?`s and ANNEswers

Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

New Skills

Now that I’m not fettered by a job I’ve decided there are some skills I should attempt to learn.  Some probably would have been helpful in the aforementioned job, but I never had the motivation then.  Now I do.  It’s a function of time.

I plan to give up my land line and rely only on my cellphone for telecommunication.  It’s a financial thing, since my son the professor is about the only person who calls me regularly on that line, for which we pay over $100 a month.  Of course, the services include three-way conversations, caller ID, call waiting, and voicemail.  They also cover a second line for a fax machine.  And while these features were useful in my work world, Kevin and I never use any of them. So buh-bye.

I’m also going to learn how my Bluetooth works. And how the clock radio in the kitchen is programmed.  And how we can view movies on our big TV from our little DVD player. And – hold your breath here – maybe join Facebook and Twitter to enhance the “platform” that literary agents want aspiring authors to have these days.

It all makes me realize how twentieth century I still am, even if we’re into the second decade of the twenty-first century.  In fact, if I master all of the above, I shall still be behind the learning curve.  Google® glasses, iPads, and whatnot await me in the future.

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Retirement Routine

My Spring travels are behind me, as is tax preparation and other commitments.  So I’m planning on settling into some sort of routine to insure the hours I once clocked on a job aren’t frittered away.  Frittering is something I’ve already mastered.

I want to play piano daily, workout at least five times a week, and catch up on that huge pile of reading materials I’m hiding from Book Club members who are coming to my home in the morning.  I want to cook more and learn to enjoy it. I want to garden and keep up with long-distance friends and return to serious writing, which has always taken a back burner because it’s hard work.

Most of these activities were part of my work life; but they all waited in the wings for cameo appearances as I spent the last ten years with a main character named Fred Flare, Inc. I loved it, but I find I love post-Fred too. The supporting activities are now front and center.

Tomorrow, May 1, I’m implementing my new routine. Play piano first thing with a cup of coffee. (Before Book Club) Revel in how far eleven years of piano lessons has brought me. Get dressed. After Book Club, write that query letter I’ve been stalling on for a month.  It’s the hard work part of the day.  Then attack that pile of unread material I’ll take out of hiding. Keep touch with friends via email. Make Chinese stir fry for dinner.

And appreciate every single moment.

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Flashback

Things I’ll remember as we leave Boston . . .

The slogans for this race:  Boston Strong. We all run Boston. Right on Hereford, left on Boylston. Stay Calm and Think Marathon. We are one team.

The signs along the route.  One said “Right, left, repeat.”  Can’t argue there.  Another said, “Run fast Daddy.”  Can’t argue there either.

The sense of history as Kevin and I stood one day after the race at the site of last year’s bombings. The thankfulness of local merchants and residents.  As we walked downtown Boston today many people came up to Kevin, who wore his marathon medal, and said, “Congratulations, and thanks for being here.”  A couple homeless people saluted him. One gave him a fist-bump.

We head home first thing in the morning, with Kevin’s legs still aching from the ups and downs of the course’s hills. I suspect other marathon stragglers will leave as well. And the city will return to normal.

Or perhaps to begin planning next year’s marathon.

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Finish Line

Today’s marathon could never erase what happened last year; but it went a long way to replace awful images of mayhem with ones of joy.  Any media account attests to this.

From the time the starting line announcer told the runners to “take back that finish line” to when Kevin blew us a kiss at the eight mile mark to finding him at the end, it was emotional to be here.

Who wasn’t moved by the moment of silence for those who were killed last year? Who could not tear as some of the survivors ran the course again? And who wasn’t proud that Meb Keflezighi was the first American to win the Boston Marathon since 1983?  He said the memory of last year kept him going. As for Kevin, he was the 581st runner to cross the finish line.

It was only coincidence that Easter Sunday and Patriot’s Day were back to back this year.  But I can’t help thinking that the elation of the most important day in the Christian calendar continued into the most important Boston marathon ever.  The weather was perfect; there were no security issues; and the race was unbelievably well organized. I believe God was on the planning committee.

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Final Hours

It’s 8:30 PM, and Team Carollo is bedding down for the night.  We had a wonderful carb-loaded dinner at Ziti’s Italian Restaurant a couple hours ago and have been reminiscing in one of our hotel rooms ever since.

We’ve covered years of territory from when Kevin was in “The Music Man” in grade school to when Keith and his step-sisters got into a knock-down, drag-out fight to late night popcorn to writing to working to everything in-between.  It’s an added benefit of having Team Carollo all be family members. We have a long history together.

Tomorrow begins early and is fraught with logistics.  Kevin leaves on the shuttle for the starting line at 7:00 AM.  The three of us will see him off, wearing our team shirts.  Then we’ll board a shuttle at 9:30 AM to get to the eight mile point where we can cheer him on.  (See previous blog for more details.)

Kevin has three goals.  First, he’d like to beat his personal best marathon time of 2:43.  Failing that he’d like to run a respectable race.  And, failing that, he hopes to finish. After all, anything can happen in 26 miles.

As for me, I hope that however it goes Kevin is pleased with the final result.  The rest of us are just pleased to be here.

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Natick Rocks

It’s our second night in Natick, where the Boston Marathon runs through from Mile 8 to about Mile 11 in two days.  It’s farther from the finish line than we’d planned; but, for one good reason and another, this is where we landed.  We are not unhappy.

The staff of the Hampton Inn has been most accommodating.  The standard breakfast included in many hotel stays these days has been exemplary.  So has the front desk’s knowledge of how to maneuver during the marathon itself.  We learn more and more each day about road closings, shuttle options, and things to avoid.  It’s clear Natick merchants have done this a time or two.

We dined tonight in historic downtown Natick at a local seafood restaurant called Dolphin.  I’ve always been a devotee of leaving one’s money in local establishments when traveling, and Dolphin proved to be another reason why.  The service, the food, and the atmosphere were most worthy of what we paid.

We also scoped where the West Natick train station is because Kevin will run by it about 45 minutes into the marathon.  Keith, Chris, and I plan to be there to cheer him on. Then we’re boarding the commuter train at the station and heading east to Heartbreak Hill where we want to scream at him again before we all race to the finish line.  He will be running; we will be navigating the transit system.

When the race is over and we’ve reconnected (and possibly had a brew or two), we’ll wend our way back to Natick on the commuter train and collapse in comfortable rooms of the Hampton Inn.

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The Team Has Assembled

Kevin, Keith, Chris and I have all arrived and checked into our hotel in Natick, MA, to start the countdown to the 118th annual running of the Boston Marathon on Monday.  Of course, only one of us is running, but he needs his cheering squad.

In fact, Kevin presented us with custom shirts that say “Fargo to Boston” on the front and “Team Carollo” on the back.  They are neon green, and hopefully if we stand closely together at various points along the course, Kevin will see us waving and shouting as he runs by.

Boston is new to all of us.  We know it’s the cradle of the American Revolution; and, in the preparation stages for this trip, we had lofty ideas of soaking in some of our country’s early history. There are two days before the race, but already we sense this year’s marathon has eclipsed thoughts of seeing the Old North Church or walking the Freedom Trail.

Instead we’re heading to the finish line now (about 18 miles from our hotel) to pick up Kevin’s race packet and get our bearings. Then we’re going to find some watering hole and work on our plan to cheer Kevin along the course and find him at the end.  Word has it that spectators will not be allowed near the finish line, so we need Plan B.

Everyone knows what happened in 2013. And everyone has had a year to think about it.  Not just those people who were stopped from finishing because of the bombings. Not just Bostonians or runners or people who know a runner. But everyone.

There is already a sense of coming together this weekend. I don’t mean Kevin and his team; I mean the entire population from Hopkinton, where the race starts at 10 AM on Monday, to Boston Commons, where it ends.  That’s local residents, 36,000 runners, and a million spectators.  We are one team.

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OMG

I’m driving around doing last minute errands before heading to Boston in forty-eight hours.  I don’t know what it is, but various trucks and billboards have caught my eye.  I should be concentrating on driving – especially now that I have an automatic transmission which encourages day-dreaming – but instead I’m musing over our ever-changing language. (I am daydreaming after all.)

It started with a truck that passed me with SWP plastered on its side along with a large can of paint.  I deciphered this as Sherwin Williams Paint.  Which made me think about KFC.  In my younger days, it was Kentucky Fried Chicken. Just as BK was Burger King.

Abbreviations seem to be the new dialect these days.  I blame texting for starting this phenomenon.  Okay is now truncated to ‘k?’  Please is now ‘pls.’ Thank you is ‘thx.’ Then there’s the ever present ‘app’ ready to be applied to your smart phone or iPad.  Does anyone remember that this really stands for application?

I acknowledge language is a living thing, one that is always adding and subtracting. Still, I’m from the school that believes there are certain inviolate rules.  For instance, OMG would never appear in a Biblical reference even though I just saw it on a sign promoting the Twin City Players’ current offering, “A Streetcar Named Desire.”

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Marathon Man

One week from today, my son Kevin runs the Boston Marathon, that venerable race that was plagued with bombings last year. Twenty-fourteen will be a redemption, a memorial, an opportunity for the running community – past and present – to come together. Thirty-six thousand runners are competing and over a million spectators are expected to turn out along the course.

On the backside, logistics are a nightmare whether you’re a runner or a spectator.  There are to be no backpacks, unless they are plastic see-through; no strollers; no big purses; no banners; nothing that would attract attention. Access to the various venues is strictly controlled, which means we’ll have to have a secure plan to find Kevin at the end of the race.

For this reason, we’re arriving on the Friday before the marathon.  We want to scope the territory, figure out how we can best cheer Kevin on at various mile markers, and still get to the finish line in time to yell him across.  It’s daunting.

And it probably won’t work according to plan.  Kevin ran three marathons last year, and each of them had unanticipated problems.  The worst case scenario for Boston is that we find a watering hole when we’re doing our reconnoitering on the weekend and plan to meet there no matter what. In this case, Kevin will cross the finish line alone, but celebrate with his family asap.

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Authentic

It was Earl’s turn to choose a restaurant last night.  (Since we’re both only children, we tend to keep score on this sort of thing.)  He chose El Sol Azteca, a small Mexican restaurant tucked in a non-descript strip mall.

“You don’t even like Mexican food,” I said, not really trying to dissuade him.  I do like Mexican food. But we usually go for the larger, more popular, more raucous Mark III, which coincidentally is directly across the highway from El Sol.

The Mark III is a favorite watering hole and lines for tables form early on weekends.  I suspect El Sol has never had a line, but perhaps gets spill-over customers who don’t want to wait across the road.

Earl said he was unexplainably hungry for a burrito and wanted to try something different.  He was also thirsty for a good Margarita.  And we had a coupon, which explains everything.

The bottom line is that El Sol Azteca is the real deal. The food is fresh, made-to-order, and appealing.  It’s not American-Mex or Tex-Mex.  It’s Mex-Mex. The portions are appropriate too, something that’s hard to find in our over-sized culture. But what identifies El Sol as authentic is that there wasn’t a single crunchy corn tortilla pre-shaped like a taco shell in the place.

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