May 13, 2005 - Glebe Report

13 Glebe Report May 13, 2005 GLEBE
By
Clyde
Sanger
On a recent visit to a nephew's
house I came across an intriguing
little book with the title On
Parenting. Of course, I had to dip
into its grab bag of homely advice to
find out what we had done wrong
(or maybe right) in the upbringing
of our sons.
You can guess quite a lot of it.
Keep a door jamb unpainted on
which to record your children's
birthday heights. Kiss them
goodnight, even if they are already
asleep. Get to know their teachers.
"Really listen to your children. Let
them know that you understand and
empathize with their feelings." And
an odd one: "Never give your child a
drum."
As a breakfast cook, I liked this
one: "Remember the three universal
healers:
Calamine lotion, warm
oatmeal and hugs." But there was a
glaring omission. "Go on a road trip
with one of your children at a time."
That's my prime advice to parents.
Of course, you need to wait until
they can drive better than you do.
I have tried it three times. First,
when Toby was driving down alone
from the Yukon and I bought a oneway
ticket to meet him in
Edmonton. We had six great days,
camping in provincial parks, visiting
the Batoche battlefield and a pottery
at the charming harbour of Rossport
and debating lengthily why
Saskatchewan folk don't move their
clocks forward in the spring.
Then Daniel decided to return to
his Kenyan birthplace and we drove
from Nairobi into the midst of
Road trips - and Matt's Marathon
elephants in Masai Mara. And on to
Zanzibar and other splendid
memories. Finally, Matthew told us
he had qualified for the 2005 Boston
Marathon. His running mate and
neighbour in Ottawa South, Gary
Stein, was driving down early. Matt
and I followed a day later.
The unplanned usually happens.
At the American border an African
with a huge suitcase was waiting for
a ride. Baki was from Burkina Faso
("the land of honest men") and was
aiming to catch a flight to Paris that
evening. In faltering French I began
to say nice things about Moslems
until he said he was a Catholic
convert and was really Alexandre.
We dropped him on a Boston street
where he found a French-speaking
taxi-driver. The gods smile on Baki.
Boston was beautiful: magnolia
trees along Beacon Street and
forsythia bursting out. Everyone en
fête for the Marathon, giving away
T-shirts and Powerbars. We stayed
with Matt's high school friend,
Jonathan Leaning, and wife Debka
Colson in Jamaica Plains on a street
where the children ride scooters and
toss basketballs, and the parents sit
on verandah steps with coffee. The
transplanted Glebe at its best. Their
youngest child Tati beat happily on
an African drum.
I suggested we might scout out the
Marathon route on Sunday, but
wisely Matt chose to explore the city.
We tramped round the public
gardens ("Make way for ducklings")
and crossed to the North End, where
the Freedom Trail now has a
memorial to Holocaust victims that
is indescribably moving.
Up before dawn on Monday and
Matt was carried off on a special bus
to the start far away at Hopkinton. At
noon a pair of fighter jets screamed
over the city, announcing the start.
We waited for hours by the finish
along Boylston Street. I sneaked into
a third-floor boardroom of the Lenox
Hotel and saw the wheelchair
QUESTIONS
Matt Sanger and Gary Stein at the Boston Marathon
contestants arrive to cheers and
Canadian Jacqueline Gareau, winner
in 1980, being crowned as grand
marshal. Then a hotel flunky turfed
me out into a street crowded with
jubilant Ethiopians. They cheered
their man, Hailu Negussie, for he
beat all those Kenyans. But my pride
in Kenya had its moment with fourtimes
winner, Catherine Ndereba,
who smiled gorgeously under her
laurel wreath.
Meanwhile, Matt and Gary were
keeping a fair pace an hour behind.
They passed Framingham (10k)
where my wife Penny was born and,
at Wellesley College (20k), the pack
veered off to brush the hands of all
the laughing girls. At 30k they faced
the Heartbreak Hill of awesome
repute, "but it was mostly hype",
said Matt. On the last four miles
through Boston the crowd was
"something else" and the two friends
crossed the finish line holding hands.
Photo: Clyde Sanger
They were clocked in at three hours,
42 minutes.
Everywhere heroes in aluminum
warm-up cloaks were being hugged.
We found the friendly 39 bus to get
back to the Leanings and Debka
sketched the best way out of the
chaotic city. Matt drove in darkness
through the White Mountains to a
cosy log cabin in the woods. Next
day, at Mount Washington Hotel in
Bretton Woods, where the post-war
world was restructured, the Boston
Globe told Matt he had come in
number 6318. And so home.
Lots of human stories. One pair
took more than six hours and he
proposed to her on the finish line.
But what of number 17,549, Jason
Pisano, the last runner (walker?) to
complete the marathon. Whatever
kept him going for seven hours and
25 minutes? The sunshine and the
joy of good company? Well, why
not?
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