DC Reflections

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, sat on one of the stones that marks the outline of where his cabin stood and wrote some lines of my own.

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.)

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," he wrote, "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, your sisters Helen and Sophia and your beloved brother John, Jr.

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 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. That note, by the way, 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 wrote it. 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 T-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.

Of shepherds, sheep, and baseball fields

Home for Christmas, I sat in my old church listening to minister and friend Gray Norsworthy preaching a sermon about shepherds and sheep.

"Sheep are dumb, smelly animals," he said, explaining that they'll follow anybody anywhere -- and that like humans, they need the right people to care for them and to guide them. Gray said he needs a shepherd to get him cleaned up and that his shepherd is God. Sitting in a pew at Shallowford Presbyterian Church that day, I was in a room with more than just one of my lifeguides: I was communing with an all-star team ... a group of people who had intersected each other's lives thanks to some very special baseball fields a few miles away.

One of the reasons I love Gray's sermons is because he speaks in a real, honest and human way. He's a man who follows his faith and divines the answers to life's questions as best he can. He'll tell you straight out when he doesn't know something with certainty.

The way he conducts life is also one of things that, without him ever really knowing it, caused him to become one of the many shepherds in my life.

I was 31 or 32 when my father told me he was changing jobs and couldn't coach one of my brother's baseball teams in the Rehoboth Baptist Church league in Decatur, Georgia. Fill in for me, he said, you'll be great. Practice starts in two days.

I had never coached a team, but I wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to spend more time with my kid brothers Michael and Gregory -- a full generation younger than me but a huge part of my life. I did know sports, though, and I had watched my father coach a number of them when I was growing up.

My dad moved our family from St. Paul, Minnesota to Atlanta in the early 1970s because the city couldn't get enough teachers willing to work in the inner city. Serving kids most in need of help would become his mission for the rest of his professional and personal life. That decision to move to a place he had never seen to work with kids others shunned is one of the reasons my father Len is one of my heroes. Come to think of it, I should have turned to him in church that day and reminded him of that.

My dad taught history and social studies, and he coached sports after school. Football, baseball, tennis, soccer -- whatever his schools needed. He ran a tight ship that was big on self and team discipline, and equally big on love. Kids in his classroom and on his fields knew he loved them, wanted the best for them, but that he didn't take no junk, as we say in the South.

I tried to emulate that approach as I first set foot on the 10 and 11-year-old field. It was an interesting league to be sure -- Baptist by organization but open to every faith and lack there of in the community. It was a place that gives everybody a chance to belong.

I had the great fortune to be paired with a head coach, Mike Revzin, who could show me the ropes and gave me the chance to be an assistant instead of having to fly solo my first time out of the box. I watched Mike closely. Completely opposite from me in personality -- he is soft-spoken and measured in his communication -- I learned the basic keys to organizing a youth baseball team. Journalist Mike still helps me today, introducing me to reporters he knows in Washington who I need to know for my job here.

That rookie season also gave me the chance to observe coach Rembe Rodriguez, whose teams would become our arch rivals in the years to come. Rembe, strolling out to the pitcher's mound in his old-school black and white Converse high-tops that matched his salt-and-pepper hair, kept his kids mentally sound no matter the game situation.

His gift for developing young minds was obvious to everyone. He also wore his heart on his jersey sleeve. (I would later choose to live in Takoma Park because Rembe had moved his family here. The moral support they gave me as I chased my dream of living in D.C. made my new life possible.)

By the end of my first season, I was equal parts Mike, Rembe and my dad -- with a budding sense of my own approach. I poured my guts into coaching that team during a season in which wins were hard to come by. That didn't matter to me, though. I could see that I played a small role in helping some of the kids get a little better.

There was something else happening on that field, too. Something I didn't really see until the end-of-the-year party when player Alan Carpenter's mom made an announcement that would instantly change my life.

Mrs. Carpenter thanked me for helping Mike coach the team, but not so much for the athletic contribution. She said that the parents agreed what they liked about me most, and what she hoped the kids gathered around us saw, was that I was someone who showed those boys an example of what being a good man should look like. She said the parents were grateful for the impact I made on their kids' character.

I was stunned. I hadn't yet thought of myself as a "man". My dad, yes. Me, no. And I hadn't really thought of myself as any kind of role model.

I recognized in that moment that I had just graduated into the world of adulthood, and that it was time for me to make a bigger commitment than I was used to making at the time. I decided right then and there that volunteer coaching was for me and that I'd do it virtually year-round. For the next five years, that's exactly what I did. (I called Mrs. Carpenter before leaving Atlanta and thanked her for starting me on a journey of service that now lead to the nation's capital.)

Along the way, I would be absolutely humbled by the opportunity I had to provide a bit direction to a number of kids. The act of guiding young men, however, seemed to shape my character as much if not more than whatever I was able to do for them.

I also found other shepherds who kept me going in the right direction.

I met Gray as a result of having conversations with his son, catcher Mason, who kept throwing my kids out every time we tried to steal second. My teams could always run, but not against him. Speaking to him at the park one day, the youngster started to talking to me about cumulonimbus clouds and other scientific phenomena. Wow, kid has a cannon in his arm and his skull, I thought. I need to draft this guy next time. And so I did. Season after season after season. (Seeing him at church the other week, he was so tall I almost called him Sir.)

Drafting Mason also gave me the chance to get to know his little sisters, the beyond adorable combo of Cameron and Maggie. They wrapped me around their pint-sized fingers the second I saw them. They also forced into my head a brand new (though still rare) notion: maybe I'll have kids some day.

Robert Speers came into my life next. His son Brandon had been on my first team so we decided to coach together as Mike couldn't continue. Robert and I would coach two baseball seasons a year plus basketball in the winter. It was a coaching and friendship mind-meld, each of us bringing different strengths to the table and knowing at all times what the other was thinking.

While we would build a little rec league dynasty in our years together -- thanks in part to Rembe retiring from coaching and thus allowing us to draft his son Iggy -- the championships were of secondary importance. We were all about helping our charges develop more self confidence as athletes and as human beings -- the latter a quality I completely lacked as a kid. We also spent a lot of time with our teams off the field.

We took them to college and minor league baseball games and showed them what it takes to make it there. We took them on outdoor trips to teach them about conservation. (I was working for the Trust for Public Land at the time.) We took them to Robert's favorite school, Georgia Tech, and to my alma matter, the University of Georgia, where we explained how to handle what college life was really like.

We took them on volunteer work projects to food banks and assisted living centers. After a day of  taking our dogs to visit one such facility, we returned to our fields and had a team discussion about what we had all just experienced. The emotions and insights the players of that team (the Huskies) expressed blew the coaching staff and the parents away.

We took them on fitness runs, encouraging them to follow us as yours truly would lead them on head-first slides down muddy slopes.

The whole time, Robert, several years my senior, probably didn't notice that I was watching how he conducted himself as a husband and a father. He didn't see me thinking, "If I ever go those routes, I'm going to be a lot like him."

Sitting at church as Gray brought home his sermon, I had tears in my smelly sheep eyes. I would give him a huge hug after the service, high-five my father and brothers on my way out the door, and later make my way toward Robert's house to watch some football. Gray's message is still with me two weeks later. I wish I could gather every shepherd I met through Rehoboth on a field today -- a list that would include far more names than space allows for here -- and thank them all for what they've done to direct my life. I pray I live up to the example they've set.

 

How badly do we want it?

Taking a lunch break while at long last finishing the unpacking process, I caught a conversation on C-SPAN 2 taking place at the Harlem Book Fair today (visit www.cspan.org to learn more) -- a dialog that raised a question is often on my mind: how badly do we Americans really want to make changes in our country?

The discussion featured liberal black historian Walter Mosley speaking to liberal white historian Howard Zinn. While I don't often find that I learn much listening to people who agree with each other, the meeting of the minds they conducted today took civic discourse to its highest level. The far-ranging conversation covered everything from the war in Iraq to free health care. (I was tempted to turn the channel when they began making their case for the latter: The last thing I want is for the same government that's responsible for the IRS to also stick me with a needle.)

Most of their stage time, though, was spent looking at the bigger picture. They both called for the formation of a new national movement that would cause change -- a movement starting in back yards and neighborhoods all across the country ... small bands of individuals joining together to make a difference.

They didn't articulate exactly what they hoped the movement would accomplish but they repeatedly drove home the point that the initially small, grass-roots efforts are what have most affected history. It was a small minority of colonists who sacrificed time from their own personal lives to spark the Revolution. Mosley and Zinn pointed to the same lessons from the women's suffrage and civil rights movements.

The gentlemen alluded to the pioneers of such drives using all the tools in their disposal -- small individual actions, boycotts, civil disobedience and more. In the case of the Revolution, they mentioned the great Committees of Correspondence, groups of people who gathered in towns up and down the eastern seaboard to organize and to communicate. Zinn hoped that we the people in 2007 are at the same point the colonists were on the eve of their rebellion. 

Though I may disagree with some of the changes the gentlemen would like to see, I am an all-day sucker for hoping that we the people get more involved in the nation we've been blessed to inherit. I bet you are, too.

The cynic I try to keep at bay counters that we are too complacent to organize and stick with a movement the way Bostonians did in the early 1770s and the way Southerners did in the 1960s. Compared to those eras, we have it pretty good. Everyone can vote, though too few take the time. We have an exceptionally low unemployment rate. The streets in most cities are relatively safe. We go to our jobs, work hard, then head on to our family or social lives. We sit on the couch helping ourselves to seconds from the dinner table while watching TV and thinking it's too bad about the people on the news who got some bad breaks. When the weekend rolls around, we mow our lawns and make our runs to the grocery store. We get in some exercise and hang out with our friends.

Yet this same apparently quite content group complains about the Bush-Cheney administration or the horror of a potential Clinton presidency, yet we don't attend county political meetings, find candidates in even local races that we would want to run, bolster third parties, or do much of anything else before a second Tuesday in November. We go tisk-tisk debating whether the federal government should beef up its role in education or get out of way, yet few of us get our employers involved with the school in our back yard or head a committee at the PTA. We buy children Nike shoes endorsed by morally reprehensible athletes rather than give them the chance to see New Balance shoes are even better. We think what a bummer about global warming as we drive two blocks to pick up a gallon of milk.

We say we wish we could do more, but we're quick to point out we just don't have the time.

The picture isn't all bleak. To the contrary, I pump my fist and admit that on most days I am an unapologetic idealist. I see people on my block, in my state and in our country taking time out of their days to make a difference. I want to believe that we the people will do our part to improve our own lives and those of our neighbors -- that we will make this nation even better.

Still, I can't help but sometimes wonder ... how badly do we want it?

 

 

Breaking the ice

Though I'm rarely at a loss for words, a woman asked me a question at an event last night that tripped my tongue for a moment.

"What's your favorite childhood memory?," she asked at a meet-and-greet at Lounge 201 -- a cozy little bar near Capitol Hill.

My gaze went completely blank, first because I found the question an unexpected way to move a conversation along. The other reason, and the one I began my response with, was that I'm very fortunate to have a treasure chest so full of such memories that it was difficult to single one out ... even if one had been on my mind a lot the last several weeks. Probably right up until the moment she popped the question.

Looking around the room and collecting my thoughts, I told her about my very first trip to Washington. My dad took me here the summer after my fifth grade year. Seems like a long time ago -- 1907 I believe it was. I had seen films in school about the Smithsonian and wanted to see it in person.

I vividly remember looking out the Amtrak window and seeing this enormous white building. That's the capitol of the United States, dad pointed out. My first view of the city took my breath away. Even before I fully understood what Washington was, I knew this town was for me.

That first trip was filled with a host of other vivid experiences. Lost in my own reminiscing, I told her about my first visit to the Lincoln, about how reading two of the greatest speeches in human history with my dad made an enormous impact on me. I also remember buying a postcard of Lincoln with his son Thad -- an image of father and son flipping through a book together. I don't think dad saw me buy that card.

On one of his other trips to DC (he taught high school at the time and brought Close Up students here), he sent me a poster of that same image along with a letter telling me how much it reminded him of his love for me.

I thanked the woman for asking me the question and for allowing me to linger in the memory. She in kind told me one of hers, about hanging out with her friends and pretending they were with Teddy Roosevelt riding up San Juan Hill in 1898. It was nice to learn I wasn't the only history geek in the room.

Opening my front door a train and bus ride later, I was greeted by the poster and the letter that had survived for a few decades before I finally had them framed. They now hang in my living room as a constant reminder of my dad and of the very first day I began dreaming of life in the city I now call home.