DC Reflections

A sugar rush for America!

Strolling around Dupont Circle today, a nice young man and nice young woman asked me if I had a moment to talk to them about an issue they were working to support. My mind was rabidly focused on the Krispy Kreme doughnut shop that stood mere feet away so I couldn't remember whether their organization was the one I strongly agreed or disagreed with.

"Forgive me -- it's Sunday," I said. "My mind is a little hazy. Are you on the pro side or the anti side? I know you're organization but am drawing a blank on which side of the fence you're on."

He gently said his group was on the former and again asked if I could spare a moment. I paused, staring at my date with glazed greatness and then back at him and his co-worker. I know exactly how hard that job is: Canvassing for a nonprofit or political cause on the streets of any city, let alone one as intensely partisan as Washington D.C., is tough, tough work. Most respondents just ignore you on a good day. They insult you on a bad one. If you stay positive and forget every rejection, though, you just might be able to enlist some passersby to subscribe to your email list, sign a petition or make a donation.

It is truly a thankless job done by hard core believers generally working for next to nothing or volunteering.

But I was craving a taste of the South this morning and just didn't feel like getting political; I told the couple that I wasn't up for it on a very rare day off from work. I inhaled the sweet scent of heaven a second later but immediately felt my sympathies for the youngsters kick in -- not to mention my actual support of their cause.

There was only one thing left to do.

I ordered an extra half dozen doughnuts to go and brought the box to the sidewalk pounders I had just brushed off.

"Here's a little something to give the two of you a boost," I said, presenting the green and white box. "Maybe this will hold you over if you get a little hungry. Keep up the good fight. I'm there with you."

The young man and woman were surprised by the simple good will gesture. The man told me no one has ever done anything like that for them while they were working or expressed support in that way. He choked up, actually. His colleague did, too.

I gave him a smack on the shoulder, win one for the Gipper style, and told him I wished him the very best of luck. I turned and walked away, delighted that I had managed to put smiles on the faces of a pair of people working hard on a Sunday morning to make a difference. I hoped it might give them just enough willpower to press on and pull a few yeses out of No Town.

I used to do stuff like that all the time because performing random acts of kindness is actually a lot of fun. I need to get back in the habit. I should use my Krispy Kreme strategy more often, too -- helping to build a better America one glazed doughnut at a time!

The next Ron Howard film? Story about local pet sanctuary could be a blockbuster

A few of DC Reflections' loyal readers know that Won-ok Kim and I have started a little side business selling antiques, art, home decor, collectibles and other things -- but you may not be aware of our real mission ... helping great causes we care about. The first charity we're supporting is House With A Heart Senior Pet Sanctuary in Gaithersburg, Maryland.

Far from being a dreary place, we found it to be something akin to the Ron Howard film "Cocoon" except with dogs instead of people getting younger.

We would be honored if you checked out a blog post I wrote about it on our new Orion's Attic blog. House With A Heart does some amazing work and deserves all the support it can get. Give it a read and help us pass it far and wide if you'd be so kind. We would be further honored if you're inspired to lend your personal support to House With A Heart.

 

"What do you do?" not the right question in D.C.

Don't get me wrong: I'm all about networking and personal marketing. I can flip the charm switch and work a room so well that Bill Clinton would give me a pat on the back. No one thinks twice in Washington D.C. about taking all of six seconds to ask strangers what they do for a living. We crave that instant knowledge to determine whether someone can be helpful to us in advancing our careers or accomplishing other goals.

I wasn't up for popping that question at a recent networking event with the DC PR Flacks meetup.com group. (I love meetup.com and highly recommend the site to everyone. And do join PR Flacks if you're in my trade -- they're good people.) I decided to make the effort to get to know just a few people well instead of a room full at surface level. 

That's when it hit me: Sometimes, you just have to take a break from "What do you do?" and ask something more pertinent, more real. I promptly made a new friend and brought the issue up with her after several people walked up and asked us our names -- following it up with the vocation question before we could even get our names out. New friend and I spent some time debating the right question we should ask people and the kind of answer we should pivot to when the next person asked us about our jobs. 

"The next time someone asks us what we do," I suggested, "let's not respond in a way that includes our jobs. And then let's put a different question back to them."

All kinds of possibilities entered my mind for potential answers to the jobs query. 

"I do as many things as possible that I'm passionate about like mentoring young people, teaching people how to write better, and learning about American history." Other potential answers? "I play tennis as much as possible and as hard as possible to achieve a zen-like state of tranquility," I might say. Or "I travel to minor league baseball games to watch the drama of young players trying to make it to the next level." I could even reach back to two-decade mantra from Thoreau: "I suck the marrow out of life so that I don't look back when I'm older and realize I had not lived."

Despite my preparation, no one else came up to me or my friend that evening. Probably a good thing, too, as we couldn't quite find the exact words for the question we wanted to ask people. 

Naturally, it hit me the next morning when I wasn't trying to think about it. Keep it simple. Ask "So, what are you about as a human being?" or "What are your passions in life?"

I can't wait to see the expression on strangers' faces when I drop that question. Regardless of the answers, I bet it leads to more meaningful conversation and opens the doors to friendship ... something that could be a lot more beneficial than a business card.

For $37, it's worth the chance

A middle-aged man I had only met once approached me tonight and asked if he could borrow some money. The story was the same as the one we all usually hear from people begging for money: Kevin had just learned his mom had fallen ill and he needed to catch a Greyhound bus to North Carolina. He was $37 short.

He apologized profusely for the request and told me he'd like to work it off by cutting my grass when he comes back. I had hired him to do the same just a few days earlier because I was tired, and for the first time in my life, I paid an adult to knock out that chore. It was worth the $40 I paid him to plop down in my TV chair and watch the Orioles. Between innings, I stepped outside and handed Kevin a Gatorade. We spoke for a minute. I thanked him for the thorough job he did -- one that gave me a night of relaxation.

When he paid me a visit this evening, I stalled before I gave him an answer -- making up an excuse to disappear for a moment while I thought it through. I don't often give money to random strangers, figuring they're just going to spend it on booze or drugs the moment I turn my back. I usually utter a quick "I'm sorry but I can't help you," and move on. At least I acknowledge them, I tell myself. Most people just walk right on by. The last time I spoke those words, near Ford's Theatre, the man began screaming obscenities at me. I thought about turning around and giving him a bit of an etiquette lesson -- to borrow a line from Fraser Crane -- but quickly remembered no good could come from that.

All of those thoughts went through my mind as I considered Kevin's request. I looked deeply into his eyes for clues about his character and I tried to discern whether he was telling the truth.

I considered how hard he had worked on my yard earlier in the week. A number of other snapshots flashed across my mind: I had repeatedly spotted him in the neighborhood pushing his lawn mower and carrying his milk jug of gas. I also took note of my fellow Southerner's diction and formality.

He did not flinch in holding my gaze and the answer I sought became clear to me.

I realized I wanted to believe Kevin, that I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. I wanted to believe that some people genuinely need the kindness of strangers when they're in a tough spot. I wanted to believe he would return and cut my grass again. I wanted to believe in humanity. I also wanted to exercise my Christianity. I knew $37 wasn't going to make me miss a meal and if Kevin proved to be a liar, well, that's between him and his conscience. Mine would be clear.

I handed Kevin $45 and suggested he grab a slice of pizza before his late-night bus departed. He thanked me profusely and promised he would return to work it off after he takes care of his mom. 

The relative stranger struck me as a man of his word. I closed the door knowing it's possible I had just thrown away $45. I didn't care, though. If I'm not willing to risk an occasional $45 on my convictions, I'm not much of a man myself. 

[Post Script from a week later: Kevin returned and cut my grass. He said his mother is at rest now and he was glad he was able to go home.]

Saying goodbye to a suit lined with great memories

It's probably pretty silly for me to get choked up about saying goodbye to a suit but I'm feeling pangs of loss as I prepare to bid farewell to a navy blue jacket and pants I've worn for years. It's heading out the door tomorrow.

Although my waist now exceeds the bounds of the suit a decade after I bought it, I've grown in ways that go well beyond my 34-inch belt line. The suit first helped me land a great new job when I chose to change careers -- exiting journalism to serve the Georgia office of the Trust for Public Land as its new public affairs manager. That job gave me the opportunity to help save beautiful places across the state ... from the Chattahoochee River that runs through Atlanta to swamplands in south Georgia teeming with wildlife.

I was wearing the same suit a few years later when I got lucky enough to be hired by Jackson Spalding, a PR firm in Atlanta that taught me more about my new profession in six months than I've learned in any stretch of my second career. It's a good thing I got that call, too. Wearing the navy blues a few weeks earlier, I had abruptly ended an interview for a job with a huge international firm because I realized I really wanted an offer from the local firm across the street. That time in my life gave me the chance to work on the most important thing I've ever done in my professional career -- play a role in a huge team effort to help free a wrongly convicted young man from prison. I wore the suit inside the Georgia Supreme Court the day it heard the case and I happened to be in a meeting wearing the same clothes when word came that the court ruled in the man's favor. 

The suit wasn't all work and no play, though. I left work and went out dates and sparked relationships with some great women wearing that suit. I remember them fondly and am grateful for the times we shared.

The tie I usually wear with my lucky blues goes back even further. It was the first grown man's tie I bought when I finished globe trotting after college and became managing editor of Mundo Hispanico, a bilingual newspaper in Atlanta that made such an impact on the community that the Atlanta History Center recently hosted an exhibit about its role in the community. My articles and photographs were featured in several places and I nearly cried as I connected with the Chris Lancette of 15 years ago.

I also chose that suit when I made a trip to Washington, D.C., to interview for my current job with The Wilderness Society. I was sick as a dog at the time and sweating profusely. I closed my eyes before walking over to the office and asked my lungs to give me a break and my suit to cover up the perspiration. Both cooperated, I made it through the afternoon, and got out the door before the non-stop coughing returned and the suit crumpled into a heap of wrinkles.

The Wilderness Society gave me the chance to achieve my dream of living in D.C. Nearly three years have passed since I arrived and the decision to move here remains one of the best I've ever made. I even have a new girlfriend. I wore that suit at the Baltimore ceremony where she became an American citizen. We snapped a few photos and then jumped in to summer clothes so we could take in an Orioles games.

I have other dress clothes, of course, but that navy blue suit always brought me luck. It's too small now, though, and the "buy one, get two free" sale at Jos. A Bank was too good to pass up.

The suit will not disappear, however. 

I've recently become aware of the great work performed by Saint Elizabeths Hospital in the District. Taking a tour of the brand new facility last weekend, I saw that it had a thrift store that helps patients obtain additional clothes. The psychiatric patients there are working hard to get their lives on track, and many have gone on to great success over the years. I suspect someone there could use a break. 

I pray that the man who wears the suit next finds the same great fortune it brought to me.

Crying on Thoreau's cabin

Concord, Mass -- My tears surprised me this morning, probably because they burst from my eyes before I got out of my car. The mere sight of a sign pointing to Walden Pond was all it took for the gusher to start.

The place and the man who made it famous had lived only in my imagination for two and a half decades before I finally made today's pilgrimage. My relationship with Henry David Thoreau began when I was in high school. Today I found myself sitting on the very spot that held his cabin ... the place where he wrote so many of the words that would guide me through my life to find its joys and comfort me in its pains.

I pulled out my own journals today and sat on one of the stones that marks the outline of where his cabin stood.

I see Walden Pond as he saw it from this very door. This place is so much more magnificent than I had imagined. People have always told me that the pond was small and the area too developed. Though I can imagine the tiny beach fills with swimmers and sunbathers on warm days, this is on the other side. The pond is a big one as ponds go and more resembles a small lake.

Here, in the back of the woods where Thoreau lived, it is quiet. I hear only the sounds of acorns falling, the leaves rustling in the wind while turning red and yellow by the moment, birds chirping, and the occasional person passing by. A few fat drops of this morning's rain pelt these pages as they dive from the tree tops. This place seems filled with as much solitude now as it did then.

If you have not had the occasion to get to know Thoreau yourself, you should race to a book store and buy a copy today. It could change your life the way it did mine. Thoreau can help you figure out what's important, give you the courage to do things you didn't know you could do, and make you see the world as if your eye sight suddenly magnified. He'll also give you a giggle or two. (The scholars often forget the man could crack a joke or two.)

I took Thoreau's words to heart at an early age because he spoke to me both about the meaning of life and what it means to be a writer.

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately," he wrote, "to front only the essential facts of life, and see if i could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. ... I wanted to live deep and suck out the marrow of life, and to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and to be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion."

He also placed inside me a land conservation ethic before I knew what the term meant. (It's certainly no coincidence that I now work as a communications director for The Wilderness Society.) He affirmed my love of solitude. He taught me the virtue of living simply. He showed me that a man can in the course of his time get as much out of life as he puts back into it.  

Perhaps more important than any of those things, he helped give me the courage to chase every wild dream I conjured up ... to spend my life taking big swings, to overcome failure, and, well, to thump my chest a little when I pulled off something spectacular.

"As I have said, I do not propose to write an ode to dejection, but to brag as lustily as chanticleer in the morning, standing on his roost, if only to wake my neighbors up."

Thoreau's words lingered in my head as I sat there scribbling in my own journal, whose pages are now

approaching 7,000 in number. I wrote that I could sit there all day writing about how much Thoreau means to me but that I could do more of that later.

Now I think it's time to honor him by continuing my own walk in the woods so that I might drink in this experience more deeply. I can spend all day here if I want. "Time," after all, "is but the stream I go a fishing in."

Then I pulled out the dog-eared copy of Walden Pond I've kept with me for the past 17 years -- its pages held together with equal parts hope and tape -- and read a few passages aloud to myself.

I resumed my walk and felt Thoreau's presence so strongly that I kept staring at the mud as if expecting to see his footprints and discern which way he was going today. My mind, as it always does when I get a good hike going, slowed down. Part of the reason I came on this trip was to think more about some of the new dreams I harbor for what I'd like to do with my life in the years ahead ... to set a few compass points that I might check each morning.

I inhaled a quick lunch and drove to the Concord Museum to see Thoreau's desk. I also saw one of the lanterns placed above Boston as old Paul Revere made his famous ride. Both artifacts were thrilling discoveries as I didn't know the museum existed before today.

Nor did I realize Thoreau was buried here and that his grave still exists.

I quickly found his resting place at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery and was overcome in a different way, feeling an urge to pull out my journal again and write him a letter. It went like this:

Dear Mr. Thoreau,

I sit now by your grave, Mr. Thoreau. I confess I only moments ago learned I've been mispronouncing your name all these years. A woman at the Concord Museum said you pronounced it like you were a very thorough man, not like I throw a baseball. Everybody else gets it wrong, too, so I hope you can forgive us.

I can't believe how tiny your tombstone is. It's like a baby's. It can't be more than nine inches high and wide. And it just says "Henry." No epitaph. No nothing. Your name and birth and death dates are as you know with the rest of your family's. I see your parents John and Cynthia and your siblings Helen and Sophia.

I guess I expected something grand, something that in death represents how big you were -- though I realize your fame multiplied by an infinite factor as the years went on after you died. Still, it's puzzling. Such a humble little stone for a man who made such a big impact on the world -- not only during your time but in the generations that have followed.

I came here today to thank you for everything you've done for me. I'm not really sure how to properly thank a dead man but I at least wanted to visit you to pay my respects. I've known you for more than half of my life, which puts you in the company of but a select few of my friends.

How do I thank you? You saw that I spent the morning at your cabin by Walden Pond. I could feel your presence there as I do here. You must still entertain a lot of company these days. I see a note on your grave and that some people have built tiny little cabins with twigs. I see someone left coins in a language I don't recognize. Russian maybe. I see someone else left a tiny piece of metal with perhaps Chinese characters on one side and the English word "balance" on the other. A group of German students just came. I see that note is from a pair of people from Galicia, Spain, and they left their names for you. I'm not sure if you read Spanish but Irisarri and Maria left you the note. It says "All of us who love nature are in debt to you, father of conservation and grandfather of ecology."

Even 147 years after your death, you continue to touch the minds and hearts of people around the world. You have clearly achieved what every writer, and would-be writers like myself who pale in comparison, dreams of -- eternal life. One of my darkest fears, apart from never publishing more than I have now, is that all of my words -- my magazine articles, news reports, newspaper columns, blogs and these journal pages will also disappear with me when I move on from this world.

This moment of self pity aside, I do want to thank you again for what you've done for me. I'm wearing your face on my shirt right now and everybody is asking me where I got it and what my connection is to you, H.D. (I hope you don't mind I have long called you that.) I told a woman who is on the board of The Thoreau Society I met this morning that you have guided me through much of my life. I guess you heard that but I wanted to tell you again. Your words expanded my mind at a tender age and made me think the world offered me much greater potential for living greatly than I might have otherwise believed. You at different times helped build my internal compass and at others helped me stay true to it.

One of my worst fears in college -- one that I rebelled against -- was that I would graduate and go work a normal job to the day I die without ever having truly embraced life. Thanks in part to you, I ventured to Alaska and to Spain and had all kinds of adventures -- not only in travel but in the personal and professional facets of my life. For the most part, I have made mighty good use of the time I've had on this planet. I've certainly sucked a lot of marrow out of it. I've always made consistent efforts to give back to the world, too, again following distantly in your footsteps.

I credit your hand as among the most influential, the most responsible, for so many of the best decisions I've made in my life. I am truly grateful beyond what I have the words to express.

You will live in my heart forever, and I hope that you continue to bless me with your guidance.

Sincerely,

Christopher D. Lancette

Naked at the Subway sandwich shop

A homeless man sitting on a milk crate un-nerved me when looked right inside my soul as I pulled up to an M Street lunch break during my Saturday bike sojourn the other week.

He stared through my blue eyes and made me feel exposed. Naked.

Like he could read every thought in my mind, including the ugly ones ... thoughts about how I generally ignore homeless people on the streets because there are too many of them; it's not my problem that they put themselves in that situation; they should get help at a charity; if I give them money, they'll just spend it on liquor anyway.

I averted my eyes and entered the Subway shop to pig out at the 50-mile mark of a 100-mile ride. I sat down with my back toward the old man so that I might stop his knowing gaze from clanging around inside my chest: Once glance from him had thrown a monkey wrench into my rib cage.

I tried to eat my foot-long ham and cheese and rest in air conditioned peace. It was by District standards a hot day and I knew I needed a little break from the sun during an eight-hour ride.

About four inches into my meal, I felt compelled to get up and give the man five bucks. He thanked me. Five clams were all I had on me and I thought it was the least I could do for a man who wasn't begging for money and hadn't asked me for a thing. There were no stories about running out of gas or needing Metro money or his wife needing to go to the doctor. I simply told the man that I hoped that $5 could help him get something he needed. I barely looked at his face because it was too painful for me. There were too many bad story lines chiseled into it and more pain in his eyes than I wanted to know about.

I returned to my sandwich but made it only two inches further. It was hot out there. I was sweating like a dog and I'm a conditioned weekend warrior athlete. I told the folks behind the counter not to throw my stuff away, that I'd be right back. I walked across the street to the CVS pharmacy on the corner of Connecticut and bought the man the largest bottle of Gatorade it had.

"It's hot out here," I said, handing the drink to the man. He nodded his head, said thanks, and I went back inside.

Eight inches into my sandwich I could eat no more.

I looked at the old man again and then looked down at myself. An unexpected feeling of grief began to drown me in a flood as I sat there observing that I was wearing a $100 shirt that pulls the sweat away from my body, $80 shorts that provide some relief from the pressure of riding, and $100 shoes designed to help me go faster. I use them all to perch myself on top of a $1,300 bike so I can explore the city. Outside was a fellow human being in a raggedy t-shirt and dirty jeans who sat on a 50-cent milk crate just trying to survive another day in the city. 

Racial differences aside, we're all related to each other in both a genetic and a moral sense, I thought. I can't let him just sit there and suffer today. I was not raised to ignore a moment like this. God has given me too many blessings to shut my eyes tighter in a moment like this. I've got to do at least a little something more.

I stepped outside and asked the old man if I could buy him lunch. It took a minute for my question to register and it was a little hard for me to follow some of his responses. He said that since he hurt his ribs, he has to watch his cholesterol. He can't eat mayonnaise. I told him I'd like to get him a sandwich that didn't have mayonnaise on it and that he could have anything he wanted. He said a turkey sandwich would be good. I walked him through the vegetables and condiments and he told me he wanted lettuce, tomatoes, pickles and ketchup.

I went back inside and placed the order. A woman behind the counter got a little teary eyed and told me I was making a very nice gesture. "It's not much," I said, humbly. "But at least it's something, right? I mean, it's hot out there."

I gave the man his foot long, chips and drink and told him that I hoped he liked it. He nodded his head and thanked me again. "No need," I told him, cheerfully. "It's out here today and I want you to take it easy."

I returned to my own sandwich and was able to get it down. I exited the Subway shop a minute later just as the man was finishing his meal and we crossed eyes again. This time he looked vulnerable, like he was feeling that I was looking inside his shell. I tapped my heart a few times with my right hand and smiled at him as if to say that I had his back today.

I hopped back on my Trek and pulled away. I knew I hadn't solved a District-wide issue. I knew I hadn't done anything to solve the old man's underlying problems. At best, I just helped lift one man's hunger for a few hours and let him know that someone cared about him. At least for one afternoon anyway.

I tried not to think about what would happen to him tomorrow or how I'd react on my ride the next day, when the homeless would likely just go back to being a faceless blur that I zip past in my fancy shirt and speedy little shoes.

Discoveries in a dead man's home

I entered the home of another dead man last Saturday looking for one thing in particular -- additional book cases to add to the library in my house. The thrill of finding just the right piece for it, though, is but one of many elements I love about attending estate sales.

It's not usually just what I buy that makes my occasional weekend sojourns so intriguing.

I was confident last weekend's estate sale trip to a Maryland home near National Harbor would be no exception. I study the ads in the Washington Post before making my itinerary. (Estate sales, unlike garage sales, tend to be high-quality affairs in the homes of recently deceased, well-off or wealthy people.) This notice mentioned that the owner was an avid collector of many things, including books.

I arrived and did a quick pass through the home until I found my quarry. This man, too, had a formal library. I glanced at an antique table with a strikingly old photo album on it and was so drawn to the artistry of it that I perused a few quick pages. The photos were all black and white and appeared to go back a hundred years.

I moved on to look at the dazzling display in the library. Hand-made, floor-to-ceiling book cases with the craftsman's initials branded on to them lined the room. Books going back to 1904 (not quite old enough for me to buy) lined the shelves.

An oriental carpet reeking of cat urine covered the floor. This man may have had cats but he was in his heart a dog man: countless dog figurines lined his oak desk and smaller book shelves. Maybe he was too old by that point in his life to keep dogs. High school year books and other clues in the house suggested he was likely born between the world wars. The photograph of what was likely his high school or college graduation class looked like something out of a film on Turner Classic Movies ... a dozen or so young men all dressed in suits smiling and laughing and looking everywhere but at the camera when the exposure was made.

The old man was probably a psychologist, his library containing a ton of books on the subject dating from the 1940s to the 1960s. While most people only attend estate sales to shop for interesting items, I often become a biographical detective who tries to discern what lessons the homeowners' lives have to teach me, what stories they have to tell.

This home clearly belonged to an old man who died alone: He never married or lost a wife long ago and chose not to wed again: There was not a trace of the feminine touch in the home. The art work featured scenes of ships and the sea. Two rooms had busts of learned men's faces I did not recognize. Only men's clothes hung in the closets. The sheets and covers on the master bed contained only heavy, dark colors. The sun room on the back contained several chairs but only one with seat cushions that looked worn. An enormous collection of tools filled a basement workshop that also housed a China collection that clearly had not served guests in many decades.

My concentration was broken by a woman on her cell phone debating with her husband whether she should buy the big book shelves. After hanging up, the woman mentioned to me that she and her husband wanted to get rid of their IKEA book shelves for something better. She asked me if I thought these big cases were a good deal. I masked my horror at the thought of any book being placed on an IKEA shelf (an insult to the printed word) and told her these shelves were priced to move. Shockingly cheap, actually. Just $65 each.

I told her I'd grab them if I had the space but that the next person to walk through the door certainly would snag them. When she expressed further doubt, I pointed to the sturdiness, the quality of the wood, and the branded initials -- always a good sign. She noticed the scratches that had come with age and said her husband could paint the shelves to make them look new.

I choked.

"Ma'am," I said, sweet as pie, "I couldn't tell you how old these book cases are, but they've clearly got some great years under them. They're supposed to look this way. That's what gives them their charm. All you'd want to do is dust them with a cotton cloth. You'd destroy them by taking a brush or chemical to them."

She thanked me for my time, whipped out her phone, and told her husband that she had decided to buy them right away. She scampered to pay for the shelves and returned to the library. The next man who came in saw the bounty and announced he was buying them. He was crushed to learn he was too late. (If you want the best items, arrive in the first hour of an estate sale. If you want to try for a bargain, return on the second and final day when the companies running the event usually mark everything down by 50 percent for the final three hours of the sale.)

I purchased two equally beautiful but smaller shelves that were exactly the pieces I needed for my library -- only $45 each and they were just as well made. I bought a couple of tiny globes the man had on his desk, figured I'd take a chance I could clean the feline-stained carpet, and bought a really nifty wooden item I envisioned holding one of my antique glass bottles. A husband and wife walked by me and told me they were heading back to take that very item in my hands and that I had indeed picked a fine "fern stand". (Hey, I'm a single straight guy; I didn't know what a duvet cover was until a girlfriend from my 30s started identifying such objects for me.)

The library raided, I made more laps through the rest of the home. I had a lot in common with this old man. An appreciation for living alone. A great love for books and old, wood furniture. I could have spent a paycheck there if I hadn't been careful. (Make a budget for yourself if you decide to attend an estate sale. Find the right home and money goes flying out of your pocket.)

There was one item in particular, though, that kept nagging me, inducing a thought that had not quite come to the surface yet. As happy as I was with my library score, I couldn't shake the sight of the table with that old photo album. The album was the major focal point of the man's library, something he regarded with great tenderness. I flipped the pages again and saw what I presumed to be many long-lost family members, yet the old man apparently died with no one in his life who meant as much to him as did the loved ones in the photos. He left no survivors who wanted the album.

I often take great pride in having lived my 40 years to the fullest, following Thoreau's mantra to suck the marrow out of life. I regret little. Still, I am conscious of the fact that I have pushed away every woman I've ever let get close to me because I so enjoy the fun and freedom that comes with being single. I'm big on solitude and I like to do whatever I want to do whenever I want to do it. I also very much enjoy my own company, hanging out in my library with my dog Alexis, and riding my bike all day.

Looking around the old man's house one final time, I stared at the sun room seats with only one worn cushion, the bachelor bedding, the dog figurines, and the photo album. I reflected on the choices I have made in my life, the subterranean thought at last emerging: I guess this is how my house will look when I die, too.

 

On a Penske truck and a prayer -- surviving 1 year in DC

A year ago today (June 11), I asked my father and one of my brothers to wait in the Ryder moving truck we had spent the weekend loading. I went from room to room in the Stone Mountain, Georgia house that had taken care of me for the past 11 years. I said a final goodbye to every room and the decade of memories they contained, kissed the back yard that my beloved husky Orion had roamed, shook hands with four Japanese maples I had raised from pups, and got into my car with half-husky Alexis.

Then I sobbed uncontrollably. I cried so hard I couldn't start the car. I couldn't make myself leave everything I had known and held so dear. My dad asked me if I was going to be okay, if I was going to be able to drive. I motioned that I'd get it in gear, took one last look at my life in Georgia, and turned the ignition.

It was time to motor away from a great and lengthy chapter of my life, and time to try to put the previous six months -- especially the previous week -- behind me. The first six months of 2007 were among the worst, and certainly the most frightening, of my life.

Orion died of a stroke in January. My dad got wheeled into an operating room for heart surgery -- the only time in my life I have seen my father scared of anything. I couldn't eat or sleep in the days leading up to the surgery, then nearly fainted when the surgeon came out and said my dad didn't need heart surgery after all: the tests Kaiser had performed had given a false result. My dad was fine.

With my dog gone and dad in good health, I knew it was time to increase my effort fo find a new gig and a new life in Washington. That would prove to be another roller coaster, though one that ultimately landed me a dream job.

If only 2007 had stopped right there.

The week before I was supposed to move, the offer someone had made to buy my house fell through. There was no way I could afford to pay a mortgage there and the shocking rent here. Panic set in as I began trying to sell my house within seven days.

About two days later, that problem became much smaller. Kaiser Permanente turned its incompetence on me. After failing to adequately diagnose some problems I was having, I suddenly found myself undergoing a battery of tests ... including an MRI on my brain.

I knew I was in trouble when my doctor called me after dinner that evening; I nearly dropped the phone when he told me that I may have multiple sclerosis. I initially glued myself to the word "may", only to see my life change when he said, "but you're not sick enough YET to jump in line and see one of our neurologists here in Atlanta. You'll have to find one on your own in D.C."

The word "yet" convinced me he was sure the degenerative brain disease had in fact stricken me. The next few days were a dark, confusing and surreal blur. I found myself going through the motions of still trying to sell my house ... while wondering how in the hell I was going to function with MS.

Could I cope with the pain? Would I even want to live once I started losing the ability to function? Should I call my new employer and say I'm not coming, and instead moving in with one of my parents to await my decline? A lot goes through your mind when a doctor tells you that you have a disease like MS. Especially when you've suddenly lost some hearing in your left ear and have an unbelievably loud, piercing shriek in that ear -- one that you learn is called tinnitus and that will not go away as long as you live.

Already a regular communicator with God (I'm not an outwardly religious guy but me and God are tight), I did some heavy duty praying that week. I remember the night I realized I knew the course of action I was going to take: I was going to go live my dream in DC disease or no disease, do it as long as I could, and at least take satisfaction in knowing I had been lucky enough to live it for a while. I envisioned taking a lunch break, walking down the street from my new M Street office, and chowing down on some hot dogs from a pushcart while staring at the White House from my favorite bench in Lafayette Park. I would tip my hat to one of my heroes, John Adams, and marvel at the history that building contains.

Yes, that night, I reminded God that I'm not one to pray for myself and that I wasn't going to start then. I told him I'd obviously rather not be sick but couldn't ask him to play favorites, even though I pray for a litany of friends and family each night. Instead, I asked God to give me the strength -- if I had to be sick -- to handle the disease with class, dignity and humor. I asked that he help me not be a burden to the ones that I love, to give me the seemingly unimaginable strength I'd witnessed among so many people I had met or interviewed who suffer from major diseases.

The time blur continued through Friday afternoon. Through the miracle resulting from being put in touch with a real estate investor who went to church with my then boss's wife, I signed the paperwork selling my house around 2:30 p.m. that day. That gave me precious little time to drive to the complete opposite side of Atlanta -- from Gwinnett County north of the city to Clayton County south of it -- to meet with a neurologist my mom had somehow gotten me an appointment with. I couldn't be late, though: he was leaving the country that afternoon.

I broke a great number of speed and traffic laws making that drive for a second opinion. Tears rolled every time I got stuck at an intersection. I had to see this guy, a real specialist (unlike the ENT who made the diagnosis at Kaiser). I had to know what my fate held.

The neurologist reviewed my MRI, gave me an exam, and told me Kaiser Permanente didn't know what it was talking about, that it should have never mentioned the words multiple sclerosis to me and instead have sent me to a neurologist to take a look at my brain.

I looked at my mom in disbelief. I couldn't understand the doctor's words.

"Chris, on behalf of my entire profession, I apologize to you for what those doctors have put you and your family through the past few days," he said. "You absolutely do not have MS. I can't help you with the ringing in your ear and my advice to you is to get a new health care provider when you move to D.C., but I want you to go up there and save some wilderness so I have more places to hike."

I sobbed into my mother's arms, then called my dad, stepfather and everybody else I knew to tell them the news. I did not have a degenerative brain disease, and I had sold my house, so it was off to Washington for me!

It was time to go seek my destiny -- a life in Washington that I first began dreaming of in fifth grade. I fell in love with this town through old-fashioned reel-to-reel films I saw in elementary school about the Smithsonian. My dad took me on my first of many trips here that summer so I could see the things that had set my imagination on fire. Even then, though I was captivated by images of the Air & Space Museum, I was a huge fan of American history -- especially the Revolution, and all things civic affairs. I viewed the White House, Capitol and other buildings for what they represent -- the greatness that is this nation and the opportunity for everyday people like myself to make their voices heard. 

In the trips that followed, I sensed it was my destiny to be the next Mr. Smith to go to Washington. I am an unapologetic idealist who refuses to let the stain of so much reality interfere with my belief in the ideals and institutions that make this country great. Some day, I thought, I will move to Washington and find a way to perform my highest level of service to our country. (It's true; I was a strange kid.)

My political views are too independent to allow me to follow Mr. Smith's exact steps, though maybe some day I'll run for a city or county office to test that theory. But DC is truly the U.S. capitol for a difference. I felt at home here from the day I started my job as a communications director for a great nonprofit. I love going to work every day and having the chance to make an impact on issues I care about. I love all the museums and the intellectual life this town contains. I love chasing down fly balls with national monuments in my view.

I love how surprisingly friendly I've found DC to be. I love the spirit of a city in which most of the people who come here share the bond of seeking to make America even better. We may not agree on much, but we're all here as patriots fighting for our beliefs.

My first year in this town hasn't been without its setbacks. I knew I'd have to go through some first-year struggles. As sad I was the day I pulled out of my Stone Mountain driveway, I was also scared. I knew all of one household in this city and it had been quite some years since I moved to new locales the way I did to Alaska and Spain in younger years. I didn't know if I'd fit in at work, if people in the District would hear my southern accent and think I was a dope ... if I'd hurt some innocent bystander when I drove through traffic circles.

I've withstood the mistakes I've made the first year -- shooting some toes off at work, initially moving into a house that wasn't quite right for me, accidentally breaking some traffic laws that fortunately have done no harm, and not handling some social situations the way I would have liked.

I sit here tonight, almost to the hour of my midnight arrival, reflecting on the choice I made -- just like I do about every day. I keep returning to the identical conclusion: it was the right thing to do and I'm grateful that I took the chance. Almost every day here seems like a gift. The lessons learned from the MS scare are still with me. That week magnified my already strong belief that life is precious and that every day I spend in a way that doesn't lead to happiness and fulfillment is a day wasted.

The scare also humbled me a good bit, something my friends like to remind me is a good thing. The ever-present ringing in my left ear that's a result of that week is a constant reminder that life is short and can be taken away at any second. And just when I feel the strongest urges to ram a fork in my ear, I remember how much worse life could be -- and how blessed I am.

I have a lot of goals and hopes for my future here ... I want to make the maximum possible difference at work. I want to get active in some very specific volunteer projects and make the maximum possible difference in the community. I want to complete research I started that could turn into a possible book relating to the Revolution. I want to see and do everything there is to do in this town. And if I'm really lucky, I'd like to meet the right woman to share this new life with.

Regardless of how the future unfolds, however, I realize now that there's something I've neglected to do. It's time for me to go get some hot dogs, sit down at my favorite bench in Lafayette Park, stare at the White House, and celebrate how far I've come since I left Georgia on a Penske truck and a prayer.

Putty in his paws

I walked into the Gwinnett County (Georgia) Animal Shelter 11 years ago on Feb. 6 to finish researching a newspaper story I was writing. Every dog in the place knew I wasn't going to be able to stop myself from taking home a little something to remember the story by.

I had interviewed too many people and heard too many horror stories about what those dogs' previous owners had done to them. I had to do my part.

A scrawny little black and white Siberian husky with ribs protruding from his sides took my breath away at first sight. Accounts conflict as to exactly how we chose each other. Depends on who is more reliable, the Chris Lancette writing an article the week I adopted him -- or the memory I've had all these years. Mostly likely, both are accurate.

My first memory of him was looking into his sad blue eyes as he lay in his pen. His owner had starved him, beat him in the head, and fed him beer. What was supposed to be a 60-pound dog couldn't have been near that. While all the other dogs tried to get my attention and begged for salvation, the three-year-old husky didn't move. He just looked up at me and used his eyes to say, "Don't pick me. I'm about to die anyway. Pick one of these other dogs who will be with you for a long time."

My own blue eyes watered up and I mumbled to the staff to unlock the cage: that was the dog who was going home with me, and I would call him Orion -- naming him after the constellation I've long admired in the night sky.

I remember that moment vividly.

Maybe that's what happened the first time we saw each other. Perhaps the written record of the time refers to me coming back after finishing the paper work.

"My husky -- I felt a bond the moment I saw him -- called me from run 64," I wrote in the Gwinnett Loaf, a paper that no longer exists. "When that 60 pounds of grace and beauty had my attention, he twirled around and jerked his head, as if asking me to come nearer. I obeyed, and stuck my fingers through the chain links. Once I was by his side, he rubbed his thick black coat and snow white legs through my fingers.

"'Come on, man," his glance seemed to say. 'Let's go home.'"

Though I have no memory of that moment, that twirl and head jerk, enhanced with a little husky yelp, would be one of his endearing mannerisms that would make me laugh for nearly a decade. Orion knew he could get anything he wanted from me with the twirl and yelp. Dinner. Snacks. Walks. A ride in the car. I was always putty in his paws.

I quickly learned Orion had a lot of problems. Epilepsy topped the list, and he had it bad. I was horrified the first time I saw him have a massive seizure -- collapsing to the ground like he was being electrocuted, foaming at the mouth, eyes rolling back in his head, his bowels emptying themselves. He would have consecutive seizures like that for 24 hours at a time at first. Attack after attack with little rest in between.

The wonderful veterinarians at Beaver Crossing Animal Clinic worked with me to treat his condition, but there would be some grueling nights before we found the right dosage of meds. One bitterly cold, rainy night, when I was too broke to afford to take him to an emergency medical clinic and get him a shot that would help him go to sleep and ease the seizure activity, I had to tackle him and pin him to the cement carport.

The vets told me if I could keep him still and relaxed, it could help break the cycle. I remember finding blankets for him and holding him until he fell asleep ... while the cold and cement sent pains shooting through my own limbs until sunrise. I remember thinking that was the first time I had truly understood what it meant to put another being's needs before my own ... to be committed to the happiness and well-being of another. I hoped I'd be able to carry the lesson over to my romantic life some day.

Orion made it through that night. Next up was getting him back to his natural weight. That took six months or more as he just didn't want to eat much. I also tried to help him realize he didn't need to flinch in fear every time someone moved too quickly near his head.

I spoiled Orion rotten for the next 10 years, as I would his adopted half-husky sister Alexis who's   staring at me as I write. She understands her walk can wait until I'm through writing about Orion. And man did we know how to celebrate the anniversary of his "Gotch'ya Day" that I considered his birthday. The best bonfire party I ever threw was in his honor. Huge party. Birthday cake. House full of my friends. Flames soaring so high that I'm sure we scared the hell out of the neighbors.

Orion returned that love to me just as powerfully. Jobs would come and go and he'd be there. Girls would come and go (some we wanted gone; others broke our hearts) and Orion would help me recover. He knew when my heart hurt the most.

He also touched the lives of a great many people over the years. Encountering a wheel-chair bound young man with an enormous, hideously deformed head shaped like a triangle, Orion knew what to do. When the man grunted a request to get closer to the dog, I tried to wipe the look of shock off my face and let Orion do his thing. The man tried to move his fingers to pet him but he just couldn't get his hands to work.

No problem.

Orion, who used to get a great big grin on his face when he'd stand in front of me refusing my request to move out of my way, eased his head under the man's hand -- then moved his head back and forth to give him the sensation he was petting my pup. The man's elephantesque face lit up: for if just a moment, someone was treating him like a person and not a freak. I looked away only to see the woman pushing the young man had tears in her eyes, too.

Orion did that kind of stuff all the time. Without a minute of training, he walked into an assisted living center, roamed the halls with me, and made friends. People would touch him and start telling stories of their fondest childhood memories. He'd lean up and give his famed ear lick to residents whose minds were mostly gone already and, if just for a second, they would become lucid. Alive.

He had the same effect on children, especially when serving as the mascot of the travel baseball team I named after him and Alexis, the Huskies. The image of his face was sewn into our caps. The laughter we all shared doing the Husky fighting gesture -- lifting up our legs and pretending to pee on the ground -- still cracks me up.

Orion died on Jan. 29, 2007, exactly one week before what would have been our 10th Gotch'ya Day together. I came home from work and he was dead on the living room floor. In absolute shock, I raced him to the vet; I didn't know where else to go. Beaver Crossing had taken care of us for a decade. The vet said he looked as if he simply had a brain hemorrhage and died in an instant. No pain. No suffering. Even I had noticed the look frozen on his face, a look of complete peace as if he saw where he was headed next -- and that it was a beautiful place.

The closer the anniversary of his death came, the worse I felt. I still miss him and know part of me always will. He was a huge part of my life. As I look toward Feb. 6, however, I'm thinking it's time for me to focus less on the pain of his loss -- and more on celebrating his life and the meaning he brought to mine.

Maybe it's time for me to gather my new friends together here and throw my first D.C. bonfire bash. I can see Orion twirling around and yelping now: He knows there will be cake.