Blue Eyes

Blue Eyes

A True Story

Prologue

February 15, 2010

Manhattan, KS

His heart was breaking.

He sighed, knowing that the time had come. She wouldn’t want anyone else to see her like this. In fact, she’d be angry that he had left her in this state for over two days. She had to know, had to understand, how much strength it was taking for him to make this painful decision. He was angry; he had never planned on her being the first to go. After all that they had been through, all of the close calls, for her to simply get sick and not wake up was simply unacceptable.

He knew she was tired. She had been telling him for several years. He just hadn’t wanted to hear it, hadn’t wanted to accept that this beautiful woman who had saved him from himself and who had created a lifetime of love, warmth and memories, was going to leave him.

The old man held her hand and looked at her face closely. He wanted her to wake up so that he could see her blue eyes one final time. They had both gotten old, although he couldn’t say exactly when. Her house, the mass of skin that contained the core that was his Mollie, had become wrinkled…shrunken over the years, but there was always one consistently safe place he could lose himself and that was the blue of her eyes. He hadn’t seen those blue eyes in over two days. He knew that he wouldn’t see them again.

The old Marine felt his throat tighten and he shook his head, not wanting any of the girls to see him upset. He leaned down and kissed his bride’s hand, then grabbed his cane, stood up, and went to find the doctor.

It was time for her to meet Tuffy. He knew it wouldn’t be long before he joined them.

**********************************************************************

September, 1943

Parkerville, KS

When he saw her for the first time she was riding in a car with a group of girlfriends. She was beautiful, even from afar. He wanted to meet her.

The next time their paths crossed, she was wearing a red dress and walking in a circle during a community cake walk, performing beautifully in her role as the new teacher at Haun Country School. It was obvious to him that others attending the community picnic were equally smitten.

Deb Stone approached Mary Jean Harmison as soon as the cake walk ended and politely asked her if she would consider going out with him. Her response left him roaring with laughter.

“Sober up and then call me” she stated, shoulders back and head held high.

He knew, in that moment, she was the perfect woman for him. He also decided he liked the name Mollie better than Mary Jean. It fit her better.

**********************************************************************

Their inaugural date was a movie in Council Grove. By the end of the evening she had him in her spell. He was fairly certain he was in love for the first time in his young life.

Later that night, as he held her face in his hands and cautiously kissed her, the response from her lips told him all he needed to know. Mollie felt the same. He was ecstatic, thrilled, and delirious all at the same time. Deb hollered out loud on the drive home and to anyone listening he would’ve sounded like a mad man.

He convinced her to marry him three months later, to the horror of both their families. His parents thought she was too poor for him; her parents thought he was a no-good drinker from a family almost as destitute as they were. Deb and Mollie didn’t care.

Instead, they drove sixty miles in a wicked rain storm to the Cottonwood Falls Courthouse and refused to invite a single family member to the wedding. For the first time in his life, Deb was drunk on something other than alcohol. Mollie had that effect on him.

They were utterly, hopelessly, and passionately in love.

The world was on fire. The war was in full explosion; Deb would have to enlist or be drafted when he turned 18 in February. But none of that concerned them. All that mattered was right now. Neither doubted for a moment the wisdom of marrying so quickly or so impulsively. They already loved each other with a depth and maturity unknown to anyone in their family or circle of friends.

They were soul mates.

**********************************************************************

After Deb completed boot camp with the United States Marine Corps in San Diego (he would always maintain that if he had to fight he was going to do it with the best), he rented an apartment in Oceanside so that Mollie could join him. By day, Deb engaged in war games and ate in the Camp Pendleton chow hall. Mollie survived on the tastiest five cent egg sandwiches she’d ever eaten at the corner deli and took on ironing jobs to help cover expenses.

Deb snuck out of Pendleton every evening. He had found a hole in one of the external fences and late every night, he’d find his way into her arms. In the morning, sporting a huge smile, he’d hop onto one of the liberty buses and sneak back onto the base.

It was romantic, magical, marvelous and bewitching. During their secret late night trysts, they pretended that there was no war, no looming threat. There was just Deb and Mollie. He knew that if she were to dwell on the future and what might come she would be paralyzed with fear, unable to function. So he pretended with her and held her tight.

Deb was notified in early August that they would be shipping out. He and Mollie had prepared for this. He knew his military transport convoy would roll right by the apartment so the plan was for her to wait until the trucks finally rounded the corner. Sticking with their careful strategy, he secured an outside seat and held his laundry bag up high. As soon as the truck began to pass, he stood and gave the bag a heave, tossing it towards her. The last photo in his mind’s eye was of Mollie standing on the sidewalk next to his dirty clothes bag, one arm in the air waving and the other clutched in a tight fist against her heart.

******************************************************************

April 1, 1945

Okinawa, South Pacific

The morning arrived clear and warm. As Deb grabbed his gear and headed to the landing vehicle he looked out from the ship’s deck and was shocked. He’d never seen anything like it before. As far as his eyes could see, there were American ships, hundreds of them. Their 240mm and 155mm guns blasted the island of Okinawa. They had been shelling for days, softening up the island for the American landing. He was a little scared but more resigned than anything else. All of them understood that the Marines who had landed on Iwo Jima were butchered and they had been warned.

Today’s landing casualties would be high.

Later, as he walked up onto the beach, he shook his head in amazement. The landing had been a breeze with no enemy fire encountered. Maybe he would get out of this alive after all!

Over the course of the next six weeks, the First Division would make their way south, towards Naha, Okinawa’s capital. Caves and tunnels protected their enemy, making every day a challenge, every mile a hard fought obstacle.

Deb wrote Mollie between the violent skirmishes, but spared her any of the real details. Instead, he shared lighter stories, like the fact that the unit had given him the name “Chick” because he was the youngest. He would find out after returning home that most of the letters had large chunks cut out, courtesy of the Marine officers who censored them.

*********************************************************************

May 15 was quiet, too quiet. Regimental command had most of the First Marine Division concentrated in an area surrounding three large hills north of the old city of Shuri. The fighting had become heavier the further south they moved and these three hills were a major stronghold of Ushijima’s battle hardened forces.

Deb’s Sergeant asked for two volunteers to hike to the top of Dakeshi Ridge so that C Company could secure it. Fighting was fierce to the southeast on Sugar Loaf Hill; they needed this ridge secured quickly so that reinforcements could head to Sugar Loaf and help their brothers.

Deb still had that feeling. The one he’d had the day of the landing. The one that told him he wasn’t meant to survive this war. In defiance of that feeling, he volunteered, along with Private Stjar, whom they had nicknamed “Big Daddy” because of his size and age.

Deb saw no signs of the enemy, but still cradled his Browning automatic rifle tightly. The Japanese were surely there, deep beneath the ground. The enemy was hiding in miles of tunnels; they would enter through caves then lie in wait to ambush young American Army soldiers and Marines. As a result, the Americans had been forced to endure a painful hill by hill sweep, trying to ferret out every last enemy soldier. Once a cave entrance had been sealed, the Allies could continue heading south.

It was slow. It was painstaking. It was deadly.

As Deb neared the summit of Dakeshi, he heard a sound every Marine recognizes: incoming fire. Before he could hit the ground the force of bullets assaulted like a freight train. The blow threw him back twenty feet, leaving him mangled, lying on the ground, gasping for air, and reeling from the impact.

As he lay there, in shock and confusion, all hell broke loose around him. Bullets were flying everywhere, with dirt and rocks being blown in every direction. He felt a searing white hot pain in his knee and lower left leg and wondered if he was on fire.

Deb was lying on his right side but could not move; he feared he might be paralyzed. He squinted, trying to protect his eyes from the dust and debris, and saw a Navy corpsman crouched low, trying to reach him. At that moment, it seemed as if the entire Japanese Army began to shoot at them. The corpsman, locking eyes with the injured Marine, shook his head back and forth in apology and retreated. The barrage of bullets was too heavy. Deb was on his own until either he or the storm of gunfire died.

His ears were ringing and small pieces of the earth were blasting him from all sides. He could see his right arm but couldn’t feel it. Strange, he thought, the pain in his leg was still excruciating, but he couldn’t feel anything on the right side where he thought he had been hit.

Time passed while the madness around him continued. Eventually, after what felt like hours, the enemy seemed to take a collective breath. In those brief moments, a corpsman and two litter bearers rushed in and loaded him onto a stretcher.

He remembered reaching the makeshift field hospital and hearing the doctor tell another corpsman “take his boots, he won’t need them”. Mollie had given him those logging boots, which were sturdier than the standard Marine issue. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t yell “don’t touch those boots!”

Then the doctor looked at him. The last thing he heard before drifting off was “Son, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to take your arm.”

***********************************************************************

June 3, 1945

White City, Kansas

The baby wouldn’t come. No matter what Mary Jean did, no matter how hard she pushed, he wouldn’t come. No one had told her labor would hurt so badly and there were moments when she really thought she was going to die. During these times, she mentally held on to the letter Deb had written, letting her know he was alive. Fearing the military would send her a dreaded telegram saying he was dead or missing in action, he had spent three hours trying to pen a barely legible letter with his left hand.

His assumption had been correct; the military did send a telegram. But he wasn’t missing in action. He was alive and on his way home. She could do this. If he could do what he had done, she could do this.

Doc Bowers knew she needed a cesarean but they were literally stuck in Mary Jean’s small apartment doing the best they could. He simply couldn’t move her at this point. The baby was breach but it was more than that. This was the worst labor he’d ever witnessed and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep the baby or the patient alive.

Harriet Harmison, Mary Jean’s sister-in-law, was literally acting as a pair of human stirrups. Even though her shoulders were black and blue, Harriet felt that it was a small sacrifice; her own labor had been nothing like the horror she had witnessed over the past twenty hours. By now, it was obvious even to her that something was very wrong. There were moments when she wanted to run from the room and never look back. Mary Jean’s anguish was palpable, her pain visceral.

When Delbert Jr. finally arrived, his mother sunk into a deep sleep. A grateful Doc Bowers knew she would recover. Over the next ten days, while Mary Jean recuperated, family members only brought little Delbert to her for small amounts of time. She couldn’t nurse, which was fine by her. Only poor folks nursed and she’d been fighting to shed that moniker her entire life.

By the end of the first week, she became concerned with the way he was being wrapped so tightly during the hot Kansas summer. All she could see was his face peeking out. The blankets were ridiculous and he needed to breathe. As she pulled the covers off and cupped the back of his head in her hand to keep his neck safe, she was horrified. Why was the top of his head so large?

She gasped, had never felt anything like this. Surely….no, this couldn’t be……what was wrong with him? Why hadn’t they told her? Mary Jean held him, frozen, and looked around, silently begging for help. As Harriet stepped into the room, Mary Jean’s eyes asked her for answers, for an explanation. Harriet choked down a sob. She had to run away and simply couldn’t bear to see the agony in her sister’s blue eyes.

Mary Jean’s index and middle fingers were sunk several inches into the back of little Delbert’s skull. It was squishy, gelatinous, the way her meat loaf felt as her hands worked it together. And his head…..his head was huge, distorted, as if every piece of skin above his beautiful clear forehead was inflated and bulging.

She pulled him closely to her chest and closed her eyes. Rocking him, she whispered “this is not real. You’ll be just fine. Dad will come home and we can fix this. This just isn’t real.”

It became all too real over the next few months. As Delbert Jr’s head became more pronounced, so did his cries of distress. Mary Jean kept her own pain close, deep, and hugged it tightly like an old worn blanket.

***********************************************************************

Deb, recuperating in San Francisco, cursed and threatened, eventually going straight to the Commanding Officer of Mare Island Naval Hospital. This was the only power that could over-ride the Red Cross, which had determined he wasn’t healthy enough to travel. Deb didn’t give a damn what they thought. His wife needed him. His baby was dying. He had to get home. Fortunately, the C.O. didn’t give a damn either. He drew up the papers and by July Deb was on his way back to White City for a two week visit.

Things had changed. Deb weighed 165 pounds before the war. Now he weighed 125. Every time he stepped on a scale, he found himself wondering how much his arm had weighed. Mollie, at 5’8”, weighed a meager 115 pounds between the baby and worry. Together, they were nothing but skin and bones. Those days were fraught with raw pain, sorrow, and bewilderment.

Deb was known for bestowing nicknames and his new son immediately became “Tuffy”. Their little fighter had a sweet and happy disposition, but on far too many occasions he would just cry. His head hurt, he was in pain. Listening to this, having to hear it, was agonizing.

**********************************************************************

Deb returned to California in late July. Mary Jean, alone again, was facing enormous challenges which threatened to break and destroy her. At times, she raged against God himself. Not once did she become angry with Tuffy, though. She couldn’t. Her sweet, gentle baby was innocent. Fate was a cruel bastard.

She took him to Kansas City. Residents at the KU Medical Center poked and prodded. They looked at Tuffy as if he were a new toy for them to play with. No one could tell her how to fix him or make him better. Dr. Teachenor, the expert, described Tuffy’s condition as “enormous asymmetrical head with greatly dilated bulging fontanels and suture lines; congenital hydrocephalus”…whatever that meant. Her baby had water on the brain. According to the doctors, he could die in a few weeks or he could die in a few months. Draining the fluid that was drowning his brain wasn’t an option.

It would simply come back.

As she rode back to White City on the train, shielding the baby from curious eyes, her thoughts turned to Deb and his pain and loss. Then she looked at Tuffy. She felt, for a moment, as if she wanted to simply close her eyes and escape. Then she wouldn’t have to feel this all-consuming anguish.

*********************************************************************

During the fall of 1945, Mary Jean became sick. She couldn’t keep food down and between caring for Tuffy, worrying about Deb, and trying to keep the citizens of White City at bay when they visited for a peek at the” Stone’s freak baby”, she lost even more weight.

She was pregnant again.

Doc Bowers was worried when Mary Jean stopped by his office. “Is everything okay with Tuffy?” he asked. “Tuffy is fine,” she said, “It’s me. I can’t have the baby. What if this baby is sick too? Doc Bowers, I can’t do this again. I won’t survive it”.

As she poured her heart out to him, sharing her fears, Doc Bowers gently reassured her that there was nothing she had done, no genetic history, to cause Tuffy’s condition. She heard him, understood what he was saying, but would never reconcile why their baby had to be the one, why he had to spend his brief life in pain, and why he would have to be taken from them.

In the end, there was absolutely no way she could do anything to hurt the baby she was carrying, regardless of the fear which often paralyzed her. It was time to write Deb and let him know he was going to be a father again.

**********************************************************************

Deb walked through the front door for good on Christmas Eve, 1945. It had been a long trip from San Francisco. The shrapnel was still in his knee. His stump still hurt. He had no idea what he would find when he entered their home but as soon as he looked into her blue eyes and held her, he believed they could get through this.

Tuffy began sleeping more. The doctors had predicted this, along with seizures. They watched and waited, but their baby endured without this horrible side effect. He withdrew into longer and deeper periods of sleep, not crying as much and no longer reaching out to them with his tiny baby hands. They hoped, prayed, that this meant he was no longer in as much pain and that his death would be tranquil.

When he wasn’t sleeping, Tuffy was still an angel. His eyes were bright blue, just like his mother’s, his skin smooth and clear, and his smile sweet and contagious.

Unable to move his head because of the weight, his eyes would follow Mollie as far as they allowed him. She made it a habit to stay in front of him so he could always see her. Near the end, on a few occasions, he would reach out, longing to be held as he had before this final decline.

Deb struggled in silence. It enraged him that he couldn’t pick up the baby with one arm, couldn’t safely support the head to ensure it didn’t twist, savagely breaking Tuffy’s neck. At times, he could feel a phantom arm reaching out, trying to touch the baby.

Mollie, were she to admit it, hated almost everyone, include the doctors in Kansas City and the prying neighbors.

During those moments when the sorrow and frustration racked her soul to the core, leaving her breathless and panting, she felt that anger lashing out towards everyone else but Deb.

By early February, Doc Bowers told them Tuffy was nearing the end.

While holding vigil, Deb was more concerned with Mollie, at times persuading her to leave Tuffy’s side so she could get some rest. He stuffed his own pain, a survival skill learned on the hell that was Okinawa, keeping a tough exterior in order to support Mollie.

Late the night of February 11, 1946, at the tender age of eight months, Tuffy finally left them, quietly and in his sleep. They didn’t realize the moment had arrived and had briefly stepped out of the room. Not being with Tuffy, unable to hold him at the very end, was the final insult, the ultimate injustice.

What else, thought Mollie, had she expected?

*****************************************************************

May 19, 1946

This labor was different. It didn’t hurt as badly, didn’t make her feel as if she was being ripped apart. Surely that was a good sign? As Doc Bowers held up their new daughter, Mary Jean thanked the same God she had railed against so many times for sparing them the horror she had experienced with Tuffy, for giving her a normal delivery.

Their baby, named Mary Ann, was perfect in every way. Still, Mary Jean found herself touching the baby’s head, feeling it all over. She looked into the little girl’s eyes and they were perfect, not distended. As tears rolled down her face and sobs racked her body, she held tightly to this beautiful new life. A part of her had died with Tuffy and she would never, ever, recover that part of herself.

In spite of this, or maybe because of it, their beautiful Mary Ann would give her a reason to go on. After everything she’d been through, long absent hope had finally arrived. She promised to treasure this valuable gift every day for the rest of her life.

She and Deb would be blessed with three more healthy and beautiful daughters, but not another son. Not another Tuffy. Fate wouldn’t be that generous.

It didn’t matter, though. As long as there was light in her blue eyes and strength in his soul, together they would make it.

Epilogue

June 2, 2013

It has been three long years since Mollie left him. The pain of losing an arm, of losing Tuffy…none of it was as wrenching as losing her.

He was ready and wanted to die but his battered and weathered body kept holding on.

“I’m waiting, Mollie” he whispers softly in the night.

****************************************************************************************

June 26, 2014

Walking down the sunlit path he could see her standing in the distance holding hands with a young man. As he got closer he could see that the blue eyes of mother and son were identical.

As he wrapped them tightly in both arms, her voice spoke the words he had been longing to hear.

"Welcome home" she said, "welcome home."

Thanks, But I'm Not Switching Kansas Parties

Election season is upon us. Monday was the filing deadline for Kansas State Representative candidates, meaning those of us involved in campaigns are talking. We are talking about districts and candidates. We are talking about numbers and demographics. We are talking about how we can best get rid of the extremists in Topeka by replacing them with moderate, cooperative, and intelligent citizens.

I’ve been met with a particular statement many times over the past few years, by some of my favorite Republicans in Johnson County (yes, there are many Republican friends whom I love but respectfully disagree with on some issues). They have all said to me “You should just switch parties!”

Um, no. I shouldn’t.

In fact, how would you respond if I told YOU to switch parties? Would you be insulted? The question itself implies I lack an awareness of who I am and what I believe. Actually, consider that, in light of the current state of Kansas, maybe moderate Kansas Republicans should be the ones rethinking their party affiliation.

After all, it is your extreme party members who have destroyed the legislature by such ridiculous acts as holding sonograms under the dome, sponsoring discriminatory bills (leaving Kansas the laughingstock of the country), and who single handedly removed teacher’s rights within our state.

Wasn’t it YOUR party who introduced and passed the tax bill which is directly responsible for the state’s downgraded bond rating and projected 900 million dollar+ shortfall by 2017?

Yours is the party who played host to a group of lobbyists who targeted every moderate incumbent for ouster two years ago in order to bring in patsies who would do the bidding of Brownback, the Kansas Chamber of Commerce and the Koch brothers. And these are the same Republicans now attempting to do the identical thing again during the current pending primaries. And yet not one of you who asked me to switch parties has openly denounced Brownback.

And isn’t it your party’s governor whose most beloved henchmen are now being investigated by the FBI for alleged illegal lobbying activities?

No, I think I’ll stick with the Democrats, thank you very much.

You see, there is a reason I’m a Kansas Democrat.

It is because I believe in teachers, public schools, and providing the best education possible to every single Kansas child regardless of their income or religion.

It is because I believe in equal rights for all Kansas and United States citizens, regardless of gender, race, religious belief or sexual orientation.

It is because I believe in a woman’s right to make private medical decisions without the government intruding. In fact, I believe in a man’s right to the same.

It is because I believe that taxes are vital to maintaining first world conditions within this country. To be brutally honest, I kind of enjoy our paved roads and invaluable public services.

Call me crazy, but I’m even partial to some government regulations. In fact, I kind of prefer not having raw sewage in the local ditches.

I'm even pro-business but understand that a state like Kansas lacks the necessary resources to support a zero business income tax model…and it certainly didn’t take a rocket scientist to understand this simple little fact before the vote was taken on Brownback’s experimental grand tax bill. Yours is the party that has supported candidates who lack the basic ability to use pragmatism, nuance, and simple honest research before making informed decisions regarding how they will vote on a bill. They blindly follow their masters' bidding when it comes time to make those votes.

It is because I believe our elected officials should be financially supported by donations offered by average citizens versus massive and lopsided donations by the corporate elite, which is one of the ways the extremists in YOUR party have managed to wrestle control of the state away from your very own moderates.

It is because I believe that employee unions paved the way for worker’s rights and a solid middle class so that families could afford to buy a home and send their kids to college, knowing there would be a pension.

Oh, and yes. I believe in global warming and science. Call me crazy, I’ll accept that.

I believe our founding fathers would be horrified to see the push by some to turn this state into a theocracy and further horrified to see traditional Republicans who oppose this refuse to stand up to the Governor who is leading the charge.

It is because I would never, ever, associate myself with a party that refuses to purge hatred, bigotry, ignorance and discrimination from its ranks, even when it is costing the citizens of Kansas dearly.

Thanks for the advice, really. I appreciate the offer to join the reigning party in Kansas. I really do. It makes me feel humbled and wanted, kind of like hanging out in the bar during last call.

Frankly, though, I’m pretty darn comfortable with the Kansas Democrats.

They fit who I am and what I believe and I've never considered leaving. Not even to be on the state's current popular team.

But hey, we have plenty of room in the party. Our arms are open and accepting…ALL Americans and Kansans are welcome.

With one caveat: You can’t hate/malign/push to remove civil rights/or otherwise disrespect your fellow citizens because they aren't like you. If that’s your scene then stay right where you are. The majority party in Topeka seems to have a monopoly on bigotry and ignorance.

Not my party, though. They represent true Kansas values.

Tattoo for Humanity

Just a little over a week ago a lone gunman drove several hours from his southern Missouri home and murdered three people he thought were Jewish. When he was arrested, he could be heard yelling “Heil Hitler”.

The next day, I decided to get my second tattoo.

I commissioned the first tattoo in honor of my 30th birthday. It is a small Jayhawk, placed on my right hip. I knew that I would always love my alma mater because a college education represented growth, opportunity and choices for my future.

Even though I’ve thought about getting another one over the years, I had yet to find anything compelling enough to undergo the needle again. Although tattoos are a raging fad for the current generation (just ride down the Niangua River in southern Missouri on a hot summer afternoon….it looks like a Sons of Anarchy convention for Americans under 30), I’ve always felt that in order to permanently mark your skin it needs to be something deeply personal, something you will never regret, and something you are doing for yourself and not for attention or at the urging of someone else.

This is why it has taken almost fifteen years to decide on number two.

My new tattoo was designed by myself & Gary Barber (aka: Inkslinger). It is a Star of David. Inside the star is a blue peace sign and on top are the letters “M” and “B”. On the bottom is the initial “MJ”. The “M” represents my daughter, Marah. The “B” is in honor of my son, Brody. The “MJ” is a reminder of Mary Jean, the grandmother who raised me.

As for the Star of David? I’m not Jewish. This isn’t the symbol of a religion I was raised in. But to me, this doesn’t matter. This star represents two things I never want to forget.

The Star of David is thought to represent many things, but most commonly the twelve tribes of Israel. In Kabbalah, the origins of which are deeply Jewish, the two triangles represent the dichotomies inherent in man: good vs. evil, spiritual vs. physical, etc.

I like the Kabbalah definition. It is closer to the real reason I chose this symbol and wanted it to be etched permanently on my body.

The Star of David is tightly woven into the history of WWII and the Holocaust. Because of this, and because of how the history of the Holocaust affects me so deeply, it has come to represent two separate and very different things.

The yellow Star of David patch was a sign of man’s most base ugliness; of the propensity to perpetuate and act upon his or her most violent and cruelest desires. It also represents our willingness and desire to look the other way and even, in many cases, to partake in bringing harm to humanity; to be cowards when others are being hurt and to choose the easy path of least resistance. When I look at the tattoo I am compelled to remember that unless we take care of each other and unless we change the things that create this evil and hatred, we will simply continue to harm our fellow humans.

You see, the Star doesn’t remind me of racism towards Jews exclusively. It represents the German belief that anyone who wasn’t a white Aryan was trash. This encompassed all other humans who weren’t like them, including developmentally and physically disabled people; Romani; homosexuals; Slavs; Poles; Serbs; Russians; people of color; anyone considered “left”, such as communists/socialists/trade unionists; Freemasons; Jehovah’s Witnesses, and Spanish Republicans.

I never want to forget what human beings can do to each other. I never want to forget that average citizens are capable of turning a blind eye…and I never want to forget why I believe in humanity and equality for all. This tattoo helps me to remember that.

The down side is that when I look at the Star on my leg every morning, I feel sadness and anger. I feel disgust. I experience overwhelming feelings of demoralization in light of the things still happening around the world and, yes, even in our own country.

The Star does more, though. It also represents the very opposite of hatred.

This tattoo represents a culture that survived the most horrifically conceived and executed genocide imaginable. To me, because of the connection to the Holocaust, the Star represents all of the unique populations and people who were murdered and persecuted. They lived, they thrived, and they move among us today. The reason they have survived is a testament to the thousands of people who did not remain silent, who did not fear the consequences of taking action to save and protect their fellow man, and because, in the end, sacrifice, love and compassion were all stronger than hatred and violence.

The blue peace sign within the Star is also highly significant. It was placed there to fuel hope, optimism and action.

I chose blue because it is an important color within many different religions …most religions, in spite of their differences, are spiritual havens that tie us together and provide positive guidance.

But, quite simply, there is another reason I chose blue as the only color added to the tattoo. My Grandmother Mary Jean was the most compassionate and giving person I’ve ever known; she saved me, loved me unconditionally…and taught me to be, above all else, kind. Blue was the piercingly deep shade of her eyes and it was her favorite color; the same similar color of my husband Brian’s eyes.

When I look at the Star, I am reminded that good eventually wins out over evil. Adolf Hitler was defeated. Pol Pot is dead. Stalin’s violent and tyrannical Russia, although still in turmoil, no longer hosts Siberian death camps. Jim Crowe is no longer legal in the United States. And Frazier Glenn Cross, last weekend’s shooter, is sitting behind bars, never to walk the streets as a free man again. There is still so much evil in the world, though. It is like a weed…when one dies, another pops up to take its place.

So many murders…so much cruelty…so much pain and heartache…all at the hands of evil individuals who are now rotting in the ground and who are despised historically. And yet, somehow, murder and anger and racism and hatred continue.

We must learn from this hate. We must never stop fighting it. And we must never remain silent.

The tattoo is my own intimate reminder of this. And the initials are my own personal reasons for pledging to do the one singular and most important thing each of us can do to stop current atrocities, to attack the building blocks of hatred and violence that are currently underway within our own country and the rest of the world, and to teach our children to be better.

That one thing is to speak out. It is to explore what we say and what we share with others that could, sometimes unbeknownst to ourselves, fuel anger and hatred toward our fellow man. It is to search deep within ourselves with the honest goal of identifying our own personal biases and anger towards others who are different, or who are unknown to us, or who live in far away unfamiliar places….to ask those tough questions of ourselves regarding true humanity and brotherhood towards all living beings.

Until we reach a point when we quit seeing color, race, religion, sexual orientation, political persuasion or disability when looking upon another person then there will still be ugliness, horror and violence perpetrated on each other.

The Star, peace sign, and initials are reminders every day to never forget, to always have hope, and to never be silent.

What will your reminders be?

The Urgent Care Stalkers (with a dose of puke, southern Alabama & dementia tossed in)

Four weeks of Shulda style sickness, diary style.

Sunday, March 16: Arrived in Destin, Florida, after a fun drive up with the Kempfs. Fun night taking Marah out for sushi to celebrate her 13th birthday but Brody opted for pizza instead. He hates sushi. I found myself wondering “pizza in a sushi joint? Meh, whatever, it’s what he wants”. Wake at 2:00 am to a crying Brody. Is that vomit I smell? Ack, ACk, ACK, that’s vomit. He’s on the top bunk bed above Jack, so I send him to the shower, crawl up the ladder, and feel something hot, wet, and, oh God, chunky. It feels like maybe moistened cat food? Ack, ACk, ACK (those are hurling noises coming from my throat in case you can’t catch on). I lean over the simulated cat food to pull up the fitted sheet. SHIT! My t-shirt dipped into the pile. Ack, ACk, ACK. Focus. This is war.

p.s. I forgot to add that Jack, Barb's 13 year old, had some, um, bathroom issues earlier tonight. I saw Barb walking into bathroom #1 (of two), wielding a plunger and a very determined look. She said Jack has stopped up the toilet. I had to pee, so headed to bathroom #2, which was locked. I knocked and hear Jack say “just a minute”. Like a tattling teen, I ran back to bathroom #1. “Barb, why is Jack in the master bathroom?” Her reply left me nervous. “He said he needed to finish!” This is our first night. Somehow I get the feeling it might be a long week.

Monday, March 17: Wake because my hands itch. It is from washing them too many times last night. I get up and see that Brody is comfortably resting on the sleeper couch. After spraying off the majority of chunks into the kitchen sink (sans the few pieces that flung up and hit me in the face) and using the disposal to discard whatever was left of pizza and ice cream birthday cake from the, of course, heavily stitched quilt, I successfully got it into the washer with his pajamas last night but the remaining sheets are still in a pile in front of the washing machine. Those fuckers are glaring at me, I can see it. I’m impressed with the Kempf clan, though. They slept through the festivities. Especially Jack, who was right underneath the carnage. I’m thinking it must’ve been the result of a peaceful colon.

Tuesday, March 18: Barb has been fighting the onset of a nasty head cold but she complains less than any person I’ve ever met. Is she even human? The woman has an extremely high pain tolerance and has dealt with more medical issues in her life than ten folks combined. She is my hero; even feeling crappy she’s on the beach. Brody has been coughing. Allot. But the sheets are clean and he’s not allowed to eat pizza. Or ice cream cake. Or, really, anything. He’s complaining a little of hunger but I told him unless he wants to sleep on the deck he must take one for the team. My Ack reflex can’t take another puking episode. We discovered it wasn’t just Jack; bathroom #1 has issues. Just ask the plunger.

Friday, March 21: Brody’s cough has gotten, um, kind of bad. He says ice cream helps. ACK. We leave for home tomorrow but are trying to get one last day on the beach. As he and I were walking in the surf a coughing fit seized him and the next thing I knew he was puking. I could see a family watching us in horror, so I turned him toward the ocean and tried to subtly kick the chunks away so they’d float out to sea. I mean, seriously, what are they going to do? Drain the pool??? Besides, just yesterday we witnessed choppers flying circles over the water in front of us and the Beach Chair Guy (we didn’t get his name) said it usually means sharks were spotted. Sharks like cat food, right?

There was another coughing/puking incident later that day right by the couch. On the throw rug, that, thanks to some genius, is taped to the floor. That means I can’t get UNDER IT to get the rest of the puke out. So I McGyver a knife and paper towel and do the best I can while scrubbing the side of the couch, chair, and anything close to the blast zone. This is a condo, remember, and we pay for stains. Thanks to the bathroom #1 plunger incidents we have plenty of air freshener so I douse the entire area and fabric with it. I forgot to mention. Barb may be a she woman but she does have one kryptonite: vomit. I’m still on my own, which is appropriate. It’s my kid. Can I swap for the plunger????

Saturday, March 22: I finally succumbed to my odd fascination with boiled peanut signs (they must be good, right, because the Florida pan handle is teeming with signs) and purchased some at a gas station in Cullman, AL. Ack, ACk, ACK!!!!! The only thing that makes it tolerable is remembering our lunch stop. We had stopped at a cool diner in the old Cloverfield district in Montgomery, AL. Brody ordered the children’s fruit plate (wtf??? He’s NEVER ordered that) and doubled down on the order after I said “you do know it’s ONLY fruit, right?” As soon as they set it in front him he said “um, mom, I don’t really want this.” Gabrielle, Barb’s 17 year old (one of the funniest little chicka’s in the world!) took the prize, though. Jack ordered a sandwich but requested they leave off the mushrooms. Gabrielle, in turn, ordered the portabella sandwich and asked for extra mushrooms, then retracted the extra mushroom request after seeing our confused looks. When the sandwich arrived she was appalled. “Where’s the meat mom?” She couldn’t bring herself to eat the disgusting sandwich, having believed it was a burger with some portabellas on it. Life lesson are so fun sometimes!

We arrived in Nashville that night to our dear friend Terri’s home, where she offered up comfort, food, drinks, a huge dose of love and medicine that could get Brody home.

Sunday, March 23: Had to face the loss of KU in the NCAA tournament. Is this sickness related, you ask? Seriously?? Is the Pope Catholic???? Have you SEEN the “Marlys Crying Games?”

Monday, March 24: First thing this morning I take Brody to Urgent Care. The doctor takes one listen and says “Oh, I think he has pneumonia!” I’m the world’s worst mother. Ever. But I just wanted to get him home!!! Maybe we should’ve stopped off at one of the millions of Assembly of God or Southern Baptist Churches we drove by in southern Alabama for some snake healing on the way home. The signs were so welcoming, like Salem Baptist Church (everyone loves a good witch burning), Pilgrim Rest Baptist Church (those poor tired Pilgrims!), Red Oak/Good Hope/ Buck Creek,/Bela/ Pleasant Home & River Falls Baptist Churches…then there were the Assembly of God churches, kind of like the whole Walgreens/CVS corner feud? Where you see a Walgreens you will see a CVS. Same with the Southern Baptists and the Assembly of God folks; they’ve got a real Hatfield & McCoy thing going on down there. My favorite was the Primitive Baptist Church, written on a crude wooden sign with an arrow pointing down a narrow country road. I couldn’t quit laughing until Barb finally got fed up with me. I think her hand got tired because I was making her write down the name of every church we passed. She hadn’t quit writing in an hour.

Friday, March 28: I take Brody to our regular doctor because he’s still a little puny (seriously, how long does this pneumonia stuff take to get over???) and because he vomits once every morning. I think it’s a gift he brought back from Florida for me. I’ve become quite the pro at cleaning it up. She takes another chest x-ray and it looks clear but he may have some acid reflux issues going on (maybe caused by the antibiotic irritating something?). We return to the pharmacy for the second time this week for another scrip to heal his tummy and prepare for Monday.

Monday, March31: Brody puked again this morning. No school. Again.

Tuesday, April 1: I’m ready today!!!! In touch with school, they know about the stomach issue, and I make him go. Phone call ten minutes after school starts from Nurse Erin: “um, Brody puked but he made it out of line to the bathroom and seems to be doing fine now?” I tell her to let him rest and if it happens again I’ll come get him. No further incidents and he stays the entire day. Maybe it’s over!

Wednesday, April 2: He wakes up and says his stomach hurts. I decide to keep him home, but text the neighbors we carpool with to let them know. I add in a note saying I hope the District Attorney doesn’t send me a notice to appear in court in jest. Immediately, my phone rings and Dave is in a panic: “Did they DA send you notice????” I’m like “no, but if my kid misses anymore school they sure as hell might!”

Monday, April 7: Brody is officially better, with no further incidents. However....wait for it....just wait...Marah is home from school. Her throat hurts and looks red with a few white patches. As we walk in the door of Urgent Care the lady at the desk says “oh, hi, weren’t you here last week?” I explain that I was, and that Brody is better. Marah has a strep test done and it’s negative. They think it might be allergies so we head to CVS (third time in a week) for some Allegra. I'm finally starting to understand the CVS/Walgreens & Baptist/Assembly of God strategies. Sometimes you need a change of scenery.

Tuesday, April 8: I’m starting to feel pretty damn poorly myself. While watching Grandpa Ed today, I left him alone at the kitchen table in his wheel chair (locked up tight) and actually laid down on the living room floor because I felt so bad. After accidentally falling asleep, I woke to him rocking back and forth in the process of pulling the table cloth off the table. I also found that he had poured his coffee into the bowl of grapes, stuck a pencil in the bowl, and also put one of the v-tech battery operated toddler toys I got him right in the middle of the coffee. When I said “Grandpa, what are you doing?” he just blew me a kiss. I’m slipping badly.

Not to be outdone, I receive a text from Barb. They had sewage backup in the basement, poop water mixed with laundry water and the plumber can't come until tomorrow. They just said to hell with it and went to a hotel. Maybe Destin has cursed us. Grrrrrr.

Wednesday, April 9: Last night I had a fever of 101.4. I went to Urgent Care today and the lady looked even more confused to see me than she had Monday. I have bronchitis. Back to CVS for an antibiotic and inhaler (Brody's & mine are matching, isn’t that cute?). After returning home, I find that the fever is back up again and I’m miserable, shivering down to my bones. I put on my favorite KU stocking hat, sweatshirt and sweatpants, turn up the heated blanket to High, and set my phone alarm for 2pm. When it goes off, I weakly reach over and turn on the radio to hear Joel Embiid’s NCAA announcement, then shut it off and crawl back into my cave. Don’t anyone EVER accuse me of not loving the Jayhawks.

Thursday, April 10: Marah is still complaining of throat pain and after looking at her monstrosity of a throat I’m convinced she has strep and the doctor on Monday is crazy. For the (yes, I’m capitalizing this!) FOURTH time in 11 days, I walk back into Urgent Care. By now they are laughing at me, albeit under their breath. Who the hell is THIS doctor?? Where is my regular Urgent Care doctor??? Ugh. This guy says “no, she doesn’t have strep, we did the quick test on Monday and sent it off for a culture and those are 99.9% correct…blah blah blah….just give me a freaking scrip!!!”. Oops, did I say that out loud? He was so flippin’ condescending. It’s a virus…she doesn’t have the other symptoms….has to ride itself out…can go to school and do what’s comfortable.” Sigh. But he gives her a prescription for Lidocaine to numb it. You know the routine by now: CVS.

Friday: April 11: Sigh. I think we are all on the right track, finally. Marah was convinced that she has strep until her neurotic internet searches resulted in photos under “tonsillitis” that looked like hers. Eh, hum, it said just what the, eh, hum, condescending doctor said. As for me? Even though I no longer have any fever I’m still coughing and feeling a little puny. Regardless, we leave tonight for Tulsa because the throat queen has a soccer tournament and the doctor SAID she can participate in activities if she feels like it. Brody is 100% (it only took 8 or 9 days longer than I had originally thought), Marah is convinced she’s not dying, and I’ve suffered, sniffle, quietly with my own puny-ness.

What’s the lesson? If you find yourself cleaning up vomit on the first night of a Florida vacation, walk…no, RUN, to Urgent Care. If I had it to do over again? I’d stop in southern Alabama. I’m sure the Golan Assembly of God could’ve provided one HELLUVA blog story and even healed us prematurely in the process. ACK!!

Reading Glasses

It has finally happened.

We swear as teenagers that we’ll never be like our parents.

We scoff at the suggestion that we will ever, in a million years, act like our mothers.

We laugh in the face of anyone who implies we might, in any small way, mirror our own parent’s peculiarities.

Then, as life continues this slow journey along the curves, hills, and bumps of her highway, we find ourselves understanding, small things at first, then larger after we start paying taxes, a mortgage, or have children. We can’t help it. Life forces us to be more like our parents.

I know this. It makes sense. The things I say to my children reflect my own upbringing and I accept that. Actually, as I get older, I embrace it. I figure if I can be half as good a parent as my grandparents then I’ll have something to hang my hat on.

I don’t mind the comments out of my mouth that are starting to sound more like my grandparents. Honestly, I don’t. It’s all part of being a grownup and I get that. I’ve fought those things I don’t like, such as gray hair or surrendering to the idea that one needs to look or act old once they hit 40 (my grandmother’s hair was a dull gray before she even hit 40, shudder!).

No, it’s not sounding like my Grandmother that annoys me. Really, none of it affected me until this week. That’s a lie. MOST of it didn’t bother me until this weekend.

As I sit here typing, finally able to see the screen in bright and amazing clarity, I realize I’ve hit rock bottom (yes, I'm being dramatic).

I had to buy my first pair of reading glasses.

I was DOING IT. And it disgusted me.

I was holding the bottle of Ibuprofin out in front of me, under a light, trying desperately to read the dosage directions for kids under 12. In that moment I knew. I knew because I was making that screwed up, squinty eyed face that makes you look old. I knew because I was moving the bottle back and forth under the light in order to get the best angle, nodding my head up and down. Looking old.

I can’t escape the physical toll age takes on us. None of us can. And it pisses me off.

What pisses me off even more is that I like the reading glasses. They work. I feel like I have a new lease on reading. And adding insult to injury is this. I like the reading glasses more than I hate how they make me look, which is to say: middle aged.

I’m doing those “things” that our parents do. I’m making sure I know where they are. I’m sitting them down on top of the book I’m reading. I’m double checking my purse before walking out the door to make sure I have them in case I need them…because I really do need them. I’m telling the kids “hold on a minute, I need my glasses” before reading something from school. And it’s only been a week!

This isn’t the same as needing prescription eye glasses. No. Even young children need glasses.

Reading glasses are all about age.

I need some time to adjust, to accept that the eyes are only one part of my body that will start to “act up” (for want of a better term….breakdown is far too painful to say). Making this purchase was a huge concession.

As I go through the process, I’m creating a list of “damn glads” in order to help ease the pain. I invite you to join me in copying and pasting these on your bathroom mirror when you purchase YOUR first pair of reading glasses.

1. Be damn glad you aren’t wearing bifocals yet.

2. Be damn glad you live in an era where coloring hair is accepted and emphatically encouraged.

3. Be damn glad you live in an era where working out doesn’t include leg warmers and getting physical; and that you live during a time when women are encouraged to exercise.

4. Be damn glad you live in a time when science has taught us a few things about keeping arthritis and osteoporosis at bay (and wrinkles while we’re at it).

5. If you don’t have any hereditary diseases that are already making your life hell then be damn glad you don’t.

6. Be damn glad reading glasses are available, in cool styles, so that you can pretend like you WANT to wear them cuz they make you look smart.

7. Number 7 is something I keep on every list, every day, because in the end it is most important: Be damn glad you weren’t born in a third world country, where topics such as this blog are frivolous.

I’m still pissed. But blind pissed is far worse than seeing pissed.

Bracket Breakdown in a Nutshell

It’s not all over....but, let's be honest, it really is. At least for me.

KU bowed out early in the NCAA Tournament this weekend. Now that I’ve had a few days to mourn the end of my favorite season it’s time to go back and look at bracketology 101.

I typically do pretty well with my brackets. There are some tried and true “tells” that I use when making my picks but this year I added something else to the mix: astrology.

My sister-in-law’s aunt Julie, a professional astrologist with oodles of training, worked with me on the “Billion Dollar Bracket” in order to try and combine astrology with basketball stats in order to pick a perfect bracket. We learned a few things in the process.

I won’t share all of the secrets because Julie is going to continue researching her side of the equation, but suffice it to say half of our missed picks were with matchups that we lacked the necessary team information. I give us a pass on these.

There were other picks made because of astrology that ended up being amazingly correct. For instance, we picked Tennessee to win the play in game without batting an eye; and to win their next game as well. On the other hand, we picked Texas to go very far based solely upon their chart. In that particular case, I would never have picked Texas to make it past the second game (I wouldn’t have picked them to win the first game, to be honest; they rarely play well in the tournament). It didn't matter, though, because we were trying something new and different. Something none of the other 15 million contestants were doing.

Astrology led us to pick Providence and George Washington to win their first games. Wrong. But how wrong? Providence played a very close game, leaving us wondering if the astrological readings WERE accurate in that Providence would have a great tournament. By definition, MAKING the tournament and playing so well in the first game is a success for that program. By the same token, it also led us to pick Dayton and Harvard, which were the right choices.

When I look back at the basketball aspects I typically use I found that even without astrology I still would have picked Dayton and Harvard but not G. Washington or Providence.

As for KU? Julie clearly said from the beginning that KU “has nothing” in their chart that would lead her to believe we would make it past the second game. In fact, and this is intriguing, when we reviewed the personal astrological charts of Andrew Wiggins and Joel Embiid, she said they would both be flat during the late portion of March. Furthermore, there were specific “tells” in Embiid’s chart indicating some sort of physical problem. This was long before his injury but I remember looking at her and saying “he’s going to get hurt, isn’t he?” Her response was “it leans that way”. Of note is the fact that we didn't look at very many individual players other than KU, mostly because of time constraints.

Now, when we look at the specific factors non-astrologically related that I typically use every year there were additional discrepancies.

I research these particular factors, not always in the same order:

1) Season opponents and the scoring margin between top RPI teams, even if a team loses.

2) Overall scoring margins; close games against tough opponents will lead to me to lean towards a team in the tourney

3) Number of potential NBA draft picks playing on a team

4) Veteran tournament coaches

5) Number of upperclassmen on a team

6) Higher scoring teams

7) Road wins

Here’s an example: Dayton beat Gonzaga early in the season. They lost to Baylor but only by one point. They beat UMass, SLU and George Washington all LATE in the season. Those three teams are in the tournament, hence a lean towards Dayton possibly pulling an upset in the opening round.

Harvard is another good example. They lost to Cincinnati, which has a potential late 2nd round NBA pick on their team in Kirpatrick, early in the season but it was on the road and they only lost by five points. The majority of their conference wins were on the road and they won by a margin of roughly ten points or more in many of those wins. Over half of the Harvard team is composed of Juniors/Seniors and they only have three freshman on the roster. None of these players will be in the NBA.

This is a simple example, but it works over half the time.

This year has been crazy.

Syracuse, with Tyler Enis and Jerami Grant (both potential first round NBA draft picks), is out. So is KU, with the potential 1st & 2nd overall picks and a sure-fire Hall of Fame coach at the helm.

Duke, with another potential 1-3 NBA pick in Jabari Parker and one of the greatest college coaches ever is also out after the first weekend. OSU, with Marcus Smart, out. Indiana has a potential top ten NBA pick and they didn’t even make the tournament.

UCLA, on the other hand, has two potential first round NBA picks on their roster and they are playing in the Sweet Sixteen next weekend. Michigan State, with Gary Harris and Adreian Payne as potential first round drafts and a veteran tournament coach, are also still alive in the tournament. Roy Williams, with only three freshman on the entire roster, is out; John Calipari, who boasts nine freshman four of whom could go pro in the first round, is still in. Wichita State returned almost an entire Final Four team and rolled through this season, undefeated. As a one seed this year, they are done. As a nine seed last year, they were in the Final Four. I personally thought they'd make it to the Championship game based upon the typical factors I look at (Early is a projected #13 draft pick as of today). I'm still shaking my head.

Simply put, I tried this year to set aside any bias and look strictly at statistics. I paid to join “bracketscience.com”, which is a candy store for stat wonks. There were studies on defensive and offensive efficiency ratings, coaching records, bracket matchups compared to previous year bracket matchups….and on and on and on. You name it and there is a statistical study that has been done.

So what does all of this mean???? NOTHING. Okay, I take that back. A few things tend to hold true in the end. Nothing higher than an eight seed has ever won the tournament.

The lowest seed to ever make the Elite Eight was Missouri in 2002 as an eleven seed.

Only three ten seeds have ever made the Final Four.

Only seven ten seeds have ever made the Elite Eight and only one nine seed (Wichita State last year) has ever made the Final Four.

An eight seed has only played in the Championship game twice and only won it all once. Let me repeat this: an eight seed has only won the tournament ONCE and nothing lower has ever even played in the Championship Game.

After the dust settles following the first round, the cream does start to rise to the top. The seeds tend to start playing out more clearly. This isn’t the frustrating part of the tournament. It is figuring out the first weekend’s games.

What, in the end, does all of this mean???? For me personally, it’s more of a challenge. My picks this year left me believing that regular season wins are important to study. Looking at the history of teams that traditionally don’t do well in the tournament is also important (see Texas and some of the other Big 12 teams).

In addition, the influx of talented Freshman starters seems to only be a partial factor in success and mid-majors with upper class leadership have an edge when it comes to the stress and pressure of the NCAA tournament. Pay attention, though, with regard to the mid-majors. Veteran leadership makes a difference in the opening weekends; history shows that during the second weekend the seeds play out.

I’m not discounting the astrological factor either; rather, I think it will require far more detailed research on individual players on each team in order to get a better read on how they will do in the tournament. KU showed me this: everything we saw within individual charts outlined clearly a second game loss. Julie didn’t even bat a single lash at this.

In the end, let’s just call it like it is. A total and complete crap shoot.

My advice? Keep picking one seeds to beat 16 seeds. That seems to be clear. Keep picking nine seeds and higher to make it to the Elite Eight. That seems to be clear.

Everything else? Pick a color, mascot, favorite player, or just close your eyes and point to a team on the bracket. You will probably do better than we did this year.

But don’t count us out yet. Julie and I have a year to perfect our strategies. Let’s just hope Warren Buffet likes a good bracket contest again.

And that he has a good underwriter.

My Love Affair with Music and Boxing

“Run!”

Brad messes with the radio as we begin running laps. A Disney princess song briefly pops up, compliments of his three daughters. “Oops” he grins at us, mischievously.

“Slide!”

I can feel my butt start to jiggle (eh, hum, one of the reasons I am here) and my heart is starting to beat a little faster.

“Bear crawl!”

I like this one; shorter legs make it easier, I think? But I’m feeling tired already and we’ve only been at it for less than fifteen minutes.

“Gloves on and grab a bag!”

As I put on my gloves and pick a bag with no one around me the first strains of Boston start to play. I like it when he plays songs from high school and early college.

“Jab cross!”

And as I hit, I sing the lyrics in my mind.

“I looked out this morning, and the sun was gone….turned on some music to start my day.”

“Jab cross , jab cross hook!”

The music flows over me, and I find myself singing the words between inhaling, between the hits.

“Then lose myself in a familiar song. I closed my eyes, and I slipped away.”

“Jab cross, hook, cross, jab jab!”

This feels good. And as I punch, and breathe, and sing quietly, a rhythm sets in.

“So many people have come and gone. Their faces fade as the years go by. Yet I still recall as I wander on. As clear as the sun in the summer sky.”

“Upper cut, upper cut!”

And I remember. Riding in the back of a hot black Iroc Z-28, Boston blaring over the speakers, a packed car filled with college kids. The music was never better.

“I like this Brad! Brings back fun memories!” The rest of the group laughs between punches.

“More than a feeling...when I hear that old song they used to play. And I begin dreamin’…”

As we move through the workout, the music makes me happy. My arms get tired the longer we punch. The interval squat jumps, jumping jacks and mountain climbers are making me sweat, muscles quiver, but the music keeps playing and my mind wanders, wondering what memories the next tune up will bring back.

Strains of Van Halen’s “Running With the Devil” begin to play.

“Jab cross, slip, jab cross jab!”

Kemper Arena, 1984, David Lee Roth’s flowing hair and wildly flamboyant sword and scarf routine…I remember. Man, what a great concert for a 15 year old from White City.

Breathe, slip, breathe, jab.

“I live my life like there’s no tomorrow…and all I’ve got I had to steal…least I don’t need to beg or borrow…yes, I’m living at a pace that kills.”

The mix of remembering to breathe, getting the combination of hits correct, trying to get my feet in the right rhythm as well, and the beat of the music…the lyrics…the memories are all combining to make this a happy place for me.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I don’t naturally enjoy exercising. This is different. I’ve found something that speaks to me.

But the music makes it. The music brings it all together. Without the music, well, I’d be listening to the pounding of my heart, my panting. That would make me tired. That would make me want to stop.

The music makes me want to keep going.

No way, I whisper to myself, Eddie Money? Seriously? But it works. It really works.

“Waited so long…waited so long….waited so long….waited so long. I’m gonna take you on a trip so far from here…I’ve got two tickets in my pocket, now baby we gonna disappear.”

My mind wanders to the Geico commercials and how ridiculous he seems these days. But not then…and this song is rocking right now.

“Power hits!”

As I pound, thinking about how good the right hook feels, what sounds like Power Station comes on; at least I think it’s Power Station. My mind is slipping as I get older. It doesn’t matter, the beat is still working.

I don’t look at the clock when the melodies are taking me back. That’s a new thing for me as well. To be more interested in the next song, the next set of punches…well, that’s all courtesy of the music and a great instructor.

“Grab a mat!”

We are winding down. Ab work isn’t as hard for me as, say, arm weights, and the final planks always leave me feeling proud, pleased that I showed up.

It doesn’t matter if I came yesterday. It doesn’t matter if I come tomorrow. What matters is that I did it today. Right now. This moment. It is enough.

Love it or hate it, “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” is a rite of passage for my generation, and as I hear the familiar electric guitar play those opening strains I find myself chuckling softly. My husband would have a fit if he was here.

As it pounds over the speakers, and as my muscles start to scream while holding the final plank, the keyboards are an escape. I focus on them, imagine my hands on the piano, and during those moments of redirection I can draw upon a little more in the tank, just a bit more reserve, because now I don’t want to put a knee down. I don’t want to break the line.

Small victories compared to so many. Big victories compared to others. It doesn’t matter.

The music allows it to be my victory. I wrote this as a reminder to make sure I DO come back.

“It was long ago and it was far away and it was so much better than it is today…it never felt so good it never felt so right….”

Yep. I’ll be back. After I “sleep on it, baby, baby….”

You know the rest.