Mothers’ day and Christmas with weekly emails to fill in the blanks, and now that restriction was lifted.

 

Above is a picture of him taken somewhere in Mexico (Fresnillo, I think), and one of the reasons I like it is because of the way he’s looking down the road. In my mind, I imagine him wondering, “What’s down the road? What’s next?” That was probably five years ago. Since then, he’s made two trips back to Mexico, one of which was on his honeymoon. He’s also graduated from college, moved to Atlanta with his lovely bride, and begun graduate school.

 

Below is my version of the night of his homecoming that I’m cutting and pasting from my book. Any parent of a missionary can identify.

 

Luke 23: 43

“To day thou shalt be with me in Paradise.”

Looking at the video brought back all sorts of recollections of the evening of Elder Crolley’s homecoming. Feelings of anticipation, excitement, and happiness accompanied all of his family as we alternately walked about the airport, sat on the hard seats, did our share of people watching, and talked with each other. As friends began to arrive to welcome the young missionary back to South Carolina and the coast where he grew up, the so-called volume was turned up a notch. Listening to the animated chatter, I recalled my few minutes of reflective solitude an hour earlier as I attempted to read a novel in the quiet “pre-storm” hallway, trying to concentrate on the book and yet having my eyes drawn towards the area beyond the security door, the spot where my son would stand  before long.

 

After two years absence, I’d soon see his face, not in a photograph or in a mini-movie but in the flesh. His father walked up, crossed his arms, and stared at the same spot. Soon his grandmother, sisters, and other family came in from the outside where they had been watching planes depart and arrive. Glancing at the babies he had never seen, I wondered how Elder Crolley would respond to these little ones. Looking to my left, I realized that several people from the two wards where we had been members had arrived. Although it was nearly 10:00 at night, these faithful friends had made the effort to be there. Is this what it’s like in Paradise as our departed friends and family await our arrival?

 

The din changes its tenor as the moment approaches. His father assures me that I should be the first to greet him, followed by his grandmother, and I stand alone at the entry, alone and yet surrounded at the same time. My eyes looking forward, I see no one around me or behind me as I scan the faces of the arriving passengers. Where is he???

 

Suddenly he turns the corner and walks towards us, his appearance changed, matured into a young man that I scarcely recognize. Badge on his lapel, there’s no mistaking his identity as a representative of the Church. Putting down his bag, he hugs me and moves towards the others who have gathered to welcome him home. Thanks to Jenny, my sweet step-daughter, all of the embraces and handshakes are recorded. Looking at them tonight for the umpteenth time, I again wonder if this is what it will be like in Paradise. Even now there are loved ones waiting to welcome us home and envelope us with love.

Cooper River Bridge Run

 Except for my calves still being a tad tight, I’m feeling “right as rain” after completing the famous Cooper River Bridge Run on Saturday.  By the time I hit the five mile mark, the thrill of the bridge itself was behind me, and the going got a little rough. I was so hot and uncomfortable that not even the cheering crowds lining the street helped my state that much.

That’s when I remembered something I’d been told by a motivational speaker 12 or 13 years ago when Carrie and I were preparing for a “Team in Training” marathon raising money for leukemia. The speaker warned us that we’d feel depleted, sore, hungry, and out of sorts at the end of 26.2 miles.  Not to fear, however, because she promised that after a warm shower, nutritious food, and a good night’s rest we’d be “good to go.” Then she added almost as a postscript that the people braving leukemia wouldn’t be able to experience this, not the event and not the feeling good in the morning. That was a sobering thought and one I’ve never forgotten.  As I jogged/walked down Charleston’s King Street, I KNEW that in a matter of moments, I’d have bananas, apples, and muffins and that within a couple of hours, I’d be freshly showered and shopping with my sister. By Sunday, I’d be the old me.

 Here’s a picture of the five of us (Jayne, Anna, Greg, Ann, and Ruth) who, along with about 40,000 others, made the trip from Mt. Pleasant, across the bridge, and into downtown Charleston, the biggest number ever.  I promise not to go on and on and on about it, but I just have to share some of the weekend’s perceptions.

After a sleepless night in which I tossed and turned with Connie’s old friend insomnia, I got at 5:08, and the three of us (my sister Ann and her sister-in-law Ruth) were at the race start before 7:00. By the way, the motels in Mount Pleasant and Charleston always charge an exorbitant amount for this particular weekend, so we stayed in North Charleston in a nice and reasonably priced motel. Just letting you know in case you decide to join us next year.  I understand that everyone has to make a profit and that business is business, but is it ever right to deliberately gouge someone?

As I crossed Shem Creek and made my way toward the bridge, I felt ghosts of races past. There was my ex-husband, a bridge running buddy beginning in around 1981 when the event of a few hundred people began at Patriot’s Point with only a few hundred people. Then there was my brother Mike and his son Matthew. One year it rained before race time, and Mike brought trash bags for us to wear. Matthew was around 18 at the time and with no training whatsoever, he beat the socks off of all of us. Ah, youth. Paul did it a couple of years ago, and like his cousin Matthew, he beat us to the finish without training …or at least, he finished ahead of me, and Saturday I imagined seeing him standing beside thestreetlight near the finish line. Mike couldn’t make it to Saturday’s bridge run; my daughters, niece, and Lisa weren’t there either, but I felt their spirits.

Here are some cool memories of sights and sounds:

*Running skirts of with a cheetah print with pink inset. Check them out at www.runningskirts.com
*Lots of older women but not that many older men. Why is that? I’m talking 70s and maybe even a few in their 80s.
*The Blues Brothers and  several Easter bunnies.
*Several t-shirts and a couple of bags that said “Life is good.” Indeed.
*Cool, hydrating water along the way thanks to the hundreds of volunteers.
*A woman holding a poster that read, “You Inspire Me.”Many of the race participants around me said, *“You inspire us. Thank you.”
*The good, super loud music provided by local radio stations
*My own little iPod shuffle as I listened to tunes as varied as “Voulez-vous?” from Mama Mia, “At Last” by Etta James, and chants of Gregorian Monks.
*The Chick FilA cows who danced, posed for pictures, and gave away goodies.
*A huge lemon poppy seed muffin and tons of fruit. Thanks BiLo.

Just like thousands of others, we rode a school bus back to Mt. Pleasant, and I met a woman named Sheryl from Goose Creek. Her car was parked about four miles from where the bus dropped us off, so after parting company with Greg and Anna, we took Sheryl to her car. For that brief moment in time, we were united in our experience of “getting over it,” the bridge, and I hope her Monday memories are as fun as mine.

Regardless of race, age, gender, national origin, religion, finish time, or any other trait, anyone who’s participated in this event, is part of a club. If that sounds corny to you, then join us next year, and you’ll understand what I mean. There’s just something about the commonality of the experience that unites people.