Down the Shore

Seafoam rushes between my five toes. Sand settles, heavy, on my prosthetic foot.

When I swing my thigh to kick it off, it takes so much force that — for just one instant — it feels like it’s my real foot out there, flinging sand into the tide.

Later, I will dismantle my “beach leg,” as I’ve been taught by my prosthetist, Tim.

I’ll rinse it in a cascade of fresh water in the bathtub and watch the day’s residue erupt, volcano-like, from within the footshell.

A mixture of sand and shells and ocean -- seemingly pounds of it — will thunk into the tub like wet cement. And I’ll spend more time bent over, chasing it into lumps and scooping it up with paper towels, than I did in the actual waves.

But for now, I’m here. Wading.

Feeling, with wonder, my two feet in the water.

I had forgotten how much I love the beach...

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

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! :)

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

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

A Better Place to Be

Newport, Rhode Island could be the set of a Hallmark movie.

From our table at the Corner Café, Natalie and I get a peek behind the scenes.

Just off camera:  Three middle school moms sneaking out early while their teens are still in bed.  A young bearded guy on a barstool.  A woman with 2 little girls in ribbons and party dresses.  And a wrinkle-clothed regular who shuffles out for a smoke while his breakfast is cooking. 

It's Sunday, 7:30 AM, and we're surrounded by locals.

What are their lives like here?  

Why are they out so early on a weekend? 

As we wait for our eggs, Nat and I write the script.  We imagine who they are, why they're here today -- and what brings them together at this little breakfast spot across from the local school.

It's fun.  Relaxing.  And I'm happy to be here among them.

Travel is tricky for me, especially in the mornings.  Which makes this moment -- the mug of coffee, the sticky jam, the thick multigrain toast -- an extra special treat. 

It's the end of our weekend in Newport and, like any good Hallmark movie, the town has pulled us in for a hug.

Last night we met a student from the yacht-building academy, who happened to be our waiter at Knot Norm's.

He introduced us to the "lobster bowl."
(Not roll!)

Before that, we met Lew, a science teacher from Northeast Philly, who has settled in Newport for his retirement.   

He gave us a history lesson
at the Touro Synagogue!  

And because we're us, we also took ourselves on a tour of the library! 

It's the Redwood --

one of the oldest in the country!

In 2 short days, we've made ourselves at home here -- mansions and all.

I could get used to this. :)

And why not?

The air smells like seafood and campfires. 

Church bells chime on the hour.

Cars come to a stop at every crosswalk. 

And there's water anywhere we wander.  

We give up trying to figure out which waves are which...

...and just enjoy the splash of sunset.

Days flow better here.  

Sunrise is 20 minutes earlier.  (Really!)

And red leaves abound, making spring feel like fall.  

We call them "Newport Maples."

We can't get enough.  It's like a show we want to binge-watch, yet savor at the same time.

We shop at a local bookstore.  

Meet a local artist.  

Become regulars at the local coffee place.

Where we sample the local drink, of course --

Coffee Milk!

We even learn what the local pineapple symbol means...

Hospitality!

Newport is not perfect -- or easy.   Nowhere is.  

Even with trekking poles, I can only manage a small portion of the Cliffwalk.  I get too hot too fast.  I nearly sweat out of my leg and die of thirst along the way. 

(Ok, exaggerating a bit...
but it's not my finest moment!)

That's just one example.  

I feel slow and "stumbly" a lot of the time.  Throughout the weekend, we stop so I can tend to leg adjustments and other physical needs.

In that way, it reminds me of a different road trip many miles ago -- back at Mile 21 -- my first time traveling after my amputation.  

Back then, I had the idea that if I just practiced enough, I'd somehow find my way to a better place -- to where I was before the accident.

My gait (and feelings) have evolved over time, but I still grapple with similar challenges.  

Now, I've realized, they're just part of the journey.

In an instant, we're back home, and that harbor breeze is just a memory.  

Philly turns hot and sticky. 

My right foot doesn't feel right.

And at 10 PM, the city launches a new construction project, sending a monsoon of dust and gravel into my beloved balcony garden.

I lie in bed and imagine moving to Newport.

I know, I know.  I'm sure reality would catch up with me there too.

Eventually.

Maybe Nat and I will put our heads together and write that screenplay.  Or maybe the Corner Café will be the setting for my next novel.

I like to think of our characters back there in Newport, still living their lives.  Kinda wish I could join them.

Who wouldn't want to step inside a Hallmark movie?

It's just a better place to be.

P.S.  Writing this postcard made me think of this song by Harry Chapin.  It's not about Rhode Island, but it's a sweet story - and one of my faves.  If you need an 8-minute vacation, give it a listen. :)  

Happy travels!

Spring Signs (a little poem)

In Old City
spring lights up the trees

and fire escapes.

And construction zones.  

And moving vans too.

So watch your step.

It's in the hats and gloves
and the morning chill
as café owners set tables on the sidewalk.

In spring it seems
everyone smiles more.

Even this early.

Even on a Tuesday.

And at OCC (my favorite stop), there's a special drink in the air --
a violet tea latte,
which I'll sample sometime soon

on a warm afternoon.

When you walk the same path every day, 

you notice the smallest changes.

These are mine.

What subtle signs of spring are on your well-traveled route?

Rise and Meet the Day

WOO-HOO from Mile Marker 10,000!

Guess who just walked 10,000 miles on a prosthetic leg??

This kid!

I'm gonna keep this postcard short, but I didn't want it to get lost in the mail.

Long story short, I almost missed 10,000...

Talk It Out

Hello from Mile Marker 9,442...

Once upon a time, long before cell phones and Google, there was a low-tech college dorm.

And in that dorm, there were two rooms across the hall from each other.  

And in those rooms, there lived two just-turned-18-year-olds who (on paper at least) didn't have much in common...

Do a Morning Mile

Good morning from Mile Marker 9,427...

...and my favorite walk of the day!

Most mornings I head out alone.  But for this challenge, I need a traveling companion.  

Luckily, I know exactly who to text.

"Are you out running?" 

There aren't many people who are available at sunrise, but Donna is definitely one of them.  

In fact, she's just finished her morning run.  Coincidentally, right outside my building! 

Ok. It's not quite a coincidence. 

Croissant Therapy

Mile Marker 8825:

When you think of unbound happiness, what comes to mind?  

And how do you get there - especially in a global pandemic?  

Granola for One

Mile Marker 8399:

Where are we?

Or more accurately, WHEN are we?

Oh.  Hello Saturday.

Anyone else feel like the days should be wearing name tags this week?  

True North

Mile Marker 7525:

Pause.  Rewind.

Remember a time when you knew exactly where you were going?  

Training Camp

Mile Marker 6550:

"Don't take this the wrong way," Justen says. "You're like a puppy on the wall."

I've just finished my warm-up climb -- an easy corner route with good jugs for hands and a ton of foot holds.  Justen (a.k.a. the Climbing Sensei) has worked with many adaptive climbers, and I'm eager to hear his feedback.

Cucumbers & Ranch

Mile Marker 6260:

Rainbow eats a cucumber.

This is big news. 

Robot Mom

Mile Marker 6,100:

Yep, that's me.

A lot has happened since my last blog post.

On an unsuspecting Monday at the end of November, I got a phone call.  And 90 minutes later, I became a mom.