a cold, wet parking lot

I know exactly what I want to communicate, but I have no idea how to do it.  I’ve been thinking about it since Wednesday, and while it’s become more profound in my mind with every single hour, the mode of delivery in a blogging format confounds me.  Regardless, i’m going to give it a shot.  Here goes.

When I think back about my childhood, the memories I have tend to fall into categories:  family, school, church, my neighborhood, my room.  Some stand out more than others, almost all of them are positive.  That positive light might be a product of my world view today just as much as it is because of the experiences I had.  In other words, I might remember my childhood through the lens of who I am today, which is pretty different than who I was back then.  But this I know for certain:  i’ll never forget the impact that my immediate family had on me, and in the most random instances of my adult life I’m reminded of that over and over again.  I’m so thankful.

This past week was a tough one for my colleagues as we lost a career educator and friend to many.  My own interactions with her were those of respect and admiration, coupled with a sense of always being on the forefront of new theory and practice.  There is no doubting that she was a one-of-a-kind.  Because of her decades of influence and mentorship for so many people, a sizable memorial service was inevitable.  With that in mind, another colleague reached out and asked if I would help manage the parking lot, particularly because overflow spaces were expected to be needed.  I immediately said yes.  

The afternoon of the service was less than ideal in terms of weather.  The temperature was right at the freezing mark, there was a wind from the east, and a pestering rain fell the entire time.  John McElroy and I surveyed the lot and decided that there would most likely be just enough spaces, but that the final few cars might be out of luck.  He and I talked for about 10 minutes as people began to arrive, and we then split up to either side of the lot.  Alone, wet, cold, and solemnly waving to cars as they slowly proceeded through, my mind wandered back to growing up in Pine Bluff.  Within minutes I was a 10 year old kid again, watching my parents and grandmother do acts of kindness and support for the people that changed their lives, the people in their community that made a difference.  Back then, I recognized what they did as something that adults do, but nothing more than that.  It took 40 years and the funeral of a colleague for me to fully understand, and appreciate, how I was raised.  

My grandmother, who we called GeGe because my sister Susan couldn’t say grandma, was such a loving human being.  She worked at Central Pharmacy on Main Street, and it seemed like everybody knew who she was.  I can still think of running down the aisle to the back of the store to see her.  I can hear how the floor creaked and I can smell the stale air of the building.  I loved stopping by to see her.  We lived in the same neighborhood and saw her frequently, but my most vivid recollections are of her at the church where we were members.  GeGe, like so many of her generation, was a pillar of the congregation and she selflessly gave of her time and energy, whether it was cooking for potluck meals or singing in the choir.

My parents, particularly my dad, were no different.  They were both always doing whatever needed to be done, never blinking an eye at helping in any capacity.  When I became old enough to handle some responsibility, my dad expected me to help mow the yard of an older man in our neighborhood who couldn’t do it anymore.  I hated it.  It was hot, I was tired, and most of all it required that I do something physical.  It also meant listening to my dad tell me what to do every single Friday, and of course I felt like I knew how to do it.  The man would come out and talk to me briefly and then go back inside.  

Beyond mowing yards, I have memories of my dad doing all kinds of service.  He would build things at the church, he would help other old people in our neighborhood, he would load furniture in his truck and move it, he would give people rides, he would volunteer at our school.  There always seemed to be something else, another project, somebody else that needed help, none of which carried recognition or gain on any level.  He just did it because it was the right thing to do.  And of course, I probably only knew the half of it.

So in the middle of the parking lot, in a suit and overcoat and leather dress shoes that were soaked, standing in accumulated sleet and slush, I should have been miserable.  But I wasn’t.  For one of the first times in my life, I felt like my dad, and it was a really great way to feel.  I didn’t really do anything special, I just stood there and directed cars.  But there’s something about helping make a distressing event a little bit more organized, a little bit more human.  It was good for my soul, and I hope it was for others as well.  With about 10 minutes before the service, the parking lot was at capacity, so John and I helped the last few cars park across the street and quickly find their way in.  I stood quietly in the lobby and watched the service, remembering my colleague in my own way.  After a quick reception, the rain turned to snow and I made my way home in a dark quiet.  I was exhausted.

The memorial service was on Wednesday, and i’ve been thinking about my childhood ever since.  Literally.  And on a 16 miler yesterday morning, it consumed my thoughts.  With the weather finally cooperating, the trails were packed and it was great to see so many friends, stopping to talk to most of them:  Bruce Wilkins, John Gheen, Cameron Magness, Jon Bitler, and Karen Morton were all laced up and logging miles.  Before I left out from Starbucks, I was talking to Amanda Coussole, when she asked me why I run alone.  I told her the answer, which makes so much sense to me, but then later I was thinking that, in some ways, I don’t run alone, because running is the single most important time of my week, when everyone in my life is right along beside me.  It sounds bombastic, but there’s no better way for me to explain it.  All I want to do is head out on a trail and go where my shoes take me, not looking back in anger or regret, but remembering every day that i’ve lived, every moment in time.

Run.