No sweat

Said me, never.

You have my blog mate and best friend Carla to blame for this post. We met a few Saturday mornings ago for coffee. Three and half hours later, we had covered everything from bone broth, her new obsession, to The Gilmore Girls revival. In between, I told her about some recent blows to my ego I had recently experienced at my gym.

Truth.

Now you need a little back story. I adore Carla and it’s not that easy. She’s 24 years younger than me and she’s stunningly beautiful. And she’s skinny. I told you it wasn’t easy. Carla is the type of woman (perhaps not really human) who has never had a problem with her weight. She is the reason skinny jeans were invented. Are you getting the picture?

My beautiful bestie Carla. (Photo by Andrew Brown)

I love Carla’s laugh – it’s surprisingly robust for such a slender woman. And often when she laughs she can’t speak and she’ll sort of double over and wipe tears from her eyes. This was her reaction when I shared my gym woes with her that morning. When she finally caught her breath, she said, “You have to blog about this.”

So here we are.

When I stopped commuting for my former job in January, I gave up my gym membership in Greensboro because it just didn’t make sense. I live in Winston-Salem and it’s about a 40 minute drive. Like I need another excuse to not go to the gym.

I decided to give Planet Fitness a look because I kept seeing their commercials – “No Gymtimidation” is one of their tag lines. That sounded promising to me so I checked out the location just a few miles from my condo. I was prepared to not like it. My gym in Greensboro was really nice – so nice it was called The Club. And it sort of felt like a country club – nice leather chairs in the lobby, classy art on the walls and lots of shiny machines.

I can do this math.

Well, if my old gym was Whole Foods, Planet Fitness is Aldi’s. It has everything that I could possibly need – just without any frills. The staff was super friendly and the price was right. I joined and as part of my membership, I was given a free appointment with a personal trainer.

I’ve never been keen on a trainer. I don’t respond well to being told what to do (understatement) and I really don’t want to have to talk to anyone while I’m working out. In fact, I wish they would make all gyms a “no talking” zone. It’s just awkward, right? At my former fancy gym I would often run into my friend, Bruce. I’ve known him for years and I really like him – except that he looks like a GQ model ALL the time – even when he’s exercising. Seriously, he makes Adonis look like a sloth. And his hair looks perfect even after his workout.

Word.

Invariably, I would be on the cross trainer looking like a sweaty troll and he would saunter up with his gorgeous smile and that chiseled hair and start talking to me. I would take my earbuds out and try to speak without gasping like I had a collapsed lung and have a civilized conversation with him. To this day he doesn’t know that even though my lips were moving, I was really just focusing on not falling off my machine.

When I arrived to meet my personal trainer, I was led into a room where four other women were seated around a table. Well, my “free” appointment turned out to be a group one. I really didn’t mind – the other ladies were nice – and older than me. Score. We made a little small talk and then our trainer walked in. That’s when things got real.

She was a no-nonsense young woman who looked like she could have been in the Marines. She started talking and barked, “Write this down.” We had pencils and paper at our seats and the first thing she said was, “Abs begin in the kitchen, not the gym.” This confused me but I was a little gymtimidated so I didn’t argue and I wrote it down. She went on to explain the connection between nutrition and exercise and then asked each of us what our personal goals were.

Abs are apparently no laughing matter.

Goals? Jeez, I just signed up for some regular exercise, I wasn’t thinking about the meaning of life. Fortunately, I did not go first so I had time to scramble up an answer. I think I said something like, “Improve my stamina.” I don’t know why I said that – it’s not like I’m going to be climbing Everest or anything. Anyway, she nodded and seemed to think that my goal was worthy. She then showed us where to file our fitness plan so that we could record our reps (gym speak) each time we came in. I guess my file is still there – I haven’t pulled it. Again, I like the solo approach to exercise.

My first few times at The Planet (my homage to the coffee shop in The L Word that just makes me smile) I was very much aware that this was not The Club. First, there were a lot of older people there – yes, older than me. And I didn’t see anyone in a matching gym ensemble. I saw a lot of run of the mill schlubs like me. Score again.

I saw sweatpants – the bulky gray kind that you wear when you’re feeling puny and you’re going to be on the couch all day watching a Sex and the City marathon. I saw a lot of socks – not shorty gym socks – regular socks, even black ones. I saw some street shoes paired with shorts and a tank top. The more I saw, the more I liked. I knew this was a place where I could feel comfortable. I had found the gym version of the Island of Misfit Toys.

Me and my pals at Planet Fitness. Werk it Girl!

Planet Fitness bills itself as the “No Judgement Zone” and I felt a little snarky because I judged them for putting that extra “e” in judgement. For the record, the AP Stylebook recommends judgment – no e. But I’m not here to crunch vowels.

Two Es or not two Es?

Planet Fitness should add another tag line to their marketing – No Narcissism. Yesterday, I saw an elderly woman with an oxygen tank riding a recumbent bike. And there are a couple of regulars who have clearly had strokes, walking with canes or walkers, but they’re out there most days just trying to keep busy moving. These aren’t the kind of people who are going to bore the enamel off your teeth by posting on Facebook about how many steps they got on their Fitbits today. Nope, and I find these folks to be heroically inspiring.

Fitness can be funny.

Now certainly there are some bona fide buff bods here working out but they are more the exception than the rule. On an average day it looks like a grown up version of the Audio Visual Club from high school. And I like it. Don’t confuse that with liking exercise. My favorite part of my workout is when it is over and I can feel virtuous and maybe a little smug. I know it’s good for me – like flossing – but I don’t enjoy it. I enjoy going to the movies. I enjoy sipping an iced macchiato. I enjoy taking a long walk in November and hearing the crunching of leaves under my feet.

That said, I’m pretty proud of myself. This summer I’ve been going to the gym five days a week. Maybe it’s the turning 60 voice in my head: Move it or lose it! Or maybe it’s just that I do appreciate some discipline in my life and the satisfaction of doing something I said I was going to do.

So I actually have built up my stamina and I was beginning to feel like I had some gym cred. And then one day a few weeks ago, while I’m pumping madly on the cross trainer, a man – a man visibly older than me – walks up and stands beside my machine. I could feel his presence and I turned to look at him and took out my earbuds and he exclaimed, “Oh, I’m so sorry, I thought you were my wife. She’s built like you.” It’s times like these when I’m grateful for my 25 plus years in fundraising. I seem to always default to speaking to strangers like potential donors. I smiled at him and said, “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Meanwhile my inside voice was saying, “Don’t you dare look around to see what his wife looks like.” And you know what? I didn’t. I just figured no good could come from that.

A few days later I had recovered from that bruise and was feeling strong again after completing my 50 minute workout and was wiping down my machine when a woman behind me on a treadmill said, “Excuse me, can I talk to you?” My inside voice was saying, “Yeah, no” but my fundraiser voice said cheerfully, “Sure.” She then proceeded to tell me that she noticed that I had been sweating a lot on the back of my T-shirt. Really? Hello, that’s why they call it working out! She then began to tell me about something that another woman had shared with her in the locker room. Wait for it – the sweat belt. Yes, it’s a thing. She went on to explain that you wear it around your waist under your shirt while you’re working out and it increases your amount of sweating. Okay, why would anyone want to sweat more? She explained that it helps reduce inches from your waist. I played along like I was truly interested and then she did the unthinkable. She actually lifted her shirt up to show me her belt that she had just gotten a few days ago.

Behold the sweat belt. Because who wouldn’t want to work out in a girdle?

I managed to say something like “thanks for sharing” and made a bee line for the front door. Okay, and maybe when I got home I might have Googled “sweat belt” just for kicks. Wow. My search pulled up over 12,400,000 sites related to the sweat belt. That’s a lot of sweat and apparently a lot of mixed reviews on whether the belt is a good thing or not. Yes, it makes you sweat more and perhaps momentarily lose some inches that are most likely related to water weight but some critics suggest that it prevents your abdominal muscles from fully engaging, thus limiting the amount of calories you are burning.

Some of the sweat belts even come with a special “sweat gel” that when applied to your waist is supposed to make you sweat even more than just wearing the belt. In a word, gross.

When my dear wife got home from work that day, I told her about my Close Encounter of the Sweat Belt Kind and she just laughed cheerfully and said that I shouldn’t take it personally – that my gym mate was just sharing some information. My wife is a much nicer person than me. She also has a very flat stomach so I’m not sure she could exactly walk in my waist on this matter. Nonetheless, I took her advice and tried to forget about the whole thing.

So guess who I ran into a few days later at the gym? Yep, my sweat belt stalker. She tapped my shoulder while I was working out and asked earnestly, “Did you get a sweat belt?” I was so over it all by then but I managed to smile at her and said, “I don’t really think it’s for me. I don’t really like sweating.” She looked at me with a bit of disappointment and yes, judgement, and said, “Okay, but it’s really working for me.”

I’m sincerely happy for her but I think I just have to go with my gut on this one.

My favorite part of working out – The End! (Photo by Addison Ore)

A work in progress

That’s me partying like it’s 1957.

I’m turning 60 later this month. There, I said it.

I know what you’re thinking. “Gee, you don’t look it.”

Work with me here.

The ever wise and wicked funny Anne Lamott wrote a marvelous Facebook post last year about turning 61. She said she thought she was only 47 and then she checked the paperwork. I get it. I don’t know how I got here so fast.

Most folks have a bit of angst about such a milestone birthday and the universe has certainly conspired to humble me as I approach the Big One. Funny, I can remember when 40 was the Big One. At least I think I can remember.

Anyway, my year began with losing my job as the leader of a local AIDS service organization. Now that will do wonders for your self-esteem, especially if you are kicked to the curb as ungracefully as I was. After 11 years of heartfelt service, my office was packed up for me and delivered to my home in four FedEx boxes. Ouch.

I’ve always favored thinking outside the box.

My dear wife has a charming saying she uses in delicate situations: “Now that will hurt your feelings.” That about covers it.

Along with my job, I also temporarily lost faith in what I always thought I knew about loyalty and integrity. That was a terribly distasteful feeling but I’m grateful for the many good and kind people who reached out to remind me that these virtues are still alive and well.

I’m not sure I ever thought much about turning 60 but when I did, I guess I assumed I’d be at the peak of my career, not starting a new one. But perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised. You see, I’ve always been a bit of a late bloomer. I was 26 before I got my ears pierced, 48 before I got my first tattoo (yes, I have more than one) and 57 before I was a bride. Oh, and I was in my mid-thirties before I came out. True story, but when I did come out, I came out loud and proud.

I guess you could say that I’m the slow and steady type and I think that served me well for a very long time but there’s no getting around the reality that I feel the meter running these days. I lost two friends in January – both to cancer – and one of them was only 54. And my oldest friend on earth – we met in the 4^th grade – survived a brutal battle with Stage IV tongue cancer before she turned 60 in April.

You can eye-roll a cliché like “Life is not a dress rehearsal” but it’s true. It’s show time and I plan on making the most of my second act. And now that my bleak career midwinter is behind me, most days I’m very excited about what’s next and on my very best days, I’m even grateful for this opportunity to reinvent myself at such a seasoned age.

A handful of my friends have already retired or are counting down the days but an early retirement was never in the cards for me – not too many careers in non-profit afford you that luxury. And the truth is that I don’t want to retire. Maybe if I won the lottery (which I never play) I suppose I would not work and move to the coast of Maine where I would write the next great American novel. Okay, maybe I have thought about it a few times. (Note to self: Buy lottery ticket.)

One of my favorite books, which was turned into a surprisingly good movie, is The Accidental Tourist by Anne Tyler. It’s about a rather sullen man who writes travel guides for reluctant business travelers. Imagine Rick Steves not enjoying travel and writing his guidebooks. It’s a delightful premise for a story.

I think I’ve had an accidental career – actually a few of them – and while I very much enjoyed each of them, I’ve never been particularly strategic with my choices. My first career was in retail management as a buyer and then division manager for a department store chain. This was when the economy was booming and the mall was the hub of civilization. “Going to the mall” was pretty much a part of everyone’s weekend vernacular. Yes, kids, there really was a time when people shopped at the mall, in the dark ages before Amazon Prime.

I loved the energy of retail – every day was different. And I loved the seasons, most especially Christmas. You can’t be in retail and survive it if you don’t get excited about the holiday season. I especially enjoyed assisting the husbands who came in on Christmas Eve looking like a deer in the headlights. You could smell the fear – they needed a gift for their wife and the clock was ticking. They were easy prey for an overpriced sale. And they were clueless. Many of them didn’t even know what size their wife wore and they always asked with desperation, “She can exchange this if she doesn’t like it, right?”

Retail could be a real circus during the holidays.

There are so many women out there who have me to thank for the upgrade on their Christmas gifts in the eighties. You’re welcome.

My two stores were in Charlottesville, VA – still the most beautiful place I’ve ever lived – and I got to know a lot of my customers personally. It may sound a little Lake Wobegonish but it felt really good when Mrs. Shifflett came in to buy a dress for her daughter’s wedding and asked me for help. (Oh, you cynics. I don’t eat meat, either, but I know a good burger when I see one.)

I feel like I got to work in the Golden Age of Retail and I was fortunate when the fall came to be able to transition to a new career in fundraising. A friend of mine from retail was working for the Paralyzed Veterans of America (PVA) in Washington, DC and told me about a brand new position in planned giving. I had no idea what that even meant but I was lucky that their program was just getting off the ground and my track record as a good salesperson was enough to get me in the door.

To my utter amazement, I got the job and thoroughly enjoyed my eight years on staff there. PVA was the first time I was out at work and I was received incredibly warmly by the veterans’ community. Those guys loved me and I loved them back. God, they were funny and disarmingly optimistic. And they drank like the sailors many of them had been.

Veterans Day, Arlington National Cemetery, circa 1996. So proud to be an American.

I learned so much – about science and heart – getting to know so many wonderful people in the spinal cord injured community and I can tell you that not a day goes by that I don’t have a moment where I am intentionally grateful for my mobility. That was PVA’s gift to me.

Those good folks also kindled my patriotism in ways that have remained with me over the years. I think of my time there every Veterans Day – on the 11^th hour of the 11^th day of the 11^th month.

If my time at PVA taught me about sacrifice and courage, my time at my last job taught me a lot about stigma and poverty and how they are the natural enemies of HIV prevention. My position also gave me a front row seat to magnificent acts of generosity and compassion – some large ones that came with checks with lots of zeros and some small ones that came in cases of green beans from Costco. All of them mattered.

Fighting the good fight at my last job.

It is an extraordinary thing to spend your work days with passionate people who share a vision and my time there broke my heart wide open in remarkable ways that will inform the rest of my life. And it has ruined me for ever just working for a paycheck.

Nope, I need a side order of a mission statement, even if it’s just one of my own making.

The upside to a forced sabbatical has been the luxury of time to do a lot of pondering about my past and my future. I’ve thought a lot about my parents. Certainly losing them both just a few months apart from each other in my mid-forties was the watershed event of my life. Their deaths, or rather how I handled their deaths, changed the course of my life.

I came across a line in a book recently that stood me still. One of the characters, who has lost a son, explains that he and his wife will often not speak to each other for hours at a time because, “We’ve learned that grief can sometimes get loud, and when it does, we try not to speak over it.” I know now that I tried to escape the deafening din of my own grief in destructive ways and it cost me a great deal. I deeply hurt a few of the people who I held most dear and that can never be undone. And, of course, I hurt myself in ways that only I can fully know.

This has led me to thinking a lot about regrets and for the record, I don’t really buy it when people say they don’t have any. It’s an arrogant reflection on life. I have 1,001 small ones – that I didn’t learn to play the piano, the tragic dress I wore to my senior prom (picture Laura Ingalls in polyester organza) and my early insistence that John Edwards was not a cheater.

Me and my high school doppelgänger, 1973.

But it’s the big ones that I stumble through like thickets at 2:00 AM. I’m not ready for a full confession on those but I will say that I regret saying no more than I regret saying yes. I need to remember this.

I was actually feeling pretty good about myself at 60 until I listened to Bill Clinton’s 42 minute recitation of Hillary’s resume at the Democratic National Convention last week. As I brushed my teeth before going to bed that night, I was afraid to look in the mirror for fear of seeing the reflection of a sloth. Oh well, I still believe in a place called Hope.

That’s me in the mirror. #ImWithHer

I’ll be in California for my actual birthday visiting my younger (damn her) sister. I couldn’t imagine not celebrating this birthday with her. I love her beyond measure and no one knows me as well and deeply as she does. We share an emotional GPS that alerts us when the other is off course in any way. It is an indomitable connection that has kept me tethered to this world in my darkest storms.

Sisters, Sisters. There were never such devoted sisters.

My sister is known for her extravagance and I’m a little nervous about what she might pull out for this celebration. Sissy, if you’re reading this now, I was just kidding about the Tom Ford sunglasses. Sort of.

I didn’t want a big party. I never want a big party. And I most certainly NEVER want a surprise party. And so I will have a sushi (my fav) dinner out with my wife and my sister. The icing on my birthday cake is that my best friend from college will join us the weekend before my birthday for some revelry. She turned 60 in June and is anxious to have me join her in this new bracket so I’m approaching it like signing up for a very exclusive wine club.

I’ve always preferred the more intimate dinner party.

She just sent me the loveliest email that might just be my wish when I blow out my candles. She wrote, “I’m hoping our time might have a magic slow quality to it.” I’m hoping the rest of my life has this quality.

It makes me happy when I just think about looking at those three beautiful faces all in one place for a few precious days.

Me and my best friend from college before hair products were invented, circa 1981.

Sometimes I imagine a soundtrack for my life when I’m processing things in my head.Who needs Pokemon Go when you have an overactive imagination? Lately, I’ve been hearing this Iris Dement song – My Life.

My life, it’s half the way traveled

And still I have not found my way out of this night

My life, it’s tangled in wishes

And so many things that just never turned out right

But I gave joy to my mother and I made my lover smile

And I can give comfort to my friends when they’re hurting

And I can make it seem better for a while

It is an achingly beautiful song and if you ask me, it’s a pretty damn good resume, too.

I’m embracing 60 with joy.

(All photos property of Addison Ore)

Northern exposure

Glacier Bay National Park (Photos by Addison Ore)

Alaska is big. Alaskans make fun of Texas for thinking that it’s big because you could fit Texas into Alaska two times. In fact, Alaska is bigger than Texas, California and Montana combined. Are you getting the big picture?

I got to experience just how big, bold and beautiful Alaska is earlier this summer when my wife and I spent two weeks there on vacation. Disclaimer: This trip was not my idea and I grumbled about it more than a few times but our 49^th state has long been on my wife’s bucket list. (More on the concept of the bucket list later.) I didn’t have anything against Alaska, it just wasn’t ever high on my travel radar.

For the record, I was stupid. Now, I’m just mad about Alaska.

We did a land and sea package and while I usually balk about a group tour (Are you sensing a pattern here?), this is really the ideal way to see a lot of Alaska. Also, you never have to carry your own luggage. Best idea ever.

Our trip began in Fairbanks, the most northern part of our journey and we were fully immersed in the Land of the Midnight Sun. Wow. This is a really weird thing to adjust to. On our first full day in Fairbanks, sunrise was at 3:09 AM and sunset was at, wait for it, 12:28 AM. And the few hours between the two were never really actually dark – more like grey.

I kept hearing “Sunglasses at Night” – that Corey Hart song from the 80’s in my head. One evening after dinner we were having a “nightcap” sitting on a bench overlooking the Chena River and I asked my wife, “Should we be wearing sunscreen now?” We slept with hand towels over our eyes because even with the curtains drawn, we felt like we were taking a nap in the middle of the day.

Goodnight Sun.

Remember when you were a kid and you would stay outside on summer nights until your mom would come to the back door and call for you to come in? I wondered how long Alaskan mothers wait to make that call. Kids? What kids?

And let’s talk about the produce. Freaky. We’re talking 65 pound cantaloupes! The growing season is short but because of the extended exposure to the sun, anybody can have a green thumb in Alaska. We passed some fields of cabbages that looked like something out of a sci fi movie.

The natives make the most of summer in Alaska and it seemed as if everyone we met had at least two jobs. Our tour director, Scott, is a middle school science teacher and spends his summers working for Trafalgar, our tour company. We did a riverboat cruise our first full day in Fairbanks that was narrated by a personable guy with a great voice wearing a nautical looking coat. The next morning, we turned on the TV and saw our “Captain” reading the news. Turns out he’s a longtime local radio and TV personality.

The next day we headed out for Denali National Park. Scott had warned us that only one out of three visitors ever see the mountain known as “The Great One” because of cloud cover. He was smart to undersell us because as we approached the park and saw the highest peak in North America in all its glory, we were all giddy. It’s pretty funny to see 50 people snapping the same shot. We just used our iPhones but at the end of the day, something that massively magnificent cannot be truly captured by any lens. At least that’s what I told myself that evening when I deleted about 37 photos of something that looked like a white blob.

Objects in distance are a gazillion times bigger than they appear.

Denali National Park and Preserve encompasses more than six million acres. Yes, million, and only one ribbon of road bisects the wild land. One of the most popular excursions in the park is the Tundra Wilderness Tour – a 62 mile, 8 hour bus ride that gives you up close and personal views of wildlife and more intimate views of Denali.

My brother and his wife did this tour last summer and I think it may have been the low point of their 35 year marriage. He was not happy. Granted, this is a man who usually flies first class and was probably 15 the last time he rode on a school bus. Alaska was on his wife’s bucket list (seriously, more later), too. Go figure. Anyway, his review of the bus tour that would not end was enough to convince us to spend the day in Denali on our own and I think it was probably my most favorite day in a fortnight of favorite days.

It was a spectacular morning drenched in brilliant sunshine and we set out on a hike along the Nenana River. We passed a park ranger leading a group back from this trail and he reported no bear sightings. This is a real and present concern while in Denali and we were briefed to not run if we encountered a bear. I liken this to the instruction the flight attendant gives you if your oxygen mask is ever deployed : “Place the mask over your nose and mouth and breathe normally.” Sure.

So if you encounter a bear, you are supposed to stand your ground, wave your hands a bit and say things like, “Hey, Bear.” Apparently they really are not interested in humans unless we run and then they think we are lunch.

We ain’t afraid of no bears.

The only wildlife we encountered on our hike was some moose poop and we were able to differentiate it from bear poop because we paid attention to the poop display at the Visitor’s Center. We had our National Park swagger on after that.

Our trail led down to the rocky bank of the rushing river and we just sat for a few hours and breathed it all in. This has been a challenging year for me and my wife. I lost a job that I really loved in January in a perfect storm of misinformation and misguided decisions and it has been a painful and slow healing process.

I’m not a good enough writer to adequately describe our view that day and it was more than just what we saw – the sounds were almost reverent. The whooshing flow of the river, the echoes of birds in the trees, the breeze. I felt as close to God as I did in St. Peter’s Basilica and I felt more peace than I had felt in months. I sucked it in like it was that oxygen mask. I can smell that day right now – crisp and piney.

This day…

And I intend to hold tight to that day for as long as I can.

We ran into a few of our tour mates later that evening as they staggered off their buses in search of some dinner. Their reviews were mixed but we knew we had made the right decision for us. We were outside all day – beginning with breakfast on the deck and ending when we finally returned to our room for the night (which wasn’t dark, of course). I felt like a kid again and I’m sure I smelled like one, too. It was rather exhilarating to be that dirty from just knocking around outside all day.

Future Iditarod champions. We saw puppies!

Anyone that’s been on a tour to Alaska knows that wildlife viewing can be a competitive sport with bragging rights for the best find. It was like a game of wildlife poker when you ran into folks at breakfast the next morning after everyone’s day of adventures. “We saw two moose, three eagles and a bear,” said one of the women from New Zealand. Not to be outdone, a man from Canada said, “We saw a mama moose and two babies, three reindeer and four Dall sheep.” The ante got even bigger when we moved on to the cruise portion of our trip and whale sightings became the equivalent of a royal flush.

One of the best things about a tour is meeting folks from literally all round the world. I love hearing different accents and learning about places I haven’t been – which finally brings me to the subject of the bucket list. Don’t get me wrong, I understand the concept of the bucket list. I just think it should have a better name than that. “Bucket” seems like such a utilitarian and unglamorous descriptor for something you deeply want to do. I also don’t like the idea of being motivated to do something before you die. It just feels a bit morose to me.

My blog mate and bestie Carla and I had a discussion about this before I left on my trip. She agreed with me (she’s sweet like that) and suggested we change it to “dream” list or “wish” list. And yet, I was fascinated with the driving force of the bucket list so I got in the habit of asking people I met on our trip why they chose to tour Alaska. I bet I asked 30 people and I think about 28 of them lit up and said, “Oh, Alaska has always been on my bucket list.” There you have it.

A note on display at the Denali Visitor Center.

Call it what you want but I have to admit that there’s something quite special about sharing a dream/wish/bucket list trip with a large group of strangers. You immediately have an unspoken bond and the excitement and joy emanating from everyone is almost palpable. It’s like you’re all on the same team, cheering for the same things – sunny days, multiple orca sightings and extra drink tickets at the group dinners.

We made our way on to Anchorage, the largest city in Alaska, via train on the Alaskan Railroad. I had an ear worm of one of my favorite songs playing over and over – “Anchorage” by Michelle Shocked. It’s about an exchange of letters from two old friends, one writes to the other in Dallas and the return letter comes from Anchorage.

Hey Shell, you know it’s kind of funny

Texas always seemed so big

But you know you’re in the largest state in the union

When you’re anchored down in Anchorage

I love this song even more now that I’ve been there and my dear wife was so sweet to put up with me singing it (badly) every day.

Anchorage is a thoroughly modern city but one of the most interesting things we did there was visit the Alaska Native Heritage Center, a cultural center and museum designed to expand the understanding of Alaska’s Indigenous people. Many of the guides here were young people – high school age – and I was so moved by their reverence for their past.

These kids may have gone back to their iPads when they were done with their presentations of Alaska Native dance and games but they gave us such a rich and thoughtful narrative of their history. There was no eye-rolling or rote recitation. They spoke from their hearts and made us feel their deep connection to their beautiful land.

From an exhibit at the Alaska Native Heritage Center.

Alaskans revere their heritage. (On display at the Native Alaska Heritage Center.)

One of our young guides apologized that some of the staff were missing that day and explained that it was the start of salmon fishing season and they were fishing – not for sport but for food for the winter. You get the sense that Alaskans are not careless with their resources. I don’t think you can be a weenie and survive there.

The only bad weather that we encountered coincided with our whale watching tour on the last day of the land portion of our trip. Scott gave us all fair warning that the seas would be rough and that the faint of heart should probably find a nice bar and wait for the group to get back. My lovely wife is prone to motion sickness but she had double dosed on Dramamine and Bonine and was game. I love that about her. She’s fond of saying, “I signed up for the full experience.” Little did she know.

Our whale watching outing started off well enough with an almost immediate sighting of a humpback whale but soon turned into an episode of The Deadliest Catch as we left the bay and headed into the choppy ocean and some very big waves. I think about a third of the folks on our boat got sick. It wasn’t pretty and I’ll just say once again that my wife is a real trouper. Oh, and we will never go on a whale watching outing again.

Lambs to the slaughter.

After returning to land for about 30 minutes, we had to board our cruise. Yeah, the timing wasn’t great on that but this was my first cruise so I was pretty excited and the color was beginning to return to my wife’s face. We got through the embarkation process quickly with an alarming warning of a “slight” outbreak of the norovirus on the ship. Disclaimer: The crew of our ship did a great job containing the germs and only a few people were sick. That said, I think I have a permanent layer of Purell on my hands from over applying several times a day for a week.

The cruise ship experience was really fun. We loved breakfast room service and elegant dining at night but our most favorite thing was our verandah – cruise ship speak for balcony. It was so amazing to just sit and watch Mother Nature’s floor show as we sailed through Southeast Alaska, much of which can only be accessed by plane or boat.

Her heart will go on. Just not on any more whale watches.

No question the highlight of the cruise was our day in Glacier Bay National Park which happened to fall on the summer solstice. Forgive me if I pile on the clichés like breathtaking and amazing. We stood on the deck of the ship in absolute awe as watched – and heard – Margerie Glacier, one of the most active glaciers in Glacier Bay, calving. You heard what sounds a little like distant thunder and then a loud cracking and then chunks of ice breaking off the glacier and splashing into the water. It’s absolutely thrilling.

Later that evening after dinner, we returned to our cabin and I went out on the verandah. I first thought I was looking at the sunset and then I remembered that I was in Alaska. There was a beautiful band of light and unusual color in the horizon and then it dawned on me – I was looking at the Northern Lights. I screamed – really, I did – for my wife to come outside and we just stood in rapt amazement. It is extremely rare to see the Northern Lights in summer so we felt like we had won the Alaska Lottery. And it was a stunning exclamation point on the longest day of the year.

The Northern Lights

One of the other things I really loved about cruising was waking up in a different place every day. It was like Christmas every morning when I pulled open the curtains. Ta da! Here’s … Juneau! Imagine how exciting our real lives would be if we woke up to a change of scenery every day. And then someone knocks gently on your door and delivers your breakfast. I felt like Lady Mary only less entitled and without the 23 inch waist. Whatever. I’m nicer.

Father Brown’s Cross overlooking Gastineau Bay in Juneau.

Our re-entry to the mainland of reality was painful – cancelled and delayed flights and 90 degree temperatures when we finally arrived home but we never got grouchy about any of it. My wife is pretty much incapable of being grouchy but I consider myself to be an advanced practitioner. I was on a post-Alaska high and nothing could melt my iceberg.

We’ve been back a couple of weeks now and Alaska feels a little further away each day and that makes me sad. I miss my unobstructed view of nature in all its glory. My time in Alaska was healing for me in ways I had not anticipated. I felt renewed and strong, cleansed from some of my burdens. The famous naturalist John Muir often wrote about these infinite powers of nature.

“Nature is always lovely, invincible, glad, whatever is done and suffered by her creatures. All scars she heals, whether in rocks or water or sky or hearts.”

That’s big. That’s Alaska.

Alaska makes everything look tiny, especially your worries.

The most happy fella

My father, bathed in sunshine.

I’ve been thinking about Mother’s Day a lot lately. I know most folks are thinking about that this week, too, but I’m thinking about a particular Mother’s Day, 14 years ago, when a doctor told me that my father was dying of leukemia.

I just felt a collective eye-roll as you read that last sentence. Stay with me, I promise this post will not be bleak in spite of its ominous beginning. You see, anything I write about my father will inevitably be joyful because he was the most optimistic person ever put on the face of this earth.

Seriously, he made Mr. Rogers look like Debbie Downer.

Don’t get me wrong – his optimism, especially when I was a sullen teenager, could make me want to smother him with a pillow. But these days I’m grateful for his hopeful spirit because it has certainly helped to sustain me in some hard times over the many years since his death in May of 2002.

My dad was THE eternal optimist.

My father and I didn’t have a traditional father-daughter relationship. I was never his princess and I didn’t grow up dreaming about him walking me down the aisle when I got married.

And yet he taught me some things every girl should know – how to shoot a jumper, how to crack crabs and how a roll of duct tape can fix just about anything, including the zipper on your yard-work pants.

Me and my Dad cracking crabs on the Chesapeake Bay. I think my doll passed out.

We didn’t bond over tea parties in my playhouse or matinees at the ballet. Instead, we spent hours on the basketball court behind our house playing HORSE. Dad loved the Los Angeles Lakers and he would emulate Kareem Abdul-Jabbar’s famous sky hook. He always did it with color commentary, too, and he could be pretty annoying.

So it was most gratifying when I was finally able to beat him once in a while, usually with an unorthodox backwards over the head shot that was awkward for his 6’ 4” frame.

My dad loved being tall and regarded it almost as a sign of social superiority. Ironically, he grew up on a farm with horses and dreamed of being a jockey one day. Yeah, that didn’t quite work out. He never got to meet my wife but I know he would be pleased that she is 5’10”.

Our most intimate time together growing up was on Sunday afternoons watching the Washington Redskins get pummeled by their opponents. Dad really enjoyed teaching me about football – the rules and strategy and most of all, predicting which play would be called next. That’s why I am often the only woman in a room who knows what a flea flicker is. And for the football uneducated, that is not a special dog collar.

Quarterback Sonny Jurgensen was the object of my dad and mine’s affection for much of my childhood.

I loved having his uninterrupted attention for three hours and I never thought I was weird because none of my girlfriends spent their Sundays in this way. I didn’t realize for a very long time that my father was teaching me about a lot more than football on those afternoons.

Dad was a fierce competitor whether watching or playing anything. He would stand up and cheer when the Redskins scored and he would stomp his foot and cuss a little when they made a bonehead play to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory late in a game.

He taught me a lot about loyalty. Win or lose, he still loved the Redskins and after every loss would say, “We’ll get ‘em next week, Adda.” Usually we would lose the next week, too, but his enthusiasm and support for his team never wavered. He was like that with his family and friends, too – fiercely faithful.

My father, like a lot of men from his generation, had a collection of sayings that he used over and over again. His most memorable one was, “Only cry in victory, never in defeat” and it was years before I understood that he was talking about life.

And that’s exactly how he approached some huge challenges thrown at him, including losing his larynx to cancer in his early sixties and becoming disabled the last several years of his life. The once strong and cocky athlete had to use a walker to get around and could no longer drive or play his beloved golf.

And yet he never complained about it – any of it. He would certainly get frustrated at times but would always remind himself and us that, “It could be worse.” We would tease him that we would put that epitaph on his headstone one day.

My father had a quiet but indomitable faith. He grew up poor and never took anything for granted. He loved and respected nature and was happiest being drenched in sweat after working in his garden all day. And he was almost always happy.

When I was younger, I thought he was a simple man – certainly not stupid but limited in his vision of the world around him. I had to go through some difficult challenges of my own to understand that he chose to focus on what was most important to him in life and let the rest of it go. I honestly don’t think he wasted much time worrying about what he didn’t have.

He chose optimism over cynicism, sweet over bitter, and those choices have consciously and unconsciously informed many of my own choices since his death.

Sometimes it feels like he’s still sitting there beside me on the couch lifting my spirits after another disappointment. I thought about him a lot when I lost my job in January. I know his first reaction would have been to want to punch out the noxious manipulator that staged my demise but then he would have said, “Keep your chin up” and told me to remember all the good things in my life.

Oh, and then he would have told me to check my oil. He always told me to check my oil.

Damn his optimism. I can’t shake it and that’s why when a doctor told me my father was dying on that Mother’s Day so long ago, I did not cry in defeat. I knew he had lived a life far beyond his dreams, a happy life that even death could not diminish.

I cried in victory because on my very best days, I am my father’s daughter.

Howard Brown Ore, a happy man.

When we shall leave this place

May 16, 1961 – January 10, 2016

My longtime veterinarian has a theory about pet’s names that she shared with me years ago. I was in the waiting area of her office with my terrified cat when the next patient, a ginormous St. Bernard, was summoned by the vet tech with a cheerful, “Come on, Tiny.”

I laughed about it with the vet later and she said, “You know, animals have a way of growing into their names and they just seem to fit.” I think she’s right and I think it works that way for some people, too.

It’s certainly the case with my wife Joy and it was most certainly true for my friend, Kristel Sweet Wooten. She was simply one of the sweetest souls I have ever known and she died in January at the shattering age of 54.

I’ve avoided writing about her death until now for several reasons but the most honest one is that it just cut too close to home for me. You see, Kristel and her wife Mary were married a few months before Joy and me in the spring of 2014. Like us, they went to Washington, DC to be legally wed and then held a service at their home church in Raleigh, North Carolina a few weeks later.

We could have never imagined that less than two years later, we would be sitting in that same church, once again shedding tears, only this time not the bouncy happy ones but the heavy very wet ones that burn.

I still see those two days – their wedding day and Kristel’s memorial – together, like two sides of a coin. Heads – a long and happy marriage. Tails – a slow but certain fade to darkness.

dance on air Fig. to be very happy; to be euphoric enough as to dance on air. Photo courtesy of Justin Cook Documentary Weddings.

I can picture Mary and Kristel dancing together at the entrance to the sanctuary of their church as guests were arriving on that sunny but brisk afternoon in late March.

It was a little unorthodox for sure, but it was so them. And God, they looked so happy. I’m sure I’ll never hear the term “dancing on air” again without seeing those two on that day.

They made the promises most couples make on their wedding day, not knowing that many of them would soon be tested. Kristel was diagnosed with Stage IV cervical cancer almost exactly a year later.

Maybe it’s good that we never know what’s next.

Stage IV cancer will pretty much coldcock any conversation to a halt.

They shared the news on Facebook in a very straightforward manner and then Kristel set up an on-line journal that folks could sign up to follow. Here’s where I need to tell you that Kristel was also one of the funniest people I have ever met. She had a very southern accent (think Renee Zellweger in Cold Mountain) which made everything she said even funnier. So I was not surprised when she named her on-line site, “Go to You Glow” – a reference to her first IV treatments to flush out the toxins that were promoting the growth of her cancer.

She went through several crushing rounds of chemotherapy and yet her posts remained upbeat and laced with gratitude, another Kristel trait. She even managed to find the upside to losing her hair in her post on September 2, 2015.

I am getting used to being bald and it feels good to rub my bald head. It’s surprising how good rain feels on my scalp and the sunlight and a cool breeze.

Kristel made bald beautiful and fun.

In early September of last year, I made a post about a dear friend from grade school who had just been diagnosed with tongue cancer and was beginning a brutal regimen of chemotherapy and radiation.

Kristel was one of the very first folks I heard from after that post. She private messaged me on Facebook to tell me that I, or my friend, could contact her if she could help in any way. She said, “I won’t play counselor or physician. I could be a confidential friend for what to prepare for. Just an offer, because whoever you love, I love.”

I read her message at my desk that morning and crumbled. I was astonished and humbled by her enormous capacity for empathy in the face of her own mortality.

She went on to tell me the things she wished someone had told her before she began her treatments – like chemo makes you feel like your insides are being stripped out.

And then she did something that I will never forget. She asked me for my friend’s address so that she could send her a hand colored postcard with a word of hope and strength.

Kristel creating.

I still don’t have the words for this.

I just finished reading When Breath Becomes Air, a devastatingly exquisite memoir by Paul Kalanithi, a neurosurgeon who was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer at the age of 36. He died last year before his manuscript was completed and his discerning words have made me think of Kristel a lot. He writes, “I would have to learn to live in a different way, seeing death as an imposing itinerant visitor but knowing that even if I’m dying, until I actually die, I am still living.”

This is how Kristel died – living.

She rode her bike when she could, she went fishing with her family and she started a card “ministry” at her church. And she and Mary went to Oregon last fall for a grand adventure.

Mary (left) and Kristel, sweethearts and sweet hearts.

She kept living.

I could or would beat myself up or be miserable about the things I can’t do or the mistakes I’ve made or what I can’t control. Instead, I think I’ll pat myself on the back for doing my best to get over the hurdles and for having a decent attitude. I can’t control what life throws at me but I can control my reaction. August 2, 2015

Her posts became more infrequent and then there was a menacing silence on her site. Finally, Mary posted on January 5^th and shared that Kristel was resting comfortably at home and getting hospice care. The end was near and she died peacefully surrounded by family and friends a few days later.

Mary’s status update on the day of Kristel’s memorial service.

Kristel’s memorial service was as wonderfully unorthodox as her wedding. There were plenty of tears but it was a genuine and joyful celebration of life. Interspersed throughout the service were Kristel’s own words taken from her journal posts, now a liturgy of hope and gratitude.

The service concluded with a wonderful responsive benediction crafted from her entry of June 14^th.

Leader: As you go out in the world today, remember to smile.

People: Try to stay out of the heat, be thankful for the air conditioning.

Leader: Say at least 3 nice things to others, say at least 3 nice things to Yourself.

People: Be kind to your partner/spouse.

Leader: Drink lots of water.

People: Hug your children.

Leader: Hug your friends and parents.

People: And be aware of wonder.

Leader: My love to you all.

We could still hear the refrain of the last hymn, Sweet, Sweet Spirit, as we slowly made our way out of the church:

There’s a sweet, sweet Spirit in this place.

Sweet, indeed.

Epilogue: My friend from grade school had a PET scan last week revealing the acronym all cancer patients pray for – NED – no evidence of disease. I can see Kristel smiling at this news.

What’s in a name? Sweet Kristel.

Bookends

Two writers. One blog.

Author: addisono