Karen and I often sit down this time of year and list the year in review, as if we were editors of a newspaper or magazine. I never really thought about where this tradition came from, perhaps our experiences with Citicorp back when we had to prepare weekly and monthly reports. Some day maybe I'll tell you about those weeklies and sitting down with Carl Levinson and his other direct reports to review them on Monday morning, afternoon, sometimes into evening. No, I don't think I will. I understand he's retired, so maybe he deserves to be let alone. In case you're wondering, that was 17 years ago, before what's now called Citigroup got into its current mess (and after it had worked its way out of the last one -- it had almost failed before, more than once or twice, did you know?).
Anyway, this year's list would include adding on to the goat barn for turkeys, which joined our herd for a while until we put the "tur" in the freezer and replaced them with "don". Which reminds me Adam lost a "key" to our Volvo wagon. He thinks it may be hiding in the bottom of our famous local swimming hole, the "Straw Pond." We haven't bought eggs in a year and a half. Yesterday, Karen bought milk for the first time in almost a year. That skim milk tasted almost like water on my oatmeal this morning. Come on girls, have your babies! "Maybe that's why you got sick," Karen suggested this morning.
Yes, I need the healing, anti-bacterial life force of goat mammary emissions, which brings me to Hellgate, an important lesson for me this year. That "race" helped destroy my running regimen for December. Having rested the week before, which basically eliminated any mileage at the beginning of the month, the 46 miles I finished battered me down and probably yielded my immune systems to this cough/cold I've been fighting for a week and a half when I haven't been running because a little exertion sets me into a coughing spree and we've pert near run out of goat milk. So, after 11 months of fantastic running that put me on track to complete my first 2000-mile year in years, I'm ending up shy with 1940. Shy, did I say Chy? That's our jenny (a new word for me in 2010). Or "chi," pain-free running, which I did experience all year until my falls during Hellgate.
"What's the lesson?" says Virginia.
Relax, run for the joy of it, and don't complicate it with visions of heroics, award jackets or age division trophies.
Gosh, I only barely got started on the list, didn't I? My musical highlight had to have been playing the first movement of Schumann's Piano Concerto in A minor with the local orchestra in early March. Thanks, folks, for that opportunity. People who play like me don't often get to do something like that. The monster concert holiday singalong wasn't too shabby either, plain clean fun (not counting "Santa Baby," unless we agree it was sung by Mrs. Santa and not that other girl). Meanwhile, banks have been buying the "Practical Guide to the Wall Street Reform & Consumer Protection Act," released during the summer after a mad dash. Thank you, readers.
More later, maybe -- greenhouse, court appearance, visits with friends and family, just read through old blog entries. The next step for Karen and me, according to custom, is to try to predict 2011.
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