I wish I could say that I enjoyed running. Or failing that, that I’ve come to enjoy running. After all, running is not only associated with health and fitness, but a whole slew of admirable character traits: self-discipline, dedication, endurance.
But I don’t like running, not if I’m really honest with myself (and anyone else reading this.)
There was a time when I did. While I was a twentysomething in Washington, DC, one of my colleagues urged me to give it a try. So I did. I started with short distances, 2-3 miles along the Potomac River in Georgetown, accompanied by another coworker who was also a beginning runner. And I found, to my surprise, that I could. We weren’t fast, and we didn’t go far, but we were at least competent. That spring, on a chilly March morning, I finished my first 5K. And like Forrest Gump, I just kept going.
D.C. is an easy city to run in. It’s flat. It’s scenic. The winters, while cold, lacked the Lake Effect snowfall that I grew up with. And there was no shortage of races.
Here my running followed the expected trajectory: I got better at it, so I could go further, and as I progressed, I found I enjoyed it more, so I did it more. And the virtuous circle continued: 5Ks, 10Ks, the Cherry Blossom, the Army Ten Miler (twice), the Baltimore Half Marathon. Even then, I wasn’t really fast – my best times were sub-11 minute miles – but still, I was doing it.
Sadly, the good times didn’t continue. I moved from my Capitol Hill apartment to a house in the suburbs. My body was the same age, same condition, but my surroundings weren’t. I ran but it wasn’t the same. Also, the injuries started. First a MCL tear while hiking in Scotland. I recovered, after months of PT, but it was nearly a year before I ran again. Then a motorcycle accident. Tendonitis. A sprained ankle. Most recently, a torn hamstring. And of course, age. Add in a few chronic health conditions and running looks – and feels – very different for me now.
Completing my first 5k race in Washington, DC. My coworker Emily and I staged this photo at the finish.
Instead of putting on my shoes, cueing up my iPod, and going out for a 10-mile jog in DC, my routine is something like this: a few hours before heading out, take a shot of Pepto Bismol. Take another one immediately before beginning the jog. Stretch copiously. Pack a few Pepto tablets to take with me. Jog slowly, carefully, with small strides to avoid aggravating any previous injuries. A mile or so in, my shins will begin to protest and will probably become increasingly painful the longer I continue.
I will eek out a distance of 3-4 miles. It will be agonizingly slow, Afterwards, I’ll be lightheaded and spent. I might pop a few Advil. I’ll likely throw some ice on my legs later that night.
And I will ask myself: Is it worth it? Is it worth putting so much mental and physical effort into an activity that often doesn’t feel like a release, but instead another obligation on my already lengthy list? Into something that has become not just challenging, but downright hard, with little likelihood of improving? In American culture, we tolerate mediocrity if it’s a stepping stone to improvement. Not so much it it’s the end state.
Even as I write this, I want to protest, “I’m not lazy! I still give a damn about my health.” And that is true. I bike, I swim, I do yoga. Sometimes I break out my free weights. I take my dog for walks.
And yet, even as my rational mind tells me there is no shame is saying adios to running, I won’t quite give it up. Perhaps it is stubbornness. I don’t want to admit that I can’t physically do something anymore. Or perhaps a bit of pride. Yes, I’m an awful runner. But I’m still doing it. Surely that must count for something?
For an activity often lauded for bringing clarity and freeing up one’s headspace, running sure brings up a lot of questions for me. I don’t know the answers. But I do know there’s a run tomorrow night, and chances are, I’ll be there.
Or, What I Learned from Hours Spent Playing Stardew Valley During a Global Pandemic (While Getting Divorced and Laid Off)
From the start, Stardew Valley was more than a game to me. Choosing to download the seemingly innocuous app was a deliberate act of rebellion. Perhaps this stems from my childhood, where my game-averse parents considered any time spent in front of a screen – that is, time that wasn’t doing homework – as time wasted. So gaming became something covert. Something I did at friends’ houses or on borrowed systems where I could engage in entertainment-as-defiance. Anytime I got a hit of Duck Hunt, Mario Brothers, the Sims, Guitar Hero, or even wholesome Oregon Trail, it smacked with the thrill of insubordination.
Then there’s my own long history of believing in focusing on activities that are productive and meaningful. I’m right there with Jeff Sutherland, a co-creator of Scrum, that “Time makes up your life, so wasting it is actually a slow form of suicide.” I’m the kind of person who thrives on to-do lists – my desk is covered in post-its and stickie notes – and who takes visceral enjoyment in crossing items off.
Until everything changed. My marriage had been disintegrating long before COVID-19. When the pandemic hit, in many ways it became yet another disruption in my life which had already felt increasingly unfamiliar and disorienting. My best efforts couldn’t salvage the floundering relationship. And I certainly couldn’t take on a public health crisis of global proportions on my own.
Like millions around the world, I could only wait. Stay home, and wait, and hope for better days ahead. And thus my belated encounter with Stardew Valley was launched. I’d heard about the game from a friend, who’d read about it in a book. The perfect experiment, I thought. How would I respond to intentionally engaging in an activity that served only my own amusement? In those strange days, could I teach myself to be OK with “wasting time”?
Of course a kid and teenager messing around on Nintendo or Playstation is acceptable, if not always encouraged. But adults aren’t supposed to play games. Adult women in particular, unless it’s killing time on our commute with CandyCrush or Angry Birds, or doing board game nights with bougie friends.
So the first hurdle was in my own head. I had compulsively repainted a bathroom, donated to the local food bank, moved thousands of files from my ancient PC onto my new-ish MacBook, and dealt with a dozen other niggling tasks. I had to convince myself that I’d done enough to earn permission to do something that was supposed to be fun. But at last I was ready.
Stardew Valley Title Screen.
Lesson 1: Surprise and Delight Does Exist
I took the plunge. Having heard hype about the game but with no idea what it looked like, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. And my first reaction was confusion. Being suddenly thrown into a world made of cutesy, pixelated visuals seemed strangely archaic. This can’t be right, I thought. But Stardew Valley soon lured me past my misgivings. I related to and relished the escape from the soulless corporate entity of JoJa Corporation to the rural environs of valley. It was true during the pandemic, and true today: Is there anyone on the planet who doesn’t want to get away from something right now? Adulthood be damned. I was in.
Eric Barone has built a world we can get lost in. And it is a thing of beauty. There are games within a game, singing mermaids, and an adorable sim cat who sleeps on your sim bed. There are mysteries to explore and quests to complete. Even swinging a scythe through swathes of grass and seeing the vegetation get cleared away is winningly satisfying. I found myself smiling, laughing, and feeling that elusive feeling that experiences often strive for but rarely deliver: delight.
The game isn’t perfect. I spent many of my first hours being perpetually confused on what I could interact with and what I couldn’t. I missed seeing my first Dance of the Midnight Jellies because I didn’t know I had to speak to the mayor in order to kick the whole thing off. It just appeared to be a bunch of people standing around on the boardwalk at night, looking at the water. Underwhelmed, I went back to the farm.
There were other disappointments, too. A bewildering array of tools that required trial-and-error to figure out. A night of getting lost in the woods and nearly not finding my way back to the farm. Townspeople who seem inscrutable (more on this later). Still I stayed. Because here was a world where I could actually do something.
Lesson 2: The Thrill of Victory and the Agony of Defeat
Maybe it’s a sign of the times, but I feel a disproportionate responsibility for everything. In Stardew Valley, I found myself getting wildly agitated over the welfare of my farm animals. When one of my new baby chicks was reported as “looking a little thin,” I freaked out. Could sim animals starve? How could I get her food? And was there a way to make sure she was eating? I frantically amassed the raw materials needed to construct a silo, which was needed to house the animal feed, which had to exist in adequate quantities to be brought into the coop. It was exhausting. And every morning until the project was complete, I was afraid I’d find a dead baby sim chicken.
But Daisy the chicken lived. And I went on to acquire an adorable baby bunny who now is a healthy, happy adult rabbit. I bought myself a fancy tiara and I’m making decent progress romancing the local villagers.
Yet when I make mistakes, they hit hard. I’m pretty lousy at most of the games-within-the-game. I’ve lost more fish than I caught. I accidentally took a pickaxe to the first melon I grew, which delayed my filling a neighbor’s request by an entire year. I passed out in the mines. I had to research how those stupid fishing poles worked. But I kept at it.
Here was a world where I could win. And achievements, even virtual ones, still hold an allure.
Night Market, Stardew Valley.
Lesson 3: Jerks Are Everywhere
For a game in which much is driven by relationship-building – whether that’s working your way into the town’s good graces, befriending locals, or finding a romantic partner – navigating the interpersonal dimensions of Stardew Valley is excruciating at times. Almost without exception, dialogs are one-sided. When approached, NPCs spew out a couple comments but it’s nearly impossible to tell when the conversation is over, and if the player is supposed to respond to anything. It drives me nuts. It triggers all my triggers on the perpetual emotional labor that women often undertake, and with equally little return.
Then there’s the sh*t that some of the eligible bachelors say. Many others have written about gender and the gaming industry; I’ll leave the broader topic in their capable hands and restrict my examples to the context of Stardew Valley.
There are the statements from male NPCs that are merely eyerolling (“If I just disappeared would it really matter?”); some that are cringe-inducing (“I have to brush my hair daily, or else it’ll clump up into messy knots. It’s a lot of work. I’m surprised I haven’t just shaved it off in a fit of passion. I suppose I am too vain.”); and others that make me want to immediately donate to Planned Parenthood (“Hey, it’s farm girl. Did you get new pants? You’re doing something right.”). I wonder when a qualified therapist is going to move into town to help these guys sort out their issues. And I wonder why it’s the job of the player to engage in interactions that serve mainly to rehabilitate others’ bad behaviors.
It’s a game. I know, I know. But games are worlds, too. And there is crossover between what we live and how we play. The elusive yet strangely intriguing Sebastian is exactly the kind of bad boy I would have gone after in high school and college, if I’d had the nerve. He exasperates and fascinates me in turn. I leapt at the chance to take a ride on his motorcycle under the Stardew Valley moon. I remind myself that I owned a motorcycle IRL – a Harley-freakin-Davidson – and that I don’t need to put up with moody nonsense generated by pixels and bytes. Yet in-game, I experiment with how far things will develop with Sebastian while also running a flirtation with aspiring novelist Elliot. Elliot is sensitive and while he can be self-absorbed, also seems genuinely interested in building a connection. He dedicated his novel to me, which is flattering. I ask myself if it may make putting up with some of his more inane comments worth it.
The experiences are simulated but in the best games, the emotions are real. The escape is real. My trips to Stardew Valley are journeys to somewhere where there is no pandemic, no failures of leadership, no economic collapse.
When I’m not working at my day job, I write novels. And it occurs to me that the storyteller and the game creator have much in common. We each call into existence a world that is different from the one that we have. We invite others to join us and slide into a reality that is better or kinder or more exciting than the one we inhabit. Where monsters can be vanquished, love sometimes wins, and none of the chickens starve.
June was a rough month, my Bridgerton-esque interlude aside. There were days spent at the bedside of a terminally ill person, followed by a death. An accident that totaled my car. A sick dog. Work stress. Then I caught a headcold. I got my period (in the same week). Someone literally pooped in the community pool.
Toward the end of the month, I found myself back in Pittsburgh and feeling ever-so-slightly…well, not normal, but normal-ish. My headcold was gone, the bumps scratches from the car accident healed, and the pool was re-opened. The sprint triathlon I’d registered for was only a few weeks away, and it was a beautiful Friday afternoon. I gathered my gear and decided to head out for a swim.
This was to be my first triathlon in a decade. I loved the symmetry of it, 2014 to 2024. I still had my road bike, Ruby, and I even had the tri suit I’d worn all those years ago (it still fits.) I had been training all winter: laps in the high school pool, runs in the cold mornings, at night, pushing through fatigue and grumpiness and age. Training gave me a focal point. And putting myself back in the fold of triathletes didn’t make me feel young, exactly, but it did make me feel capable. I didn’t have to be fast. I just had to finish.
I had every reason to be hopeful that afternoon. Until I didn’t.
It happened in an instant: a worn flip-flop meeting slick slate tile. Down I went, into pain worse than anything I could remember. Physical pain, yes – sharp, terrible, and relentless that shot along my leg. But mental anguish as well, as I struggled to get to my feet and found that I simply couldn’t. Something was terribly wrong. There would be no triathlon for me this summer.
I half-crawled across the floor to my phone. A short while later – it felt like an eternity – Peter was helping me navigate through the doorway of an urgent care clinic on crutches. Without medical imaging, a precise diagnosis was impossible, but it was likely I had a Grade II or Grade III hamstring tear. I was sent home with a compression wrap on my rapidly swelling leg and a prescription for painkillers.
The following days were agony. I tried not to think too much about the training I should have been doing. What I was missing out on. Instead, I took small steps, and looked for small victories.
At first even the slightest pressure on the injury was excruciating. Movements had to be carefully calculated. For example, to go to bed, I first stood perpendicular to my mattress. I then did a slow belly flop, gently rolled only my non-injured side while keeping my injured leg as motionless as possible, and tucked pillows around myself in a futile effort to defy gravity and make the pain somehow endurable. I didn’t sleep much.
But slowly, it got better. Within a week I could walk free of the crutches. I was able to sit outside in the backyard and look at my flowers and listen to the birds. On a bright summer morning, with a cup of coffee in my hand, it was enough.
As the swelling and bruises subsided, I gradually resumed light activities. Biking and running remained out of reach. But I could swim, in a fashion. Kicking still hurt, so I did slow laps using just my arms. When I woke with mildly sore shoulders the following morning, I smiled at the evidence of my efforts.
Triathlon day arrived. Instead of loading my bike, helmet, and shoes into the car, I packed a folding chair and mug of coffee. Peter and I had opted to volunteer at the event. It was a way of being there, even though competition was off the table.
We arrived shortly at the course after dawn, the early morning air surprisingly cool as we took up places near the transition area. We set up course markers, chatted with other volunteers, answered athlete questions, kept eager spectators at bay. And once the event started, we cheered. The competitors were a mix, and an inspiring one at that: elite athletes who blasted through each segment, first-timers, teenagers, middle-aged folks, older people.
I found myself commiserating with two other women who’d also been struck with injuries. We heard each other’s stories, grimacing in sympathy, and in the shared angst of not only not finishing a race, but not even being able to start.
That afternoon, when I returned home, I grabbed my gear and went to the pool. I swam 800 yards. I used my legs. The water closed around me like an embrace. Like a promise that there is more to come.
I recently awoke on a Saturday faced with the delightful prospect of a day without obligations. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the morning air was cool and pleasant. It was a storybook beginning.
I rolled out of bed, pulled on my dressing gown, and imagined myself as a lady of leisure. I took it a step further and imagined myself in the world of Bridgerton – or at least as close as I could get in America of 2024.
I proceeded downstairs to the kitchen and poured myself a cup of fresh coffee. The coffee was ready and waiting, prepared not by a servant, but by my conveniently programmable coffeemaker. Outside, I sat in the garden while my dog lolled on the grass. I listened to the birds. I fussed over a container of bright yellow pansies (pansies are everywhere on Bridgerton) and admired the hydrangeas about to bloom.
A little later, I dropped off a jar of homemade strawberry preserves at my neighbors’ house, a small token of appreciation for a favor they’d done me. I walked in the streets of my respectable but not fashionable neighborhood, admiring the well-tended yards and lamenting those that were not. I attended to a few household matters and attempted some writing – longhand, in cursive – including the draft of this blog post.
In the afternoon, I called at a local dress shop. This activity felt remarkably Bridgerton-esque: I traveled to the shop on foot, met a friend there whose advice I’d enlisted to guide my choice (I was shopping for a wedding dress), and needed the assistance of the salesclerk to get myself in and out of the gowns. At one point, the salesclerk had to buckle my shoe for me: I was literally standing on a pedestal, immobilized by yards of crepe and Italian tulle. The amount of fuss unsettled me, as did being unable to do even the simplest activities on my own. Still, part of it felt fun – when else had I received such attention? Or reveled in simply searching for what would make me feel beautiful?
For say what you will about Bridgerton, it is beautiful. The homes, the clothes, the gardens, the characters. Rarely do you see poverty, disease, or work of any kind (aside from the servants, and even then, their chores are apparently mostly carrying trays and arranging hair and fetching the occasional snuffbox.) The Bridgerton ladies themselves rarely engage in any activity more demanding than taking a constitutional or ringing for tea. Dancing, I suppose, may be an exception, and there are the few ladies who ride.
I managed to practice my French. I neglected my music (in my case, an electric guitar, which is decidedly anachronistic), but did decide to take advantage of the fine weather for some exercise. I went on a late afternoon ride, by bicycle, through very pretty woods and afterwards, enjoyed an indecorous pint of ale. Unchaperoned.
I thought of what the show gets right about the Regency era. Or at least, doesn’t overly distort or misrepresent: the strict social rules, aristocratic privilege, the pressure on women to marry, the vast disparity between genders in what was sexually acceptable.
Yet there is much that is fantasy. The racial equality among the ton and portrayal of Queen Charlotte as a black woman are two plot points on the show of deeply questionable accuracy. And as much as I would have liked for the romance between Brimsley and Reynolds, as well as other same-sex pairings, to be able to flourish in the early 1800s, in reality they would have been subject to sodomy laws that would have considered their intimacy a capital offense.
Heterosexual relationships also came with real risks, particularly for women. Women had no lawful political power, no voting rights, no ownership rights to property once they married. The second her wedding ceremony concluded, Penelope would have forfeited every penny of her earnings as Lady Whistledown to Colin Bridgerton. Her children, too, would be considered her husband’s property (this was not settled until decades later, through the remarkable case of Caroline Norton). The show does not address the fact that Penelope would stand to lose a lot more than the power of her pen once she became Mrs. Bridgerton.
Of course the era did have many brilliant women: Jane Austen, Mary Wollstonecraft, Mary Shelley, and others. This was also the period of Byron and Keats and incredible exploration and scientific discovery. It was likewise a time when syphilis could be a death sentence, half of the female population was illiterate, and it was considered acceptable for a six-year-old to work a 10-hour factory shift. Don’t even ask about maternal and infant mortality.
I look at Bridgerton as a cautionary tale as much as it is an escape. It is a reminder to beware of making over the past in our own image. To pause before rushing to snap up show-themed merch without any understanding of what it is we want to imitate. To proceed carefully so as not to forget the truth of history. Amnesia may be convenient, but it is no cure.
Producer Shonda Rhime’s Mayfair is sparkly and entertaining and shamelessly sanitized. It could be a fun place to visit, but no one actually lives there.
A novelist’s job is, first and foremost, to tell a good story. For a historical novelist, there is another layer. Yes, the story needs to be good. But the place and characters – the story’s universe, as it were –must feel real. Authentic. Of their time, but also relatable for a reader picking up the story today.
This is not always easy. And it may be why I’ve been at work on my women’s fiction novel The Admiral’s Wifefor so long. How do I bring to life the voice of my protagonist, Katherine Cochrane, when we are separated by two centuries and so little of our lived experience overlaps?
Detail of a portrait showing Kate Cochrane and her daughter Elizabeth. Private collection.
I understand my role is not that of a documentarian, nor of an academic. But having grown up a lifelong love of history and earning a master’s degree in the field, it irks me not to get the details right. I am terrible to watch period films with for this reason – I will spot anachronisms, roll my eyes, occasionally comment, and depending on the film, either give it a pass or make a mental note to visit History vs. Hollywood later. Historical novels are the same way. I literally stopped reading a New York Times bestseller after the third gaffe I spotted, a reference to hunting deer in the spring. It doesn’t take a wildlife biologist to know that spring is the wrong time to hunt deer. One, they’re raising babies. Two, deer tend to be rather thin after the winter. Three, a Google search could provide a fact-check on this topic in about 10 seconds. So I decided that a book with sloppy research wasn’t worth my time, no matter how well it sold. And I set a goal for myself to do better.
Unfortunately, there are no books written on Kate Cochrane. Nor any academic articles, essays, or other items that I was able to locate. She is mentioned in works about other people – mainly her husband, Admiral Lord Cochrane, but never as the subject in her own right. Before I could become Kate’s storyteller, I had to become her biographer.
I delved into sources on her period: paintings, newspapers, dresses and jewelry of Regency England (that’s Bridgerton era, y’all, for anyone swept up in that series), recipe books, documents, music. I made a Pinterest board to keep track of it all. And luckily for me, Kate was quite the letter writer. I located a trove of her correspondence in a Scottish archive and spent several rainy autumn days reading and transcribing her letters. It was magic.
Letters are the next best thing to an interview, I think. It’s like eavesdropping on a conversation. As a reader of letters, you are privileged. You pick up tone, relationship dynamics, desires and tensions. In Kate’s, I see her longing for her husband, exasperated by her children, frustrated by circumstances, triumphant after a successful lobbying effort. Her excitement and elation at traveling in South America, when she accompanied her husband there during his naval campaigns, is palpable:
I determined to continue my route as far as the Inca’s bridge, which is about four leagues the other side of the highest pass on the Cordillera…This I accomplished and was most particularly gratified by having done so as it enables me to give you a good account of this country when I return which I am sure will also please you, altho’ you would have feared my going. I think you will be amazed by my adventures!
Letter from Katherine Cochrane to her husband Thomas Cochrane, November 10, 1820, Argentina
Much later, in a letter sent to Thomas while he was in Greece and she in France in 1828, she alludes to her husband’s apparently recurrent periods of low spirits and attempts to cheer him:
Why are we not to be happy, at least why not so much so as we have ever been? I cannot understand your state of mind or feeling, what can you dread? There is no fighting now in Greece. You surely cannot be well or such vile blue devils would not hold you so tight…Yet my dearest I would strongly advise you to look on the brighter side, and leave that sad train of thought. Try reading writing walking in fact try anything but thinking.
Letter from Katherine Cochrane to her husband Thomas Cochrane, September 9, 1828, Beaujon, France
And finally, triumph after her years-long efforts to persuade the British government to grant Thomas a pardon after he made powerful political enemies. In the midst of her exultation, she pauses to place credit where credit is due.
“Good news! Good news! You will be happy to hear that it is to be done. I have succeeded beyond my wildest hopes…The will was wanting and where there is no will, there never was a way in the world. I am thankful that I had the will and found the way. I have done more for you than if I had brought you a dower of 50,000 pounds.”
Letter from Katherine Cochrane to her husband Thomas Cochrane, February 17, 1832, Southampton, England
I could practically see Kate taking a victory lap as the words sing from the page.
There are dozens more anecdotes I could pull from her letters, more nuggets of personality to glean. But perhaps these pieces are enough to show you what I see: a woman of great feeling, with steely determination and strong passions. She is pragmatic, loyal, and loving. She is fed up. She is confident and charming. And through it all, she speaks with a voice that is her own.
The weather is breaking. Winter loosens its grip (not that this past winter was particularly cold) and more often, I venture outside by choice rather than necessity. I am reminded of the pleasures of unhurried walking. Of moving slowly, at street-level, without the distractions of a phone or vehicle.
In February, Peter and I traveled to Toronto. We traveled miles on foot in a snowy city, from our hotel in the Yorkville neighborhood to the CN Tower to the Art Gallery of Ontario and back. It is a distance of about nine miles, broken up by coffee and lunch and sightseeing.
The morning of the walk began quietly. Few people are outside, but gradually the number of pedestrians crescendos so that by nightfall, which comes early, the streets are bustling. Everyone is bundled up with hats and gloves; even some of the dogs wear coats.
At the top of the CN Tower, the views over Lake Erie are breathtaking. A small plane circles over Toronto Islands, descending, skimming the runway, and then lifting off again. I hear voices speaking in languages other than English, and I smile. This is my first international trip since the pandemic. It is strangely comforting to be back among the tourists.
Squads of families roam the galleries of the Art Gallery of Ontario (or AGO, as its more locally known). The noise creates a pleasant background ruckus as Peter and I spend an afternoon discovering Canadian artists that were completely new to us. In between gazing at the artwork, I take to looking at people looking at art. This always fascinates me: what they notice, what they pass by, and the differences between the way adults and children behave.
On our walks, Peter and I passed storefronts and academic buildings and lampposts covered in handbills. There was the pharmacy, brightly lit by the afternoon sun, with a technician’s white lab coat flung across a chair. On the university campus, printed flyers announced sexual health week, advertised tutors, and promoted a philosophy discussion group. In the digital age, where information travels instantly in bits and bytes, perhaps paper still matters.
These are little moments, little kernels of stories that exist in a flash. Kernels that might become something more if we let them.
Pittsburgh, PA. Corner of 22nd and Penn.
Back in Pittsburgh, my home city, I start to see things I hadn’t noticed before, like the sign on the door of a Polish deli cautioning shoppers to “watch your dupa.”
Being outside of a car brings you into contact with things. With people. On the T one morning, I’m sitting next to a young mother with a squirming toddler on her lap. I offer her my seat, so she can have her little boy beside her, but she declines. He is fussing, and she is alternately chiding him and attempting to distract him by talking about what can be seen from the trolley’s window.
I think of everything that must be done to get a small child out of the house in the morning: the waking up, the feeding, the dressing, the finding of socks and shows. Brushing of hair and teeth. I want to tell her that she’s doing a great job. But I don’t; unsolicited commentary from a stranger, no matter how well-intentioned, could feel presumptuous.
On an afternoon a few days later, I’m walking the streets near my office, which happens to be near the location of a Planned Parenthood clinic. There is a small group of protestors clustered outside. I see the signs and flyers and want to tell them that Planned Parenthood focuses far more on pregnancy prevention than pregnancy termination. I want to say that they have it twisted, that this is a health clinic and not an abortion factory. I want to say that they should consider finding something else to do instead of hassling a woman trying to get a friggin’ PAP smear on her lunch break.
Confrontation is not compassion, and brochures and Bible verses are not what’s needed. But I don’t say anything, and I walk on.
I think of the age of the city, of the footsteps of those who walked here before me. The natives and the explorers and the soldiers. I think of the people around me now, of the space we share and the slices of time where, just for a moment, we might glimpse a world outside of ourselves.
I’ve been cleaning house. Part of this is your typical spring cleaning – opening windows, giving surfaces a good dusting, laundering the slipcovers on the sofa. And part of this is a deep dive into an area largely untouched since I moved into the home: my basement.
The beauty of having a basement is being able to put things down there where they are out of sight, and don’t need to be dealt with – at least for awhile. I took full advantage of this when I bought the place. Camping equipment, unneeded furniture, boxes of holiday decorations, gardening tools. Random bits of family memorabilia. An inflatable kayak. Lawn games. All went to the basement.
There is a logic to this: basements are for storage, after all. But they also tend to be magnets for accumulation. At a certain point, I had to ask myself: How much is too much?
There were my college notebooks, filled with neat handwriting that seems almost unrecognizable, and printouts of articles I used for a research paper in 1999. It is hard for me to throw these away, even though I’m unlikely to need to revisit the topic of vector-born diseases anytime soon. I find other school materials as well: class photos, a program from my kindergarten graduation. And items from my teen years, like paystubs from my first “on the books” job at a fast-food restaurant, and a mood ring, safely tucked into the box I’d kept it in since high school.
I find items given to me by family members. There is a kitchen towel that still bears the distinctive scent of my Aunt Stella’s house; smelling it takes me instantly back to my childhood, to hours spent in her living room, eating handfuls of peanut M&Ms, where the furniture was always immaculate, and her wall clock chimed the hours in melodic tones. I hesitate to wash it, unwilling to lose that scent, that memory. I fold it and put it aside.
Some surprises are not as welcome. I’m caught off guard, unprepared for the discovery. With the objects come feelings, and I must sort these too.
I find a photograph of myself smiling in a red ballgown, standing next to the man I used to be married to.
There is the antique sausage grinder, passed down between family members and used for countless batches of homemade kielbasa. Its previous owner was my late cousin; his mother gifted it to me after his untimely death, along with a handwritten recipe. I can’t decide what to do with it. It moves from one side of the basement to the other.
Items like this beg the question: Where do I put it in my house? Where do I fit this stuff into my life?
More abstractly: What remainder of my past will stay in my present? Will become part of my future?
This is not merely cleaning, but emotional cataloging. It is taking stock.
Some things don’t stay. Bag after bag is placed in the trash. I take batches of items to Goodwill and other donation centers. A few I try to sell. And there are some that remain.
There is also space. I look at the vacant shelves, the empty areas in the floor and feel satisfied with a job well done. The house feels lighter. What is in it is, for the most part, chosen rather than simply received.
And isn’t that what a home is for? A place to keep what we hold dear, and to let the rest go.
Addendum: I would be remiss not to mention the heroic levels of deep cleaning that Peter engaged in over the course of this project. He swept, he scrubbed, he wiped and vacuumed and he kept me honest. The basement has never looked better. There’s still work ahead, but of the type that involves exploring possibilities: Beer fridge? Home theater? Yoga room? Because after the dust settles, its time to play.
At year’s end, it is tempting to write a retrospective, a list of things done, a catalogue of accomplishments (or at the very least, some interesting statistics.)
Instead, I am going to tell you about what I didn’t do. Or in a few instances, stopped doing. Basically, this is my 2023 quit list
Photo by Linda Eller-Shein: https://www.pexels.com/photo/red-and-yellow-stop-sticker-1749900/
I stopped going to the local book club meetings.
I took a 6-month hiatus from guitar lessons.
I resigned from a non-profit board.
Over the summer, I signed up for an adult kickball league and did not play a single game.
I got off dating apps.
I quit wearing makeup for the most part.
I didn’t do any online teaching, or publish any articles.
I stepped down as the organizer for a Meetup group I’d led for a year and a half.
I could go on. There’s the biography of Hedy Lamarr, begun in January, that has been sitting on my bedside table, neglected. The brown bananas in my freezer, waiting for either ambition or boredom to spur me to transform them into banana bread. The artist’s statement I sketched out this spring and haven’t returned to since.
My reasons for quitting were varied. Sometimes it was simple as limited time. In other cases, it was a matter of reconsidering my priorities, of thinking about what value a particular activity brought to my life. Occasionally I didn’t have a choice; the online program I taught for was discontinued, much to my disappointment.
Even now, as I sit next to my kitchen filled with packages of candied pecans and bags of snickerdoodles and cranberry scones—the outputs of a frenzied weekend of holiday baking—I am glancing sideways at my to-do list and calculating how much remains on it. How little I checked off.
Then I think of how I actually spent my day. Waking to the sound of rain, then snuggling back under the blankets for just a minute longer. Finally getting dressed to venture out for coffee, Rosie in tow. Having a lovely brunch with friends and sharing good food and laughter. Peter’s company. A long afternoon nap.
Those were wonderful things. I would argue those were the most important things I did today. None of them were not on my list.
Life is not made up of lists. Or if it is, that misses the point. After four plus decades on the planet, I am starting to realize this. Not that I’ll ever abandon lists completely; part of me will always thrill to an item checked off, a task accomplished. But they will not be—cannot be—how I measure my life.
It’s raining again. The couch calls. I’ll let myself answer.
“Better late than never.” Or so the saying goes. This past fall, I put this aphorism to the test.
But before I get into that, a little backstory.
For most of my life, I’ve been something of a late joiner when it comes to most cultural touchpoints. I was one of the last kids in my middle school class to have a CD player in the household. I didn’t see classic ‘80s films like Goonies or Back to the Future until I was well into high school. I didn’t really listen to Metallica or Madonna or Queen until college.
My younger sister and I, 1985.
Or sometimes the touchpoints went past me altogether. I never owned an album by Prince or Cher or Michael Jackson.* Never owned a gaming console. In fact, I did not hold a Sega Genesis controller until last week, when I played Sonic for the first time and had my a** handed to me.
Is it delayed nostalgia? A chance to retroactively experience what my peers did in the 1980s, and I’m attempting decades later? Or am I simply looking to reconnect with aspects of myself, buried under the responsibilities of adulthood, that I haven’t visited in a long, long time?
Perhaps it’s all of those things.
So I’ve begun to experiment, to see if I can fill in some of the gaps. I did watch, within the past two months, both E.T. and Halloween for the first time. The experience wasn’t the same as it would have been if I was a kid. But I still felt surprise and empathy with E.T., and the full force of the jump scares in Halloween.
I bought Sonic and a bundle of retro games for my PS4.
Sometimes, for the heck of it, I blow off practicing French on Duolingo simply because it feels so friggin’ good to say no. (I always did my homework as soon as I got home from school, and this small but belated rebellion is deeply satisfying.)
I’ve added Kate Bush and other artists featured on Stranger Things to my Spotify queue.
Which brings me to Stranger Things. Yes, I’m late to the game on this one too. I didn’t watch the first four seasons when they originally aired. But now, with the final season on the horizon and a partner who persuaded me to give the series another shot, I’m knee-deep in the supernatural doings of Hawkins, IN. And along with all of the fine points of the show (the craft, the acting, the storylines, the music, which have been covered to death elsewhere), I’m getting a whopping flashback to the 80s.
Aquanet hairspray. Lite Brites and Spirographs. (You can actually still buy Lite Brites!)
Nancy Wheeler’s reporters’ notebook. (I carried the exact same kind on my early freelance assignments.)
The panic about Dungeons and Dragons.
Being a free-range kid and roaming the neighborhood on bikes.
All. The. Perms. (Yeah, I had one of those too.)
Seeing these things onscreen both triggers memories and reminds me that I while I missed a lot, I didn’t miss everything.
This realization was recently driven home on a gray Pittsburgh afternoon. I stood at the sink washing dishes (at the same time, so as not to appear too responsible, I was listening to Def Leppard and Guns n’ Roses while whipping up a batch of simple syrup for cocktails).
Sunlight managed to sneak through the clouds at just the moment “Sweet Child O’ Mine” blasted from the speaker.
Where do we go? Oh, where do we go now? Oh, where do we go?
And I saw that some things, like the right song at the right moment, are timeless.
*I was gifted Thriller this summer, on vinyl, and I’m delighted with it.
I’ve had a long history with bikes. Going back to before I could remember, where the evidence is a photo of me scooting around my parents’ kitchen as a toddler on my baby tricycle. Then there was my first real bike, a gift for my 5th birthday (I think). I have recollections of a bubblegum pink frame and training wheels and being pushed up and down the long driveway in the front of the house, learning how to pedal and steer.
Obstacle evasion came next. I spent my early years in Pennsylvania farm country. My childhood home boasted a small apple orchard planted on a sloping side of the property. I distinctly remember my mother taking me and my bike to the top of this slope and giving me a firm push. I hurtled across the grass through the apple trees, learning how to move between them and – equally important – how to stop before hitting the thick wall of pines beyond.
Years later, I asked my mother (a retired teacher) why she used such unorthodox instruction methods on a kindergartener. In hindsight, the training tactics can look a bit extreme.
“I wanted you to learn,” she shrugged.
Learn I did. Not just basic bicycling techniques, but how not to be too afraid. This would go on to serve me well. For example, when I was 10 years old and hit a raised sewer cover, flipped over my handlebars, and skidded across the dirt and gravel of the road, taking off patches of skin from my right knee to ankle. I got up, dusted off, and walked to the friend’s house that had been my destination. Her mom hosed off my leg and maybe dabbed on some peroxide and sent me on my way. I continued on with my plans to play with my friends. To this day, traces of the scars are still visible.
As I got older, I upped my bicycle game, slowly progressing to nicer, newer, more specialized bikes. From the hand-me-down I was riding at the time of my handlebar somersault to an aqua Huffy (my first bike with gears), then a Bianchi Bobcat (my first legit mountain bike, purchased with money from my first on-the-books job.) And finally, a lipstick red Trek road bike, sleek, light, and beautiful. Built for speed.
I also biked in more exotic locales than the Pennsylvania countryside. I rode beside monuments in Washington D.C., evading drivers, pedestrians, and fellow cyclists. On Bainbridge Island near Seattle, I pedaled on roads that paralleled salmon streams and woods. I dabbled with e-bikes in Southern France, pushing up through winding hills among vineyards.
So I’ve biked around. But nothing could quite prepare me for the adventure of urban biking in Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh, the city of rivers. The city of bridges. The city of steel.
The summer of 2023 ushered in a series of biking adventures which rolled to an escalating crescendo on September 16th.
The plan: Cover nearly 40 miles. Stop for lunch and a couple beers. Finish before dark.
The morning arrived and with it, some trepidation. It was the longest ride I’d attempted to date. I don’t know if I felt better or worse after a member of the group produced a bottle of homebrewed Lithuanian honey liqueur. It wasn’t even close to noon but I did a shot like everyone else. Thus fortified, we were on our way.
The ride started with gliding under the late morning shadows on a flat stretch along the river. We pedaled our way down to Point State Park, where we stopped for photographs in front of the fountain. Then we made our way across the river, eventually stopping at our first brewery and lunch at one of Pittsburgh’s most famous, most no-frills delis, Peppi’s.
As the day progressed, we visited a few more breweries, sent texts to friends who’d opted out of the adventure, and wound our way through the varied neighborhoods of Pittsburgh. Seeing places at street level, without the insulating walls of a car and going at a speed where it’s possible to notice details, is a wonderfully connective way to travel. You’re not going through a city. You’re being in it.
Gradually we reached Highland Park. We climbed the steps to the reservoir, basking in the afternoon sunlight. Snapped a few more pictures. Congratulated ourselves on time well spent.
The afternoon was easing into evening when we made a last stop before our final ascent. Cait, who’d been a veritable sunbeam throughout the ride (and whose presence, we later determined, had provided a sort of talisman), left to attend a family obligation. In a twist that was truly Pittsburgh, the biggest hill came at the end. There was an impromptu decision for a final round – at this point, I opted for a non-alcoholic sparkling blackberry seltzer – and then we rolled out to face our last climb.
Two things happened almost immediately. First, as I was rounding a turn, I noticed that both my front and back tires felt unmistakably flat. Secondly, no sooner had the realization formed in my mind than the bike tipped, I fell, and both my bike and I skidded across the pavement.
After the momentary shock, I got up to assess the damage. My legs had various cuts and bruises, but what looked to be in far worse shape was my bike. My beloved red Trek lay in a mangled heap. Not only were both of my tires damaged, but my left handlebar had been bent backwards and my right pedal dangled helplessly. The chain had been detached from the derailer. I could walk, but my bike was unrideable.
In the commotion, John, the rider following me, had run over my downed bike, landing both himself and his bike on the ground. Fortunately, neither was injured. But our ride was over. There was only one thing left to do: walk to the end.
So we did, nearly a mile to the top of the last hill, my bike gallantly carried by my boyfriend Peter as I pushed his on the sidewalk. We stopped at the city park at the hill’s crest, taking in the Pittsburgh skyline spread out beneath us. We posed for a final victorious picture. I dabbed at my bloody knee with paper towels offered by strangers.
It wasn’t the way I’d expected the day to end. But the beauty of that September Saturday was that there really hadn’t been any expectations. The day would unfold as fate willed. (That’s not to say there wasn’t a plan. Peter had meticulously figured out the route and itinerary and had even done a test ride in advance.) But what would happen in those golden hours was anyone’s guess.
What happened was this: Seeing new things. Laughing. Being in a space of possibility. Being in a space for adventure. Being, in a sense, a kid again. No agenda, no responsibilities, just needing to get home before dark.
Amazingly, my bike was able to be fully repaired. She is better than new, with sturdy hardcase tires and a black-and-red handlebar wrap that looks sleek. And we are already planning the next adventure.
