In a Sea of Change, A Constant Blue

“...what we’ve done, where we’ve been, the cars that we have had have been the fulcrum of our lives.”

-Leon Mandel

x

“What are you going to do,” the mechanic asked. “drive this thing for 500,000 miles?”

"Probably," I said. “I can’t imagine ever letting it go.”

We bought the little blue Honda CRV two months after my oldest daughter Lindsay was born.

Next month, she graduates from high school.

When my wife Amy and I were married, I was driving a Volkswagen van and she had inherited her parents Volvo station wagon.

Yet, when we got around to having kids, I was driving a two door pickup and she had a Honda Civic coupe.

I don’t think we are the only parents to have that sudden moment of anxiety, that realization that the nurses were handing us this baby, and expecting us to be responsible enough adults to keep it alive for 18 years. Our perspective of the world and its dangers, the meaning of our lives all changed as we walked out those hospital doors on a blue-sky February morning.

With that hanging over us, driving home in a two door coupe with a three day old baby strapped into her carseat in back, each logging truck and SUV on the road home from Astoria loomed over us and threatened our little Honda civic with its precious cargo.

I poured my nervous energy into researching small SUVs that would be sit up high and be safer on the winter roads when we visited family in the Columbia River Gorge.

We found a used 1997 Honda CRV that already had 80,000 miles on it, but the mechanic said it had been well maintained and we liked sitting up higher, with the good vision of the road it provided.

Moreover, it was much easier getting the baby in and out of the car seat in the back compared with crawling over the seat of the two-door coupe. When she fell asleep in her carseat, I didn’t wake her up trying to extract her.

That was important, because Lindsay didn’t like going to sleep as a baby. There was too much to see and do. You had to keep her moving out in the world so she could experience new things. Movement was relaxing to her, so we would drive the blue CRV around the Grays River Valley with the soundtrack to Oh Brother Where Art Thou playing to send her off to dreamland.

Change is such a overwhelming experience in our lives, the few constants can take on weighted meaning.

So much has changed since 2001.

When Lindsay was born I worked at home as a writer, but soon after I went back to school to become a nurse. The blue CRV took me through many a snowstorm to arrive at school and work in Longview and brought me safe at home again.

Yet most of the time it was the family car.

Lindsay and her younger sister Grace attended the Astoria School of Ballet for years, and the little blue CRV was my wife’s reliable transport across the river and back late at night. It was in the blue car that we started off on our many family adventures -- sledding on Mt Hood and Huckleberry picking on Mt Adams.

In the great Hanukkah Eve Storm of 2006, it got caught in rapidly rising flood waters before I could pull it out of my garage. We dried it out and it was not much worse for wear. It was stolen in 2012 from the street outside the hospital in Longview while I was working. I came out after my night shift to find an empty parking spot where it had been. It was such a humble and unassuming car that I couldn’t believe anyone would steal it.

Miraculously, it was recovered by Police in Vancouver just before it got chopped up for parts.

When I gave Lindsay her first driving lesson in the Rosburg School parking lot, it was in the CRV that we had bought just after she was born. I sat in the passenger seat giving her instructions, while glancing backward, thinking about the car seat that used to always be strapped in the back.

When she got her license, the blue CRV became “her” car. She put a hula guy on the dashboard and drove off to school with her younger sister and our exchange student riding along. I trusted her with this responsibility somehow. It wasn’t the car -- with its all wheel drive and its airbags and antilock brakes -- but the girl driving it.

At the start of her senior year, Lindsay came back from one of her many trips across the state as part of her student leadership activities renewed with ambition. She wanted to take jazz band in Ilwaco. Naselle High School didn’t offer jazz band and she was wanting to challenge herself and grow as a saxaphone player, to try something new.

I was skeptical. The class started at 7 am, and that meant she’d need to leave the house by 6 am every weekday morning for the long drive. Most teenagers like to sleep in and I didn’t think this adventure would last. Instead, she unerringly wakes before anyone else in the house and gets herself out the door before the sunrise.

The rewards for that effort have been enormous, she’s made new friends, grown as a musician, performs amazing solos during the band’s performances.

She also takes advantage of the Grays Harbor College facilities in Ilwaco for her running start college classes.  Her senior year and she is technically attending classes at two high schools -- Ilwaco and Naselle -- while earning college credits.

The blue CRV has become the symbol of Lindsay’s ambition and independence for me as well as her reliability. She even checks the oil -- because at 313,000 miles, it does burn a little. The back hatch is stuck shut and the air conditioner doesn’t work, but the plucky little thing just keeps on running.

In the Fall, Lindsay will be off to Washington State University and will leave the little blue CRV at home -- parking fees on campus are almost as much as tuition.

That will work out fine, because her younger sister starts driving lessons soon.  

UPDATE: After her first semester as a student at WSU, Lindsay missed her car. So when she came home and took it to school, we found a nice used 2007 CRV with 200,000 miles on it because, as my wife says, "we couldn't imagine life without a CRV."

-30-

Owned Goals: What We Learn Along the Way

When I run, the world grows quiet.

• Matt Inman, The Terrible and Wonderful Reasons Why I Run Long Distances

“It must feel good to be so close to achieving your goal,” Amy said.

I was wary rather than excited and tired from working the night before. Instead I stared out the window at the storm clouds growing over the Oregon coast as we drove south to Newport.

My goal was as simple as it was arbitrary. (See my earlier post On Running, Run On) I wanted to run four half marathons in one year before I turned 50.  Each half is 13.1 miles, 4x13.1=52.4 - so over 50 miles give or take a stumble.

Here we were driving to Newport to run the fourth and final half -- the Newport Resolution Run and Polar Bear Plunge. Out of shape from the sugar season, I wondered if I would even finish the race.

And if I did finish, what would come next?

What comes next after you achieve a goal?

When I set about this adventure, my plan was that this would be a last big hurrah for running. I love hiking and vowed to do more, perhaps as a substitute for these organized runs which can become expensive.  Yet each run introduced us to new places and got us out of our rut of attending only local runs.

May 20th - Run on the River

Astoria’s Run on the River was a great way to start. I signed up as a walker so I wouldn’t get in the way of more experienced runners. The weather was perfect and I love the waterfront.  I took off at the start running way too fast, passing most of the slower walkers. When my phone’s app told me my first mile time, I was stunned. I felt good and my pace was eight minutes a mile - I rarely ever run that fast. Nervous energy. Wow, I felt really good -- running without hills is great! In fact the first seven miles or so is absolute flat with great views along the riverfront to enjoy.

The flat running ended at the far East end of town, the course turns to the right, in and steeply uphill into the Alderbrook neighborhood. The real runners had flown by me long before I got to the first hill but mine wasn’t the only pace that slowed to crawl.  I finished with cramps in my legs and a decent time of two hours 15 minutes. One down.

August 12 - The Bridge of the GodS Half Marathon

Growing up on the Columbia River, I have a strange desire to run or walk across all this magnificent river’s bridges some day. The Great Columbia Crossing is one of my favorite runs each year. The Bridge of the Gods at Cascade Locks is in the heart of the Columbia Gorge. We took our little camper down and spent the night in field in front of the school with other runners. This time I had Amy with me. In the morning we hopped on the shuttle bus and the driver asked us if we knew how to get across the bridge. The Bridge of the Gods is narrow and 99 years old.  I couldn’t imagine driving across it in a school bus full of people. So I sat beside her and guided her across. “Have a blessed day,” the driver said, and we did.

We ran first across the metal grate bridge and then up onto forested roadways still charred from the previous summer’s devastating fires. Smoke from this summer’s fires was still in the air, smudging the August sun.  It was great to meet Amy at the end.

October 21 - The Gorge Half Marathon

After the muted skies at Cascade Locks, the weather in Hood River was a postcard worthy sunny Autumn day. We took our camper down the night before, had a great visit with my nephew’s family  in The Dalles. My mom got meet her new great-grandson. Amy and I curled up to watch another WSU football game on TV. My friend had warned me “the first two miles are all straight up hill, but after that it levels off and is good.” I was glad for the warning, as we climbed up from the river to the old scenic highway, the climb was psychologically defeating. Running with Amy I decided to care less about my time and more about enjoying the run. Fall colors and bright sunlight matched against blue skies. This run follows the old cliffside highway yielding picture-perfect views around every corner.  The punishing climb at the start of the race pays off at the end, as the course is down hill or flat in its final miles. I finished with just short of my personal best time but feeling great.

Then came the sugar season - that period between October and New Years where one gluttonous and pastry filled holiday follows another. Baked goods, fancy dinners, candy and cookies. Busy days, excuses not to run. I told myself “I’m in shape, I just ran three half marathons!”  

I was, as cartoonist Matt Inman would say, giving in to the Blerch -- that inner voice that gives you all the great reasons not to exercise, to quit or not even try.

I all but stopped running more than once a week and some weeks I didn’t run at all. I gained eight pounds. I forgot to ask for the right days off from work --so I had three 12 hours night shifts scheduled right before the final run.

January 5 - The Newport Resolution Run and Polar Bear Plunge

I had only visited Newport, Oregon a few times and really didn’t know the town. I had no idea where we would be running. Since we started on the jetty, I assumed a nice run along the harbor and maybe across that beautiful bridge. I figured it would be cold and wet, but I was prepared for that. I figured I would be very slow.

I had no idea.

Just a few miles into the run and the course veers up into the woods, narrow roads and muddy trails used by mountain bikes in better weather. I was still wearing my ultralight distance running shoes - no traction at all. I fell twice on steep and muddy trails and stopped to help other runners. Each run was 13.1 miles, but this one was much longer.  The trail was well marked but I grew increasingly concerned that I was lost. My running app failed at the start so I had no idea how far I had run and there were no mile markers. I cursed every skipped training day and every cookie and cinnamon roll indulgence. I felt as fat and slow as the day I first started running. When the trail finally returned to pavement, and headed down out of the hills. I was mentally exhausted.

Yet as I saw the bridge and the waterfront, I knew my goal was in reach.

The end the race is 100 yards of sand dunes with a finish line at the beach and dip in the ocean. I fell again trying to get under a cable gate right before the dunes. Something about climbing the first sand dune froze the thigh muscle on my left leg. It wasn’t cramped, but it just wouldn’t work. I hobbled toward the finish line and didn’t stop, I hobbled toward the water. I didn’t jump in the storm-tossed surf -- I was worried that I would not be able to stand up.

Instead I stood waist deep in the water and let the waves crash over me.

What’s next

Ending like that, you would think I’d hang up my shoes for good -- but I like running, not so much for the races - which I’m never competitive - but the way it makes me feel. It is meditation in movement, a time to think and breath and turn off the world for a little while. It makes me feel like I have accomplished something each day I run.

Pursuing this goal -- running in these races -- was great and got me out of my rut and into the world in a new way, but what I realized is that it is the everyday running and training that I crave.

Run Every Day - the streak

“Streaking” in the running world is not what you remember from the 1970s (if you remember the 1970s). Streaking is running every day for a minimum of one mile. Most days you are likely to run more, but depending on time and weather and all the other excuses, someday a mile is all you are going to accomplish. The key is putting on your shoes every single day for at least that one mile.  I started the day my new Reeboks arrived and have only missed a day or two. I plan to start my official streak on my 50th birthday next week.

My big goal is to run 500 miles - which is easy if I just aim for 10 miles each week. Somewhere along the way I want to get a streak going of 50 days of running or speed walking at least one mile.

I have learned that goals aren’t about finish lines. Goals are about how you change your thinking on the path to achieving them.

-30-

Why We Must Love Old Dogs

“Dogs’ lives are too short. Their only fault, really.” – Agnes Sligh Turnbull

Sometimes I worry about Lucky.

He sleeps late. He needs help coming down stairs, he doesn’t eat, spends the day curled up on the couch by the window, only occasionally looking outside at the rain.

Yet other days he is up early, eats a big breakfast and runs around the house with boundless energy, he goes for long walks out in the fields even in the pouring rain.

Why waste a good day if only the weather is bad.

He does well for an old dog.

As far as we can tell, Lucky is 14 years old -- the first few years before we adopted him from Must Love Dogs NW were eventful.

The story we were told was that he was hit by a car and lost an eye. Without the eye, he failed to see a train coming and lost a leg and his tail.

Three legs, one eye and no tail -- I like to say he’s only three-quarters dog.

We were also told that he was a street dog in Thailand, brought back to US by a Veterinarian who met him on a medical mission trip. As one of the millions of so-called “soi dogs” he belonged to no one. This myth of him starting life half a world away is such a bizarre origin story that is must be true. Moreover, it fits with his personality.

Like that Margaret Wise Brown book “Mr Dog”, Lucky doesn’t belong to us. He is the dog that

belongs to himself. When he was younger, he would just hop in any car that happened to be passing by. He is happy to follow a stranger home if they smell good and might offer him food.

No, we have never owned Lucky.  Yet he has always owned the heart of my younger daughter Grace. Grace was just 4 years old when we got him and she was obsessed with him from the start. Her kindergarten teacher commented that he was all she ever talked about or drew pictures of. Over the years Grace and Lucky have appeared in so many pictures together that the Facebook algorithm automatically tags pictures of Grace as Lucky Hunt. They are, as best we can tell, the same age. Although her 14 years would be 98 years to him. They have spent a decade together.

She growing up, he growing old.

They have grown so close, I fear the day when he is no longer.

Yet Lucky is a tough one. Untroubled by the injuries early in his life he has always managed to run, jump and play. His left hind leg didn’t heal right and only has two toes. On hard surfaces he just lifts that bad leg and runs on the two right legs. As old as he is, on a good day he can still move pretty fast when he wants to. He still feels it is his job to protect his house.

When I am 98, I hope I am still able to walk out in the fields on rainy mornings, marking my territory so the coyotes don’t dare come near.

Lucky was never much interested in other dogs. He prefers to keep company with cats. We don’t judge. That’s just how God made him. He loves playing with cats -- and would often wrestle with them in his younger days. A few years ago, we picked out two siamese kittens from a neighbor and Lucky promptly adopted them, letting them sleep in his bed and knead his fur. Today the cats are full grown and almost bigger than he his. Yet, he’ll still grooms them when they come in from the rain.

The only dog I’ve ever seen him play with is Wendy.

Wendy is a yellow lab. She was just a puppy when she was given to my mom.

Somehow, she latched on to me and decided that I was her favorite person. When I would come to visit, I’d get her undivided attention.  Once the girls went down to The Dalles to visit mom while I was working and Wendy sat staring at the door waiting for me to come in.

When mom retired to the beach, Wendy moved out to the farm to live with us and thrived in her farm-dog years. She sits on the porch and alerts us to anyone who comes down the driveway, and helps me work on the motorcycles by licking my face whenever I get near the ground. She is a great outfielder when we play catch.  She loves chasing the dirt bikes out the field and walks by the river.

I assumed that Labs all were born knowing how to swim. One time out on the farm I threw a stick out in the water and Wendy hesitantly jumped in - and sunk like a stone. She didn’t bob up dog paddling either. Instead she thrashed and staggered up on the riverbank, looking back at the water in horrified betrayal.

So I had to teach her to swim down at the Covered bridge.

Lucky can swim -- although with the one front leg he tends to list to the left. While I was giving Wendy lessons, Lucky spotted a critter darting into a hole on the opposite riverbank. He took off across the water after whatever-it-was and clambered up the bank and into the hole.

Whatever-it-was apparently wasn’t accepting visitors. Lucky came right back out, stranded crying on the river bank. With one eye, he lacks depth perception--getting down from places is tricky. So, I had to wade across to rescue him. Wendy eagerly thought she’d help, but halfway across panicked and tried to drown me. The girls got a great laugh watching this whole fiasco.

Wendy’s getting older now too. She is not much younger than Lucky. She still has that lab-puppy smile but she moves at a walk instead of a run when playing fetch most days.

We all get older. Both humans and dogs are born with expiration dates printed somewhere in the weaving of our fates. As the years pile on, we all have good days and bad.

It is the tragedy of our existence that dogs get older at a faster pace than we humans. Thus inevitably, the ever-constant love of a dog must one day become a memory.

Yet the mark they leave in our hearts is indelible all the same.

I struggle to write anything profound about dogs that hasn’t already been written. Dog wisdom has becomes its own literary genre of late. No surprise since we have had dogs at our side since the earliest campfires of our humanity. Scientists believe that we co-evolved with dogs starting about 100,000 years ago. A good part of our evolutionary success is due to dogs watching over us at night and helping us on the hunt. Over the eons they have learned to anticipate what we want and need. They have warmed us, warned us and helped us become who we are.

Along the way, dogs have distilled the emotion of love into its purest form.

Older dogs like Wendy and Lucky still have much companionship to give. People often look for puppies when they want a dog, but senior dogs can be more social, calm and easier to adapt to your family. They are usually already house trained and less likely to chew up your shoes.

Yet, no matter how old a dog gets, the well of their love never runs dry.

-30-

No Camp-parison : How to Be A Happy Camper

“Comparison is the Thief of Joy”

-Theodore Roosevelt

Expectation is the cruelest demon, able to trick us into missing the good that is all around.

When life fails to live up to our expectations -- to what we think it should be -- we can end up mourning our victories as if they were tragedies.

I thought about this as we pulled our little camp trailer down the highway one last time before the summer sun set. Already October, we had traveled more than 1200 miles dragging this 47 year old trailer behind us to adventures in the Columbia River Gorge and Washington State Fair.

When we told the girls that we were getting a camper this year, I think they expected something modern with white fiberglass and slide outs that stretched -- like the accompanying monthly payments -- off into the horizon.

Instead we went frugal and bought something old and dented and small enough to easily park and maneuver in our limited driveway.  A 1973 Prowler, it isn’t quite old enough to be “vintage” in the trendy sense of the word. Many of those campers from the 1950s and 60s are being restored by adventurous souls into fine displays of mid-century Americana. The so-called “Glampers” are decked out in retro style with an artist’s attention to detail.

Ours is clean and dry and works.

Our little Prowler won’t be on anyone’s Pinterest board anytime soon. I don’t think of it so much as a restoration but a resuscitation.  When we brought it home it was primer gray on the outside and untouched oil embargo early-malaise 70s on the inside. It came with holes in the sheet metal, a broken water heater and bald tires.

The girls were not impressed.

My older daughter refused to even go in it. My happy camper younger daughter piled up the disappointing comparisons between what we bought and what we “should” have brought home.

Undaunted, I began a long list of repairs starting with the most essential and practical things needed before our first summer adventure. It was a Maslow’s hierarchy of needs -- shelter, warmth, running water, tires and a battery. My wife Amy set about plans to reupholster cushions. I put the girls to work spray painting the exterior in a brilliant blue so that it looked a little less like a forlorn mushroom in our driveway.

In just a few weeks we had it safety-pinned and duct-taped together enough to camp in as the girls got out of school for summer. With each adventure we found some new thing that leaked, or broke or needed to be repaired. Indeed, It felt like a B-17 bomber returning from bombing runs over enemy territory with holes blasted in its side.  On one trip, the bumper started falling off. On another, a full quart of milk fell out of the refrigerator and spilled and sloshed over every inch of the floor.

No sense crying. Camp on.

Through it all, we were warm and dry and almost always surrounded by newer nicer RVs.

It is amazing how content one can be when you refuse to compare yourself to others.

We didn’t expect to have our camper Pinterest-perfect in time for summer. We didn’t compare ours to others except with a laugh and a smile.

Such comparisons are far too easy to come by these days.

We live immersed in a wallow of social media, of Facebook and Instagram and Pinterest boards soaked in filtered photos and plucky performative ambition.

However, I am old enough to remember the days before the internet when glossy magazines were just as effective at raising our expectations and lowering our self esteem. I still have well worn Wooden Boat and Flying magazines. I recall the projects of my 24 year old self. My landscaping didn’t look like Sunset Magazine. The Adirondack chairs I built used wood screws a millimeter too long, such that they poked through into your back when you sat on them.

In today's world we share “our story” online each day -- pictures that are the cropped and filtered highlight reels of our life. Now that we don’t have to send film to the photomat to be developed, we are free to take countless photos of every good thing that happens in our life -- sharing only the very best with family and friends around the world.

This is not a bad thing unless you look at these photos and adventures and compare your own life unfavorably to those around you. It is when we compare ourselves to others or to our own cursed unrealistic expectations of what “should be” that we get into trouble.

Researchers have found that social media can be harmful accelerant of a common bad habit of mental hygiene -- comparing ourselves to others. AS David Baker a researcher at Lancaster University who studied social media use and misuse in 14 countries explained to Broadly magazine, such comparisons can increase anxiety and feelings of depression and decrease self esteem. Another bad habit is overthinking what you post. "Rumination--meaning you spend a lot of time overthinking your experiences online” also can cause anxiety and increase depression Baker explained.

Yet, social media interactions could also be a force for good when it is used for connecting us with others around the world, sharing positive ideas and celebrating good news.  Fire can keep you warm or burn your house down. Like any tool, it is neither good or evil. It’s benefit depends on how it is used.

Too often, however, we unfairly compare these highlight reels with ourselves. Or we compare our experience to our unrealistic expectation of that experience.

We can never measure up in our imaginations. This creates resentment toward others as well as toward our own circumstances. These comparisons only serve to distract us from the meaning and experiences in our own lives.  

I work in an Emergency Department in a tourist town near the ocean. No one plans a visit to the ER as part of their dream vacation.

Unfortunately, I see many of the moments that don’t make it onto the Instagram feeds.

One summer day years and years ago,  a beautiful couple from Korea was married. On the first day of their honeymoon they flew to Portland, rented a car and drove to the Pacific Ocean. They arrived at the jetty and looked out over the crashing waves of the mighty Pacific.

In that picture perfect moment a nearby fisherman arched back his pole to cast and hooked the young bride in her nose. When they arrived in the ER, I was stunned by the beauty of the couple, they looked like supermodels in their tailored clothes. They could have been on the cover of a fashion magazine -- save for the hook in her nose with the bait still attached.

Life is unpredictable.

It almost never matches our expectations or well laid plans. We find ourselves in places we would never have imagined, sometimes, even better than we imagined.

We do well to make the best of what life throws at us, to smile and laugh and remind ourselves to be first and foremost thankful for what we have.

And that it could be worse.

-30 -