the roar--an element

My comments at the recent CHHS Football Banquet.....

Once upon a time, Coach Gay mentioned a program that he called Reading with the LIONS. The aim of the program, in which Junior and Senior players give up their lunches or study halls to read to elementary students on game day, was intended to help demonstrate to the players that they are role models to their young fans, even when they are not on the field. Additionally, in introducing themselves, posing and answering questions, and generally being the center of attention in the classroom, they would hone their public speaking skills.

I volunteered to organize this program for Coach Gay mostly because I knew teachers in the District, and he did not. What I saw and heard amazed and impressed me more than I expected.

The teachers were so accommodating and grateful for the player visits, and for seeing their former students so grown up. The elementary students were thrilled to have a change of pace. This much I expected. What blew me away were the football players…

They transformed from a nervous gang of semi-coerced kids, asking for books with “lots of pictures” or “only 3 words,” to an eager team who also played in 5^th grade gym class and sounded out words like “philanthropic”—cold.

As if that wasn’t enough, I received emails from teachers and parents who were impressed at the transformation in their kids: reluctant readers were now asking for books; math-shy kids were looking for LION stats in Saturday’s paper; even kids who were planning their weekly wardrobe so they could wear blue and white or a football jersey on Friday. The nurse said a student told her the worst thing about going home sick was missing the LION Reader. A high school teacher observed a delighted elementary student pointing out that week’s reader, and the huge smiles on all three faces: Player, Mom and Child.

Making an impact is something that more often happens on a smaller scale than we realize. I read in a picture book once that meteorites that make big craters are sometimes just tiny rocks, no bigger than a fist. The LION Readers have been a meteorite. Their impact truly did go beyond any classroom. When I met our Superintendant, Dr. Reeder, he said two things to me that I’ll never forget. He said, “Oh! You’re the LION Reader Lady!” And then he said, more seriously, “Their visits to Eisenhower and Hoover have been key in how well the team is playing. It gets their minds off the game a little so they can focus when they get to the field.”

Parents, thank you for raising boys willing to give of themselves, even when it seems to be a small thing: those small things are the BIG things. And thank you for your willingness to pitch in when I needed drivers and chaperones. Juniors and Seniors, thank you for opening up to your fans, and answering questions ranging from “What’s your favorite dinner?” to “What’s your favorite play?” And for being such good company in our travels. Freshmen and Sophomores, your day will come—I hope you’re looking forward to it.

Coach Gay, thank you for setting Reading with the LIONS in motion. The initiative, in every way, was a success. You said to me once that it is exciting to catch glimpses of the men these players will become. Through Reading with the LIONS, the classroom teachers and I were blessed with a preview of the teachers, uncles, fathers, coaches, these Camp Hill LIONS will one day become.

a gift

Kim Jones was not someone that anyone really ever "met;" rather, she was "experienced." She had a way of embracing everything about you, sizing you up effortlessly, and then shining her smile, her laugh, her sharp wit right at you. I don't even remember the first time I ever saw her, because it seems that she'd always been a part of my life. There is so much talk in business and in schools lately about the need for mentors, and the responsibilities they have to teach, guide and build their mentees. Kim, I got the impression, could've cared less about that. And yet, she was the finest mentor a person could be. Perhaps, no, very likely, for the very reason that she wasn't looking to fill that role: her purpose was to make good swimmers when she was coaching, to do the best job she could while she was working. She had high expectations, but not unreasonable--everything was achievable, it just might take a helluva lot of work, energy, guts, whatever, to get there! She always smiled at me from the pool deck. She always listened to what I had to say. She always assured me that Guy was the greatest thing since sliced bread, and that the boys were growing up to be men we could be proud of. She grumbled on occasion, but always, always in such a way that we'd both laugh. And even when I sat with her one day and we both were crying, she managed to pull out that trademark Kim smile, and make it all a little lighter, a little easier to bear. It was a gift.

And I mean to pass it on.

coach kim jones

Dear Kim,
When I began running, I hated it. Somehow it had occurred to me and a friend that we were not getting as much aerobic benefit from our dance classes as we would like, and around the same time, I started racing Jonathan to the car, to a tree, across that field. I decided that it might be a good idea to try running. It would give me something to do while the boys were at swim practice, and, clearly, would benefit me. Still, I hated it.

But I tried to be determined about mastering it, and forced myself to get on the treadmill for 30 minutes those three days a week. At least half the time I walked--I walked fast, but it still really wasn't running. It was boring, and I found excuses for slowing down. But, I was exercising, I was sweating.

Then came your diagnosis. For a relatively long time, I was terrified to talk to you--afraid I would cry, or say the wrong thing, or that you would cry. I was scared of your breast cancer, your treatment, and yet I was so very pleased to see you walk into the Y every day. If you could do that, I could run. If you could continue to go out on that pool deck, and guide those kids with all the gusto you could muster, I could run. If you could keep smiling, laughing, hugging, high-fiving, I could run.

I bought a Swim for Kim shirt, and wore it on the treadmill. At first I got funny looks, because all the other Swim for Kim shirts went into the pool area, not the exercise rooms. I didn't care--I knew that you were getting sidelong glances because you lost your hair. If you could handle that, I could handle this. Every single time I started that treadmill, I told myself I was doing it for you. And I did.

There were oh, so many times when I wanted to quit running; to walk or stop completely. I chastised myself--"Kim can't quit." Or, "Kim had chemo today. Is this really so rough?" And sometimes, "What would Kim think if she knew you'd stopped?" For every mile I ran, I put a dollar in a box at home. I didn't know what I would do with it, but I knew that something would present itself. At Christmas, I bought three more Swim for Kim shirts, and gave them as gifts to my sister, my brother, and my sister-in-love. I kept running for you, through chemo, radiation, the swim season. Just as you were telling the kids in the pool, with practice and perseverance, I got more efficient, faster, more comfortable.

It took time for me to work up the nerve to talk to you as we had before. To feel that if you laughed--no, when you laughed, for you always seemed to have one ready--I could, too. I was so fortunate that you never questioned my distance. It would have hurt us both if you'd noticed. You helped me with my HR class; we talked and laughed over hiring practices and promotion standards. When I finished my paper, I sent it to you for editing before submitting it.

And when the doctor told you that the cancer was gone, but would lurk around, and eventually return, we hugged, and cried together in the chapel at the Y. You showed me the radiation burns, and told me how they hurt, but you were so tired of always trying to hide them. I told you how beautiful you always were, always would be; that your presence is what mattered most.

Kim, you never knew what a coach you were to me, too. Your support of my sons, and my husband, in and around the pool was a gift I never was able to--could never--thank you for enough. If all of us are here for a reason, to learn something and to teach something, you were an extra special blessing. You taught me how to encourage my son without going overboard. You taught me to face life with joy, no matter the difficulties. You taught me to love what I'm doing with my whole heart, even if it's not what I wanted to be doing. You encouraged me to see through to the end, no matter what. I remember your frustration with yourself at not making my graduation party, and Henry's confirmation party, because you were too tired from a breast cancer event. Did you know that I was so proud of you? Did you know I wished I was more like you? I am so very grateful to you--for being you, for all to see.

And for coaching me to run.

I love you, Kim, and I always will. I know that you must be on that great pool deck in heaven, calling out encouragement to all those who love the water; cheering and smiling that amazing smile that lit up every bit of your being. I know that your light will continue to shine on us all, because our love for you was always rivaled only by your love for us.

Take your mark.....

Love,
Stephanie

our infamous day

Twenty-one years ago today, I awoke in a bed that was not my own, eagerly and nervously anticipating the day, the week, the lifetime ahead. Looking out the window, I discovered that the snowflakes that had begun to fall the night before had continued, and now blanketed the ground. I had lived in Rhode Island for four winters, and could have counted the number of snowfalls that stuck on the fingers of one hand, plus one more that had occurred that same winter--on the night of Guy's bachelor party. Here I was on the morning of my wedding wondering if this snow was related to the crazy storm in Maine a year earlier when we had become engaged. My next thought, and the question my future sister-in-law asked, had to do with whether the native Rhode Islanders would attend the wedding.

A rhetorical question, really; I knew my family, who had travelled in from upstate New York, Vermont, Minnesota (and Kentucky, but he had lived in Ohio for quite a while!) would think nothing of driving in the slop, and most of Guy's family lived close enough to avoid I-95, which ended up to be pretty clear.

My bridesmaids arrived, and we went to have nails and make-up done, Lisa did my hair, they got me dressed, the photographer arrived. There's a commercial on TV now in which a little boy breathlessly tells a bride as she finishes preparations for her wedding that she is "so beautiful!" and runs away. That could have been my nephew, Dan, our ring bearer--right after he showed off his "Tail-yon leadder shoos." Guy's niece, Danielle, could not have been sweeter in her velveteen dress and hat, telling me she couldn't wait for the moment I would become her Tante Stephanie.

So quickly, it was time to think about getting to the limo--through the snow. We had no choice once the suggestion was made: my bridesmaids put my lace boots in plastic bags and tied them up. With my feet inside them. Yes, indeed, I walked from the house to the limo and from the limo to the church sporting plastic shopping bags. And I was absolutely thrilled!! Fortunately, someone captured a photo, otherwise there will come a day when no one believes that!

As we waited behind the curtained glass wall of the cry room for the ceremony to begin, and the strains of "Sunrise, Sunset" from Fiddler on the Roof began, I peeked through the curtain to see our mothers being seated. The line "When did he grow to be so tall?" came just as Guy escorted his mother to her seat, I was overcome, and nearly began to sob. Dad was there, putting his arms around me and murmuring to me to calm me. I'll never forget that moment, those words. The way he smiled when I told him I was ready.

While I loved the ceremony, and the fact that it joined us as man and wife, I'm so very grateful for the numerous pictures taken by our photographer and our families and friends. Honestly, I don't remember much of the ceremony, other than silently directing Michael in when to sit and stand, while Guy did the same for Lynne, and wishing I could just chat with Guy while everything was going on.

I do remember Guy making his "lizard face" for a video camera while we waited for the reception; needing at least two bridesmaids to assist me in getting my dress out of the way so I could go to the bathroom; Rich and Guy causing a bit of a ruckus in the hallways in an effort to speed along our dinner; Andy laughing; all of us trying to hide in an alcove, as though anyone could have missed that huge white dress!

What a reception! From our introductions to our exit, we had a most wonderful time at the party! Whistles and hoots accompanied each introduction--including those of our parents, and I don't think I have ever smiled and laughed so continuously in my life before or since. All these years later, we still occasionally hear comments about our sorbet course, and Mom's dress. My family has always been quite "involved" in the glass tinkling tradition of getting the bride and groom to kiss. We complied, of course, dropping everything to exchange a kiss, or playfully searching the 3-5 feet between us--until, of course, dinner was served. That's when we got our wedding party involved. Mike and Lynne stood in readily, as they are married to each other. At one point, however, I remember motioning to Liz and Rich--Matron of Honor and Best Man--to take over, and I'm pretty sure there were times when each of us just kissed whoever was closest.

And the dancing! Our waltz that we learned under the careful instruction of Guy's cousin; sharing the dance floor with only my new husband for half the song, and then having our closest, dearest friends join us: our wedding party. Then a dance with our parents--me and Dad, Guy and his mom--that became a sing-along: Edelweiss. The polka I danced with Andy, who said he had no idea how; I back led him around the floor, saying "hopstepstepstep" the entire time. The dollar dance, where Liz and Rich required not only a dollar from each person in line, but also a kiss. The way we actually snuck out at the end, so we would not have to say goodbye or see the party break up. And neither of us had had more than a flute of champagne and a glass of wine.

It's hard to believe so many years have passed. I can still taste the cake--The cake!! A marvelous gift of the most succulent heart-shaped chocolate-chocolate mousse cake made by one of my college roommates!!--and I can still feel the warmth of that winter celebration. We were 21 when we married, so at some point in the next few months, we will hit that moment when we have been married longer than we were not. It's an odd thought, especially since there are times when I have to remind myself that Guy was not there when some singular childhood event happened, or that he may not have met this friend I've known all my life. It seems to me that he's always been there, and that we only just had to find each other. Neither of us is easy to live with, and at times we've each wondered at the wisdom of our love for each other, but I could not imagine a life without him in it.

All these things I think about every year on this day. The memories, feelings, emotions are not reserved for this day alone, but they come together in a rush each year on January 12th, the day that changed everything. The day that two became one, yet maintained their individual light, going against the grain. I love you, Guy, and am so happy to be your wife.

looking back

Cold days. Long nights.

Darktime.

I don't remember it ever bothering me as much as it has the past two winters. Probably prior to that, I was better able to cocoon myself into ignoring the darkness--working, baking, reading, dancing--but now I have more running around I need to do. That's why I see the darkness so much. I used to see it as an old friend; one I could visit with as I enjoyed a mug of cocoa or a glass of wine while curled up on the couch under one of Grammy's afghans when I was living at home, or one of my quilts when we bought our own home. Watching TV, reading a book, snuggling with the kids, it was all so much easier to do during the darktime.

The boys are grown now. Not completely grown; after all, they are all still in school and living here and all that, but they are grown enough to not want to snuggle and cuddle anymore, although I do still read to Drew and Joseph when we can carve out the time. They are old enough to make more choices about what we see on TV, and when the majority rules me out, I find myself reading in my bed, all alone, which only adds to the effect darktime has.

I can't tell if the change happened suddenly, or over time; whether it was related to an event, or not. I do know that Dad's death in the winter made that winter harder, and that very well may have been the beginning, but I can't say that it was the turning point. The winter that Guy coached at a pool further away from home was also tough--he was gone more, it was a miserable winter, and I was truly lonely. Again, a possible contributing factor, but not the "one thing" that changed winter for me. There's also my theory that working outside at the pool for two summers has reset my personal rhythms (I'd never really been what one would call "outdoorsy" and the first summer was a real shock to my system!) making the darktime all the darker. This theory of mine has started to feed a sub-theory that we humans are fueled to a certain extent by solar energy--but that's another topic for another time.

What I do know is that I am really having a hard time. As I look out the window in front of me, I can still see a lightness to the sky at 4:57pm, but it's hard to be thankful for it some days. Perhaps if it were not so cold and dreary, the dark would be more bearable. The best thing about recognizing this pain (and it is painful--my heart aches at times) is that I can try things to make it manageable. I've thought often about what has carried me through before, and as a result, I've turned back to baking and cooking, using more intricate and challenging recipes; recipes that will, essentially, take longer to prepare. Focusing on what is right in front of me takes my eyes off the dark sky. I do feel better.

This winter has been a bit milder. Still cold, but no snow, really. Guy and I have been able to run outside more than last winter, and I think that may help a bit, although getting back at 5:40am, getting ready for work, and leaving around 6:40 when it's still dark may rewind some of the benefit. Whether it's the cold or the darktime feelings, running in the winter seems to be harder, and I struggle with distances that in the summer were easier.

At any rate, the days are getting longer, little by little. And I've also been talking more about how hard this has been, which has led me to the realization, or confirmation, that I am not alone at all. I no longer feel as though I am 'confiding;' rather, I am sharing, and of all things, I think this helps the most. The darktime had always been my thinking time, my alone time, my introspection/retrospection time. Somewhere in there a little pain got mixed in, and it needs to be expunged.

I'm working on it.

happy new year

January 1, 2012

I don't make New Year's resolutions.

That's not to say that I am against self-improvement, or new beginnings, or any of those things. Or that I shy away from them. Rather, I prefer to make life changing decisions when I am in the middle of my living, instead of in that gloriously lazy time between Christmas and New Year's Day. During that week, whether we have travelled for the holidays or not, there is far less for me to think about and do than at any other time during the year. The preparations for Christmas are finished; there's no school schedule to work around; practice schedules are modified or non-existent. The only obligations I really have are self-imposed, and as a naturally lazy person, are admittedly easy, if they exist at all.

I do take a little of that time to think about how I'd like to see the coming year shape up. There are things I'd like to accomplish, and dreams I'd like to see come true, but I know myself, and if I make promises to change my life while I'm being all fat and lazy, I will only disappoint myself. Instead, I wait a while. Besides, as soon as Christmas wrappings are cleaned up, I need to start thinking about finding just the right thing for my husband for our January anniversary. , and then I like to take some time to get excited about my birthday in February. (Looking forward like that gets me through the darktime of winter, which takes a toll on me!)

After my birthday, during that month of many birthdays, but not much else, I start to think about what I want to promise myself. In the years when I've made fitness goals, that's worked very well for me, as most of the 'Resolution Runners' have given up their treadmills and weight machines by then, leaving room for those who have stronger resolve, or more concrete goals. (There is, after all, a great difference between those who make a resolution to "get more exercise" and those who set a goal to "lose x# of pounds," "run x miles a week," or "fit into this again." The latter are far better company at the gym, and more successful, from what I've seen.)

And when I make the promises, I only make three at the most. Otherwise, how can I remember what it is I wanted to work on? Having fewer goals makes it easier for me to adjust them as needed, too, instead of abandoning an idea when it gets tough, or if it becomes clear that I've set my sights too high or too low than is reasonable. I want to challenge myself, but sometimes one year is not enough time to accomplish a change. Last February, I decided to pare down my stash of fabric. I was starting to get discouraged by about May, when I had not sewn anything at all, and decided I would need to re-evaluate: should I just dispose of smaller pieces? Drop them in the Community Aid box? Hold on to them some more and worry more about the larger pieces? As I gave myself time to consider this, I found a great book, One Yard Wonders, which gave me some fantastic ideas! I passed the late spring, summer, and into the Christmas season whipping up one small project after another. When my dryer was broken during a damp week in the summer, I even made a shirt to wear to work the next day so I could wait to hang clothes on the line--and then made a duplicate for a friend because she liked it so much! My stash is still pretty large, but getting more manageable. And it's become a habit...

Making these changes a habit is the ultimate goal for me, and that's the biggest reason I keep the list small. I can't make one thing a habit if I'm always thinking about all the other things on my list. As a result, my list also tends to have goals that are either very related, or so unrelated so as not to seem to belong together. It's my system, and it works for me. That's what matters.

It's inevitable, though, someone will ask what resolutions I've made. Depending on who asks, my answer varies from the honest to goodness truth about why I haven't made any, to a simple, "None," to the ironic: "To care less," (referring to a joke between me and my friend, Beth, that we sometimes wish we stressed more over the dumb little things like chipped nail polish so we wouldn't stress so much about big stuff, like jobs and bills) or "To bathe more" (referring to the fact that I would really like to soak in the tub and read for hours at a time on a daily basis, even though that's far from practical). I don't ask others. Anyone who shares with me, and asks for my support with them, will get it, but unless they are shared with me voluntarily, I don't see where it's my business. I do share my goals with others when I need to, but only with those whose support I can count on.

As always, I'm working on me; hoping to improve who I am as a wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, employee, neighbor, stranger. And along the way, I hope to help improve our home, our community, our school, and in some small way, our world. Currently, one scrap of fabric at a time.....