The Marathon Spirit

April 19, 2013 / roughwighting / 26 Comments

Running a marathon is exhausting.

For the loved one of the runner.

Like, for a mom, for instance.

Six years ago my daughter trained for the Boston marathon. I watched her lose weight week by week as she increased her training miles. Her cheeks deepened in her face, her color reddened, matching her strawberry blonde hair. Her legs grew tauter and, yes, she even smiled more.

But I worried. How normal is it to get up at 4 a.m. and run for an hour in the dark and cold before the day begins? How safe is it to run after work at 5 p.m., in the New England dark cold of December and January, when the snow is hard and icy and the street lights dimmed by the freezing temperatures?

Oh yes, I worried like only a mother can.

But my daughter did not falter nor deter from her goal. She holds a deep stream of stubbornness within her – can’t for the life of me figure out where she got it.

I was proud of her, yet still cautious. By the last few weeks before Patriot’s Day – Marathon Day – her body was revolting, trembling in times of stillness. Her roommate had to rush her to the E.R. one night because she’d become too dehydrated.

But, there I stood on that Patriot’s Day, with my mom, a few yards from the finishing line on Boylston, ready to cheer our daughter/granddaughter four hours after she’d begun to run miles away from center city, early in the morning, with the thousands of other determined, strong, good-hearted men and women from around the world.

On Monday, I thought of that determination and resolve as I watched the horrifying scenes scrolled across our TV screens.

What has some wicked warped human being tried to pull asunder?

That day, six years ago, when I had cheered my daughter on to the end of her arduous run, I was lifted up myself. The thousands of people surrounding my mom and me were cheering too – not just for their loved ones, but for everyone who had placed their efforts and pains and promises right before us, with cramped legs, grimaced faces, but smiles wider than the world.

My soul was lifted that day – oh yes, as were all the souls who watched the miracle of the marathon. Even though we hadn’t pushed and pulled our bodies to their limits, we marveled and celebrated those who had. This celebration made us all one in celebrating the human spirit.

soul lifted, Boston marathon, American spirit

Lifted soul.

We Americans are known for our spirit – and watching the news on Monday, I realized why. Because we’re FREE. And in freedom, comes the ability to push and pull each other in our beliefs and in our struggles. Because we’re free, we’re open to celebrating the heritages and struggles and beliefs of others.

Because we’re free, we cheer on those who show an Olympian might to run 26.2 miles. And because we’re free, we cry with happiness as we watch those runners cross the finish line.

Because we’re free, no terror will stop our spirit. The spirit only thrives as it is strengthened.

So I salute those who train and run a marathon.

I salute those of us who cheer and wave and love all those who show us their marathon spirit.

A spirit that will never be pulled asunder.

American flags at the Boston Garden.

Spaghetti Night

April 12, 2013 / roughwighting / 36 Comments

How many spaghetti nights have I savored in my lifetime? I shudder to think of it, particularly during these low-carb days when pasta is a no no. Shaking my head, I avoid the thoughts in my head and reach for the ingredients from the shelf.

Why Spaghetti Night, I wonder as I start rolling the ground beef (lean), eggs, chopped onion, and parmesan cheese into meatballs. What would happen if instead I made, say, meatloaf, or God forbid, chicken cacciatore?

I smile as I begin to sauté the meatballs in the large pan. I suppose one doesn’t sauté meatballs, but I’m not frying them for heaven’s sake. Browning, that’s the word. I’m browning the meatballs as I envision the horrified reaction of my family if I served something other than spaghetti on a Monday night.

It all began with my guy, of course. Although he comes from an Irish mother and an Italian father, he only acknowledges the Italian genes. He may be tall, blonde, and blue-eyed, but he’s Italian, by God, and Italians love their spaghetti.

So one of the first nights our kids were old enough to sit down at the dinner table with us and enjoy a “family conference” – I think they were 2 and 4 years old – the man explained that real Italian families eat spaghetti at least once a week, so which day should we designate as Italian night?

The meatballs smell heavenly, and as the rain beats against the kitchen skylight I’m thankful that it’s Monday. I scoop the meatballs to a platter and add chopped green and red peppers to the pan, as well as a few mushrooms.

My 4-year-old daughter, that fateful day 25+ years ago, suggested that Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays would be good spaghetti nights. She loved her dad and figured more would be better. My man’s eyes lit up and he agreed, “Okay!”

I put my foot down and replied, “Mondays. That’s it.” Thus, Monday Spaghetti Night was created.

The vegetables are sautéed and I add a bottle of Newman’s sauce. I could make my own, but Paul’s family does such a good job and the proceeds go toward charity. I add the meatballs and let everything simmer for two hours. When my guy comes home, he opens the front door, takes in a big whiff and exclaims, “Monday night!”

The kids are out of college and living on their own now. It’s just the two of us. But Monday nights are still, and always will be, Spaghetti Night.

Granddaughter Sophie wants to start the tradition with HER family.

Life’s Great Lessons on a Rocky Wall

April 5, 2013 / roughwighting / 35 Comments

We sit out on the deck on a perfect late spring Saturday, drinking gallons of lemonade and munching on turkey subs. The three of us – my man, my son and I – have been working for hours in the garden planting, snipping, weeding, watering, and for the men, moving rocks.

The father and the adult son have little to say to each other most times – it’s that time in their lives when the father can no longer tell the son what to do, and the son is no longer willing to listen to anything the father suggests anyway. But when they take their shirts off in the hot sun and push and pull 200-pound rocks to remake a 100-year-old rock wall, then, then they love each other. No talk, just grunts, a curse now and then, and suddenly a spurt of laughter.

Father and Son on the Rocks.

When the food is gone, my man goes back to rebuilding the stone wall, and my son and I sit quietly, companionably, not wanting to move from the warmth and relaxation.

“What are you up to, mom?” he asks suddenly. I never talk with him about what I’m doing. I’m too busy asking him about his life, his plans, his philosophy on life. I’m the questioner and the listener. But now he insists that I talk about me.

“Just the usual,” I reply. “Working, teaching, writing, not much, I guess.”

He looks at me with blue eyes as clear as the sky above and says, “You must be kidding.”

“What?” I ask.

“You could write anything. You could write something like, what’s his name, the guy who wrote Tuesdays with Morrie.”

I laugh. “This from the son who doesn’t read my stories.”

“Yes I do,” he retorts. “I read your stuff. Some of it.”

“Well, what should I write about?” I ask kiddingly. But he ponders the question seriously, thinking.

“Well, a book like Tuesdays with Morrie but about being a mother. You could write a great book about being a mother.”

I examine his face, one-day growth on it, intense eyes, no smirk.

He means it.

I want to cry. Instead, I hug my son, and he returns to the rocks.

And me? I return to my writing…

Running with Redford

March 29, 2013 / roughwighting / 37 Comments

Thirty minutes into my run today, as my body relaxes into a rhythmic routine on the picturesque path along the SF Bay, a mildly familiar figure runs toward me.

But I’m confused. Why do I feel like I know him, and yet I don’t? The slight man is not particularly tall, but with a stance that’s sure and confident. His running form is beautiful and light. His clothes don’t give him away: black tights, a long gray sweatshirt that almost reaches his knees, and a wide black ski band across his forehead, almost hiding his light blonde hair.

But as I breeze past him, I running north and he running south, I realize that it’s… HIM.

Robert Redford.

“Oh my God,” I whisper. The Way We Were. Downhill Racer. Three Days of the Condor. The Sting. As I list the movie titles out loud, my words become louder and louder. All the President’s Men. Jeremiah Johnson. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

Except for this one man, this one idol, I have never cared about actors or “famous” people of any kind. But Robert Redford. He has touched me in every movie, and I’ve just passed him in real life.

Real, not reel!

I don’t doubt that the running man is Robert Redford. I had heard that he had family in the town and occasionally visited. I’d heard of sightings once or twice a year. But now? On the running path, my running path?

I stop short, allowing a runner behind me to curse and swerve to avoid a collision. After mumbling an apology, I turn around just as abruptly, and run toward the movie star. I’m not going to stop him, or speak to him, or stalk him. But I want to run past him for one more glorious look at that craggy and tanned face, with gorgeous crevices around his eyes and under his cheeks, a mature man who’s still handsome.

It’s not hard to catch up to Redford. He’s actually, well, rather slow, despite his good form. How I want to wave as I run by him, or shout out “Hi! I’m a big fan!” But I don’t want to disturb him, nor be a nuisance.

I sigh and kick back into my pace, passing the man from the movies. I feel an extra exhilaration from being near him though, and my pace quickens. The early morning sunlight gleams on the bay waters, and the birds flit across the blue expanse. My spirits rise, and I soar down that path like a roadrunner.

I’m on such a high that I don’t hear the voice at first. Sounds like a distant fog horn, then a grumble, then a real human tone saying, “Miss, uh, Ma’am, uh, excuse me. Please excuse me!”

I slow down and glance behind me. Redford is puffing and panting as he tries to reach me.

“Please,” he calls out. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

I’m dumbfounded, but I slow down to let him catch up, and he shoots me a grateful look.

We jog slowly, so he can catch his breath. “Bob,” he finally says, holding out his hand. “Bob Redford.”

“Oh!” I exclaim, as if surprised. “Pamela Wight.”

“Pamela,” Bob exclaims, “you are the most unusual runner I have ever seen. You, well, I swear I saw you run off the ground! How did you do that?”

“I just run my joy,” I explain.

“This is incredible, just beautiful. I’d like to capture this on film. Do you think … ?”

I shake my head no, smiling wide. “This can never be captured. It happens rarely, and only on very special occasions. Thank you though, Bob.”

I hug him quickly, stare briefly into his amazed face, and dash off into the early light of a new day, knowing as I run into the reds and oranges and pinks that I’m doing it again.

I’m running off the ground.

(Wight’s Note: 100% non-fiction. Well . . . 95%.)

Worth the Wait

March 22, 2013 / roughwighting / 27 Comments

We walk together, in harmony, almost as if we’re holding hands, but we’re not. However, he looks at me often, his deep brown eyes saying so much without his mouth releasing a word. Could anyone ask for a better companion? For a better friend?

But of course, there’s so much more to the relationship than that.

As we walk, he looks over his territory with pride. His name, I tease him, should be Heathcliff or Darcy. He just moves on, pointing at the Pride of Madeira in the meadow, strutting over to say hello to the horses in the pasture, urging me to run instead of walk along the paved path around the nearby farm. I sigh, then allow my thigh muscles to tighten as I follow him.

His gait is so strong and sure-footed. I run like a girl, he runs like a …. Well, he doesn’t seem to mind and, in fact, even though he can run hundreds of yards in front of me, he stops and looks behind his shoulder to make sure I’m coming along. I think that’s what endears me the most to him. He could make it on his own. He could be perfectly happy and free without me, yet he chooses to slow down, to wait, to watch me with a gleam in his eye, so I can catch up.

It’s that look in his eye that makes me feel so valued, so necessary in his life. As he stands there, still and strong, waiting for me, there is sure certainty in his expression that I am worth the wait.

I reach him, and he opens his mouth with a big wide grin. Somehow, I know I have passed a test. I stroke him, and he dashes on ahead again, ears bent back, eyes slanted from the breeze, mouth turned up into such joy my heart leaps, and I run faster.

Suddenly, I am ahead of him. He stops as quickly as he began, tail wagging, nose tilted down into the ripe lime green grass. I call, he ignores me. The smell must be from nirvana, like chocolate to a woman, diesel oil to a man. I call him, his tail wags faster, but he still focuses on the meadow grass.

I stand still. He’s worth the wait.