Ten Miles Carried and Left in the Amazon

It’s isn’t often that we get to spend an intimate moment with one of our kids. I got to do it with both my kids and it imprinted an indelible memory in my brain. Mind you, one was painful as hell and the other rift with poisonous snakes, lethal frogs and creepy crawlers who liked to go caving in parts of your body they shouldn’t be in. But that’s another story.

The first crash and carry story had to do with my wonderful daughter, Melanie, and the grand plans we had for running the 2014 Twin Cities Marathon together. I ‘d already done two other marathons. The first in 1982, when I was a much younger man, proved a very nice PB (personal best) for me. The second was more laborious but ultimately successful in that I finished pretty strong for a middle-aged jogger. The third would be my last. I was getting up on age and three seemed like a nice round number in which to end my distance running career.

This last twenty-six miler turned out to be an adventure neither one of us had planned for or anticipated. Melanie and I began training in early summer and were up to 22 miles for our last weekend when I came down (literally falling to the ground) with a stress fracture.

That injury meant six weeks of recovery. So, by the time the marathon came along we had only built our weekend mileage back up to sixteen miles. Undeterred, I was determined to run the race and hope for the best.

We started out slow and easy and kept a reasonable pace for all of sixteen miles. Then everything fell apart. Back pain began to creep up and crippled my spine. My legs turned to rubber and I experienced some of the worst pain I’d ever experienced in my life. It felt as if all my systems, internal and external, were going south and taking me mentally with them. It seemed the end of the road for me.

Common sense dictated that I drop out at that point. There seemed little reason to continue when I could hardly put one foot in front of the other. Melanie was kind, sympathetic but realistic. “Dad, I think you should drop out.” She said. “But if you want to continue, I’ll stay with you.”

That was all I needed to hear. Dreading another summer of hard training and trying again in 2015 was enough to convince me, even as brain dead as I was in that moment, that another summer of pounding the pavement would be worse than the pain I was experiencing at the moment.

So, we started out slowly together, walking one block, jogging another. We kept up that stumbling, staggering pace for another ten miles and finally came in at a little under six hours. Melanie had carried me home and I will be forever grateful for that. I’m done with marathons now. I finished the last one in 2014 and while my timing wasn’t the best, I finished the thing and am damn proud of my accomplishment.

Melanie gave up any PB for herself but has since gone on to run numerous other marathons, triathlons, the Afton trail race, Pikes Peak, Cactus to Clouds hike and running the Grand Canyon rim to rim. Her running portfolio hasn’t suffered from her patience and kindness shown to her old Dad as he mentally fought those last ten very painful miles beside her.

Brian, on the other hand, took me into the heart of the Amazon rain forest and left me there. Boy, am I grateful for that experience! 

Send a sixteen-year-old down to South America on his own (actually part of a school field trip), leave him there alone for two weeks and you’ve got a total stranger on your hands.

Two weeks with a wealthy family in Quito, Ecuador, was enough to turn my son Brian into a Jack London, Jack Kerouac and Tom Clancy wannabee wrapped up behind the disguise of a high school sophomore, varsity wrestler, chess captain, honor student and overall macho man.

Quito, formally known as San Francisco de Quito, is the capital city of Ecuador. At an elevation of 9,350, it is the highest capital city in the world. It’s a strange mixture of new buildings and old. New wealth mingling with extreme poverty. All of this surrounded by the magnificent Andes Mountains.

Once our group left Quito, transportation was quickly reduced to using the local long-range bus system. Built for stamina and very rough roads, these transportation dinosaurs could do the distance. But creature comforts were left back at the station. The buses were built for the locals, which meant that if you were over five feet tall, your head would bounce up against the roof every time the bus hit a pothole or rut in the road. It happened a lot!

Traveling down to the Amazon rain basin from mountainous Quito entailed harrowing bus rides on dirt roads that simultaneously hugged mountainous cliffs on one side of the road and sheer drop-offs on the other. Not for the faint of heart or those with altitude problems.

River crossings were always interesting, especially since this was the rainy season. If the bus driver wasn’t sure about the depth of the river crossing, we’d hop a pickup truck along with the locals and try to cross that way. We were like the preverbal canary in the mineshaft. If we made it across, the bus should be able to make it too.

River transportation in that part of the Amazon consists of mainly dugout canoes. Enormous tree trunks were hollowed out and a motor placed in back. Since it was the wet season, our pilot was always on the lookout for washed out tree trunks floating in the river. A collision with one of those battering rams could have easily turned our dugout over on its side and put bodies into the water.

The other word of caution was for us to watch out for snakes hanging from low-lying tree branches or snakes in the water. And, of course, the proverbial crocodiles, which loved to shadow our dugout canoe hoping to find a hand or two dragging alongside in the water.

Brian and I agreed that the most memorable experience of the entire trip was our vision quest in a pouring rainstorm. Each of us, student and adult alike, was marched into the jungle and then left alone (totally separated from one another) for a period of an hour or longer with only the sounds and smells and humidity of the jungle to assault your senses. It just so happened that our incubation period occurred during a very heavy rainstorm. I mean sheets of rain and visibility of about ten feet, if that, for hours on end.

The idea was to experience the Amazon rain forest in its entirety without the distractions of other people and outside influences. There was no way any one of us could have found our way out of there. We had to trust that our guide would come back and find us and lead us back to camp. It was awesome. Brian and I both thought we’d died and gone to heaven. Hard to explain if you haven’t been there but it was a very thought-provoking experience. A true vision quest.

Our trip to the Amazon was more than just a high school field trip. Instead, it became a journey of self-discovery for both Brian and myself. For Brian, it was his first taste of other cultures, which only wetted his appetite for greater adventures ahead and inspired him to travel around the world while still in college. For myself, it was a continuation of my desire to explore options and opportunities that might expand my own creative horizon.

So, while some other fathers might regale their buddies with father-son bonding stories of camping trips or baseball games, I came to admire and grow very proud of my son in the dangerous backwaters and jungles of the Amazon River basin. As for my daughter, my asphalt angel, well, she carried me home too…. just in a different wonderful way.

What a lucky dad am I.

A Walk in the Light of the Son

The Prodigal Son came home a couple of weeks ago. It was just for a brief weekend to celebrate Father’s Day ahead of schedule. It included time to see family, a couple of his old school chums and a little quality time (translation: doing dumb things we enjoy) with his dad.

Brian isn’t really the Prodigal Son. We wouldn’t let him come home if he was. He’s a mature 36-year old young man who is smart, athletic and quite ambitious. Qualities any parent would want in their children. My wife and I have two like that.

My son had a full schedule with enough activities to rival a visiting dignitary. At the top of his list was visiting his grandfather who is suffering from Alzheimer’s disease and a grandmother who cherishes his attention. He also had a Saturday night rendezvous with some old high school and college buddies, extended family to see briefly, quality time for his family and some special father-son time.

Turns out, Brian wanted to go back in time with his dad and so we did.

We started with early morning coffee at Starbucks where Brennan and I regularly hang-out during the summertime. It was Grand Old Days so we got to walk the block and check out all the bad food stands.

We spent quite a while searching for the No Wake Café down on Harriett Island. Strangely, after 25 years, it’s no longer there. In fact, all of Harriett Island has been remodeled and the grounds there reconfigured. So we headed up to our second breakfast choice.

We did find the Day by Day Café in my old pre-Highland Park neighborhood. When I first started taking the kids there more 25 years ago, its reputation was that it only hired folks who were in recovery. Needless to say, it was an interesting atmosphere back then. The kids took it all in stride and just accepted it as another city destination their suburban chums would never venture out to see or experience themselves.

Twenty-Five years later, the restaurant has gotten new furniture and been remodeled several times over. It’s now attracting local and distant hip urban couples, growing city families, old veterans of the city scene and suburban adventurers like ourselves. I’m sure the old regulars would never recognize the place anymore.

Then we took a long walk along the refurbished Mississippi River front with its new condos and apartments and Harriett Island with its focus on recreation and entertainment. I regaled my son with tales of hitch-hiking to downtown Saint Paul by way of the then desolate and lonely river-front road. It sounded like another world to him…and it was.

 

Then we enjoyed lunch at Cossetta's. The place has changed dramatically after their multi-million dollar renovation. The old magic store is no longer nearby. I used to buy the kids magic tricks as part of our luncheon package.

Finally Brian and I caught a little brain candy (Fast and Furious 6) at the local cinema.

It ended as it had begun, with family and all the wonderful nuances that family can bring to any party.

It was an opportunity for just the two of us to share our hopes and dreams and aspirations along with comparing the challenges of raising three kids (his) vs. two (mine). We both struggled to wrap our heads around what parenthood is really all about.

I don’t know how much advice I could really give him about raising kids. Even after the fact, it was one continuous mystery for me.

Fatherhood was a challenge. I was faking it most of the way…most of the time. In fact, it wasn’t until after Brian and Melanie had left for college and we were empty-nesters that I slowly began to understand the challenges and good fortune we’d enjoyed. When Brian left for college, I got very depressed. It was never spoken but I understood that he was never coming back to live at home. He’d flown the coop and was planting his own set of memories now that he was on his own. Sure enough, after college he settled in Chicago like so many of his cohorts and lived the good life there as a semi-unattached young man.

Over the years, I slowly began to realize the magnitude of my own stumbling endeavors. Turns out, I’m a very slow learner. Since I was raised without a father, grandfather, uncle, coach or any other father figure, I was pretty much stumbling through my youth all on my own. I had no road-map to show me the way of the male role-model.

Fortunately I married a strong, independent woman who wasn’t shy about grabbing the reins of parenthood and managing the family structure.

Brian was never a mini-me nor was my daughter. In fact, far from it. They both made it a point to cut their own pathway through youth, adolescence and young adulthood. While I tried not to live vicariously through his sporting events and activities, it was hard not to envy (in a good way, I hope) all the wonderful high school and collegiate experiences he was throwing into his bucket of life

Both he and Melanie had become ‘those people’ in high school and college. The ones I always envied back then (unfortunately, not a good way) because they were smart, successful, athletic, and destined for a future I could only dream of.

I wasn’t really surprised by Brian’s athleticism starting in middle school with wrestling and continuing into high school on one of the best teams in the country, bar none. Winning five out of six of his matches at his two state championships.

He continued that with his dorms intramural football championship freshman year at Notre Dame. Then rock climbing in his spare time.  Traveling around the world at age 21 just opened his desire to travel even more.

 

Now he does boot camp most mornings. Then on weekends, it’s skiing in the wintertime and triathlons, mountain-climbing and rough-roading with my Cannondale during the summer.

As he got older and I matured a bit, we did have several adventures together. Ditching my Son in the Amazon and A Life in Pictures. He’s continuing that tradition with his sister.

 

Although Brian’s first born wasn’t a boy, Maya has already skied black diamonds, run track events and completed two triathlons. Not to mention a plethora of other academic and sporting events. She is all of seven years old. Her brother and sister, both four years old, are right on track behind her.

Melanie’s two kids are much the same. This is what our family is all about.

In the end, I believe we define ourselves by our actions. What we do and what we don’t do with our lives. How we spend our lives in active pursuit of meaning or just coast along for the ride. I have never tried to walk in my father’s shoes. Nor have my son or daughter.

 I’d like to think that generational role-modeling had something to do with it. I’ve been down that road before. Now I get to walk in the light of my children and grandchildren.

It’s been a heck of a ride so far.

You Can't Get Candy from a Hardware Store

I have a dear friend who said trying to get love from her alcoholic mother as like trying to get candy from a hardware store. It just wasn’t there. Because of her disease, the woman’s mother was emotionally unavailable. And nothing was going to change that.

There is a man I know who is still trying to convince his father that he can make some-thing of himself despite his father’s misgivings. That fellow is still trying to prove him-self even though his father has been dead for over thirty years.

Another man, who was always the obedient son doing everything his father demanded of him, is struggling with the fact that he never talked to his father about what he missed out on growing up. As a boy, he never had a life beyond doing work around the house and other chores. When he asked permission to play sports, he was told he wasn’t working hard enough. Now the boy/man hates himself for never standing up to his father. He can’t force himself to face those long simmering issues that still prick at his subconscious. And he carries those issues with him like an anvil around his neck. Still trying to resolve why he cowered under the shadow of his domineering father.

There are a surprising number of adults who are still waiting for something from their parents. Whether it be love, approval, acceptance or recognition. But unfortunately, their parents never gave them what they needed or deserved growing up. And now it’s too late.

The generation before ours had a far different take on raising children than we did.  By my own crude calculations, their inability to communicate and show support for their kids is a hallmark for far too many parents of that generation.

Certainly the depression and the war and a multitude of other factors may have played into their inability to see their own children as something other than objects to “be seen and not heard.” But, unfortunately, their adult children are still waiting for something, anything, to show them that their parents cared. Something that will never come.

I was raised in a household totally devoid of love and affection. I realize now that if it wasn’t there, it wasn’t there. And no amount of wishful thinking or praying can ever bring it back. I am amazed at the number of folks my age who have experienced the same thing.

I guess the only way to heal that wound which can never be fully healed is through your own children and grandchildren. To make sure the missteps of your parents don’t affect your own bond with your adult children and grandchildren.

But it doesn’t end there.

The inexplicable demise of some past friendship or relationship can also leave a gash on your sensitivity that is difficult to heal. Of course everyone agrees that it’s all part of that wonderful yet confusing apparition called life. Whatever it was that we once shared was either lost or worse yet, just faded away. Of course, many of us expected our involvement with others to last forever or at least to be reciprocal. But life isn’t fair and friendships and relationships don’t always turn out the way we want them to. Or hoped they would.

It might have been like the avatar, who turned out to be just a bookend to the faint hopes of renewed acquaintances. Like a shooting star, she was in reality, just an illusion. Flash, bang, fade away.

It might have been some artificial environment, which almost by accident, threw a group of us together for some brief collection of memories and then dissipated as time and events pushed us apart and onto other milestones in our lives.

Reconnecting with old friends and acquaintances after an extended period of time can be very difficult. Out of my high school graduating class of 250, I’ve reconnected with just three old friends. I’ve tried several others but it just wasn’t there.

Of course, there are always exceptions.

On a recent trip to Maryland, I reconnected with an old friend after thirty-five years apart. We both worked at Maryland Public Television back in the 70s. I meet his wife for the first time and we shared a wonderful evening watching the sunset slide over the Naval Academy on the Severn River. We regaled one another with war stories from our PTV years and we did the obligatory “How I met my wife.” We shared our respective plans for retirement and agreed to continue writing to one another. I’m confident we will.

But that kind of renewal of an old acquaintance is rare.

So I guess if you can’t reconnect with those folks, then be grateful for the brief time spent together, perhaps the love embraced or friendship shared once upon a time. And realize that life does go on. Remember the good and the bad, the pleasure and the pain, forgive the sadness and move on with the memories. I embrace the sadness because that is a part of the equation. I hope I am a better man for it. I can only hope they feel the same way too.

What once was or wasn’t between our parents and ourselves is over. What was wrong can’t be made right. But it can be set aside. We all carry baggage from our past even when it contains some lighter moments along with the heavy ones too.

With my own kids and my grandchildren, I know it will be different. I can’t change my past but I can affect their future.

The circle is already broken.

It happened on my watch.

Born Hungry

So who is that fat old man slogging along the blacktop pathway at 6:00 in the morning? He’s over-weight, in poor form, carrying his head down and is probably in a world of hurt. He’s so slow that turtles are passed him on their way to breakfast. Why isn’t he at the coffee shop with the other retirees; those old farts who spend a good part of their days bitching about the government and life in general? Why is he out most mornings, making a fool of himself except he doesn’t care? What is he trying to prove?  And to whom?

Who is that lithe young girl running like a gazelle so easily and eloquently in the morning dew? She passes the old man and they smile at one another, if only for one brief moment, then they’re back to their own space; encapsulated in their own thoughts and reflections.

Who is the middle-aged woman at a Community Ed painting class sitting beside that macho guy, both focused on their hard scribbles few other people would call a painting? Yet they don’t seem to care or even notice. They keep dabbling, experimenting, making smears across the canvas that only they can understand and appreciate.

What are these folks trying to prove? Why engage in these mundane endeavors? Obviously, it’s not for anyone else because nobody else gives a hoot what they’re up to.

I would suggest they’re following their passion, their ambition. That internal engine that drives them to push their bodies, push their desire, push their need to do…

But what is ambition? What drives ambition? And more to my point of interest, how do you instill ambition in your kids or grandkids? I have no pat answers. It’s always easier to ask questions than to pull answers out of that cauldron called life.

For example, what happens when you’ve worked hard all your life for those things you feel you deserve and you want your kids to have? There’s nothing wrong with that but how do you keep your kids hungry when you’ve fed them so well?

How do you balance giving your kids material things and still hope they have a desire to go beyond those sundry distractions for more substance in their lives? How do you feed ambition in your kids when they’re living a privileged life (relatively speaking).  Privileg-ed because you wanted it that way.

How do you help them understand the power of money and the responsibility that goes with it. Yet you don’t want to deprive them of any of the experiences you had or didn’t have growing up yourself.

I don’t think there’s a set answer out there. Or a guidebook that details how to build desire and want in a young person’s mind. Some have it and others don’t. I was lucky. I was born poor and didn’t have far to go to move in another direction. Absence does fuel a strong desire in some people to…

With our own kids, we simply had expectations. Most were unspoken, unwritten, seldom talked about but always understood. And we gave them opportunities. Lots and lots of opportunities. That seemed to work for us.

Now with the grandchildren, we’ve taken on a supporting role in raising and educating

them; always in deference to our own kids and their spouses. Their parenting decisions

always pull the most weight. But that doesn’t mean we can’t suggest, offer, volunteer or

otherwise support ideas of our own. Seems to be working for us.

My theory is to let kids explore whatever they want to. And encourage them to do so.

So if Brennan wants to play with a ‘little people’ house, let him. Maybe he’ll become an architect or real estate developer someday. I wonder how Frank Gerry or Frank Lloyd Wright got started.

If Charlotte wants to play with trucks, let her. Caterpillar could probably use some good female engineers.

If Maya loves performing on stage with a microphone. Well, her aunt is a good attorney which every performer can use.

If Samantha can stare down her brother in a fight over toys, she might become a good hypnotist or psychologist.

And if Spencer can hang by his toes on a jungle gym, K-12 may be calling.

So we intend to give the grandkids lots and lots of experiences and opportunities. And have plenty of expectations for all of them at the same time. I want them to be like that old man and young girl jogging in the morning. And the middle-aged woman and guy exploring their respective talents for painting. I want my grandkids to do, to try, to experiment, to fail more than once and to try again. And again. And again.

And that fat old man who is out jogging each morning. He still needs a pill to get it up. He’ll probably never run a real race, even a 5k.  But he keeps chugging along. Day after day. And yet when he’s done and he’s hurting and rank and exhausted, he is still in his own world of Valhalla. Because he’s done what so many of us only wish we could do.

The irony, of course, is that we all could too.

If only…

If only…

If only…