It's ok to run.

Peter Howes, aged 66, was an avid runner who logged 20 miles a week. Yards from the finish line at the annual Thanksgiving Day 10-K Turkey Trot in Virginia Beach, he suffered a cardiac arrest and collapsed. Luckily, several fellow runners came to his aid including nurses and a cardiovascular specialist. A tragic incident with qualified medical professionals nearby. What are the odds of that?

Mr. Howes was rushed to Sentara Virginia Beach hospital where he underwent surgery and remained in critical condition for more than a week. He died on December 6th.

I recall seeing at least four news articles about Mr. Howe's collapse and subsequent hospital stay. The last headline read: "Va. Beach runner who collapsed at Turkey Trot dies." Unfortunately, people die every day. Evidently, the local media found it newsworthy that he collapsed while he was - God forbid - running. It was as if the primary message conveyed in the headline and article was "Mr Howes was asking for it," or "look what can happen if you go out and run race!" Maybe they should have just crafted a headline that read: "If you run, you will die."

Admittedly, I am an avid runner. I was saddened by the loss of a fellow runner and frustrated by the media coverage. Where are the news headlines that read: "Overweight and sedentary man dies after years of 5,000+ a day caloric intake." Or, "Three pack a day smoker collapses at the food mart passes away." No, we can't single out those who abuse their bodies. That would be insensitive. They can't help it if they eat like an ox or smoke like at chimney. It's society's fault. Blah, Blah, Blah.

Runners are, for the most part, very fit and very caring - as demonstrated by the fine people that came to his aid. Runners are doing their best to fight time and gravity; doing their darnedest to stay healthy for themselves and their loved ones. Let's recognize their ongoing achievements and commitment to fitness rather than their last race.

A Different Way to DC

Last week, my thirteen-year old son sent me a text about taking Amtrak to Washington, D.C. to attend a MLS soccer game. I’ve never traveled by Amtrak or attended a professional soccer game, so naturally I decided it was a good idea. In the past, I’ve had the pleasure of springing last-minute vacation plans on my son; most recently a 48-hour heads up that we were traveling to Big Sky country. So, I figured it was his turn.

The closest train station to Virginia Beach is tucked off of Warwick Blvd. in Newport News, a town once known primarily for its ship building prowess, but tends to make the news these days for random gang murders and drug arrests.

The Amtrak station itself is a boxy, beige colored building whose interior has the style and personality of a well-worn DMV office. Twenty or so black, airport gatestyle chairs take up the majority of the waiting area. Two Amtrak employees chat amongst eachother behind thick bullet-proof glass which could use a good squeegee. With tickets in hand, we found a seat among our future fellow travelers. Nearby, an overweight and farsighted woman does her best to decipher a crumpled crossword puzzle while others stare into space sipping coffee and waiting for, I hope, the proverbial “all aboard,” which by the way, never comes.

My son and I decide to wait outside when an Amtrak bus (who knew they made such a thing?) from Virginia Beach spilled about 40 travelers curbside. The bus driver quickly birthed luggage of varying sizes and shapes from its belly. Duffle bags, roller suitcases, beach umbrellas and surprisingly, two brand new white Styrofoam coolers which contain either freshly caught Virginia Beach seafood or human body parts. I pray for the former. A sunburned man in an orange tank top accompanied by two girls clad in pajama bottoms and t-shirts quickly gathers up the coolers, straps them to a luggage carrier and hurriedly heads in side. Perhaps this is a common occurrence, because I’m the only one who notices and thinks it odd. But then again, this is Newport News, and maybe it’s best to look the other way when encountering suspicious behavior.


A quick word about zone boarding, at least as it applies to the Amtrak Station in Newport News: Nowhere on your ticket does it tell you if you are to board from zone A, B, C, D, etc. When I saw the zone signs along the track, I inquired from one of the attendants behind that translucent bullet proof glass as to which zone I belonged, and she told me I was in “zone D” because “that’s the way we do it.” Turns out, everyone was assigned to zone D that morning. As the train backed into position, the procession of travelers shuffled quietly trackside; bags and children in tow making their way to down to “zone D.” It had that eastern-European, cold war refugee feel to it. I fully expected to see elderly women in babushkas clutching chickens and dreams for a better future but instead, here comes suspicious cooler guy.

I avert my eyes and help a older woman squeeze a four-foot wide suitcase through a two-foot wide train door. Luggage size, weight, or content are of no concern. Security is non-existent. If it can fit through the door, it can come along for the ride. Once we boarded, I was pleasantly surprised how roomy the train car was as compared to the claustrophobic confines of most airplanes. The isles, seats, windows and overhead compartment where twice a big. We had power outlets, tray tables, leg room and a snack car. We quickly found a couple of seats, stowed our backpacks and out of habit, I reached for seatbelts that didn’t exist. Fine by me. Also, there was no need to power down electronic devices, store tray tables or listen to flight attendants drone on about various exiting options.

We slowly pulled away from the Newport News station. The train swayed gently back and forth as we clickity-clacked our way down the tracks. Passengers did what passengers do: read, sleep, or cautiously navigate through conversations with total strangers about past and future travels. One lady was on her way to a business meeting, a young man was off to visit his father, and two teens the size and evidently the appetites of NFL linebackers waited impatiently for the snack car to open.

Between Newport News and Richmond, it appears that the major forms of industry are farming, manufacturing, and fencing in rusty machinery. These random monuments to industrial demise include gutted cars, extinct harvesting implements, and oddly shaped twists of iron and steel that, if plopped down in front of office buildings, would make fine works of art.

Train travel does allow one to take note of your surroundings. For me, traveling from Newport News to Richmond has always been in a car, where the view is always the same: A narrow strip of cracked concrete chock-a-block with cars and trucks, weaving through a trough of shrubs and trees. The only respites being exit ramps leading to convenience stores packed with over priced goodies and stressed out drivers. I find myself growing tired of the familiar to the point where I stop seeing things -- or even looking for things -- that might be of interest. A drive to work is a drive to work. The traffic looks the same. Buildings are just buildings. I arrive but don’t remember journey. It’s only when I get off the beaten path, travel to someplace entirely new that I become more aware of my surroundings. The search for new is the recognition of my own mortality. It’s a big world out there, and I want to see as much of it as possible before time stores the suitcase in the attic and announces it’s time to board at Gate Pearly.


After about an hour into our trip, we emerge on the open plains of the Richmond airport - pun intended - where our train’s power cut off twice, affording us a lovely view of planes taking off and landing. I commented to my son that an incident such as this would have dire affects if we were traveling by plane. Luckily, we powered up and made our slow approach to the Shockoe Slip area of Richmond and Main Street Station. Shockoe Slip earned its unusual name from the creek that once flowed through it. "Shacquohocan" was the Indian word for the large, flat stones at the mouth of the creek, and "slip" refers to the area's position on the canal basin where boats loaded their cargo.
One thing you notice as you inch your way to Main Street station – and I do mean inch – is the many dark red brick buildings that greet our arrival to the capitol of the Commonwealth. These buildings once housed the likes of Lucky Strike cigarettes, American Cigar Company and other titans of tobacco. The name “Lucky Strike” is spelled out in large white vertical letters on a non smoking, smoke stack. How appropriate.
If there was ever for the train to reduce speed to 15 miles per hour, the stretch between Main Street station and Staples Mill Road is not the place. Creeping along at this pace allows you to to get a close look at the tattooed underbelly of Richmond. Cinder block walls, cargo trains, and support columns are tagged with brightly colored, illegible graffiti; their bulbous letters communicating some kind of message to some type of audience to elicit some kind of response. Maybe “Rosetta Stone” will release graffiti language software that will help with the translation.

The stop at Staples Mill Road is quick, less we get tagged by spray paint yielding bandits. We pick up speed, and the scenery north of Richmond changes for the better. We enter tunnels of green and slice through corduroyed fields of crops. On occasion, I peer out the window to see the front of the train peeking around upcoming corners. Overall, the ride is smoother now. Maybe I’m just getting used to it. I liken it to traveling at 30,000 feet in an airplane but much nicer, roomier, although much slower.

We travel smack down the center of North Center Street in the quaint little hamlet of Ashland. A few, brightly colored Victorian homes whizz by the window. I pray that hoop-skirted ladies holding Parasols and waving kerchiefs will welcome our arrival. Instead, we stop at an empty station. No one gets on, no one gets off. Maybe that’s what keeps Ashland the way it is.

By far, the best train stop on our journey is the town of Fredericksburg. Home of countless civil war battles, George Washington’s childhood home, and a historic downtown mere steps from the train station. Having a station in right in the heart of town is not uncommon. Main Street Station in Richmond, Union Station and DC are two examples. However, there’s a sense of arrival here. Because the track leading intoto the station is elevated, you are provided with an inviting panorama of the town. There is activity here. I see people strolling down shaded, brick sidewalks, stopping to peek in windows or chat with town folk. Two spires poke through the Fredericksburg skyline, one of which belongs to the Circuit Court building which was designed by the same architect of St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York City and the Smithsonian Castle in Washington, D.C. The town oozes history. If only I had time to hop off, explore and take a whack at a cherry tree.

We invade Quantico, a military installation along the Potomac River. I later learned this sprawling campus is one of the largest U.S. Marine Corps bases in the world. “OohRah” to that.
It’s also the site of the Marine Corps Combat Development Command and HMX-1 (the presidential helicopter squadron). The United States Drug Enforcement Administration's training academy and the FBI Academy are also located here. And, now I’m here. But hardly anyone else is. No troops marching in formation; no FBI cadets scaling walls and shooting bad guy silhouettes; no tanks rumbling over dirt hills. All I see are two camouflaged solders standing sentry along a quarter mile section of fencing that’s topped with glistening razor wire. I suppose they keep the cool stuff hidden from the curious eyes of Amtrak passengers. As we pull out, I see two large helicopters parked on an adjacent runway. From a distance, they look like large black insects sunning themselves.

We retreat from Qauntico where the tracks begin to hug the banks of the Potomac River as we head toward to Alexandria. To be honest, I really didn’t have a sense as where I was, other than south of Washington DC. I did a Google map of the area and was surprised to see that practically the entire Potomac River belongs to the state of Maryland, not Virginia, Stand on the shores of the Potomac in Virginia, put your big toe in the water and bam, you’re in Maryland. At the very least, they should share ownership.

Before too long, I catch a glimpse of Interstate 95, east coast’s main clogged artery, off to my left. The track snakes its way under the beltway and approaches the Alexandria station. High rise condos stand sentry to this gateway to the nation’s capitol. Each condo probably contains the population equal to that of small town but chances are no one really knows their neighbors. It’s one of the disadvantages of city life: being close to everything doesn’t necessarily mean being close to anyone. Nearby a metro train gobbles up and spits out commuters, an act that’s repeated thousands of time throughout the DC metro area.

The familiar skyline of Washington D.C is here before we know it. The Washington Monument serves as a bold explanation point for our arrival at the nation’s capitol. It’s been four long and very interesting hours. Arriving in DC by train is a lot like riding the monorail into the Magic Kingdom. Both are theme parks in their own way. Disney is a celebration of imagination; DC a celebration of freedom, democracy and occasional corruption. Disney has Cinderella’s castle, DC has The Capitol and The White House. And, both areas have their share of Goofies.

Everywhere you look: white granite and stately columns. There are signs that proclaim “department of this” and “department of that.” You feel AND fear the power. "Lights out" was as we enter a tunnel just outside of Union Station. We emerge and see tracks everywhere. The conductor announces that we have arrived at Union Station. But for me, it was more about the journey.

After I returned home, people asked me about train travel and whether I would do it again. I answer with an emphatic yes. But I would want more time to get out and explore the towns along the way. There was a young man on our return trip who spent three long days traveling from Flagstaff, Arizona to Newport News, Virginia. Not the way to do it. The way I would like to do it is to find an interesting route, preferably out west, and have the freedom to hop on and hop off whenever and wherever I want.

The Wild Wild West

Last week a good friend of mine mailed me two books: a Frommer’s guide book for Montana and Wyoming and book entitled “Last Empty Spaces.” The Frommer’s guide sits on my desk at work as if I were planning to write a detailed analysis or craft a power point presentation about it. I brought it to work in hopes of reading a few pages over lunch because more often than not, I’m in planning mode for places wild and west. Cursed by my personal manifest destiny, I suppose.

So far, I’m only on page 13 where I learned that there are only 530,000 residents of Wyoming, making it the least populated state in the union. To put things in perspective, there are roughly 450,000 residents in the city of Virginia Beach.

While work responsibilities have prevented me from exploring its 419 fact-filled pages in great detail and consequently sharing more interesting tidbits with you (like there are 12 cows to every person in Montana), it is refreshing to have the book close at hand.

On the cover is a color photo of Mt. Reynolds in Glacier National Park, complete with requisite glacier as a parade of Q-tip-looking Beargrass fills the foreground. (By the way, Google Beargrass if you don’t know what it is.) The book is clearly out of place on my desk among the scattered piles of illegible sticky notes, life-sucking excel spreadsheets, and jargon-filled reports. I kind of like it that way. It’s a reminder that there are a lot of things out there that I still want to explore and experience. (As if I needed to be reminded.)

Chances are it will sit on my desk until I block off some time and book a flight to Missoula, Jackson, Billings or Bozeman. Until then, I will peek at it occasionally and discover things like Jackson Hole is not a town but the valley in which the town of Jackson sits. Back in the day, valleys were called holes. I could go on.

Or, I could just go.

Drive 2.

Graduating from college is one of those “holy crap” moments. Gone are the days when your greatest worries were studying for a biology mid-term or writing a paper about some dead English guy. College was behind me. Ahead lay 40+ years of stop work punctuated by all-to-brief weekends of yard work and all-to-often, mindless chatter in windowless conference rooms. My long haul had begun as a dutiful, albeit reluctant, worker-bee in the corporate world. Bring on the mission statements and org charts. And make it snappy.

Enter the Honda Civic. How apropos.

By definition, civic means “of, relating to, or belonging to a city.” Yep, that was me; commuting back and forth to downtown Norfolk, working in an office building, wearing a tie, drinking bad coffee, and being introduced the wonder of spreadsheets and presentations. I had joined the ranks of the countless corporate lemmings. This rather “Orwellian” experience started in 1984 of all things. Mind you, there were highlights along the way: I fell in love, got married, and bought a condo. I endured comments from my grizzlyish college friend who referred to my Honda Civic as “one of those lesbian soccer mom station wagons. Ooh girl, I bet you drive around in that listening to John Tesh.” Uh, no. I did drive it the beach, to the mountains, and literally over the river and through the woods. Well, it was through a river, but that’s a different story.

After about 7 years of driving the Civic, the air conditioning conked out and I was too cheap to have it repaired. As a result, I often drove topless to work on hot mornings where I would then break out the shirt and tie and commence to get dressed right there in the parking lot. The reverse would occur for the drive home.

One day while driving to work the Civic “threw a rod” according to the mechanic. A slow oil leak finally got the best of me and the car. The estimate for repairs was double the car’s worth and then some.

It was time to move on with a new car, a new job and a new stage in my life. Enter car three.

Drive

The other day I was sitting in a meeting and the discussion turned to Dodge Caravan minivans, of all things. It was interesting to hear that these minivans rose in popularity in the early 1980s just when a lot of baby boomers were booming out babies and needed suitable means to transport kids to soccer games, dance recitals, and day care. Apparently, the battleship-behemoth station wagons of their parents wouldn’t do the trick. Now, I haven’t given much thought to my automobile choices over the years until just the other day. I will soon turn 48 years old and am proud to say I have owned only four cars, none of which were minivans. Looking back, the types of cars I had said a lot about my life stages:

It was the spring of 1980. Big hair and loud music were signs of the times. I was a senior in high school and ready to take on the world which was monumental task considering I would have do it from behind the wheel of my mom’s khaki-colored Aspen station wagon. Come to think of it, that car was probably one of the reasons I remained dateless most of my junior and senior year.

One afternoon, my dad and I made our way to used car dealership off Victory Blvd in Portsmouth, Virginia. I can’t recall the name of the place to save me. It was “Clive something” or “Chester whatever.” It had taken up residence in a defunct gas station where the owners hoped that colorful banners and cute antenna decorations would draw you mind away from abandoned the gas pumps. I had amassed a small fortune of $750 dollars to use towards the purchase of a 1975 White Food Mustang II unequipped with power steering, FM radio, or air conditioning. It was the perfect car for a high school senior high on testosterone and low on cash.

It was the car I drove to the prom. The car whose windows I steamed up in fits of teenage passion. The car in which I loaded a stereo, a television, books and clothing as I made way off to college.

I have had upwards of six college friends piled into the car at once on various occasions for late night / post frat party runs to Hardees. How we made it there and back still remains a miracle. It was a perfect car for free-roaming days and the occasional reckless nights. Looking back, I was a mustang behind the wheel of a mustang for well over 100,000 miles. But that changed when I graduated college.

Enter car number two:

What Not to Wear.

Some people don’t like olives. Some people cringe at the sound of country music. Some people hate Obama Care. And, I’m not a big fan of shopping at the mall.

There is something about the lighting, the noise, the smell, the clutter, the crowd that rubs me the wrong way. However, my family thought it was high time that I “contemporize” my style with a few purchases. Turns out that malls are where styles live, thrive, procreate, or whatever it is that they do. Deep down, I think my family sees me as their own version of “What Not to Wear,” the popular TLC television show where “fashionistas” descend on style-less dolts in hopes of making them over.

Now, if I had to identify my individual “style,” it would probably be best described as “off-duty park ranger-chic.” Jeans, khakis, plaid or technical shirts, fleece, and trail shoes. Function trumps style in my book. In short, all I really need in terms of clothing -- at least in my opinion – can be purchased thru backcountry.com, or by popping into local outdoor shops like a Blue Ridge Mountain Sports or Wild River Outfitters.

So, one night last week, my wife and I entered the glitz, the glamour, and the annoying white noise of the Lynnhaven Mall, a popular mall in suburban Virginia Beach. The first place we entered was called Banana Republic where we were greeted by faceless mannequins with the physique, stance and dress of a couple of guys I knew in college who I assumed, and rightly so, were of questionable sexual orientation. Regardless, the young clerk helped us locate the pants section where rows of denim, khaki, and greens were stacked like Pringles.

This should be easy; I was wrong.

Who new? There’s relaxed fit, boot cut, authentic cut, this cut and that cut. After a little bit of searching and randomly unfolding pants (so much for the nice Pringle stacks), I found a pair of jeans that looked like they might work. The clerk guy was overly attentive and followed me to the dressing room because, as you know, I’ve never put on a pair of pants before.

I emerged from the dressing room where my wife and the clerk guy were waiting anxiously for my cat walk. Now, I don’t mind my wife checking out my butt when clerk guy wanted me to turn around, I felt a little uncomfortable. What’s next? My phone number? Date night? The holidays at his house?

“So, what do you think?” asked my wife. I told her that the jeans fit well but wasn’t too keen on the neon green stitching that ran parallel to the traditional gold stitching which often appears on blue jeans. See, I know a little bit about style. Truth be told, I’m not sure how I in the living hell, I missed that detail, but neon green stitching on blue jeans? It was probably invented by the same guy who suggested lemon wedges in beer. Don’t belong.

Next, we strolled over to the GAP which I think should be called the “TEAR.” Everywhere I looked, there were jeans that looked like the ones I had in college or high school with one exception: The fade and holes in these jeans were manufactured to look like they have been “worn.” Now, I am of the opinion that any fade / holes in jeans should be earned, not bought. Worn and torn jeans should have an epic story behind it. Stories like: “There I was during Greek Week. My friend Grizzly said there was NO way I could window dive out of frat house without hitting the frame. So, I gave him my beer. And, as I took off running, some girl from a visiting sorority blew chunks all over the floor which totally screwed up my take off. I slipped momentarily, regained my balance, only to.. . ”

These days, people simply plop down $100+ for “worn” jeans with no story. I find it quite amusing and sad that people buy these jeans in pursuit of “fashion”. What’s next? Will these same fashion lemmings start buying cars with dents and scrapes because it becomes a fashion? It wouldn’t surprise me.

The evening ended somewhat successfully. I did purchase new blue jeans. To clarify, I bought a pair of BLUE jeans which will serve as a clean slate for stories and adventures. Any holes or fade will be earned. I also picked up a pair of Khakis that look like khakis from 50 years ago. And reluctantly, I also bought a sport jacket which, according to my wife, makes me “look professional, yet casual.”

I seriously considered finding a fashion or style quote with which to end this blog post, but nothing caught my eye. So I decided to make up my own. Here it goes. Feel free to agree or disagree. “A person’s actions say more about their style than the clothes they wear. Fashions come and go. A kind word, a helping hand, or a joke that makes you laugh so hard you cry says more about your style than a power tie, a popular brand name, or a fleeting fashion.

The Lone Runner.

Running means more to me now than it used to. For years, I ran for only one reason: to stay fit. More recently, I find myself running to stay sane, too. It's the one place where where I'm in total control. I set my pace. I set my distance. I go where I want to go. See what I want to see.

On runs, there are no emails. No text messages. No meeting invites. The only meeting attendee is me. I make the agenda, determine the objectives and knock my own task list that includes things like finding a new route or altering my stride so my back doesn't hurt.

It's the one place where I'm the only person asking me questions. "How do I feel?" "Where do you want to go?" "What in the hell is in my shoe this time?" Best of all, I can choose to ignore those questions without any consequence -- with the exception of determining the foreign object in my shoe. It's just me and my shadow out there running, living, and enjoying life. On my terms.

Often I will listen to music when I run. Led Zeppelin. Garth Brooks. The Beatles. Foo Fighters. Squeeze. The Killers. The other day, a line from a Kenny Chesney / Dave Matthews song got my attention and serves as good advice for all you runners and even non runners, for that matter.

It simply says: "It's good for the soul when there's not a soul in sight." The song is not suggesting you totally disconnect from friends and family and live out of an abandoned school bus in the Alaskan wilderness like Christopher McCandless (aka Alexander Supertramp) but merely find time for yourself, by yourself.

Running is one way I do it. What's yours?

Time to lace up, head out.

United Airlines, Gate F7 O'Hare.

There’s nothing terribly unique about Gate F7 at Chicago’s O’Hare airport. People come. People go. Simultaneous conversations near and far create an annoying hum that is occasionally interrupted by even more annoying static-ky mumblings of gate agents relaying departure times.

“Flight fo-fo-ree-pie now boarding for Ohm-ma. Zones one brew tree.”

Nope, not me. At least I don't think so. I’m heading to Colorado on a business trip and have decided to use this layover to observe, eavesdrop and write.

A quick scan of the gate area shows a typical cross section of middle America. Young. Old. Thin. Fat. Some quiet. A few real noisy.

“Hey... got a big problem here Kovax called Dulaney this morning asking where we at,” barks a man into a cell phone pressed against his ear. My guess he’s in his mid-50’s. He’s sporting a logo-laced denim shirt that struggles to contain his portly spread which is probably the result of too much airport food.

“We’re gonna end up playing he said she said until the cows come home,” he continues as if no one is around to hear his twangy rant. “So now they’re saying Bill is holding this up. Says it’s got nutten’ to do with sales. Yep, he can finalize this deal now... I know. We had a distributer in the office last week and their pricing wuz less...Don’t think so. He’s throwing as much shit against this as he can. Yup... I hear ya.”

An elderly couple a few seats down look up from their bag lunch somewhat surprised when biz guy drops the “shit” bomb. However, they quickly return to the task at hand: ripping open an ornery bag of salt and vinegar potato chips while sandwich crumbs gather in small piles at their sensible shoes. Narry a word is spoken between them. Maybe they’ve been together so long they can read each other’s thoughts. Or, maybe they’re just tired of travelling, tired of each other, or simply tired of life.

“Will a passenger Scheider, peas-port, gate 4 bees,” Says the gate agent.

Bees at gate 4. How about that?

Directly across from me, a young man in a fleece red jacket and white baseball cap has had his head bowed in prayer to the smart phone gods for about 10 minutes now. Every few minutes, he hammers out a message with his thumbs and occasionally smiles.

Four seats down from me is a happy, well-dressed African American woman with a dell computer perched on her lap. She’s wearing fancy cowboy boots that look like she walked through a puddle of jewels.

“Oh yes, girl. She had a thousand dollars," she says while laughing so the word “dollars” sounds like it has six syllables.

“She sho-did. Uh…huh. They went had me sit at the BACk of the plane.” She giggles. “The plane was full, I tell ya girl, I’m afraid my bag is going to end up in Florida-ha-ha-ha.”

Wait, what’s this? There is a new development with the elderly couple. The woman is now in tears, clutching a white tissue to her face as her husband paces back and forth talking on a cell phone. He too is visibly upset and tries his best to relay what is definitely terrible news on to his wife.

Were they on their way to see a sick relative who, at this very moment, just passed away? Or, was this one of those awful moments in life when unexpected (and unwanted ) news impacts your life forever. God forbid that something has happened to one of their children, or grandchildren.

The other passengers waiting at Gate F7 Chicago are oblivious to this scene. I am transfixed, and I feel like I’m intruding.

Noisy business guy is back on the phone barking out sales advice. Attractive African American woman quietly types away on her lap top. Red fleece jacket guy continues to pray to his smart phone.

And I alone watch a sad scene unfold.

The man walks out of sight for a few moments to attend to who knows what, and leaves his wife behind in tears.

The gate agent garbles out that my flight is ready to board. While in line, I am no more than five feet away from this distraught woman, but I choose not to ask her what’s wrong or if there is anything I can do to help. I didn’t want to pry or confess that I have been watching her for the past 10 minutes. And admittedly and selfishly, I didn’t want to miss my flight.

In hindsight, I should have -- at that very moment-- behaved like a caring person rather a typical harried traveler.

I boarded.
She continued to cry.
And somewhere, a loved one was lost. Unkown to me, but dearly missed by an elderly couple at gate F7 at O'hare.

Rebels of the Dark Load

Most household chores occur without a great deal of thought and effort. Over time, we’re able perform mundane tasks like taking out the garbage and unloading the dishwasher with machine-like precision. Bend down. Grab plate. Pivot at waist. Place on shelf. Repeat.

However, there is one chore where repetition does not increase proficiency. It involves a countless -- and often fruitless – series of trial and error where frustration is often the outcome rather than completion of the task.

Matching blue socks.

In many diverse cultures, blue is significant in religious beliefs, brings peace, or is believed to keep the bad spirits away. When it comes to folding laundry, blue socks have the direct opposite effect.

I normally save playing matchmaker for last in hopes the socks will pair up on their own like amorous college students after a frat party, but this never occurs. There they lie; an entangled orgy of blue fabric. The rebels of the dark load.

I reach for one at random, then another. From all outward appearances, it looks as though I’m off to a successful start. Then, through some mysterious optical illusion worthy of a Vegas magic show, the colors no longer match. I reach for another, and the outcome is the same. Close, but no cigar.

There really should be one, nationally approved color for blue socks. Period. Something along the lines of the standard blaze orange for hunters, yellow for school buses, and red for stop signs. It can’t be that hard.

My wife has adopted what I like to call the CIA-KGB approach to sock sorting. She carefully lays all the socks out under a bright light as if she were interrogating a prisoner. “Vare ist your gold toe brother? He vas with you last night. Ve hav vays to make your talk. Speak!! Or, you’ll spend the vest of your life dusting furniture! This approach seems to work although it’s a tad unsettling.

A neighbor of mine has resorted to numbering his socks in much the same way as the cartoon character Fog Horn Leg Horn “kept his feathers numbered in case of emuurgency.” Simply match the ones with the ones, the twos with the twos and so on.
So, what do the experts have to say about the issue?

The National Hosiery Association web site mentions a product that’s designed to prevent the missing sock syndrome and helps with keeping socks matched with their proper mate. Prior to tossing your stinky socks in the hamper, you feed the pair through a device called a Sock-Lock which is a colorful plastic disc with a star-shaped cut out. (Think napkin ring) Sock-locks.com makes the following claims:

Perfect for keeping similar color (but not exactly matching) socks separate.
Each member of your household could use a different color to make sorting laundry a breeze.
Fewer lost and mismatched socks saves you money.
Great for campers and college students. (I assume these are the demographic profiles that suffer from the highest incidents of lost socks)

By the way, a variety pack of 24 will set you back about $30. However, in order to keep socks properly matched, you’ll need to imprison them immediately upon purchase. Your socks would only be allowed to roam when you do.

As for me, you can keep your numbering, your Sock Locks and interrogation lights. I’ve started matching socks by texture rather than color. The way I see it, if they feel like they match, then they must match.

The Power of Snow

This past weekend, Virginia Beach experienced what folks out west call a "powder day." Nine inches of snow fell on our area, an amount that forecasters said "we haven't seen in twenty years." (Pretty sad when you think about it.)

It didn't take long for me to see the power of a snowfall. Wii and Playstation controls were idle. Sleds and snow boots were dusted off and put to good use. Kids found their creative side; building snow ramps and finding completely new things to laugh at. Snow helps us remember (and discover) the simple pleasures of life.

I ran five miles in the snow.
I was pulled on a sled through the neighborhood (and through at least one slushy puddle) by a friend in pickup truck full of rosy cheeked, excited middle schoolers.
I went on five times as many walks in the neighborhood than usual.
I found comfort in under armor and turtle necks.
I helped my son gear up repeatedly and laughed when he put on his jacket, "sherpa" hat, neck gaiter and gloves BEFORE putting on socks and boots. Oh, the things that snow teaches you.
I fell once and enjoyed the view.
I watched our cat tip-toe through the the snow with an expression of "WTF" on his face.
I sat around a fire pit with friends and traded "snow stories" from years past.
I ate chili for dinner two nights in a row and enjoyed every bite.

The snow will melt over the next couple of days but the memories will last much longer.

What's in a Name?

Last night when I was trying to figure out some of the technical features of this blog space, I realized that the name for my blog was, well, my name. ZZZZZZ. Not terribly inspired, but don’t let my parents know. Admittedly, I went down the dark and scary "path of puns" where I encountered possible blog titles like: The Last Ward, the Ward is Out, Wards on Paper, The Spoken Ward. The list went on and on and haunted me again this morning with the geekiest title of all:

Ward Download 2.0. Uh.... no.

I suspect many of my blog posts will deal with simple things I encounter or observations on places I will go. Chances are I won't comment on politics, business, or social issues. My friend Chris Bonney blogs and is also excellent photographer. His blog is called: "What I Saw." It's simple and to the point. Plus, it pulls double duty for his writing and for his photography. As a matter of fact, reading his blog through Facebook has inspired me to get back to writing.

My blog posts will serve as a creative outlet for me. If folks happen to find the posts entertaining and want to comment, all the better. But it still needs a name.

On the bulletin board in my office I have a number of quotes from authors. Some famous. Some not too famous. One is by a former writer for Outside Magazine named Mark Jenkins. Whether you are an aspiring writer, budding photographer, part time adventurer or desk bound number cruncher, heed his words to change the way you look at things.

“Lying on my bunk that night, musing on our progress so far, I realized another salient truth about adventure: It doesn’t matter where you go. It’s not what you see, but how you see. To the jaded eye, Paris is dull. Everest a sham, Africa stuffed with animals already seen on the Discovery Channel. But if you think of your mind as a microscope and take a close look, there is not a chunk of earth on this planet – maybe right around the corner – that isn’t original, even explicable.”

So there it is, the title of my blog: No, not “Salient Truth.” Sounds too like a David Baldacci or a John Grisham novel. I’m more of the Mayberry type. So, the blog title will be “Around the Corner.” Bear with me, here. “Around the Corner” for me can and will be places near and far. My promise to myself and to anyone who cares to read will be to look at things, and write about things differently. See you around

College Planning

This past weekend, my son and I attended a seminar at The College of William & Mary designed to educate him on possible courses and related careers in his growing fields of interest which now include aviation, environmental sciences and engineering. The sessions I attended were mainly geared toward college preparation, including creative ways to fund part or all of a four year degree which, by the way, is pushing the $20K a year mark when you include tuition, room and board.

My son is 12.

College for him is still a good six years away, but it doesn't hurt to start planning now. More importantly, simply introducing him to a college setting during a non-sports, booz and party filled weekend will give him a sense of what college live may be like. This past summer he enrolled in a week long, all day engineering camp at ODU which also gave him a taste of college life.

I bring this up because as a college graduate, I recognize the benefits of a college education. Attending college expands your job options, helps you grow as a person -- in terms of making friends, managing time and and workload -- and it's a lot of fun. Plus, as a parent I want the best for my son.

Going through this exploration with my son brought back memories of my first college exploration some 35 years ago. (Yikes, doing that math hurt.) When I was 12, my older brother Mike was starting his freshman year at Hampden-Sydney College, a small liberal arts college in south central Virginia. Naturally, I attended numerous "friends and family weekends" which gave me my first taste of college life. I loved it. I loved the people. I loved the place. And, I wanted to be like my brother; someone I loved and respected. It's no surprise that I ended up going to college there. But enough reminiscing.

While at William & Mary, my son and I enjoyed getting lost and roaming around campus, eating lunch in a dining hall, and sneaking on to the football field. I wonder if these activities will have more of lasting impression on my son than the sessions he attended. If so, that's fine by me. It's all part of the learning process.

Here's a recommendation to all you parents out there. If you have dreams of your son or daughter attending college, and they are in late elementary school or in middle school, now's the time to explore. And along the way, it will bring back fond memories of your own college days.