Email 12

IN THEIR PATH EMAIL! March 31, 2003

March has decided to go out like a lion. In Cleveland we finally have had some lovely bright spring warm days. So it was surprise to leave a trail of foot prints in my early morning walk. Two inches of snow was unexpected and pretty. And it was all melted away by evening.

I love snow. I love snow even though it has changed my training and walk schedule. I grew up in upstate New York and we played outside all winter. Those were real winters. I tell my children, raised here, Cleveland has fake winter with fake snowing. J Check out a memory published a few years ago in my chap book A Book About Time Ive put it on our web site: www.intheripath.org And yes, Im still very happy I dont leave for Canada until May 12th.

The Lake Erie Travelers are all set to take me on my walk. Isnt that wild? They have formed a committee, decided who takes which days, what campsites they need to use, and (how much they will charge me for bathroom privileges J) What a great and funny group they are. There will be 8 RVs in St. Catharines On May 31st. Come join us on the 31st in St. Catharines.

It seems too close to departure to work on a bus. Too late for any one to have to deal with recruiting enough people to fill a bus and collecting the bus fare to turn over to the company. At our last meeting we talked about car pooling and sharing space on our private minivans. What do you think???? Let me know. By email or phone (216) 761-8416.

We are working on a send off on May 12th as well as the Jubilee in Canada at the end. Dorothy Adams is considering doing a solo with the choir that sings in St. Cats. And Ann Hagedorn, author of BEYOND THE RIVER, The Untold Story of the Heroes of the Underground Railroad, is trying to arrange her busy schedule to appear along with Allan Scwhartz. I saw them both at her wonderful book signing in Ripley, Ohio and the reading plus Alans original music was very moving.

My poor old body is slowly creaking back into shape. It is not as easy as last spring felt. But Im working hard. Walking up and down the snake hill ramp at Parkgate and East Blvd and the 44 low rise stairs right across the street in the Italian Garden. Thats for strength and endurance: 45 minutes at 6:30 Am before breakfast and this week I started to go out for a second session at 11:30 then I collapse for a few minutes before I have lunch. Distance walking still feels harder than I remember last year. But the only way to get ready is to do it. Yuck!

More soon. I will let you know exactly where on the route I will be when, in case you want to join the walk along the way.

Love Joan E.
IN THEIR PATH!
www.intheirpath.org
(216) 761-8416

Everyone Called It THE OLD LOT

Two doors down from my house was a vacant plot we claimed for adventure, all seasons. During winter The Old Lot was entrance to a home- made toboggan run that Junior Livingstons father used to create as soon as the temperature stayed below freezing. That hill was higher than a house was tall, it sloped from Renwick Avenue down to Castle Streets bottom end and Mr. Livingston would flood the freezing path as wide as two and a half driveways. Room enough not to have to wait for turns. Broad topped gatewayed for take-off at will on corrugated cardboard scrounged from Mr. Johnsons grocery store. We would rush everyday after school.

Flopped belly or slip bottom. Or leaning back in a line together 8, 12, 16 legs grabbed to make a train. Why didnt we freeze caught wet snowsuit stiff mid motion? Because we zoomed downhill faster than wind laughing loud and the run back up raised our body temperature one million-twenty two degrees.

On school days you could take one quick slide at lunchtime. Except, one noon Tish and If forgot and raced up and down and up and down and up and down and up, and we were so late it was shameful! Mrs. Amdursky made me go home to get a note right then and there. While I sniffled-bawled the terrible truth that it wasnt my fault because. It was Tish who said we had plenty of time. I wanted to leave but. Tish said, thats only the first bell and. We ran all the way! My mother scowled appalled, scolding, Joan, youre the oldest and you knew full well what time it was when you left home. She rubbed her palm across my wet face and handed me my dry play-clothes-snowsuit, let me lean against her body, as I sobbed, repentant. And sent me back with a note of apology and promise.

Day after day. After school and after Saturday chores, the old lot was teeming with screaming, and loose falling down bodies. Kids from every block in the neighborhood came to slide into the night. Until mothers began calling our full Christian names and that threatened that they, the mothers, would follow their voices out into the dark.

To the top of the hill.

And get us.

***

Alone in my house I say loud aloud: Mother. (sigh) Mother.

This happens often, it comes without thinking. It darts into the air I hear and I dont really know it is a familiar English title. I may say it several times before I recognize it as a proper noun, before I realize I am calling her and she is dead, and I am 74, and what do I want her to come to me for? What do I want her to say?

I repeat

Mother oh Mother