Do-Overs

Since we are all human, I'm sure we all wish we could go back in time and fix a d'oh! moment we had, or respond to someone in a way we didn't think of until 15 minutes, or 15 days, later.
Herewith is one of the biggest d'oh! moments of my life, something that, if I could go back and do all over again, I would, with satisfying results.
In 10th grade, we had the coolest English teacher ever, Mr. Cuthbertson. It was 1976. He always strove to give us, his honors students, assignments that went beyond reading comprehension. He wanted us to interconnect what we were "forced" to read with the world at large, put the book into cultural context, while also weaving in the popular music, art and movies of the time the book was written. He really was trying to give us a college English experience, but we didn't realize it at the time.
Anyway, a popular assignment was for us to choose a song, interpret that song, and then present our interpretation to the class. It was interesting to hear the music my classmates were into, such as "Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac and "Casey Jones" by the Grateful Dead, never my favorite band, but huge among the Class of '79.
I was, and still am, a huge Beatles fan, and since I always was a bit of a loner, I chose not to pair up with anyone. My song of choice was "A Day in the Life," from Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, what many consider the Beatles' best album. I do not share that view, but it still has some pretty amazing songs and the last song of the album is one of the Beatles' best, a true collaboration between John and Paul, or so I thought.
The song is ripe for interpretation, and I studiously went to the library, researching every lyric, every scene, every change in music. Then came project presentation day.
After giving my talk, a fellow student asked what I thought of the abrupt tempo change in the middle of the song, and the fact that Paul's vocals take over from John's, if only for a minute or two. So what did little Miss English Major say, how did I respond? I didn't hesitate: "I really don't know."
Whaaaaa??? After all the work I had done to prepare and Jeff Hatcher asking me a reasonable question, what did I do? I choked.
So, Jeff, Mr. Cuthbertson and the rest of my 10th grade English class at Vernon-Verona-Sherrill High School, here is my response, 34 years later.
The change in tempo actually represents two things--one is the transformation from the dreamlike feel of the song to an everyday, humdrum, rush-to-work feeling, not unlike what working adults feel every day. But even less interpretive than that, this song is actually two songs put together.
John and Paul hadn't collaborated at all, instead giving us a clash of styles in one, amazing song, all topped off by the longest note in pop-music history. And that explains the dichotomy of "A Day in the Life."
So Mr. C, could I get an A+ now instead of the A you so generously gave me? And Jeff Hatcher, wherever you are? You gave me one of the defining moments of my adolescence. Not a week goes by when I don't think about how I failed in answering your query.
Now for the next do-over.

The Road Less Traveled

We own a GPS for the car, or I should say my husband owns it; I'd rather use a map. We call said GPS Tracey because she traces our route for us and tells us where to turn and when. She does come in handy when we want to find a diner, or some ice cream, but otherwise I think she's rather tiresome.
Still, Tracey came with us over the weekend when we ventured forth on my latest triathlon adventure, at Hamlin Beach State Park, about 30 minutes west of Rochester along the Lake Ontario shoreline. I had mapped out a route that took us west and north from Liverpool along the back roads, avoiding the Thruway and seeing the lush and verdant sights of upstate New York in July. Getting there was no problem, though Tracey didn't agree with my navigation.
It was getting back home that proved more adventurous. Since I was tired, and we still had much to accomplish Sunday afternoon, I told Tracey we wanted to go home, and she led the way. That is, until we got stuck in traffic waiting to get on the Thruway in Rochester. We sat, and we sat, until my husband noticed that traffic after the toll booth was just as slow as before. While I tend to complain about his use of Tracey, I found myself asking him why she couldn't have told us of the traffic jam, so we could have avoided the mess entirely (silly me!).
A quick U-turn later and I decided to take Route 31 home, Tracey be damned! At every chance to turn right and make our way back to the Thruway, Tracey said, "Turn right. Turn right." I just kept making my way through the eastern suburbs of Rochester, noticing the ribbon of Erie Canal to our left, until we escaped Monroe County, and found ourselves in Wayne County, where some of the prettiest canal-era towns awaited with their surprisingly vibrant downtowns. Ontario and Cayuga county still stood between us and Onondaga County, and they made for interesting sight-seeing as we creeped east.
I was especially impressed with Palmyra, a lovely place with parks, canal bridges and a downtown that put Syracuse's Salina Street to shame. Had I not stunk to high heaven (I did just complete a tri), we would have stopped to explore. Then came Newark--not as picturesque as Palymra--and then Lyons, home town of Syracuse University men's basketball coach Jim Boeheim. Man, I thought my home town of Vernon was modest!
As we left each little village, the canal remained a fixture, until we neared Syracuse and it vanished completely. Roadside stands and farmers were selling fresh sweet corn, local peaches, monster zucchini.
It was all lovely, and all so much better than driving the tedious Thruway, fighting 18-wheelers and tailgaters. Sure, it took a good 45 minutes longer to get home, but it didn't matter. We truly enjoyed New York at its most voluptuous, and I, the history major, got to see parts of the canal that I am sorry to admit I had never visted before.
As we neared Syracuse, Tracey finally succumbed and stopped demanding that we get on the Thruway (her default setting is the fastest way to whatever location we seek). Maybe she was enjoying the Sunday drive as well.

Your Mother Should Know

Now I will be the first to admit I didn't have the best relationship with my mother. We weren't especially close, and we spent a good deal of my teen years butting heads.
But. . . there are some things my mother got right.
One of them has to do with what she would call building character. Whenever there was a chore I didn't especially like--sweeping the floor, making a salad--my mother would invariably have me do that chore. "It builds character," she would say.
Well, lo and behold, now I apply that principle to my everyday, and I am a stickler about clean floors!! As for salad? I eat one nearly every day, one that I have spent 30 minutes making.
But it goes beyond keeping a floor clean and getting my veggies.
Many of you know that I am a dedicated exerciser--triathlon training is like a part-time job to me, one that requires great rigor and dedication and planning.
At the same time I am training for the Syracuse Half-Ironman triathlon, Sept. 19, I am also working toward a marathon, Oct. 17. As part of the training, I have had to eliminate "junk" miles from my running. Every run has a purpose--building speed, endurance and the like.
So that's why I found myself at the Baldwinsville track, at 5:20 a.m., in the rain this morning to do speedwork, the dreaded speedwork. It's the one aspect of training I really don't enjoy but that I find pays nearly immediate dividends--to race fast you have to train fast. Reminding myself I would be glad to have done the work, I went through my paces.
And what went through my head? My mother's mantra about character building. Making myself do something I don't especially enjoy to reap great reward. In the case of tri and marathon training, I guess you could say I have built a lot of character!
I hate to admit it, but in this case my mother was right.

Transition Time

It's melancholy Monday, folks, after Saturday's graduation from high school of my youngest child. I guess I didn't know what to expect, emotionally, from this momentous occasion. When my daughter graduated three years ago, I didn't feel sad, I felt happy and proud and eager to help her on her adulthood journey. But this time, while I feel those things, they're tempered by a real sense of sadness. While I am thrilled I don't have to pay Catholic school tuition anymore, it's also jarring to realize you won't have the same relationship with the teachers and administrators as before. It's truly the end of an era.
Now, I am a stepmother, and have three at home still to see through this process, though I'm not really looking forward to those transitions either.
All I can do these next few days, weeks, months and years, is hope that my son makes the "right" choices--about a major, about friends, about drinking (it is college), about everything. While he will be living at home the first year of his community college career, that, too, will end, and I'll probably be as much of an emotional wreck when it happens.
Thank goodness for my supportive husband, my network of friends and family, my athletic "career"--if I didn't have those, I would truly be lost.
Like all grieving processes--and that's what this end of an era is--this will take time and I'll heal. That is, until my daughter graduates from college next year!