Not Just a Ballpark

Last Friday, I attended my first Redsox game in a few years with my very close friends. While my team lost that night, I was reminded of the reasons I fell in love with the Sox so many years ago. On my ride home in the back seat, somewhere between awake and asleep, a flood of memories overwhelmed me. Memories of a bitterly cold night in late October, 2004.

I am thirteen, a few inches shorter back then. My three cousins and I are a few paces short of a slow jog, striving to keep up with Dad who knows the bustling streets of Boston like the back of his hand. Almost as well as he knows me.

"That was a good idear, pahking the cah there," he says to us with a sideways glance. By this point in our lives, we are used to decoding our Dads and their heavy Boston accents. The accents sound like home, just like the noises on Yawkey Way that could only come with eighty-six years of built-up energy; Redsox Nation had been pulling for this moment for generations. A World Series. We took our seats.

I am so ready for this. A die-hard fan, I have spent the better part of the last week saying Hail Mary's and Our Fathers in my bathroom, hardly able to take a peek at the television screen that was broadcasting a feat that screamed divine miracle: the Sox, originally being down three games to none, had just won the American League pennant. I guess I didn't think that God had anything else to worry about in that moment. And then came the announcer's cry, every ounce of professionalism gone: "AND REDSOX NATION CAN REJOICE TONIGHT!" We are all children now. Jumping and hugging, a tangle of arms and legs. We can hear the neighborhood's collective cheering. It is a school night for Robbie and I, but for once, nobody cares.

Nearly a week later, I still have the same raw energy. But I also have pneumonia. "I will NOT be missing this game," I announced to my concerned mother earlier that day as she took my temperature for what seemed like the millionth time. If Curt Shilling could pitch with an injured ankle and a sock saturated with blood, then I could certainly brace the cold for my beloved team. And so, with a heavy dose of Tylenol in my system and two thick coats on my back, I brave the weather and my failing immune system to watch history unfold before my eyes.

Wow, there are so many families here, I thought. A toddler in her mother's arms. A grandfather with his arm around his grandson's shoulder, pointing out the various plays. Four generations of fans compose one family sitting behind us.

In true Rob Papapietro fashion, Dad has already made friends with at least five people in every direction. I love that about him. His easygoing nature, his smile that stretches from the park to his childhood home in the East Boston projects a few miles away. He and a fellow Bostonian are exchanging life stories in the eighth inning when he breaks away for a moment, watching my face grow increasingly pale. He knows I am slipping away.

The coughs start. Coughs that seem to rattle my bones. Not now, the Sox are making their comeback, I think to myself. But I have to go get warm somehow. Without a second thought, Dad takes me inside the stadium as we stand, father and daughter, in a spot that allows us to still hear every play.

The Sox win. In fact, they win four games straight. The title of "World Champions" belongs to them.

I think anyone who is a Sox fan will agree that the 2004 team had an unparalleled magic. The players meshed; they had handshakes and shaggy hair and a shared resolve. And the fans united too. From all different walks of life, the fans at Fenway that night had a common passion for the game and for their team.

It's funny though. Because Fenway is just a ballpark. It is just a century old building, with tens of thousands of seats and a giant Citgo sign. But it's so much more than that. It represents priceless memories for so many.

More specifically, it is a century of memories between children and their parents.

And I am no exception.

It's amazing what you remember when your parent is no longer with you, at least in the physical sense. The moments you remember when, at least in this life, you won't get any more "moments."

But this realization only makes those memories that much more vivid, like a dream that you never want to lose. I have never remembered Dad's strong hand so well as I held it in mine. Or the smell of peanuts. Or his deep brown eyes, eyes that are reflected in my own.

It is now, at twenty-one, eight more years of love and life under my belt, that I can lie in the back seat and smile, waves of joy seeping through all corners of my heart, remembering a night of unconditional love in the form of a team that gave me hope, and a father who I will always be infinitely proud to call my own.

It's the Thought

A few weeks back, we had a returning camper in our class. This little boy has hit a bit of a rough patch in his young life, a rough patch that his behavior certainly reflected. To make a long story short, he and his mother came in this morning to us counselors with an apology and a bag of cookies.

To further set the scene: the boy who was downright disobedient for three weeks was now cowering behind his mother's legs, looking fragile and embarrassed.

His mother explained that it was very difficult for him to come to apologize for his behavior, but that it is an important lesson that he has to learn. Owning up to his mistakes, and setting things right. Or at least taking the first step.

And those chocolate chip cookies were some of the best I've ever tasted.

I've learned that people show their feelings in highly varied ways. Some people apologize through words, others through actions. When you love someone, you learn how they tick.

Or let's go beyond apologies entirely. Another related lesson? Different people can be there for you in different ways (and you for them). Some people may let you lean on their shoulder and just cry. Others may listen while you try to work through your feelings out loud. Or on the phone. Or through emails. Still others are blessed with knowing just what to say at just the right time. Still others don't do emotions so well, but will bake you a cake and deliver it with a hug.

In my opinion, no one act of love outdoes another. It is the intention behind the action. If the apology is sincere, what does it matter if it is through a letter or through baked goods?

When you have special people in your life who love you, you learn that this love is all around you. No matter what form it comes in.

It's really about acceptance. From accepting an apology to accepting help. And realizing that everyone is in a different stage in life. And we all have unique strengths regarding caring for others or relating our feelings.

When we know better, we do better.

And that realization tastes pretty sweet. Kind of like gooey chocolate chip cookies.

You and You Alone

At church this morning, I sat next to an elderly woman sitting alone. On her other side sat a beautiful Vera Bradley purse. While I am constantly smiling at complete strangers, I'm not typically inclined to actually begin conversations due to my moderate level of shyness. But some voice kept prodding me to talk to this woman. Have you ever had those really out-of-nowhere inclinations that you can't explain? So I complimented her purse. She sounded so appreciative, and then went on a joking rant about how it weighs 100 pounds because she stuffs everything inside (I sympathized). Then mass started. And that was it.

Or was it?

This is just a guess, but my "voice"  this morning may have stemmed from a very recent event. The word "event" doesn't seem to fit, actually. But whatever you want to call it, I cannot pretend that I am not utterly horrified by the tragic shooting in Colorado. My heart skipped several beats as I heard the details while sitting in traffic on my way to the Sox game Friday night.

As the traffic jam continued for a good half hour, my mind wandered. Though the two tragedies are very different, I could not help but be reminded of the shooting at Columbine High School in 1999. Yes, I was only a second grader at the time. But I remember that day vividly, though teachers and parents were able to shield many of us from the gory details.

 Many years later, I would read a book written by the parents of one of the Columbine victims, a sixteen-year-old girl named Rachel Joy Scott. It is not an overstatement to say that this one book drastically altered the way I view my time here. "Rachel's Tears" features Rachel's own profound journal entries and drawings, many reflecting her intense drive to live a life of compassion. This girl exemplified the mantra "practice what you preach." As expressed in her writings, she always had this strange feeling that she would die young. Her journal would be retrieved from her backpack after her death, a bullet hole piercing the cover. Written on it? "I will not be labeled as average."

I have this theory, that if one person can go out of their way to show compassion, then it will start a chain reaction of the same; people never know how far a little kindness can go.
-Rachel's Tears

I remember reading an article around the tenth anniversary of the Columbine shooting. It spoke of a "Columbine Generation," referring to those children and adolescents who attended high school during the shooting or anytime later. This generation (that includes me), according to many, is characterized by highly protective parents and anxious school climates. In a way, people would be looking over their shoulders for years to come.

And who can blame us? Take Columbine. Rachel sitting in the courtyard eating her lunch? Dead. Students eating in the cafeteria? Alive. Or the movie theater in Colorado. Some of those sitting in front of the big screen in Aurora? Dead. Those watching Batman ten minutes down the road? Alive.

Cafeteria, courtyard, this movie or that one...whether directly or indirectly, realized or unknown, our "life paths" involve being in the right (or wrong) place at the right (or wrong) time.

But we cannot worry about that.

Heck, someone could have started shooting at the Sox game I attended this weekend. But it's not about scaring anyone. It's about taking the time to reflect on why we're here. What are our dreams? What do we want to give to the world today?

That's the real point. Life is full of everyday activities: eating lunch, watching a movie, doing our best job at work, playing peek-a-boo with the chubby cheeked baby sitting two pews in front. When I hear people tell stories of others who've changed their lives, it is rarely the celebrity. More often than not, it is the parent, the teacher, the stranger, the friend.

We don't need to be Superman or accomplish some feat from another universe. We just need to live intentionally, and create lives that are uniquely ours. Whatever your job, whatever your age, whatever your place in life...do your best and use everyday to do good. No one else can fulfill your special purpose in life. Because there will never, ever be another you. 

Just some food for thought on this beautiful Sunday.

It's Tourist Season With Sunsets

My life on Cape Cod is just like anyone else's life, I guess. But being a native Cape Codder, I've realized, comes with a sort of code of unspoken rules that apply during the summer months. These rules include:

1) If at all possible, don't try to come on Cape on a Friday, or leave on a Sunday.
2) Assume that every other driver on the road is an idiot.
3) Just because you arrive at the beach before 10am and paid some serious cash for a sticker, does not mean that there will be a parking space for you.
  
....and others I'm sure.

Rule #2 stems from my general anxiety surrounding a few near misses in the last couple of weeks. I've nearly lost my life on several occasions, occasions that involve two common denominators: tourists and rotaries.

For any of you reading this who may not be familiar with what a rotary is, let me explain. A rotary is a fascinating type of circular intersection that supposedly decreases traffic by allowing cars to get off at an exit without having to deal with traffic lights, etc. The amazing thing about a rotary (which tourists don't seem to understand) is that IF YOU MISS YOU EXIT, YOU CAN KEEP GOING AROUND THE CIRCLE. It's like a Ferris Wheel; once you're on, you're on until you get off (or the ride stops, but that's besides the point). YOU DO NOT STOP SHORT IN A ROTARY. I REPEAT: YOU DO NOT STOP.

Besides the occasional traffic woes, my little town of Sandwich remains generally untouched by the tourist gangs (except for the occasional elderly tour bus by the Sandwich Glass Museum, a place we Sandwich kids frequented as young children on field trips). For whatever reason, that place seems to be a hot ticket. At least compared to the towns downcape like Wellfleet and Chatham, I can still usually find a parking spot at my favorite local beaches.

The other night, I went for a walk on the Sandwich Boardwalk with my childhood friend. This will always be one of my favorite spots in the world, no matter where I end up.

The beautiful moments in life are without a doubt worth the occasional traffic jam.

Camp Log

Week two of camp down, and it was another great one. Some hilarious and/or moving stories and quotes that have put a smile on my face this week:

My "Aw's"
One of my campers said something to me, but she didn't speak loudly enough so I asked her to repeat her question. But apparently she didn't think volume was the issue. "I know, I can't pronounce my AW's (R's) right so you might not understand me."

Creation Fun
During a walk, a camper standing next to me looked around at the scenary, sighed, and said to me, "God must have had so much fun making this place. Everything is just so beautiful."

What I wanted to say to this moving, spontaneous comment was, "I think you're absolutely right" but obviously we can't talk religion at camp so I just smiled. But you would be shocked at how often the subject comes up among the campers themselves.

How Many Years?

On Thursday during our walk to the tidal flats, I expressed that I was sad that we were on our second to last day of the camp week. To which one of my campers replied, "I know, I might just stay here for 1,097 years." Wait, we don't even get 1,098 out of you?!

British/American Accents: A Lesson
Another camper moved here from England when she was around two. Her older sister, who I had last year, was a year or so older at the time of the move. This created a fascinating difference in the two of them. The older one still has a British accent that is as strong as if she still lived there, while the younger one's accent only comes out in certain moments. She does, however, say words like "lovely" quite often, and speaks in an adorably proper way.

At the pond on Tuesday, I got a lesson from the younger sister in speaking when I asked her about her background in England. To demonstrate that her and her sister are a little different, she used a certain hilarious example. "So for example, my sister says 'pasta' (in a British accent) and I say "PAAAAHHHHSSSSTTTAAA" (in a long, drawn-out Boston accent). I almost peed myself on the trail. Not sure that anyone in the United States says the word quite like that, but the exaggeration was aboslutely priceless.

Later, when we were still on the topic, the younger sister laughed, shrugged her shoulders, and delcared, "I didn't choose to be American, it just happened to me." HA.

Four Dads 
I think some of most special moments at camp come when kids who may not fit in elsewhere are able to find commonalities with others. The following story is not from my group, but a fellow counselor told it yesterday and I had to share.

In this particular group of nine to eleven-year-olds, there is a set of twin boys with two dads. (Note: this is not terribly uncommon at this camp. At least a handful of kids every week have this type of family). I guess the boys are teased and tormented for this in their home state. In their camp group this week was another little boy. Guess what? He had two dads too.

"We've never met ANYONE else with dads like us!" the pair exclaimed. They all became best friends over the course of the week, and now four dads and three sons are hanging out at the beach this weekend. (Most of this story came from one of these thankful dads).

Ten points for day camp.

One Last Look

Recently, I've noticed that I have a certain tendency. It is not necessarily a positive or negative tendency, but a tendency nonetheless.

I always want my last look.

I'll explain. To me, leaving a person or a place or a time or a situation, even if it's only temporary, sparks an overwhelming desire to sear everything around me into my permanent memory. A "last look." When I keep looking, whatever has happened or whoever I'm with becomes real. Without this look, I'm terrified of forgetting.

My departure from Perugia comes to mind. One of my roommates, Ashley, and I were racing to make the same train to Rome in order to catch our flights out. When we finally got on the train, I started to feel almost shaky and unsettled (it was an emotional few days, but this was an even more exaggerated feeling). For a minute, I couldn't figure out why. But then a lightbulb went off, and I turned to Ashley.

"I forgot to look back."

Between almost missing the train, the heat, and the stress of getting huge suitcases down multiple escalators and steep hills, I had forgotten to have my last holy moment of meditation, to ingrain the rolling hills, gentle breeze, and enchanting fountain into the space behind my eyes and the depths of my heart.

Sure, I had a whole semester's worth of memories of these things. But there's something about that last look. There's something about knowing that it will be a long time before you have that view again (if you ever do) that makes you want to remember everything exactly as it was the moment you had to say goodbye.

Sometimes, these last looks are a blessing. But other times, they haunt you. The problem is that sometimes these final glances last longer than perhaps they should. Then I get stuck.

I just finished the most beautiful book over the weekend called, "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn." I think it is my new favorite. I picked it up years ago but never read it. So glad I waited until I was older. This stunning passage is present in the story, and reflects my sentiments perfectly:

"It was the last time she would see the river from that window. The last time of anything has the poignancy of death itself. This that I see now, she thought, to see no more this way. Oh, the last time how clearly you see everything; as though a magnifying light had been turned on it. And you grieve because you hadn't held it tighter when you had it everyday."

That's the key, I think. That is the piece of the puzzle that I think we are all guilty of missing at one point or another. The piece that involves living every moment and appreciating each and every triumph and struggle.

It's not that a last look is a bad thing. Not at all. Not when you've been looking all along. Perugia taught me how to look.

And THAT is what I am wishing for myself every day of my life. To always have the clarity and mindfulness to absorb and cherish every view, event, and journey like it is my first and last time.