This is not that place. Better luck next time.

The Graduate

The Graduate

Since he first learned to talk, Krischan has asked me virtually every question a grandson could possibly ask a grandfather.  To name a few: 

What happens when the tooth fairy’s tooth falls out?

If the moon is made of green cheese, then why is it yellow?

Why do you shave your face and Yia-Yia shaves her legs?

How do babies come out of their mommy’s tummy?  Are they pooped out?

I thought I’d heard most everything until this one came out of his mouth last Friday night:

G-Pa, are you proud of me?

Here’s some background to give the question a little perspective: Twelve hours earlier Krischan graduated from kindergarten.  He couldn’t wait to tell me he was now ‘a first grader.’  He was obviously bursting with pride and wanted to know if the feeling was mutual. 

Wow, my grandson is going into the first grade.  It seems like only yesterday I was spoon-feeding him his pureed fruits and vegetables…teaching him not call his toys  ‘mine’ when playing with others…reading him The Cat in the Hat.

Over the nine months Krischan has been keeping me well informed of what he’s been learning in kindergarten.  I remember my mom and dad asking me what I learned in school when I was a young boy and my answer was always the same: ‘Nothing.’  Krischan is different; he always has something new to tell me at the end of the week. 

I learned to count to 100.  One, two, three…*

(*Yes, he made it all the way to 100)

Blue and yellow make green.

George Washington was our first President; he’s the Father of our Country.

Frogs are tadpoles before they become frogs.

A paleontologist is someone who studies dinosaurs.

But wait, it gets better.  The past five or six weeks Krischan has been doing simple arithmetic—adding and subtracting single-digit numbers, primarily—in his head.  For the really tough ones he may break out a finger or two but for the most part, as I said, he does it all in his head.

He’s also starting to read.  The first time I realized it was when we were at the Golden Arches a few weeks ago and he started reading the side of his Happy Meal box to me.  I listened intently as he sounded aloud one letter after another, finally saying them all together until he could come up with a word he recognized.  I know it’s been a while but I don’t think I was that far along until third or fourth grade (forgive me; as I said it’s been a while). 

With a huge smile on his face Krischan proudly showed me his green Kindergarten Keepsake notebook chronicling his first year in the public education system.  Inside the flap of the front cover was a Certificate for his Excellence in Social Studies.  According to his mom he was the only child in kindergarten to receive this distinction.  I asked Krischan what social studies were and his reply was honest, sincere and concise: ‘I don’t know.’   While he understands most of our National Holidays, the duties of the President and the words to the Pledge of Allegiance, Krischan doesn’t recognize these things as social studies; he knows them as ‘America.’        

As I mentioned previously last Friday night Krischan was anxious to know if I was proud of his promotion to the first grade. Knowing he wanted to hear the words from his G-Pa out loud I answered: ‘Yes I am very, very proud of you.’   

If Krischan hadn’t been so excited and paying closer attention he might have noticed a tear or two welling up in my eyes. 

If he had I wouldn’t have needed to say a word.  The answer would have been obvious.

Even to a first grader.   

Darkside Memorial Day Event Results - May 25, 2015

Darkside Memorial Day 50K

                        Kim Ruple                                                    4:56:27

                        Ally Carlton                                                  5:27:40

                        Darlene Bohannon                                        6:04:45

                        Patrick Garner                                               6:10:04

Darkside Memorial Day Marathon

                        Katrina Parker                                              5:05:00

                        Marilou Ledford                                           5:05:00

                        Tyler Brown                                                 5:14:42

                        Phil Min                                                        6:11:22

                        Mike Haviland                                              6:13:00

                        Keith Hedger                                                6:22:43

                        Don Carpenter                                              6:24:00

                        Joye McElroy                                               6:57:32

                        Susan Kolbinsky                                          7:11:34

                        Cheryl Murdock                                           7:22:14

                        Wendy Kent Mitchell                                   7:39:00

                        Anne Rentz                                                   8:39:00

                        Roscoe Douglas                                            8:39:00

Darkside Memorial Day 25K

                        Dan Dunstan                                                 2:04:56

                        Sean Lawford                                               2:07:01

                        Carolyn Bowen                                             2:16:00

                        Loren Starr                                                    2:25:06

                        Scott Ludwig                                                 2:27:29

                        Mary Catherine Domaleski                           2:43:50

                        Joe Domaleski                                               2:43:50

                        Ron Clay                                                       3:08:03

                        Lynn Holtam                                                 3:12:20

                        AJ Bohannon                                                3:21:59

                        Drina Haviland                                              3:24:00

                        David Meltzer                                               3:25:00

                        Elyn Macek                                                    3:26:53

                        Paul Nyholm                                                  3:33:00

                        Troy Bohannon                                             3:36:59

                        Nicole Tineo                                                  3:42:00

                        Adamy Diaz Carpenter                                  4:08:40

OCD (Others Competing at various Distances)

Brooke Wood, Tina Folden, Veronica Tarantino, Jeneen Olive, Becky Sparling, Miguel Ramos, Steven Bothe, Rachel Johnson, Jan Payne, Jan Fratto, Cindy Ludwig

The Pusher

It was one of the first rock concerts I ever attended.  The year was 1969: I was 14 and had tickets to see Steppenwolf perform at the Coliseum in downtown Honolulu.  The popular band from Canada was one of my favorites, but I approached the concert with mixed emotions.  One of the songs I knew they would be playing was The Pusher, and it featured a lyric taking the Lord’s name in vain.  (Note: A pusher is a person who sells illegal drugs.)  I desperately wanted to see Steppenwolf, but I also knew at some point during the concert one of the Ten Commandments would be broken.  To ease my conscience I signed a petition outside of the Coliseum urging lead singer John Kay to refrain from singing the infamous lyric ‘G** D*mn, the pusher.’   As you might imagine, the petition had no impact whatsoever; after all, the show must go on.  I doubt Mr. Kay ever saw the petition.  As I said, signing it was simply a way to ease my conscience.

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Caleb was a friend of one of my sons since the time they went to elementary school together.  In fact it’s safe to say they’ve been lifelong friends.  Caleb shared his parents with three other brothers, one older and two younger.  I remember playing with the youngest brother in the local swimming pool before he reached his first birthday.  I distinctly remember throwing him out of the water, catching him and letting his tiny body splash back into the water all the way up to his neck.  Today that little boy is a starting offensive lineman for a Division 1 college football team.  Lord how time flies.

As for Caleb, he was a tad short for his age but that never held him back from playing a variety of sports, doing quite well at every single one of them.  He played on several basketball teams I coached in the mid-1990’s; Caleb was barely 10 years old when one of ours teams went undefeated and won the city’s rec league championship.  I remember how hard Caleb used to play, both during the games and at practice.  One of my favorite things to do as a coach was get on the court and scrimmage with the boys as we played a mock full court game for the last 30 minutes of every practice.  Caleb--easily a head shorter than me--always wanted to be the one to guard me.  One time during practice I was dribbling the basketball and stopped to shoot, holding the ball lower than normal to give Caleb a chance to block my shot.  And boy, did he ever.  A split second after the ball left my hand Caleb slapped the ball so hard and so fast that the ball instantly reversed direction and slammed into my hand, jamming one of my fingers so badly I couldn’t bend it for two weeks.  The boy played with reckless abandon, and it was impossible not to admire him for it. 

As a teenager Caleb had a growth spurt that lent a hand towards him earning a position as the number one wide receiver on his high school football team.   That in turned led to an athletic scholarship playing football for a Division 2 school.  Caleb was young, athletic and charismatic.  He had the world on a string. 

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When I saw Caleb last January it had been close to a generation since I had seen him last.  In fact I barely recognized him when he walked up to me and called me by name.  His voice was several octaves lower than I remembered, stubble was on his face where his peach fuzz used to be and he was now a full head taller than me.  Lord how time flies.  We talked about his mom and dad, his brothers and the time Caleb jammed my finger (He had forgotten, but I never will.).  We also talked about what Caleb would be facing in the days ahead: Rehabilitation.  Sadly this young boy who once had the world on a string had taken a bad turn somewhere along the way: A really, really bad turn. He was introduced to the wrong people who introduced him to the wrong things that…well, things that people just have no business being introduced to in the first place.  The rest of the story you can probably figure out for yourself.

Caleb, not quite as young or as athletic but still every bit as charismatic as ever had become an addict.  He didn’t blame anyone for his problems—other than himself, of course—and told me of his wishes to become clean and sober.  He was saying all the right things, but in his eyes where I hoped to see conviction and confidence I saw apprehension, fear and doubt.  I was dying on the inside as I tried my best to project a façade of optimism and encouragement on the outside.      

I wished Caleb the very best with his rehabilitation and told him I looked forward to the day he would be coming home.  I shook his hand, got in my car and noticed a tear in my eye as I drove off and watched him slowly disappear from my rear view mirror. 

I thought about the path of Caleb’s life and the similar paths of others whom I hold near and dear to my heart.  Then I thought about the people…those wrong people who sell illegal drugs for a living, preying on the young and destroying lives all over the world just to make a dollar.  Then I had this thought which gave me a shred of comfort:

There’s a special place in hell for every last one of them.  There has to be.      

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Caleb was found dead four months after I saw him last, the victim of an apparent drug overdose.

He would have been 30 later this year.     

You know, I've seen a lot of people walkin' 'round

With tombstones in their eyes

But the pusher don't care

Ah, if you live or if you die

God damn, The Pusher

-Lyrics by Hoyt Axton

Al at 70

Several years ago Dave, a friend of mine whom I had met at a race in Tennessee over a decade ago came all the way from Ohio to Peachtree City, Georgia to compete in one of our Darkside running events.  The first thing he asked me the morning of the race was this:

Is Al Barker going to be here?

Dave had read several of my books and anyone familiar with my publications knows that I spend considerable time writing about the personalities, accomplishments and idiosyncrasies of my running friends.  Of those friends, no one gets more ‘ink’ (nor has run more miles with me) than Albert E. Barker.   It didn’t surprise me one bit that Dave would immediately inquire about him on his first venture into Fayette County, Georgia.  After all, that’s where Al lives.   Or rather, gained his infamy. 

Anyone who has ever read anything I’ve written about Al over the years—and believe me when I tell you there’s a lot to be read—knows four things about him: (1) He’s an exceptional runner, (2) he’s an exceptional artist, (3) he’s an exceptional photographer and (4) he’s an exceptional character.  As for the latter,  Dave couldn’t wait to see the man who snacked on plastic potpourri at a social function because he mistakenly thought they were party snacks…and ate a handful of Starburst candies without removing the wrappers…and poured creamer into his glass of water instead of his coffee, then stirred it up and drank it…and ate an entire order of shrimp with the shells intact because after he ate the first one and his oversight was pointed out he tried to save face by saying that he ‘liked them that way’ and then had no other choice but to eat every last one of them, shells and all.  Dave thought it might be cold enough that Al would show up wearing a cat sweater as he did years ago, thinking he had grabbed his wool cap from the closet before heading out for a run.  Dave was anxious to meet the man famous for the quote ‘Put me down for a turd’ and the question ‘Have you ever stepped in your own sh*t?’ (Let me stop here for a moment: If you want to read more you’re just going to have to read my books.  No, this isn’t a shameless plug, rather simply a cold, hard fact.)   

Al turns 70 today.  It’s hard to believe that when we started running together in the fall of 1993 that Al, almost 10 years my senior was only 48 years old.  A lot of time and a lot of miles have accumulated since then.   While both of us have slowed down a bit over the years, Al has a lot to be proud of.  When he was 50 years old he ran a marathon in St. George, Utah a few seconds over three hours.  When he was 60 years old he ran 100 miles in San Diego, California in less than 24 hours.  In his 50’s he earned a piece of two Guinness World Records as a member of both the men’s masters and grandmasters 100 X 1 mile relay teams.

Before I met Al he had run a sub-five minute mile and a Boston Marathon in the low 2:50’s, not to mention numerous 10K’s in the 35 to 36 minute range.  The man had speed, endurance and a finishing kick that ranks with the best of them.  Still has the latter, in fact.  Do you know the joke about the two runners trying to elude a bear and one runner says to the other ‘we have to outrun this bear or we’re both going to die’ and the other runner says ‘no, I just have to outrun you!’   I mention it because if Al and I are ever running together near his cabin in the mountains of North Carolina and a bear comes chasing after us, Al better get to work writing my eulogy.

Al has already had quite an exciting year in 2015.  Last month he became a grandfather for the first time:  Al’s daughter Ashley and her husband Cameron became the proud parents of twin daughters Emery and Conner.  Al’s first question to me after telling me the news of the latest addition to the Barker clan was ‘How old were you when you ran your first race with Krischan (my grandson)?’  It didn’t surprise me one bit, because I know how anxious he is to share the things that mean the most to him with the people he loves.  And Al certainly loves his granddaughters.  (Be ready, girls: Paint brushes and cameras won’t be too far behind your first pair of running shoes!)      

As you might have guessed Al still has his competitive spirit.  Next month Al and I are running in a 5K race—a race he served as Race Director in its first year over three decades ago—as he is eager to see how he will fare in his new age group.   I remember a while back—about the time he turned 60, I believe—Al could tell who was in his age group by the number of wrinkles on the back of his competitors’ necks.   Something tells me that when he runs in that first 5K in his new age group he won’t be seeing too many wrinkled 70-year old necks in front of him.  The man can still run. 

Getting back to Dave from Ohio and wanting to meet Al, I’m happy to report that the two of them did meet that day and hit it off immediately.  Although Al wasn’t running in the race, he was going to lead the first 5.2-mile loop of the race on his bicycle.  A couple of minutes after I gave the ‘Go’ command to start the race, I saw Al walking back towards the starting line guiding his bicycle with one hand and a shoe in the grasp of the other.  It seems Al’s shoe was untied and the lace got tangled in the bicycle chain, forcing the tires to come to a sudden stop and causing Al to fly over the top of the handlebars and onto the ground in full view of all of the runners.    

It’s safe to assume Dave got what he came to Georgia looking for.