This Wisconsin Run was Brought to Me by Cows, of course!

Between a hamstring strain and the kids being off of school I’ve only run an average of once a week; typically on a Saturday. Last Saturday I ran with one of my usual running partners and was delighted (really can’t think of a better word) when we came upon a deer crossing a bluff road.

This morning it was unseasonably chilly, mid 50’s, it was breezy and although I was excited to be getting another 5 mile run in with the same friend two weeks in a row I was dragging my feet a bit. After putting my mind in check by remembering the frigid, snowy weather I ran through this winter I tossed my sweatshirt aside and met her at the door. I was getting bored with my usual route and with the wind out of the north I suggested we run south with the wind at our back to start and head for the ski hill 2 miles away. I warmed up quickly and as we approached the hill I heard a chorus of mooing coming from the farm just before Mt. La Crosse. It brought a smile to my face, thinking back to the time I ran this same route only to come upon a calf in the middle of the road. A true “running in Wisconsin” moment.

Feeling great we pushed ourselves into the parking lot of the ski hill (farther than I usually run up there) and was awestruck by the site before me. The cows were grazing on the ski hill! I heard about this agreement between the farmer and ski hill, but had never witnessed it firsthand. It was a beautiful sight and it was at the moment I smiled ear to ear that I thought about how happy I was that I ran this morning and how the best runs usually happen after I drag my feet to the door. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better I saw a cow and calf halfway up the double black diamond known as “Damnation”.

I wished I had my digital camera with a great zoom rather than my iPhone and even considered driving back after my run was complete, but reconsidered after thinking about how magical it was to run upon it.

Free Day

Today is Friday Free Day. It’s only the second free day we’ve had all summer and the first was last Friday and I quickly filled it with a trip to a beach an hour and a half away. It’s 1:00 and the kids and I are still in pajamas, laundry is getting done and the kids have been playing well together. Most of the times my kids get me fed up is when they are giggling and goofing off together. A real first world problem, right?! I told them I would take them to the pool to beat the 90+ degree heat, but first I told them they had to write two letters to the people of their choice. Honestly I was looking for some peace and quiet. While they were writing I stared at the computer screen for 10 minutes thinking about what the last time I wrote a letter to someone. I, in turn, decided it was time to blog about something. Hmm, guess I accomplished that!

Where Were You 20 Years Ago?

There are not many dates on the calendar I can remember where I was 20 years ago, but today I can. 20 years ago today I was climbing into the driver’s seat of an Eagle Summit (memory is a bit foggy on that detail), but I do remember it had a sunroof! Heather and Carrie, my two dear friends, climbed into the car with me, we all had the biggest smiles on our faces as we reached out the sunroof and sang along with Billy Joel at the top of our lungs to “Only the Good Die Young”. We were on our way to our high school graduation, Class of 1993!

Take note of the bulldozer in the upper left.

Not smiling only because I'm talking (as usual). Do you see my Middle Eastern father behind me?

Thanks to Facebook I am being reminded that I remember very little of the actual ceremony. I remember it was hot, we had 400+ graduates and we had the “honor/bragging rights” of being the last graduating class in all of Connecticut, and I think the largest as well. I remember the dark cloud overhead while praying it didn’t rain, which it didn’t. I remember being able to see Carrie’s face on the other side of the stage on the football field. I do not remember the marbles and/or apples some people handed to the principals upon being handed their diplomas. Never even heard about it, I don’t think, until someone posted it on Facebook today, 20 years later. I don’t remember seeing my family at graduation. There were so many people and I have no photos with them. I have a few photos with friends though. It makes me both sad and nostalgic about not having photos or a memory of seeing them. Sad for the obvious reasons and nostalgic because it reminds me of who I was then, what my relationships were like (not all bad, I promise), but also how excited I was to be graduating with my friends. It was such a happy day and I remember how excited I was to be leaving for college at The University of Alabama in less than two months. The day I was leaving for college was marked in my brain with a Sharpie. Looking back I may have missed out on some opportunities because of my focus on the future, but I was so excited it was forefront in my mind.

The 1992-1993 school year was full of construction. The freshmen were being moved up to our school for the following year. This is the only year in my education career school started after my birthday, September 10. Christmas break was extended because asbestos was uncovered during the break. The April blizzard canceled school, heat waves resulted in us getting out of school early and cold weather kept us home. Construction! Construction! Construction! This I remember. What the speakers said that day? I do not remember.

In early November I plan to board a plane to attend my 20^th reunion with Carrie. I’ll be sure to have Billy Joel on my iPhone and I promise that I will not recognize or know the names of over half the people there, but I also know we will have huge smiles on our faces as we laughingly reminisce.

I Ran

In shorts after a long winter, I ran.

Under a refreshing sprinkle of rain, I ran.

By a friendly familiar face, I ran.

Up a hill, farther than before, I ran.

With new music in my ears, I ran.

Between items on my “to do” list, I ran.

I’m stronger, because I ran.

It’s the People not the Places

A few weeks ago I traveled from Wisconsin to Washington D.C. to meet my aunt from Florida destined for the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum (USHMM). Together we were on a mission to fill in details of our family’s history. About a year ago I mentioned a desire to one day go to the USHMM, she suggested we go together, and from that point forward she pushed me to find a week that would work best for me to be away from my family, which I do very rarely.

So, on our last night there as we were walking it took me by surprise when she said something to the effect of, “Thanks for making this trip.” I, in turn, took no credit and thanked her for making me find a date on the calendar and then buy a plane ticket. Her response took me by such surprise I’ve been processing it every since. “That’s not what I mean. You talk to people. I don’t talk to people.”

It was then that I realized she was talking about the homeless (I assume) man who was quietly panhandling outside of a Smithsonian museum who I offered an afternoon snack of a small bag of fig newtons to; it was the Indian woman (I asked if she preferred Native American or Indian) we shared the newly open doll exhibit with at the Museum of American Indian Art with; the security guards/police in front of the Capitol I asked what the sculpture on top of the building was, knowing that it wasn’t really Mary Poppins as I had joked; the restaurant employees at the “politically posh” hotel on Capitol Hill we stayed at to find out what they did with the glutton’s amount of leftovers from the breakfast buffet that there were bound to be, they are brought down to the employee cafeteria. That’s what she was talking about, among others.

So, if you ask me about my trip to D.C. don’t expect me to tell you about the monuments and memorials I saw and visited, because I’m going to tell you about all the interesting people I met and shared moments with while I was there. Want to know the best part of my 5-mile run around The Mall? The woman I met at the Lincoln Memorial; well, that and the warm weather and sharing my run surrounded by so many other runners just two days after the Boston Marathon.

I talk to people wherever I go. Strangers we pass are people we are sharing moments in our lives with whether we like it or not.

When I stop and think about why I take the time to share a conversation with people who others may not I can only come up with two explanations. 1) I am my father’s daughter and 2) It’s just who I am. Over the weeks I have spent time thinking about this and all I keep coming back to is that some of the most memorable moments for me are short conversations I’ve shared with strangers who happen to be in the same place at the same time as me. I have learned great things from people whose names I do not know.

Looking back at high school and college I can confidently say I had a hundred or more acquaintances, but only had a small group of close friends. Strange considering that I can remember being the shy kid hiding behind her mother’s leg on the first day of preschool. I never went to camp until I was 12 because I was too shy and worried about making friends, and even then it was only day camp.

Just a few hours after having the conversation that started this all we learned the history of the Old Post Office from the security guard working at the x-ray machine, who happened to be a retired military man, after I gave him a sample from Ben & Jerry’s. Following that encounter we talked so comfortably with a family from the Boston area while waiting for our tour bus that the tour guide didn’t split us between two busses because he thought we were all traveling together.

It’s a small world and I most enjoy discovering this by making the connections through talking to people. Besides, after all the scary things that have happened in our country since September 11^th wouldn’t you like to know about the person sitting next to you on the plane or standing in line waiting for the big event to happen? 

The Power of Personal Accounts of History

I think it was when I began working in the domestic violence field that I learned and experienced the impact of hearing a survivor share his/her story firsthand.

I’ve had the honor on a few occasions to hear Holocaust survivors speak. I wish I had kept track of whom I’ve heard but unfortunately, if they did not have a book to sell, I didn’t write their name down anywhere permanent and for this I regret. Pieces of their stories remain with me and I wish I had their name alongside.

I’ve heard Gerda Weismann Klein, Peter Feigl and others speak and today I had the honor to hear Sam Harris speak. After hearing a Holocaust survivor speak I always rush to the line of where they are signing books, shaking hands and meeting the audience. Some people’s first instinct is to show their camera and ask for a photo. Others thank them for sharing their story. I always say the same words; often in between tears that I have yet to learn how to stop from coming. “Thank you for speaking for those who are unable to speak for themselves.” I then go on to tell them that they are speaking for my family; my grandmother’s brother and sister and her children.

Each time my body shakes, I take slow, deep breaths and I feel the power of meeting someone that makes me feel closer to the relatives I never met because of Hitler. I feel even closer to them than I did when my grandmother was alive. I never heard my grandmother speak of her siblings who were left behind in Poland when she emigrated in 1928 at the age of 11. I think her pain was too much to speak about her only sister, with whom I do know she was close with.

If the survivor is from Poland I feel an extra connection, as if have met my Polish relatives. There is no way to know if Sam Harris’ parents knew my great aunt and great uncle or their children I don’t have names for. But as Sam Harris, age 77, hugged me I was overcome with the emotion of hugging a long lost relative. It’s as if the spirits of 6 million Jews are surrounding the survivors who speak on their behalf.

And in the end I always feel hope. Hope that miracles do take place in the middle of unthinkable atrocities. After all, none of the survivors I’ve heard speak have attributed their survival to anything but a miracle or two.

Running and What it Means to Me

Two weeks ago I participated in the Sandy Hook Run for the Families virtually. I sent in my donation, agreed to run 3.1 miles and should receive a t-shirt soon. Previous posts go into further detail so I will spare you here, and will provide more details on how amazing the run turned out in another post.

Prior to the run a local radio deejay got word on what I was doing and asked to interview me on the radio. I knew I was not interested in doing that, but had to dig inside myself to put into words why not and here is part of my reply to him:

For me this is just me going out for my weekend run and asking friends (and friends of friends I suppose) to join me. Every runner runs for a purpose. Some runs are to reach goals, some are to prove to ourselves that we can, indeed, go farther, or tackle a new challenge. This run just happens to be for the families in Sandy Hook. This wonderful country of ours gets smaller with tragedy and so on March 23, I, and others, will simply be going out for a run that is purposely for the children whose lives were lost too soon, many of them the same age as our own children.

And it’s true, every day I run for a reason.

I’ve been doing a lot of genealogy research lately, with a focus this past year being on my grandmother’s sister, husband, children and my grandmother’s brother who were living in Poland at the time of the Holocaust who undoubtedly were killed as a result of Hitler’s prejudice. Just recently I have found new answers. In a little more than a week I will be leaving for what I am continually referring to as a once in a lifetime trip to DC to meet up with my aunt. I am hoping for laughter, a bit of sightseeing, but the purpose of the trip is to spend two days (at least) at the United States Holocaust Museum. I’ve wanted to go for many years, and always envisioned it to be a solo trip as part of a family vacation. Planning the trip with my mom’s sister and hopefully finding more answers about our family’s history makes the idea of going alone no longer an option nor desire.

Tomorrow is Holocaust Remembrance Day and “Today I ran for all those who were killed during the Holocaust and dreamed of running away to freedom.”

Running, to me, isn't about being fast, it's just about being able to have the freedom and physical health to run.