Bernice and Garry: Prelude to a Kiss

Oh! How my love song gently cries

For the tenderness within your eyes

My love is a prelude that never dies

A Prelude to a kiss

Duke Ellington

In a single run I could play out the entire Bernice and Garry story and have time left over for speculation on exciting scenes to come, such as our first kiss. Sweetness and Light 

It happened the first time Bernice had me over for dinner. She was serving liver & onions. To this day I don’t know where she got the chutzpah for that. I thought I had made it perfectly clear that if I never ate liver again in my life it would be too soon.

“Didn’t your mom make liver and onions?”

“She also ate calf brains for breakfast. What’s your point?”

“My point is you haven’t had my liver and onions.” 

She had me there. Besides I was tickled to be invited. 

It was like dessert come early watching Bernice hustling around the kitchen in tight-fitting blue jeans, bending and wiggling through her preparations. It reminded me of the time my buddy asked me, “What’s so hot about this new girlfriend of yours?”

Without missing a beat I replied, “You mean besides her hot body, pretty face and steel trap mind? I’d have to say it’s the way she sits a chair.”

He laughed but I wasn’t kidding.

I first noticed this fetching phenomenon in the GED classroom we sometimes shared. Bernice was thin, almost angular and if it weren’t for a certain nonchalance in her gait and a shy sway of the hip…let’s just say sometimes I wondered about her true proportions. 

I got my answer one evening after Rose (my aide) had cleared the students out. Necessary because the library was adamant about closing at precisely at 8 pm. I’m sitting at a table finishing my attendance reports when Bernice sidles up and puts her hands on the back of a chair.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Mind if I watch you like a hawk,” I thought to myself

She took my smile for invitation, pulled the chair around in front of me and began her sit. My pixel calibration had her moving in super slo-mo as I shamelessly objectified her body from the waist down. A nano second after her knees bent, her hips began their drop. And as she lowered to a point infitesimally close to the seat my predatory gaze caught a glimpse of the heretofore hidden amplitude of her derriere momentarily displayed in all its innocent glory. Underneath it all, this was a woman of substance.

Back in Bernice’s kitchen the moment of truth has arrived. I’ve already settled on my strategy. Suck it up and eat the damned liver & onions. Be positive yet economical in your praise when asked how you liked it. Once you get to know each other better, you can ask that L&O not be a part of your meal rotations. 

 

As we look at each other across the table I’m reminded of the time Bernice returned from her Phoenix vacation… looking vibrant, tanned,bright eyed, and more that a little mischievous. Like maybe we were sharing asecret or maybe she knew I was dying to be let in on her secret.

I have knife and fork in hand, a look of relish pasted on my face, ready for one more deep breath before I dig in. Then I notice Bernice is sitting there, hands resting on the table, the mischievous look still on her face.

“What” I remark, genuinely confused.

“No what,” she replies. “It’s our custom to let the guest go first.”

“Right. Well you know, my family we just dig in.” I start to do just that but the look stops

me mid-dig.

It’s Bernice’s turn to say, “What”.

“You have a look on your face.”

“It’s just my natural look.”

“Right,” I say to myself. “Natural like a fox.”

 To my delight, her liver & onions are delicious, totally devoid of the sharp smell, strange texture, and spoiled meet taste I normally associate with the dish. What a relief, and what a joy to see the smile on Bernice’s face every time I compliment her cooking.

Bernice signalled the end of dinner by folding her napkin neatly and placing her hands palm down on the tablecloth. “I think we should have a glass of wine and watch the sunset.”

“I’m down for the wine, but you don’t have a western exposure.”

“No, but I have some floor to ceiling dinning room windows. Don’t worry, you won’t be disappointed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean,” I wondered.

We stood and sipped our wine and watched the play of a diminishing sun on the grassy commons before us. It was Friday and we talked about the week we’d had. As we talked our free hands found each other. Then we fell into a reverie of sorts, connected yet wandering in our own thoughts. 

It was Bernice who broke the spell by letting go my hand.

“How long has it been since you were with someone, like a serious relationship?’

“It’s been awhile.”

“I divorced my last husband.”

“How long ago.”

“Divorce is divorce. You know, final. I want to know about you.”

“Like if I’m on the rebound or something”

“Yes.”

“No. The only thing I’m rebounding from is going broke with my TV show.”

That made her smile.

"Are you finished with your wine?”

I nodded. She took the empty glass from my hand, turned and walked the glasses over to the dining room table. When she came back to me she still had that “I know you’re dying to know my secret” look. But the look had softened. She stopped just short of me. Then with a shy, self-deprecating smile, she beaconed me to her.  

With one seamless motion she pulled my body into hers, looked into my face and gently kissed me on the lips. Her secret, both our secrets really, had at last been told. In that tender moment we consummated our love and made a sea change in our lives.  

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Progress Report: The Gift That Keeps on Giving

Imagine a bumbling blogtser like myself has asked you to participate in a short survey. The purpose of the survey is to come to grips with the age-old question: Do runners really have more fun than blondes? Here’s the questionnaire:

Over the holidays which of the following events would you be most likely to attend?

1.     ( ) a Xmas eve run that starts at 7:00 am
2.     ( )  a New Years Eve race that starts at 10:30 pm
3.     ( ) an event called Over the Years for the opportunity to run for 24 hours straight
4.     ( ) a session with a Yoga master named Moonshadow
5.     ( ) 1—3 only
6.     ( ) All of the above

 If you can honestly pick All of the Above you get to choose which event goes in the blog.

But since I’m pretty sure you don’t’ know a Yoga master named Moonshadow, I get to pick. Ok, so I didn’t do Over the Years. But I did drive all the way from Paradise Valley to support our runners on Saturday morning. So I pick the Xmas eve day run, stride for stride the most dramatic and the most fun.

The gathering

Our merry band includes Runners from three outstanding organizations, Run 4 It Endurance Training, the Surprise Running Team, and the 2012 Ragnar team Streakers in Sneakers.

When I arrived Saturday morning I carefully maneuvered my RAV in amongst the party vehicles that  were sprawled in the vicinity of Jeff and Elsie Hall’s home in Sun City West.

It was pitch black on the corner of Conquistador and 125^th Ave.  Despite the bone chilling cold the runners were in high spirits, bouncy and chatty. I could tell they were also in a Christmas mood because they barely chided me for being fifteen minutes late for our designated 7 am start time. Our only mandate: get your long run in by 9 am  so we can start our party, which would include potluck and a White Elephant Exchange with a running theme.

The start

Jeff called us together for final instructions. “Out and back” he declared as he pointed in the direction we are supposed to run: “Nothing but right turns, two turning points (forgot what they were) turn around at the Stardust aide station, retrace your steps back here. There will be mile marker cones and clearly marked turning points. Aid stations every mile and a half. Big aide station at Stardust.” After this initial round of instructions I see everybody’s head nodding, everybody’s but mine. After remarkably (to me) few repetitions, we are off to conquer our miles.

Every runner is going to have good days and bad days. Lately I’ve had more bad than good. The pain in my hip and the fact that my fellow runners were all talking to me over their shoulders as they sped by told me that on this day I was destined to do 10 the hard way.

I was good with that.  I only went off course once, overran the first turn. After about 7 minutes of wrong-way running Jeff’s instructions exploded in my brain. He had told us several times the name of the street we were to make our first right turn on. I guess I’m one of those people who are compelled to challenge statements like “you can’t miss it.” 

No worries, ran another seven minutes back to the turn street and gave myself credit for a mile.

The sun rose and the neighbourhoods awoke. The sidewalks filled with singles, couples and dog walkers all exuding good cheer. Some of our own speedy runners were starting to pass me on their way back. Bless their hearts, not one of them cast me a pitying glance.

Jeff was a prince. He came by me in his car several times, shouting “Run, Garry, Run”. Checking to see if I needed anything. Reminding me to hydrate. I said to him on one pass, “You’re coming up in the world dude. I remember when you had to do your coaching on a bicycle.”  

Let No Good Deed Go Unpunished

Jeff’s last pass was less inspirational. The Stardust aide station, our turn around point had suffered an invasion of local gendarmes.

I’ll let Jeff take the story from here.

Susanne (Hasty) called me. When I got to the aide station, I saw they had the intersection of R.H. Johnson (the major thoroughfare in Sun City West) and Stardust closed. I walked over to a group of about a dozen Sheriff's deputies. I told the deputies, "I can’t believe someone called this in as a HAZMAT incident." Immediately this rotund Deputy Sheriff started chewing me out, implying I didn’t know how serious the situation was. My reply, sarcastically, was, "It's water and Gatorade." At this point, I noticed there were about four younger deputies standing in the background kind of laughing about the whole thing. Meanwhile the Deputy Sheriff kept trying to rip me a new one. Suddenly, one of the bomb disposal members interrupted to diffuse the situation and simply stated that they had to take all calls seriously until they can prove it was safe. I told him and the others I knew that since I was a retired fire-fighter. At that point the Deputy Sheriff backed off. As he walked away I was reminded of what Bugs Bunny would have said about my chubby antagonist. “What a …..!”

David Basham had a different take on the invasion of our outpost.

While Kristin (Steele) and I were running mile 5 we heard the loudest fire siren ever as a truck sped past us. When Jeff pulled up and said, “We’ve had some drama” I was immediately concerned that the fire truck meant we had an injured runner.

Jeff may have gotten the last word. One of the responder group indicated off-the-cuff that he might be interested in joining our running group.

The party

When I finally touched the spare tire on the back of my RAV I was beyond caring that I was last and late again. Inside the party was in full swing. Everybody had a story to tell and nobody minded being cut off in mid sentence by someone who had a better one. Laughter is the best tonic for tired bones, so I found an unclaimed easy chair, sat back and let the joyful banter wash over me.

Runners make the best potluck. Every since it was proven that real men do eat keish I have tried to make amends for my former prejudices. Today I became a manly man indeed. I think I scarfed down a whole pie.

The party became more intense when the White Elephant exchange was announced. Apparently there are two schools of thought when it comes to WE. One interpretation asserts that when you know you are going to a white elephant affair, you get the cheapest, dorkiest gift you can find.

 The other camp has the opposite take. Observe the host’s rules such as all gifts must include a running theme. Go out and buy a nice running related gift that you would secretly like to have for yourself.

When you view the pic of Jeff holding my white elephant offering, you will get which camp I follow. But don’t be too quick to judge. As he hoisted his western scene Elsie said he looked sexy in that pose. You’re welcome Jeff.

The nice gift camp does make for a lively game of strategic thievery. Early on I stole a spiffy water bottle set with a dozen running aids attached from Susanne Hasty. She gave me a faux (I hope) scowl. But I forgot she might be able to something about her loss. Sometime towards the end of the game she blasted across the room and reclaimed her water bottles with a vengeance. 

That left me last to choose. I won’t say I got a lump of coal, but if I ever need to fill a gift box with paper stuffing I’ve got plenty of paper.  

My pecuniary habits aside it was a truly a joyous occasion! In conclusion, allow me to offer this toast: To our merry band of runners, may all our women remain strong, all our men stay good looking and all our children continue to be far above average. Garrison Keeler, eat your heart out.

BTW The polls are closed and it has been announced that runners do have more fun than blondes, unless you are a blonde who runs in which case your score is doubled.

Bernice and Garry: Christmas in the Caymans

My original plan was to tell the Bernice and Garry story in simple linear fashion. The end of the story would coincide with my final tribute to Bernice, the running of the New York City Marathon in 2012. I’m driven to deviate from the plan by the reality that this will be my very first Christmas without the love of my life. In order to balance the ache of not having her with me I want to step out of time and return to our first Christmas together.

 

Christmas Eve

When it comes to vacations, all glory goes to Bernice. She conceived, planned and directed them. Not only that, she had to put my life in order to make them happen. In December, 1993 that included getting me in and out of the hospital (hernia repair), and setting up a rehab plan that would make me travel worthy for our first vacation together, a vacation that would have us arriving on Grand Cayman Island on Christmas Eve.  

Conversation on the plane:

Garry: Ok, so we get transportation to our condo. Then what?

Bernice: What what?

Garry: What do we do? Eat, take a walk, do a Christmas party at some resort?

Bernice: I thought we might walk to the beach. If you can handle it.
Garry: I can’t believe you got us a condo right on the beach.
Bernice: We were lucky.
Garry (to himself): I was lucky. You were smart.
Garry (to Bernice): I hope there is some food in the fridge.
Bernice: We are supposed to have food amenities, stove and refrigerator. I don’t know about food. Maybe we should save our peanuts, just in case.

Garry: Well, we can always go buy some food, right.

Bernice: Maybe, but it is Christmas Eve.

Even before the taxi let us out a few feet from our condo, I knew we were in heaven. There was a bone soothing warmth in the air, and the breeze was just strong enough to remind us that we were in the tropics. Walking to our cabin, we could hear the waves rolling restlessly over the shore. We would have to settle for the sounds because the immediate area was pitch black. There may have been lights along the beach but we weren’t positioned to see them.

Inside we postponed our search for food long enough to explore our island home. We liked what we saw. Simple living room with bright pictures of the famous Seven Mile Beach on the walls. Small kitchen with even smaller amenities. A bedroom with a queen sized mattress. A bed cover with tropical flowers inside a red trim. More Island pictures on the wall, these including people and scenes from Island life. Bamboo shading for the bedroom window. And a quaint bathroom with enough knick-knack diversions to hide its true purpose.

Our post tour conversation went something like this:

Garry: There are some candies in this bowel on the living room table. Some pepperminty, Christmasy looking stuff. What’s in the fridge?

Bernice: You don’t want to know. I knew I should have asked the cab driver where we could get some food.

Garry: This is not good. Hey, don’t we have a phone. We can just call around.

Bernice: Here’s the phone and I guess this little notebook looking thing is a phone book.

With raised spirits we combed the notebook for likely food sources.

Bernice: You call, I’ll read you the numbers. 

By the fourth or fifth call our spirits had bottomed out.

Bernice: Looks like everything is closed for Christmas Eve. We can’t even get Chinese. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.

Garry: But you always think of everything.

Bernice: Not always I guess. Not this time anyway.
Garry: So what are we gonna do?
Bernice: How well do you think peppermint candy and airplane peanuts go to together

I don’t know if it was her deadpan delivery or the absurdity of the combination that made me laugh, but my reaction triggered Bernice’s involuntary response system. Her eyes popped wide and a smile lept across her face.

 I’ve seen this look before. She always gets it when she is about to lose control. Fist the look, then a rush of soundless air, and then a laugh way back in her throat, like she is trying to suppress it. We are like two kids in church who know the dire consequences if they don't stop laughing but they just can't. I giggle and Bernice lets her laugh loose. It’s a normal laugh at first but it quickly accelerates into a desparate gasping. She is approaching critical mass. If I don’t stop now, her body will go into convulsions, giving new meaning to the phrase “laugh until you cry”. But the worse she gets the more I laugh.

Desperate for control she lurches at me, grasps my shirtfront with one hand and tries to cover my mouth with the other. As I try to twist away, the hand on the mouth slips into a headlock. I’m thinking she is actually trying to squeeze me into submission. I’m laughing too hard to fight back. I try a knee drop to counter the headlock, but instead of escaping I knock us both off balance. Now she’s on top of me, breathless with tears in her eyes.

“You …have… to …stop…I…can’t …breath.”

“Get off me then. I’ll try. Really. Really I will. You have to get off me.”

 She rolls off me and onto her back. Collects herself. My laugh stops. A long beat of silence. We roll over to look at each other, notice we’re on the floor, and just like the kids in church we’re off again. The stopping and starting goes on until finally we are laughed out and silent. We sit up shaking our heads, almost afraid to look at each other. 

Bernice: Well I guess we might as well go to bed.

Garry: Can we take the peanuts with us?
Bernice: Don’t make me laugh. I could hurt you. 

Going to bed actually proved to be a great solution. We were both wired and had no interest in sleep. We began a conversation that lasted into the wee small hours of the morning. We may have talked of Cabbages and Kings but mostly we talked about our future together.

Christmas day   

Christmas day began like most of our weekends and holidays back home, late. We had perfected the art of postponing the events of the day until every fibre of our bodies demanded release into action. As excited as we were to explore our Island Paradise, we were in no hurry to leave our cocoon. Our only concession was to prop the windows open in order to better hear the waves. We played a game of matching our breathing to the swells of the ocean.

When finally freed from our languor we dressed in haste and set about to scavenge for food. Our game plan was to make house calls on our neighbors in hopes of getting a line on some groceries. The plan fell apart when we found nobody home in the several cabins we approached.

Garry: You think everybody went to the beach?

Bernice: Maybe they went someplace for Christmas.

Garry: They are someplace for Christmas.
Bernice: Yeah, they’re probably all at the beach.
Garry: Should we head for the beach? I mean it would be kind of weird. ‘Excuse me sir, we just arrived from the states and we don’t have any food. Can you help us?

Bernice: I don’t think I would use that approach.

Garry: How far is it to the beach?

Bernice: Not too far. But I remember coming in last night, we turned off a main street. That might be our best bet.

Garry: Right, we could catch someone out for a walk or hail a cabbie.

Bernice: You can hail. I’ll do the talking.

We had barely reached the sidewalk of the main street when we saw a man and woman headed in our direction.

Bernice: Excuse us. We’re staying in a condo down the way and we just got in last night. Can you tell us where to buy some food?

Man: (Sounding American, midwest) It’s Christmas. Everything is closed.

Garry: Everything?
Man: Everything I can think of.
Woman: Well Howard, they could get a meal at any of the hotels.

Bernice: We need more than one meal. We have to get through this afternoon and evening. No grocery stores are open?

Man: No grocery stores, I’m pretty sure. But now that I think of it, there may be a convenience store a ways up.

Garry: Can you tell us how to get there?

Man: Like I said, it’s a ways up. Pretty hard to give directions unless you have a map.
Bernice: I have a map of the Island.
Garry: You have a map?
Bernice: I always have a map. So would we go this way, towards the shopping areas?
Man: No all the shops are closed. Let me look at the map. Ok, we’re right here and the liquor store is way over here.

Woman: Howard, why don’t we just walk them over? (to Bernice) We came down here to get Howard some exercise but it’s like pulling teeth, getting him to move.

Howard proved to be in better shape than his wife had indicated. He practically drug us at least a mile to the store. Then, with a hundred meters to go, he pointed to the store sight, and said. “There you go. Good luck. Hope you find something you like.”

Woman: (heartfelt) Merry Christmas
Bernice and Garry: (In unison) Merry Christmas and thanks

The food pickings were slim, but we got enough cold cuts for a couple of meals. I perked up when the proprietor recommended a bottle of Tortuga Rum. I perked up more when we bought it.

Back at the cabin Bernice got busy making sandwiches and I found an old radio I hadn’t noticed when we did our walk through the night before. I turned it on, expecting to hear either Christmas music or maybe some calypso tunes. Instead it’s a lady, speaking with a distinctive British accent, delivering some sort of address.

I am speaking to you from the Library at Sandringham.

Four generations of my family have enjoyed the solitude of this library.

Four Generations of my family…

Garry: Bernice, I think it’s the bloody Queen of England!

Bernice: It probably is. The Cayman Islands are still British.

Garry: Wow! We’re really in a foreign country. How’s that sandwich coming?
Bernice: The sandwich can wait. I want to listen to the Queen's speech.

And we did. Very uplifting speech. To my delight, Bernice went ahead with the sandwich. She was never happy doing just one thing at a time.

After the speech we hurried off to the beach. When I think of that afternoon, three things come to mind, the beach was pristine white and looked to be every bit of seven miles long. The ocean, the same color blue as the sky, was immense, and Bernice was a knockout in her new bathing suit. She already had a better tan than anybody on the beach.

We didn’t swim or walk much. Partly because I wasn’t one hundred percent, but mostly because we were so drawn to the ocean. We sat as close to the edge of the waves as we could, never minding the warm waters flowing over our legs, occasionally leaping to our feet to avoid being swallowed by a big wave. 

Later we became enthralled with the setting sun.

Bernice: Somebody was telling me that just before the sun disappears, there is a big explosion of color.

Garry: We better stick around for that.

 On this night the sun, after casting a thin orange glow over the horizon, slipped tamely out of site. But there was no disappointment. With the blue-black onset of night, the explosion was in our hearts. It was our world. It was our time.

“Merry Christmas”

“Merry Christmas”

Bernice and Garry: Sweetness and Light

It is easier to remember "the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune", the tragedies, the down times. Happiness is generally something one enjoys and moves on, making no attempt to mark its passage. And yet, I will never forget the sweetness of the days following the arrival of Bernice's provocative postcard.  

Every waking moment was filled with anticipation. Anticipation I hadn’t experienced since I was five years old, right after my mother told me that I was going to take a train ride to spend a week with my Dad. At the time Dad worked for the H J Hines (Ketchup) Co in faraway Muscatine, Iowa and didn’t always make it home for weekends. When he did he loved to regale mom and me about the mighty Mississippi River. No kid in my neighbourhood had seen the Mississippi, and no kid in my neighbourhood had ever been for a train ride. As my imagination swept me away the only thing holding me to earth was the conviction that I had to be the luckiest kid in town.

Waiting for Bernice’s return from Phoenix, I thought, “Maybe I’m still the luckiest kid in town.”

My energy level was off the chart. As a runner I had often experienced the vaunted “runners high”. But now my endorphins seemed divinely charged. In a single run I could play out the entire Bernice and Garry story and have time left over for speculation on exciting scenes to come, such as our first kiss. 

Before Bernice, it had been said of me that I did not suffer fools gladly. Since the postcard, I became the most approachable man on the planet. With great eagerness I would enter discourse with friends, shop clerks, strangers in the convenience store, seatmates on the bus, even wrong numbers got a play.

I have little doubt that I was headed for burnout if Bernice stayed away much longer. But return she did, looking vibrant, tanned, bright eyed, and more than a little, mischievous. Like maybe we were sharing a secret or maybe she knew I was dying to be let in on her secret. For my part I was trying hard to not appear like an excited puppy dog. “Keep your tongue in your mouth. Don’t wag your tail. Keep your paws down.”

We wasted little time arranging our first date. Dinner and a movie. Dinner was a medium pepperoni pizza and a couple of beers. The pizzeria itself never became one of our haunts, and I don’t remember its name. But I do remember us. Heads together like teenagers. No social conventions between us. So eager to fill the moment, we were stepping all over each other’s lines with glorious impunity. Looking back, I think we devoured the pizza just to get it out of the way of our conversation. I remember her face, engrossed in the moment, beaming with delight, smiling all the way up from her toes through her twinkling blue eyes. She seemed somehow released and determined to make the most of it.

Then off to the movie theatre, the stately Birmingham Theatre in pricey downtown Birmingham, MI

As we enter the theatre I make an automatic move to the concession counter. True, we had just polished off a medium pizza, but for me popcorn is a conditioned response. In fact, I think it is downright barbaric to be asked to sit through any movie, anywhere without popcorn.

Garry: I’m going to get some popcorn. Would you like something?

Bernice: No thanks. I’m full of pizza. I might nibble on your popcorn.”

Garry: Ok, see that’s why I asked if you wanted something. I have this thing about popcorn. I don’t like to share. For one thing, a full bag is just the right amount of popcorn for me. And for another, I have to pick just the right amount of popcorn to chew without distracting myself from the movie. And the motion from bag to chew has to be smooth. So the bag has to sit at the correct angle and be sufficiently open so that I don’t fumble around. Somebody’s hand in my bag upsets my rhythm.

Mistaking her bemused smile for one of amusement, I lead on to our seats. As we settle in for the previews, we are talking low and intimately. “Do you know anything about this movie,” I ask. “No but my girlfriend says it’s really good.” My popcorn hand is deftly doling out just enough corn to chew imperceptibly. Life is good. But as I turn my attention to the opening credits, my ninja-like reflexes detect movement in the area of my popcorn. I look down and there is Bernice’s hand lazily collecting some kernels from my bag.

"I thought you didn’t want any popcorn.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I can go get you your own bag if you like.”

Pause

Then she lays her hand gently on my arm and fixes me with those baby blues. “Listen Mr. if you want to be with me, you’re going to have to learn to share.” I knew she was talking about more than popcorn. However grudgingly, I capitulated. For the rest of the movie we cohabited the bag, snickering when our hands would collide going in or coming out.

Her friend was right, the movie, Prince of Tides with Barbra Streisand and Nick Nolte was engrossing and emotionally charged. We laughed in all the same places; Bernice cried a few more times than I did. But most telling of all, to this day I can't abide the thought of having a whole bag of popcorn to myself.

Progress Report: Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner

My training schedule for this Saturday called for a ten miler at South Mountain, but as indicated in last Notes on grieving, I opted for the Sally’s Run 5K in honor of Sally Meyerhoff and her family. My coach, Jeff Hall, was understanding if not pleased with my decision. Not only am I training for the New York City Marathon, I have the IMS Half-marathon coming up in February. In discussing ways to make up the mileage and keep to schedule, we agreed that I could do an additional seven miles on Sunday. 

Sally’s run turned out to be a fabulous success. Right at 1,000 runners showed up for this inaugural race. The weather was near perfect and the course, Kiwanis Park in Tempe, was great for wimps like me. It was touching to see and hear from people from all stages of Sally’s life, from pre-high school up to her short career at Duke University. Ordinarily I leave races as soon as I’m fit to drive home, but I stayed to the end this day and was able to have a few words with Sally’s mother. I would like to become part of the Sally Meyerhoff Foundation but don’t know if it will conflict with my commitment to the Pat Tillman Foundation.

But before I can give you my race evaluation, I have to bore you with an update on my hip/groin condition. I’m still having difficulty walking and the groin pain still wakes me up at night. However, I arrived early at the race-site and warmed up with some slow running and a few run-outs. At the start of the race, I was less cautious than I have been of late and felt like I moved into a nice pace for me. My hip & groin loosened up and I was able to focus on my pace. I know I picked it up on the last mile, but my time did not reflect any of these successes. Slow as it was, I was satisfied with my effort.

The Sunday seven did not go so well. I ran along a wash that extends for miles from the golf course bordering my condo complex. I didn’t warm up so the first mile was torturous, allowing for pity-pat progression. I did ultimately loosen up and achieve a tempo run pace. Unfortunately, I spent the first two hours of post-run-recovery in bed. But I did some yoga stretching, took a shower and went to a movie, My Week With Marilyn. By the time I ate my dinner, pan fried chicken thighs, and watched the latest Boardwalk Empire episode, I was feeling nearly human.

Bernice and Garry: It's All In the Cards

From Love’s Labour’s Lost post:

Then the pause you never want to hear. “I don’t know,” she says, “I’m going to be out of town for two weeks. I’ll be visiting my sister in Phoenix. Maybe when I come back, if you’re still interested.” I suppose it’s open to interpretation, but to me this was her way of telling me the romance ship had sailed…

The holidays are upon us. Ten days of glorious idleness in which to reflect on the successes of the past year with enough time left over to ratchet up for the new year. Out in the world faces are aglow with hope and good cheer. But for me the glow is more pallor than sheen. The streets are bustling with folks with holiday pep in their step.  Me I’m slinking around like a Vegas loser whose winnings were in the stratosphere until lady luck gave him the cold shoulder.

The lone consolation was not having to endure Rose’s pitying headshakes. I’m running and reading in the daytime. Most nights I’m lying on the couch letting the television watch me as I doze intermittingly. One night during doze I was accosted with visions of a chorus of my students looming over me and chanting derisively, “You lost her card. You lost her card. You lost her card.” This vision faded into one of Rose leading my friends in a New Orleans style funeral march around my coffin/couch vamping on theme “You shoulda come clean. You shoulda come clean.” 

Then fade to black with echoes of empty laughter. Slowly a small, out of focus image begins to fill the blackness. It’s Bernice, no it’s Bernice sitting and listening patiently to Margaret read. As the image grows and comes into focus I see her face, patient, encouraging, but with a hint of pity. Margaret fades out, replaced by full-screen close-up of Bernice’s face. She’s looking down at me and I realize the patient, encouraging, hint of pity look is for me. Only the patience has faded into a look of sad reproach. Her slight smile drives the hint of pity like a stake through my heart.

 They say you never die in your dreams but you couldn’t prove it by me. Cut to a tombstone with the etched in stone epitaph,

Garry Cox 1942-1992

He should have come clean.

From a distance I hear my landlord friend Clyde repeating my name. “Garro (pause), Garro (pause), Garro” And then no pause and much louder, “Garro, wake up man. It’s too early to go to bed. Wake up, I’ve got some mail for you.”

I open my eyes, sit up, and sheepishly accept a square envelope that usually indicates a card of some sort. I am eternally grateful for being delivered from my appalling dream but there’s no way I could explain it to Clyde so I lamely remark, “Thanks. I hope it’s not a bill.”

“So, open it already,” says Clyde.

I’m oddly reluctant, although I have no sense the card inside is personal. That is until I look at the return address, Phoenix, Arizona 85032 and feel a spark of expectation. In a sorry attempt at nonchalance I open the card. There are a couple of pictures, which I ignore because nothing will validate my growing excitement but the message. I find it. “Just thought you might want to see how I spend my vacations, Bernice”. Then I look at the pictures; one is a shot of a swimming pool, bordered by a golf course with a Dreamsicle colored building in the background that I assume houses vacation condos. The other picture is  Bernice stretched out on a pool chair wearing a two-piece bathing suit, eyes closed soaking in the sun. “Dam,” I say to myself. “I never realized her legs were that long.” Then I look up at Clyde who is still standing there waiting for a report. “It’s a card from a friend of mine. Lady who does literacy volunteer work at my evening site.”

“What’s she doing in Phoenix?”

“Vacation”

“And she sends you a card?”

“Probably just wants to rub it in because we’re stuck in the frozen Midwest.”

Clyde is either satisfied with my response or has lost interest and leaves the scene.

 Alone now my spirits are rising. Cloud nine won’t be able to hold me. I don’t claim to be wise in affairs of the heart, but we’re not talking rocket science here. A woman sends you an unsolicited card, including pictures? She is thinking about you, dude. You can take that to the bank. Hot Dam! My luck has done a 180; the Romance is on again.

Notes on Grieving: First Timers

One of the hardest things for anyone grieving for a loved one is to face the "first timers":  the first birthday, anniversary, holiday, family gathering, or annual event without your loved one. In Reflections on a Happy Birthday I shared my experience with Bernices first birthday since her passing. I have just experienced my first Thanksgiving without her. For other people many holiday "first timers" are around the corner. These are tough times and I have no advice for anyone facing them.

I would like to share something that has helped me, and that is to focus on other people who are also going through the greiving process. This Thanksgiving was the first time in years that Bernice and I had not spent this holiday with her daughter and grandson. I was invited to her daughter's new home and would have attended if I hadn't committed to Thanksgiving Day in New York with my daughter Brett and her BFF's family. But even amidst the bustle of food, kids, drinks and football, I found myself wondering how all Bernices family-daughters, sisters and grandchildren were coping with her absence on this day. It didn't make me miss her any less, but I think it helped me get out of myself and try to enjoy the day.

I have also been able to focus on other families. The headline in the Sports Page of the Arizona Republic this morning (12/4) read Sunday Showcase: Sally Meyerhoff Remembered. Sally, pegged for greatness as a marathoner and a tirathelete, died on March 8, 2011 after her bike collided with a pick-up truck. Of course I and the entire Arizona running communty were shocked at the news. But shock has a way of wearing off. When I read the tribute today I was drawn to the reactions of her family, especially her parents. As I read thier quotes and statements I found myself thinking between the lines, what it must be like to lose a child so young with so much potential for inspiring others. And also thinking about how many "first-timers" they will face.

Much like the parents of Arizona football great Pat Tillman, Sally's  parents have created the Sally Meyerhoff Foundation to honor Sally and to give back to the community through helping athelets in need. Having already committed myself to raise funds for the Tillman Foundation, I'm thinking perhaps the best way to support the Meyerhoff Foundation is to do the first Sally Meyerhoff 5K Run this coming Saturday (12/10).

Whether it is experiencing the apprehension of "first timers" or just the day to day pain of loss, I believe it is mportant not to feel alone.  Perhaps getting beyond our feelings by honoring our loved ones and supporting others who are doing the same can alleviate this anxiety and sense of aloneness.

RFYL would like to hear your thoughts.