Charity Seeketh Not Her Own

My daughter Elizabeth's j.v. field hockey coach killed himself yesterday.

It is five o'clock in the morning and I've been awake for more almost two hours still thinking about this. We learned it about twelve hours ago, just after Elizabeth's varsity team finished practiced. Funny thing is, I wasn't supposed to be picking Elizabeth up . Most of the varsity team had already left for the pasta dinner they were attending in preparation for today's game. Elizabeth was still there, along with a couple of her teammates and the j.v. squad, because she had had a teenage hissy fit that morning and said something very unkind to her father. So, I had revoked her privilege to attend the pasta dinner.

In the chaos she had forgotten her field hockey stick. When she had called me to bring it I had refused on the grounds that she had not yet repented for her behavior that morning (I knew she could have gotten a text through if she had really wanted to). She was furious with me when I picked her up and it certainly looked like it would be a stormy night in our house. Just as we were about to drive off, however, Elizabeth's coach asked us to come to a quick meeting. Out on the field were some members of the school's grief/crisis intervention team ready to address the girls and parents who were still there. It was they who told us Mr. Taylor (not his real name) had been involved in a tragic accident that afternoon and had died.

With that everything changed. I took Elizabeth to her pasta dinner after all so she could be with her teammates. And though she still has not apologized for her nasty remark of yesterday morning (she really struggles with apologies - not her best trait) her behavior has been conciliatory and our conversations have convinced me that the irony of this situation is not lost on her. Yesterday morning she wished her father dead. Yesterday afternoon three young people were told that their father had died.

That it was a suicide makes the situation even more tragic and heart-rending. Though the girls were told it was an accident and not many details were yet available I think every adult and most of the girls present at this meeting guessed right away at the truth. Mr. Taylor's problems, unfortunately, had been on the front page of our local paper just a few weeks ago. He had been charged with embezzlement and my husband's friends in the police department said the claims against Mr. Taylor were stacking up. The man was financially and professionally ruined.

I can't say I was overly fond of Mr. Taylor. Though he seemed to be a decent man, an involved member of the community and an enthusiastic athletic coach, he was also a braggadocios kind of guy, especially where his kids were concerned. Though I didn't know much about his eldest son, who was in college by the time I became acquainted with the family, I was well aware of his other kids' accomplishments. His daughter made varsity in three sports her freshman year of high school and went on to play varsity soccer, basketball and lacrosse all four years. Ultimately she attended and graduated from Brown University. a huge source of pride for him.

His youngest boy was another sports phenom, at least according to Mr. Taylor. Here it got a little murkier, since the facts didn't always jibe with what Mr. Taylor was saying. But if we took what he said at face value we learned that several Ivy League schools were after young Charles for their Nordic Ski teams. That this young man was a good skier but not our school's best, and a good student but, again, not our school's best, didn't seem to phase anyone. Certainly not Mr. Taylor, who talked about such things non-stop. Yes, his kids were talented and accomplished - we just didn't want to hear about it all the time. I can't say that I went out of my way to spend time with Mr. Taylor.

I had a personal reason for disliking Mr. Taylor also. As Elizabeth's coach her sophomore year, we had been annoyed and frustrated at his treatment of her. Though the varsity coach had considered Elizabeth for the team because of her good speed, she had ultimately decided to leave her on j.v. so she could further develop her stick skills. We could understand this - Elizabeth had broken her pinkie in eighth grade and had only been able to play a couple of games and then in ninth grade she was benched a lot by a coach who preferred tall, hefty girls to small but quick Elizabeth. We were hopeful that under these new circumstances Elizabeth would see enough play time to further develop as an athlete.

But it was not to be. Mr. Taylor, it seemed, also preferred slow, big girls on the field and many a game Elizabeth spent the majority of her time on the bench. Though he was aware of the Elizabeth's status with the varsity coach and had promised to use her skills to help lead the team, he did not. Field hockey is a difficult sport and many of the skills necessary for success can best be developed in game situations. Naturally we worried that she wouldn't make varsity again this year after such a disappointing j.v. season. Fortunately the varsity coach appreciated Elizabeth's talent enough to take her on the team this season but we still resented Mr. Taylor for all she lost last year.

I am ashamed to admit this resentment resulted in smug satisfaction when Mr. Taylor's legal troubles became known. It seems so petty now and I am ashamed to admit the mixture of horror and glee we experienced when he was arrested. I remember picking up a friend with whom I was taking golf lesson and asking her if she had seen the paper. When she said she had not, I happily spilled the beans. She knew the meatiest part of the story before we left her driveway. As recently as Saturday night the subject had come up at a dinner with friends - it's a small town and everyone at the table had interacted with Mr. Taylor in one capacity or another. We all sat around hashing out the details of the case, shaking our heads, and sympathising with the family. All the while we felt a certain superiority mixed with relief - we weren't perfect but at least we weren't that bad.


From the start my heart has been with his family, whom we have known for several years now. Mrs. Taylor is a friendly, smart and capable woman. She was one of Elizabeth's humanities teachers freshman year and has always been kind and encouraging. His youngest son was a friend of my 18-year-old daughter, though they had not been close the past couple of years. Unfortunately, Charles had changed in ways that put a lot of his friends off. It seemed he had started to believe his father's PR shtick about him and had developed quite a swelled head. Yet Charles was still a nice kid, polite, smart and very accomplished. He is in his freshman year at a prestigious and very expensive college. That his tuition was probably paid through a combination of scholarships and grants due to the Taylors' financial circumstances - during the investigation it was revealed they declared bankruptcy about six year ago - and stolen money has been cause for consternation amongst those of us who are paying every dime of our kids' education. Now we understand exactly what all this has cost.

Of course we can never know all the particulars that led Mr. Taylor to his ultimate and fatal decision. Since he was a man who certainly seemed to seek others' approval and admiration it's easy to imagine the humiliation he felt as his shameful behavior (as a financial advisor he was accused of taking money from elderly clients) became known throughout our small and gossipy town. As I watched him strut around the field in the days following his arrest I didn't know how he did it. Had it been me in these circumstances I would have secluded myself in my house. For a man with what seemed an enormous amount of pride and ego this had to have been devastating.

That his family was being dragged through the mud with him must have made it so much worse. That he loved his family was never in doubt and it's tempting to believe that ultimately he wanted to spare them the humiliation of a trial and possible prison sentence. Yet now he has taken himself from them in a more permanent way than prison could have. He will not be there to see his son graduate, or his daughter marry, or to play with his grandchildren. And most likely he would not even have been incarcerated. In cases like this restitution seems to be the priority so over time Mr. Taylor could have paid the money back, performed some community service and put it behind him. The whole experience may have ultimately made him into a humbler and better man. But his lawyer must have told him this. Why he decided on the route he took we really can't know.

Throughout the past twelve or so hours a scripture has repeated itself in my mind many times. It is Paul's sermon on charity, which is found in 1 Corinithians 13. It is my favorite scripture - for Christmas my daughter Emily presented me with a beautiful copy of it done in calligraphy which I have hung in our foyer - and it begins with "Charity suffereth long, and is kind;" But the part that I keep hearing, the lines that scold and humble me are found in verses five and six: "(Charity) Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth;"

The truth is Mr. Taylor's actions, though reprehensible, were just a more public and harmful way of hurting others. We all engage in similar actions, though usually to a lesser degree. It may only be gossip between friends or even just a a spiteful thought. But it is harmful: to others because they know what is being said behind their backs, even if they don't know specifically what and by whom; and to ourselves because every unkind thought, every feeling of superiority and self-righteousness ultimately detracts from our character and diminishes our spirit.

We will all take something different from the story of Mr. Taylor's life and death. This is what I have taken.

All I Really Need to Know About Life I Can Learn From my Dog

I've been trying to simplify my life for years now and it recently struck me that the best path to a simple and satisfying life is to follow my dog.

Now obviously I can't live life quite as simply as Madison does. I don't have the mentality or the living circumstances of a toddler, like Madison and all well-cared for dogs do. But still, there are lessons to be learned from Madison's approach to life.

1. A stranger is only a friend I've yet to meet - A friendly dog, and Labrador Retrievers like Madison are definitely friendly, loves everyone and expects that everyone loves her. Madison never greets a new person with a shy smile and cautious handshake. No, Madison explodes with joy at the introduction - her ears perk up, her eyes light up, her tongue hangs out in anticipation of bestowing a sloppy kiss, and her entire body shakes and wiggles with excitement. Sometimes she just can't contain herself and jumps on her new friend (this isn't appreciated by everyone so I wouldn't recommend it in human relationships). Since I've always been a shy person it's hard for me to perform the human equivalent of Madison's meet and greet but I think it's time to try harder. It's hard to resist anyone, human or canine, who makes you feel like you are the one she's been waiting to meet all of her life.

2. Get some outdoor time and exercise everyday - Since dogs cannot be toilet or litter-box trained (at least not big dogs like Madison), owning one necessitates daily time outside. This can be uncomfortable at times (think 24-hour torrential downpours or temperatures below zero) but it can also be invigorating. Throw in the need for regular exercise, especially for high-energy dogs like labs, and you have the ingredients for a life full of fresh air and activity. Since acquiring our first dog almost 25 years ago there have been few days we have spend completely inside and inactive. Like our postal carrier, "neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night" keep us from our appointed rounds. I have the worn-out walking shoes and rain gear to prove it. And all this activity is the perfect segue into a life-lesson of which Madison always provides a good example -

3. Never turn down a nap - Many years ago my husband read some health advice that suggested one should "exercise to your limits and then rest." How many of us, however, get to the "rest" part? Like many things in Madison's world, naps are not regularly available to the average busy human. But maybe it's time to make them as much of a priority as getting to the bank or cleaning the tub. To be honest, I have never been much of a napper, even when I was pregnant. But recently I've discovered this simple pleasure. I happened to pick up a chaise lounge for five bucks at a tag sale. After re-covering the cushion I put it in the backyard and decided to try it out. It was a warm summer day and I placed the chaise in the shade of our big maple tree. There, with a warm breeze rippling the grass and little dots of sunshine sprinkled around me, I read about two pages of my book then fell into a delicious, almost narcotic sleep. It felt so good, I confess, I have returned several times to my chaise, sometimes without even bringing a book. I bring my cell phone and set the alarm (wouldn't want to miss a kid pick-up, after all) and then drift off to a land where rest, relaxation and refreshment are the only articles in its constitution. I think it's called "The Republic of Dog."

4. Love with every fiber of your being It's been a long time since I've parked myself outside the bathroom door and whined until my husband came out. Okay, I've actually never done that. But Madison did this morning. She does the same thing to me on Saturday mornings when I stay in bed a little longer than usual. Larry lets her out of her mudroom but instead of heading to the sunroom for a little post-bedtime nap, she races down the hallway and parks herself outside our bedroom door whining and crying until I come out. When I do emerge she greets me as if we haven't seen each other for years, rather than a mere seven or eight hours. And no matter what my mood, her greeting is the same - cheerful and loving. What if we always treated those we love this way? If we didn't allow bad moods or lack of sleep or worldly worries cloud the vision of our hearts but let the love shine through unashamedly? I know I would enjoy being loved that completely, wouldn't you?

5. Never be afraid to say "I need some lovin' - A corollary to number four, when you give love completely aren't afraid to ask for it in return. Madison is never shy about coming up to us, wiggling her torso and wagging her tail and then, the minute we pat her head, falling to the floor, rolling over and showing us her tummy so we can give her a good scratch. If we're willing to give kisses and hugs and backrubs we shouldn't feel shy about asking for them when we need them too.

I'm not about to follow Madison into every one of her habits and ways. For instance, I have no desire to roll in animal feces or gnaw on a decomposing deer leg. But I wouldn't mind acquiring some of her personality traits. As the saying goes, Lord, help me to be the person my dog thinks I am. And help me to be the person my dog already is.

Take Me Out to the Ballgame, Again

Fandom, I believe, is mostly a product of geography and parentage. I wasn't born with my love of the Yankees, but I was born to a man who loved them. And why did he love the Yankees? Probably because he lived in upstate New York and grew up during the forties when greats like Joe DiMaggio were playing the game. I think parentage is actually the stronger influence of the two - my daughters have grown up in Red Sox country but they, too, love the Yankees. It doesn't hurt that Derek Jeter is so darned cute.

I really resent it, though, when people remark that I probably like the Yankees just because they win a lot. That is insulting to any fan, but this fan in particular because the Yankees have not been overwelmingly successful during most of my most obsessive fan days.

It was in the early 1970s when baseball started to really mean something to me. I had always enjoyed reading biographies and as a child I had read several books about baseball players, including Stan Musial and Leo Durocher. My favorites, however, were those about Babe Ruth and, especially, Lou Gehrig. Just about every American alive knows the story of Lou Gehrig so I won't go into it here except to say, Yankee fan or not, it's almost impossible not to venerate that man. In fact, that's my trump card in an argument with any Red Sox lover - God must be a Yankee fan because he gave us Lou Gehrig.

As I learned about the players I also learned about the game and started joining my father for weekend afternoon Yankee telecasts. As I mentioned in my earlier post, the Yankees were struggling to win games in the early seventies. By the mid seventies they were starting to play respectable baseball and I remember following their triumphs in 1977 and 1978 from afar since I was out west in college by the time the World Series was played. By then so much else competed for my attention that baseball was definitely a peripheral interest. I didn't even watch the 1978 playoff game between the Yankees and the Red Sox, which has been dubbed "The Greatest Game" by author Richard Bradley (How do I know that? I read - no, inhaled - the book, naturally!).

During the busy new-career, new-marriage and new-parent phase of life it's hard for any adult, especially a female adult, to devote the kind of time to the game that baseball requires. When we were first married my husband and I would watch the league championship games and the World Series - none of which involved the Yankees at that time - but after our son came along in late October 1987 we didn't go back to baseball until the World Series of 2001. During those years I was only vaguely aware of the Yankees' success, or lack thereof. I heard of Yankee stars such as Don Mattingly, David Cone and Paul O'Neil but, unlike the players on my kids' soccer teams, I wouldn't have known them if I passed them on the street.

Anyone who follows baseball knows the last World Championship won by the Yankees was in 2000 so when I started watching baseball again it surely wasn't to latch on to the winning team. We started watching the World Series in 2001 because the World Trade Center had been attacked just weeks before and everyone was worried that another such attack might take place during the first championship series game, when President Bush threw out the first pitch.

President Bush and all the fans, of course, survived that game, but the Yankees did not - they were annihilated by the Arizona Diamondbacks by a score of 9-1. Maybe it was the lopsided loss that took me back to my childhood, or maybe it was the thrill of watching a game after all those years, but whatever it was, my love of baseball was reignited. With my daughters and husband joining me (my son has never been a big fan), we suffered the inevitable highs and lows of a World Series that goes seven games, a couple of them won or lost in extra innings. When Mariano Rivera gave up two runs in the bottom of the ninth in the seventh game I had no idea he was one of the greatest closers in modern baseball history. I thought he was a bum.

I've since learned to appreciate Mariano and all of the other Yankee greats. I'm a huge Jeter fan and I also love Jorge Posada and Melky Cabrera. I'm rooting hard for Joba Chamberlain, Phil Hughes, Ian Kennedy and, now, Darryl Rasner, to become the great pitchers it is thought they can be (we really need good pitching - really). And though I'm not a huge A-Rod fan, I'd love to see him break the home run record as a Yankee.

Such is the life of one of a fan. When the Yankee game was rained out on Mother's Day I took it as a personal offense (and it was supposed to be televised, darn it). I'm pining for one of those cool Yankee wristbands I saw in Olympia Sports the other day. And, like countless others, I'll try to work my schedule for the next five months so that I'm able to watch or listen to every inning of every game. Then comes the dark and cold winter, which I will pass crossing days off the calendar, waiting for April.

Take Me Out to the Ballgame, Please!

I love spring for a host of reason, not the least of those being baseball season starts again. March fills me with anticipation of this happy event, though I don't pay too much attention to pre-season ball. Around April 2 or 3, however, I set my radio to the local ESPN station, make the New York Yankees game schedule my homepage and settle in for six months-plus of the greatest sport known to humankind.

That's just my opinion, of course, but I know there are millions of people who share it. There are probably even more millions who do not. I have heard the criticisms - baseball's so slow, it's so boring, how can you waste three hours on that stuff?

Obviously I don't consider it a waste. In our frantic, chaotic society, baseball recalls a simpler time. Sometimes it is so nice to just sit and watch a game, to relax and forget about all of life's other demands. Baseball is pure escape and we all need to escape now and then.

That being said, rarely do I just sit and listen to or watch a Yankee game. Sometimes my kids and I play a game of Phase Ten, which is the perfect game to accompany a baseball game. It's not fast-paced so you can stop play to watch an exciting catch or great hit (thank goodness for replays). And it can last about three hours, just like a baseball game.

But more often I have some project to keep my hands busy while the game is on - folding laundry, ironing, clipping coupons, making out my grocery list for the next week, that sort of thing. When I listen to a game, something I do more often, I can keep busy in any of a number of ways. Since my best radio is in the kitchen I can use that time to make cookies or bake muffins for breakfast, start the next day's lunches, clean the kitchen counters, straighten out the pantry, or even catch up on magazines and newspapers. One of baseball's virtues is that it doesn't require one's undivided attention.


In this day of HDTV and cable sports channels it might seem a little strange that I actually enjoy listening to a sport rather than watching it, but I do. Not that I don't love to watch when I have the chance but, except when the Yankees play the Red Sox and we can watch them on the New England Sports Channel, I don't have that many opportunities. Occasionally Fox, ESPN or TBS will feature a game so between the three of them I average about one televised game a week (though last weekend all three featured Yankee games so I was treated to three glorious telecasts in a row!). But baseball is actually the perfect sport to listen to because the pace is slow and you have plenty of time to form pictures in you mind to follow along with the action. Yankee radio announcers John Sterling and Suzyn Waldman know the sport and the team inside out and I learn a lot from their chatter. And, as I said before, I can do a lot of other things in the time it takes to listen to a game.

Besides, I grew up listening to Yankee baseball. Though we could count on WPIX out of New York City for weekend games, many games were not televised and so, fanatic that I was, I was forced to use my radio. In those days, the early and mid-seventies, the announcers were Phil Rizzuto, Bill White and Frank Messer. I remember liking Messer's voice best - it was pleasant and professional - but Rizzuto was definitely the voice of the Yankees. I can still hear the Scooter's famous "Holy Cow!" echoing in my head whenever a Yankee player hits a homerun or makes a great catch.

Most games I listened to at night while I was supposed to be sleeping. Rarely could I sleep until the final score was in. The Yankees of my youth included players like Bobby Murcer, Roy White, Graig Nettles, Lou Pinella, Willie Randolph and, my favorite, Thurman Munson. In the early seventies they were not a winning team and many nights my heart ached as I turned of my radio. But another great thing about baseball is that it is such a long season. With more than 160 games to play, hope springs eternal for a baseball fan. Every game is a blank slate, a new opportunity. League championships are often up for grabs until late September, sometimes right up to the last game. As Yogi Berra once famously said, it ain't over till it's over. Baseball fans know how much wisdom that little Yogiism contains.

For now, however, this post is over. Tomorrow I will continue to wax philosphical about the sport that ranks right up there with Mom and Apple Pie in the American value system. Right now, however, I'm going to have some lunch. Maybe a hot dog.

Sister, Sister

A few weeks ago I had just about had it with my life.

Not that my life is all that bad - it really isn't. But I do have a twenty-year old son and two teenage daughters and sometimes they just wear me out. Not physically anymore, not like when they were little and I spent three quarters of the day with one or the other of them in my arms or on my lap. I never will understand why I didn't develop more upper body strength back then.

Now the toll they take on me is more emotional. They are at a point in their lives when they are pushing against the chrysallis and getting ready to emerge as butterflies (my son probably wouldn't appreciate that analogy but, as he likes to say, oh well). For some reason part of the chrysallis breakdown requires an almost complete lack of patience with anything parents do or say. Even when we think we've done good it turns out we haven't. Even when we think we've said something fairly intelligent or at least mild enough not to provoke a rebuke we're wrong.

I remember the conversation that drove me over the edge. Our family likes to watch American Idol together and it was just after the two weeks during which the contestants had performed songs by John Lennon and Paul McCartney. I commented at dinner that one of the things I liked about AI is that it introduces the kids to music they might not otherwise hear or appreciate, like the Beatles.

I expected a couple of nodding heads, at least, and maybe even an acknowledgement that some of the music of yesteryear was great. Instead, I received the usual looks that I realize now mean they are thinking about how they can disagree with my statement. Finally Emily said she likes it better when they perform contemporary songs on AI and Elizabeth said she had downloaded Beatles music to her Ipod long before the AI performances.

I'll admit I finished dinner in a sulk and wasn't the most chipper and cheerful mom that night. It is wearying living with teenagers, those creatures who always have to be right and, more importantly, show you that you're not. I needed a break and I knew just who to call.

My sister Deb lives about an hour and a quarter from me, just the perfect distance for a Saturday afternoon shopping trip. The next morning I called her and, after a few minutes of venting asked if she could get her husband to watch the kids on Saturday and have a Mom's Day Out. Since Deb's daughters (she has three) range in age from nine to three and therefore are a combination of physically and emotionally demanding, she was more than willing. More importantly, Steve was willing to play Mr. Mom. So Saturday afternoon found us meeting in the parking lot of a shopping plaza with nothing to do but shop, talk and eat.

The details of that afternoon are unimportant - suffice it to say we looked at some things, bought very little and talked incessantly. The luxury of uninterrupted conversation never goes unappreciated by a mom and we took full advantage of every minute available. We ran out of shopping long before we ran out of stories to tell and laughs to share so we made our way over to the Macaroni Grill around 4:30 before the Saturday evening rush started.

And there we sat for the next three hours, bless our understanding waitress (we tipped her well, I promise!) We talked about husbands, kids, friends, dreams, hopes, worries, in-laws, childhood issues, American Idol, simplifying our lives, complicating our lives, etc., etc., etc.

And we could have gone on longer. That's the way it is when I'm with my sisters (Karen lives almost five hours away so she could not make it to this particular Mom's Day Out, but if she had the only difference it would have made might have been in restaurant choice). We can talk about just about anything and with the sweetest feeling of being secure and understood because we know we get each other. We are all as different as can be in personalities and styles yet that just makes it more fun. With no one do I feel more free to totally be myself that I do with Karen and Deb. It's such a relief to take off the mask that I often wear and just be me, warts and all.

When I started having babies I wanted a girl first - I had a boy. That was scary because I didn't know much about boys, not having had brothers myself. But I fell instantly in love with him, so much so that by the time I was about to deliver my second child I kind of hoped for a boy so Dan would have a brother. Again, the chromosomes decided otherwise and Emily was born. My disappointment lasted about a millisecond because I was thrilled with her. And then pregnancy number three - this time I wanted a girl, not just for myself but for Emily and the baby itself. Because I knew they would be sisters and that was the greatest gift. The cosmos cooperated this time and Elizabeth was born. Sisters.

If I could never give my girls another thing they would be okay because they have what they need most - each other. Some day, I tell them when they are in an argument, she will be your best friend. Sometimes they find that hard to believe but more and more I think they can see how that might possibly come to pass.

Carol Saline said "Sisters function as safety nets in a chaotic world simply by being there for each other." Amen, and amen.

I dedicate this post to my safety nets, Karen and Deb - I love you guys, always have, always will.

Cycling Wars

Yesterday afternoon's weather turned out much nicer than originally forecast so my husband and I couldn't resist a short bike ride. We had spend a lazy afternoon watching a Yankee baseball game while the girls flitted in and out of the house so we were ready for a little physical activity. My husband hasn't ridden much this year and was content to ease himself in with a short ride. I, having ridden quite a bit this past week and still a little sore from Friday's challenging ride, agreed and we decided to take a leisurely turn on what we call "the airport loop," a six-mile course that begins abour three miles from our house. Altogether 12 miles - a fine hour's work.

And so we began. Larry hasn't checked out his road bike yet this spring so he opted to ride his mountain bike. He often does that when he rides with me anyway since I ride a hybrid and the mountain bike evens us up a bit. My female quads really can't compete with his male ones - that's just biological fact.

Larry actually took off before me, needing the head start, but we met at the beginning of the airport loop and from there my lighter bike and better conditioning helped me to stay a bit ahead much of the first leg of the loop. Around here there is no such thing as a flat - even the sections of road that look flat are false flats - so the first part of this route consists of rolling uphills and downhills. After a couple of miles we enter a section where the hills are steeper and longer. It was near the entrance to this section where we spotted another cyclist. He was dogging it up the last not-too-steep but long uphill before the more challenging leg. I felt a little competitive surge and decided to shift into a higher gear so as to get more power from my pedaling. Behind me I sensed Larry do the same. Larry caught up to and passed me, then passed the other rider just after he had turned onto the road of which the rest of the loop consists.

That the other rider was surprised was clear - he obviously hadn't realized we were anywhere near him. Later Larry told me the other cyclist had passed him while he was waiting for me at the start of the route - I'm sure that provided much of Larry's incentive.

Then I passed The Foe. In hindsight we think this was the insult that demanded a response. The poor guy probably could accept Larry's passing him - they were both riding mountain bikes and he was a taller, sturdier guy than Larry, who is of average height and wiry. But a woman! At that point I was just trying to prove to myself that I could take this guy without too much effort and also not fall too far behind Larry. After all, I was out riding with my husband so I didn't want this other guy between us the whole way. As far as I was concerned, the contest was over after I passed him and settled back into a leisurely ride.

It was not to be. About half a mile up the road Larry and I were the ones surprised when The Foe caught up to us and passed. I could almost hear the war drums beating in Larry's ears. From his short distance behind me, where he usually rides, he shot out into the road and passed me. We were starting a downhill section so The Foe was already half a football field away. Larry poured it on while I decided to opt out of the competition. This was a guy thing, I told myself, a pissing match. I would watch in amusement from the safe perch of my girl's bike.

It didn't take Larry long to catch up to The Foe. My husband is in good shape even when he's not in great shape and he likes to let other guys know he can handle them on a bicycle. I grinned and silently cheered when he pulled out and passed on the left. They were beginning a steep uphill and I knew Larry had won this particular contest - as a Tour de France enthusiast he likes to say the hills are where you make your money. I wasn't sure when we would ride together again, since he obviously wasn't about to slow down any time soon, but that was okay. I'm a big girl and could ride by myself.

But soon my inner guy started to rear his handsome head. We were still climbing the hill and it was obvious that The Foe was dogging it again. As hills go this particular one was tough but not the toughest of the hills I climb regularly, not by a long shot. My inner guy was telling me I could take this guy too.

I did, of course - otherwise this story might not be so much worth telling. I smiled pleasantly as I passed, without a hint of the triumph I was feeling nor the pride that would propel me the rest of the route without stopping for so much as a sip of water. Larry was pleased when I caught up to him but informed me that The Foe was still coming on so we kept pushing hard. He was within sight as we started down a long hill which is followed by a long and steep uphill. It was here Larry declared us safe from the Foe's advances - this was the toughest hill on the route and we knew he couldn't handle it. We had won!

In fact, we never saw him again - he never even got close. Of course, the poor guy might not have even known we were racing, but I think he did. After all, he looked the part of serious cyclist in his cycling shorts and fancy jersey, a camelback supplying his water needs. We, wearing gym shorts and t-shirts, looked like a couple of amateurs. The Foe may have thought we had thrown down the gauntlet on that first pass. He took one look at us and decided we were upstarts who needed to be taught a lesson. He underestimated us - big mistake.

Still, he might just have been out for a leisurely ride. For that matter, so were we. Testosterone happens.

Play's the Thing

Ask just about any kid what his or her favorite school subject is and almost every one will give the same answer - recess. Some might say gym but only because they associate it with the same ultimate feeling - that of playing. Even excellent students who enjoy learning will answer the same, much to the chagrin of their more academically oriented parents. To those parents I say "Come on - when you were a kid wasn't playing your favorite thing to do?"

We do seem to lose our ability to play as we age. Certainly our concept of play changes. I remember when I was around eleven or twelve losing my interest in dolls. My sister and our best friend acquired a couple of new dolls, Velvet and Cricket (they had hair that could be styled in short bobs or, when you pushed a button in their tummies, you could pull the hair out so it came to their waists). I was given a Chrissy doll of the same variety but found little pleasure in her. While Karen and Kathy happily styled their dolls' hair and made up stories and games to go along, I realized I didn't like to play with dolls anymore. Instinctively I knew I was growing up and getting too old for dolls and this knowledge saddened and excited me at the same time. It was right and natural that I move beyond dolls and childhood games but bittersweet just the same.

The good news is grown-ups still play, just diffferently. I recently listened to a podcast entitled "Play, Spirit and Character," in which Krista Tippett of "Speaking of Faith" interviewed Dr. Stuart Brown, who founded the Intitute of Play at the age of 63. He actually studies the science of play and has found great value to play behavior in animals and humans. Children, of course, benefit tremendously from play - it teaches them empathy, trust and problem solving, all the while developing their imaginations and their bodies. But as adults we still need play, perhaps especially so based on one of Dr. Brown's definitions of adult play - it takes us out of the moment and temporarily suspends our sense of time.

We grown-ups definitely are enslaved by the clock so anything that breaks that bond, even for just a little while, is something worth pursuing. Dr. Brown says there are consequences for adults who do not experience play, one of those being depression. I remember that I did not get enough play time as a young mother and I certainly missed it. I wasn't really depressed, but I was certainly more irritable and anxious. "Mom's night out" was invented for women, like me, who take motherhood a little too seriously sometimes.

As the kids have grown, however, play has re-entered my life, and none too soon. While I played with my kids when they were younger, some of it felt more like work for me. Older kids, though, enjoy more of the same things adults enjoy so their play becomes more like that of mom's and dad's. Games, for instance, have long been mutually enjoyed by our family. Board and card games are especially helpful in breaking the ice and becoming reacquainted with aunts, uncles and grandparents, many of whom are only visited with occasionally. Games of Uno, Checkers and Trouble alway warmed things up quickly. Today Phase 10, Scattergories and Apples to Apples fit the bill. No matter what the game, it accomplishes the same worthy goal - we drop our guard and becomes friends, competitors, playmates.

Recognized play, such as games, is only one source of fun and pleasure for adults, of course, so our play can be as intense as building miniatures or as simiple as reading a book. Anything that takes us "outside of time," Dr. Brown said, qaulifies as play.

With such a wide definition available, I decided to look at my life and see just how much playing I do. Happily, my playtime has definitely increased in recent years as the kids have become independent and I have had some extra time on my hands. Certainly reading is a crucial play activity for me, though since much of my reading is non-fiction I'm afraid it seems a little more intense than playing should. But since my non-fiction selections reflect some of my passions and interests - history, culture, biography and memoir - it still feels like play to me.

Playing computer Scrabble has become a passion of mine, one I have to limit or I could easily spend way more time than is good trying to beat "Maven," my computer opponent.

Listening to Yankees games on the radio can be fun, depending on who's pitching, lol.

Watching movies based on Jane Austen books is definitely high on my play list.

Walking with Madison, especially on the mountain trails near our house, is a good way to play. When she looks back at me with her tongue hanging out, her ears up and her eyes begging the question "Isn't this a blast?" I have to agree that it is.

Any time I spend with my sisters, either in person or over the phone, usually qualifies as play time.

And then there is my very favorite form of recreation: riding my bicycle. That is one thing that has not changed a bit since I was a kid. Put me on my bike and point me toward my favorite route and I am just about as happy as is possible. In fact, my bicycle rides are such an important part of my play life they deserve an entire blog - which they will get.

One last play activity I'll mention is that of watching my kids play. Now, my kids are getting up there in age - My son Dan is 20, Emily just turned 18 and Elizabeth will be 16 in July - but they still play and I love that they do. This past week the girls had a break from school and during the second part of the week, when the weather turned sunny and warm, they spent more time outdoors than indoors (which always does a mom's heart good). They have a nice group of neighborhood friends with whom they played kickball, knockout, and soccer, as well as taking walks to the ice cream store and riding up and down the street on scooters and bikes. I took a turn on the scooter myself a couple of times and it was just as fun as it was when I was a kid.

May they never get too old to play. May none of us either.

Spoiled Childhood, part three - Less IS More

One of the biggest mistakes I made as a parent to young children was buying my daughters their second American Girl Dolls. Not the first ones, mind you, though they did cost over $80 apiece. But the second ones. I'll explain.

When Emily was five, almost six, she discovered American Girl dolls and books. Unfortunately for her, it was right after Christmas and I don't believe in giving children something just because they want it. In our home we wait for a special occasion, partly because it adds to the magic of that occasion and partly because I have a great respect for the value of anticipation. I know that makes me somewhat of an oddity in today's "I want it when I want it" culture but I think I've already established that I'm in rebellion against that culture, haven't I?

So Emily and her younger sister Elizabeth, who immediately caught the American Girl bug also, had eleven months to anticipate the possibility that Santa would bring these lovely dolls to them. In the meantime we read all the books and pored over the catalogs which appeared in our mailbox monthly. At the time there were five dolls available and it was tough to decide which ones the girls liked most but eventually choices were made - Emily wanted Kirsten, the Swedish immigrant pioneer girl, and Elizabeth want Felicity, the colonial girl who was caught up in the events of the American Revolution.

Christmas finally came and it was a delight to watch my girls hug their Kirsten and Felicity dolls for the first time. From then on the girls and their dolls were inseparable - they played, they ate and they slept together. The dolls even looked like their human friends - Elizabeth and Felicity both had long red hair and Emily started wearing her long blond hair in looped braids like Kirsten's. I made Emily a pioneer outfit just like Kirsten's so she could portray her for a special book event at school. It was the kind of special girl/doll relationship that many a mom remembers having with her own Raggedy Ann or Wetsy Betsy or, in my case, Miss Peep.

But then we succumbed to the siren song of a society that is fueled by consumerism - if one American Girl doll is good, two will be even better!

Oh how wrong we were. Samantha and Molly joined the family and things were never the same, between them and their girls or between the girls and their first dolls. Suddenly Emily's and Elizabeth's attention was divided between two dolls and rather than try to make a choice or bring both along, both started being left behind. Four dolls were okay when it was time for some make-believe play with the doll furniture and wardrobes we had acquired but when it comes to love it seems little girls have only enough space in their hearts for one special doll. I wonder now if girls and dolls are more about learning to be wives than mothers.

I'm embarrassed to admit that the American Girl collection did not stop there - eventually Josefina and Kit also joined the family. Today, of course, they sit on shelves in teenage girls' room, decorations and reminders of girlhood past. The only comfort in having so many of these dolls is that both girls hope to have little girls of their own someday to whom they can give these dolls. I've already shared with them these observation of which I now write and hope they take them to heart. One American Girl per American girl, please!

We've all done it though, haven't we? We get caught up in the thinking that if one is good, two is better and three or four is great! Then we spend the rest of our lives reading articles in women's magazine about organizing our homes and getting rid of clutter. The more I read these articles the more I think the most important piece of advice is too often absent. That is: Don't buy so much stuff in the first place!

If I could go back and do parenting again, a theme I often return to in my mental ramblings, I would concentrate on quality over quantity when it comes to toys and even books. I once saw a family of kids have so much fun with a set of big wooden blocks - they created stores and houses and really used their imaginations. My own kids loved their smaller blocks and built many a wonderful structure with them, so I wish that instead of buying the latest cheap plastic robot or other trendy piece of junk we had put our money into a couple of sets of those big blocks. They were expensive but we would still have them because they are the kind of toy you save for your grandkids. Meanwhile, Megatron and the Barbie makeover head found their way to the dump many years hence.

As for books, I would not buy so many cheap paperbacks, especially of silly series like Goosebumps or The Babysitter's Club. Those are the kinds of books that should only be borrowed, or maybe acquired for ten cents apiece at garage sales. My book money would go into hardcover editions of classics like the Little House books, the Chronicles of Narnia and the Anne of Green Gables series. Those are the books we can read over and over, together and apart. And they're the books that I'll someday enjoy reading to my grandkids. I certainly can't say that for any of the Goosebumps books.

Our affluent society would do well to remember that when it comes to material items, less really is more. If nothing else, the time we save in cleaning up and organizing all this stuff is time we can spend talking to and teaching and loving our kids. And when it comes to talking, teaching and loving children, more IS more.

Spoiled Childhood, part two - Where does love grow best?

There can be no doubt that as a people we have embraced the maxim "bigger is better." We see it in cars - or trucks and vans rather - which have enough space for more than half a dozen people though they are often only transporting one or two. We see it in restaurant meals which, for me at least, easily provide dinner one night and lunch for the next two days. And we see it in houses - boy, do we see it in houses.

Not only the houses but their accoutrements as well. In the neighborhood next to ours, arguably the nicest one in town, the homes are large and well-kept. In one of these homes lives a family of three - mom, dad and little girl of about seven. The house is huge, of course, with probably four times as many rooms as people living in them, and toward the back of the manicured two-acre lot sits a large, empty play set.

I'm always a little incredulous as I stare at this play set. Situated on a 40x25, wood chip-filled plot, it has several slides, a couple of towers, swings, a sliding pole and more. It occurs to me that there is actually more equipment there than there is on the playground at the small parochial school where I substitute teach. And it exists for only one child, at least in theory - I'm not sure I've ever actually seen this little girl playing on it.

Now when I was a kid we had a swing set - it was metal with a short slide that burned your butt in the summer but was great for climbing, all four feet of it. There were also two swings and a glider, which my mother used to sit in with my baby sister.

My other sister, our best friend and I spent many hours on this swingset, only some of them using the equipment as it was meant to be used. The metal bars between the legs were great for practicing front and back flips, in preparation for our future Olympic appearances. Often we took the swings down and went back and forth, hand over hand, across the entire six-foot expanse of the set. We also liked to just swing, sometimes singing as we sailed up and down. We hatched an elaborate scheme to stay on the swings for as many hours as it would take to break a Guiness World Record. When our mothers wouldn't cooperate in that plan by bringing our dinners out to us we set out to create the world's longest gum wrapper chain. It got pretty long - seven or eight feet, I'd say - before we got bored and went looking for another way to get our names in the record books.

Our swing set was not firmly anchored in the ground - the legs would come up as we went higher and higher - and it was on ordinary grass rather than a layer of wood chips over black plastic. But we survived with nothing but minor scrapes and bruises, plus a few fingers pinched in the metal swing chains (no plastic sleeves to prevent that back then). My friend did break her ankle once, but that was while playing Spud.

But while the playset I see in the yard of this little girl puts the one of my own childhood to shame, I do not envy her, neither do I feel shame for providing my own children when they were small with just a modern version of my own modest play set. As I said, I don't see the little girl playing on this elaborate setup. There's probably not much time in between all the lessons and sports practices we feel are necessary for children's development today. And when she does manage to find a minute to just sit on a swing, it's probably not much fun without a friend. It's hard to find overlapping play time when your friends are as busy attending sports practices and learning to dance and meeting with private tutors as you are.

And there is one of today's biggest ironies. We have such large, lovely homes and such so many entertaining toys - yet we're never around to enjoy them. It's like our homes are just a place at which to stop off, change our clothes, catch a few zzzs and then take off again. A big part of that is because mom and dad are working their tails off trying to keep the family in big homes and toys.

My favorite comic when I was a kid was the Archie series and my favorite character was Veronica (the rich girl with the killer bod, of course). But I always felt a little sad for Veronica, too, especially after one particular comic ran. In the story, Veronica was wandering around her mansion comparing it to the "crackerboxes" her friends lived in. Neither parent was around - they were probably at the opera or some such millionaire activity - and Veronica was going from room to room congratulating herself on the blessings of living with her own bowling alley, movie theater, etc. Finally she looked a little sad and lonely then grabbed the phone to call her friend Betty and ask if she could spend the night at Betty's house. Once they were snuggled in Betty's cozy bedroom Veronica exclaimed "People who live in crackerboxes are the luckiest people in the world!"

Strange that a comic book story should have such an influence on me but all these years later I still remember that one and believe in its message. For a good portion of my grown-up family life we lived in a "crackerbox," at least as compared to the homes of our friends. My two girls had to - prepare yourself to be shocked - share a room (does that qualify as child abuse these days?) and the rooms were small enough to make the kitchen table seem a more attractive setting for doing homework. There were just two bathrooms (one more than my family had when I was growing up!) and I became an expert at getting rid of clutter because we just didn't have a lot of extra storage space.

About four years ago we moved to our present home, which has twice the living space. I'm glad we did - I really love our house and yard and the neighborhood in which they sit - but sometimes I am a little wistful for the old crackerbox. These days everyone separates after dinner to bedrooms or sitting areas - we can easily each have a room to ourself. Part of that is a function of having teenagers instead of small children but part of it is that we're not as good at sharing space as we used to be. No one wants to wait for a bathroom. The girls tell me having the computer and the piano in the same room is not such a good plan because they distract each other. Patience, longsuffering, doing without - not so much a part of life as we know it anymore. And it is amazing how STUFF expands to fill empty space (more on that in my next post).

I wonder how many important life lessons our children lose when homes are designed more for show and convenience and less for cooperation. Just the simple act of sharing a room teaches volumes about courtesy, patience and just getting along. It can also actually be kind of fun to have someone to talk to while you're trying to fall asleep at night. My own daughter who is leaving for college in the fall is currently bunking with her sister while we repaint and recarpet her room. She's having so much fun, she said, she wants to continue (her sister, however, is missing her privacy). Unfortunately, I believe there are many college-aged kids whose first experience with sharing a room is in the dorm. Kind of a rude awakening, I expect.

If they can suffer through that year of torture, however, paradise awaits in their off campus apartment. Gone are the days of ramen noodles and peanut butter sandwiches for dinner. Today's college crowd regularly hits the local restaurants even though their apartment kitchens provide all the modern kitchen conveniences, like dishwashers and microwaves. And that roommate thing - so yesterday! Whereas my college apartment involved six twin bed in three bedroom, my son moved into his apartment to his own room with a full size bed. The twin bed accessories I had bought for him showed my ignorance of the plush lifestyle young people can expect today.

As a society we are pretty focused on convenience and comfort. Not terrible things to enjoy, of course, yet I think the overemphasis on them compromises another important c-word - character. As our economy shows more and more signs of weakening I can't help but wonder how the current generations of both adults and children will handle scaling back their lifestyles. I don't think it will be our finest moment.

Spoiled Childhood, part one

Madison and I head into the hills and mountains near our home whenever possible, but sometimes time and/or energy are in short supply and we content ourselves with walks through a couple of adjacent neighborhoods. One in particular is quite affluent - the homes are all large and well-kept on manicured two-acre lots. The other is nice but with smaller and older homes. No matter - both neighborhoods hold examples of one of the great tragedies of modern childhood: playthings that discourage imagination and social interaction and cooperation.

Today's example is from the older neighborhood. That is where I saw a great tree house in the design of a castle. It was big - probably the size of a small bedroom. I know that as a kid I would have been green with envy, which only goes to show that as a kid I didn't know much. Because as cool as this castle looked even to my adult eyes, I knew not much fun would ever be had there. For one thing, its design was so elaborate that it was not yet finished being built and I doubt it will be before its future occupants are in middle school (at which time they will definitely not want to occupy it.) For another, I've discovered as I matured that most of the fun in life is found in doing, not having.

My own childhood fort was just about as non-castlelike as you could possibly get. My best friend Kathy's family had a woodpile in the back of their yard. It was neatly stacked between two trees and came up about three feet. I don't know why but structures like this are irresistable to kids and before long it morphed into a kitchen in what became our pioneer cabin.

The two trees that bordered the woodpile were on the edge of a small woods which went down to a creek. We spent hours scavanging the creek for discarded objects - okay, we were picking trash. There wasn't as much plastic packaging then (we're talking late 1960s here) so a margerine tub was a valuable find. Mostly we found rusting cans that served as pots and pans. Sticks became forks and knives, pine cones, acorns and rocks were food. After a good meal in our rustic kitchen we could retire to the bedroom - a large, flat pile of mostly small rocks surrounded by trees behind the kitchen. A couple of larger rocks made great beds, perfect for sleeping off our imaginary pork and beans. Life was good on prairie.

Our cabin was never completely finished - we were always adding new household utensils and clearing new rooms. After month-long hiatus from trash picking one never knew what new treasure she might find so we'd head back to the creek to explore. The longer the game went the better it was.

It was the same when we played with our Barbies. For one thing, Barbie was pretty generic back then - she didn't come with a profession and all the accessories necessary to run a veterinary hospital or be a rock star. Barbie was just Barbie and we had accumulated a few of her and her friends, as well as a couple of cases and a smattering of outfits. We spent whole afternoons building and furnishing a gignatic house made from cases turned on their sides. Old boxes became beds, washcloths made great blankets and sock hangers held homemade Barbie dresses. The Barbies busied themselves moving into and arranging their new digs and it was during this activity that the drama unfolded. A couple of Barbies might have a fight over who got which bedroom, or who got Ken. There were various kid dolls of non-Barbie origin (and unknown parentage) who needed tending. And someone had to deal with the telephone company!

We would spend entire rainy afternoons setting up this communal Barbie residence (all the cases were placed end to end - no separate homes in this family compound). Just as the last dress was hung and the Barbies were ready to really do something someone's mother would call and tell her it was time to come home for dinner. The house would have to be disassembled, everything was put away and we promised ourselves that next time we would put things together faster so we could really play.

Thank goodness that never happened. The Barbie house-raising project always occupied our full play time and now I know what a blessing that was because if we had actually gotten to the point when the Barbies could relax, the fun would have been over for us. I mean, really, what is there to do with a bunch of stiff-legged dolls who already have their house in order?

I understand now that play is all about the journey because once you've arrived at your destination the game is over. And that's why castle tree houses disturb me. The destination has already been furnished and there is no need to play. Play involves imagination and creativity. It's a chance to practice being a grown-up, to invent, to innovate. When a kid is plopped in the middle of a complete playhouse furnished with a plastic kitchen brimming with plastic food, what's left to do? The fun part has already been done.

Childhood is something that should be enjoyed, not managed. We all know of kids who need their own palm pilots to keep their schedules straight - horseback riding at 3:00, ballet at 5:30, Swim practice at 7:15. Kids today sure don't have a lot of free time so maybe parents think that by providing ready-made play areas they are helping their kids get straight to the business of playing. No time to waste on making stuff up, let's get to work - PLAY, darn it!

But maybe what kids really need is free time. Undoubtedly that is one of the few things affluent parents no longer provide. What a waste.

The Winter Landscape

Since I am a quiet person most people have no idea how many interesting thoughts pass through the turnstile of my mind every day. Then again, since I'm thinking them they seem interesting to me, but maybe they're not really all that worth sharing. I guess I'm about to find out.

Much of my intense thought transpires during my daily walks with my dog, Madison - hence the name of this blog. It's as if my mind needs to move beyond the interior of my house as much as my body does to really exercise. Since Madison and I walk or hike or snowshoe for at least an hour each day my mind gets a good workout, too.

Today I can't claim to have had any great revelations or solved some cosmic dilemma, but I did gain a new appreciation for wind, both the physical and spiritual kinds. As a Vermonter I am plenty used to cold and snow and even enjoy them sometimes, at least the snow. Snow helps winter pass more quickly by giving us something to do outside, whether it be skiing or sledding or, as I did today, snowshoeing. It's also good for the occasional day off from school or at least a delay of the start of the school day. A more leisurely morning never hurt anyone.

But there is one winter weather condition that I would gladly give up, and that is wind. A cold, dreary day is depressing but survivable. A cold, sunny day is actually enjoyable. But a cold, windy day is miserable, especially if it is also dreary.

Today was actually the cold, sunny and windy combination so it was somewhat pleasant. I dressed lightly for my snowshoe because I knew the sun and the hills would warm me up quickly. My fingers were a little cold at first but the worst part was that I was wearing a fleece jacket and the wind was cutting right through it. I couldn't wait to get to a hill so I could climb. I knew my heart would be pumping and the blood would be warming me once I started working against gravity.

And so it was. Between the sun and the exertion I was feeling quite comfortable within ten minutes of the start of our snowshoe (Madison was right there with me, of course). We climbed the hill and then headed for the perimeter of an open field next to the woods. Walking along the tree line and following some tracks that someone else had already cut, Maddie and I almost grinned at each other as we shuffled and jogged, fell through the drifts, felt the weak warmth of the winter sun and listened to our hearts pumping, beating, serving our bodies. How good it felt to be alive and healthy, able to walk and see. There's more to see on a winter day than it appears at first. The monochromatic woods and fields hide flashes of deep purple wild grapes still clinging to their vines, even after a month of freezing temperatures and many inches of snow. Bittersweet vines with faded yellow flowers and red orange berries still hug some of the trees. Bright red wild cherries call out to winter birds. Yes, the monocromatic winter landscape is not so much after all.

But our march around the field ended and we headed downward, toward the field that would take us almost home. It was more open and so the wind struck us sharply as we made our way. I kept my chin tucked inside my neck warmer and my head down. Nothing to see in this endless desert of snow.

Oh, but I was wrong, and my downcast eyes soon beheld a beauty that had until this afternoon had escaped my notice, or at least my appreciation. As I looked at the wind swept snow I felt awed at the beauty of the erosion the wind had produced. Everywhere I looked - ahead, to the left, to the right - The wind had carved a miniature version of a white grand canyon. Each mound of snow had been cut, shaved and sculpted into its own uniquely beautiful design.

As I write this I come back to a conversation I had with my son the other night. He is twenty years old and terrified about the future, his own and the world's at large. As he has studied philosophy this past semester he has become acutely aware of the suffering that is inevitably a part of life and he wants to know why it has to be that way. I cannot give him an answer because I do not have one, but maybe the sculpted snow canyons that graced the fields today are a small part of the answer to that ageless question.

We enter life so like the pure mounds of snow but then face winds that shape and define us. If we are lucky the wind will be just strong enough to remove the nonessential, the snowy layers that keeps us from discovering who and what we truly are. If we are blessed this process will reveal the inner beauty and strength we strive to develop. And if this process truly refines us we will use what we've become to help our fellow mounds of snow, especially those that face blizzard-strength winds. For myself, and for those I love, that is my hope.