Yesterday I was at the gas station and as I waited for the tank to fill, my eyes were fixed on another car that was about ten feet away. There were kids in the car, about three years old, and one of them was sitting in the drivers seat bouncing around. I assumed their mother was in the gas station, which sort of floors me to begin with, and continued to watch them. A minute later their mother comes out of the gas station, sees her three-year-old behind the wheel of the car, throws open the car door (answering my question of whether or not the car was at least locked) and proceeds to yell at her young son to get into the back seat.

I watched the boy jump over the seat to the back of the sedan and turn around in his seat as if he were afraid of the coming consequence. Instead, the mother just pulled the keys out of the ignition (yes, they were there while the kids were in the car alone), slams the car door and goes back inside the gas station. I’m finished pumping gas by now but I have to go into the gas station to pay (”Computer system down” the sign read). As I was walking out the door, the mother of the children followed me out as did the gas station attendant. Turns out he was with the mother of these children, and that explained why she was spending so much time in the gas station.

This time, both kids were still in the back seat of the car when the man, the station attendant, opened the back of the car and began screaming at the children. Since my car was so close, I could hear each word. I could hear as the man’s words became more intense, more cruel. I could hear the children start to cry. And the man, he just continued screaming. His anger grew, as he pounded his fist on the front seat in front of the children. I watched him put his hand on the head of the small boy and force the boy to turn and face him. The children were hysterical. The mother stood and watched. The man continued screaming, saying horrible things to these tiny kids. Something came over me.

“Hey! Hey! HEY!”

Both the man and the mother turned to look at me. I had no idea what to do next, so I took a deep breath and then asked if everything was okay. Through some stream of curse words and more anger, the man told me to mind my own business. The mother was crying at this point, as the children were still. I told the man it seemed as things were getting a little carried away, and maybe everyone needed to take a deep breath. My heart was pounding, but my mind couldn’t stop hearing those kids.

After staring at me for a moment, the man turned and walked back into the gas station. I looked at the mother and she immediately started apologizing. “I just can’t discipline the kids on my own” and “sometimes I just have to get my boyfriend to talk to them.” “He’s the closest thing they have to a father.” She just kept explaining and defending. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, but I didn’t know what to do. I asked her questions. I offered to help her. She was hesitant at first, but slowly admitted all I’d suspected to be awful about this situation.

This has happened before. This wasn’t the worst. I could feel the blood drain out of my face. Right there, in front of the gas station and dozens of rush-hour commuters, was this desperate, sad woman. And she was looking at me. “He’s upset because I can’t afford rent anymore and I’m going to live with my parents.” I felt a sense of relief. I told her I was glad to hear that. Go to your parents. Take your kids. Go.

I won’t go into the rest of the story at this point, because this woman let me help her. I didn’t know where to begin, but I couldn’t turn away. I couldn’t have just looked at those kids and said see ya later. So we found a place for her to begin. I hope she keeps going, and I hope she protects her kids and I hope she doesn’t let some random, awful boyfriend hurt them ever again.

I know I should be encouraged by this. The fact that one stranger let another help her means something. It might mean that she isn’t a statistic– a statistic I know so well. Please, don’t tell me. I know the odds. I know the patterns. But I want to believe that this one is different. I want to believe that we were both there last night for that reason.

Something I don’t mention often is the time I’ve spent working with organizations that protect children. It’s something I don’t feel like I’ve done enough of, but also something I feel so passionate about that I want to always be involved in this cause in some form. In any form. I feel like if there’s any needy population we owe without judgement or hesitation, it is children. But when I see things like what I saw yesterday, and when I’m kept up all night wondering what that mother will do, it’s just hard to remember to hope. But it’s also hard not to.

Yesterday I ran outside in the hot afternoon sun, and almost threw a party for how great it was.  The warmth, all the people, the sweat. Of course, most runners sweat but this is just different. It’s not just sweat caused by my movement; it is outside elements. The elements. And I can’t help but get excited about it, because it feels so good.

A lot of runners don’t like this. Running in the heat is not their idea of fun. But it is mine. While I wouldn’t say I’d like to run in the desert in August (heatstroke = not fun. Dehydration? Also not fun), somewhere around 67 degrees and bright sun is perfect for me. Even hotter, if that’s how it turns out.  Which is why I’m so annoyingly happy now. Yesterday was that perfect day. My perfect running weather has arrived, albeit fleeting, and I am once again allowed to be a sweaty, happy mess. It was just five miles, but, man, was it good.

I felt like all the first breaths of summer were packed into those fifty minutes. For the first time this year, I felt reassured that yes, I am a runner, and that, without a doubt, summer is coming. I could smell the barbecue, I could hear the motorcycles hitting the road, I could see a Saturday night at the ballpark, I could watch the kids on their bikes, and I could wave to the others out enjoying it with me. Now, finally, I can see the light at the end of winter’s tunnel. And it is bright and hot, and it tastes like salt.

Okay, so I am sort of on the Twitter bandwagon now.  I have no idea what I’m doing, but I did want some of you that I chose to “follow” to know who I am.  I am going by another name, part of my actual name, and ironically, I don’t want to look like a stalker.   And some punkass really nice person already has JustRun. 

So, please, teach me, LesleyG, about Twitter.  And please be my friend. 

Hurry, and go now!  This could all end tomorrow because I’ve downed like four Frescas and I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.

On Saturday morning I was all in Spring Cleaning mode, for like an entire two hours. Things were vacuumed and thrown away and straightened. I was on a roll. If there’s anything that helps me deal with stress it is cleaning. Yes, even the bathroom because even me in all my dreaming and fantasizing of bathroom fairies knows when to say when.

Just before I was ready to clean the tub my dog walks in and starts whining. This would be her first mistake and why the following incident is totally her fault. So I take the dog out and I’m standing on the porch watching her and wondering when it’s going to finally get warm here and I see her digging in the dirt. That’s it! This pig dog needs a bath and if everything else is clean she ought to be, too. And, what luck, I haven’t cleaned the tub yet!

So I call her in and pick her up and she gets this look in her eye that says dear, Lord, help me. Lola hates baths. Hates them. If she were a spy and being forced to tell the truth by threat of water torture, she’d sell out in a second. Her fear of water is great and powerful. I put her in the tub and because Lola is a high-maintenance, special, I-have-to-eat-only-very-expensive-dog-food-or-bad-things-happen dog, the shampoo I have to use in her baths is also special. It has to sit on her for about 10 minutes while she sits in the tub and whines and dreams of living on a farm where she could live like a pig forever.

During this time I usually sit in the bathroom with her and sing her songs or teach her commands in Spanish. (Yes, I am still certain it is the water portion of bath time that she hates most.) But on Saturday during the special soaking time the phone rang. I tell Lola to “stay” and go to answer the call of what turns out to be someone I dated about a year ago. Awkward. Nice. We have a strange conversation for about ten minutes and never really get around to the real reason he called when I say I’m sort of in the middle of something and I’m sorry but I have to let him go. With no promise of future calls (bullet? dodged), we hang up and I’m on my way out of the kitchen when I see the bottle of pineapple rum just sitting on the counter.

Of course it is just coincidence that someone brought diet 7-Up to my house and, as it turns out, this is now one of my most favorite drinks ever. Yes, I am a simple woman. So I look at the clock and it is early afternoon and yes, I have a report to write but what the heck, a drink will only help that. So I mix a nice drink and at this point I have clearly forgotten about my dog sitting in the tub. I walk back into the living room with my drink and, what do you know, one of my favorite songs is on the radio.

Backing up a little (in life, not the day), one of my most favorite people when I was a little girl was Crystal Gayle. I used to sing along to my little records and I could still tell you every word to every song as if it were just yesterday. I also tried to grow my hair really, really long and there was actually a time I wished my blue eyes were brown so that I could sing that song and make sense. So when I walked through the living room and heard Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue I was instantly transported back to my eight-year-old self and just sat down in the middle of the floor and listened to the song.

Man, I loved that song. And, of course, anytime we have a good childhood flashback, all the feelings and dreams just come flooding through and before we know it, we’re in full life-analysis mode. Or maybe I should have said I am, because it’s possible this doesn’t happen to anyone else. I probably spent another twenty or thirty minutes sitting on the floor thinking about whatever came to mind.

It was about then I heard a distant squeaking noise which snapped me out of my deep thinking and back into reality. A reality where I’d left my poor, soaking wet, shivering dog in the tub for what had to be forty-five minutes. I ran in, apologized to her profusely and promised she could have cupcakes for dinner. It’s times like this when I think it is absolutely ridiculous for me to ever think I should be allowed to have children.

This is long overdue, but for some reason I really, really felt the need to think about warm places today.  I can’t imagine why, but then again all our brains are frozen from this springtime snow storm.  And we are really, really grouchy, too.

You fix that, apparently, by thinking of stupid goats.

I told them to move.

 They didn’t listen.

So I was like no, seriously, guys– MOVE!

And they really didn’t listen.  I almost cried or had a heart attack or passed out, because look at those cute little itty bitty goat babies, kids, in the middle of the road.  Clueless to the world, and what could be careening around the corner on the treacherous island road at any minute.

Really now.  We’re not messing around here.

MOVE!!

I closed my eyes.  I just couldn’t handle the thought of kids being run over by kids.

But to their credit, that didn’t happen.  All goats were spared and, come to think of it, you don’t really hear too many stories of them being run down anyway.  So maybe I shouldn’t call them stupid.

Even if they stressed me out, which is really hard to do to me when I’m there, because I’m in slow motion just like everything else.  Except the buses.

Good thing the road to de-stress and recover from near-tragedy is never far.

Somehow, there is nothing on the calendar today.  Nothing on the work calendar or the social calender or the school calendar.  (Okay, that is a lie, there is always something on the school calendar, but nothing screaming “do this right now!”)  When I saw this last night I nearly passed out because the only thing more overwhelming to me than a never-ending To-Do list is a completely empty day.  Naturally, I decide immediately to take the day off work.  It is a knee-jerk reaction, what can I say.  I mean, who doesn’t take a day off if it’s there, even if you’re just striking up Busy Season, even if you’re in the middle of Major Huge Project 06 07 08?  I was drunk with irresponsibility.

So I spent the rest of last night thinking of all the things I could do today, things I’ve neglected forever like throwing away clothes I don’t wear anymore, or cleaning out old food from my fridge, or checking my navel for lint.  It’s been ages!   The possibilities seemed endless, really.  I could do some reading, start that research I need to do before Monday.  I could take my dog for a walk before the spring snow (&%$!. Don’t get me started.) comes.  A day off is full of such possibility.

Well, it is now nearly 2:00 p.m. and you know how much I’ve done from that list?  Nothing.  Not even the lint from my navel.  Apparently, just gazing at my navel while I sit in silence is as much as I can muster.  About an hour ago I felt extremely guilty. I felt like I’ve wasted this day with non-production and sheer laziness.  How wrong is that?  A free day and I can’t even put on my running shoes.

Then, I got over it.  Because sometimes you need a day to zone out.  You need a day to sit and stare at the horizon, to contemplate nothing important, to plan nothing, to question or answer nothing, to create nothing.  While I’m not unfamiliar with these days, they’re usually planned well in advance.  The usually include a beach chair or a tall mountain or a drink.  They don’t just happen, and they don’t just happen to me.  Except for today, and it is good.  I couldn’t have planned it better if I tried.

There is a Swedish woman sitting next to me.  We have just met, and she has a very heavy accent so I’m really trying hard to listen carefully.  The organ music plays.  The crowd yells “CHARGE!”  The organ music plays again, growing more intense.  The crowd yells “CHARGE!”  The same thing happens a third time.

She turns to me and asks what just happened, except it sounds more like, “Vat is dah reason for dat?”*

I tell her it’s sort of a rally cry.  An age-old baseball tradition.

“Ah, oh-kay,” she says.  “Just one question:  who is dis Charles dey are yelling for?”

I then snort beer through my nose.

_________

The extremely outgoing thirteen-year-old girl behind us:

“Man, I love baseball games. Don’t you?  I just love the atmosphere.  The hot dogs, the crack of the bat, the peanut shells on the ground!  It is all so great!  What about you?  What do you love about baseball?”

“Catcher butts.”

Because she’d obviously already thought of everything else.

_________

“It’s so great to get out. I feel like all I’ve been doing is homework and housework.  I didn’t even realize how much I needed this.”

“Yeah, me neither.  I mean, who knew baseball could be so relaxing?”

“Well, probably everyone.  But I know what you mean.”

“It’s like jewelry.  I never know how much I love it until I see it.  Baseball is like diamonds.”

“Do you realize what you just said?”

“Wha….?   Oh.”

We are both in school.  Clearly one of us is handling it better than the other.

____________

*My apologies for attempting to replicate a Swedish accent in type.