Tuesday, February 25, 2020 @ 10:02 AM
The McDonalds tucked into the WalMart at Roosevelt and
Military
San Antonio, Texas
This morning, I noticed the Facebook announcement of the
birthday of Debbie McNeil. It’s been a long time since I found the “poetic
energy” to write a short birthday poem. I’m sure I’ve written hundreds, and the
spring went dry.
Yet, for Debbie, I found the inspiration this morning. Girls
grow up faster than boys, and in the late seventies, Debbie McNeil proved that
true. Maybe she had a few advantages as the principal’s oldest daughter, but
what are advantages if one doesn’t play advantages to the hilt? She leveraged
the CO-OP program to go work in a dental lab, and she became very good at lab
work very quickly. She learned quickly and easily, and she had that happiness
that happens when a person knows that life can be grabbed by the tail.
She drove her own car. It might have been a sensible
Japanese model, good on gas. She needed it to reach the lab, which might have
been as far south as Howell. I remember she gave me a ride. I have no idea why
I needed one, but it was pleasant to sit in the front passenger seat and hear
her talk about herself, her job and her boyfriend. I didn’t know I was watching
a young woman take flight, one of the first I witnessed. It prepared me to be a
father of a daughter.
Permit me to phrase this with a story from the Wolcott Mill,
now Westwind Farms Milling Company. I always stopped at the mill to pick up
milk with the creme on top and honey, pausing in Argentine to enjoy a few
moments with my daughter, who loved the mill as much as I love it. I wanted to
arrive at mom and dad’s with a few gifts. As a Greek-American woman taught me,
“never arrive at a home dry handed”.
My father, Edward, and I picked up our chicken feed at the
mill, and I told her that. I wanted her to feel that connection to a mill
raised during the presidency of Andrew Jackson. The owner, who took on the lake
association over water rights, noticed what I was doing. He was a bit of a
cuss. He said to me once. “I have daughters. I love my daughters. But you know
what they say about kittens. Kittens grow up to be cats”.
Now, I never let a moment go unrecorded, jotting down notes
in a journal. I don’t remember when the ride started. I don’t remember where
the drive ended. It might have been a ride home after a cross-country meet. I
ran cross country with her sister, Susie McNeil, whom we could always count on
to place well for Byron. Susie ran at the peak of her lung capacity, even on a
training run. We were crossing the bridge over the Shiawassee River, winging
our way home to the high school gym. She still insisted on keeping up a
breathless conversation as she put in a kick.
We could also count on Todd Wooden, who ran like a dream, a teammate
who lived on a farm near my parent's house. I mean Todd Wooden ran like the
Chariots of Fire theme. When I got to watch legendary marathon runner Doug
Kurtis run around Kent Lake, it was like watching Todd Wooden all over again.
Watching a great runner run must be tantamount watching a bald eagle soaring.
I’ve always wanted to use the word tantamount in a sentence, thank you Todd
Wooden.
Of course, that brings us to Sue and Debbie’s father, Dave
McNeil, who I really didn’t understand was an Irish American at the time I saw
him day to day. I always make sure I know an Irishman is Irish right away these
days. Better that way. I know to expect the clout. McNeil had an incredible
sense of humor that he used well when he governed his school.
Once, we protested for the right to stop at McDonalds on the
way back from a field trip to Owosso Memorial Hospital. We even delivered a
petition to his office, signed by all on the trip. We were sure we had made a
strong case for a stop at the Golden Arches. McNeil wrote back to us, a letter
our teacher read to us. “No time for Ronald. Have a Byron burger”. We were
horrified but only because we had yet to develop a sense of humor.
Dave McNeil came out to see Susie run and cheer the team on.
He checked with the coach to see if he could help with our training. He had a
good idea how to win a meet. I remember him telling me, “Billy, you are our
runner number three. You must take Perry’s runner number three”.
We ran out on the railroad tracks by the side of the high
school. We hit a golf course with plenty of hills. It was only three miles, but
I had yet to achieve a base of fitness. I was still icing shin splints at night
as I did homework. I let the stress get into my head. Even so, Perry’s third
man was within striking distance.
We brought it back to the high school along the track, and
Perry number three started to break away, accelerating, throwing up
metaphorical dust to leave me in. There stood McNeil, side of the tracks, shouting.
“Take your man. Take your man right now. Put in the kick.
Take runner three”. And he kept at it. It had to be a huge disappointment to
that man, to be so right on the coaching and yet not see me pick up my pace a
wit. I made it to the finish line, moments behind number three, but I hadn’t
fought him for the position. I have replayed that two-minute memory in my mind
more times than I can count. Today, I finally put it in words for good. What if
I had pulled ahead? What if I had given that runner a run for his money?
He met me at the finish line. He said a brief analysis.
“Wooden took his man. Grunow beat Perry’s number two. We needed you to win.”
And he walked away. What more was needed to be said?
I lettered in cross-country that year. We had five male
runners and five letters were allocated to the cross-country team. I wore the
badge of cross-country and the badge of marching band on the blue block B. But
I got it for showing up. I wore that jacket for two years, and for some reason
I didn’t return to the cross-country team for my senior year, a sad outcome.
As I carried that jacket on my shoulders, I carried with it
a distinction that I never forgot. When on a team, one must win a personal
victory for the team that makes possible the victory of the team. When I am
appointed to a team, I ask, “Who is runner number three here”?
Chariots of Fire
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CSav51fVlKU
For the record, the poem I wrote Debbie McNeil this morning.
When it comes to poetry, Walt Whitman is poet number three. I'm coming for you
Walter!
I remember when you sculpted molars, still in high school,
making big dollars.
You drove your own private car around our town.
Smiling like a Dental employee, never a frown.
When you saw a classmate walking, on the roadside.
You pulled on over, gave that classmate a ride.
Happy Birthday wishes, Debbie McNeil.
From day one, you kept it real. #BirthdayPoemsByWill
#AByronWayOfKnowledge
1 comment:
Marvelous!
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