The Dedalus Log

Oh very young
What will you leave us this time?
You’re only dancing on this earth
For a short time
And though your dreams may toss
And turn you now.
They will vanish away
Like your Daddy’s best jeans –
Denim blue fading up to the sky
And though you want him to last forever
You know he never will.
(You know he never will.)
And the patches
Make the goodbye harder still.
(Oh Very Young: Cat Stevens – 1974)

This essay is about writing a letter to my granddaughter, Sarah Kathleen (Nena). I wrote one on the occasion of her Baptism (see Child of God), and I thought I’d write another in November or December. The problem was I couldn’t think of one preeminent event to focus on. Too many things were happening to Sarah in those last months of 2011: she was on the verge of walking; she was having a surgical procedure on her eye ducts; her birthday was fast approaching; and her parents were purchasing a new home in Gardena. What events merited a letter? I couldn’t make up my mind for a long time. I started one letter in late October about Sarah’s operation and when she started walking (see Nena's Walking Letter below) – and then I went jogging on the Sunday after her birthday.

I get my best ideas while jogging. I don’t know how it works. What happens during the mindless actions of lifting your leg and thrusting the foot forward, and then repeating those motions with the other leg and foot; alternating them, again, and again, and again? Why does the act of leaning forward and letting your body fall forward through space – while catching yourself with every step – take your spirit to another place? Whatever it is, my legs and body function on there own during this earthbound experience while my thoughts soar. On this particular Sunday afternoon, my mind seemed to glide along the thermals of possible topics for a blog essay about Sarah. What about her operation, birthday, or developmental benchmarks? While these subjects seemed appropriate to an adult, were they events Sarah would want to remember or ask about later in her life? When I passed the one-mile mark of my run, the idea hit me. Sarah would be leaving her first home, and moving into a new one in December! This event would be truly dramatic for her – as well as her parents. The family would have to re-orient itself to a new home, new rooms, a new neighborhood, new sights, and new people. Teresa and Joe would be leaving behind memories of their first two years together as husband and wife, and their first year with their baby girl. Yet, Sarah Kathleen would remember none of that. I also realized that I could use multiple mediums in telling this story. I could photograph the interiors and exteriors of the house, write a new letter about the occasion, and incorporate both in an essay for my blog. I could describe how the idea occurred to me while jogging, what I wanted to say in the letter, and then describe the photo shoot with Sarah – going room by room and recalling scenes and images of her first year there. After returning from the jog, I showered, changed, and began writing a new letter to Sarah Kate about remembering.

You see, Kathy and I moved out of our first home in Reseda during the summer of 1988. Toñito was 10-years old at the time, and Prisa had just turned 8. The children had spent all their early lives in that little yellow house on Yarmouth Avenue: sleeping in bunks and sharing the same bedroom; learning to swim in the backyard pool, and ride bikes in the elementary school parking lot nearby; shooting basketballs at the garage hoop in the alley, and playing catch in the front yard; and taking long walks throughout the neighborhood, or driving to the nearby park or shopping malls. I was always convinced that they retained clear and permanent memories of that house and the times we spent together, until one day when they were both in college we drove by it.
“Do you remember growing up in that house?” I asked, eagerly, pointing at the yellow cottage-like structure, and wondering what shared images they would call forth. After a long pause, Prisa responded first.
“No, not really, Dad. I mean”, she added, hesitantly, “I remember some of the people we played with, but nothing about the house or the things you’ve told us we did.”
“What about you, Toñito? I asked, unbelievingly. “You must remember some of those things we did – like going on walks around the neighborhood, or walking to Newcastle School and the candy store on the corner.”
“Sorry Dad,” he replied. “I have some hazy memories of walking around the lake in the park, some railroad tracks near a baseball field, and a warehouse-looking structure with an artillery cannon in the front. But I don’t remember too much about the house and the neighborhood.”
This exchange with Toñito and Prisa was the scene that occurred to me while jogging, and it started my thinking about a letter for Sarah. If my own children could not recall memories of their first house, which they left at the ages of 10 and 8, Sarah Kathleen would never remember her house on Taylor Court unless she had some help.

I loved that house on Taylor Court. At first it was because it reminded me of the little, yellow house, with white trim, that our own parents bought in Venice, California, in 1960. It too was a small, two-bedroom house (that would expand to three), with only one bathroom. How a family of six managed to survive with one bathroom has always been a mystery to me that thankfully Joe and Prisa never had to solve. But I grew familiar with Prisa and Joe’s house through the eyes of the infant I cared for twice a week for one year. The bookend memories I will always have of the house on Taylor Court are of parties: celebrating Christmas Eve (and a house-warming) with the Delgado, McDorman, and Williams families in 2009, the year Prisa and Joe were married and began renting the house; and celebrating Sarah’s first birthday, on November 12, 2011 (See Sarah Kathleen’s First Birthday). In between those two events, Sarah’s birth, growth, and development dominated my thoughts, attentions, and photographs. It somehow seemed fitting that her parents were purchasing their first home, and moving out of the rented house on Taylor Court just as Sarah was starting to walk on her own. Walking is a transitional event – an act of separation and independence. Buying your first house is too.

I started photographing the last images of the Taylor Court house five days after Sarah’s birthday party. The best place and time to take pictures of Sarah was always in the soothingly painted, violet nursery, after her morning nap. There she usually awakened happy and refreshed, and I could quickly engage her interest by discussing aloud her choice of clothing apparel for the day. I pulled out shirts, pants, and socks, from the dresser drawers and draped them on the crib bars for her appraisal. After a quick change of diapers and clothes, I’d play with her on the nursery floor for awhile: coaxing her to crawl through the tent-like tunnel, as she moved from stuffed animal, to bookcase, to dresser; or calling out the names of the alphabet letters she pointed to on the floor mat on the ground. My own favorite piece of furniture in that room was the wooden rocking chair, tucked away in the corner. It was there that I would settle, cradling Sarah in my arms, rocking and singing “Duérmete mi niña”, until she fell asleep for her nap. The clearest memory I still hold of that nursery was the day Joe and Prisa returned unexpectedly from a morning of visiting child-care facilities. Prisa’s maternity leave was drawing to a close, and she had come to the final realization that strangers would be caring for her baby, three days a week, when she went back to work. The pain of separation would eventually fade for Prisa and Joe, as the caregivers grew familiar and learned to love Sarah, but seeing the invisible bonds between mother and child in that room is an image that will never fade.

A whirlwind photographic tour of the house followed, with my trying to keep up with a swiftly mobile Sarah Kathleen. She burst out of the nursery on unsteady legs and strode precariously down the long hallway to her parent’s master bedroom. In the middle of the room was a bed draped with a comforter depicting wolves in the forest. This is where Joe and Prisa read aloud each night to Sarah from a book called Goodnight Moon before placing her in the crib for the night. That bed always provided Sarah a safe haven from an interrupted slumber of painful teething, and was her first playground for tickling gymnastics. The wolf’s face on the comforter was of infinite interest to Sarah. Once I tossed her onto the bed, she would position herself in the middle of the cover, point at the wolf’s nose, and ask, “Dat?”  I honestly believe that our response, “nose”, was the first word she learned as a baby, and she would point to her own nostrils, or mine, when prompted with the word. But my favorite scene of that room will always be of Sarah sleeping soundly on her stomach, before she was able to flip over or crawl on her own. There was something magical about watching a baby sleeping peacefully alone, without fears or constraints.

From the bedroom, Sarah guided me back up the hallway to the Study or Library. Despite its academically sounding title, this room, which also held a desk, computer, and television monitor, actually provided a wonderful playground for Sarah. With a wide expanse of open, wooden flooring, it was here that she first bounced in her Baby Einstein jumper for long periods of time, and took her first unimpeded steps from one side of the room to the other. As she got older, she would hoist herself up on the bookcase against the wall, and systematically emptied the shelves of books, music CD’s, and video DVD’s. From the library, Sarah scampered into the laundry room, heading for the kitchen and dining room, pausing only to manipulate the control dials of the washing machine. Since turning six-months old, Sarah imitated every adult action that caused a mechanical result, and washing machines and electronic devices gave off the right kind of aural and visual effects to catch her attention.

Sarah’s high chair dominated the dining room. There she consumed her meals at breakfast and lunch when I babysat. She was always ready to eat. All I had to do was ask, “Are you hungry?” and she would respond by saying, “Num, num!” while raising her arms quickly into the air, begging to be lifted, carried, and positioned into her high chair, in preparation for a meal. Then she would watch me, while munching on the cheerios I placed on her tray, as I mixed and micro waved her bowl of oatmeal, counting aloud for her benefit to 10: “1-mississippi, 2-mississippi”. Feeding Sarah was when I had her fullest attention, and I preferred spooning the finger-foods Prisa had prepared for her myself, rather than letting her eat it on her own. I would talk to her as she ate and ask question about the food in English and Spanish.
“¿Que dice la comida?”I would ask at every meal.
“¡Cómeme!” I would reply for her.

After breakfast, we adjourned to the backdoor. There I lifted Sarah up so she could look out the window that occupied the upper quarter of the portal. She would knock on the window with her baby knuckles and then reach for the doorknob. Stepping through the doorway onto a cement landing overlooking the backyard, I’d always pause so Sarah could gaze at the two items hanging over the entrance: a wind chime made up of tiny, tinkling wizards on one side, and a twisting sparkler made of glassy crystals on the other. Then we would descend into the backyard that was composed of a narrow strip of grass and a cement walkway leading around the house to the garage. A painted cinderblock wall separated the yard from the neighbors to the rear and on one side.

On re-entering the house, we made our way to the living room – Sarah’s first playroom. As a newborn and infant, this area was covered with blankets, quilts, and floor mats that allowed adults to watch and engage Sarah as she lay on her back, inspecting the world within eyeshot, until she eventually progressed to turning her head, flipping onto her stomach, sitting up, and crawling away. Toys slowly began filling the periphery of the room until they were piled into a playpen located next to the solitary pillar that divided the living room from the dining room. Now Sarah crisscrossed the room on her feet, searching the tops of coffee tables, lamp stands, and couches for toys, cell phones, keys, or electronic remote devices. Inevitably she would make her way to the front door where we would repeat our ritual whereby I lifted her so she could look out the peephole window, knock on the thickly glazed windowpane with her knuckles, and then reach down to open the door and walk outside.

Thick hedges and bushes framed the front yard of the yellow house, and thick, course grass covered the lawn. Stalks of miniature bamboo reeds sprang from the flowerbed under the front yard windows, and a row of dense shrubbery curved around the perimeter of the lawn, separating the sidewalk from the grass. This was the area that Sarah only started exploring when she was able to walk – and even then, very unsteadily. When weather permitted, I would take Sarah outdoors to play on the grass. We always borrowed the neighbor’s neatly manicured lawn next door. The first time I sat Sarah on the grass, she remained motionless in confusion, shocked by the strange sensation of cushioning grass against her pants. Tentatively reaching out to touch the blades with her finger, she soon began inspecting the rest of her surroundings. It was on that putting green-like surface that Sarah first spied and touched leaves, branches, and flowers, and soon her curiosity compelled her to crawl around and grasp them. The next time I placed her on the grass, she quickly started crawling toward the sidewalk, where the texture and coolness of the cement fascinated her. When she was able to walk, the flat and gleaming surface seemed to beckon her like a ribbon tied to a balloon. It was a foreshadowing, I think, of what was to come. That cement sidewalk, and the street beyond, would soon be taking her to a new home, new neighbors, and eventually more and more independence. With that thought I put away my camera and offered my hand to guide her on the walk.

Taylor Court Letter

Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Letter to Sarah # 3

Dear Nena:

I’m writing to you on an occasion that is really more important to everyone but you. Yet, it is an event that will always be brought to your attention. In years to come, whenever you pass by, or go near, the intersection of 162^nd Street and Taylor Court, in the city of Torrance, adults will inevitably ask if you remember the little yellow house on the corner. Of course you won’t remember, and for awhile you will probably simply say,
“No, I don’t.”
Nevertheless, your mom and dad, aunts and uncles, and even Mima and I may continue pressing: “Are you sure you don’t you remember anything about that house?”
After hearing this question repeated over and over again, and perhaps sensing or seeing the disappointment on our faces with your reply, you may be tempted to change your answer by saying,
“I’m not sure, maybe I do remember something about that house.”

You see this was the house in which you were born and raised during the first year of your life. This was the house that greeted you on November 15, 2010, when your mom and dad drove you home from the hospital. This was the house that sheltered you and protected you as you slept in a crib in your parent’s room for the first weeks of your life, until you moved to your own nursery room down the hall. It was there that we watched you grow and marvel at your surroundings as you lay on your back, on a quilted floor mat with hanging devices hovering overhead. Those scenes and more during your first year of life are so fixed in our memories that we find it hard to believe that you won’t remember any of them. But that’s all right. I used to ask your mom the same question about her first home on Yarmouth Avenue in Reseda, and she didn’t remember it either.

The Taylor house was where you mastered your earliest development skills: raising and turning your head and body, sleeping through the night, eating solid foods, crawling, speaking, and walking. All of those things were done in the confines of that house. I won’t make a list of all the scenes and images I associate with this house in this letter. I’ll save that for a blog I’m writing. Instead, I’ll just reassure you that you knew the old house very well. Once you were able to crawl and walk, you explored every nook and cranny of that house. Every room became your playroom. You especially loved bookcases, cupboards, drawers, and closets. The only exception was your own front yard. Since the front lawn of your next-door neighbors, Betty and Tai, was so well cared for and manicured, I used it as our tiny park. There you could crawl and roll around on the grass, picking up and trying to eat leaves, twigs, and flowers. You would point at their lawn figurines in the garden, and stare endlessly at the knothole face in the tree – the one with two blue button eyes, a white button nose, and a red paper-sliced mouth.

You and your parents moved into a new home on Saturday, December 3, 2011. This will be the house and neighborhood that you remember as you get older. Taylor Court will become the house of myth and legend, the home that old people talk about. At this point in your life you are concentrating all your senses and powers at mastering language and the world around you. Memories are still the domain of older children and adults. But when the time comes when you are asked about that house on Taylor Court, you can say:
“I don’t remember much, but my grandpa told me about it in a letter and a blog.”

I love you, Nena Chula,

Poppy

Nena's Walking Letter

Saturday, October 29, 2011
Letter to Sarah #2

Dear Sarah Kathleen:

On Friday, October 28, 2011, just sixteen days before your first birthday, you started walking. I mean seriously walking, not just standing upright after hoisting yourself up on a piece of furniture or table, and taking a step or two before falling. You raised your knees from a crawling position, pushed away from the floor with your arms, and balanced yourself upright on two legs. Wavering a second or two on bowed knees, you proceeded to step forward once, twice, and thrice, before falling forward onto your hands and knees. With the verbal encouragement of your parents in the background, you quickly repeated the process, taking two more steps before another face-plant on the floor. None of this independent locomotion occurred the day before when your grandmother and I babysat on Thursday. On that day your were putting on a demonstration of all the skills and physical benchmarks you had reached so far:

·      Pressing plastic connecting blocks together and pulling them apart;

·      Fitting shaped objects through their matching openings;

·      Dropping a miniature basketball into a hoop;

·      Scampering quickly throughout the house on hands and knees;

·      Kneeling upright and hopping forward;

·      Pointing at objects you were curious about, or wishing to hold, and saying, “dat”;

·      Pushing up on your arms from a prone position, and lifting your knees off the ground to form an inverted V-shape;

·      Using any handhold or wall to straighten yourself into a standing position, and then proceeding to step free and balancing yourself on two feet before collapsing on the ground.

You were so close to walking that we both held our breaths, willing it to occur – but it wasn’t meant to happen on that day. What is so surprising is that it happened when it did. You see, on the Friday morning before you walked, you were in a hospital having a surgical procedure on your right eye.

Of course, you won’t remember anything about this hospital visit or the surgical procedure when you are old enough to read or understand this letter. And that’s how it should be. For you, it was just an earlier-than-usual car ride with your mother and father to a place that had new faces and new surroundings. You won’t remember the extra care and tenderness in the way your mom and dad talked to you that morning, the way they held you, and the way they glanced at each other when you smiled back, made sounds, and followed their directions as they dressed you and packed you into the car seat. Parents have a great capacity for hiding their nervousness and worry when trying to make you feel safe and comfortable. And by doing so, it makes them feel better too.

Mima and I did not accompany you or your parents to the hospital that morning. I’m a coward when it comes to witnessing medical procedures that might cause pain or discomfort to a baby. Your Uncle Toñito had an operation when he was 2-years old to remove skin tags from his right ear. It was the only surgical procedure we experienced as young parents, and it was nerve-wracking for me. I still remember his cries and tears when a nurse fumbled at trying to install an IV connector into his tiny arm. But Mima and I were wide-awake at 5 a.m. on the morning of your operation, knowing that your parents were waking you up, and going through the necessary tasks of getting you ready for this journey. We held you in our minds all morning, remembering your actions of the previous day, the things you did, and how you acted. At 9 a.m., Mima received a text message from your mom saying, “Everything fine. Sarah was a champ.” I took a deep breath and murmured a prayer of thanks.

Later that morning your mom sent us a video of you eating a late breakfast. You were still feeling the effects of the anesthesia, and your movements and actions were woozy and uncoordinated. You had difficulty grasping food with your fingers, and couldn’t locate your mouth to chew. Your mom said that perhaps after a long nap you would feel better and your reflexes would return. I doubt anyone expected the amazing rebound of your muscles and coordination. I’ve heard it said that our bodies and muscles rebound and recover quickly after an injury or trauma. Something obviously happened after your nap, because later that day Mima told me that she had received a phone call from your mom saying that you were walking. A video soon followed and we saw for ourselves how you had mastered this new skill. After a surgical procedure that required anesthesia, you were walking. You are amazing!

I love you, Nena Chula,

Poppy

If you are interested in seeing more pictures of our photo shoot at Taylor Court, click on the link below to my Flickr Album:

2011-11-17 Sarah Kate's First House

Sucking wind,
I'm slipping down the back road once again.
And I'm on the run,
Slipping down the back road in the sun.
And I'm taking flight,
Oh I'm slipping down the back road in the night.
And I'm running still,
Slipping down and over the hill.

For so long,
Oh, I've been out there looking for a song.
And it's just insane,
It's like trying to run and chase a moving train.
And you understand,
Oh, aren't you trying to find the Promised Land.
And you will,
Slipping down and over the hill.

Oh, it’s over the hill,
Over the hill.
And oh, yes I will.
Slipping down and over the hill.
(Over The Hill by John Stewart)

“Damn, 10:52!” I thought in surprise at the one mile marker. Trying to keep my balance, I rechecked my watch again. Now it read 10 minutes and 53 seconds! “Too slow, too slow” I muttered silently, steadying my stride and trying to breathe naturally. I shook my head as if to loosen the causes for this slow, troubling time: the bottle neck of runners that forced me to walk after the starting horn sounded; the riptide of casual walkers and skittish child-runners stopping my momentum and directing me sideways, as I looked frantically for breakaway opportunities; or my inadequate training for this race. These excuses rattled around in my head, but they were poor justifications for my disappointing start. I was frustrated. I usually averaged 9:50 a mile in my regular workouts at home. Here I was in a competitive race, full of adrenaline, surrounded by serious runners, and I was clocking a snail-like, 11 minute pace. I was off, and I knew it. My breathing was ragged and unsteady, my pacing was uneven, and I was getting angry. Moreover, a runner had attached himself to me, and his antics were driving me crazy. He was a short, portly gentleman, in an old running T-shirt, with a shock of gray hair, and looking about my age (although I felt he was younger). I’d caught up to him at the half mile point, and we jogged along together for awhile. At first I thought we’d meld into a steady rhythm and just flow into the race, but he wasn’t having any of that. He sped up, fell back, pushed forward again, and then drew even with me. He repeated this sequence over and over. I didn’t get it. Were these actions thoughtless or intentional? Had my catching him provoked these antics? What was his story? Just posing these questions was a troubling sign. Self-examination and effortless running don’t mix. It’s like designing a house while practicing meditation; it won’t work. I was thinking too much, and not relaxing into the race. Somewhere in the midst of my mental maelstrom, the portly runner sped up and disappeared from sight.

Sucking air in and gasping it out, I labored for another half mile. When I’m struggling, a race drags on and on, and every stride is torture. I was taking no notice of my surroundings; not the race, the Rose Bowl, nor the scenery along the Brookside Golf Course. I just kept my head down, brooding about my start, my irregular pace, my conditioning, my time, and the runners around me. Only once did I bother to gaze up at the lush green hills overlooking this arroyo, with their gleaming cliff side homes, topped off by the prominent steeple of the Sacred Heart chapel. The race was looking pretty grim until I reached the loop at West Washington Blvd. As I curved to the left, I caught sight of my portly nemesis, and saw he was walking! With all of his restless maneuvers and gamesmanship, he had, apparently, exhausted himself and was trying to recover. I passed him with a smile. I lifted my head, looked forward, and decided: “No more thinking. No more brooding. Let’s enjoy this run!” I fixed my sights on a far off signpost at the opposite bend of the road, and, flipping a mental switch, I entered a timeless dimension.

I’ve been in these time-suspended states of running before. I recall a few times finishing the back 3 of a 6 mile course along San Vicente Blvd, and once during the final two miles of the Brentwood 5K(kilometer) race. I’d characterize them as meditative states. All distractions fall away as my mind focuses on some faraway object, and all my running functions revert to automatic pilot. I stop being aware of my arms, legs, chest, lungs, eyes, mouth, and nose. I’m just breathing and moving through space, without conscious effort or control, and with no sense of time or distance. Figures and images are transformed into colorful shadows, which seem to dissolve as I pass them. I become motion without substance. The auto-pilot monitors my path and adjusts to obstacles and markers. When I approach my once faraway target, it simply alters my gaze toward a new goal, another street sign, a light post, or a gnarled tree, and I flow towards it.

I turned south on West Street and streamed along the western side of the arroyo. I only interrupted my unconscious glide long enough to note the 2 mile marker and my time, 20:06. I’d improved the second mile by 1:39, and I was feeling great. I resumed my focusing practice, and sped forward. I was running in the Kids on the Run 5K/10K Race held at the Rose Bowl/Brookside Park, located on N. Arroyo Blvd, in Pasadena. It is an annual event on behalf of Children’s Hospital Los Angeles, and I was there with two, of my seven sisters-in-laws, Meg and Beth.

I married into a family of 10 children, 8 girls and two boys. The siblings sort themselves, hang out, and unite in a variety of fashions, but the one I find most interesting is the “Big sister” grouping. Mary Ellen is the official “big sister” of the family, the first and eldest child. She was followed a year later by Debbie. These two girls constituted the War Time Siblings, and, I believe, they differentiated themselves by their unique relationship to their parents, their personal rivalries and competitions, and their generational attitudes and biases. They were born in 1944-45, grew up and went to school in the early Cold War years of the 1950’s, and were out of college and married by 1967. Kathy was the third child, and the “baby sister” to Mary Ellen and Debbie, who were 6 and 5 years older. However, Kathy became the first of a new group of siblings who were born in rapid succession: Mike, Patti, Greg, Meg, Beth, Tootie, and Tere. I’d call this division the Baby Boom Siblings (1949-1961) and it formed around their own “big sister”, Kathy. This was the sibling group that I knew when I met, dated, courted, and married Kathy. By then, Mary Ellen and Debbie had husbands, children, and families of their own, and I saw them infrequently at formal family occasions. But it was the younger siblings who were always at hand. For a time I felt like an interloper, a Mexican-American stranger seeking to share, or take, the attentions and affection of their “big sis”. I even imagined that they were inspecting, comparing, and judging me as a worthy suitor, but that apprehension soon passed. When it became apparent that I was in love with their big sister, and that she loved me (which was the important part), they embraced me into their family, and inducted me into this Baby Boom Sibling (BBS) group.

The BBS group was, and continues being a fun-loving group to be around. In the early days of our marriage, they were a moveable feast. If we were hosting a party or gathering of some sort that was losing its zest and vitality, Kathy would call her younger sibs to join and rescue us. If they were free (and out of seven siblings, some always were), they would arrive with energy, charm, humor, and curiosity for a new adventure. They would captivate everyone. I especially loved the “after-party” conversations, with just family members. It was here that I learned how this group survived, bonded, and flourished. They employed a self-deprecating, Irish humor, which never allowed them to take themselves, their good fortunes, or their problems, too seriously. They would find humor in the most serious or ridiculous situations. They would turn pain into giggles, and sorrow into laughter. They loved to laugh, and I loved being around them.

Kathy always took her role as “big sis” seriously. She had (and has) a natural inclination to guide and protect her family, and keep the siblings interconnected. Our home was always open and available to her brothers and sisters, and they always felt comfortable enough to visit or stay, especially when they were single, bored, or troubled. As they married and formed families of their own, Kathy continued arranging occasions to get together and celebrate (or commiserate). I love them as a group, and I have a special relationship with each of Kathy’s brothers and sisters, but there is a unique professional connection with Meg and Beth (the seventh and eighth siblings).Not only are we all teachers, but they were my first opportunity to practice “enlightened nepotism”.

Meg and Beth were both regular visitors to our home in Reseda while they were going to college, majoring in English, and working after graduation (Meg went to Loyola Marymount University and Beth to UCLA). They babysat for Tonito and Prisa, visited, swam in the pool, and introduced us to their serious boyfriends, fiancés, and eventual husbands. When things were difficult at home, school, or work, they would visit, talk, and ask for advice (and occasionally, they took it). Kathy and I were the professional teachers in the family (Kathy in English as a Second Language, ESL, and I in History), until she took an extended childcare leave to raise our kids. Helping Meg and Beth get full time teaching jobs in the city’s public school system, gave me the chance to exercise my professional leadership and discretion, and increased my status in the family, especially with the BBS group.

After college, Meg taught English in a variety of places; a catholic high school in the South bay area (in fact, Prisa’s current school); in Cuernavaca, Mexico, and finally at a private school in the San Fernando Valley. With her intelligence, energetic enthusiasm, and natural talent, Meg was always successful with her students and colleagues, but was still unsure about where she wanted to work and settle. It was 1982, and I had just been promoted to the position of Instructional Specialist in Bilingual Education for Local District 8, in the Los Angeles Unified School District (LAUSD). I worked with middle and high school principals, coordinators, and ESL teachers in the mid Valley, guiding their implementation of the ESL curriculum, helping them meet the requirements of the Bilingual program, and occasionally giving advice on personnel. However, when Dan Isaacs, the principal of Grant High School, asked me to recommend a candidate to fill a vacancy in his ESL program, I was flattered. Dan was a dynamic and charismatic principal who demanded excellence, and got it. He was going places in the District, and “did not brook fools”. The ESL and English programs at Grant were the finest in the Valley, so when he asked me, there was an expectation that I could deliver the best. The first person I thought of was Meg. The hardest part was convincing her to apply. Although Meg had a credential, solid experience, excellent references, and the family personality, she had never taught ESL. It took some cajoling, reassuring, and promising to help and support her, but Kathy and I finally convinced Meg to interview with Dan Isaacs. She got the job.

Three years later (after a stint as Dean of Students at Ritchie Valens Middle School), I was working as a Teacher Advisor for the Senior High Schools Division of LAUSD, at the downtown Personnel Office. It was a heady time for me, being in a position where I was meeting, interviewing, and contracting new teachers in a single day. This temporary situation gave me the opportunity to help Beth, who was just coming off of a maternity leave and preparing to return to a catholic school teaching job. Beth had married right after graduation, and started working immediately, while her husband attended law school. Without a credential or prior experience, Beth had, gamely, tried the teaching profession, and discovered that she was very capable. I was now in a position where I could double her salary, increase her family’s health benefits, and get her into a subsidized credential program. With the encouragement and support of Meg, Tootie, and Kathy, we convinced Beth that she could make the leap into high school education. On a weekday morning, Tootie drove Beth to the Grand Avenue Personnel Office, where I greeted her, hired her, and signed her to a district contract before noon. In September she was teaching English and ESL at Roosevelt High School in Boyle Heights.

I racked up major family points with Kathy (and her mom) for my willingness to use my professional position to help her siblings. My actions were concrete examples of my faith in her sisters, and my commitment to her family. She saw, I think, for the first time, just how strong was my sense of family loyalty and obligation. In Mexican families, we learn very early about our duty to help each other in every way, and that using one’s position, power, or influence to assist family members (especially brothers and sisters) is expected. Nepotism (nepotismo) does not have a negative connotation in Spanish. I knew Meg and Beth would do fine jobs as teachers. They were smart, talented, beautiful, and fearless. All I had to do was open the door, and stand back. What was most rewarding was being in a position where I could see them grow and mature as professionals. As a Bilingual and Teacher Advisor I was able to visit their classrooms, see them teach, watch them interact with students, meet their co-workers, and help them gain confidence. Those early connections with their careers as teachers, developed into a special relationship that exists only with Meg and Beth.

33 years later, I’m running a 5K race with them. Meg is now a Reading Specialist for the Archdiocese, and Beth is teaching 5^th grade at a parish school. The last time I ran a 5K was the South Pasadena 5K/10K Tiger Run in 2004. Beth joined me on that run. She was working at getting back into regular running, and we felt that committing to a race would be good incentive for training and exercise. It also gave me a great opportunity to see her new apartment in South Pas. We had a good time at the event (felt great, won a raffle, met old friends), boasted about our athletic prowess at family gatherings, and promised each other to do it again. Unfortunately, we hadn’t been in an organized race since. This latest effort was a result of converging interests at just the right time. At the family Christmas Day party at Tootie and John’s house, the three of us got to talking about running, and how we were each struggling to establish regular patterns of conditioning. It was Meg who proposed we run a 10K race together. I was fine with the concept, but I thought a 10K (6.25 miles) race was a little too extreme to start with. I countered that a 5K (3.25 miles) race, scheduled in February or March would allow more time to train. They both agreed.

With Meg and Beth participating, the race did not follow any pattern that I had previously experienced. Kathy drove us to the registration site, planning to find us at the finish line. After receiving our souvenir t-shirts and picking up our racing bibs and pins, we still had 35 minutes before the start of the race. Keeping Meg and Beth company didn’t give me a chance to perform any of my usual pre-race rituals. I didn’t have a car to deposit my warm-up gear. I didn’t make my way to the starting line to warm up, stretch, and silently focus myself before the race. I didn’t look for a clear launching spot near the starting line, to avoid the crush of racers, and the congestion that occurs when the horn sounds. Instead, I stayed with them, and took a long walk along Seco Street, near the Rose Bowl, listening to the family news and happenings. At some point in the walk, Meg released us from the obligation of keeping pace with each other during the race, and encouraged us to run at our own speeds. Beth and I were relieved with this pacing exemption. Of the three of us, Meg was probably in the best condition, but had not participated in many organized races. I’d gotten in two practice runs of 4 and 5 miles the week before, but I was still not in shape. Beth was vague about the extent of her training, but I sensed that it was even more sporadic and infrequent than mine. However, what Beth lacked in practice she made up in grit and determination. She had committed to this race and she would run it, in shape or not. As the starting time approached, I decided to walk back to the finish line and deposit my warm-up gear with a kindly vendor. I didn’t want to wear any additional clothing while running. The jog back to the starting line was refreshing and invigorating. It gave me a chance to warm up, breathe hard, and stretch my legs. The three of us were together at the beginning, but, once the race started, I lost track of the girls as I jogged off.

As my autopilot caught sight of the three mile marker, the mental switch flipped back, and I was again aware of time, distance, and surroundings. My watch now read 28:29. I’d run this last mile in 8:24! I only had a quarter of a mile to go! The possibility of finishing this race under 30 minutes was slowly beginning to dawn on me. Because of the proximity to the finish line, the three mile marker also serves as a hazard warning sign. It’s like an ocean buoy alerting racing yachts to the sirens song that might tempt them into losing their focus and faltering along the last leg of the course. Some runners are lured into giving up at three miles. Fear and exhaustion seeps into their consciousness and muscles, causing them to hesitate and lose hope. They think that they went out too fast, sped up too soon, and didn’t conserve their strength. Then they start feeling tired, winded, dispirited, and believe that they can’t finish. Other runners are beguiled into speeding up; trying to set a new personal best, or getting past one more runner. I was prey to this temptation in 1992, when Lou, Meg’s husband, joined me in running my first El Sereno 5K race. We had paced each other nicely for three miles, when the natural competitor in Lou proposed that we pass two grey-haired, older gentlemen who were running in front of us. We kicked forward and fought through groaning muscles, straining sinews, and bursting lungs to beat them at the finish line – but the effort wiped me out (I placed third in my division in that race). The best course for the irregular racer is to ignore the allure of the sirens and just stay within yourself – finishing the race on an even, steady pace. This is the sound advice I did not follow on my odyssey at the Rose Bowl.

Realizing that I was within striking distance of a sub-30 minute racing time, I sped up. Gritting my teeth, I lengthened my stride, trying to cover more ground in less time. I kicked into a higher gear when I entered the familiar asphalt path leading to the finish line. At the last turn before the final straight away, I felt it – a slight pinching in my left rear upper leg. It was a localized twinge, just above the knee, but it wouldn’t stop. It was as though a screw was being turned, stretching a muscle wire tighter and tighter. Suddenly I felt the same sensation in my right rear upper leg. Now there were two turning screws, two tightening muscles, and at least two strands of wires ready to pop. In all my years running, I’d never felt these sensations. So close to the finish, after such a blissful second half, I refused to believe that it was happening. “Ignore it, ignore it”, I said to myself. “It will pass, don’t stop”. I was within sight of the finish line banner when a wire snapped, and a vice-like grip clamped onto my back left leg muscle (hamstring?). Scalding flashes coursed through the synapses of my brain. I stopped; and when I did, the pain ceased. I had seen runners cramp up and fall during races. Images of marathoners strewn out on sidewalks, clutching their thighs and back leg muscles, were imprinted in my mind. But I was still standing. In fact there was no pain when I walked. I massaged my upper back leg muscle and continued along the side of the path. For the first time, I became aware of the many spectators lined up along this final stretch, clapping and shouting encouragement. “You can do it, you can make it”, they chanted. Could I? As there was no pain, I pushed off on my right leg to resume running. When my left foot hit the ground a plume of fire shot up the exposed nerve endings. I hopped to a stop and resumed walking. I was humbled and hurt, but I had never ended a race by walking to the finish line. I couldn’t do it now. I massaged my left leg as I walked, and then gingerly tried jogging. “Tolerable, tolerable”, I whispered, “I can do this”. I entered the runners stocks in a soft jog, and then walked to the spotters who were tearing the identification tabs from our racing bibs.

“Tony, Tony”, I heard a voice calling out, “over here”. Looking toward a gallery of spectators around the watering table at the end of the cordoned area, I spotted Kathy waving at me. She beamed a big, welcoming smile as I walked to her. “How did you do?” she asked.
“I don’t know”, I said. I had forgotten to note my time on the clock next to the finishers’ stockade upon my arrival. “I pulled a muscle as I was coming in, so I lost track of time”, I said, explaining my oversight.
“Oh, how do you feel?” she responded, sympathetically.
“Actually, fine, it doesn’t hurt at all, except when I try to run. It’s pretty strange”.
“Oh, look, there’s Meg. She wasn’t too far behind you”.
Meg came bounding through the stocks, glowing with excitement, and sporting a proud smile.
“That was fabulous”, she exclaimed, greeting Kathy with a kiss, and then excusing herself to find a bathroom. “I’ll be right back” she said jogging off in the direction of the Aquatic Center.
“I’m going to look out for Beth”, Kathy said, as she walked towards the finish line. “Lend me your camera, and I‘ll get some photos as she arrives”.

As Kathy walked away, I was left to brood in solitude about my injury. I continued massaging the back of my left leg. There was no pain and no mark on my leg, only a minor, residual ache in the spot where I imagined a nerve or muscle tear (a black and blue bruise spot would appear in the injured area a few days later). I was beginning to suspect that this injury was not a cramp or muscle spasm, caused by insufficient warm-up or training. This was an equipment failure; a cord had worn out, a wire had frayed, or a cable had snapped. My legs were getting old and fatigued. This was my first year in the 60 to 64 Year Old Division, and I was feeling like an archaic, obsolete machine, whose parts were wearing out, one by one, with no replacements in stock. I was over the hill.

“Here she comes!” shouted Kathy, pointing towards the finishers’ gate.
“Woohoo!” cheered Meg, who had joined her to greet their sister Beth as she finished the race, and walked through the gates.
I picked up a water bottle from the table nearby and walked to the band of sisters who were whooping it up and deconstructing the race for Kathy in excited tones. Handing Beth a bottle, I said “Before we go to breakfast, let’s find out what our times were”.
“Great!” chimed in Meg, “Where do we find them?”
I pointed to a bannered pavilion, where a small crowd of runners were gathering. Bottles in hand, we walked over to the people who were looking at four sheets of paper taped onto an overhead poster board.
“Look”, cried Kathy, staring at the small print on the second sheet, “here’s Tony’s time”.
“Here’s mine”, said Meg, pointing at the next listing.
I’d finished with a time of 30:52, at a pace of 9:58 a lap. Meg had a time of 31:55, on a pace of 10:18 per lap.
As we were noting our times, a fifth results list of the latest runners was being posted.
“Here’s Beth”, I said. She had finished with a time of 40:14, at a pace of 12:59.
“How did you do, Beth?” asked Meg, coming over to look at the latest listings.
“Not good” said Beth, frowning as she looked at the numbers.
“Nonsense” I said, “for a baseline race, you did fine”.
“I think we all did great” exclaimed Meg, “and our story deserves a blog. What do you think, Tony, do you feel a blog coming?”
“We’ll see” I said. In the meantime I went back to recheck the listings.
“You know what?” I said. “I think we medaled!”
“What” exclaimed Meg.
“You’re kidding” said Kathy.
“Look” I said pointing at the second column of each page, “under Division. Third place for me, and 4^th place for Meg. We placed in our divisions. We might get medals”.
“Holy Cow” said Meg, “I need to call someone”. She whipped out her cell phone and called her husband. “Lou!” exclaimed Meg, “Guess what? We did really well in the race. Tony came in 3^rd in his division, I came in 4^th, and Beth came in …..” Her voice trailed off, when she realized she didn’t have that fact.
“She came in seventh” I whispered, having looked it up while she was dialing.
“Seventh. Isn’t that great, Lou? The race was awesome! We have to do another”.

The energy and excitement emanating from the three sisters was dispelling my melancholy. My injury no longer seemed quite as fatal as I feared. Perhaps I just needed to stop running for a while, heal, and perform alternative workouts to keep in shape (going to the gym would be good). Going to breakfast with these three long-time companions seemed the perfect antidote to the aging blues I was feeling. Hmmm, perhaps Meg was right; perhaps I did feel a blog coming.