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Sara Rimer's brilliant essay on Manny being Manny

While there is no question that Manny Ramirez remains one of the hardest people in sports about whom to write thoughtfully, there should be no confusion about the brilliance with which Sara Rimer has written about him today in The New York Times.

Ramirez confounded pitchers and the best bards of baseball during his career, but Sara Rimer -- a former NY Times reporter and a 20-year acquaintance of the complicated but beautiful baseball player -- has written perhaps the first really elegant, really smart profile of this complicated, post-modern hitter.

Draw your own conclusion about Manny's place in the pantheon of baseball stars, but there is no question about the quality of this essay.  I hope it's taught to first year students at Boston University (where Ms. Rimer now works) and other fine universities for years to come. 

Winter

This is when it gets tough.  

The 3rd week of February, when you are walking the dog yet again in the teeth of a stiff wind and single-digit temps.

Or when you embark on a cross-country ski, only to discover the community trail is not groomed, leaving you to traverse 1-2 inches of powder atop several layers of hard pack snow and ice.  

Or when you grab the snowboard and descend a community hill, only to find a 20-25 mile wind rattling your helmet and teeth as you descend a bullet-proof hill, daring not leave the trail that is groomed for the glades that resemble a skating rink.  

A person can begin to wonder, will Winter ever end?  Certainly this is what I began to hear in my own family a few weeks ago, when there were loads of fresh powder on the ground and sweet temps in the teens to accompany it.  

Winter, end?  

Two weeks ago was the height of the 2011 season.  At the time, I cross-country skied for more than two hours each weekend day.  I hit each of my favorite trails on the Dartmouth Skiway until I thought my knees and leg muscles would fall apart.  Each weekend, I kept a regular regime of snowboarding in the morning, followed by a brief nap and then a long cross-country ski.  Dinner was a messy, confused affair, as I struggled to find the energy to prepare and cook food for five people.  All I wanted to do was fall into bed and sleep so I could repeat these activities next day.

But this was the week things began to shift.  Temperatures suddenly soared, leaving the solid world of single and below-zero temps for new territory above freezing.  In Boston on Thursday, the temperature rose as high as 62 degrees.  The same the next day in Lyme, NH.  On the heels of that rapid thaw came a hard cold, and while it might seem like Winter is here forever, the trend ahead is unmistakeable.  As we prepare to exit February, this part of the Earth tips ever closer to the Sun.  By next week, there is not a day forecast ahead that will be below freezing.  The mounds of snow that tower above my head on the road where I walk my dog will surely and slowly begin to melt.  The powder snow -- so present and welcome over the last six weeks -- will go away unless an sudden, welcome March storm should appear.  It might take another 4-6 weeks, but Winter is closing fast.

This is too bad.  We've had a glorious Winter in 2011.  Certainly better than the last two years, and perhaps one of the very best since we moved to Lyme in 2000.  After a slow start, snow fell by the bucket in January and early February.  Sure, it meant tons of work around the house, but it also brought ungodly adventures on the snowboard and cross-country skis.  Thanks to the generosity of Peoples United Bank, I got to play hooky in early February for a ski-and-ride day at Okemo after we had gotten more than 12 inches of fresh powder.  The result was one of the finest days I've ever had on the slopes.  

It capped a glorious season of cold.  And what I've learned is that the cold season of Winter, which can seem so inhospitable, might in fact be the best season of the year.  Better even than Summer.  

How so?

First, the caveats.

1) Get the right clothes.  After ten years of living in northern New England, I've learned that having six jackets, six vests, six hats, six pairs of gloves and mittens, and three outer pants is just barely enough to handle the conditions which come with Winter.  Add leggings (also six pairs), socks (12-15 pairs), special Winter pants (three pairs), and special underwear (four pairs), and you are on the way to being ready anything Winter can throw at you.

2) Don't overdress.  Sure, you got all of these clothes, but only wear what is absolutely necessary.  Learn to accommodate the cold, to adjust and cover what is essential.  For me, it's critical to cover my bald head and my skinny hands.  Get my core (chest and legs), and the rest is nice but not critical.

3) Lotion, lotion, lotion.  Cold means your skin suffers, so use lip balm everyday and cover rough spots with good moisturizers before they get rough.

4) Find two outdoor activities to embrace in the Winter.  This is the most important and hardest caveat to realize, but once mastered, it unlocks the key to a heavenly season.  Between snowboarding and cross-country skiing, I could spend almost all day, every day outside in Winter if the conditions are good.  In fact, I find myself outside as much or more in Winter than I do in Summer because I have so many activities to do.  Add in the housework of shoveling and roof-raking and ice-dam breaking, and it's not unusual to find me outside 6-9 hours every weekend day during the Winter. 

5) Go to sleep early.  I think the hardest part of Winter, the piece which does not bend, involves the loss of light from mid-November to the end of January.  It's two-and-a-half months of darkness that cannot be improved by clothing or exercise.  Sure, buying a lamp helps a lot, but there is no getting around the strength which comes from sunlight.  And during that time, well, it helps to crash in time so that you can wake at or before the sunlight.  Some of my favorite memories of Winter rest with driving thru New Hampshire before 6am, watching the sun rise over the White Mountains. 

One month from now, Spring will officially begin on March 21st.  I expect our lawn will remain largely covered in snow by then, and that there won't be a hint of flowers or new grass for at least another month.  But Winter will be over nonetheless.  Over the next month, the temperatures will no doubt fluctuate from -10 to 50 degrees.  The ground will harden and soften.  I will move from heavy jackets and multiple layers to light jackets and one layer.  The light will grow and grow, until I find myself cooking dinner once again in the warmth of twilight. 

And in that moment, when I serve dinner at 7pm and see light outside, I will cast into the past for that time just a few months ago, in the Winter of 2011, when it was cold and dark outside, and I was tired from having covered each end of the Earth I knew with my skis and snowboard. 

Racin' at Pats

Here's some quick video of my son, Jacob Glenshaw, racing today with his Ford Sayre teammates and other the J-3s at Pat's Peak in Henniker, New Hampshire.  Three runs of a slalom course. 

 

I could write a lot about what's involved with families and winter sports in northern New England (e.g., skiing, hockey, x-country skiing), but suffice to say both Glenshaw parents were awake at 5:30am on this Sunday and out of the house by 6:30am for a very full, cold day. 

How to close this post?  

I think Jacob said it best at dinner tonight: "I can't wait to go to bed."

Economic Mud Season

Imagine This:

Come home at the end of the day, pet the dog, kiss the kids, un-shoulder bags and coats, and head straight for the deck outside. 

Why?

To answer the question.

The Question?

How much snow has melted?

The Next Question:

Has Mud Season arrived, and when will I get the chance to throw the ball against the pitch-back for my dog, Bear, again?

A triumphant, affirmative answer came three nights ago, when enough snow disappeared to create a small landing strip for the baseball wobbling against the pitch-back.  By tonight, a semi-field existed of yellow, frozen-crusted grass and dirt, enough for me to rear-back like Randy Johnson and thrown a hard fastball from 30 yards away.  My black Labrador dog, Bear -- now soft and out-of-shape after three-plus months of gentle walks from our house around the Lyme Common, all due to the frozen and deep snow which lay in our backyard this Winter -- panted again and again as I threw the ball. 

This is hope.  This is the real thing.  A dark sky, a million stars, and the thrill of pitching a scuffed baseball again and again and again into the night at an aging pitch-back device. 

A look-ahead at the weather forecast suggests Winter might be done for good.  Like last year, the snow is receding very quickly.  The Dartmouth Green is almost completely worn of snow.  The Dartmouth Skiway has precious few trails remaining in operation, barely enough to meet this weekend's festivities.  Cross-country skiing is finished, even though the woods surrender their snow last.

On days like this, the mornings arrive brisk and solid as ice, but by 11am, it's nearly 50 degrees Fahrenheit.  Jackets fall away, hats are doffed, and almost everyone seems to have an extra bounce in their step and gait. 

Mud season is everywhere.  Regardless of where people live -- be it China or India, London or New York, Washington or Moscow -- they seek signs which suggest some thaw in the economic deep freeze which has gripped the nation and the world since at least the Fall of 2007. 

This afternoon at the Tuck School of Business at Dartmouth College, Jeff Immelt of General Electric described the situation in candid terms that were as worrying as optimistic.  We're living in historic times, he said, the likes of which he never could have predicted seeing in his lifetime.  Immelt recalled that in mid-September 2008, he received a phone call from then-Treasury Secretary Hank Paulson (a fellow Dartmouth alumnus) who suggested that it was entirely possible that the Federal Reserve window for borrowing might not open the next day, and that GE ought to do everything it can to prepare for that possibility.  Immelt described how he and a team at General Electric stayed up the entire night that evening preparing for that possibility. 

Mud Season resets the calendar for those of us who live in northern New England.  Suddenly our skin is not so dry and itchy.  Suddenly our driveways are clear of snow and ice.  Suddenly the snow drifts don't hover near the tree branches. 

Immelt said this economic crisis is as deep and fundemental a reset as any in the last 100 or more years.  It's the mud season to end all mud seasons.  Immelt, a staunch Republican who said he has never voted for a Democrat, declared this afternoon that "we're all Democrats now."  Government spending is the only answer, and a resetting of expectations around compensation, regulation, and social values is critical for businesses who hope to succeed in this new environment. 

The market rally -- is it that? -- of the last few weeks appears to be a kissin-cousin of the optimism I bring every night to my back porch.  I seek an end to the snow and ice in my backyard.  Everyone else is asking, has housing hit bottom?  Will durable good orders increase?  Is there a bottom there, please?  When does this horrible movie end?

Politicians assure us the end, if not in clear sight, will appear soon.  Even Jeff Immelt said today that an end to this economic calamity will come.  No one is entirely sure when, but if there's any parallel with mud season, it surely lies in the fact that time, place, and season to all things in this world.

Mud season does arrive.  Spring follows, and Summer not long afterwards.  Will the economy behave similarly?

I hope so.  Everyone hopes so.

Winter Begins Its Slow Retreat

Up here, in the northern part of New Hampshire, we hardly notice when crowds gather around a Pennsylvania rodent in early February to determine if Winter will last another six weeks.  For us, it’s a given.  Winter will last another six weeks. 

In fact Winter hardly surrenders until late March or early April in this climate.  And even then, the bet is that cold weather and even the occasional snowstorm will carry forth while the rest of the nation enjoys daffodils amidst their Easter egg hunts. 

Not here.  My kids have always hunted for chocolate eggs and jelly beans when the ground stood cold, hard, and frozen on Easter.  Halloween is occasionally warm in northern New Hampshire, but Easter?  Never.

Even so, the signs that Winter has begun its annual retreat from our landscape are unmistakable. 

It starts with the most obvious and welcome of signs:  Mr. Sun.  By now, the Sun’s presence in our life is nearly as strong as it was before Halloween.  Even without the wonderful unfair advantage of Daylight Savings Time, the ground still glows and twinkles at 5:30pm thanks the Sun’s presence.  A full day of skiing no longer ends in the dark.  And a late afternoon cross-country ski has suddenly been extended by hours.  My headlamp hasn’t been used in weeks.  There is daylight, and every day brings more and more warmth and terror to Winter.

And then this:  the Red Sox.  Yes ma’am and sir, please welcome the Home Town Team.  Pitchers and catchers reported about a week ago, and it seems like almost everyone on the roster has made it to Fort Meyer, Florida by now.  There’s Big Papi, wearing shades, looking strong and lean.  Look, there’s Tek, Lowell, Youk, and our MVP, Dustin Pedroia.  The Boston Globe carries daily quotes from Tito, and I’m trying to remember the names of the new players (Scholtz?...National League guy, right?)

My backyard is completely covered in snow.  I’ve not thrown a ball against my aging pitchback since early December, and don’t expect to do so for another month or more.  If I have to walk my dog around the Lyme Common much beyond March, instead of throwing the ball to him via the pitchback, I think both Bear and I will go crazy.  It’s time again for baseball.  It’s time for nine innings of play.  Enough with the four-quarter madness of football and basketball.  Let’s get out there and throw a ball, hit a ball, catch a ball for a bunch of hours, day after day.  

And then, finally, this: fatigue with Winter. 

I know, it sounds heretical.  Fatigue with Winter?  How could it be so?

After all, we ski and snowboard and cross country ski and ice skate and sled and do just about everything there is to do in the snow and ice that dominates a northern New England Winter.  And we love it.  When the first flakes fall in October or November, the whole house explodes.  Kids and parents run outside.  We pull out the winter clothing.  We argue about whose gloves belong to whom.  We wonder what happened to that neck warmer (“that’s mine…..no, it’s not….I know it is mine…” etc).

But by now, we’ve done almost everything Winter could offer.  This Winter has been very strong.  Solid, almost Western-like snow fell throughout January, bringing fresh powder weekend after weekend to the hills of New Hampshire.  It has been so good that I’ve finally gone down every hill on the Dartmouth Skiway (Waterfall was my last double-black diamond to conquer), and even managed to finish a new extension of another double black-diamond, Lower Liftline.  The cross-country skiing has been equally fabulous.  Steady snow and solid grooming have made it a paradise.  Since December, I have often found myself in the office chair on Monday delighted to have simple place to sit for 6-8 hours after a weekend of going up and down snow-covered hills.  I’ve jumped.  I’ve fallen.  I’ve made turns unexpectedly and graciously.  I’ve gotten better and found room for improvement.  I’ve crawled into bed at 9pm at night and felt like it was 1am or later. 

But by now, I feel spent.   Each weekend in the Winter, we wake-up earlier than we doing during the week.  Tonight, with the exception of me, everyone in my family fell asleep by 8:30am.  We’re tired early and early each night.  A wake-up call at 7am feels like a chance to sleep late.   Each of us begins to yearn for mud-season, when the ground is dirt brown and wet and the air humid with 40 degree temps and everything in northern New England is ugly, because it means sleep and no wake-up calls and something called a weekend. 

That day will come.  I know it will.  Until then, we have about six solid weeks of Winter left, and four weeks of improbable, hard-to-predict weather ahead after that.  No one is breaking-out the spring clothes here.  We all know what is ahead.  We’re taking extra cold medicine and getting to bed earlier.  Winter is fading like an old movie star, and we know there’s nothing speedy to either process. 

Bush's Last Day (and Mine)

If you’re a Democratic activist, tomorrow marks the last day when George W. Bush can be President of the United States of America.  It’s a day for celebration.  It’s a day for joy.  Not only is Bush gone, but the best possible man on the planet to replace him, Barack Obama of Chicago, Illinois, will be sworn into the nation’s highest office at noon tomorrow. 

For eight long years, we on the patriotic Democratic wing of the Democratic Party have worked hard to end the reign of George the II, and restore Democratic principles and priorities to the nation.  Thanks to people like Governor Howard Dean of Vermont, we got a chance to articulate our principles and, in his role as DNC Chair, implement tactics (like the 50-state strategy) that brought the Democratic wing of the Democratic Party to power in 2008.

So, in this apparent moment of glory and celebration, why I am a bit misty-eyed?

The answer is simple, sudden, and expected.  It came Sunday afternoon, late in the day, after the snow had fallen, after the J3 Ford Sayre racers had bombed down the slalom course at Whaleback Mountain, and were preparing to leaving for a five-hour trip north – way north – that same day for a two-day Super-G training camp and race at SugarLoaf Mountain in Maine.

My daughter, Hannah, all of 13-and-a-half years, was ready to board a rented van alongside nine other ski racers, all similarly bedecked in snow/ski/racing/cool gear.  Like most families in this cohort, our day began at 6am with yet another early morning weekend wakeup call.  Some 11 hours later, both parents and their offspring gathered in the parking lot of a local establishment to make the final preparations for the trip.  Amidst the frantic talk and nervous chatter, I could see the eyes of parents widen and their throats tighten.  It was late.  They would be driving for some 250+ miles, way north, on a night when the snow continued to fall, when the visibility wasn’t great, when the easiest thing in the world would be to have your teenager at home.

But that’s not where I was, and that’s not where these other parents were.  Maybe, unexpectedly, this was our last night to be truly and solely parents.  Maybe on this night we realized an uncomfortable truth:  that from hereon, parenting was out of our direct control.  As the van drove away, as I counted the hours until I thought Hannah might actually be near her destination, I realized that what I missed, in addition to my daughter, was control.

When she was 10 or 8 or 6 or even younger, I could manage and direct virtually everything in her life.  Now was different.  Now people who might seem like strangers to me – her skiing coach, his assistant, maybe even some of the kids with whom she was travelling – were intimate and important companions in her life. 

What?!!!!!

You can’t possibly be serious, I thought to myself.  Let my precious little girl alone with these people, for this long, with only a modicum of rules and boundaries and control.

It can’t be happening.

Only it is, and it must.  To grow at this age, I realized – later, much later, around 3am, as I awoke and wondered around my house in a fitful burst of energy – requires extension beyond parents, beyond the home.

It means having to pee in the snow bank alongside your friends.  It happened with Hannah on this trip.  Would I permit it?  No, of course not, but that’s the point.

It means having a really tough crash on the snow course. It happened to Hannah on this trip.  Would I permit it?  No, of course not, but that’s the point.

And that’s just the news from Day One.  What will happen tomorrow?

I found myself today emailing my daughter with questions I swore I’d never ever ever ever ask in this situation.

1)    Did you get enough sleep?
2)    Did you get enough to eat?

Ohmigod, Dad, can you stop embarrassing me, like now?

No.  I can’t.  Last night was my final night as a parent, complete and toto.  Hereon, I am sharing you with the world.  I will never stop being your parent.  I will never stop loving you, Hannah (and your brothers, Jacob and Noah).  Regardless of what you do or say or think, my love for you is absolute.

But what is not absolute is my ability to control your life.  At some point, reluctantly and with a great deal of fear and worry, I must begin to let go.  It’s harder than I realized, even though plenty of wise people (like my own Mother) told me so.  I look back at pictures when you were in diapers and needed to be fed, and think those days seem so easy. 

Maybe so.  Maybe not.  Maybe raising children is hard work regardless of their age.  Whether they are 2 or 20 years old, children present challenges that arrive full-stop and unapologetic.  They offer the fullest and most complete way of defining yourself and life in general. 

So tomorrow comes, and by noon Barack Obama will be sworn-in as our 44th President.  I can’t wait.  He and his family, and his administration, will bring great things to our country, and demand great and wonderful service from us, its citizens.  In four years, I expect this nation will be in remarkable shape because of his leadership.

Tomorrow comes, and my daughter will come home.  As she grows, she will demand more from me than I am perhaps ready to give.  Within about four short years, she will be ready for college.  Tomorrow night, however, I will met her in a parking lot and bring her home, and maybe even get the chance to tuck her into bed.  It’s a night numbered.  It’s a night not forever. 

On this night, I’m not the only one with mixed emotions.

Glenshaw 10-K about 10Ks, 2007-2008

Most investors know that the Securities & Exchange Commission (SEC) requires every public company to disclose information about its performance on an annual basis.  Known as the 10-K, this form permits shareholders to learn more than they might from a glossy annual report.

My last post suggested the results from my recent roadrace would be shared with the blessed readers of this blog.  So, in a sense, this is my full disclosure statement about my performance in 10k roadraces over the last year.

Until I ran in the Hanover Turkey Trot 10k last November, it had been years (maybe 20?), since I had run this distance in a roadrace.  I vaguely remember running a 10K race in Washington, DC near RFK Stadium and the Capitol, and finishing some 45-48 minutes later and considerably out of breath.  Fast forward to the present: while the years have passed, I've admittedly gotten a bit stronger and surer of foot.  I do sprint triathlons without any trouble and am probably in the best shape of my life.

So, it was no surprise that last November 2007 saw me post what a remarkable time in my first 10k race at the Hanover 10K Turkey Trot.  I ran the race in just over 40 minutes at a pace of 6 minutes, 32 seconds per mile.  These were times I never ever saw before.  I was completely finished after the race, during the race itself, it felt as if I was floating.  Looking back, the result is one I wonder if it will ever be repeated by this old body.

Fast forward to my next 10K, this time the Tuck School "Run for the Kids" in May this year.  I was training for triathlons, had not given the race much thought, showed up, and ran...kinda disappointing.  I finished in 44 minutes, one second -- a race pace of 7 minutes, 5 seconds per mile.  This was way, way behind my time just eight months earlier.  Was I washed-up already?

So, here comes last weekend, and my final race of the season.  Three sprint triathlons, one off-road triathlon, and two 10k races kept me busy from May to November 2008, and it was time (frankly) to ease back on the training and into the joys of holiday food (pumpkin pie, good wine, and more pumpkin pie).  The only problem lay in my training this Fall. 

Between the 2008 Election, work, family obligations, and a small bout of the flu, I was not able to train for this final race as I did last year.  In fact, just a few days before the race, I felt very uneasy about my prospects.  I felt weak and as I looked ahead to the weather forecast for the race, felt even weaker.  Unlike last year, which I recall being in the high 40s or low 50s in sunny skies, this year's race promised to be held in conditions resembling late January in northern New Hampshire: temperatures between 20-25 F, with a strong brisk wind in various conditions. 

Yikes. 

Come last weekend, and there I was on the starting line bedecked in full winter running gear.  "Bang," went the gun and away we went.  Last May, on what would eventually be seen as a slow run, I knew in the first five minutes that I would be slow.  The energy just wasn't there.  But this time, I felt different.  Sure it was cold.  Really cold.  Sure, I was wearing more clothes than usual for a race.  But my lungs were warm, I felt plenty of energy inside of me, and a quiet calm -- the latter being perhaps the condition for racing.

Bottom line:  I finished the race in 43 minutes, 21 seconds, or 6:59 per mile.  Given my overall physicall state, and the weather, I was totally thrilled with the result.  No one in their right mind would ever consider encouraging me to be anything other than an enthusiastic amateur competitor, but on days like last Sunday, when the wind is howling and it's not clear if you got the stuff, it's incredibly reassuring to run hard and succeed over a 10k course.

The interesting thing about all three races?  Regardless of the specifics, I finished basically in the top third of my age group in these races.  That's both good and bad news.  Good, because I can beat 2/3 of my colleagues.  Bad, because somehow, another 1/3 of my colleagues is beating me pretty handily.

What should I do?

Get another helping of pumpkin pie,and then get back to training.

A Wonderfully Cold November Night

This is it.

The start of Winter. 

It came today, with snow and wind in the morning -- enough to cause the Lyme Listserve to crackle with announcements of slippery roads, skidding cars, and snow tires.  During daylight hours, the wind blustered and blew, the temperature hovered around freezing, and up here -- at the mid-point of the Granite State, between the extreme cold of Mt. Washington and the suburban warmth of Manchester & the Derrys along I-93 -- it was a kinda cold-all-day-long, kinda day.  By nightfall, when it became apparent that the morning snow would not melt, that the ground was still really hard, and that the wind would continue to blow, you could feel the sweet sting in your eyes and face of Winter itself.

In Hanover, at the Dartmouth campus, students walked with a slightly bewildered expression.  Not the seniors, mind you, or the juniors.  But sophomores?  Freshmen?  The look of ohmigod was clearly apparent. 

Not this.  Not this, again.

Everyone else was ready for it.  Or at least, not surprised.  You live in the northern part of New Hampshire, which is the northern part of New England.  It's mid-November.  It will be cold, day and night, from now until the end of March (if you're lucky; mid-April is more likely). 

And frankly, I love it.

For much of the rest of the United States, I suspect (or remember from my days growing-up along in mid-Atlantic states) that Winter remains a season to get thru.  No joy in Winter there.  In most places, Winter is just a series of inconveniences that made you appreciate the 90% humidity to come six months later.

Not here. 

Instead, Winter is its own time.  It's not just a season, but a way of living, of experiencing the natural world, and humanity's effort to adopt to an environment that appears hostile, but maybe is as welcoming as Summer.

Consider the following:  this afternoon, as daylight disappeared, I drove to Oak Hill in Hanover -- home to the Dartmouth Cross Country Ski course -- and got ready for my run.  From Spring until the snow is thick on Oak Hill, I strongly enjoy running and mountain-biking the trails of Oak Hill.  Like most days, I went out there today and changed into my exercise gear in the glory of a port-a-potty.  Unlike most days, though, today was a bit chilly.  But with temps in the low 30s, it was just a bit harder environment in which to undress. 

But darn it, I knew what to wear.  By the time I emerged from the port-a-potty, I had not only changed from business wear (suit, starched shirt, polished shoes) to running gear (tights, running shoes, top, jacket, hat, mittens), but I was warm.  Very, very comfortably warm.  For the next 45 minutes, as I wandered over Oak Hill and dale (literally), even though the Sun sank and my headlight had to be illuminated, there was not a cold part to be found on my body.  It was different, but just as comfortable as running in summer with in running shoes and a pair of shorts. 

And maybe this has been the biggest revelation of all to me about Winter in northern, northern New England: here, I spend as much time outside in the dead of Winter as I do in the heat of Summer.

Sure, the clothes and activities are very, very different.  But Winter is playtime here, just like Summer is playtime -- or considered playtime -- for most people elsewhere in the United States.

So, on this cold November night, when I could feel Winter get a strong grip in the land and in the air, a smile came to my face. 

Despite the dark, despite the cold, there was a different kind of warmth, a different kind of fun to embrace.  And all of it -- all of the next 4.5 months -- lay before me.  Chris, my brother-in-law, says the best day of vacation is the first day. 

Well, today was the first day of Winter Vacation.  To be certain, by then March 2009, I'll be ready for getting on a bike, for jumping in a pool (and later a pond), for running in just a pair of shorts.  But between now and then there is a whole world of Winter fun to join. 

Summer Break

It's been a deliberate while since I last wrote on this blog.

I plead "guilty" to summer.

Which, this year, has meant a wonderfully muddy triathlon (and three dry tri's) hours and days and weeks with the kids in the water (lakes, oceans, pools), and time away from time.

Summer in New Hampshire and northern New England is a fling. Even in a wet year like 2008, every day is precious fun. Can't waste 'em. The nights turn cool soon enough.

The time will come to get ready for work and school and writing. Maybe it's here already. Maybe I'm just stalling.

Summer Time

"Summer Time, and the Livin' is Easy..."

....and man, it's true.  Thank you, George Gershwin, for capturing the season just so. 

In this year of 2008 -- with $4.00+ gasoline, food prices on-fire, and housing in a major slump -- when there is good, solid, non-partisan reason to be worried (and I mean worried like you got the shingles), it's hard to deny to pleasures of Summer time.

Tonight provided a small but meaningful sample of Summer time cheer.  It came from so many places.

The sight of bicyclist after bicyclist cranking away on all sorts of two-wheeled gear in the Upper Valley.  And not just the hot-shots I saw this morning at 6:30am riding like the peleton at the Tour de France.  It was the regular folks, on upright bikes peddling like mad to reach the top of the hill. 

Or me scootering with kids after dinner, popsicles and ice creams in-hand, as we attempted to out-do one another in little tricks and turns on the asphalt.

Or watching Papelbon close out a 5-0 game for the Boston Red Sox against the Arizona Diamondbacks with fastball after fastball.

Or reading to Jacob and Noah tonight without a care about the time.  A few extra pages of "Asterix and Obelix" or "Harry Potter" would not matter.  There was no homework to complete, no school schedule to meet. 

Or, finally, the cool breeze coming throughout the house.  Every window is open.  The children are asleep.  The woods are silent but alive with green. 

Summer time is also unstructured time, when the clock fades just that little bit.  It ticks but does not tock.  The insistent rhythms from the rest of year -- gotta do, gotta go -- fade just enough. 

Summer time.  The light remains, and we find new time to play, frolic, and enjoy.

Now, it's not all good.  As the Boss reminds us...

The girls in their summer clothes
In the cool of the evening light
The girls in their summer clothes,
pass me by

This summer, my family will celebrate the 90th birthday of one of our dear friends, a man who remembers when vacationers to Maine traveled there by steamer, not car. 

No season is not perfect, but in these woods of northern New England, Summer provides a bit of heaven that kinda-oughta be preserved, if only to be released in the darkest winter days.