MMMM: For One Moment in Time

Last Saturday I was reading a book when Joe darted up from the basement with his cell phone. He stood in the kitchen, holding his phone as if it were a hot piece of information, until I looked up. “Whitney Houston’s dead.” That’s how I heard.

It took a while for the information to register, though, not because I was in shock, rather because it had been a while since I had heard her name. Longer still since I had heard one of her songs, which seemed highly unlikely until 2000. When I finally put the name “Whitney Houston” to a face, an image appeared, an unflattering image from her reality TV-show: she was standing in her kitchen with a bandana wrapped around her head, tied in front, braying, “Bob-bay!”

“Did she OD?” I asked Joe.

“Don’t know. They found her in a bathtub in some hotel in LA.”

Dang, I thought, she OD. We went downstairs to turn on CNN to learn what we could about her death. After a while, I grew tired of the way the information was reported, recanted, and reported again. I went back upstairs to read. As I tried to get my head back into my book, I thought about some of the glamorous images the news channel flashed across the TV screen as well as some of the monikers they gave her—“Queen of Pop,” “The Voice,” “Brilliant,” “National Treasure,” “Phenomenal Talent.” These images and titles were a great contrast to the drug-induced cat-calling that entered my mind.

It wasn’t long, however, before the media began to temper its coverage of the pop star, recognizing her 20 year battle with addiction and self-destructive behavior. And what I began to think about as it did was her rise to incredible fame and fortune and her ugly and self-destructive fall from grace. I don’t have anything worthwhile or poignant to add to what has already been written about her life and death other than her death has affected me more than any other celebrity death. I think it has something to do with being around for the whole spectrum of it, from the rise through the fall.

When her first album came out, I was living in Montana. A friend of mine, Tim Ellis, wanted to go to the music store to buy a new album. His student loan had come in and he had a little extra money, so we headed to the record store. He was in the country section, trying to choose between The Judds and an old Patsy Cline. I was in the contemporary section, looking for Whitney’s album. I had seen her on MTV and thought she was spectacular. I brought her album over to Tim and told him he needed to buy it. He flipped the album over and read through the song tracks, admitting he saw her on MTV and thought she was beautiful.

I can’t remember if Tim bought the album or not, but I do remember thinking I hope Whitney continues to make albums because I love her voice. I know that sounds incredibly cliche and sentimental, especially in light of her catastrophic demise. But listening to her voice change over the last 20 years has had an impact on me. I don’t know enough about the effects of smoking crack cocaine on the longevity of a singer’s voice or the ins and outs of her volatile, co-dependent relationship with her ex-husband to say anything intelligent about her voice’s or her own ruin other than it was painful and frustrating to watch.

Yet, I feel compelled to acknowledge her passing because for a while I truly appreciated and respected her talent. I also rooted for her to kick her habit as well as her abusive ways.

Here are my stats for the week:

Ran 3 miles (M, W)

Ran 5 miles (Sa)

Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption

I’m a little late blogging about this book. I finished it in October, but haven’t had a chance to write about it. What I refused to do, however, was list another book in my “What I’m Reading” category before writing about Unbroken by Laura Hildenbrand, because this book with an uninspired title is anything but uninspiring.

When I was in grad school, I was taught not to use words like amazing, unforgettable, gripping, harrowing, chilling, or even the one I just used inspiring when reviewing a book. My professors told me these words were overused and, therefore, devoid of meaning. Yet, these words aptly depict the biography Hilendbrand writes of Louis Zamperelli, a Southern California track star whose running career was cut short by a war experience that could be considered extreme even for WWII.

Zamperelli was born to Italian immigrants who were forced to leave New York for a warmer climate when Zamperelli developed a bad case of pneumonia. They settled in Southern California where Zamperelli became what Hildenbrand calls a “one-boy insurgency.” Living in abject poverty, he had a propensity to steal food from neighbors’ kitchen tables or bakery shops’ display cases and then run like hell to escape the clutches of the law.

His natural running ability was honed during high school and college, and he eventually went on to run in the 1936 Olympics, where he became the youngest (19 years old) American distance runner to compete. His performance put him on track to race again in the 1940 Olympics, where it was speculated that he would be the first to break the 4 minute mile, but those Games were cancelled at the outbreak of WWII.

Although his rise to Olympic runner is a noteworthy event in and of itself, Hildenbrand’s recounting of Zamperelli’s days as a bombardier during WWII illustrated an even greater feat, for he was involved with some of the more high profile and successful bombing campaigns in the Pacific Rim. His success rate, however, came to a crashing halt when the B-24 bomber was shot out of the sky. Ill-equipped with narrow rafts and unsustainable rations, Zamperelli and two other air force soldiers bobbed in the water for days. During this time they fought off shark attack after shark attack after shark attack.

After the 27th day, one of the men finally succumbed to their drifting hell, and just when things couldn’t get any worse, Zamperelli and the captain of the aircraft drift onto the Japanese-occupied Marshall Island, where they are captured as POWs. For the next two years, Zamperelli endures unimaginable torturous acts of brutality. Yet, somehow he does not break. He remains unbroken.

Throughout history, stories have been told of people and of peoples who have faced these kind of horrific acts of violence with indomitable human resilience—slavery and the Holocaust immediately come to mind. Louis Zamperelli’s story of survival, resilience, and redemption can be added to this list.

MMMM: Easy as a Sunday Morning

I have nothing quirky to report this week: no raging headaches, no unusually tired or sore muscles, no weight gain (in fact, I lost the 2.5 pounds I gained the previous week plus two more). It was an easy week of training. Not easy exactly. I was huffing and puffing at some point during each workout, but my gasping moments didn’t push me over the edge or send me to the bathroom to puke. So, that was nice.

To celebrate this normal, easy week, I thought I’d play one of the mellower songs on my iPod: “Africa” by Toto. This song came out during my junior year in high school, but I didn’t pay attention to it. When I went to college, my friend Tracy Barry told me no one in their right mind would name a band after a wimpy dog, and no one in their right mind would listen to a band named after a wimpy dog. To hammer this point home, she would laugh every time a Toto song came on the radio and repeat her sentiment as if it were the first time she made such a declaration. Yet, over the years I’ve learned to like this song, regardless of the band’s name.

Just in case Tracy ever happens upon my blog, I don’t want her laughing at me. So, I’m putting up an a cappella version of this song that I love.

Here are my stats for the week:
Ran 30 mins (M, W)
Ran 3 miles (Sa)

MMMM: Weighty Issues

I know I’m new to this exercising thing, but it seems every week a new quirky dilemma presents itself. Three weeks ago, raging headaches knocked me out. Two weeks ago, because my legs were so weak, I had to lift them with my hands to keep them running. This past week I gained weight. That’s right—I gained weight. When I started this workout regimen, I didn’t put myself on any kind of diet. Save for chocolate chip cookies and alcohol, I’ve been eating and drinking what I’ve wanted. It’s worked. The first week I dropped 5 pounds. The second week I dropped 2. The third, another 5. This past week, however, I gained 2.5 pounds. Before implementing my exercise regimen, I don’t think I would’ve thought twice about a 2.5 weight gain. I might have even called it a fluctuation, yet making a commitment to walk away from a glass of wine with dinner and adding additional workouts last week to make my weak legs stronger, I wasn’t willing to be that cavalier.

So, I Googled “weight gain and exercise” and learned that my weight gain may simply be a reaction to the sudden and extended exercise I’m putting my body through. Needless to say, I was relieved to know there may be a physiological reason rather than a caloric reason why I’m gaining weight. I’m not ready to give up pizza or cheese fries just yet.

In honor of my weight gain, I thought I’d share one of my favorite songs with one of my favorite drum beats:

Here are my stats for the week:
Ran 30 mins (W, F)
Ran 2.5 miles (Sa)

Aunt Lena

This past week in class, I’ve been talking with my students about memoir writing, about the structure and qualities of good memoir writing. We’ve been discussing the importance of taking one event in one’s life, filtering through the memory of it, and then retelling the story with important, vivid, and ample details. This week I gave students an assignment to choose one person in their life that has had some kind of influence on them and then use an event from their lives to illustrate this influence. I explained that the influence doesn’t necessarily have to be good or serious, as in a parent’s loving care. The influence could be destructive, as in a friend’s pressure to drink 52 shots of tequila in one night. I told the students I didn’t care what the influence was as long as they described one person and one event. To illustrate this point, I used an example from my life: my Aunt Lena and her unconventional wisdom.

My Aunt Lena was a first generation Italian-American who came of age during the Depression. She didn’t go to school past the 6th or 8th grade because her family needed money. So, she worked in a laundry, washing and ironing and fixing buttons on shirts. I know she was glad to have a job and she took great pride in her work, but I also think that her work and the difficult times she lived through affected her views of the world. Her parents believed in and instilled in their children the promise of prosperity that America guaranteed its immigrants. Seeing the struggle of wage laborers challenged that promise and made Aunt Lena skeptical of authority.

That skepticism came out in the way she lived her life. She wasn’t too keen on rules and laws that interfered with what she wanted. I’ve blogged about the time she threw her car keys at me when I was 14-years-old and told me to go to the store to buy cigarettes for her. She didn’t care I couldn’t legally drive. That law was a stupid law created by “sons-of-bitches,” a term she frequently used to talk about people she didn’t like or people who posed a threat to her freedoms. She wasn’t going to let a little federal law stop her from smoking her Viceroys.

Nor was she going to let these kinds of laws hinder others. She took every opportunity to tell those in ear shot that they shouldn’t listen to what others tell them to do. They should listen to themselves and do what they want to do. This is great advice for someone, like myself, who is continually being told to cut and color her hair, yet wants to do neither of these things. This advice may not be so great for someone, like myself, who wanted to have a glass of wine with dinner when she was 11-years old. Yet, that is exactly what Aunt Lena told me to do one night when I was at her house having dinner.

“If you want a glass of wine, have one,” she told me as she poured herself one. “There’s nothing wrong with it.” So, I grabbed the bottle after she set it on the table and filled my glass. We toasted each other and once my wine was gone, my cheeks burned red and my body went numb, woozy. She saw the effects of the alcohol and said, “Did you like it?”

“I don’t know. I feel kind of funny.”

“Well, now you know. If you don’t like it, don’t do it. If you like it, drink a glass once in a while. It won’t kill you.”

Not too many adults would allow a 6th grader to drink a whole glass of wine with dinner, but Aunt Lena did. Later, when I was of legal drinking age, I asked her why she let me drink wine when I was younger. She told me she didn’t believe in denying kids (or adults) what they wanted. If kids wanted a handful of M&Ms, give it to them. By denying them the M&M’s, she said, the M&Ms become the forbidden fruit, and nothing in her house is forbidden. If you want something to eat, eat it. If you want something to drink, drink it. If you want to dance, dance. If you want to sing, sing. You have to do what you want to do, and don’t let anyone tell you differently.

What I realize now and wholeheartedly appreciate about her “do what you want to do” philosophy is that she was honest and steadfastly truthful in her living. Where others would say, “No,” Aunt Lena would say, “Those sons-of-bitches don’t know what they’re talking about.”

MMMM: Enduring My Runs

The headaches are gone, which is nice. The motivation and desire to stay focused are strong, which is even nicer. But my physical strength and endurance is lacking. Woefully lacking. Last week, I ran easily through the first 10 minutes of my runs, struggled for the next five minutes, and then wrestled with my legs to keep them moving while I sucked air for the last 10. I know my strength and endurance will improve as I continue to run, but I thought I’d give my stamina a boost by adding a little strength training to this routine. Since I’m only running 3 days a week, I thought I’d do some kind of cross-training, strength-training activity on the days I don’t run.

There’s no smooth transition to this next paragraph. In fact, there’s no smooth transition from that last sentence to what I want to talk about next. So, I’m just going to say this: I love the new Beth Hart and Joe Bonamassa CD: Don’t Explain. I’ve become a huge Beth Hart fan these last two years. Her soulfully rich, edgy voice sings to me. I’m equally enamored by Joe Bonamassa. I watched a concert of his on the Palladia channel one night and was blown away by his playing. Needless to say, I was over the moon when I heard they put out a CD. I haven’t been back to this stratosphere since listening to it. I’d highly recommend this CD to any blues fan out there. One of my favorite songs on this CD is “I’d Rather Go Blind,” an old Etta James song. Hart brings something more gripping and compelling to this song than James’ did, if that’s even possible. Although Hart and Bonamassa’s version is one of my favorites on the CD, it’s not on my running playlist on my iPod. It’s too slow and bluesy. When I run I need something a little more upbeat. So, I have “Chocolate Jesus” instead.

This, too, is a great song. And who hasn’t skipped mass on Sunday to go to the candy store? I know I have. I used to go to Super America (Kenosha’s version of 7-11) and buy a Boston Cream donut. I’d then ride my bike down to Lake Michigan, sit on the rocks, and eat my donut. That lake and those donuts and the rocks were my very own chapel where I could satisfy my soul.

 

Here are my stats for the week:

Ran 25 mins (M, W)

Ran 2 miles (Sa)

A Winter Morning

As many of you know, I am not a poet or a big fan of poetry. Nothing against poetry itself, but most of it doesn’t speak to me. Yet, this morning when I took my dog for a walk at the local park, I wanted a poem to ring through my head, to capture in words what I saw—the morning sun backlighting trees, casting shadows over the snow and golden hues into the open water of the frozen stream —what I felt—the prickle of cold on my thighs and in my cheeks—and what I heard—birds singing over the rustling trees and babbling brook.

This poem by Claude McKay comes close. The pictures below the poem were taken during my walk. They’re the images I’m trying to capture.

Winter in the Country 

Sweet life! how lovely to be here
And feel the soft sea-laden breeze
Strike my flushed face, the spruce’s fair
Free limbs to see, the lesser trees’

Bare hands to touch, the sparrow’s cheep
To heed, and watch his nimble flight
Above the short brown grass asleep.
Love glorious in his friendly might,

Music that every heart could bless,
And thoughts of life serene, divine,
Beyond my power to express,
Crowd round this lifted heart of mine!

But oh! to leave this paradise
For the city’s dirty basement room,
Where, beauty hidden from the eyes,
A table, bed, bureau, and broom

In corner set, two crippled chairs
All covered up with dust and grim
With hideousness and scars of years,
And gaslight burning weird and dim,

Will welcome me . . . And yet, and yet
This very wind, the winter birds
The glory of the soft sunrise,
Come there to me in words.

 

MMMM: Finding Inspiration

I’m baaaaccckkk. Actually, I’ve been back at it for a while, only I haven’t posted about it. I’ve been busy turning my life upside down. Since January 1, Joe and I have been making a conscious effort to change our destructive habits. We’re eating healthier. We’re exercising more. We’re drinking less and less often. It’s killing us. It really is. Last week, I was stricken with a wicked headache for three days. Over the weekend, Joe vegged out on the couch watching horrible movies on Netflix because he felt sick. We realize our bodies are going through all kinds of withdrawals and acts of rebellion. So we’ve been looking for moments of inspiration to keep us moving and motivated.

Here’s one of the embarrassing songs I have on my iPod that keeps me moving in the right direction. I sang it all last week on the treadmill. I’d substitute my name, Colleen, for hers, Eileen, and told myself to “C’mon Colleen.” These were the only words I sang because I couldn’t understand the other ones. Nonetheless, the song and words worked. They pulled me through my raging headaches and kept me running.

Totals for last week:

Ran 20 mins (T, Th)

Ran 1.5 miles (Sa)

MMMM: Wrapping Up My Youth

Marilyn is staying with us for the holiday, and we couldn’t be happier. Really. But there’s something about having another person around, especially my mother, to make me realize just how Joe and I live. The day before she arrived, Joe and I were in the kitchen talking, having coffee, trying to make a decision about breakfast. He opened the refrigerator and stared. After a few moments I asked what was wrong.

“We live like we’re still in college. We only have beer, butter, and ketchup in here.”

So off to the store we went. We now have a fully stocked refrigerator, complete with beer, wine, and Bailey’s Irish Cream. We also have the staple foods most people keep around the house—fresh fruit, eggs, bacon, milk, juice, etc. It’s kind of nice to live like adults, and it should be no surprise that it takes a fun-loving, caring parent to make that happen.

So, in this holiday of growing up, I thought I’d share a song of what my holidays were like as a single woman.

Here are my stats for the week:

T, Th ran 20 mins.

Su ran 1.5 miles

MMM: The Sweet Talkin’ Brother of a Teacher Man

“This next song goes out to Joey O.” I’ve always wanted to say that, though I’ve never wanted to be a DJ. That was my friend Traci Barry, who was crazy, mad about the music profession. I promise to talk about her “passion” later, but right now I want to talk about Joe Olson, my husband. As husbands go, he’s a keeper. Here’s one of the many reasons why.

On Friday, during our respective lunch breaks, we went to a local farm, Happy Hollow, to buy a Christmas tree. As Connecticut farms go, it’s really, really small: one horse, two donkeys, four sheep, and a chicken coop. I don’t know how many chickens. But from time to time, as I pass the farm on my way to work, I hear them in the coop. It’s very close to the side of the road.

Over the last two years, the owners of this teeny tiny farm have spruced up the place. They’ve upgraded the barn for the horse and the coop for the chickens, and they’ve also set up a roadside market for eggs and fresh vegetables and fruits. Last year they began selling Christmas trees. On Friday, after Joe and the woman farmer strapped the tree to the roof of our car, we paid for the tree inside an open shed that had wreathes and decorative planters for sale. I saw a planter I thought would look nice on our mantle.

“What do you think about this planter for the fireplace?” I asked Joe.

“Sure, if that’s what you want. I just wanna make you happy,” he said with tease in his tone, a tease that gave a nod to the name of the farm as well as to a standing joke we have with each other—that it’s our life’s ambition to make each other happy. I know. It’s sad and pathetic and sappy and the thing that makes people roll their eyes and walk away from us when we say things like this to each other. Unfortunately, the lady farmer was trapped behind the counter and couldn’t escape the saccharine laced sentiment. She plopped her hands on the counter, swooned, and dropped her head, saying, “Awwww. That is the sweetest thing I’ve heard in a long, long time. I hope he means it.”

“He does,” I said, reeling in my smile.

So, this next song, which is on my iPod’s running playlist, is for Joey O, the sweet talkin’ brother of a teacher man. By the way, I chose this version to play because in my delusional mind I’m as tall and as sexy and as talented as Joss Stone.

Oh, yeah, before I forget, here are my stats for the week:

T, Th ran 15 mins

Sa 1.5 miles.