Bloomsday

            On Sunday I ran Bloomsday with my oldest son. It is a 12K (7.46 miles) and I hadn’t run anything further than four miles in the last month (mostly because of having hernia surgery in March). I thought I would be sore, but instead my legs just feel a little heavy and sluggish. I convinced my son, Forrest, to run it with me because I didn’t feel I could possibly sustain such a distance mentally without some help. I knew I would have to walk. I also knew I didn’t want to run that far alone because I would undoubtedly walk more than I would need to.

            When the body takes so much pounding the mind says, “You’re going to be sore. Don’t you want to take it easy?”

            And the body says, “While you’re not all wrong in the head, I can handle quite a bit. What’s seven and a half miles compared to all those marathons we’ve done together.”

            And then I tell them both, “Look guys, I don’t want to get injured. I’m just coming back from hernia surgery.”

            And both my mind and body respond, “Take a friend.” So I did. I took my oldest son, Forrest, and we ran it in an hour and 18 minutes all with a compromising plan. Walk breaks.

            We decided to walk after every two miles. And we pretty much walked all of Doomsday (counting it as our walk after mile 4). When we got to mile six I didn’t feel such a need to walk so I said we could keep going. But Forrest wanted to walk. The last straight stretch before the final turn began to feel eternal. The sunshine, even though the temperature was cool, seemed relentless. Literally running stoplights seemed like some nightmare of hell. That’s when I started noticing my legs aching. That’s when I started noticing hot spots on my feet. I was ready to walk. And that’s when I heard the theme from “Chariots of Fire.” And that’s when I knew we had made it.

We ran through the finish line. We saw friends from Potlatch. We felt the mist from Spokane Falls. It was elating. Neither of us knew whether we could make it so easily. But we did. It felt good.

My body said, “That wasn’t too bad.”

My mind said “You did it. Good job!”

Riggins

16. The things that make Riggins, Idaho unique from any other place in the world are probably its isolation and canyon setting. The Salmon River Canyon is probably the second deepest canyon in North America since it converges with Hell’s Canyon (which is considered the deepest).  Having grown up there it’s hard getting my head around the idea that it is unique, but in reality there is no other place like it in the world. The fact that it is such a tiny little place also sets it apart (not even 500 people). Each person throughout the history of the town has their own individual view of the world as do I. I always think of Riggins as a little timber town resting at the confluence of two rivers in a spot (ironically) where very few trees grow. Now people think of it as a haven for outdoorsmen and white water rafters but when I was growing up those things were definitely secondary. Timber was king, and ranching was a close second. Yes, I grew up hunting and fishing and hiking and floating down the river but those were mostly just part of life and having them be destination vacation sorts of things seemed, and still seems, slightly ludicrous.

            But the genius of life may very well be its absurdity. For instance, think of how easy it would be to merely view the Salmon River Canyon as a dry and barren place isolated from civilization—the cup pretty much dry type of place. You can certainly think of it as a desert place with prickly pear cactus, black widow spiders, scorpions, and rattle snakes. Yet I grew up believing and still believe that it is pretty much the center of the universe over-flowing with eternal springs of life giving water. And that sort of idea about the place has turned it into a destination vacation spot for sportsmen in spite of the fact that the timber industry took a big nose dive in the early 1980’s. That’s crazy isn’t it?

            So I’m really thankful for that little spot on the map and the foundation it gave me to take all the lemons of life and make them into lemonade. Our very lives are a paradox. We shouldn’t be here, yet here we are. Riggins should have dried up when the mill closed, yet there it is. Give thanks for all the absurdities of life.

Small Towns

The numbered entries are my continuing "list" of things I'm thankful for in America. Since it's National Poetry Month every entry this month is a poem.

15. Small Towns

To say, “City folk just don’t understand,”

Is to make vast assumptions:

“Probably won’t like it,” “Too close to land,”

“Don’t know how to do an honest day’s work.”

But people from small towns do enjoy friends;

Take care of their neighbors like family;

Like shared meals at community events;

Volunteer for the rural E.M.T.’s.

People from small towns enjoy a brisk walk.

They see stars and know all the planets,

About the phases of the moon they talk

And of crackling fires or of a cold snap.

It’s not a hobby to know the flora

And fauna of where they live, a glimpse from

Audubon, no, but true knowledge of a

Way of life from birds, and deer, bears and all.

Many people probably understand

And some quietly deride from envy.

But it’s a choice not someone’s countermand,

Nor a contest to see who is better.

Picking up the hard white chalk

Picking up the hard white chalk

against the crashing background noise

as if water were pounding against rocks,

I am reminded of you.

Awkward laughter escapes us both

as we chase the waves,

shoes thrown aside,

pant legs rolled up to the knees.

Words escape me

as the waves engulf our laughter

and my protagonist lecture

drowns somewhere between

the chalkboard surf

and our escape from your mother’s

ten minute stop.

I skip the white object

across the green waves

of the chalkboard

and the questions of childhood

disappear into the sea

of humanity that sprawls itself

in desks before me.

You disappeared between the pebbles

of the Devon shore

and the bells that control

the classroom waves,

leaving me to scrawl

dusty questions to stares

as vacant as

mine.

McCall Brewing Company

14. McCall Brewing Company

McCall Brewing Company ‘bove the shores

Of Payette Lake is a place to get good

Beer and a hearty plate of scrumptious food.

It’s clean, has a homey feel to adore.

Your friends can come and share a stout and more.

It has those walls of dark paneled barn wood

And maps on tables of places you should

Take those friends on hikes to where eagles soar.

Have another ale ‘fore you hit the trail:

Dark brown porter, a golden wheat lager,

Doesn’t matter what you order, just drink

To your delight (not to the point of fight).

Then go out on your hike, carry that growler

As up hills you walk, the courage you drink

Must have come from that IPA. ‘M I right? 

Hernia Surgery

In honor of National Poetry Month I'm going to post poetry entries for this month. Here are my thoughts on running and my situation right now:

Hernia Hiatus

Staying in shape to move, to jump, to run

Makes me love life, the chance to be, to grow

But hernia hiatus is no fun.

How can life be lived on hold? Suspension

Between stop and go? Slush, not rain or snow?

Staying in shape to move, to jump, to run…

Our lives should be fluid, stopped for not a one,

Cups overflowing, bubbling down the road.

But hernia hiatus is no fun.

Guts bulging out, pushed back in. Oh so dum.

Better to go under the knife to go

Staying in shape to move, to jump, to run.

Can’t lift twenty pounds now that I’ve begun.

In to work each day I have to go

But hernia hiatus is no fun.

So now I will take a quick shot of numb

To keep pain from my gut stitch even so.

Staying in shape to move, to jump, to run?

This hernia hiatus is no fun.

Potlatch

13. When I think of all the great things this country has to offer I have to be thankful for the community in which I have lived for nearly 25 years: Potlatch, Idaho. Potlatch sits at the base of the Hoodoo Mountains on the rolling hills of the Palouse. Here we get the four seasons in full force so you get to see every shade of beauty that comes from our lush evergreen forests and the rolling farmland of the Palouse Prairie. Right now at the end of winter and the budding of spring the remains of the last of the dirty snow banks are flooding the rivers and the fields are beginning to look like grasshopper pie with the green crème de menthe of wheat fields against the chocolate hues of the muddy, as of yet, unplowed fields. And of course there are plenty of gray misty days with the constant dampness of the season that still, on certain cooler mornings, gives way to snow.

Our community supports each other. When someone is sick we have fundraisers to help them pay for incidentals. We have a food bank for those who are hit by hard times. We have community gatherings to celebrate our heritage from logger sports to fiddle concerts. We have athletic events for our kids through our Parks and Rec. District and our schools. We have community band and a community choir for our Easter Cantata. We have a great EMT and Fire Department made up entirely of volunteers.

Another great thing about Potlatch is that with all its beauty, it is just off the radar for tourism. We don’t have a whitewater river, rugged mountain peaks for climbing or skiing, nor any big lakes right here. We do have a large place in the history of the Northwest as the founding company town of Potlatch Forest Industries, home of incredible families that continued to make other big timber corporations and people instrumental in the invention of Teflon. But most of that is just quiet keep-to-ourselves information that doesn’t attract crowds. It’s the amazing beauty of the area, the community support, the four seasons—all of these things make me really proud and thankful for this little town where I live: Potlatch, Idaho.