The Awesome Power of Early Friendships and Late Summer Storms

I hate what's happened to the word "awesome".  For the last 10 years, reality shows and commentators abused this adjective until they reduced it to an on-air cliche.  It's not fair and it's not right.

"Did you see so-and-so's new Jeep?"

"Yeah, it's awesome."

"Sidney's so awesome doing her little tap dance.  You should see her kick up her legs!"

It doesn't matter whether we're discussing the Olympics, sugarless pudding or Donald Trump, everything is described as awesome when most of the time...it isn't.  And that cheapens the word for those who wield such power that we gaze at them with a respect bordering on reverence.  The power that can end or alter the course of your life, like early friendships and late summer storms.  Either of these is an agent of incredible force; combined, the effect is explosive.

That is one of the ideas behind Anne Rivers Siddon's novel, Outer Banks.  On the surface, it's a reunion of four middle-aged women who went to college together as girls but, it's also a hymn to the power of our very first friendships. The older women all carry a patina of  achievement, loss, and experience but in each other, they also see the adolescent girls they were years ago. In case you haven't heard, adolescent friendships can retain a lot of power.

Grown-up friends know the adults we became but friends from childhood also know who we could have been. They saw our potential before time and circumstance limited our choices. While we were incredibly vulnerable, they probably found out our biggest fears. The power of that knowledge can intensify with time giving old friends unique strength they can use with kindness or cruelty.

Summer storms are like that too, gaining energy from the heat of southern waters and storing it as they journey north. Sometimes, trapped energy and moisture increase over time until they hit an area of already-unstable weather.  The result is a hurricane, a storm system containing a hideous destructive force. 

So why don't we run from our childhood friends, like they were all tropical cyclones named Andrew, Camille or Katrina?  Yes, they knew us during vulnerable times but just as certainly, we knew them as well and (mostly) we've learned to trust each others' discretion over the years.  We know life-experience strengthened and humbled them, just as it strengthened and humbled us.  And, as we lose those who loved us as babies, first friends become the custodians of our past.  Finally, because they are friends, they use their influence, not to lay us low, but rescue us from despair. They loved us then, they love us still: first friends are truly awesome.

A Room Where the Soul can Live.

Every since 1929, female writers all over the world have been chanting a sentence of Virginia Woolf's like it was  a mantra.  Agree or disagree, ever she-scribbler knows the quote: 

In order for a woman to write fiction she must have two things, certainly: a room of her own (with key and lock) and enough money to support herself.

(Truth be told, I'll bet a lot of male writers echo the sentiment but apply it to themselves.  Privacy and financial security are woefully lacking these days for those who craft belle-lettres.)

As for me, I created that room in my imagination around the time I was 12.  I was reading an exercise in a self-help book my mom had borrowed (It was the 70's and the adult world was awash in self-help books) that suggested the reader construct an imaginary place equipped with everything needed to be that person's spiritual and physical retreat.  It was the reader's famous "happy place" and, once constructed by the mind, it could be accessed whenever needed.  Well, of course I started imagining mine.

What did it look like?  It was a spot for someone addicted to reading and writing. Books by the hundreds, books by the ton, books reaching from floor to ceiling lived there.  It also had soft light and an old-fashioned chair where I could snuggle down with a comfortable cup and a volume. The need for a cup meant a table must also be handy.  I went on and on, adding bits to the imaginary room. Was a fireplace required?  No but a desk suitable for writing long-length works was and a globe would not be amiss.  Would shelves hold anything besides books?  I wasn't sure.  It had to have the flavor of tradition with an emphasis on comfort instead of formality.  Of course, I was mentally constructing an archetypal English library, sans tobacco smoke.  But I was happy there.

Of course, I grew up and my husband and I found a house with a tiny spare room.  For years it was simply "the dirty room"  but some changes have been made.

Now it's the library, the guest room and my "Room of One's Own" but when I looked at it earlier this week I realized it's something more: it's the realization of the "Happy Place" I created as a child.

There's the reading lamp and the small, handy table. No globe but a telescope lives here instead.  And the shelves are crammed with so many books they threaten to sink the foundation but there's more than books on that back wall.  Can you see the black figure centered on the top shelf?  That's a replica of The Black Bird, The Maltese Falcon, "The-stuff-dreams-are-made-of" figure dreamed up by Dashiell Hammett and John Huston.  (Hammett created the story but Huston wrote that line, so both of them deserve credit.)  What a whale of a tale that is.  The falcon presides over that wall  of books as well as Wind in the Willow figures, Harry Potter wands, Woody and Buzz Lightyear and Opus from Bloom County.  They all share space with family photos and far too many stuffed Bears. It's not everything in the world I want, but everything here makes me happy.  

Of course the wing chair anchors the room, like its picture now anchors this blog. It's old-fashioned and comfortable and the most peaceful spot in the house.  Somewhere on the road to finding my "Room of One's Own." I created the room my soul has lived in most of my life. If I'm lucky, I'll still be enjoying this place when I reach 100.

So welcome to my room furnished with an eye for comfort and a love of Story.  If you need to, take a mental vacation here.  Reservations are being accepted now.

Books to re-balance the World

My sister, the educator, was grousing this week about an interesting blog post (sorry to say, not one of mine) on the question of whether Middle Grade and Young Adult books have gotten too "dark" for their target audience.   The post's author made an eloquent argument to justify the current "serious" themes but Sis's response was "There has to be a happy [book], every now and then.

Well, that surprised me because my sister dear has never shied away from kids' books with dramatic stories and tragic elements.  She's the one who turned me on to Harry Potter and The Graveyard Book (great stories that both start out with murders) and as a teenager, she devoured every Judy Blume YA story-with-a-taboo as soon as it came out.  So I had to ask: "What's the problem?  You like dark."

"Of course I do" she said.  "But every story pushed at kids right now right now is all about dark issues.  It's dystopias and addiction and depression and death.  Every once in a while, people need to laugh too, you know?"

"Well, yeah" I replied. "But didn't the books you loved best as a kid usually bring on the tears?" (I wasn't ready to concede.)  "I mean people love Charlotte's Web and it's terribly sad, although some passages are funny.  And readers learn valuable lessons in that book."

"That's the problem," she said.  "Kid books hyped today are filled with doom and gloom but they're praised  because they teach 'valuable lessons'. (I could almost hear her hooking finger quotes through the phone.)  "Kids need to have fun with books as well as life lessons.  I remember lying on our Grandmother's bed, reading Alvin Fernald, Superweasel, and laughing my head off at the story. At the time I thought to myself how much I was enjoying that story and I wanted to read more just like it." She sighed. "Books need to have balance."

Well, that got me, because she's right.  Stories are written to re-balance the world, at least for the writer.  They're read for entertainment and other reasons. Yes, some stories can have more dark than light (A Separate Peace comes to mind) while others run the other way (does anyone else remember Homer Price and the Amazing Doughnut Machine?  See this for the illustration.) but even adult novels counter-balance sadness with humor.  A tale of unrelieved happiness is sapless pap and no more engaging than one of ceaseless woe.

Dolly Parton said the secret to pleasing an audience was, "Make 'em laugh, make 'em cry, scare the hell out of 'em and go home".  That's what good authors achieve.  While their stories seek to create personal balance, readers need to feel laughter, tears, fear, and contentment by the time the book is done. As we close the last page, we know within ourselves the story has balanced our worlds as well.

Respect for the Introvert, Please!

America is known as a nation of extroverts.  Surrounded by older countries with cultures based on reserve and tradition, we celebrate our exuberant, gregarious, national character and do our best to perpetuate the image.  But, amidst the ballyhoo and high-fiving, we have to ask ourselves: are we really all extroverts?  If we're not, why are we pretending to be?

The answers, according to Susan Cain, the author of Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking, may surprise you.  The fact is, approximately half of this country's population have introvert personalities.  These are the people who prefer the company of a few friends to a crowd of people, who aren't anxious to dominate every conversation, who thrive on solitude and silence.  Unfortunately, those needs are often ignored by a culture who values the socially adept, team-player and distrusts the standoffish loner. Ms. Cain makes the argument that not only does this half of society deserve more respect, but that these quiet people may be the stronger, more creative individuals in our population and, on balance, the best leaders.

What makes one person the life of the party with the next is a little withdrawn?  Science isn't sure but the pattern seems to set in early.  Studies done on infants measured how each child responded when introduced to new things in its environment.  Some barely reacted at all to the unfamiliar objects while others waved their arms and yelled.  The low-reactors tended to develop into relaxed, forthright personalities while the high-reactors became more sensitive, thoughtful children who were more easily overwhelmed by stimuli. The high-reactors became introverts and often shamed because they aren't part of the group.

Now the thing about introverts is, they like to go off in a corner and consider things.  They're keen puzzle and problem-solvers. Introverts become our great artists and thinkers, engineers, researchers, visionaries and statesmen.  Because they don't like the limelight, few introverts take leadership positions but those that do encounter a greater rate of success because they are willing to listen to their subordinates and focus on making their team (instead of them) a success.  So why don't we listen to the quiet ones.

One exercise Ms. Cain mention showed the more aggressive speaker can actually change a listener's perception.  A group of people undergoing MRIs were answering questions correctly until an actor in the group deliberately started shouting the wrong answers.  Those that agreed with the incorrect answers had brain activity that showed their perception of the problem changed.  The few that held on to correct answers had different patterns and a change in the amygdala that showed resisting the crowd created a level of fear.  A study like this explains how a company - or country - can fall into a course of action that, in hindsight, is obviously wrong.  The louder, more aggressive speaker convinces many their initial conclusions are wrong and the remainder are afraid to speak up.  

This is the danger of "the Culture of Personality", when we gravitate to leaders and role models based on their appeal to our emotions.  These are charismatic, gregarious, extroverted people with oratorical skills to sway the masses but that doesn't mean they have the necessary character or skills to improve our world. Instead, we should respect our introverts, give them the freedom to be who they are and listen when one of them has something to say.  The wrapping on their gifts may be less flashy but the treasures they bring are worth more.

If you are interested in more information about this topic, you can hear the author's TED talk at https://www.ted.com/talks/susan_cain_the_power_of_introverts?language=en#t-757382

Does Anyone Else Re-Read Their Books?

One of my dear friends and fellow book-nuts holds a round-robin post each week.  Every Wednesday on her group page, the question appears: What are You Reading Right Now?   Everyone responds and it's a good spot to exchange book news and compare thoughts but I don't know how to tell them the truth: for each new book I've read, I've re-read at least 4 or 5 more.  My question is: does that make me a nut?

A lot of people seem to espouse the "seen this, done that" philosophy.  Each new day is a different challenge to accept; every vacation explores a different horizon. One very nice man I know dislikes seeing a movie more than once.  For him, one viewing is sufficient and a lot more people seem to read books that way than watch movies.  Does my re-reading mean that I'm slow?

On one level, I suppose the answer is "yes" but (ironically) it's because I'm a fast reader.  Put a well-paced, interesting book my hands and I'll rip through the story like a tornado. I'll pick up the plot and pursue it, scanning the pages faster and faster on a breakneck trip to the end.  I've been reading that way for so long, I don't think that pattern will break but on the first read I miss things. The fact is, writers spend a great deal of time, working out the balance of each paragraph and sentence and speed reading doesn't give you the opportunity to savor the art that goes into each story.  That kind of knowledge and appreciation only comes, in my case, through repetition.  Some books, like To Kill a Mockingbird, yield fresh insights if you read it at different ages.  At one age, it's an indictment of institutionalized racism.  On another, it's a child's eye view of an eccentric Southern world.  Read it in a third age and you'll see a love song to small-town life, with a clear-eyed view of its virtues and sins.  All of those stories are there, but I didn't see them at the same time.  It took repeated re-readings.

The truth is I enjoy re-reading some books; it's like visiting a long beloved friend after a long absence.  One I have known the longest is The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame's classic tale.  As a child, I adored the adventures of Toad, that silly ADHD animal, and skipped non-Toad chapters to keep up with his story. (If any character in English Literature would benefit from Ritalin, it would be Toad)  Now, Water Rat's Integrity and Mole's sweetness that capture my heart.  At any rate, when I reopen those pages, it's not to return to my childhood. It's to experience a story again that clarified my perspective or enriched my soul.

So, I'll continue to re-read, even as I search for new stories. Luckily, good books are like good friends; there's always room in my heart to add new ones. It's like the Girl Scouts song says:

Make new friends but keep the Old;

One is Silver and the Other's Gold

May your bookshelves are laden with treasure.

Seeing Life Through Pinhole Glasses

Christopher doesn't mind touching dead things.  Christopher doesn't like being touched.  Christopher thinks metaphors are stupid but he understands and adores prime numbers.  Often the world is too loud and bright for this fifteen year old boy's comfort and people he meets are in it extremely confusing.  As far as Christopher is concerned, all of life would be better if it were predictable, like a mystery story.

As such, Christopher John Francis Boone takes center stage as narrator and autistic hero of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time.  Recognition of this development disorder has been growing for the last two decades and the Centers for Disease Control believes that roughly one percent of the world's population is a member of this group (U. S. statistics suggest that number is low).  That means at least 74 million people are participating in life right now without the verbal and non-verbal communication skills the rest of us use without effort.  Minus the ability to recognize or understand the nuanced feelings of others, these people go through life often aware they don't quite fit in with  "regular people" but unable to bridge the gap between themselves and the rest of the world. The condition becomes a filter they gaze through, seeing somethings clearly but missing part of the world, like someone looking at life through Pinhole Glasses. 

Christopher's perceptions are limited by his disorder and by a lack of information.  His mother disappeared awhile ago but his father doesn't want to talk about it.  Mr. Shears's name can't be mentioned but Christopher isn't told why beyond the statement, "That man is evil."  Then someone kills the neighbor's dog and Christopher has a mystery he cannot ignore.  He decides to use the methods of his hero, Sherlock Holmes, to find out what happened to the dog.  What results is a lesson in unearthing the odd corners of the human heart.

While Christopher is mystified by the actions and reactions of the people that surround him, his creator, Mark Haddon, is not.  Mr. Haddon allows Christopher to tell the story so that the love, frustration and sadness of the non-autistic characters shine through, even though Christopher doesn't see the clues.  Haddon's skill simultaneously shows us the world Christopher sees with its  attendant terrors, triumphs and confusion without condescension or judgment of his hero.  Although he may seem impaired by our standards, Christopher views himself as a complete, competent soul who responds reasonably to strange situations.  By the end, you may think he is right.

For those of us who know or love anyone on the autism spectrum, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time is a godsend but it's so much more than that.  Anyone who has ever been mystified by the actions of others or been faced with a situation difficult to handle can empathize with Christopher.  It's also good for anyone who has had to forgive actions they do not understand.  In other words, we've all lived in Christopher's world and his story is for all of us.

Where Memory Resides With History

Thanks for the Memories

A friend from college visited me earlier this summer. She's a great gal and it's always terrific to see her but before she arrived, I wondered where I should take her during our visit. We have the usual amenities within easy driving distance but why bring her to some spot like another near her home?  In the end, we went to the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute, a museum and memorial to the Civil Rights Struggle in Birmingham, Alabama. It was the right thing to do. Birmingham's history with the Movement may not be what the city wants to be known for but it's our calling card in the pages of history. Hiding from the past never helps.

Because of Birmingham's infamous role in that struggle, explaining positive aspects of this place to the casual outsider can be difficult.  (Well, some of my Caucasian friends have admitted this is hard; I haven't got the nerve or bad manners to find out if my African-American friends here face the same issues.)  In the face of bombed churches and fire-hoses, how can anyone describe warm-hearted people and neighborhoods without sounding like a fool or a racist?  How can the domestic joys of tree-lined streets, southern cuisine and music be reconciled with murdered children and systematic oppression?  How do you balance the good in a place that has held so much evil?

Diane McWhorter set out to do something like this in her prize-winning book, Carry Me Home.  As a white child of the South she admittedly grew up "on the wrong side of the revolution" and her recollection of Birmingham's melt-down was similar to my memory of living in Texas when President Kennedy was shot. Distanced by youth and luck from the epicenter, only the  faintest reverberations of nation-shaking events initially touched either one of us. Repercussions from the 16th Street Church bombing threatened to affect her high school musical. The President's murder  upset my mother and preempted my Saturday Morning Cartoons.

Ms. McWhorter eventually realized her family might have closer ties to "Bombingham" than she originally supposed and part of Carry Me Home traces the twin strata of racism and social caste that ran through the power structure of 1960's Birmingham and how those two methods of exclusion supported each other.  The wealthiest power brokers of Birmingham limited their public resistance to integration by complaining about "outside agitators" while ignoring the circumstances that drove the agitation and privately supporting/manipulating the civil authorities that turned peaceful demonstrations into full-scale riots.  These business leaders turned a blind eye to the violent actions of their local government and law enforcement much as those in governmental authority chose not to see the clandestine relationship between some of their members and the Klan. The end of legalized segregation in Birmingham wasn't just a political victory for a coalition of under-funded, often competitive leaders.  It was a David-and-Goliath struggle where David couldn't stop fighting until Goliath realized he was wrong.

That realization came more slowly to some than others and there are still days when I despair of the future but something my husband said once comforts me.  In the middle of the Rodney King riots he reminded me that Birmingham faced some ugly truths about itself in the middle of the 20th century. It wasn't an easy or a pleasant task but, as as a result, the town lost its blinders and began the long, slow, turn towards tolerance.  He went on to say that more peaceful cities often assumed they didn't have Birmingham's issues and ignored the pockets of hate still  festering within their own borders. Only a tragedy on their own doorstep would expose the latent evil and rip away their personal blinders.  In the aftermath of a tidal wave of hate-based murders, the only good thing I can hope for is that other communities are starting to recognize the problems and divisions they contain.

No atonement will bring back the dead or repair the families blasted by loss but I believe humanity tends to correct its mistakes, once it sees what they are. We saw that in the respectful, kind way all the staff and visitors treated each other at the Civil Rights Institute that day. That's why places like the BCRI and books like Ms. McWhorter's are important. Not only do they honor the lost, they teach us how to create a better future instead of repeating the sins of the past.

The Scents of Summer

We've officially moved into the Summer Season, the one we dream of during the dreary, wet days of February and the long brutal nights of Winter.  The thermometer has begun it's annual low boil of mercury, keeping the glass over the 90 degree mark opaque but I am not complaining.  This is a glorious time of year, when the earth seems to spill over with an abundance of living things and I am its eager audience.  More than any other, Summer is a season of scents for me and a single whiff sends me into a cascade of memories eternally tied to this season.

Lilac I grew up in a two bedroom house, unprepossessing in appearance.   Between the patchy lawn and the faded exterior, it would never draw the eye except for 10 days every year when the wall of lilac surrounding the house blossomed.  For the rest of the year the bushes were just as a privacy fence between us and the neighbors, but each year, between May 1 and my birthday, they burst into glorious bloom, drowning the block in scent and turning our wren-brown house into a thing of beauty, framed by that delicate color. In the morning, I could bury my face in the blossoms or pick armfuls of them for pleasure.  In the evening we sat on the porch and I watched my mom tilt her head backto immerse herself further into the waves of this marvelous perfume.  The flowers would eventually fall, leaving behind long, leafy saplings that my sister and I cut and pealed to create "hiking staffs" for our rambles to imaginary summits.  New owners took possession of the house and, I understand, eradicated the wall of lilac.  I can't understand this.  Without that waterfall of flowers, how can they know when summer begun?

Swimming Pool Smells  A sub-group of people in this country think of summer whenever they start to do laundry.  They should be known, collectively, as the Pool Kids. Not every generation equated summer with swimming and not everyone had access to a pool but for a certain number of years, those of us who did spent every spare minute and penny we could in that concrete hole full of chemicals and water.  From late spring until the next school year started, we prayed for sun each day and then begged our mothers for the price of admission.  Kids spent a lot of those summer days dressed in swim suits, either for the morning swimming lessons or for the afternoon free-for all and more than one blonde head turned green over the summer due to long-term exposure to the chlorinated water.  Of course, chlorine is only the base note of the Swimming Pool perfume.  The complete fragrance also carries the scent of Baby-Oil and the grace notes of Coppertone and Hawaiian Tropic.   Older girls drenched themselves in this marinade of emollients and then laid by the side of the pool, hoping to roast to a golden-brown and attract the attention of boys.  That pungent combination of unguents and chemicals is a time machine on me.  One whiff and I'm back at the five foot ladder listening to the whistle of the life-guard and the ker-splash! of a cannonball dive.

Peaches At one time, I couldn't stand Peaches.  When  I was very small, Mom would stop by orchards that would sell all the fruit we could pick for a pre-specified price.  The only thing was, we didn't pick the fruit.  Mom stood under the tree and directed me up the trunks to pull the fruit from the branches. climb down and hand them to her.  Between the heat, the small, knobbly branches and the fuzzy fruit, the trees were a misery to climb and with every peach, I was terrified that I'd also pick up a worm.  I didn't care about any of the wonderful desserts or preserves Mom promised she'd make from my labors and no amount of explanation could help her understand why I loved climbing the mimosa tree at home but hated everything to do with peaches.  It took me years to reconsider.

The American South is justifiably known for it's incredible bounty of peaches and one of the "Peach Capitals" of the region is where I changed my mind.  Years ago, a boss took me on a late summer field trip that ended in one of these Peach Palaces. It was just after harvest and the late summer sun made the afternoon dusty-hot but my boss knew her way to the air-conditioner and a plate of home-made Peach Ice Cream.  I could have wept for the sweetness and the foolish years I had wasted avoiding the miracle of peaches.  Since then, I've haunted fruit stands and farmers markets for peaches and when they are fresh in the store, I sniff them like a bouquet of flowers.  Peaches are the last, rich, best part of summer for me, vibrant, juicy and sweet, already spicy in their own nectar.

There's something to love about every part of the year, some stillness or quickening to appreciate.  There's glory in the color of the autumn, joy in the blossoming of spring and a reverence in the still, white, silence of winter.  Enjoy them each in turn but don't neglect the scents of summer.  They're a feast for the senses.

Getting to the Heart of the Problem

At one point of my life I thought DNA made me fat.  I was very young then and it seemed to me my extra pounds were the result of a random inheritance, like green eyes or height.  My father was big, both my grandmothers were heavy and one of my uncles could be described as "comfortably cuddly". Of course that meant my sister, my mother, and my other relations had been gifted with the "skinny" gene, so I figured I had no choice in the matter.  Mama got rid of those illusions.  Fat happened when more calories went in than energy went out, she said, and pointed out that my svelte little sister was one of those children that never stood still.  Once I started eating less and moving more, my days as a fatty would be over.

Well, they weren't.  I started a multitude of diets, upped my exercise and periodically lost hundreds of pounds through the years, all of which returned with interest each time my newest reduction plan stopped. It got so I  was miserable while I was losing weight, obsessed by every calorie and scale-revealing ounce and I was even more miserable fat. My eating habits got, if anything, worse, my weight loss efforts landed me in the hospital at least once and my appearance/health eventually turned into a radioactive subject. I knew the extra weight was killing me and I knew what was causing it, but I couldn't understand why, with all this knowledge, I still engaged in these destructive behaviors.  

This was when I found Geneen Roth's Feeding the Hungry Heart,  her groundbreaking book about compulsive overeaters.  These folks (and I am one) have unconsciously turned a normal, necessary activity (eating) into a way of avoiding and (ironically) reinforcing negative emotions.  It's a simple, hellish tango of flawed logic.  Follow me through the dance steps:

1. I'm feeling lonely, sad, stressed, or depressed (This is first position)
2. I don't like the way I feel. (turn)
3. I eat until I don't feel anything but full (lunge)
4. Now I feel worse with the binge-caused guilt and remorse overlaying the original problem (return to first position)
5. And the only relief I know is to....(slide/backstep toward)

Begin Eating again

Feeding the Hungry Heart helps the Compulsive Overeater identify the emotional triggers that start a binge cycle and work through the feelings instead of dulling them with calories.  It replaces calorie obsession and grazing with Mindful Eating (being aware of all the flavors and textures of a meal instead of grazing) and the negative self-body image most Compulsive Overeaters have with Acceptance of yourself and Life as it is Right Now. Basically, it helps remove the emotional obstacles interfering with the attempts to address a physical problem.

If this sounds too New Age-y for you to relate to, no problem.  Not everyone who overeats is a Compulsive Overeater.  If you are, reading this book won't magically solve all your problems. Recovery takes time and a lot of work.  But it will let you know you are not alone and that there is a dance you can do besides the binge/guilt tango.  And sometimes, knowing there is hope is enough to begin again.

Maybe the Greatest Race Horse of All Time

Well, another Belmont race has been run and America's flirtation with horse-racing has been put away for another year. Sure, there are thousands of people who spend their lives breathing and living for horse racing but lots more limit their equine attention-span to the Kentucky Derby and focus on the Belmont only if the winner stands to win the Triple Crown (rare) or beat Secretariat's Belmont time (Impossible, as far as I'm concerned).  Of course when that rare instance occurs, civilians like myself love to debate who the truly great horses were/are and who would win if we could time-transport them all to a single race.  My late mom adored Man O' War just as fervently as my husband still roots for Secretariat and, thanks to Laura Hillenbrand, Seabiscuit again has an army of followers. People I respect in Europe talk about Frankel.  All of these were incredible racers but for horses with a story, I have to give my thanks to Geoff Armstrong and Peter Thompson for introducing me to Phar Lap.  He's the great racing heart of Australia.

Like most heroes, Australia's "Wonder Horse" had unlikely beginnings.  The  yearling came from a sire and dam with great blood lines and lousy racing records.  He was picked from a catalogue by a struggling trainer for his pedigree instead of his picture.  A good thing too because Phar Lap was no beauty.  He was huge for a race horse (17 hands), skinny and so long in the back and legs, they said he looked more like a Kangaroo Dog than a horse. The new owner, David Davis, took one look at him and wanted the homely colt sold.  Instead, the trainer gave him a name that meant lightning, gelded him and put the young horse into a training regime so rough, sometimes the animal was too tired to stand up afterward. The brutal treatment brought quite a result: Phar Lap finished his first race Dead Last.

But every hero gets a friend and Phar Lap's was his groom, Tommy Woodcock.  Tommy treated the horse with kindness and helped guide the two-year old's instincts to get to the front of the pack. Phar Lap won his last race as a two year old and then thirteen of his twenty races as a three year old, including all of the major races that year and often two or three races in one week.  Phar Lap had falling in love with running and the public had fallen in love with him.

If the public loves a horse that consistently wins, you can bet someone else wants him to lose. Before one major race, someone tried to shoot Phar Lap. They missed and the horse won but racing officials decided Phar Lap needed a handicap.  The 110-120 pounds of weight that Phar Lap carried in his second and third years were considered too light and extra weight was added to his racing saddles. He continued to win, though the racing was harder, and the authorities kept increasing the weight. By the time Phar Lap ran his third Melbourne Cup race, he raced with 150 pounds on his back, a good ten percent more than the other runners. The horse couldn't take that kind of a burden and his owner decided a trip was in order.  Phar Lap would run in the North American Agua Caliente, with a reasonable weight. He did and won the great race without trouble.

I wish that was the end of Phar Lap's story but what comes next is an unsolved mystery.  Two weeks after his last victory, while David Davis considered future races and Tommy looked after his friend, Phar Lap suddenly became ill.  His death shocked the racing world and theories behind the cause are still debated today.  It's one of the great "who-dun-its" of the racing world, like the kidnapping of the Irish winner Shergar.  As for Australia, they never have forgotten the rangy runner who could come from behind and pass the pack on the outside rail.  Phar Lap and Tommy Woodcock both became revered members of Australia's racing history.  

Perhaps when we see our next great star or athlete, we'll remember a bit of Phar Lap's story and cherish the talent that exists rather than handicap it to compete with the pack. Genius, in whatever form it takes, occurs too rarely for us to limit it with artificial constraints when it does appear.