Boston Strong

A city has a pulse, a soul. It can be heard in the symphony of sounds that play out on its streets; it can be felt in its old buildings and in its rich culture; and it can be seen in the unique character of its people. This pulse continues in good times and in bad. It beats through happiness and strife. It endures, and in a nation as strong and proud as the United States, the pulse from some cities is so loud and distinct that their identities are often known and treasured around the world.

Cities, like New York and San Francisco, like New Orleans and Atlanta, like Nashville and Seattle and many, many more, exist as both independent entities and brilliant accompaniments to their nation. They shine with rare qualities that make them stand out from the crowd, that make them representatives of our great nation.

Boston is one of those cities. It’s always stood out, and following the events of April 15, 2013, it will stand out now more than ever.

On the third Monday of every April, Massachusetts and Maine observe Patriots’ Day, a civic holiday that commemorates the anniversary of the Battles of Concord and Lexington, the first two battles of the American Revolutionary War. Schools and businesses are closed. Festivities ensue.

Boston celebrates this day of patriotism and pride with the running of the Boston Marathon, the world’s oldest annual marathon. This year’s marathon, however, was clouded by the actions of two terrorists. Just before 3:00pm, hours after the race had begun, twin explosions rocked the finish line of the marathon, sending spectators and runners alike into a state chaos and panic.

Extraordinarily, even before what had happened was completely clear, some people were charging towards the scenes of the explosions. Video of the event reveals some of the heroes of that day, selflessly running towards danger to save anyone they could.

That was the first indication of how Boston would react to the horror and terror of the attack. Instead of folding under, instead of running away in fear, the city and its people would hold their heads high in the days following the bombings. They would prove to exemplify their rallying cry of “Boston Strong.”

While the details of the attack were still being revealed and the suspects were still at large, the city reacted in the only way it knew how: with strength and pride. Unsure of what the days after the attack would bring, Bostonians pulled together as if to say, “You picked the wrong city to mess with.” During the Bruins game on the Wednesday night following the marathon, their mettle was further proven as the entire crowd joined in with the national anthem, all but drowning out the singer there to perform.

Mirroring the moment at the Bruins game, a chorus of voices calling for love and justice has risen to all but drown out the evil deeds of two men, who were identified and subdued in record time, a truly amazing feat performed by both federal and Massachusetts law enforcement. These voices represent a city and a nation that values freedom and justice.

Yes, Boston has a pulse, and today, that pulse is beating stronger than ever, and while it mourns the loss of three bright young lives, it proves that evil actions will not define it, that dark clouds won’t hang over its buildings and trees and streets paved with heart, strength, and bravery. It has been and will forever be Boston Strong.

Number 7

The Famous Slide

“Braves win! Braves win! Braves win!” I can still remember Skip Carey yelling those sweet words. I had been sprawled out on our living room floor, eyes glued to the television, tomahawk chopping the night away. I was nine-years old and had a pretty serious passion for baseball. As Skip yelled, I danced across the room, screaming and shouting for my Atlanta Braves.

Sid Bream sliding into home base on that fateful night in 1992 is one of those moments that just sticks with you.  Great baseball can deliver those moments, and there’s a new baseball team in my life now that I expect will deliver some awesome ones.

My nearly four-year old nephew Garrett started playing t-ball this year. He plays for a less famous Braves team and is the number 7. Naturally, I’m pretty excited that he wears Mickey Mantle’s number, and I’m absolutely convinced that he’s going to be the next Chipper Jones or perhaps Greg Maddox, ‘cause y’alll this boy can throw!

He had his first game over the weekend. Number 7, with a slightly too big uniform and face perpetually smudged with dirt or chocolate, covered first and third and hit a couple of line drives. He ran the bases like a pro and slid into home with a finesse that would make even Sid Bream jealous. Sliding into home and running the bases are his favorite moves, but his real talent lies in his hitting and throwing.

Naturally, I’m partial, but I’ve never seen a three-year old with a better arm than Garrett. I see baseball scholarships and major league pennants in his future. Of course, I won’t push; he’s got his entire future ahead of him, so if he decides to give up baseball and play the guitar instead, he’ll have his Aunt Katie’s undying support. But I do see a little natural talent in the way he tosses that ball.

Sunday afternoon was spent with a family game of baseball in the backyard. Mama and Daddy (Nana B and Papa to Garrett) set up a makeshift baseball diamond, complete with a chair as first base and terracotta planters as second and third. A busted up stick from an oak tree served as home plate.

Papa pitched, and Garrett was first up to bat. He connected on the first pitch, and the crowd went wild. He made it all the way to third, and the tone of the game was set.

We soon learned that baseball according to Garrett’s rules was a little different. The little smarty pants took full advantage of the chair base, sitting down every time he made it to first, and he gave a whole new meaning to the word switch hitter. If ever he swung and missed a pitch, he’d turn around and face the catcher, my husband Jeremy, and say “Now, you throw!” And the catcher would become the pitcher.

Despite some initial confusion over the chair base and switch hitting, it was easily the best baseball game I’ve ever played in or watched. I see big things in Number 7’s future. 

Piano

                                          Source: nadjaseale.com via Sarah on Pinterest

The piano sits silent in MawMaw’s dining room. It collects dust and knick knacks and is all but forgotten by everyone who visits. 

As a long-legged, scabbed-knee little girl, I was fascinated by that piano, spent countless hours sitting on its bench, exploring its secrets. I would caress the slightly yellowed keys, press up and down on the squeaky pedals with feet that just barely reached. Sometimes, MawMaw would join me on the bench, and together we’d play chopsticks until the whole household would groan in collective annoyance. 

MawMaw can play by ear. She has no need for music; she can just magically find the notes on the yellowed keys, some inherent skill for rhythm and tune that still escapes me to this day. Her skill fascinated me as a child. To be able to sit down at that lovely instrument and just play was something I yearned for, and MawMaw yearned for one of her grandchildren to follow in her footsteps and love the piano as she did. 

“She has the long, graceful fingers of a piano player,” I remember her telling Mama and Daddy, a hopeful tone in her voice. Looking down at my stubby, fat fingers now, I wonder how they might have ever appeared long and graceful, but in Mawmaw’s eyes, they were.

Because of her and my keen interest her piano, Mama and Daddy decided to pay for piano lessons for me. Luckily, my Aunt Dera taught lessons. Two nights a week, I went to my aunt and uncle’s house in Tallapoosa to receive the lessons and put my piano-playing fingers to work.

Their glossy black piano was much different from the oak upright that MawMaw played. Its keys were whiter than white and gleamed as my fingers danced across them. Dera patiently sat beside me on the bench and introduced to me the unfamiliar language of music.

Notes and scales and music books cluttered the desk stand above the keyboard, as well as my mind. Happily, and it took plenty of long, frustrating hours of practice, I finally learned a couple of songs. I could pound out a decent “Jingle Bells” and “Jesus Loves Me,” but my specialty by far was the celebratory notes of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”

When I sat down at MawMaw's piano last weekend after gorging myself on her yummy roast and potatoes, my fingers found the notes of "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing." It took a couple of tries and a few missed keys, but the song came back to me, hesitantly at first and then stronger. The piano seemed to remember me.

Unbidden, tears filled my eyes as I reacquainted myself with this old friend from childhood, its keys and pedals as familiar to me as any doll or toy that I ever played with. The knob was still missing from the key cover where I had twisted and turned it a million times in play. The keys were still yellowed and older than when I last touched them, but as beautiful as any instrument I had ever seen.

After my impromptu reunion, MawMaw sat down with us and reminisced of times when PawPaw had asked her to play for him. She would oblige and play for a long while; when she’d return to him in the living room, he’d be propped up in his recliner, sound asleep. We laughed, as she told us how she’d ask him if he was listening, and he would smile and say he heard every note, that he was just resting his eyes.

I can almost hear him say it, eyes closed, big grin on his face. The piano was a gift to her from him, an outward sign of their shared love. I guess that's probably why I love it so, because when I look at it, I see PawPaw's heart, and when I play it, I hear his heart. 

It's true that the piano may sit silent in MawMaw’s dining room now, but in this girl's heart, the memories attached to it will play on forever. 

Change - Dedicated to the Hedin Family

Change, it’s the only thing we’ve been able to rely on lately. The last few months have been a whirlwind of change and renewal in the Ross household, and while I’m happy about all of the changes and satisfied with the direction our lives have taken lately, I’ll have to admit it’s all been pretty exhausting.

It started over the Summer. Jeremy enrolled online at Jacksonville State University. Since we married in 2007, he’s been working on-and-off to obtain his degree. The summer of 2012 marked the most serious and permanent jump towards this effort, and it also marked the entrance of college loans into our lives. 

I didn’t anticipate the stress these loans would add to our lives. I had been fortunate enough to have the HOPE scholarship while in college, so I hadn’t accrued mountains of student loan debt. Also, Jeremy and I had lived under pretty strict self-inflicted financial rules for the duration of our married life and were hard-core avoiders of debt that wasn’t a mortgage.

In an instant, all that changed.

Also changing was my professional life. My supervisor and mentor moved on to another job. Other factors at work started shifting; my footing became less and less sure. And it became more and more clear that it was time to move on. I spent several months in a state of unrest. I was unsatisfied with the direction of things; I felt restless and impatient.

I changed during this time. I became Katie Version 2.0. I was myself, but I was stronger. I was more confident. I was less willing to settle. I was less willing to let people walk all over me. At the time, I didn’t even recognize the shift in myself. I only felt the struggle, the frustration. I overlooked the benefits of hardship. Such is human nature.

Blessed relief came in the form of a new job in December and that’s when I noticed the difference in myself. The weight that was lifted with my new job felt nearly like a personality transplant. The stress that had driven my life for so long seemed to evaporate. The happiness that was always just below the surface bubbled up, and I was the Katie that I wanted to be again.

As my new job evolves, as I find my footing and forge my new path, my happiness seems to only grow. As scary as it was to make the first leap from comfort zone to unchartered waters, I’m so relieved that I made that dive, that I’m beginning to make a real splash in my new career.

Tomorrow marks the beginning of another change. Jeremy will be embarking on a new part-time endeavor. As usual, I feel the butterflies and uncertainties that each new challenge brings. Doubt and hesitation make my heart skip a few beats as I think about the days and weeks to come.

With work and school and new-found hobbies and all of the wonderful things we want to try and do, how will we find time for it all? How will we handle all of these changes? How will we embrace new choices and goals and dreams?

I don’t know. I do know that we have survived change before. I do know that life is change and that I better get used to it. I do know that the only thing we can rely on in the coming months and years is that the world is spinning, and we’re going to need to run to keep up.

I do know that when it’s all said and done we’ll be able to see clearly the changes in ourselves and how through hardships and strife, through love and hate, through dark days and sunny, we only become better.

Hi friends,

My blogging friend Nina and her husband Tom are facing some dark days now. Nina is the author of ArtsyNina. She is the kind, witty mother of Jack and June and the wife of Tom. On January 5th, Tom was in a horrible snowmobile accident that left him seriously injured. He sustained numerous injuries to both legs and arms, to his head, his spine, etc., and his road to recovery is going to be long and difficult. 

Unfortunately, the financial burden of this recovery is difficult as well. Because Tom just started a new job recently, he doesn't qualify for FMLA, and Tom and Nina are facing medical bills that will just keep piling up as his recovery goes on. 

So that Tom can focus on his priority, which should be his recovery, a GiveForward site has been created in his honor to assist with the medical bills. If you are able to donate even a few dollars toward the Hedin family, I can assure you they will be appreciated. This young family is just like our own families; they just happened to stumble upon a bad turn of events. Even if you are not able to give, please help to share Tom and Nina's story. 

Thanks for reading!

There is Always Some Light

I am not a parent. I am not one of the millions of people who will send my child back to school in a changed world on Monday morning. I will not experience that moment of doubt or hesitation as I send my child off to a place that should be as safe as their own home, holding on to them a little longer than usual as I wrestle with emotions that no parent should ever have to feel. I will not have to have that difficult conversation with a child of seven or of seventeen, struggling desperately to answer an earnest question of “why,” when I don’t even know the answer to that question myself.

I am not a teacher. I am not one of the millions of people who choose to care for and guide future generations, who do so with a loving and patient hand.  I won’t look into the faces of twenty or thirty kids who are as dear to me as my own, choking down that sickening feeling of “what if.” I won’t have to attend a training session on what to do if a worst case scenario, heaven forbid, ever pays visit to my own school.

I am not a lot of things, but what I am, what we all are, is human. And collectively, on Friday, December 14, we, as teachers, as parents, as aunts, uncles, grandparents, friends, and as humans, mourned a great loss. A loss of twenty precious angels, aged six to seven, innocently going about their day at school. A loss of six incredibly brave adults, adults who sought to protect those angels, adults who left behind their own angels and loving families. An intangible loss of security, of confidence, of feeling safe where one should feel safest. Something, that some of us, will never get back.

As we mourned on Friday and throughout the weekend, some of us naturally turned towards anger. We shook our fists and raised our voices. We screamed questions of “why?” and “how can we prevent this from happening again?” We offered up our own solutions, citing better gun control laws, easier access to mental health resources and education, bringing religion into schools, teaching better values at home.

We pointed towards all of the usual suspects, desperately seeking resolution, desperately reaching out for some kind of tool to prevent this horror from ever touching us again.

But even in our anger, even in our frustration, confusion, and sadness, we reached out. In the days that followed that unspeakable horror, the world seemed to swallow up Newtown, Connecticut and its mourning citizens in a collective embrace of helping hands, of shoulders to cry on, of shared tears. There were teddy bear and greeting card drives, words written to ease minds and to incite change, dollars collected to provide support to a broken community.

Even in darkness, there is always some light. In this case, it glows from a million hearts from around the world, who collectively grieve for the parents, the teachers, the children, the friends, and the families of those touched by Friday’s event.

I am not a parent. I am not a teacher. But I am and, forever will be, touched by the events of Friday, December 14, 2012 and by the aftermath of love and kindness that restored faith and comforted, not just victims, not just families, but the whole of humanity. Let us not remember the evil that spurred this immeasurable loss. Let us remember the love that caused the world to reach out, the heroes who will undoubtedly continue to emerge, and the spirits of those sweet angels who are now in the arms of a loving God.

All the way down here in Georgia, my light shines for you, Newtown.

                                                                      Source: 3.bp.blogspot.com via Courtney on Pinterest