You Can Do Anything With the Right Soundtrack

 It's a Wonderful Run. A 5K race in Seneca Falls, the town where the author wrote the book on which It's A Wonderful Life was based. Oh, it was a cold night. The race started at 4:40pm and standing high above the river atop a bridge we were completely exposed to the wind. Warm light clothes that are perfect for running in this weather are not so hot at standing in the wind. It cut right through whatever I was wearing. There may have been hundreds of people on that bridge, but there was no amount of them to crowd around that could provide the protection that I needed.

The race started on the 'George Baily' bridge, my iPod led off with a song that a Beatles fan can appreciate, She Said, She Said. With the line, "you're making me feel like I've never been born" I thought, well played, iPod. The music is what keeps you going on a night like this. She's on Fire and Soak Up the Sun give warm thoughts and an odd realization that I had an inordinate amount of warm songs to choose from.

Running was tough. With almost 3,000 runners it was scrunchy and crowded. But being my first night run, I enjoyed the sights. People out on the sidewalks and lawns watching & cheering. Some had bonfires in their yards. I couldn't feel the heat, but just the smell of burning wood provided  thoughts of comfort and warmth. Once I got going, though, warmth wasn't an issue. Footing was. After two miles of tromping through the snow I was feeling the wear on my legs and psyche.

The snow was thick and grainy and made it feel as though I was running through sand.  Thighs and knees were burning from plodding over the snow.  Runners crowded around looking for footing in the few maneuverable sections of the road, strong arming me, sometimes physically bumping or by invading my space.  12^o outside, but the cold on my skin wasn’t as much an issue as the frigid air I’d suck into my lungs. Nasal drainage froze to my lip and each breath left my lungs and mouth harder and harder. Environment and physical factors beat me down, saying, “Stop. Walk. Rest.”

But then the song comes on. Uplifting in mood and tone with a pounding of the beat. Horns start in taking the music higher, with a regal and powerful mood. My back straightens a little. My feet hit the road just as hard, but my body was feeling a little lighter. Shoulders back and head up, my eyes scan forward because as my spine and back straighten, my vantage and field of vision increase. This change comes from my mind via the music.  The song has a spirituality to it and I’m lifting higher and lighter, out of body, I am floating up and I can see myself from above. I float higher looking down as I pan away to the sky, seeing me, those next to me, further back puts more and more runners in view as it seems to expand out from me in the center. But then I’m not the center. I am an unidentifiable part of a mass of runners, all moving along the same path like a line of ants.

This is the music from Thor, so I see Thor & the warriors three racing on horses across the rainbow bridge.  Flying between realms, speeding across space on the bifrost, I picture a hammer summoning lightning from the sky then pounding on the ground with enough force to make ripples in the earth like throwing a rock in a pond.  He confronts the enemy and even though it doesn’t always go as planned or easily, Thor fights through pain, adversity, and horrible odds to ultimately triumph. I can do that.

 

I zoom back in on me.  Imagery and music mean everything here. My view of the race. The music becomes part of my drive. Breaths are deeper and strides stronger. There's no stopping. This is heroic. The wind brings the snow in sharply from the north and swirls it around making a cloud moving down on us. The combined breath of the runners creates a haze moving up from the ground. Mixed with the cloud this breathy snow fog  picks up and amplifies the Christmas lights of the houses along the block and the red flashing lights of the police cars lining the route. The nighttime darkness above and a ruddy glow from below are the environment for my struggle. There are 1,000 people in front of me and 1,000 people behind me. The music pounds, sings, and inspires as I start to pass more than pass me.

 

Fighting the urge to walk and fighting to reach and pass the next person on my horizon feels every bit as heroic as anything the Avengers ever did on film. Moving along Cayuga Street past blocks of beautifully maintained Queen Anne and Victorian style houses, I hit a groove. Running down and around the right turn lane on to Main Street gives a boost that feels like I'm using the gravity of some heavenly body to catapult me to points beyond. With that last stretch lined with fans, well-wishers, and a town decked out in Christmas lights, I'm home.

December 8th, 1988

In everybody's past is some magical day. You have that one experience that it is the beginning of a whole new life. And sometimes you had absolutely no idea it was happening.

I had been in Germany for only a week and hadn’t done much. I had wandered the base, hitting all the necessary spots like the post office, the gym, chow hall, theater, and the BX.  And for alternate dining there was always the La Hacienda, a diner who aside from its name offered no actual Latin options, as long as you don't count nachos.

There I was. In Germany. My fascination with all things German - the language, culture, food, history, architecture - moved me to put it down on my Air Force 'wish list'. Incredibly, I actually got orders. I was excited to be there, but also a bit melancholy. After a move to California in 1985, the Air Force and tech school in 1986, Scott Air Force Base in 1987, here I was starting over again, again. That isn't an easy thing to do. The best way to get over those blues is to get the hell out and do something.

It was Thursday and the word was that on Thursday you HAVE to go to ‘the club’.  Everybody goes to the club on Thursday. If these people really knew me, they’d know that wasn’t much of a selling point. Even at 20, I was more of a bar person. I'd be happiest as one of a dozen or so people on barstools nursing drinks. A jukebox playing 60’s & 70’s hits and maybe an old dog in the corner. Clubbin’ wasn’t my thing, because then, as now, I would generally try to avoid places where I had to dress a certain way and yell to speak to the person standing next to me.

But I was 20 and fresh from the States. Back there, not having reached majority age, I could never go out. Everyone would go out and I’d be stuck with the rest of the under 21 crowd, looking for someone to bring beer to the dorm. Pathetic for sure. Fun at times, but it still felt like I was a high school kid being left behind while the grownups had fun. (I feel comfortable putting that out there because my son refuses to read anything I write).  So, rocking to some 10,000 Maniacs, I put on my generic and borderline fashionable 80's goin' out clothes, got some cash and headed to the NCO Club.

To say that the evening started as a disappointment would be an understatement. Let's start with the complete and utter let down that this walk to the club turned out to be. I had spent the last two years in the states watching others celebrate their 21st birthdays with debaucherous blowouts. It was an event. An American male's bar mitzvah celebrating 'adulthood'. You may have already been allowed to file a tax return, join the military, sign a legally binding contract, and drive a car. But at 21 you're really an adult because you can drink. A rite of passage to celebrate.  And here I was a month and a half short of that magic date in a country with no drinking age, and I very unceremoniously and without fanfare, walk alone into the club.

Passing through the doors of the establishment, my outlook didn't get any better. The Zweibrücken NCO Club was put together with all the style and imagination you'd expect from the U.S. military. I couldn't tell you much about the details. My memory of the NCO Club generally involves the color brown. There was a basic bar/dance floor/stage set-up, and the walls were lined with cheap lithographs of various aircraft. Base aircraft, F-4 Phantoms and C-23A Sherpas hung most prominently. There was a brightly lit back room with five or six slot machines. All continuously occupied by the slot zombies. 

 

I lingered for a while. Had chats with a couple people I had met in my short time there. Sitting at the bar, I watched with disgust people who chose Budweiser and other American beers over the local brand. Zweibrücken's own Parkbräu Export was my drink of choice as I settled in to conversation with a band of crew chiefs. One guy, Dave Gunner, was telling me of tours that run out of the bases. He went to Paris and on the last day there, he missed the bus as it left the Louvre. His friends hadn't noticed his absence so he had to catch a cab to the Eiffel Tower in hopes that he could find his group there.

 I was one of the medical people. We worked 8 - 5. A girl comes in dressed her BDU's. Clearly straight from work and clearly, she knows these guys. The badges on her uniform told me that she was some sort of mechanic.  Big smile. Bits of her blonde hair frizzed out from a French braid that was impressively snug for someone who just got off a shift of repairing aircraft. She stood out because she never once sat down. This girl appeared to know everyone in the place and moved across the room from one conversation to the next. As she worked the room this girl exuded an energy that came out in her expressions, her arms, her face, her laugh, and her body. And that enthusiasm didn't wane between conversations.

She was a dancer. Again, the girl never sat down. With each song she'd find someone to take out to the dance floor. Guys would tire and she'd move on to the next. At some point she magically had a drink in her hand and was making the rounds at our table. Yelling over the loud music, she leaned in to speak to someone across from me. I could see the name tag on her uniform said JEWELL. The guy I was talking to spoke with her. Dave called her Jennie, but never introduced us. She leaned in to talk to him and rested her hand on my shoulder.  I remember that. After she moved on, Dave let me know that she was one in the group that left him behind in Paris.

Soon enough, I was getting bored with the whole thing and honestly, I still hadn't quite gotten over my jet lag, so I was ready to go. But a song came on and Jennie was once again looking for a dance partner. "Sure", I said, shrugging my shoulders. Now how is that for a passionate start?

My wife would kill me if I revealed this secret, so I won't. The song that we danced to was, and is not a song that she likes. She hates the song. She hates the band. It is a completely undanceable song and has no place being played anywhere that dancing is practiced. But there it was. The music starts off slow. At first we put our hands together, my right hand around her waist. Leaning in close, I could detect a scent of White Rain shampoo and just a hint of jet fuel. We talk, but it was really yelling and we listen as best we can. The dance floor was not that big and there was no escaping this DJ's 1980's mammoth speakers. "What is your name?" "Where are you from?" She did her Air Force tech school in Illinois. I'm from Illinois. She was from the Syracuse area. I had visited Syracuse because of a cousin who lived in Liverpool. It was a lively, but slightly generic conversation. Eventually, my hand left hers and found its way down so our hands rested on each other's hips. The slow start to the song was over and the pace picked up. Unsure of what to do, the dancers stayed the course, defying the recording's pace and volume and continued with a slow sway.

Then the song ended...and that was it. We parted. "Nice to meet you", with no expectation that we’d ever see one another again. I had another beer then walked back to my dorm. We ran into each other at the theater the next night. Somebody blew someone else off, but there is a bit of debate about who exactly that was. There is enough animosity in that story for another whole post. We did not have occasion to speak again for months. Our mini- When Harry met Sally moment was over and we went on with our lives with no inkling that months later we'd speak again. We'd hang out. We'd be friends. Then best friends. Then eventually living in New York with three children on the couch watching Fred Claus.

But that day, December 8,1988 was the first time I laid eyes on Jennie Jewell. It was the first time I held her hand. The first time I held her close. It was the first time I heard her backstory. And I didn't know it at the time, but it was the beginning of my future.