Very early this morning (the paper was here, but the parking lot was empty) I was unlocking the back entrance and noticed people way across the lobby appearing to do the same at the opposite door. When we all entered, I realized it was one of our instructors with a student and his mother. “Hi, Ed! We’re starting early today so Kevin can be off to camp.” That’s a sign of the parent’s valuing our service, of the instructor’s flexibility to meet the family’s needs, and of the student’s willingness to engage at such an early hour. As we say all the time, “The learner is at heart of the Stern Center.”

Last week we had a run of automotive bad luck. First, on one of those rare-to-Vermont perfect early summer days I drove the MG to work. Azure skies, brilliant but not sweltering sun, no rain in the forecast. It was a spectacular early morning drive. Ninety minutes later I went out to leave for a meeting downtown, turned they key, and to no surprise of MG drivers, absolutely nothing happened. No fuel pump engagement, no key buzz, no lights, no click. Nothing. Several creative attempts involving coworkers failed even to pop the clutch and bypass ignition. More on this later, but the next day I had to use my real car, only to discover an eighteen inch crack across the mid-sightline of the windshield. Two days after that Jill’s car had a flat tire; fortunately I discovered this in our garage. By that point our luck changed, primarily because we’d run out of cars!

So, the MG saga. Towing the car back to our home: $105. After reaching my mechanic and getting an appointment, towing it to him: $175. His time to make magic on the infamous Lucas Electronics, $125. Parts needed to build a better mousetrap: $10.
Driving the MGB again instead of paying for therapy: priceless!

Ebbett’s Field and Fenway Park.. Dad’s been a Dodgers fan for so long he refers to them as “my Dodgers.” From his days as a youngster at Ebbett’s Field in Brooklyn to eventually forgiving the owners for the exodus to LA, Dodger Blue has been his favorite color. I’m not sure how, but I ended up a Red Sox fan. Over the years, until 2004 anyway, he’s had more to celebrate. This year on Father’s Day weekend, Saturday, we made a road trip together for inter-league play to watch the Dodgers play Boston at Fenway. I picked him up around 9:30 for the trip down so we could avoid travel worries, get there in time for BP, and settle in for the 4:10 Game of the Week. Perfect travel, easy in and out on the Metro. Excellent seats in the leftfield grandstand. Delightful weather. Boston won in the bottom of the ninth, with two out and two strikes on Pedroia. We all went nuts; well, not the Dodgers fans, except for Dad who has quietly come to appreciate the Sox. After the return trip, I dropped him off a little before midnight. It was a long day, but the most time we’d spent together since my freshman year in college when we made an earlier road trip to Fenway. This time our conversations were more open, more meaningful, more profound. We talked about the baseball teams for sure, and we replayed the best moments of the game on the way home. But we also talked about family, values, and milestones of life. I know that clichés abound about baseball and fathers and sons, but this is one road trip I’ll never forget. Thanks for coming, Dad.

School’s out for summer! I was in fifth grade 8 years before Alice Cooper made that an anthem for “older” people, but I still remember the pre-Alice purity of the sentiment. In those unfettered summer days a small group of us would start the day deciding which brook to fish, which woods to explore, whose mother would make grilled cheese (or bologna) sandwiches, when to play baseball and whether four foul balls would equal an out. We’d end our day with one more decision, “Pink or regular lemonade?” So even now, maybe especially now, 45 years later when I realize that school’s out for summer, I long for days when the toughest decision is what color lemonade to have.

What do you say to a father, tears in his eyes because his son is finally able to read well enough to keep up with his 5th grade school work? Family dinners are no longer battle grounds about finishing the social studies chapter, the English essay, and the science lab report. Parent conferences have become celebrations instead of struggles. Report cards are now posted on the refrigerator. And the principal wrote him a congratulations note when he made the Honor Roll. I guess what you say, is simply, “That’s great!” even though you can’t really know how ‘great’ unless you’ve been there, done that as a parent.

About an hour into the Allen Toussaint concert last Friday night I realized I was smiling and that I had been since it began. Thirty minutes later, still smiling! Not odd, perhaps except that I inherited a generally stern resting countenance from my father, whose seeming ‘scowl’ intimidated more than a few childhood friends. Anyway, the point here is the power of music and the joyful, visceral impact it can have. Friday night it was foot tapping, head bobbing, body throbbing jazz, but another night it will be a Mozart concerto, an Eric Clapton guitar fling, a Japanese flute pastoral, or a Celtic harp. Music makes us smile, sometimes despite ourselves!

Run through the pain. Extend your limits. Establish a new personal best. Recover from this one and map out your training for the next. A few weeks ago I was talking with an ill, elderly friend, and he asked about my kids. I told him one was preparing for a half-marathon on Memorial Day Sunday. His eyes lit up, his voice deepened below a thin tenor, and his cheeks reddened as he asked if I’d heard about his first Boston Marathon, 72 years ago.

Delighted that I had not, he then spun a “It happened yesterday” account of his running the Boston as a callow 17 year old in brand new, leather running shoes, a gift from his father. He’d saved those shoes just for the race itself, not wanting to mar them prior to the big event. As you might have guessed, brand new leathers do not make effective footwear for the tortures of a marathon, and his feet began bleeding by the mid-point. He finished the race, running through pain and bleeding through his shoes which had to be cut from his feet at the finish line.

My daughter, unable to sufficiently train due to a demanding spring work schedule, and with a tender knee, also finished her race this past weekend. No blood. No shoe cutting, but in some pain and grateful for finishing in “acceptable” time.

Both runners ran through pain, extended their limits, and spoke immediately about “the next one.” They shared a kindred spirit of determination, effort, and endurance. They would have liked each other, perhaps enjoyed a slow beer together had they run the same event. My friend died just a few days after telling me about his Boston. My daughter is plotting her next training regimen. Indomitable spirits, both.