My mother has been in rehab for two weeks after 3 in hospital for a systemic infection which continues, fortunately at a much reduced level, but which has also left her essentially immobilized and in considerable discomfort. Not fun anytime, but especially when you’re 80. So I’ve been visiting on alternate days trying to provide a connection to the outside world, encourage her hard work in PT, and just let her know we love her. However, even with those good intentions I have noticed myself becoming a bit frustrated that the PT hasn’t progressed any faster. “Come on, Mom. It’s going to be hard work, and it will be painful, but you need to work through that in order to get back on your feet.” That sort of thing; Ed, the personal trainer.

Until two days ago when I pulled muscles in my back after shoveling wet snow too vigorously for too long. That night I couldn’t take my socks off without sitting down, pulling on foot onto the opposite knee and gently tugging, first the toe, then the heel. For two days it has taken me 15 extra minutes to get dressed in the morning. I get in and out of my car by slowly sitting backward, perpendicular to the seat, then more slowly dragging myself into driving position. I won’t let myself sneeze while driving because the pain brings tears to my eyes and would definitely distract me from the road.

So, I’m at least partially considering that this back pain is meant to be instructive. Cut Mom a bit more slack. Allow time for the PT process to work. Pain is a legitimate voice from one’s body. OK, I get it. Lesson received. Now, I need help putting on my suit coat…

It’s been a while. Life simply got in the way and refused me the time and inclination to write. However, it’s a new year, and I just had an encounter that begs recording, at least in the parameters of my life and what increasingly matters.

Earlier this morning I made passing eye contact with a woman in our waiting room. Some barely perceptible click occurred and I glanced back to discover her doing the same thing. No nods, no smiles of recognition, but the click was a bit louder. I allowed that to linger for several seconds waiting for the “Aha!” that never came, so I simply completed my tasks and returned to my office. Thirty minutes later new business brought me back through the waiting room and this time we both began with, “Aren’t you…..”

We first knew each other in 1976 when I was a first year English teacher and she was a sophomore. A few years later I became an elementary school principal; she got married and had children who attended the school. Since it’s Vermont, after a 10-year circuitous trip in and out of being a principal, I returned as a high school principal, and one of her children was a freshman. So, after 35 years we spent 35 minutes playing “Do you remember…?” and “Where is…”

This was such a rich encounter. It illustrates not only the jewel of connections and how we touch each others lives, but also reinforces the notion from Marian Wright Edleman in her little book The Measure of Our Success, “…that many fruits of your labor will not become manifest for many, many years.”

I was struck by the power of expectations in an unusual context last week. Wednesday night, Jill and I went to dinner at a terrific local bistro (great atmosphere, good food, always a good time) followed by the Pink Martini concert at the Flynn. Thursday night we grabbed a burger and frys (their spelling) at Als (their punctuation) and then went to a high school production of Beauty and the Beast. The interesting part was that despite the better food and undeniably fantastic talent on Wednesday night, I felt a bit more energized by the burger and occasionally struggling vocalists of Thursday night. Why? I presume because I know the bistro so well and have all but one of Pink Martini’s CDs, that I expected more from that evening. On the other hand, Als is Als where the black and white tile and red plastic booths are the atmosphere, and the food is not heart healthy. And any high school production where you aren’t connected to the players does not promise high art of high engagement. However, the opening night of Beauty was a beauty. Extravagant and gorgeous costumes, fine acting by a few and acceptable performances by all, excellent voices by a few, terrific sets. All and all that was a surprisingly entertaining show. Don’t get me wrong, Pink Martini was a blast, charming, funny, enormously talented, pulsing energy, fabulous on-stage dynamic; and the dinner before was fine. But sometimes, when our expectations are not high, nights like the high school theater sneak up on us and make for a delightful surprise.

In planning a tribute event for a former Stern Center board member we solicited family photos from his wife and his parents. When the bundle of photos arrived from his parents our team spent many minutes in entertaining discovery as well as personal reminiscence as we (those of us of an age) recognized clothing and hair styles, furniture types, crude technology like dial-phones and rabbit ears, and even the faux leather miniature photo albums produced by Kodak. While I chuckled, recognized and flashed back, I was struck by a powerful, almost visceral reminder of when I wore my Zorro cape, mask, cummerbund, and saber one Christmas morning many decades ago. It’s time to look for those old photos.

You now that phenomenon of buying a new car which you think is reasonably special only to then discover that seemingly 33% of all cars on the road are the same as yours? Or you hear what you think is a new band on the local album station only to learn from 4 out of 10 friends that they’ve all been fans for a year or more? Well, that’s what’s happened to me and ducks. Yes, ducks. The Stern Center is hosting a special event that includes a rubber duck race, and we’ve had our webbed feet wet for a few months now, with the event just a week away. Everywhere I turn I’m bumping into ducks in one form or another, and it’s not just in relation to the race. Admittedly some of it is our own making: the miniature rubber ducks on our key chains, the 8 different styles of rubber ducks lining our hallway, the rubber duck rain poncho tacked on the wall, singing duck puppets, a yellow duck stress ball on my desk (made necessary by all the other ducks flocking in), post-it notes, note pads, event posters. But, as they say on QVC, there’s more which we did not create: I walked into a restaurant yesterday and the Specials Menu is topped with Grilled Autumnal Duck. Someone recommends Lucky Duck wine. I scoop out a handful of M&M’s from a colleague’s bowl and end up with all yellow and orange. There are no new ‘duck puns’ to be made, but people keep trying. I know, I know, this is starting to sound like I might need therapy. Actually, all I need is for us to have a successful event, with lots of ducks in the race, large funds raised for scholarships, and hundreds of happy people enjoying a ducky evening on, of course, the waterfront!

Ducks Unlimited! No, not the hunters/conservationists, but rather a large raft of ducks partially disguised as colleagues here at the Stern Center. Last Friday morning our development/marketing team had another of our seemingly endless work sessions focused on our upcoming event, the First Duck Race. The event will raise funds for our scholarship program while honoring the many contributions of former board member Dr. Lewis First and doing so with the added light-hearted element of a rubber duck race. In a charming and warming show of support, several colleagues appeared in our halls and in our meeting room adorned with various duck regalia. Customized T-shirts imprinted with our event invitations, beaks, webbed feet, hats and visors complete with orange bills and cartoon eyes, feathered boas in yellow/orange/white. It was delightful and uplifting to be greeted by feathers, quacking, and good will at every turn. Human Resources literature abounds with accounts and evidence that people tend to love jobs first because of the people and second because of the nature of the work. The people last Friday are certainly a ‘first’ as they helped us gear up for the First Duck Race!

I felt like Day Two of the flu. On a day-to-day basis I generally don’t think about my age much, still practicing the delusion that the pretty young woman was actually looking at me not just trying to read the sign behind me. I avoid mirrors and photographers and don’t try to compete with 20 or 30 somethings on a basketball court, all of which makes it easier. However, a few days ago I spent 9 straight hours landscaping a 30x12 raised bed, digging holes in clay-based soil, edging the bed, hauling mulch, and planting the shrubs. Fortunately I was working with a guy, so we served as mutual incentive (“I’m not taking a break if he doesn’t need one.”). The telling part was the next morning. Even though I’d done the 1,000 grams of ibuprofen throughout the workday, the next morning I felt like I had the full blown flu minus the fever and congestion. And I still had 10 shrubs to plant in a hedgerow near the raised bed. I decided 6 would be enough before shuffling inside to the heating pad and a college football game where I watched in wonder as those kids slammed into each other at full speed and simply bounced back up. All I did was plant shrubs four days ago, and I’m just not feeling fully back to that same old guy looking back at me in the mirror I can’t avoid when I shave. I hope all this aging eventually brings the wisdom everyone promises.