“I celebrate that we’re all crazy and damaged and we’re all sort of floundering and flailing, and yet we stick together. We take care of each other the best we can. And that is so touching it fills me with hope. It takes people a lot of decades to realize that we’re all in the same boat, dealing with death and Trump and upper arms. And we’re more or less ok, most of the time. And that’s kind of a miracle.”- Anne Lamott
If I had known we’d be gone almost a month I would have brought more than a phone and a carry-on. I probably should have realized that my husband’s little surgery after the Boston Marathon would not be the equivalent of a root canal as he promised. Turns out a hernia or three take a little longer to fix and recover from, and you can’t actually have the operation the same day as your appointment. Clearly, we were not in Haines anymore. All is fine now and we are home. I am doing the heavy lifting for a few more weeks.
The marathon was great. Beautiful weather, happy crowds, all the world together in a beautiful city. The fans were six deep on the whole 26.2 mile route from Hopkinton to the finish line. I stood on Boylston Street watching it with a group of young women office workers, a pair of doctors from India and Pakistan who weren’t runners, knew no one in the race, but were big fans and had the tracking app on their phones so they could see the International stars; a Canadian man with a baby in a backpack cheering for his wife, and two guys from Tennessee chewing tobacco and spitting into coffee cups. They said they drove all night to see their sister and daughter run it.
JJ and Chip finished with smiles ( 3:24 and 4:09 respectfully) and debriefed in the hotel. They were tired and a little high from the experience. As Chip said, since the bombing, Boston has become the Marathon. “Everyone cheered the whole way.” There were daffodils everywhere in “Boston Strong” pots, the Red Sox played in special marathon color uniforms—yellow and light blue—(we saw the game at Fenway the day before the race.) It makes a lump in the throat, all this goodwill. So many volunteers. So many nice people. Cops and medics, bus drivers and baristas. It was a perfect way to celebrate Patriots’ Day.
From there we were off to Ocala, Florida to see Grandma Joanne (Chip’s mom), who is well on her way to 93 with sparkling sandals, French nails, a cool glass of chardonnay and parties every night. “I think there will be eight for dinner,” she’d say pointing me toward the kitchen and suggesting pasta and a salad, “It’s dead easy.” Her home is always full of dogs, friends and relatives. She is a wonder. There were cousins from Massachusetts who gave everyone rides (almost. You know how I feel about flying… ) in their helicopter, and cousins from New Hampshire who included a former bakery owner, (super cookies) and a retired schoolteacher and truck driver and their Sheltie. Then there was the sunny neighbor from Atlanta who once owned part of a horse that finished second in the Kentucky Derby and took me to the spring Thoroughbred auction. (No we didn’t buy a horse. Most sold for the price of a very nice home.)
A young country western duo waiting for their big break helped Chip’s sister move into her new house, and gave a concert on the Ocala town square the day of Chip’s surgery so we missed it. (Martin and Kelly, Google them. Her grandmother and Joanne were childhood friends in Lexington, MA. which brings us full circle doesn’t it?) I have no idea where the baby that was at dinner one night came from, or who she belonged to. A man I don’t know handed her to me to hold, but she was darling. I also never was introduced to the unofficial mayor of Ocala Palms.
But I swam laps with his pal– and smiled at the woman reading a glossy hardcover of Liz Cheney’s book in her lounge chair across from his.
