Why I Write

I'm often asked, "Why do you write?" My response is, "I can't not write!"

I have always wanted to write.  A few years ago, after "semi-retiring," I was in a position to devote my full attention to writing. I finished my first novel, which I'd started over twenty years ago, and put it in the file cabinet where it is waiting for another visit one day. It wasn't ready for prime time and I knew it.

I immediately started another novel. I finished that one, which was "The Medicine Game" and it was published in January, 2012. I have since published two additional novels and plan to release number four next month.

All three of my novels have won awards. I'm continuing to grow as a writer, and every day is a learning experience. There is nothing more gratifying than hearing from my readers, and having them tell me what they think about my stories. My only regret is that I didn't start writing full-time sooner! 

Why I run

I turn sixty-one next month and just finished my first marathon, the Disney, two days ago. I’ve run most of my life, but never that kind of distance. Immediately after the race, I swore I’d never do another, but now, I find myself thinking about maybe one more. Why?

I’ve been thinking about that a lot the last couple of days. What is it about running? It’s hard, not sure how anyone can say it’s fun, certainly doesn’t seem to fit most peoples’ definition of fun.

The more I think about it, the more I think it revolves around the fact that it is such a personal challenge. I think about all the people I saw on the course, all sizes and shapes. You hear people say, “She looks like a runner,” or “He’s got a runner’s build.” After starting that race with 27,000 people, I’m here to tell you there is no profile. There were people who passed me, if I saw them at the mall, I would swear they couldn’t run around the block. And I passed others who in a million years, I would never predict I could outrun.

At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter how much money you have, you can’t pay someone to take the steps for you. It’s just you and the pavement. No fancy equipment, no shortcuts, you have to pick ‘em up and put ‘em down for 26.2 miles, not a yard less. Everything in you screams “enough” and “stop this madness.” You argue with your body, trying to convince it to keep moving, just get you to the finish.

It’s amazing how emotional you can become. Just past mile 13 in the Animal Kingdom, someone was holding up a sign that said simply, “One day, you won’t be able to do this – today is not that day.” Tears formed in my eyes as I slogged past. I found myself repeating that for the next 13 miles, over and over and over again. I honestly believe that sign helped me finish the race.

After the race, when I went to describe it to my wife, who had patiently waited in the hot Florida sun for three hours, I choked up repeating the words out loud. Why? I think it was a reminder of why I did the race. A few months ago, after I had signed up for the race and gone public with my intentions, I told someone that my knees and legs were holding up pretty good, but if I wanted to run a marathon, I should probably go ahead while I could.

I’ve always heard people talk about hitting the “wall,” and wondered about that. I’d never had that happen. A few weeks ago, on one of my long training runs, I was up to about 17 miles at that point, I found out what it was like. At about mile 15, I cratered. As much as I commanded my legs to move, my body would not run, period. It was as if someone else was pulling the strings. I pleaded, begged, cursed, and screamed, but my body refused to cooperate. I limped the rest of the way, running for a few seconds, then walking for a few minutes. I got home, totally disgusted. If I hadn’t told everyone I was running the marathon, I would’ve bailed at that point, no doubt about it. I would’ve slinked off to the corner, curled up in the fetal position, licked my wounds and quit, right then and there.

My wife told some of her friends, accomplished runners, at the gym about it, and they laughed! Everyone hits the wall sooner or later, they said. Tell him to suck it up and keep at it. Improve your hydration and nutrition, deal with it.

When she told me, I was angry, then hurt. They didn’t understand. I was older. This was my first one. I can’t do this. I shouldn’t have signed up for this. It was my first real challenge. I nursed my wounded pride, and thought about it. For the first time, I had doubts about being able to finish. I was scared. Up until that point, I had breezed through my training with no hitches. But I had run smack into the wall of reality, and it hurt.

I did the rest of my runs that week, but the entire time, the next long run was waiting for me, waiting to devour me. That next Sunday, I set out to do my long run, 17 miles again. I prepared, brought more water, more sports drink, more things to replenish my body, but I was so scared. What if I couldn’t make it? I did my run, no wall. OK, I thought, but the specter of it was haunting me. Maybe it was lying in the shadows, waiting to pounce again?

I never hit the wall again, even in the race. Sure, I got tired, very tired. Around mile 22, I had to walk a little, run a little, walk some more. But my legs cooperated and making the turn at mile 23, I started running again. Popping out in Hollywood Studios, I looked up and saw my niece and her husband on the sidewalk, cheering and screaming and waving. I couldn’t help but grin and wave back.

Passing mile 24, once again, I had to walk a little. I looked up and saw we were coming into Epcot. The finish. One day, I told myself, I won’t be able to do this, but today is not that day. I started running again, and we came into Epcot next to the United Kingdom and mile 25. One mile to go. I didn’t stop running again until I crossed the finish line. That was the longest mile I’ve ever run in my life.

That sign was a reminder of our mortality and hit at the core of why I run. One day, I won’t be able to do this. Thankfully, today is not that day.

My Hero

   Who is your hero?
   These days, I think a lot of people have a hard time coming up with the answer to that question. Seems like we’re lacking a lot of genuine heroes in this world.
   The first reaction is to try and think of the usual familial candidates. Fathers, mothers, brothers. I love my brother, and no offense, but I wouldn’t say that he’s a hero.
   My mother is a finalist and worthy of consideration. She has a great faith, one that I envy.
   My dad, God rest his soul, is also on the short list. He fought for our country in World War II and he instilled a lot of good values in me, values that I haven’t always lived up to, but try.
   Then, I try to think of what I call “world savers.” You know, someone like Jonas Salk, who discovered the first polio vaccine. Again, not a lot of names come to mind.
   As I start casting around, someone keeps popping up in my mind. He’s young, awful young to be regarded as a hero. Is he too young? Do you have to be old to be a hero? I don’t think so.
   He’s not a world saver. Hasn’t invented a cure for cancer, at least not that I know of. But he did fight cancer. It was nasty, and his doctor gave him a fifty-fifty chance of living. A coin toss. Not very good odds, especially when you are only twenty years old. But he managed to win. It’s been over five years, so I hope and pray there won’t be a rematch. 
   He hasn’t given millions of dollars to any cause. Not that he wouldn’t, but he only earns $30,000 a year. Hard to give away a lot of money on that salary.
   But being a hero is not about money. There’s a lot more to it than that. A hero is someone who inspires us to do better; someone with a truly unselfish attitude. A hero is someone who does something simply for the pure good, not for fame or fortune.
   Like I said, hard to find these days.
   My hero is a firefighter, the breed that runs into a burning building, not away from it. Hard for me to imagine. Avoiding fire has to be one of our most basic, primal instincts. Overcoming that to deliberately go into a raging fire goes against everything in our DNA. Yet, there are those who do it.
   He was hurt recently in a fire, second and third-degree burns on his ears. Fortunately, it wasn’t worse, though it easily could have been. He was the first one in a burning house, holding the nozzle on the hose. The fire was so hot, portions of his Nomex hood basically melted the bottom of his ears.
   I told him next time, not to be so quick to grab the nozzle and go in. Know what he told me?
   “That’s my job, Dad.”
   There’s my hero. And I couldn’t be prouder.

Full Circle

My mom’s birthday is next month. She’ll be 86 and lives in a retirement community about three hours away.
    I went over yesterday to take her to a doctor’s appointment, something that happens less frequently than one would think at her age but increasingly often. She’s getting more feeble, both mentally and physically, as the years take their toll. Sometimes her thoughts get lost mid-sentence and her short-term memory is not as good as it once was. She’s a little unsteady on her feet and tires easily, so I’ve convinced her to use a wheelchair when we go out. That took some doing in itself.
    My mom is from another generation. Still no computers or internet, she was raised on a small farm in rural, southeast Georgia, and moved to the “big” city of Macon after graduating from high school. There, she met my dad, fell in love and got married. Shortly after I was born, they bought a small house in the suburbs. She quit work to stay home and raise a family. She bore two more sons-only two of us left, the third dying in childbirth.

    They lived in that house for 44 years until they moved to the retirement home. They were married for 57 years, their only marriage. That has to be a record and one that neither my brother nor I will ever match. She has endured a lot in her years, but she is strong and a woman of great faith, a faith that I can only envy. She’s never been on an airplane and never even learned to drive.

    After her appointment, I took her back to her home, as she now calls it. I took the wheelchair out of the back of my SUV, walked around and opened the passenger door. She was tired, getting in and out of a car, up and down on an exam table, and was having trouble getting out of the high seat. I leaned over and said, “Mama, put your arm around my neck and let me help you.”
    She placed a frail arm around my neck and I helped her get out of the vehicle and into her wheelchair. Her arm lingered and she pulled me close to her face.
    “Thank you,” she said. “I love you.”
    Tears welled up in my eyes as I was struck by the incongruity of the situation. The arms that had fed me, nurtured me and comforted me were now wrapped around my neck and she was thanking me.
    “No, Mama,” I said, “Thank you. I love you too.”