The Old Lady Wins The Race

The Old Lady Wins The Race

Vicki Murphy-Kendall's  60^th BirthdayOctober 2004Springfield High SchoolSpringfield, PA

My friend, Vicki Kooky Kendall, is turning 60 in a week.  We work together in a high school. She is a teacher and I am the principal. One afternoon, she stopped by my office.

“Hey, I want to ask you if I can do something.  I haven’t mentioned it to the kids.  I wanted to run it by you first.”

That opening statement is always a red flag for me.  Something outrageous is about to be asked.

“Go ahead, give it to me”, I tell her.

“I want to challenge my homeroom students to a 10K race for my birthday.  OK, I may have mentioned it to them and they thought it would be a great idea.  We would do it at the beginning of the day.  I think it would take about an hour.  But the boys think they can beat me.  And I want to show them that this old lady still has something in her.  We would meet at my house and run to school.  If we meet by 7, we could get here at 8 and then they wouldn’t miss too much class.  What do you think?”  She bites her lip when she finishes.

“Yea, we could work something out. I think this would be a great life lesson for them,” I respond.

She is surprised and relieved. “Good, I told them that I didn’t think you would mind.”

We decided to limit the course to the neighborhood around the school building so that the kids are not on any major roads.  They would lap the campus six times.  They would take off from school at 8 and get back at 9 which is when homeroom starts.  We would invite the entire school to come out to the track to see the final lap.  The band had agreed to come out and play some sort of victory song as Vicki finished the race.

The day before the race, I went on the school television and announced that this was going to be the race of the generations.  I talked about goal setting and never surrendering to imposed limitations.  I talked about trying new things all your life.  I talked about my admiration of Vicki for taking on this audacious challenge.  Throughout the day, the faculty commented on my speech.  Not one kid mentioned it so I can only assume not one kid bothered to listen.

On the day of the race, I interrupted classes and announced that the race is about to begin.  Some students clapped as the runners walk down the hallways and out the door. And the race began.

The boys started out as if they had been shot from a cannon.  Vicki and one girl, from our cross country team, ran together in a slow steady pace.  I went back to my office and opened the blinds so I could see them as they lapped around the building.

The first lap was completed and then the second and the third.  It was now the fourth lap and I saw Vicki and the girl. They had a nice, even pace.  I could see them taking deep, strong breathes.  Then they were out of my sight.  I waited for the boys but they weren’t anywhere to be seen.  A few more minutes passed and there was still no sight of them.  So I went out on the street to look for them.  They were sitting on the corner, exhausted and defeated.  They saw me and muster up some energy.  They ran again but they are pathetic, absolutely pathetic.  They were finished.

As they approach me, I  held up my hand and stopped them.

“Wait, wait. You are a sorry bunch of losers,” I tell them.  “That old lady is beating you.  As a matter of fact, in a few minutes, she is going to lap you.  And when that happens, you are going to be the laughing stock of the whole school.  You will never be able to come back here ever again because we will all be laughing at you.  This calls for immediately action.  You must cheat.  You have to cut through the building and just go sit by the track gate.  You can’t keep up with her.”

They laugh in shame and relief.  They all high-five me, thank me and run through the building.  A few minutes later, they are at the finish point, laying on the grass, done with this ridiculous challenge.

A few minutes later, the band is ready to go and the rest of the students are filling in the bleachers.  Vicki enters the track and the boys get up on their feet and scramble to start the victory lap.  The band is playing The Eye of the Tiger.  The crowd is cheering.  Vicki’s husband and daughter at at the finish point with two dozen roses.  Vicki falls in to their arms and the crowd go wild. The old lady won the race.

Mother Ganga- River of Life

MOTHER GANGA

The River Ganges
Varanasi, India

July 2015

I have never seen a body of water more respected and more utilized in my entire life.  I live near a river so I understand that a body of water can grab hold of you for some unexplained reason.  But this river owns the heart and soul of every Hindu I have met.  People speak of this river with a reverence that is admirable. They use the river as their primary water source for bathing, cleaning, praying and relaxing. Yet they pollute it with such disregard that they must think this river will clean itself, and maybe I am wrong about this thought. Maybe they just don’t care that it is filthy, littered with tons of debris, fecal matter, decomposing body parts and years and years of deposits of cremated ashes.  Maybe they have so many family members in this river that it is a comfort to be here with them regardless of the polluted conditions. Regardless, this river has a strong hold on everyone.

An evening ceremony honors Mother Ganga every night. Thousands of people attend and pay homage to the sacred waters. People bring empty containers, which they fill with this dirty water and bring it home.  There is a facet below my balcony.  Water from the river is pumped through these pipes.  Men come here just to brush their teeth each morning.

The women bathe in one section. They tend to sit close to the edge of the river, on the steps.  They are usually with small children so they don’t go in too deep; just enough to sit and cool off from the intense heat. They sit as a family unit and sing songs.  And when they finish, they huddle together quickly and discreetly, taking off their wet sarong and putting their dry, oppressive sari back on.

The men tend to bathe right below my balcony.  Some of them strut quiet a distance from some unknown location to the men’s section.  They strut like peacocks. They are usually big bellied, wearing a tight, tight pair of undies that barely cover their parts.  They strut without shame, without thought of bringing their clothing with them.

They jump in, they dive, they splash, they are loud and boisterous, they scream in jubilation as they touch the water.  It is a joyful occasion for them.  They swim great lengths and they appear to move at great speed, as if the tide is forever taking them away from us. They swim around the many rowboats in their way.  But they don’t mind.  They call to one another as they joke and swim and enjoy every minute of this opportunity.

There are close to a hundred boatmen who will take you on a ride up the river. Small-framed boys sit on the stern of rickety, worn-out wooden rowboats and row for as long as someone will pay them. They spend the whole day on the river in hopes of getting at least one passenger.

Priests sit under large umbrellas and offer blessings and chakra marks for all who would like to keep this moment as a sacred homage to Mother Ganga. Men walk around and sell flower petals as offerings to the Mother God.  Containers of water are filled and brought home for reasons beyond my understanding.

Yogi masters hold discussions with students under the brutal, beating sun. Loners walk the steps and mumble prayers to themselves. There are merchants who are pushing their wares but their interruptions are minor considering the volume of people who come here every day.  They sell beads, silks, spiritual offerings for the river and the ghats. Hindi music is available for purchase on CDs but not much more than that is sold here. This clientele is singularly focused on the river.

There are lots and lots of stray dogs. They travel in packs and spend much of their day trying to find a cool place to lie.  Throughout the day, these packs will intrude on each other’s territory and a war starts; they yelp and growl and bark at each other.  There are a few bites. But the warring is short lived but frequent.

The hotels along the river use these waters to clean their sheets.  Boys stand on the steps, in the water and pound the sheets, towels and pillowcases.  Then this laundry is draped all over the steps and sidewalks to dry. The side exposed to the sun dries first, then the sheet is flipped over and the other side dries.  Once dried, the sheet is dusted off, folded and taken back up the long, steep steps to the hotel.

There are villagers who come over from the other side of the river. They come in water taxis that hold way too many people. These boats go back and forth all day long, carrying people and their wares.

Bells toll from the various ghats all day.  They call people to prayer. Sometimes they glare these chants over a PA system for all of us to hear. People stop in at all times of the day to pay their respect to Vishnu and the multitudes of other Hindu gods.

The sunrises over the river are reported to be spectacular. But I have not seen this as it has rained the last three days so the start of each day has been dull, gray and not worthy of any more than 5 minutes on my balcony at 5:30AM. Maybe I will get to see this beautiful sight tomorrow.

The national government bans the deposit of full or partial body parts in the river. It’s an effort to minimize the overwhelming pollution problem that Mother Ganga suffers. Cremations are still allowed as long as the entire body is burned. Cremation ceremonies are open to the public.  I am in search of this ritual as I am anxious to see how people who believe in reincarnation view this moment of permanent departure.

The banks of the Ganges are just a series of thousands of inconsistently shaped and sized steps. For no reason, platforms go up and down within a matter of feet of one another.  All of these steps wreak havoc on my arthritic knees. I find myself looking for paths of less resistance while I am also dodging huge piles of animal fecal matter. The biggest contributors to this problem are the cows.  They roam the steps and get tired so they sit wherever they can find comfort.  We walk around them without thought or concern. Some people stroke them, maybe as a sacred gesture; I’m not sure.

The monkeys tend to hang at the top of the steps. That’s where all the restaurants are located.  They hang with the potential of food. I hear them as they traipse over the aluminum rooftops or swing from a tree and blop down suddenly, thunderously on the rooftop. They fight each other all day long.  Today, one monkey was eating something and a second monkey came up from behind and snatched it.  He got his ass chewed, literally. He sat in front of me, enjoying every morsel as his rear end dripped blood from his freshly torn wound.

The river wakes up around 5:30AM every day. People are in the water with the first break of light.  The celebration to Mother Ganga ends around 8:30PM and the sun is long gone by then.  Most people leave with the sun. Just the dogs roam the banks after dark. There is stillness in the air as I linger outside my balcony but that tranquility is deceiving. This river exudes life. Millions of souls are resting before me. And each day more and more cremated souls join the Mother Ganga to watch over all of us.

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