Running with Ghosts
Tonight I ran the lonely streets of my hometown under a
veiled moon made fuzzy by lingering clouds. The downward hill propelled me into the
heart of our hamlet and the memories of the Farmington A/G, long replaced by
green space filled my mind. I still find myself missing that store.
I continued down State Street, my aging legs and nearly unused running shoes slowly clopped across the ancient uneven sidewalks. I ran past a school district building—one of many school district buildings in our little
town—then to buildings dating back before one great world war, but most likely,
not the other.
I turned north at Main and see before me a gentle slope rising
upward. I can’t even begin to think how many times I walked, ran, or rode my
bike across those same sidewalk rectangles, most raised by the mighty roots of
the elder sycamore trees that line both sides of the town’s main road, a road that acts
like an aorta—bringing life into the town for decades. The same sycamores,
along with lights from the street and the homes, create a tunnel which invites
me forward into the night air.
I passed buildings, businesses, a church. Friends,
acquaintances, neighbors all lived on those streets and in those homes. One
friend with whom I played as a child is in prison. Other friends made different
decisions and most have moved away.
I turned at the hill’s apex and head east, toward the
mountain, toward home. More houses; more memories. I began my descent on a road
and remember a time years ago when the city re-paved a pothole-covered road
and three of us took full advantage of the new blacktop and rode skateboards (that only marginally resemble skateboards of today) down the road and had a
wonderful time.
The lowering of elevation made the running easier. I passed another street and I remember that particular street was where my father,
riding a go-cart he built for my older brother’s scout program, crashed on the go-cart he built. He hit
his head and when he went to the hospital for a check-up they found a brain tumor. The tumor ended
up taking the life of a man who survived the Great Depression and several
missions as a tail gunner in a B-17 over Germany as WWII came to an end.
I ran on, the music from my phone pushing my tired legs
(seriously, how in the world did we ever enjoy running before iPods and/or cell
phones w/MP3 players?). Eventually the street intersects State Street and the
hill rises before me, a final challenge to the night’s run.
Many years ago a dear friend asked me how I was able to walk
that hill everyday. I thought about it the next time I walked home from school.
“It’s interesting,” I told him. “When it starts to get real steep, you’re half-way
up the hill. If you just keep going, the next thing you know, you’re on top.” I
ran up the hill tonight and only stopped when I reached my street. The moon rewarded me by escaping
through the drifting clouds. My cell phone/camera was all I had to capture the
moment, but the best camera ever built could not capture the experience I had
running with memories—running with ghost.
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