from here to new jersey.

Lily is quite the stickler for properly situating a bookmark before we cease our reading each evening.  If I forget this step and dare leave the book unmarked, she chastises me sternly.

Rightfully so, she wants to cover new ground when we settle in the following night.  There isn't time in her young life, I suppose, for backtracking.

Sooner or later, she's going to start cracking open my books and I'm afraid they're going to drive her crazy, as I fold down the corner of any and every page that contains a paragraph of interest, an eye-catching photo or even just a single stunning sentence.  For me, these marks aren't intended to denote stopping points from which to begin again, but, rather, as places to which I'd like to return and linger.

Having put Lil to bed the other evening after receiving yet another scolding (I'm forgetful, you see), I revisited my own shelves and pulled down a few random books to see what I'd find.  Pressed leaves tumbled off of or clung courageously to many pages, revealing another obsession for which I'll likely have to explain myself once the girls start greater exploration into my library.  A couple of stray feathers hid there too and I resolved to make certain that Lily and Piper both got a peek at these artifacts before they are damaged or lost entirely.

On some pages I couldn't determine exactly what it was that had led to the original folding of the corner, but even this was a warm reminder of why revisiting beloved books with the always changing perspective of "real" life brings rekindled appreciation and new revelations.

I'd read From Here to Eternity by James Jones years and years ago, so long ago, in fact, I was somewhat surprised to find that I'd done anything more than store pretty leaves within its pages.  I do not remember much about the book, sadly, but a 20-something me had found reason to call out a specific passage that has taken on new meaning with the tests of ultra running.  The following words were especially timely from the vantage point of my experiences at this past weekend's Febapple Frozen 50, a 50-mile race that I was blessed to complete despite the fact that more than half of the starters failed to finish due to treacherous footing and hypothermia-inducing weather conditions:

“He knew how to handle pain. You had to lie down with pain, not draw back away from it. You let yourself sort of move around the outside edge of pain like with cold water until you finally got up your nerve to take yourself in hand. Then you took a deep breath and dove in and let yourself sink down it clear to the bottom. And after you had been down inside pain a while you found that like with cold water it was not nearly as cold as you had thought it was when your muscles were cringing themselves away from the outside edge of it as you moved around it trying to get up your nerve. He knew pain.”

My interests all prove wedded in the end.  The music that speaks to me, the words that move me, the movement that sings to me all overlap and intertwine until I can't distinguish one from the other.  And I adore that.

I think little of graves or tombstones.  Infrequently do I ponder how I'd like to be remembered.  But, should my family decide it imperative that a marker be erected in my memory upon my slipping from this earth, I think I could live (ha!) with

"He knew how to handle pain."

Better yet, save the real estate and whatever materials were to be used for the marker and fold a corner or two in my honor when something strikes you as worthy of a return visit.

filling dad's shoes.

He [in this case, she] followed in his [her] father's footsteps, but his gait was somewhat erratic.

-Nicolas Bentley

Erratic to say the least, Nic.

little birdie rides.

I can't remember a time when I wasn't in love with birds.  Their varied plumage, the trilling melodies and seemingly effortless flight have forever fascinated me.

To my delight, both of my children are equally captivated.

Lily, like it or not, spent a good many of her earliest days riding on my back as I traipsed along wooded paths and stomped through creeks.  I can still recall vividly the first time her arm reached over my shoulder as her tiny finger pointed out an Eastern Bluebird that I'd have missed without her spotting it.  Her little eyes shined in wonder and I suspect mine did too.

A couple of weeks ago at Long's Park, Piper and Lily were mimicking a pair of mallards when they noticed some of the downy feathers left floating on the surface of the pond in the wake of the ducks.  They spent a good half hour on their knees at the miniature pier watching the "fluffy boats" vanishing beneath the planks before reemerging bobbingly moments later.

I could've watched for hours.

That same afternoon, I glanced up from the lower level of one of the wooden playground structures to find both girls peeking down at me from above.  Lil determined immediately that I was a hungry baby bird and announced that she and Pipe had returned to the nest to feed me juicy grubs.

With collected sticks and hand-picked fabrics sewn into perching songbirds, Lindsay built a delightful mobile that has hung above Piper's crib since the day she first arrived home from the hospital.  Not surprisingly, "bird" was one of her first decipherable words.

Each night after I've turned out the lights but before I've closed her bedroom door, Lily sleepily demands to know what I plan to dream about that night.  Sometimes she'll skip past my response to tell me of her expected visions.  Tonight she informed me that she was going to dream of being small enough to take "little birdie rides" on the backs of the sparrows that come to our feeders.  I find this idea so much more thrilling than my own less creative childhood daydreams of simply being able to fly.

Even after 36+ years of those daydreams, I've not managed to take wing myself but have settled for birdie rides of my own on commercial planes.  I seemed to enjoy those flights a lot more before they resulted in me being far from my wife and children.  Lily has told me before that when she looks up and sees "airplane tracks" while I am away, she wonders if they lead to wherever it is I've been transported.  That concept makes me smile but also makes me a little sad, imagining those tracks thinning, fading and all too soon blending in with the other clouds in the sky, a dead-end trail.

I look forward to boarding planes again in coming months to run trails framed by landscapes more sprawling and at higher elevations than Pennsylvania offers, but I do not look forward to more short term goodbyes.

When I'm gone it's hard not to think about hopping the next available birdie back home to more playground adventures, enthusiastic backyard chases, and the stories and songs that precede bedtime.

Last night at a minor league baseball stadium, I watched Lily and Piper giggling laps up and down the bleachers, screaming "charge" at the loudspeaker's prompting and gasping wide-eyed at the post game fireworks.

At times like those, I wouldn't want for wings to take me anywhere.

saturday mornings.

My wife does not do mornings.  Period.  Or, I should say, given the choice, Lindsay would not do mornings.  During the week she is usually out of luck.  I let her sleep in as long as possible, normally rousing her just after 8:00 AM to relieve me of the wake-up shift so I can head to work.

On weekends, I do my best to pay her back with a few extra hours in bed.  So long as the weather cooperates, this usually presents a nice opportunity for me to load Lily and Piper into our stroller and get in a morning run.

Today, the weather more than cooperated.  Temperatures were in the high-50's/low 60's and the few clouds in the deep blue sky were devoid of any menace.  Both kids were bright-eyed and eager to bump along the Lancaster Junction Recreation Trail, the converted rail line trail nestled a few miles from our Manheim home.

We had more company than I'm used to with several bicyclists, walkers, dogwalkers and joggers out enjoying the preview of Fall in this the last official weekend of Summer.  The trail is broad enough that passing was no problem even with the sprawling width of our double stroller.  I offered friendly "morning's" to everyone that we passed and Lily pressed me for why I was talking to strangers.  Once I convinced her that she could talk to strangers as long as Daddy was with her and said it was "ok", she beat me to each "hello" and Piper added enthusiastic waves and laughter.

When we reached the Colebrook Road crossing, I asked Lily if she wanted to turn around or keep going.  Her answer would decide whether we logged 3.1 or 5 miles.  After addressing her standard "why?", I was rewarded with the green light of "I want to keep going".

To the delight of my two escorts, cows, goats and birds, birds, birds greeted us from just off the trail as we traversed the next mile.  When I turned the stroller around at the final gate that marked the end of the out-and-back path, I was met with protests.  I stopped to explain that there wasn't any more trail to be had and grinned proudly at their disappointment.  I too wished that there was more ground to cover.  Lily settled back in to her seat and agreed to returning to the van so long as I agreed to make the stroller go "fast".

 

I did my best and was pleased to hear my increased pace validated by the giggling of little girls.  After again crossing Colebrook Road, we saw some runners up ahead who had apparently taken an early turnaround as we hadn't seen them on the way out and they were already pointed back towards the trailhead.  Lily urged me to "catch them, Daddy", encouragement I didn't need but fully appreciated as it justified my stubborn need to track down runners from behind (when able).  This was silly, of course, as I was chasing people who weren't given fair warning that they were being chased and, in all likelihood, people who had absolutely no interest in racing in the first place.  Still, Lily loved the game and laughed endlessly, prompting Pipe to clap her hands and cackle in support of her big sister.  Since my legs held up and the unsuspecting were successfully passed, I enjoyed the game too.

This was my second time running in the Brooks Mach  11 spikeless cross-country flats that I'd found at a preposterously low sale price a few weeks ago.  A Runblogger http://www.runblogger.com/ review of the Mach 12 had led me to the close-out deal on its precursor.  The shoe review keenly pointed out that many of the minimalist trail shoes now flooding the market at $100+ are little more than cleverly marketed reproductions of traditional cross-country spikes that sell for half that price.  Lacking the pedigree of a formal running education, I naively had no idea that such a thing existed in the first place.  Long story short, after wearing the shoes for two fairly short runs during my support of the Susquehanna Super Hike last weekend, I had them back on my feet today and am finding that they are quickly becoming favorites.  I haven't yet decided if I will wear them at the Blue's Cruise 50K two weeks from now, but I plan to wear them several more times before then (including at the Conestoga Trail Run) and see if my confidence in them increases.

We crossed the imaginary tape awaiting us as we returned to the parking lot and retrieved our respective water bottles from the diaper bag.  After a short drive home and a Man Man sing along, Lily retired to her room for rest time, Piper agreed to a nap and I showered before settling down in front of the keyboard to celebrate another Saturday morning together. 

tradition.

Having risen early, fed and bathed the kids and gussied myself up as best I could, I headed to the garage to retrieve the van.  My eyes were drawn towards the upstairs neighbor's front bumper.  I'm sure I've seen it hundreds of times before but I'd never really taken notice.

I'd attended the viewing for my grandmother, Grace Elizabeth Heffelfinger, the night before and would be bringing the rest of the family to Christman's Funeral Home in Lebanon, Pennsylvania for her final memorial service.  I'd been to a terrifying number of funerals there as a child, a fact confirmed by elder relatives the night prior.  My arrival on earth in the mid 70's put me in a position to witness the deliberate, single-file departure from this world of an earlier generation of Millers, Sonnens, Houtzes, Lutzes and Van Arts.  My grandfather and Grace's husband, Kenneth, jumped the line and joined the parade early, succumbing to a heart attack at just 50 years of age.

Though it had, thankfully, been years since I'd last walked through Christman's doors, it was startlingly familiar and there was a temptation to believe that it had remained untouched waiting for another of my dear relatives to require its services.  Today would be different, however, as it would be the first time that I passed through those doors as a parent.

Grandma's pale blue dress looked beautiful and I tried to concentrate on it instead of her lifeless form as I stepped up to say goodbye with Lily in the crook of my left arm.  Bravely and stoically, Lil whispered the "bye-bye" that I'd prompted and added an "I love you, Grandma" that caused me to momentarily need to support our combined weight against the casket.  I drew a deep breath and offered a "goodbye" of my own.

I was initially disappointed at the small gathering assembled only to realize that so many of the potential attendees had already had their lives celebrated in this very room.

We chose seats just behind my mother, stepfather, aunt, uncle and great aunt. Lindsay had settled in with Piper but quickly realized that she wasn't going to cooperate in maintaining the appropriate respectful quiet. At just 17 months old, she wouldn't have it held against her. Lily, a big girl at 3, did sit through the entire service and, though confused, she seemed to understand that it was important to keep a low profile.  I watched her out of the corner of my eye in case she should need any reassurance or explanation, but those signs never came.  Before I knew it, the minister had concluded with an "amen" and we were filing from the room.

Along with uncles and cousins, I helped to lift the casket into the hearse before returning to the van to join the slow procession to the cemetery.  Lily peppered me with questions about being buried and made it clear that when she was old she didn't want to be trapped in a dark box.  Lindsay and I agreed to honor that wish and appeased her with promises that "getting old" was a long way off.

After helping to retrieve the casket from the hearse and position it above the burial vault, I stood to one side and listened to the minister again offer practiced words of consolation and farewell.  I glanced downwards and pondered the awkwardness of my tie and dress shoes against the grass of the graveyard.

Formalities completed, we were dismissed with an invitation to a reception at my grandmother's nearby church.  Piper raced about the cemetery, reveling in the attention of doting relatives, some familiar and others newly introduced.  Lily had further questions.  Peering down into the vault, she wondered aloud if the "hole is big enough" and I assured her that it was just right.  I'm not certain she truly believed me, but she offered no further protest and skipped away to join her sister.

A canopy had been erected to protect the burial's attendees in case of pending rain and hid the stone just behind it that marked the final resting place of the bodies of my great-great grandfather and grandmother, Harry and Mary (I'd only ever heard her referred to as Memmy) Sonnen.  As a small child, I lived right next door to the grandmother we were burying today.  Her husband had been born an illegitimate child and was raised by his grandparents who then, in their final years, came to live with him and his bride.  I, in turn, had the rare privilege of spending many hours on the knee of my loving great-great grandfather.  The memories have grown fuzzy, but the feelings of warmth and safety remain unwavering and it was a joy to look down at his gravestone and have those feelings wash over me.

I'd heard many stories over the last few days and been walked out the branches of the family tree to learn new names and firm up exactly where other names appeared on the tree.  I learned of prodigal daughters, distant cousins and the deaths of children who never saw adulthood.  I gasped audibly at the site of a third carving on the side of my great-great grandparents' stone that indicated the loss of a son, Leon, at just 22 months of age.  It was the first I'd seen that name in the family line and it was a jolt. 

I wanted to see the girls and was relieved to find them back on the other side of the canopy, clutching pink roses and smiling for pictures while seated on the velvet-covered chairs in front of the casket.

The reception was held at Christ Evangelical Lutheran Church in Stouchsburg, Pennsylvania, a church that has stood, in one form or another, since 1743.  Harry and Memmy Sonnen had once lived in the rectory and maintained the church grounds.  My mother spent a good portion of her childhood living there as well and my uncle and Grace's youngest child, Chris, still helped maintain the church.

 

The dining hall in the rear of the church played host to shared recollections, tears and laughter.  Hand-made mementos, including some of the many quilts constructed by my grandmother joined photos, high school diplomas, birth announcements and countless other artifacts of a long life that touched many others.

For nearly 20 years, poor health and an ever-diminishing ability to hear had robbed my grandmother of the full participation to which she'd once been accustomed.   There were too many get-togethers and family functions at which grandma seemed to dwell just to one side of the goings-on, unable to hear the conversations or rise from her chair to play with her grandchildren. 

On this day, however, she was restored and held up as the matriarch, friend and sister that she'd remained all along.

In looking at the photos, wandering among the gravestones of long-departed relatives and reconnecting with those still living, I was reminded how much is actually passed along from one life to another.  I am too uneducated and too short on intellect to fully grasp or convey all that I mean.  We know that we "come from" our parents but I think we, or at least I, fail to marvel in that miracle.  Evidence lived in these photos.  The very nose on my face perched there upon the face of another.  My long, narrow fingers lay clasped on the lap of an unnamed man posing generations ago for a black-and-white photograph.  Indirectly, I'd passed through and from Grace and she into Lily and Piper along with all of those who came before.

I am humbled and honored, sad and filled with joy.  I am happy that Grace can enjoy, at last, rest that she has long deserved.

Goodbye, with love, gratitude and admiration.