By: Homer Hirt
I once, in a fit of despondency, talked with Sid Riley, Mangling Editor of this fine newspaper, about how to realize when I was no longer capable of writing a good column, and Sid told me that point will be when I began writing about a subject more than once. But then he opened the door by labeling my favorite column, “I’m Not Obese…..I’m Just Big Boned”, as the “continuing saga of Homer Hirt”, so I was able to write a follow up. And this opened the doors to another follow up on my now famous and oft quoted treatise on octogenarians.
I have on my computer notes a political essay that may possibly go down with William F. Buckley, Jr.’s best, or close, anyway. I also have a reply in the works to the “anonymous” E-Mail sent to my Blog that criticized me for praising my two daughters and their many accomplishments while neglecting my son and his deeds. I have no idea who might have written this “anonymous” message, but only a sniveler would hide behind that title, and I may well remove him from my will.
But then this last weekend happened, and I have reached back to my statements on old age and I have built on that in the light of the events of Friday and Saturday. I had written “Here are some of my goals. Most of my readers know about my planned race with “The Runner” on my eighty fifth birthday. She runs a mile in eight minutes, I am covering a mile in sixteen, but I have brought it to that point from twenty minutes in less than a year. I will continue with this endeavor”. I went on to explain that I fully expected to match her pace so that I could cover the mile in eight minutes, and my unspoken hope was that I would pass out as we crossed the finish line together, and she would give me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and I would then die, and the smile would remain on my face through the family viewing prior to my funeral.
All of this, of course, is what we writers refer to as “poetic license”, whether it rhymes or not. “Poetic license” allows us to lie somewhat for the good of the craft and our own immortal souls, so that we can rely on grace and not good deeds when we are checked in to that Great Copy Room in the Sky. Eight minutes for a mile? Not likely!
And then last Friday at the Compass Lakes Barefoot Festival I succumbed to ambition run amok and to several pretty faces (and slim figures) behind the registration table where the Running Moms were signing up runners and/or walkers for the 5K event for Saturday. I put down my money, picked up my pin-on placard, my coffee mug and my visor and went on down to the Republican Booth, where Ron the Elephant was charming passersby.
This is a time for confession, so that you will understand the rest of the story.
I have never participated in athletic events. I never played tennis or golf, or was selected for a real baseball team, or threw a discus or ran in competition. I have excuses for all of this, and a couple of good reasons.
The captain of one of my ships once put me in charge of President Kennedy’s physical fitness for our crew. One of the events was a two hundred yard shuttle run. In this you lined up your men, they would run fifty yards, turn, run back, and then repeat, and I, as Officer - in - Charge, would carefully record times. There was a problem, however. The widest part of our ship was a little over thirty feet, and I lost five men into the water until I caught on: fifty yards to run, thirty feet to run in…… We finally fished the men out of the water, and I faked the rest of the times, turned the statistics in, and hid for the rest of the cruise.
So here I am, early on Saturday, milling around amongst athletic types, who were comparing times, diets, training regimens, shoes (except for the ones that were running barefoot), and former runs. I was wearing my running shoes, my Seacrest Wolf Preserve shirt, my work trousers and my most nonchalant attitude. Out stepped a young lady with a megaphone, announced the rules, which seemed to be chiefly that the runners got to go first, and the walkers would follow. This did not seem reasonable, but I went along with it until I could consider the situation.
The runners took off, and the walkers moved out at a fast pace. Several of us figured out early that we would be better off if we (1) ran down hill, and (2) moved to the shady side of the route when we had the opportunity. And the route was not bad; some paved, some dirt, all well protected by staff who offered water to us as we passed and helped us get our tongues back in our mouths.
And then it was all over. I moved briskly through the gate, to a modicum of applause. The announcement came that awards would be down at the stage, so I moved in that direction. I listened to the age groups and the winners in each. I watched the medals being hung around slim necks and observed the pictures being made of each smiling participant. And then, loud and clear, came the clarion call: “Male, Seventy-Five and Over…… Homer Hirt, age eighty!”
Cheers rang out! Applause filled the air! I raised my arms in the age-old symbol of victory, and trotted up to the stage, dropped my head slightly so that the red, white and blue ribbon with the medal attached could be placed. And then I turned, with a grin, and shook hands all around as the cheers continued. I left the stage, and I wore the medal the rest of the time out there. I, for the first time in my life, felt the “thrill of victory”, even though it was a long time coming. Other participants shook my hand and spoke of my age and, I suspect, might have been somewhat envious. I was so euphoric that I forgot to eat lunch.
But that was not the end of the day.
I loaded Ron the Elephant up in my Explorer, hung the medal on the rear view mirror, and took him to a fundraising event in Marianna where he could welcome all. I went home, cleaned up and went back to the event, accompanied by “The Runner”. What a day! I heard someone in the group ask if I am a runner, and the reply came back: “No, but Homer is a power walker”. Wow! A power walker!
My ambitions were being fulfilled, or at least the indication of possible fulfillment was just over the horizon. And Ron and I finally got home, and I sat down to review the day. After a time, sleep overcame me and I dreamed that my family had presented me with bagpipes, which is another of my eighty something ambitions, and I, magically, knew how to play them, so I entertained all hands, to more applause!
Could an Octogenarian ask for more?
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
What‘s in the Box?
My mother, Rossie Lucille Atwater, had six siblings, four brothers and two sisters. They all grew up on a farm in southwestern Decatur County, Georgia. As was the custom in those days the boys inherited the assets of the family, and the girls got married or found “suitable” employment. Mother became a schoolteacher, Aunt Gertrude a milliner, and Aunt Margaret a nurse. Margaret moved to Milledgeville, Georgia, the home of the state mental institution.
There she met Joe Wootten, who was only one year younger than her mother. Joe was brought up on a Georgia plantation, became a reporter for the Atlanta Constitution and later the chief pharmacist at Milledgeville. He trained Aunt Margaret in this profession, and, upon his death, she assumed the position and title.
While Joe was at the Constitution he became good friends with Frank L. Stanton, the first columnist for that newspaper. Stanton was the first Poet Laureate of Georgia, made so by the governor.
Stanton wrote many poems, including several that were set to music and one or two became popular “parlor” songs. Because of this friendship, Aunt Margaret and Uncle Joe were often given autographed first editions of his books, and once Stanton wrote and published in the Constitution a poem about Margaret. Stanton was rumored to be a hard-drinking newspaperman, and I suspect that some of his continued friendship with my folks was carried on during some “treatment” time in Milledgeville.
When Aunt Margaret died about thirty five years ago I rented a U-Haul truck and, with my wife Theresa and my older daughter as passengers, went to Milledgeville to close the estate. I sold the house and automobile, and we loaded the truck with antique furniture, including two pieces that had been built by slaves on the Wootten plantation.
As we were getting ready to leave, Theresa noticed two cardboard boxes filled with books. We loaded them, and months later opened them. They contained books that were contemporary to the times of Uncle Joe and Aunt Margaret, including the Stanton editions, other poetry books and inspirational writings. Some of the authors were James Whitcomb Riley, known as the “Hoosier Poet”, Edgar Allen Poe, Tennyson and others, tomes that you would expect to find in a well-read couple’s library of the late 1800’s and the early part of the last century.
Interspersed among the leaves of the books were personal letters from Frank L. Stanton to Uncle Joe, much of it written on foolscap, a size and type of paper used in the newsrooms of the day. None were typewritten, almost all were scribbled, large and bold, with pencils. Uncle Joe on two occasions had written to Stanton about a particular poem that had been published, and the author would write it from memory for him. He included the poem to Aunt Margaret, praising her red lips, and in the margin wrote: “I hope that this does the trick with the lovely woman”. This reminded me of the times in my courting days when I would quote Robert Burns’ “My love is like a red, red rose”, and this would usually “do the trick” for me. If my date was somewhat on the uneducated side, I would tell her that I wrote it “just for you”. I wonder if Joe used that line also.
And we found something extra.
Also stuffed between the pages of these old, prized books was something that would have once been a treasure. We found, and spread out to examine, Confederate money, from small fifty cent denominations printed by local banks up to and including one hundred dollar bills of the Confederate States of America. Early ones were crisply printed on both sides on quality papers. Later ones, those that were in circulation during the last days of the Confederacy, appeared to be on scraps of paper that had been used before: wall paper, wrappings, anything that was available. And these were printed on only one side.
So which was the treasure? Some of us may believe that “The South will rise again!” and the dollars will have exchange value. In truth, much of it is valuable now as collectors’ pieces.
Or is the treasure the first editions and personally inscribed books of Frank Stanton, given in friendship to a young couple beginning life together? I tend to lean toward this as being the real treasure. After all, Frank Lebby Stanton was the first columnist for the Constitution, and perhaps the first newspaper columnist in the United States.
And I, a friend of his by my relationship with Margaret and Joe Wooten, am a columnist with the Times, and a passing fair one at that, if I am to believe the folks that flatter me on the one hand and try to sell me tickets to a political event or a drawing for a quilt on the other!
There she met Joe Wootten, who was only one year younger than her mother. Joe was brought up on a Georgia plantation, became a reporter for the Atlanta Constitution and later the chief pharmacist at Milledgeville. He trained Aunt Margaret in this profession, and, upon his death, she assumed the position and title.
While Joe was at the Constitution he became good friends with Frank L. Stanton, the first columnist for that newspaper. Stanton was the first Poet Laureate of Georgia, made so by the governor.
Stanton wrote many poems, including several that were set to music and one or two became popular “parlor” songs. Because of this friendship, Aunt Margaret and Uncle Joe were often given autographed first editions of his books, and once Stanton wrote and published in the Constitution a poem about Margaret. Stanton was rumored to be a hard-drinking newspaperman, and I suspect that some of his continued friendship with my folks was carried on during some “treatment” time in Milledgeville.
When Aunt Margaret died about thirty five years ago I rented a U-Haul truck and, with my wife Theresa and my older daughter as passengers, went to Milledgeville to close the estate. I sold the house and automobile, and we loaded the truck with antique furniture, including two pieces that had been built by slaves on the Wootten plantation.
As we were getting ready to leave, Theresa noticed two cardboard boxes filled with books. We loaded them, and months later opened them. They contained books that were contemporary to the times of Uncle Joe and Aunt Margaret, including the Stanton editions, other poetry books and inspirational writings. Some of the authors were James Whitcomb Riley, known as the “Hoosier Poet”, Edgar Allen Poe, Tennyson and others, tomes that you would expect to find in a well-read couple’s library of the late 1800’s and the early part of the last century.
Interspersed among the leaves of the books were personal letters from Frank L. Stanton to Uncle Joe, much of it written on foolscap, a size and type of paper used in the newsrooms of the day. None were typewritten, almost all were scribbled, large and bold, with pencils. Uncle Joe on two occasions had written to Stanton about a particular poem that had been published, and the author would write it from memory for him. He included the poem to Aunt Margaret, praising her red lips, and in the margin wrote: “I hope that this does the trick with the lovely woman”. This reminded me of the times in my courting days when I would quote Robert Burns’ “My love is like a red, red rose”, and this would usually “do the trick” for me. If my date was somewhat on the uneducated side, I would tell her that I wrote it “just for you”. I wonder if Joe used that line also.
And we found something extra.
Also stuffed between the pages of these old, prized books was something that would have once been a treasure. We found, and spread out to examine, Confederate money, from small fifty cent denominations printed by local banks up to and including one hundred dollar bills of the Confederate States of America. Early ones were crisply printed on both sides on quality papers. Later ones, those that were in circulation during the last days of the Confederacy, appeared to be on scraps of paper that had been used before: wall paper, wrappings, anything that was available. And these were printed on only one side.
So which was the treasure? Some of us may believe that “The South will rise again!” and the dollars will have exchange value. In truth, much of it is valuable now as collectors’ pieces.
Or is the treasure the first editions and personally inscribed books of Frank Stanton, given in friendship to a young couple beginning life together? I tend to lean toward this as being the real treasure. After all, Frank Lebby Stanton was the first columnist for the Constitution, and perhaps the first newspaper columnist in the United States.
And I, a friend of his by my relationship with Margaret and Joe Wooten, am a columnist with the Times, and a passing fair one at that, if I am to believe the folks that flatter me on the one hand and try to sell me tickets to a political event or a drawing for a quilt on the other!
Friday, May 14, 2010
It’s Time to Sell a Loaf of Your Bread
My mother was fond of quoting adages that often did not seem to have any meaning for the times. One of her favorites, and truly an unusual one for the 1930s, when our country was in the midst of the Great Depression, was: “If you have two loaves of bread, sell one and buy a hyacinth”.
This made little sense to me. First, it was an old Arabian saying. Secondly, we very seldom had two loaves of bread at one time, unless company was coming, and then we would probably have cornbread or biscuits. But as I recall the life of the Hirt family I have come to understand the meaning, and it could well be something for today.
The nomads of the desert prized bread as a food that complemented the dates grown at the oases. These were not loaves such as we purchase at Winn-Dixie. They were hard-crusted and durable and something, I would suspect, similar in construction to the hardtack issued to soldiers in the War Between the States. But to suggest that a man sell half of his food and buy a flower……..that was almost unthinkable. The truth was that the bread filled his stomach, and one loaf would suffice for the day, but a hyacinth, the lovely flower that floated in the rather rare pools that he found in his travels, would fill his soul.
Rossie Hirt filled our souls, with music and good books inside our small home, and with flowers outside. In a town of many gardens, ours always seemed to be special. I still own the house on Morgan Avenue in Chattahoochee, and it is still filled with azaleas and day lilies and camellias…..above all camellias, the beautiful winter flower that is a closed bud one day and then suddenly a large, lovely bloom. One of the plants that stands there was rooted from a cutting from Rossie’s mother’s garden, which came from her mother’s garden. It is a japonica, not a popular variety today, but one that has meaning to me and is well worth a loaf of bread.
Rossie took the hyacinth thing to heart. She had my father build a small fish pool in the back yard. In the pool she installed some goldfish and, you guessed it, a hyacinth, or water lily. We enjoyed the flowers that floated on the surface, and the neighborhood cats enjoyed the fish. Rossie borrowed my slingshot and fired away at the predators, only hitting one. Flossie, a large Persian and our neighbor’s pride, picked a cold day in December to fish, and Mother shot at her and struck her broadside. Startled, the cat tried to jump the pool lengthwise, and fell into the icy waters. When the two neighbors visited over the fence after that, Flossie would disappear.
Before we relate this saying to modern times, I must make a disclaimer. Hyacinths once choked the great St. Johns River, bringing its flow almost to a standstill. It was an invasive species, possibly an early attempt by Muslims to bring our commerce to a halt. The University of Florida, being a land grant college (I’m not certain what that means, but it seems to be a statement that one must work into stories like this one), decided to see what could be done with the pest. Cattle feed? Didn’t work. Fertilizer? Nope, mostly water. Wall board? Aha! The professors pressed the water out, dried and treated the residue and made a fairly good looking construction item from it. And then it got wet and ……..sprouted. Even the famous architect Frank Lloyd Wright would have trouble with that, and he was known for using strange building materials.
So hyacinths were finally brought under control. Now we have kudzu and hydrilla and crab grass. Since I have begun mowing my own lawn again I would place centipede and St. Augustine in the same category.
So today we think about our need for beauty. Most of us eat too much, but few of us fulfill this need in our lives. We are fortunate, here in Jackson County, to be surrounded by beauty. My morning walks are alongside a pasture, lush and green, with cattle grazing there. Interspersed among them are birds: cattle egrets seem to sort out the cows so that each bird has a cow to stand by. Along the fencerow are mockingbirds and cardinals and a myriad of small songsters, each keeping an eye on me and I watching them and their antics.
We have music. Our churches have choirs, if not great then certainly above average. The Baptist College of Florida has emphasized not only church music but classical as well and has regular concerts. Chipola College passes out scholarships to outstanding musicians who offer free concerts. Chipola also brings in very talented artists and admission prices are reasonable.
And each quarter St. Luke’s Episcopal Church has guest musicians in, and there is no charge, although Father Dave, with good humor, reminds us that there is a “rather large bowl”, just suited for checks and bills of all denominations, and placed so that we must pass by it on the way to the ladies’ “modest” reception. As an aside, the Episcopalians serve wine at the reception, and they serve it well, recommending the right one for your chicken salad sandwich.
We are bordered and dotted with bodies of water: Lake Seminole and the Apalachicola River; Merritt’s Mill Pond and the Chipola, Jackson Blue Spring and ponds and smaller streams. Each provides a beauty that can fill the soul. I still recall a Christmas Eve when I was returning home down the River Road. I looked across at the huge orange harvest moon rising and filling the sky and setting the water aglow beneath, and wished that I could call someone to come and share it with me, to see a miracle and to witness an example of God’s grace.
I believe that Rossie Hirt, if she had been there, would have turned to me and said “See, that is what I really meant about the hyacinth”!
This made little sense to me. First, it was an old Arabian saying. Secondly, we very seldom had two loaves of bread at one time, unless company was coming, and then we would probably have cornbread or biscuits. But as I recall the life of the Hirt family I have come to understand the meaning, and it could well be something for today.
The nomads of the desert prized bread as a food that complemented the dates grown at the oases. These were not loaves such as we purchase at Winn-Dixie. They were hard-crusted and durable and something, I would suspect, similar in construction to the hardtack issued to soldiers in the War Between the States. But to suggest that a man sell half of his food and buy a flower……..that was almost unthinkable. The truth was that the bread filled his stomach, and one loaf would suffice for the day, but a hyacinth, the lovely flower that floated in the rather rare pools that he found in his travels, would fill his soul.
Rossie Hirt filled our souls, with music and good books inside our small home, and with flowers outside. In a town of many gardens, ours always seemed to be special. I still own the house on Morgan Avenue in Chattahoochee, and it is still filled with azaleas and day lilies and camellias…..above all camellias, the beautiful winter flower that is a closed bud one day and then suddenly a large, lovely bloom. One of the plants that stands there was rooted from a cutting from Rossie’s mother’s garden, which came from her mother’s garden. It is a japonica, not a popular variety today, but one that has meaning to me and is well worth a loaf of bread.
Rossie took the hyacinth thing to heart. She had my father build a small fish pool in the back yard. In the pool she installed some goldfish and, you guessed it, a hyacinth, or water lily. We enjoyed the flowers that floated on the surface, and the neighborhood cats enjoyed the fish. Rossie borrowed my slingshot and fired away at the predators, only hitting one. Flossie, a large Persian and our neighbor’s pride, picked a cold day in December to fish, and Mother shot at her and struck her broadside. Startled, the cat tried to jump the pool lengthwise, and fell into the icy waters. When the two neighbors visited over the fence after that, Flossie would disappear.
Before we relate this saying to modern times, I must make a disclaimer. Hyacinths once choked the great St. Johns River, bringing its flow almost to a standstill. It was an invasive species, possibly an early attempt by Muslims to bring our commerce to a halt. The University of Florida, being a land grant college (I’m not certain what that means, but it seems to be a statement that one must work into stories like this one), decided to see what could be done with the pest. Cattle feed? Didn’t work. Fertilizer? Nope, mostly water. Wall board? Aha! The professors pressed the water out, dried and treated the residue and made a fairly good looking construction item from it. And then it got wet and ……..sprouted. Even the famous architect Frank Lloyd Wright would have trouble with that, and he was known for using strange building materials.
So hyacinths were finally brought under control. Now we have kudzu and hydrilla and crab grass. Since I have begun mowing my own lawn again I would place centipede and St. Augustine in the same category.
So today we think about our need for beauty. Most of us eat too much, but few of us fulfill this need in our lives. We are fortunate, here in Jackson County, to be surrounded by beauty. My morning walks are alongside a pasture, lush and green, with cattle grazing there. Interspersed among them are birds: cattle egrets seem to sort out the cows so that each bird has a cow to stand by. Along the fencerow are mockingbirds and cardinals and a myriad of small songsters, each keeping an eye on me and I watching them and their antics.
We have music. Our churches have choirs, if not great then certainly above average. The Baptist College of Florida has emphasized not only church music but classical as well and has regular concerts. Chipola College passes out scholarships to outstanding musicians who offer free concerts. Chipola also brings in very talented artists and admission prices are reasonable.
And each quarter St. Luke’s Episcopal Church has guest musicians in, and there is no charge, although Father Dave, with good humor, reminds us that there is a “rather large bowl”, just suited for checks and bills of all denominations, and placed so that we must pass by it on the way to the ladies’ “modest” reception. As an aside, the Episcopalians serve wine at the reception, and they serve it well, recommending the right one for your chicken salad sandwich.
We are bordered and dotted with bodies of water: Lake Seminole and the Apalachicola River; Merritt’s Mill Pond and the Chipola, Jackson Blue Spring and ponds and smaller streams. Each provides a beauty that can fill the soul. I still recall a Christmas Eve when I was returning home down the River Road. I looked across at the huge orange harvest moon rising and filling the sky and setting the water aglow beneath, and wished that I could call someone to come and share it with me, to see a miracle and to witness an example of God’s grace.
I believe that Rossie Hirt, if she had been there, would have turned to me and said “See, that is what I really meant about the hyacinth”!
Thursday, May 6, 2010
I Am Ready for my Trophy!
In my previous article about being obese I said that I had begun walking, and that I was taking a little over twenty minutes to walk one mile. I have faithfully continued the program. I walk at least three miles every day, and sometimes I ease that up to five miles.
On occasion I will jog or run about fifty steps when appropriate music pops up on my I-Pod. My grandson Stuart loaded this machine with a good mix: along with Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, he added in an album by Artie Shaw and another by Count Basie, two of my favorites. He also put in about thirty minutes of bagpipes straight from Scotland and it includes “Scotland the Brave”, which sent many a bonnie laddie off to war.
He and I both like the Beach Boys, and I can’t help but pick up the pace when “That Old Time Rock and Roll” pours forth into my eager ears. This is when I dance a few steps, and my neighbors avert their eyes, much as you do when you are at a family reunion and good old Uncle Lucius cackles out when he remembers a joke from his childhood and then forgets before he can tell it.
Even without the jogging I have been able recently to do my first mile in fifteen minutes, with the second one taking seventeen. And now the competitive drive has taken me. I know that I promised my readers that I would run a measured mile with “The Runner” on or about my eighty-fifth birthday, and we would do it in eight minutes. But we should all, as our preachers often remind us, “live in the here and now”. In short, I not only want recognition soon, but I really would like to receive a trophy for my efforts.
I live in a house filled with trophies. My older daughter, Meredith the Baseball Coach, lettered in four sports in high school, and took dancing also. That makes for a lot of trophies. Ashlee the Nutritionist, my second daughter, only participated in one sport, and that was basketball. She played two minutes, and that two minutes was in the waning moments of the last game of the season. The coach put her in, and someone passed her the ball, and she passed it off, and the final buzzer sounded. She got a letter, but no trophy. She did excel in cheerleading and in looking pretty and got awards in the former all the way to the national level.
So now you understand my desire. And I have taken a step, albeit a small one, in that direction. I entered the recent Smiling Pig Cookoff and Arts Festival 5k run/walk. Here’s how that went down.
I had loaded “Ron the Elephant” in my Explorer and was bound for the Republican Booth. When I reached the vendors’ gate at Citizens’ Lodge I was waved forward by Margo Lambe, famed Chipola Speaks TV star. She smiled and I decided right then to enter the run/walk. I paid her my money and received the “backpack”, which contained a rather garish tee shirt, some dental floss and a numbered sheet of paper, with four safety pins.
I was in and on my way to glory and fame!
The next morning I talked a young lady into pinning my number on my Seacrest Wolf Preserve tee shirt, and I began mingling with the crowd of athletes. I knew none of the walkers so I moseyed over to the runners. I would chat with one for a minute, and he would get a furtive look in his eyes and move away. Then I realized that runners dress in a certain way. I had the Nike shoes but was wearing long khaki work pants. They had special shirts and shorts and some of the women even wore cute little skirts with polka dots on them. Remember, I came from the era when Gussie Moran showed up at Wimbledon wearing frilly panties that showed under an above-the-knee skirt, and was ejected from the courts after several of the judges fainted.
My fascination with the attire, especially with the skirts, almost got me in trouble. The runners took off, and I looked around for the walkers. There were none! And then someone told me that they had been gone for at least two minutes in a different direction. I had to run to catch up. After some time I managed to pass two pregnant women, a mother carrying an infant and another with a dog on a leash that was checking out the bushes alongside the route. Just as I pulled ahead of this group a photographer took my picture, and I am certain that I appeared to be winning.
And I did win, in my age group, which is eighty and above. I was certain that I had a trophy, but I found out that no trophies were given for walkers, and that is a gross injustice and indicates prejudice of the highest order. I am not trying for “Miss Congeniality”. I can be just as nice as the next fellow, but it was time for a trophy, and no excuses!
Someone pointed out that I could have entered the run and I would have received a trophy because there were no eighty year old runners that day. NOW I know! I will be prepared for the next 5K run. I believe that there is to be one at Compass Lake in The Hills next weekend, and I should have no problem there.
But, just in case, I plan to bring my own trophy!
On occasion I will jog or run about fifty steps when appropriate music pops up on my I-Pod. My grandson Stuart loaded this machine with a good mix: along with Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, he added in an album by Artie Shaw and another by Count Basie, two of my favorites. He also put in about thirty minutes of bagpipes straight from Scotland and it includes “Scotland the Brave”, which sent many a bonnie laddie off to war.
He and I both like the Beach Boys, and I can’t help but pick up the pace when “That Old Time Rock and Roll” pours forth into my eager ears. This is when I dance a few steps, and my neighbors avert their eyes, much as you do when you are at a family reunion and good old Uncle Lucius cackles out when he remembers a joke from his childhood and then forgets before he can tell it.
Even without the jogging I have been able recently to do my first mile in fifteen minutes, with the second one taking seventeen. And now the competitive drive has taken me. I know that I promised my readers that I would run a measured mile with “The Runner” on or about my eighty-fifth birthday, and we would do it in eight minutes. But we should all, as our preachers often remind us, “live in the here and now”. In short, I not only want recognition soon, but I really would like to receive a trophy for my efforts.
I live in a house filled with trophies. My older daughter, Meredith the Baseball Coach, lettered in four sports in high school, and took dancing also. That makes for a lot of trophies. Ashlee the Nutritionist, my second daughter, only participated in one sport, and that was basketball. She played two minutes, and that two minutes was in the waning moments of the last game of the season. The coach put her in, and someone passed her the ball, and she passed it off, and the final buzzer sounded. She got a letter, but no trophy. She did excel in cheerleading and in looking pretty and got awards in the former all the way to the national level.
So now you understand my desire. And I have taken a step, albeit a small one, in that direction. I entered the recent Smiling Pig Cookoff and Arts Festival 5k run/walk. Here’s how that went down.
I had loaded “Ron the Elephant” in my Explorer and was bound for the Republican Booth. When I reached the vendors’ gate at Citizens’ Lodge I was waved forward by Margo Lambe, famed Chipola Speaks TV star. She smiled and I decided right then to enter the run/walk. I paid her my money and received the “backpack”, which contained a rather garish tee shirt, some dental floss and a numbered sheet of paper, with four safety pins.
I was in and on my way to glory and fame!
The next morning I talked a young lady into pinning my number on my Seacrest Wolf Preserve tee shirt, and I began mingling with the crowd of athletes. I knew none of the walkers so I moseyed over to the runners. I would chat with one for a minute, and he would get a furtive look in his eyes and move away. Then I realized that runners dress in a certain way. I had the Nike shoes but was wearing long khaki work pants. They had special shirts and shorts and some of the women even wore cute little skirts with polka dots on them. Remember, I came from the era when Gussie Moran showed up at Wimbledon wearing frilly panties that showed under an above-the-knee skirt, and was ejected from the courts after several of the judges fainted.
My fascination with the attire, especially with the skirts, almost got me in trouble. The runners took off, and I looked around for the walkers. There were none! And then someone told me that they had been gone for at least two minutes in a different direction. I had to run to catch up. After some time I managed to pass two pregnant women, a mother carrying an infant and another with a dog on a leash that was checking out the bushes alongside the route. Just as I pulled ahead of this group a photographer took my picture, and I am certain that I appeared to be winning.
And I did win, in my age group, which is eighty and above. I was certain that I had a trophy, but I found out that no trophies were given for walkers, and that is a gross injustice and indicates prejudice of the highest order. I am not trying for “Miss Congeniality”. I can be just as nice as the next fellow, but it was time for a trophy, and no excuses!
Someone pointed out that I could have entered the run and I would have received a trophy because there were no eighty year old runners that day. NOW I know! I will be prepared for the next 5K run. I believe that there is to be one at Compass Lake in The Hills next weekend, and I should have no problem there.
But, just in case, I plan to bring my own trophy!
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