Tuesday, July 30, 2013

Panache

At bedtime when she’s here or I’m at her house, I often lie down for a snuggle with B at bedtime. She invariably asks me for a Little Peach story, an impromptu feat of imagination I no longer carry off as well as I did for her mom, so I’ve started to ask her if she’d rather hear a story about when her mother was a little girl.

One of her favorites is a story about H at a horseshow. Like a lot of little girls, H was passionate about horses. She had lessons, eventually a pony of her own, and when she was bigger, a wonderful jumper and event horse named Panache, who, early in the relationship, frankly scared the sweet bejeezus out of her mother and me. But H had an excellent teacher, learned how to control all that power, and the two of them had great fun together. One Saturday, the two of them went off to a show jumping competition in which one of H’s earlier teachers, who had done a great job teaching her the basics and a good bit more, would be riding a favorite. Panache was in his prime, H was riding joyfully, and they rode absolutely clear rounds to win. B, who has visited Panache in his Vermont retirement, loves my (much-embellished) version of this story.

Sadly Panache, died last night. He’d been a sweet, easy-going boy—except in competition, when all he wanted was to go fast and jump high, and when he demonstrated he was a terrific athlete. He’d had a very comfortable retirement. And he was a very, very old man. He was also, of course, much loved by us all.


I’ve just discovered that all our pictures of P and H flying over things are those antique paper things. But here are a few shots digitized:

A little snuggle, I think the fall H went off to college.


Early retirement in Vermont, spring 2003.


And the B has a go in 2011.



Friday, July 26, 2013

Wheels

I think I’m needing a new car. I’m driving an 8-year-old Subaru Outback, a great, practical car for New England that’s lately been sending me intimations of its imminent demise. Thinking about a new car has naturally gotten me thinking about cars in general, but specifically my cars of years past.

I learned to drive on my father’s 1958 Rambler. And also on my school’s dual-control 1962-ish Chevy trainer. Both standard shift, both three on the column, and I’ve been a standard-shift guy ever since. But my mother in those days was driving a little 1959 Morris Minor convertible (four on the floor, of course), and once I got my license, this became my main ride. It was easy to winkle away from her, and it had a jaunty distinction the square old Rambler lacked.


My own first car was a gift from my father (this in itself stunned me to the point that I was almost unable to utter, “Thank you”). It was a very used, early ’60s Karmann Ghia convertible, essentially a Volkswagon in a sporty body, and I remember it fondly. It was the car I drove during my final year at college, and it was great to have at my disposal in far-from-everywhere Hanover.


The car I really wanted in those days was an Austen Healey 3000, but I was never within miles of being able to afford one. After I got my first job, though, I did find a little used Sprite in great shape,



then moved on to a truly foul used MGB-GT, by far the crappiest car I’ve ever owned. From the early ’70s, to now (except for a used MG Midget—essentially the same as the Sprite—for nearly a year when we lived in England), it’s been mostly new cars, but with economy and practicality very much in mind, and we’ve driven them until they’ve cried uncle. A 40-year automotive yawn. But now, once again, I’m being drawn by the sporty, or at least cheeky. I keep seeing restored 3000’s around,


 but that’s definitely not on. And I keep doing double takes whenever I see one of these:


And, of course, there are Miatas. And all those upscale sporty roadcars.


But realistically, there are certain inevitabilities at play here. Though I’d love to be the kind of guy who could at least keep a little MG-TD in the garage for short toodles on beautiful summer evenings...


... I have a pretty good idea of what’s going to go down here.


So it goes. Or to be a little more sporty, or at least cheeky, c’est la vie.







Saturday, July 13, 2013

“Time’s on the wing...”

My dad’s moving out of his little apartment with us, into a “senior living” facility. It’s been a tough choice to make, but I’ve pretty much come to the end of the road and can no longer do him justice here. I’ve found a great place, and I’m content with the decision. I think he will be, too.

The fact of this major change has brought to the surface more memories of moments we’ve shared over the years. Some are utterly mundane, some are pretty awful, but so many involve laughter and joy. Here’s one that popped into my head Thursday as I was driving home from a chat with the people at Maplewood.

In mid-October, 1963, when I was 15, I ran in my first large cross-country meet, sponsored by my own high school due entirely to the energy of our coach. It was the third running of an event that continues to this day. I’d been having a good season for a new runner, which had been a great surprise—to me most of all. I’d lost only once, but I’d so far run only dual meets, which have an entirely different dynamic than meets with a dozen or more teams. My dad had given me a little shake that morning, to add a “Good luck today” to the standard kiss before he left for work. We all hoped I’d do well, of course, but others were favored.

It was a two-lap course that allowed good views from a hill near its center, and the meet was big enough to attract spectators. My mother was there, and she brought her mother and, I think, one of her sisters. Schoolmates, teachers, other adults, little kids—all a real kick for us runners, who seldom performed for crowds. It was especially great for me, because it was a home crowd. It’s an indescribably wonderful feeling to have a mass of people cheering for you.

But it’s a nervous-making feeling, too. You don’t want to let people down. I took off at the gun like a scalded cat. There was no doubt who was going to win the first half mile: this inexperienced idiot in the blue singlet. But that would leave another two miles to go. A little after the mile mark, though, when I needed a bit of a boost, we came back through the starting area and that wonderful crowd, and I got energized all over again. I ran scared the whole way, but when I took my last look back with just over a quarter mile to go, I knew I had it.

Unexpected victory is pure joy, and I experienced a fantastic half-hour or so getting pummeled and congratulated. (And scolded by my grandmother: “I’m never going to watch you run again. You look like you’re going to die!”) Great stuff, for sure. But the very best moment of the day came later. My mom had had to go back to work, and I walked to my grandmother’s house to wait for my father to come through town to pick me up on his way home. He stopped on the other side of the street, and I jogged stoically out and got into the car with my gym bag. He said, “So, how did it go?” as if it didn’t really matter all that much, because he knew I hadn’t been likely to win, and he didn’t want to make me feel worse than I probably already did. I managed to keep a straight face while I fumbled with the zip on my bag. “Well,” I said, “not too bad.” And I pulled out the trophy. “You won!” he said, showing just enough amazement to confirm he thought I wouldn’t. “Of course,” I said, showing just enough irony to confirm I hadn’t thought I would either. And we laughed, both at each other and out of the pure happiness of the moment.


Barter

  by Sara Teasdale
Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And childrens's faces looking up
Holding wonder in a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstacy
Give all you have been, or could be.
- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20724#sthash.h5lRBa9V.dpuf

Barter

  by Sara Teasdale
Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And childrens's faces looking up
Holding wonder in a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstacy
Give all you have been, or could be.
- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20724#sthash.h5lRBa9V.dpuf

Barter

  by Sara Teasdale
Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And childrens's faces looking up
Holding wonder in a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstacy
Give all you have been, or could be.
- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20724#sthash.h5lRBa9V.dpuf