Buongiorno et bon matin...

...from the Italian Market!

Yes, I know that's a language mashup, but that's where I am.  

Qui. Maintenant.  Here. Now.

Mile 12,615 =  Kilomètre 20,302

I'm gearing up for travel.

In just two weeks, I leave for Paris -- yes, Paris! -- to join travel writer Rolf Potts, and a whole new group of classmates for the advanced version of the travel memoir class I took there last summer.  I can't wait!

So I'd better brush up on my writing -- and walking.

Here at home, my little red car, "Happy," has just passed her 10,000th mile.

To celebrate, and sneak in some walking/writing, we drive down to our old favorite, Gleaner's, for a coffee and stroll through the Italian Market. 

The smell of baking bread leads the way.  
It fades into roasted coffee,

sugared dough,

melted tar, 

and garbage juice, spilled from a leaky bag.

In the first three blocks, I hear four languages:  Spanish, Italian, Cambodian (I think), and Greek. 

  

And this one??

It's barely 7:30.  The sun is still low.  The sidewalks are shady.  The breeze feels uncommonly cool.

I pass a bookstore, not yet open, with boxes stacked outside.  A scribbled sign says FREE.  The middle box sags with paperbacks of The Babysitter's Club, piled high like a mound of rainbow jimmies.  (Or "sprinkles" for you out-of-towners.) 

When I reach Passyunk (say "Pash-yunk"), a cheesesteak truck is parked inside an overgrown community garden.  

Pretty much Philly in a nutshell.

I turn onto a narrow street of rowhomes.  

A mirrored chrome railing reminds me of an 80's rollerskating rink.  A toddler's kitchen playset sits atop a metal grate.  How many toys (and shoes) have been dropped through those cracks?

It's a good leg day so far.  

On days like this, I feel like I could walk miles.  But I know better.  

The sun is getting higher.  

My prosthetic's getting looser.  

While I'm comfortable, like now, my feet and mind can wander.  But it's early yet.  

I need to save energy -- and precious leg time -- for the rest of the day.

So I turn up 7th, back toward the car.  

This patch of road used to be part of my bike route to work.  I pedaled through here every morning for years.  

I knew where cars rolled through the 4-way stop.  I knew where every pothole was.  

It looks different now. 

Smoother.  Brighter.

I almost don't recognize it.

But then, come the bikers.  

They whisper by in clusters, two and three at a time, helmets strapped, backpacks bouncing behind them in crates and saddlebags.  

7th Street, I realize, has become a bike superhighway.  

It feels good to walk among them.

When I arrive back at the car, my coffee cup is empty, but my notebook is full. 

And I'm happy to be here.

Walk on,

Rebecca

Infinity in One Block

Hello from Mile 12,480.

At 7:40 AM, the clouds hang low, but the heat stands on tiptoe, poised to soar.

It's summer in Old City.  I'm used to it.  

I get out early.  

Walk when I can.

It's a "good leg day" so far.

So on the way back from getting coffee, I don't go straight home.  Instead, I pass the doorway of my apartment building and cross the street onto Elfreth's Alley.

It's 100 (or maybe fewer) feet from my door, but when I step onto that cobblestone walkway, I travel.  

Not just because Philadelphians have been walking this block since colonial days, but because I've been walking this block.  For the dozen years I've lived across the street from it, Elfreth's Alley has always been there for me. 

It gives me a place to travel -- without going anywhere at all.

For a few summers, I volunteered at the museum here, meeting travelers from around the world.  I loved answering their questions:

"People still live here?" they'd ask, pointing to an Amazon package on a doorstep. 

(Yes, and they get deliveries.) 

"Women were really homeowners?" 

(Yep, and business owners too.)

And my favorite... 

"Where can we get ice cream?"  

(Franklin Fountain -- try the peach!)

During the pandemic, I wrote a middle grade novel set here.  To this day, each time I walk past the 2nd house on the left -- with its olive green gate and fanshaped flag on the door -- I think, "That's where the Mitternights live."  The Mitternights are an imaginary family who exist only on my pages.

On so many mornings like this one, I walked here with my foster daughter, "Rainbow."  She'd dart between the houses, beneath the canopy of trees that mark a narrow opening called Bladen's Court.  

There, she'd hop along the stones till she reached the old water pump, where she'd hang from the handle, pretending to yank it.  I'd saunter behind, focusing my footwork and sipping my coffee.

To me, it was an easy place we could go for fresh air.  To her, the Alley was a playground.

On this block, I've "sweated out" of my prothesis. 

I've toured with out-of-town friends.

I've crowded with tourists under a tiny roof in a thunderstorm.

I've tripped over the cobblestones. 

I've even fantasized about buying one of these houses, fixing it up, and opening an Airbnb.  I've told my neighborhood friends we should do it together.  They're not quite on board - yet. 

When you get to know a place -- really know it -- it holds unlimited possibility.  You see it up close.  It can encompass the past and future, a whole world in just a few steps.

(In my view, anyway.)

I've signed up for another travel writing class -- the "advanced" version of the one I took last year with Rolf Potts. 

I am super excited for the opportunity.  I'll be in Paris again -- to learn, observe, and write about the city in new ways!

But also... I'm a bit rusty.  

And sort of an imposter.

My classmates will be worldly and well-traveled.  (I've checked out their websites!)  Some have written books.  Some have made a life out of going to, living in, and writing about new places.  

They don't seem to walk the same few blocks day after day.

I wonder what I'll write about.  How my adventures will compare.

It's not a new question.  I expressed it to Rolf last year at my one-on-one writing conference.  

Is there a place for me as a travel writer -- one who takes small steps in small spaces?

He thought there was.  He encouraged me to go deep, to shape my experiences into stories only I could tell.  

I don't go everywhere and can't do everything, yet is there something special -- even unique -- about slowing down and zooming in?

Day to day, I may not travel far.  

But I can see infinity in one block.

And maybe that's a perpective the world needs too.

Walk on,

Rebecca

There's No Ice in Florida

Summer greetings from Mile 12,445...

The Florida Panthers won the Stanley Cup.

(Stick with me...)

With the Flyers well into their summer break, I didn't even follow the Stanley Cup Playoffs this year.  And anyway, it's mid-June.

In my mind, too hot for hockey.

In fact, if I hadn't heard that one-liner on the morning news, I wouldn't have even known who was playing.  

But it's true.  

The Florida Panthers beat the Edmonton Oilers last night. 

And they didn't just win.  They did it in historic fashion.

The announcement comes on NPR as I'm putting in my contact lenses at the bathroom counter.

Wait, I think.  How could this happen?

There's no ice in Florida!

It's funny how things stick with us.  

My dad imparted this simple truth to me when, around age 7, I asked him why Florida didn't have a hockey team.  

It was the 1970's, and I was decked out in Flyers gear.

Orange and black yarn ties on my pigtails,
a pint-sized Bobby Clarke jersey,
and a hockey-sized gap between my front teeth.  

At the Flyers game that day, we stopped at the souvenir stand, and Dad bought me a sheet of shiny vinyl stickers with the emblems of every team in the NHL.  That's when I noticed Florida was missing.

I knew about Florida.  My grandparents lived there.   

It was hot down there.  Of course they couldn't play hockey.

(Even at home, we only went ice skating in the winter!)

There was no ice in Florida!

So when I hear the news about the Panthers, it stops me in my tracks.  

I mean, I knew they were a team now.  But in that one moment, I'm gobsmacked by the complexity of the world.  

If Florida beats Edmonton in hockey, does that mean anything is possible?

At Mile 12,445 I am walking again.  Pretty well, actually.  

To that end, I'm glad anything is possible.  I'm thankful for the life-saving advances that have carried me this far and the modern technology that encompasses each of my steps.

(When there was no ice in Florida, bionic legs weren't around either!)

But also... this complex world is overwhelming.

I could jump to catastrophe here.  I could talk about disappearing glaciers and climate change that's happening because of... well... everything... including ice rinks in Florida.

But I won't go there.

I'll just say that putting on my prosthesis, day after day, in a world where anything is possible -- for better or worse -- is equal parts exhilarating and exhausting.  

Sometimes, I yearn for those simpler days when I followed Dad's footsteps up a thousand concrete stairs and settled into his lap at the very top row of The Spectrum.  

It was the middle of winter (of course), and we were cheering on our favorite team.  

As an adult, I'm sure he carried the weight of a complicated world on his shoulders. 

But if he did, he never let on.

Instead, he kept it pint-sized.  My-sized.

And handed it to me in manageable pieces -- one simple truth at a time.

There's no ice in Florida.

Apologies to Panthers fans. :)

Walk on,
Rebecca

One Great Thing

Hello from Mile Marker 12,290...

Walking hasn't been so great.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm SO glad to be back on my feet again -- going anywhere at all.  Getting used to being in my prosthetic socket, with all its pressure points and pain, is just part of the process.  

Still, it's been wearing me down.

On Saturday night, I call my friend Beth.

We've just received the tragic news that our friend Gary has passed away. 

It is completely unexpected.  He was our age.  A physical therapist AND a firefighter.  Smart.  Caring.  Brave.  The kind of person our world needs more of.

We'd been friends a long time -- 
all the way back to our skating days.

Beth and I feel the loss together.  Reminisce about our many years in the skate club and how much things have changed since then.  

I tell her I feel caught between wanting to do everything (because "life is short") and not wanting to do anything (because "life is hard"). 

How do we navigate a world like that?

Then Beth tells me about a man she knows from her hiking club. 

He's in his 70's and always upbeat, despite aches and pains and rough terrain.

She asked him once how he stays so positive.  

"Even on the worst days," he told her, "I try to find one thing that makes each day great."

He gave her some examples. (They were really small things!)

Beth and I laugh it off.  It's probably not that simple.  

But we start listing "great" things anyway -- things we usually take for granted...

Our health.

Electricity.
A warm bed.
Food in the fridge. 

We both know the truth:  These are really big things -- and they prove how great we have it. 

The next morning Beth texts me:  

It's a great day because the sun is shining.

I look out the window.  She's right.  

And when I open the window, the air outside smells like spring.

That's when I notice my grandmother's begonia has a new brand-new bloom.  

I snap a pic.  Text it to Beth.

That's THREE great things already -- and it's still early!

Without planning to, we start texting each other here and there, tossing small "great things" back and forth like a badminton game.

Moroccan maple nut mix from my brother in Chicago.
Mile 88,888 on her car's odometer.

A quote on a coffee board near my doctor's appointment.

Once you start noticing great things,
they're everywhere!

Yesterday marked six months since my dad died. 

There is nothing great about it.

But I remember my dad had this special way of navigating hard times.  A unique combination of humor and hope.

Even at the end of his life -- sitting in his recliner at home or lying in bed at the hospital -- he would light up when I walked in the door.

"Hey Dad, how's it going?" I would ask.

"Great!"  he'd always answer.  His voice rose into that exclamation point no matter how bad he really felt.

I think my Dad would have liked the "one great thing" idea.   

He was pragmatic though.  He'd know it wouldn't change the world.

I know that too.

But maybe it'll change my corner of it.

Walk on,

Rebecca

P.S.  Find one great thing? I'd love to hear it! :)

Hope Walks In

 "We've got to get you walking again," Tim says.

And just like that, hope walks in.

Oh, how I've missed it!

After 2 months on crutches, I tried to get my prosthesis on.

The socket didn't fit.  At all.

Socket fit is finicky, I know.  I'd been struggling with it since my earliest miles as an amputee.   

Still, I'd been anticipating this moment -- easing my little leg gently into the prosthesis, standing on my own "two feet" again.  

Even if it wasn't quite perfect -- I knew it wouldn't be -- it would still be the first step to feeling like my old self.  (Well, my old "new" self anyway.)

When it didn't fit at all, I sat on the edge of my bed and cried.

Six days later -- somewhere around Mile 12,145 -- I arrive at Prosthetic Innovations. 

I crutch through the parking lot heavily, weighed down by all that has changed.

But Prosthetist Tim isn't deterred.  In fact, he seems happy to see me.  

I tell him about the fall, and how bruised my leg was afterward. 

"It probably looked like your shirt," he says.

I glance down at my tie-dye t-shirt, splotches of blue and purple and gold and green.  

Yep.  I laugh. 

It's good to be back.

Tim gets out his measuring tape and loops it around my leg.  

It's still swollen from the fall.  Or maybe its shape has just changed from the injury.  Whatever the cause, it measures 3 1/2 cm larger than it used to.  No wonder my prosthesis doesn't fit.

Tim brings out a pull-bag, a surefire method to get into an extra tight socket.  I slide it over my liner.  

We try again -- together -- to get my prosthesis on.

For a split second, I think it'll work.  (Things usually work here, even when they don't at home!)

But... Nope.

I feel the shadow of discouragement.

"We've got to get you walking again," Tim says.

And with those words, my insides light up. 

He has a plan.  

He'll make me a new socket.  Maybe temporary.  Maybe not.  One that will fit my leg now, not as it used to be.

The SOONER the BETTER, he says.

I am 100% in.

We go into the casting room.  

Wrap my leg in plastic.  

Don the funny shorts.  

Flashback to Mile 2,015.
They're always in style!

The drill is familiar -- and filled with hope.

The cast will become a mold for a test-socket, which'll be modified as many times as necessary until it captures the new shape of my residual limb.

I loved my old socket, with its soft magenta interior and butterfly on the side.  It had carried me through a lot.

But maybe letting it go -- at least for now -- is the ticket to move forward.

Socket fit is a multi-step, patience-draining, fine-tuning process.  

In my earliest miles with a prosthesis, my dad drove me back and forth to Prosthetic Innovations for fittings and adjustments.  

I always felt down beforehand.  

And up afterward.

It became a joke between us --

I didn't just get a leg adjustment. 

I got an attitude adjustment too.

Lucky for us,
they were buy one, get one free!

This time around I know what to expect.  

The journey back to "two feet" is not going to be simple.  It will likely be uncomfortable, maybe even painful at first.  I'll have to rebuild my strength and tolerance.  

It will require perseverance, flexibility, and adjustment -- in both leg and attitude. :)

Casting is just the first step.

But I know about first steps too.

And this one feels like a HOPEFUL start.

Walk on,

Rebecca

Keep Rising

Greetings from Mile 12,142 --

My kitchen is a mess, and I'm the happiest I've been in months.

I'd almost forgotten the power -- and joy -- of baking!

Remember Angry Cookies?  

And Cookie Apocalypse?
And not knowing what to do, but wanting to do something?

Whenever I faced a tough patch, baking always helped get me through. 

I've been off-balance lately -- physically and emotionally -- hobbling around in a "boot" and on crutches.  

Everything is a multistep process these days:  getting ready for work, collecting the mail, traveling from Point A to Point B.  I've become better at planning, more practiced at problem-solving.  Steadier with a backpack.  

But still, it's exhausting.  And laced with loss.

I'm grateful to my body for rising to the challenge -- for doing what's required -- but that's usually all I can manage.

I had written off baking completely.  

It just wasn't worth the energy.

Two weeks after my dad's funeral, my mom and I travel to Vermont.  

I plan the trip and do the driving.
Mom is the Sherpa, lugging everything except my backpack.  

(She's small but mighty!) 

We're going to visit my sister Sam and her family, a trip we've made dozens of times over the years, usually with Dad in the driver's seat.

In Danbury, we pass his favorite stop, the Blue Colony Diner.  We start to text him a photo, and then realize we can't.  When we reach Springfield, we want to tell him we've arrived.  The car feels empty without him.  

This trip is different.  Everything is different.

Maybe for that reason, we divert from our usual path.

Instead of connecting to I-89 at White River Junction, we drive 20 more miles up I-91 to a place I've never been but have always aspired to go...

King Arthur Baking Company --
the headquarters!

To our surprise (and my delight) it's fully accessible. 

The parking spaces are close. 
The doors are automatic.  
The restrooms are roomy.  
The floors are smooth.

That's as close to effortless as it gets on crutches!

I feel absolutely welcome!!

The staff is friendly, helpful, and smiling. The café barista wears a sweatshirt emblazoned with the words...

KEEP RISING.

It's a fun diversion -- and exactly the message we "knead." :)  

We treat ourselves to true Vermont fare:  fig and brie on a homemade baguette, a fall salad with maple dressing, steaming cups of cider with biodegradable lids.  

Then we poke around the factory store.  It's full retail therapy wrapped in the aroma of baking bread.  

Mom does all the carting and carrying!

I'm on my feet (well, foot) for quite a while.  We both are.  But it's not exhausting.  

It's renewing.

Two hours later, we meet up with our favorite Vermonters.  

They don't even notice the delay!

Back at home, I start counting miles again, picking up where I left off almost 2 months ago.

At Mile 12,142, I decide it's time to get back to baking.

I scoot around the kitchen on my wheelie stool.
Pivot on one foot to pull out the ingredients.  

Stand when I need more leverage.

I thought I couldn't bake without my prosthesis on, but it turns out I can...

It's just different. 

I plan out each step.  Try to be organized.  Stand up.  Sit down.  Stand up again.

It's a multistep process, but it's not exhausting.  

It's an exhilarating diversion -- one I want to do, not have to do.

The counter swirls with its messiest storm in months: canned pumpkin, bright red cranberries, granulated sugar, sifted flour, shakers of cinnamon, ginger, and cloves.   

I reunite with my bowls and cups and wooden spoons like old friends.

The kitchen fills with the warmth of fall.

I measure and stir and crack a few eggs.  
Drip oil down my sleeve.  

Drop wrappers on the floor.
Crush crumbs with the wheels of my stool.

My hands are busy.  My mind is focused.

Disorder becomes order.  

And that mess on the kitchen counter?  

It rises into something new, and nourishing, and beautiful.

A pumpkin-cranberry bread
to share, gratefully, with friends.

Making time for who and what we love is always worth the trip.

KEEP RISING. 

Wishing you a happy and healthy Thanksgiving!

Bake on,

Rebecca

P.S.  Recipe here:  Pumpkin-Cranberry Bread

The Hardest Miles of All

I've lost track of the miles.

I haven't worn my prosthetic leg in a month.

But today I roll the liner on.  

Hey, it's a start.  One step closer to moving again. 

Confidence bolstered, I tuck a travel mug into my crutch bag.  Balance on one leg and lock the door behind me.  Take the elevator down.  

I open the first door to the lobby.  I've mastered a maneuver I call the "one-handed hop-thru."  A crutch dangles from my forearm.  

Then -- before I can change my mind -- I push through the second door too, and hop out onto the sidewalk.  Quick.  Like pulling off a band-aid. 

Here I go!

Crutch, step.  Crutch, step. 

One city block down Arch Street.  On my own.

With a ridiculous amount of courage, I make it to Starbucks.

Richard treats me to my first coffee in a long time.

And I am ridiculously proud of myself.

This is it, I think.  I'm moving again!

-----

Mile 12,141 was my last noticeable mileage. 

It happened toward the end of September.  Back then -- maybe you remember -- I was limping around on a stress-fractured right foot.  

I relied on my car to get around.  I wore a boot on my right leg and a prosthetic on my left.  My longest walk was in and out of the hospital, where my dad was a patient.

I ignored my own discomfort, minor in comparison.

----

On October 9, my dad passed away.  

And I haven't counted miles since.

My dad was my very first walking partner -- both before and after my accident.

This blog is filled with our walks...

He's pushing me, a sleepless infant, in a baby carriage,

Or around the block, post-surgery, in a wheelchair.

He's with me on my earliest miles with a prosthesis, 

and behind the scenes
at Flyers games.

He guided me through easy days and hard ones.

He accompanied me on adventures...

to find prosthetics in the least likely places!

He taught me to drive, took me on road trips, and helped me buy cars. 

He drove me to
many (many!) appointments.

All along, he let me pave my own path -- and then he ran defense, removing every obstacle in my way. 

No matter what challenges our family faced,
my dad knew what steps to take.

And always -- even through his own long illness -- he held onto HOPE.

So did we.

----

The day he died, I lost my balance.

I was at my parents' house with the whole family.  At sunset, I went out to move my car into the driveway. 

It was the new car we'd picked out together
from his hospital room.

We stayed up all night by his bedside.  I took off my prosthesis at midnight.  

We lost him two hours later.

As the sun rose, I went downstairs on crutches to email my job and let them know I wouldn't be in.  I sat down at the laptop and typed:

My dad passed away early this morning.  

The words came out on autopilot, like when you walk without realizing how lucky you are. 

I hit send.  

Then, as I stood up and reached for my crutches, I lost my balance.

And fell.

I landed directly on my residual limb -- my little leg -- hitting it so hard the ceiling turned to stars.

I haven't been able to wear my prosthesis since.

I miss my dad.

I miss my leg.  

I miss walking.

I know these things aren't equal, but in the brokenness, they've become intertwined.  

----

I make it home safely with my coffee.  

Set the travel mug on the kitchen counter.

Crutch into the bedroom.

Gently, I roll off my prosthetic liner.  Phew!

I just can't tolerate it yet.  My little leg aches from the pressure and rubbing.  My femur is still so sore.  

I spray some alcohol on the liner to clean it.  And that's when it occurs to me:

The last time I did this was exactly one month ago -- at midnight.  

My dad was in the next room.  

Still alive.

I feel his fingers in mine.  

See his smile.

Hear his voice.  

Smell his aftershave.

The thoughts are both fragile and flooding.

This whole month, I've been struggling to keep moving, with or without my leg.  I've been pushing forward -- full speed ahead -- determined to get back to the way things were before. 

But in this moment, I realize that's not what I need.

I need to pause.  Where I am.  

To think about him. 

Remember him.

Write about him.

I need to take time to feel my dad's absence -- and miss him -- with all my body and heart.

It's been a long journey, but these are the hardest miles of all.

----

November 9 was my "Alive Day."  

It marked 13 years since the accident -- and one month without my dad.

In the days ahead, I'll think about our walks together, keep the memories close, and wish he were here.

I'll make time for what's important.  And give myself space to breathe.

I'll take small steps, slowly and slightly off-balance.  Mostly for coffee.  

And as I navigate the sidewalk, I will remember how lucky I am to be out.  Walking.  On one leg or two.

I don't know what this next year will bring. 

But I will hold onto HOPE.  Always.  

Just like he did.

Love you, Dad.
Miss you, Dad.

xo,
Rebecca

Happy(er)

Beep beep! from Mile Marker 12,111...

On our first ride together, I can't find the odometer.  

Then I see this two-digit number at the bottom of the dash.

40 mi.

40 miles?  For this trip?  

Nope.  Just 40 miles. 

Total. 

That's the odometer -- haha!

It's the first smile we share. :)

Happy new car!

Screech!  Reverse...

I did not want to get a new car.   

Or a new microwave.  Or a new toilet.  

I did not want my apartment's HVAC to clink and clank like there's a ping pong ball in the pipes. 

I did not want to send my prosthesis in for maintenance the week before I left for Paris.  And I definitely did not want to brew a stress fracture in my right foot (a.k.a. real foot) the week I returned.

I haven't walked in more than a month, aside from what's absolutely necessary.  Do I sound irritable?  I'm irritable.

Morning miles were a way to shape my day.  

Without them, I've lost some momentum.

In the world of illness and injury, these are all small things. 

I know.  I get it.

But they happen in the context of bigger things. 

A few weeks ago, I heard this line on a StoryCorps podcast:

Always look where you want to go, not where you want to avoid.

It was advice from a dad to his son, who was learning to drive.  

It made me realize how much I've been focusing on what I want to avoid these days -- pain, struggle, frustration, anger, fatigue -- all those sensations we feel when things (big or small) break down and pile up.  Some days, all I can think about is what's broken.

But dads are wise.  

Especially when it comes to cars.

At Mile 12,111, I wake up early, with fresh perspective and new energy.

It's Labor Day.  

September.  

(Old teaching habits live on.)

And I have this thought:

Not everything is happy, but could I make things a little... happier?

Instead of a sluggish start at home, I rush through my routine, get my leg on, and go out.

Walk (or limp) into the parking garage. 

Get in the car. 

Drive to CVS.

It's a mere 2 blocks from the apartment -- somewhere I used to walk -- but hey, who's counting?  

I hobble in for a quick errand.  And then, the magic happens.

My new car and I conjure up the tiniest little adventure. 

'Cause we've gotta celebrate Mile 100! 

We drive to the Italian Market, where Gleaner's Café has just opened.  

It's my old favorite coffee spot -- one I can only reach on 4 wheels.

I pull out my coffee card and realize I've earned a free cup.  Better yet, I snag one of the last Hershey's Kisses in Gleaner's history!

Woo-hoo!

It's a small happy thing -- which makes me think of other happy things, big and small.

Through all the obstacles this summer, I'm grateful for family and friends who've come to my rescue and supported me along the way.  

I picked up my new car on September 1.  

I chose her carefully with love and guidance from -- you guessed it -- my dad.

And maybe it sounds silly, but...

I think she's HAPPY to be mine!

Drive safe. Be happy(er).

Rebecca