(An Edited Repost from February 13, 2018)
In another lifetime, I was a runner. I really was. I wasn’t a fast runner. I wasn’t the slowest runner. I was what is known in the running community as a “mid-packer.” In other words, there were many ahead of me and a few behind me. For about 10 years, I ran a lot of miles, and I loved it!
One reason I was excited about starting my own business was that I would have flexibility to run whenever I chose to. Yeah, that’s what I told myself. But I soon discovered that as the owner of a small business which serves the public, I had less time to run, less control over my schedule and more excuses not to run.
During this time, I occasionally wrote a running column for the local paper. This was a few years before Facebook, Twitter, blogs and all the other newfangled ways we can express ourselves publicly. Print media was the only outlet for writing the kinds of things I enjoyed writing, and Wayne Smith and Greg Dewalt, sports editors at the local newspaper, were kind enough to let me contribute. I wrote more about the experiences of running and avoided training strategies, programs, and the like. My logic was simple. Everyone had different ideas about those elements of running, and most knew more than I did. So, I stuck to the aesthetics of the sport that I loved and continue to love. Maybe in the future, I can share some of those columns with you.
Nowadays when someone asks if I still run, I reply “I’m slowly getting back into it.” I have been saying that now for several years. But I’m not giving up and who knows? This may be the year that good intentions become reality. It’s certainly on my list of goals for this year.
Back in my heyday, I ran in the early morning as often as I could. The world is different before everyone is awake, and automobiles and background noise drown out the sounds of life going on around us. When I do arise early to go to the gym or for whatever reason, I realize that the quiet stillness of predawn is still available to us, if we’re willing to step into it. But, back to the running days. I saw many things and heard many sounds that I soon became used to. The birds seemed to sing louder in the early morning hours. The squirrels seemed to be hyper and busy, while the cows moved more slowly, like some do before that first cup of coffee. And the roosters crowed. Roosters seem to claim the role of sounding a morning reveille for all who can hear. I assume they crow even when no one can hear them. But I really can’t say for sure.
Speaking of roosters, one morning I turned the tables on a fine feathered friend. I embarrassed him and I’m pretty sure I left him speechless, or crowless. Near my house and on my running route lived a wonderful elderly couple named James and Annie Mae Peck. We attended church together and I have only fond memories of them. Their son later built his home on the same family land where their home once stood. Mr. and Mrs. Peck had dogs, chickens, and, if I recall, some cattle as well. Their house was surrounded by cornfields. All in all, it was a perfect and pastoral setting. Of course, the barking of the dogs when we ran by did disturb that peaceful setting slightly, But I digress.
The Pecks had a rooster. A loud rooster. Some might call it an obnoxious rooster, but I won’t go that far. That rooster crowed loud and true every morning before dawn. And as my friend Terry and I ran those roads near their house, we could hear that rooster blaring out his announcement of a new morning. On those days I saw him, I’m pretty sure he stuck out his chest and let go with all he had. That’s what roosters do, and this one was loud and proud. Except one day he wasn’t. And that brings me to the point of this blog. I woke that rooster one morning. I’m not boasting because as Walt Whitman is purported to have said, “If you done it, it ain’t bragging”. Or maybe it was Dizzy Dean who said that. Well, somebody said it, or I couldn’t have stolen it.
Pleased with myself, I celebrated my accomplishment by going home and writing a poem to memorialize it. Now, I’m not a poet. I realize that. My poetry attempts consist of stringing rhyming phrases in iambic pentameter, or something like that. My friend Jim Hatcher is a poet. If you want to read good poems, then find some of his on Facebook or pick up a copy of his book. But I do think my poem could make for a subpar country music song, so there’s that. At any rate, I’m doing something I have never done before. I am sharing it with an audience. So, please read it and I hope it brings a smile.
I woke Mrs. Annie Mae’s rooster this morning.
As I ran past her house, I gave him no warning.
And he crowed from behind, as I passed on through.
Guilt reddened his comb when he saw ‘twas true.
For there was no catching up, no matter how much he hurried.
I have no doubt that the poor bird was worried,
As even the dogs barked ere he crowed his first crow,
I know he was embarrassed at just who might know.
But my amusement with the bird soon turned to concern,
As I worried too, at just who might learn.
That this most trusted bird could be trusted no more, and
That his failures might land him behind Annie Mae’s oven door.
I woke Mrs. Annie Mae’s rooster again early today,
For as I approached, I threw a small stone his way.
At the sound of its dropping, he crowed loud and clear,
So that everyone, including Mrs. Annie Mae, might hear.
Now, each morning as I pass, I look, for I know,
That old noisy rooster’s within a small stone’s throw,
And as I awake him, while he’s still silent and no one can see,
That’s when I wink at that rooster, he winks back at me.
There. Now you have it. I realize that no awards for poetic excellence are forthcoming from the Poetry Society of America, but don’t give up on us. If today’s blog wasn’t to your liking, please visit again in a couple of weeks. I’ll try to write something worth crowing about.