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Segments should be separated and labelled - Kindergarten, Brickhouse Runner, Aunt Pat, and Thank you.
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Segments should be separated and labelled - Kindergarten, Brickhouse Runner, Aunt Pat, and Thank you.
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Segments should be separated and labelled - Kindergarten, Brickhouse Runner, Aunt Pat, and Thank you.
Listen to 3 stories and some poems. by RangerGronk MP3 song. 3 stories and some poems. song from RangerGronk is available on Audio.com. The duration of song is 33:02. This high-quality MP3 track has 1058.4 kbps bitrate and was uploaded on 17 Jan 2023. Stream and download 3 stories and some poems. by RangerGronk for free on Audio.com – your ultimate destination for MP3 music.
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The narrator recalls their time in Montessori School in Paris, where they had a wonderful experience with a special sweater and a librarian they admired. They also describe the unpleasant cafeteria with strange smells and a vomit incident. The narrator refuses to eat there and stages a protest, which leads to them and a few others receiving home-cooked meals. They make a close friend named Peter and enjoy their time together. Eventually, they have to move on to first grade while Peter stays in kindergarten. Years later, the narrator tries to find out what happened to Peter but is unsuccessful. They visit their elderly Aunt Pat, who has memory loss, and reflect on their physical resemblance. Aunt Pat doesn't recognize them, but remembers their dog Haggis. The narrator contemplates aging and the changes it brings. My academic career started at Montessori School. At the time we were living in Paris and it was a really wonderful place, a tiny school in the suburb of Paris. I remember somersaulting into my coat and taking care of rabbits. I remember the sweater I wore that my mom had brought me from London. It was white with a big red apple on it. No one commented on how lovely it was and I truly felt special wearing it. No one else had a red apple sweater and life was very, very good for one year. The following year I was sent to kindergarten. The teacher was disappointingly plain, her haircut was sensible, and her clothes were from some kind of catalog, if I had to guess it would have been Montgomery Ward. They were plaid, plaid and polyester, and they were stupid. She wore bell-bottom polyester plaid pants and a long plaid vest to match it. It was an affront to my senses and I didn't understand how she even existed in Paris. She was nothing like Mrs. Collins, our librarian. Mrs. Collins had a British accent and a small Yorkie named Lucy who sat under the circulation desk. Mrs. Collins knew all about Paddington Bear and the Fabulous Five and she was far more interesting and clever than my teacher. In time I would learn that Mrs. Collins also had a keen eye for plagiarism. It was in the third grade when she was teaching us about research. It only took her a couple moments to realize that my report on giraffes had been copied verbatim from Britannica. Paddington didn't have any rabbits, it had a plain teacher, and the food was atrocious. Every day we were marched across the parking lot of our American school to the cafeteria of the French school. The cafeteria was full of beet salad and god-awful smells. For some reason, at least once or twice a week, one of the French children, a middle schooler, would vomit. Then a woman in a little cotton cap and blue dress would magically appear with a bucket full of sawdust. She would scurry out, throw the sawdust all over the vomit, and then scurry off. No one ever actually cleaned up the mess during lunch, so we would sit there at a long table staring at our beet and smelling French vomit. What I didn't realize at the time is that this was the beginning of a beautiful gift. You see, I made it very clear to my teacher, to my mom, and to all the French school children that I would no longer eat under those circumstances. I staged a protest. I refused to lift my fork, no matter what the meal. I would not back down. The teachers became concerned. My mother referred to me as La Revolucionaria. Apparently, I had used this tactic when we vacationed in Austria and Majorca. Waiters in both countries fell all over themselves, trying to cajole me into eating. I had refused all food except bread, butter, and water. Other parents were becoming concerned, too, as their children refused to eat in the vomitorium they referred to as a cafeteria. And one parent, clearly the parent of an oldest child, proposed a solution. As a parent, I've learned that rarely do second and third children get the parental advocacy that the first one does. Anyhow, this parent was sure that six of us weren't eating because it was such a hard transition to be in a new school. The six had sat in silent solidarity, and now we had our demands met. We were talking and sharing stories. The best part was that stupid Sherry Tabassi wasn't there. Sherry Tabassi is the girl who told me the first day of kindergarten that there is no Santa Claus. Anyhow, I'm almost over it. Instead, I had two wonderful new friends, Leslie Kress, who was Canadian and owned a guinea pig, and Peter Nuttall, who was Australian and always looked like he'd been chased by a bear. He had his own level of dishevelment. His beautiful strawberry blonde hair was always a mess, and his wide-wailed cords didn't like to stay up. But he was my friend, and for three weeks we enjoyed meals prepared just for us. Doting parents asked about every aspect of our meal. One dad was a real, live, actual French chef. He prepared banana slaughter just for Peter and I, and honestly, under those conditions, it would be a challenge for anyone not to fall in love. I adored Peter. He was a model kindergartner. He loved to share, at least with me. Each day, he would greet me with his favorite crayon when I came to school. This is blue, Pilar, my favorite color, and you are my favorite person. Then he would snap the crayon in half and give one half to me. The perfect gift for coloring side by side. The year went on, and he taught me all about koalas and kangaroos. I, in turn, told him about hedgehogs and the tortoise in my garden that hibernated and that we fed raw hamburger meat in the spring when it woke up. That tortoise's name was Karne Cruz. We eventually graduated from home-cooked coddled school back to the cafeteria with the rest of the class, where Peter and I promptly restarted our hunger strike. We were no fools, and we loved banana slaughter. The mothers and the teachers were terrified we might convince other kindergartners to join our cause, so Peter and I were once again given a full home-cooked meal experience. We would stay behind in class, and a parent would come in and prepare lunch table-side, right there in the classroom. They would ask us all about our mornings and our feelings. The whole thing was lovely. I think our favorite meal of the second increment was the salad nicoise. The year went on, and Peter and I had a wonderful time talking and coloring. But before we knew it, it was spring. Our teacher had started to say things like, I'm so proud of you. I noticed when you walked to gym today, you carried yourself with first-graders. She would also read us stories and talk about how glorious first grade was, because we would be tracing letters and, before year's end, writing our own stories. It all seemed very, very exciting. Mrs. Leveroni's class even had a hamster, and you could take it home on weekends. It was all just too good to be true. One morning in June, when our desks were all clean, and all of our projects had been taken home, Peter met me at the classroom door, as was his custom. But today was different, and I knew it before he spoke. Hello, Philo. Hi, Peter. He didn't say anything, and he wasn't holding out a crayon for me. Today he held out a beautiful paper fan. It was very ornate, and it looked like it had been hand-painted, covered with graceful golden cranes. Pilar, I can't go with you. I didn't understand. Go where, Peter? Where? Peter looked shyly at the ground. First grade. He didn't say anything else. He didn't say this was his favorite fan. He didn't say I was his favorite person. We stood there for a good amount of time, dumbstruck and staring at each other. How could this possibly be true? Then, Peter, still looking at me, took the beautiful fan and ripped it in half. He handed me half and said, Take this with you, and don't forget me. It had all been too good to be true, and I went on to first grade while Peter stayed in kindergarten. At my sister's urging, I googled Peter Nuttall, some 40 years later. She convinced me that he was a genius who developed more slowly than other children. I was in kindergarten 48 years ago. The ripping of the fan was our, here's looking at you, kid moment. It never occurred to me to see what became of Peter Nuttall, the Australian. So before recording this story, I googled Peter Nuttall. There's a Peter Nuttall, the successful entrepreneur in Perth, but he graduated four years before me. There's a Peter Nuttall, the hotel manager in Perth. This makes sense, given his early love of hospitality and cuisine. There's a Peter Nuttall, reigning Australian squash champion, but he's only 21. There are two Peter Nuttall authors, The Guitarist's Way and How to Manage Stress, are the books they've written. And in terms of what Peter might have written, I think those titles are about a horse apiece. Finally, there's a Dr. Peter Nuttall, head of sustainable sea transport research. And for some reason, this one rings true. I won't dig any deeper. I won't try to contact him. I'm happy to imagine that somewhere in Australia, there's just a nice man in a comfortable chair with a lovely dog at his feet. And across from him on the mantle are pictures of happy moments with his wife and children. And nestled among those pictures is a beautifully framed, slightly faded half fan. When I Grow Old When I grow old, I will wear purple and eat ice cream. I think that's how the poem goes, something like that. But as I sit across from my Aunt Pat, a different version is running through my mind. When I grow old, I will wear no bra and let my basketballs rest on my knees. I will throw out my dentures and tell people what I think of them and where they should go. She's 88 years old, and for the better part of the last 25 years, has had little awareness of where she is. What I know of her, I like, but I wouldn't say we connect. Perhaps it's a physical alignment and not a spiritual one. You see, of all the relatives, she's the only one that I sort of look like. In a family of long-limbed progeny, she and I are stockies, and we both have thick hair and sparkling eyes. Her hair is beautifully thick and bright white. It has been for most her life. Her eyes are blue, whereas mine are green, and it would seem in time I will look more and more like her. Today, I am visiting her with her little brother, my dad, age 85. He has his wits about him, and he lives independently. She asks, who are you? I respond, I am your niece. I am your brother Bill's daughter. Oh, I don't know you. She looks at me again and says, who are you, and how do you know that I live here? I try a different tact. Haggis was my Scottish terrier. Her whole face lights up, and she smiles and says, ah, yes, how is Haggis? She's a dog person through and through, and while her mental rolodex of humans is long gone, her catalog of hounds, each dog tied to an emotion of love and acceptance, is well intact. How is Haggis, she asks, completely engaged. Oh, gosh, she's been dead for like 30 years, I say stupidly, and suddenly I'm focused on facts and not feelings. Oh, dear, she's crestfallen and looks around the room and then back at me. And who are you? I answer, Haggis is my dog. She says, oh, how is Haggis? He's such a good looking Scotty. And I answer, Aunt Pat, he's wonderful. He still loves to play ball, and he's very smart looking. She smiles and relaxes a little in her chair. She looks around the room again and focuses on her brother. She looks back at me and asks, is that your husband? No, I answer, that's my dad. Again she looks relieved. Oh, how good, she says, because he looks an awful lot like my brother. The next time we visit, I take my children. I tell them not to be frightened. I tell them her mind is gone, but her heart is good, and that's what counts. I tell them she loves dogs. I do this so they have some touch point and aren't overwhelmed. I don't know why I think I need to provide this. I think children and the elderly actually communicate with each other authentically if given the chance, but today I'm nervous and I feel compelled to issue marching orders and contacts to all. The four of us, my dad, me, and my two children, walk into her room to see her. I notice her glasses are gone. Dad, should I look for her glasses? I ask. Nope. She threw them away. And she also threw her teeth away. She said she's done, he answers. Aunt Pat is lying on her bed. She's wearing a nice blouse and slacks, and her bulletin board is decorated with pictures of her long-gone siblings and parents. It's a kind gesture, one of love, or perhaps it gives her context, but I can't help thinking she'd rather have pictures of her dogs up. My dad calls her name. She doesn't respond. He calls it again, this time closer to her ear and louder. No movement. He reaches for her ankles and shakes her. No movement. I turn to my children and say, hey, kids, why don't you step out into the hall? I'll be out in a minute. My morning marching orders didn't include standard operating procedure for walking in on a dead aunt. This was worse than not connecting. I should have covered this. Anyways, my dad shakes her again. I see her exhale, and I do the same. Good, she has not died in front of my children. He wakes her, and she tells him to leave her alone. I say to him, dad, maybe this just isn't a good time of day. You know, don't worry, we tried. And I'll make sure the kids draw some dog pictures for her. Just let her sleep. He needs to know that it's been acknowledged that we tried. Aunt Pat won't remember any of it. We step out in the hall, and the nurses say she's doing well. They say she's extremely independent and stubborn. My dad and I look at each other and laugh. What will the nurses tell us next, that the Pope is Catholic? Our entire family is independent and stubborn. Those are traits we all share. My dad says, I wish I could have woken her up. It would have been good for her. I don't know, dad. She looks pretty happy sleeping. Well, she really should get up, he says with an air of authority. Later, I get a call from my sister. She says, I visited Pat. It took some doing, but I got her out of bed and had a conversation with her. Oh, that's nice, I answer. Was she in a good mood? Oh, eventually, my sister answers. And then I finally say it. I don't get it. I don't get why everyone who visits her feels compelled to wake her up. Well, says my sister, because she can't very well sleep all day. Why not? Why, if she's resting peacefully, do we need to wake her? Well, because it's better for her. Why, I ask. I'm not trying to give my sister a hard time. I'm trying to figure out why, if you come across an 88-year-old who has thrown out her glasses, her teeth, her hearing aids, and who is peacefully sleeping in a clean bed with clean clothes on, why is everyone's compulsion to go to great lengths to wake her up? Well, it's good for her. And that way, she won't get bed sores, says my sister. Huh, OK. But later, I check, and it's confirmed that she's in no danger of bed sores. I silently draw the conclusion that the reason people who visit go to great lengths to wake her up is that they want to be acknowledged for visiting. For whatever reason, it's all about them. So let me add another verse to my alternate version of when I grow old. When I grow old and braless, I shall be surrounded by pictures of creatures and people I love. I shall throw out my glasses if I don't feel like looking, and my teeth if I don't feel like chewing. I shall nap with abandon, thoroughly pleased and calm, as I create my own slumbered reality. And when I grow old, I ask for the love of Pete that you just let me sleep. Brickhouse Runner, or How to Be Mighty Mighty and Let It All Hang Out, or Not Let It All Hang Out, actually. BBB, triple B. These do not stand for the Better Business Bureau. Nope. They stand for the crowning bees of motherhood, belly, bust, and buns. No matter what you look like pre-baby, you're given these as a badge of motherhood, lest the actual child is not a prominent enough reminder of the fact that you have given birth. I have yet to see a running magazine that addresses these in earnest. There seems to be just one typical runner's build that is showcased in pictures and assumed in most all editorial responses. Long, lean, and ponytailed. In fact, it surprises me that I have not seen an article on the perfect ponytail. I am neither long, my inseam is 24, nor lean. I measure 36 around my widest points. However, I do run and feel an obligation to share information that won't be found in the annals of running advice. Let us first dispense with the belly. This is not really a functional issue. It's more of an aesthetic one. There are two ways to address it. One is to stop eating. This is ludicrous and near impossible as you start to add distance to your mileage. Because while running burns a boatload of calories, it also leaves you insanely hungry. And your body seems to defy you by hanging on to what it does have, just in case you go on another insanely long run. So here's my advice for bellies. One word, lycra. Put it on, pull it in, and turn yourself into a spicy little lycra sausage. Lycra shorts also have the added benefit of not allowing your thighs to touch. This will feel confusing at first, but soon enough, much like Kim and Kanye, they will learn to be independent and that they don't always have to be rubbing on each other. Pick up any running magazine, and you're sure to read over and over again about how running shoes are the most important piece of equipment you can own. Perhaps, but for the elite few who can't even see their feet, this is not the case. For these brick house runners, the single most important article of clothing is the running bra. This brings us to the second B, bust, boobs, or breasts. Any of these can be substituted. The key is to have a frank discussion about them and to understand what it means to be built and to be a runner. There's a classic running bra, or what I like to call the Fisher Price bra. Remember when we were kids and the Fisher Price people were made of wood and had no arms, and the girls were triangular shaped and had hairdos but no neck and no arms? These women were shaped more like figure eights. Again, they had no arms. What they did have was a uni-boob that went clear around their bodies. I still struggle to understand this, but I digress. The Fisher Price bra is named so because it pulls everything to the center and turns it into a bizarre uni-boob. If you have no silicone enhancers, it looks really awful. Like you're in training for a mammogram. And if you're all natural, not only does it look awful, it simply doesn't work. Everything in the Fisher Price bra has give. It stretches every which direction. So if you're higher than a B cup and well past your perky days, you can certainly wear one. But within a few strides, the bra will move up and you'll slide right out the bottom like two fried eggs slithering off a greasy plate. It really isn't very pretty. Another drawback of the Fisher Price bra is that you're requiring your girls to be roommates in the equivalent of a studio apartment. This will not do. For years, they've had their own space to exist in. It's distracting and it gets really hot to have them in one small space, even if they are only there for the commute to the gym and the duration of a three-stride run. Believe me, there are nitwits out there at the ready to give you bad advice. Let me beat them to the punch. They'll tell you, wear two Fisher Price bras. That's really bad advice. Seriously, if it didn't work once, why would it ever work twice? So what do you want? What you want are non-adjustable straps separated and with a back closure. That's it, plain and simple. Now let me tell you why. I've seen women in races that wore the wrong bra, adjustable straps, and their shoulders were bleeding because for the duration of the race, there's been just enough give so that with each stride, the strap moves across their shoulder. Nice? Got the visual? I can feel I have your full attention. Our goal is to secure your valuables, to batten them down so there's no movement, so that you no longer think about them. You can only be mighty, mighty if you don't let it all hang out. So go to the store, try a few on, run in place in the dressing room. You'll feel like an ass, but later will be eternally thankful on your long runs that you did this. Now for the final B, bum, booty, or backside. The issues I will address here are not Brickhouse specific, but it would seem that live runners are also somewhat obtuse. They can go on and on about how they relieve themselves in the woods, but anything else and they're overtly modest, overly modest, which can lead to confusion. So let me spell this out for you bluntly. When you run, you will perspire. You can wear wicking clothing, but you will still perspire. So imagine yourself as a bead of sweat. There you are rolling down a lovely back when you come upon the gluteus maximus mountain range. Are you going to climb those mountains holding the promise of rolling down the other side? No, no you're not. Because nature, unlike runners, will always choose the path of least resistance. Only a runner would look at a hill and choose to run up it because it holds the promise of a downhill at some point. But in this example, you're not a runner. Remember, you're a bead of sweat. So this sweat bead will, much like your body has, follow the laws of gravity. It won't run over your bum. It will run into and down your bum, right between the mountains, so to speak. As it moves, if you're wearing the magical wicking clothing, it will become more salt and less water. It will continue to do so to the point that your crack will be caked in salt. I know it's a bad visual, but bear with me. Now as you run, one salty cheek will rub up against the other salty cheek, and the effect will be much like what might happen if one day you reach for a sheet of sandpaper instead of toilet paper. Ouch. Well, not ouch. More like ouch to the power of 13 or 26.2 or whatever distance you're tackling. So what you need to do is think about places that rub. Another example of a place like this might be inside your arm, as it rubs your armpit or rubs against your torso as you pump your arms while running. Think about those places, and if it rubs, then you need to lube them up with something that is water repellent and cuts down on friction. So you might try Bodyglide or Vaseline, or if you don't mind smelling like a codfish, Desitin. Bodyglide is fabulous and fun to use. It even has an SPF factor, which amuses me because if my glide-laden areas ever see the sun, burning will be the least of my problems. Glide looks like a deodorant stick, and you can find it in running stores. Vaseline looks like Vaseline, and you can buy it anywhere. They also hand it out at water stops and long races. So don't mistake it for food and do not eat it. Another thing you can do with Glide is run it horizontally across your torso so that the bottom of your bra doesn't irritate your skin on long runs. If you choose to do this, be sure to buy more than one stick and label them very clearly. You want to keep one for horizontals and then one more for verticals. Do not mix them up. That's it. That's the wisdom of the Brickhouse Runner, the only division of runners who has repeatedly stood up to the Big Bad Wolf, and although they have yet to make it on the cover of Runner's World, they've been featured in countless non-running magazines. So no more excuses, suit up, and have fun on your next run. So this chapter, or whatever these things are called, isn't a short story. It's actually a couple poems that I wrote and one of my favorite poems that I always want to share with my friends. So I'm not a poet, but here goes. Actually, some of these have been published. One of my favorite poems is a poem that I wrote when I was in high school. Actually, some of these have been published. One of mine and then one of the last one that I'll read. So the first poem is called Home. Eggs over easy and oatmeal mornings, home. Third step creek sneaking late, home. Rainy day and grilled cheese, snuggle soft sheets and handwritten notes, home. Big trees and every dog I've ever known, home. Shower song singing, home. The second poem is actually from John O'Donoghue. He's one of my favorite poets and philosophers and it's what I would wish for my friends. It's a little bit of a modern Irish blessing, I guess. On the day when the white deaden, shoot, let me start over. On the day when the weight deadens on your shoulders and you stumble, may the clay dance to balance you. And when your eyes freeze behind the gray window and the ghost of loss gets into you, may a flock of colors, indigo, red, green, and azure blue come to awaken in you a meadow of delight. When the canvas frays in the currack of thought and a stain of ocean blackens beneath you, may there come across the waters a path of yellow moonlight to bring you safely home. May the nourishment of the earth be yours. May the clarity of the light be yours. May the fluency of the ocean be yours. May the protection of the ancestors be yours. And so may a slow wind work these words of love around you, an invisible cloak to mind your life. The last poem is one that I wrote and I wrote it during the pandemic. And I know that a lot of bad things happened during the pandemic. Of course, everybody does. I lost three family members, but even in the face of that, I had good people step up and look out for me and help me with things like writing eulogies or just trying to figure out how to get through the day. So this isn't about that kind of loss. It's more a sense of isolation. So here goes, this is the one that got published. It's called Social Distancing. The full moon watches outside my window, subversive, sleepless, restless, wishing thoughts could comfort me. That's Michelangelo's moon and now mine too. The same moon today, the same the world over, one moon for every country, the bringer of cramps, the granter of wishes, the master of tides. I dreamt of you today as I slept in my office, my bed, my bed, my office, pandemic parameters of work and of play. I don't mean to, but the moon only allows me three hours a night. So I nap, a safe, snuggly passage to another place, far from Zoom, from this inescapable room. I dreamt you were in Rome. I met you in a restaurant full of life, laughter, movement, and you felt like home. Your smile matched mine right there, right then, just out of reach, like the perfect pastry under glass, a moment defined by gratefulness and isolation, improbable. I wanted to share all the unanswered questions. Just my hand? Or does your loneliness match mine? Is this in any way, shape, or form familiar to you? I think about perfect blue button downs and 501s and God's cheap trick of faith or delusion, sentimental self-talk, convinced there's a truth worth fighting for. It's a luxury I can't afford. I dreamt you smelled like soap and felt like a perfect fall night, Elgar's serenade of strings and so many other things. You felt like home, but I couldn't reach you.
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