You had to be there: My sister and Mr. Possum

I don't remember our ages, but we were living in the house in Rolling Fields, so I was at least 9yo. Our house was built on a hill, so the front was one story and the back two. There was a second driveway in the back below the deck, and one afternoon, my sister and I found a possum standing there.

As an older sibling, I have always tried to protect my sister, but I think it's genetic with older siblings to occasionally torture their younger counterparts. My sister's naivety left her open to this a few times. The possum was an opening I couldn't resist.

Standing there staring at the possum, who was clearly hoping we wouldn't notice him, my sister asks me if she can pet it. I said yes, and when she wanted reassurance that said possum would not bite her, I responded, "Of course not, possums don't even have teeth."

I was the athletic one in our family. My sister was a bit of a priss. She was not quick by any means, but when she moved toward that possum and it showed her a mouth full of sharp teeth while hissing, my sister broke several laws of physics in the way she flew up the back steps of the deck and into the house.

The possum ran off, and I spent several minutes rolling on the ground laughing. I still laugh at the memory. As an older sibling, it's one of my proudest moments, but ...

Maybe you had to be there.

The more I run the more reasons I have to run.

My first race was my way of dealing with a great deal of loss in a short period of time. It was cathartic. I ran it with a group of friends back in Tennessee to remember and celebrate one of my oldest friends, Mark King. I just finished my second race, and this one was more about fighting back. It seemed too serendipitous that the Walt Disney World Marathon Weekend was so close to Mark's birthday, and he worked for Disney for so long. I signed up and hit the trails.

This season, I found more reasons to run. Enough that I have at least one person for every mile of my race. I've made a point to remember survivors, too, just to remind myself that some do survive.

Mile1: Emma Rae Perkins who has many more miles to go thankfully!

Mile 2: Dennis Sweat who I never met, but whose daughter helped me keep going when I started thinking this whole running thing might not have been so smart.

Mile 3: Gino H. and Jim Matthews who are beating the odds!

Mile 4: Mark King. This is my hardest mile mentally, and he is why I never stop.

Mile 5: Jim Galloway. Little girls should not have to lose their daddies.

Mile 6: Nate Tutt. Far too young to be gone.

Mile 7: Don Harmon. For the little girl in me who can't remember a time I didn't know Mr. Harmon.

Mile 8: Glen Weatherly. This is my hardest mile physically, and I will never forget the way he fought.

Mile 9: Marshall Ramsey whose story of survival is a source of power. He never gives up and neither will I!

Mile 10: Fred and Betty White. Two of the best people I've ever known. I'm glad he has someone to lay his clothes out for him in heaven.

Mile 11: Aunt Deloris who may not have much of her race left.

Mile 12: Karen Young who is cancer free!

Mile 13: Ted Duning. May we all finish our races with such grace.

And that last tenth of a mile? That little bit when I cross the finish line is mine. It's my moment to celebrate love being greater than loss, and will being stronger than all the pain.

Next up, Nike Women's Half Marathon in DC on April 28.

It didn't have to happen.

My daddy at his commissioning ceremony.

Growing up without one of your parents is something that I can't explain. If you haven't lived it, you can't really wrap your head around the disconnect. It's not just that I took on a level of responsibility for my mother and sister far beyond my toddler years. It's not the feeling that I should have been able to fill my father's shoes for my little sister and failed miserably. It's not even feeling like something is missing. I guess it's more like everyone gets a 100 piece puzzle that is their life and mine only came with 99. I didn't know the difference.

For a few years, Joe and I lived next door to a beautiful family that have since become our dear friends. The couple has two beautiful children, the youngest a daughter. Parrish is a vibrant and loving child, very affectionate. She's 5 now, and watching her and her daddy has started to help me see where some of that 100th piece should be.

By all accounts, I wasn't exactly a normal kid to begin, but I'm not sure if I would have been as affectionately withdrawn if I hadn't lost my dad at two and a half. What I'm quite sure of is a daughter learns a great deal about relationships and all types of affection towards men from her father. I finally learned how to have an open, affectionate relationship with a man and married him to boot. What I can't quite grasp is a little girl sitting in her daddy's lap falling asleep on his shoulder or cuddling on the couch watching a movie. I've never had these experiences.

Pulling apart and reassembling my psyche has occupied much of my adult life. I've learned how childhood traumas, my natural thought processes and other elements have created the person I am now. It's helped me be the real me and be comfortable with it. I'm more at home in my own skin than I've ever been, but it's been a lot of work.

Good for me, but that's not really the point. The point is first, I'll never know what life would have been like or who I would have been, but possibly more importantly, it never should have happened this way.

The helicopter crash that took my dad from us didn't have to happen. It wasn't pilot error. From every source and the official record, my dad flew by the book the day he died. He was a phenomenal pilot, like he was born to be in the air. The malfunction with the tail rotor was a known issue with the Huey back then. One of the men who survived the crash said they all knew what it was as soon as they heard the loud pop. Daddy tried to catch the tail of the helicopter in a tree to slow their descent, but it was no use. They were just falling too fast. An autopsy report I found by accident years later said he died of blunt force trauma immediately from the impact. His last broadcast was the four maydays he got off before they hit.

The Army in its infinite wisdom and ability to put a price on human life declared there had to be three fatal crashes with the Hueys before they'd recall them. At least one person on three separate occasions had to die before the Army would ground the choppers for repairs. You should take a minute to re-read that last sentence before moving on.

I am 37 years old. My daddy was killed when I was two and a half. Sometimes, it makes me so angry I can barely see through the tears. I've come to understand the anger, to channel it and to keep it from consuming me. This didn't have to happen. The worst part of the anger is what it's done from time to time to my family. It's bred distrust and subsequent division between three people who have frankly lost enough.

I've ended up with some things of my daddy's that I really wasn't ready to own. I took them of my own accord to keep them safe until we can come together and decide the best way to keep them. I'm not moving any time soon, we have plenty of room and I know a little about preservation of old things at least. These things are safe with me right now.

When I came home with them, I went through all of it very carefully. I separated everything and put each in a Ziploc bag for keeping. One of the items is the stocking cap my dad was wearing the night he died. There's a picture of him wearing it at the briefing before they took off. I knew the hat existed, but I'd never seen it. I wasn't ready to be honest. Here I was holding it in my hands. It's the greatest sense of loss I have ever felt, knowing that my dad was wearing that hat at the end of his life with no way of knowing it was the end. He didn't know he'd never see his wife or daughters ever again. He was only thinking about his mission and doing the job he loved.

I have seen a lot of pictures of my dad in my life. I've had things that were his. A decade or so ago, some old family 8mm films were converted to VHS and a few years ago, some film of him playing football in high school was converted to DVD. Those are the only experiences I remember where he was moving. For almost 35 years, he's been a still image or objects pass down. I don't have any idea what his voice sounded like. I don't know what he smelled like. I can't remember the feel of his hands holding me or his whiskers on my cheek when he kissed me.

When I was putting his hat in the Ziploc bag, I found a hair of his. I held it between my fingers in complete wonder before I started crying hysterically. That hair is the only part of my daddy that I ever remember touching. I carefully put it in the bag, so my sister can see it.

I've always believed that things happen for a reason, and that we can never go back. I wouldn't trade even one bad decision of mine for fear of ending up somewhere other than where I am right now. I love my life. I've been lucky beyond measure to have had someone like my (other) dad, John Murrey to come into our lives and love us like we were his own. I know these things and cherish them all. Sometimes, I'd trade just about anything to have 5 minutes with my daddy. Then again, I'm not sure I want to know what I'm missing. I just wish I didn't know that none of it had to happen.

Headstone and foot stone at Lynnwood Cemetery (Lynnville, TN), where my daddy is buried next to his brother Jimmy

Let freedom ring

I was an uptight kid. It wasn't until I was old enough to watch the legendary film Risky Business that I found the words of wisdom that changed my life:

Every now and then say, "What the fuck." [It] gives you freedom. Freedom brings opportunity. Opportunity makes your future.
(Miles to Joel, encouraging him to take advantage of his parents being out of town)

Miles was right, and he taught me a valuable lesson. Loosen up! Nothing and no one is perfect, and while striving to be the best we can is admirable, being a perfectionist is a waste of energy. It's OK to take chances, throw things on the wall to see what sticks.

Of course, there are many things I take seriously, but I've found a way to hold myself to a high standard without the stress of having to be perfect. Some mistake that freedom for bravado, but I am confident, not because I know I'm right, but because I'm not afraid to be wrong.

Odd man in

When I was a kid, I played soccer. Only, this was back in the early 80's when there really wasn't girls soccer, at least not in the small town where I grew up, but when you're eight years old who really notices. At first I was horrible. My coaches were very patient as they tried to find a position for me. I got better over time, and if nothing else, I was tenacious and protective. That's probably how I ended up on defense. It brought out my protective nature, and I took it personally.

When I was in middle school, I had a coach who finally turned the light on for me. He spoke to my inner nerd with his more academic approach to the game. He showed me the geometry of defending the goal and taught me to use statistical advantages. At this point, we were all hitting puberty head on, and while the boys were all sprouting muscles, I was growing boobs! If I was going to keep up, I was going to play smarter and want it more than the boys.

I was fearless on the field, and by the time I was playing in the oldest rec league division, the boys were starting to complain that I was too rough. Ha! "Oh, no, they've got that girl on their team." I played within the rules, but there is no rule against a hip check in soccer, and I'd gotten a full set of hips along with the boobs. When we were eight, no one cared that a girl was playing on the boys' team. There were a couple of us actually. By the time we were teenagers, I was the only girl in the entire league. A girls' league had started, but the girls were so far behind me as a player because I'd been at it for so long. Luckily, there was a coach in the boys' league willing to take me.

I'm not sure the league could have refused to let me play on a boys' team legally, but I was keenly aware that I was an exception and made up my mind to act more as a guest. I would stay in the league as long as a coach would willingly take me and the players didn't mind. The moment I wasn't wanted or became a liability, I would quit. My coach knew this, as did my teammates.

It was at a practice when one of the guys got pissed at me and shouted that I should go back where I belonged. That was it. I called Coach that night and told him I was quitting. Even though that one guy didn't speak for them all (and he was a bit of a schmuck), I'd made a promise that I intended to keep. Coach told me not to come to the next practice and he would call me after it. He wanted to make sure the guys knew what I was doing and why before I really quit.

At the next practice, some of the guys asked where I was. I never missed practice. Coach calmly told them that given the comment made at the last practice that I'd kept my word and quit. He called me that night to tell me the team wanted me back on Saturday for the game. The guy that made the comment didn't think I'd take him seriously. I didn't want to go back because I thought the guys just felt guilty or that coach talked them into it, but Saturday, they showed me I was part of the team.

You have to keep in mind that soccer is not a high-scoring game, and we all know how teenage boys feel about scoring. (Couldn't find a way to write that sentence without implying something, so I just went with it.) Anyway, a free kick came up during the game, which is an almost-guaranteed goal. Again, I played defense, so scoring wasn't ever going to be my thing, but without anyone saying a word to each other, they guys all turned around to look at me. They were offering me the kick, the goal. Offering turned to insisting, and I jogged my way to the other end of the field to take the kick. Thank God I didn't screw it up!

After playing soccer for 12 years, that is still the only goal I ever scored.

Being one of the guys was like watching an animal in it's natural habitat instead of at the zoo. Other girls didn't want to do what I did, but man, were they curious. To them, I was the perfect spy. I wouldn't betray the guys' trust though. I had earned their respect on the field, and that meant more to me than all the gossiping with the girls in the world.

My last two years in rec league, it really grew. We started having away games and playing kids from other towns. They were all boys, and often they didn't understand my team having a girl. Some saw me as the weakest link. (Nothing gave me more pleasure than putting those on their asses!) There were a few times when I knew I'd never get the ball from another player, but I'd hang with them until I forced them out of bounds or I got some help. I think that was the most frustrating to my opponents.

If the girls gets the ball from you, that can just be dumb luck, right? If you can't get past the girl after running in circles for five minutes, it's more embarrassing. It wasn't unusual for frustration and embarrassment to lead to a guy pushing me or saying something nasty, but I took pride in holding my own. One occasion I remember like it was yesterday.

I had been frustrating the same guy every game we played each other for a couple of seasons. It wasn't that I was better than him -- he was amazing -- but he'd gotten in his own head, I think, because he could not get past me to save his life. This day was getting particularly heated, and he started running his mouth. Perhaps it's the female genes that kept me cool and unflustered on the field compared to my male counterparts, but I wasn't talking trash or making fun of this guy. I'm pretty sure my teammates were starting to take jabs though.

The rougher we played the more everyone was paying attention to our little rivalry. At one point, his mother, who happened to be sitting next to mine, yelled at him to "stop pushing that girl!" My mom's comment was somewhere between, "Rachel can take care of herself," and "I'm going to kick your son's ass." In the final minutes of the game, he got desperate because they were losing, and reared back to take a swing at me. That moment is frozen in time for me.

How so many people got around us so fast defies physics, but in a heartbeat, my goalie, the two other fullbacks and a midfielder were standing at my side, looking threateningly at my opponent as if to dare him to touch me. One of his teammates grabbed his arm and another was pulling him back from me. I just stood there stock still. I refused to back down, but I wasn't going to egg the situation on either. Refs and coaches came running and broke everything up. My team was going to defend me, and no one wanted a teenage boy melee on the field, including me.

The image above reminds me of that moment. My team protecting me when someone else threatened, even though I was different. We were a team in the truest sense. It's not often in my life I've felt so accepted and included as I did playing soccer. I went on to play on the high school boys' varsity team. On game day the guys wore ties to school, and I said I'd wear one, too, since coach was clearly confused as to how to handle that one. My wearing a tie got a lot of attention, and more students came to our games and cheered us on because of it. It helped raise awareness of a sport that back then was not mainstream like football, basketball and baseball, especially in the south.

My mom had worried at every game that I was going to get hurt. She really wanted me to switch over to the girls' league. I did get hurt a few times, some worse than others, but I refused to let my mom see it because I was afraid she'd make me stop playing. (I was probably right.) Ironically, it wasn't until I played on my high school's first girls' soccer team that I got really hurt. I'd only agreed to play to help my coach who'd so graciously let me play on the boys' team. (Technically he had to let me on the team because of Title 9, but I made sure I earned the spot.)

Boys may be rough, but I'll tell you one thing --- girls are vicious.

I got tag-teamed by a couple of redneck girls and separated my shoulder. I came out of the game for a few minutes but went back in. I spent the night in the ER screaming in pain. I couldn't play for six weeks, and a few years later, I had to have surgery on that shoulder. It still hurts sometimes, along with several other joints. I wasn't kind to my body as a kid.

Yes, I carry some aches and pains from those days, but I also carry some of the most precious memories of my young life. Those guys and my coach still hold a special place in my heart. I'm not sure that in another place and time I would have had the same experience. Another group of guys might have rejected having a girl on their team. Another coach might have just let me quit. But that's not my story.

In my story, I won the respect of my teammates, played my heart out and scored exactly one goal.

Logically speaking

When I was a kid watching Dirty Dancing, I didn't really understand what was happening in this scene. I'm sure my mom appreciated having to explain it, but it had a lasting impact on me.

I should probably qualify here that I was not your average kid. I thought things and recognized things that most kids my age did not. I was serious and slightly dark. Now, back to my point.

At first, I wondered why someone would have an illegal procedure done with "a knife and a folding table." Then realizing what a pregnancy out of wedlock would have meant back in the early 60's, I wondered why it was illegal when clearly people were going to have it done anyway. Wouldn't it be better to have it legal and safe?!

If you look at a Venn diagram of those who are anti-abortion and those who support gun rights, there is a large percentage of overlap, so I'm going to use an argument of the anti-gun control lot. "If you outlaw guns, only the outlaws will have guns." People who are determined to have guns are going to have them regardless of the law. Only people willing to break the law will have guns. The argument is that law-abiding citizens are safer because they can have guns, too.

Someone who is pregnant and, for whatever reason, cannot or will not have a child are going to have an abortion whether it's legal or not. Keeping abortion legal means it can be done in an accredited facility by a reputable doctor. It can be safe. (It can also reduce late-term abortions, which I oppose.)

I'm not even touching the issue of rights, which often comes down to ideology. Those are points that we can all argue 'til we're blue in the face without changing anyone's mind. I do think that people need to see the reality behind banning abortion. Think about it logically, even if just for a minute.

Pretty pictures

Reproduction of a Degas. Colored pencil on paper.

Jerry. Original drawing. Pastels on paper.

High-contrast self portrait. Original drawing. Pastels on paper.

Susan. Original drawing. Pastels on paper.