Waving at the Train

My Dad died in September of 1996.  My cousin Mike, who is a quadriplegic, drove alone from Florida to Rocky Mount, North Carolina to attend the funeral.  The day of the funeral my cousin, Mike told us a story about Dad that we did not know, nor are we to ever forget.

When Mike was a teenager, his Mother and Father let him ride the train alone from Florida to see a friend in Maryland.  As most trains did in those days from Florida, they went through Rocky Mount to arrive at their destination. 

Mike told us that he had never really felt connected to his Uncles and cousins in North Carolina.  He visited us maybe once every three or so years, but we always remained strangers to him.  But all that changed on this train ride.

Mike’s mother called my father and told him about Mike’s trip on the train.  My Dad called the train station to find out the arrival time.  He discovered that the train would not stop, but simply pass through the Rocky Mount station at 3:00 am.  So, just before that time, he went to the station and waited on the platform for Mike’s train.

Mike had asked the conductor to wake him when the train approached the Rocky Mount station so that he could look out the window and see the town where his mother had grown up.  As he looked out the window, the Rocky Mount station drew near.

“I could see someone standing on the platform in the distance and as we got closer I could see that it was your dad standing under a lamp post on the platform waving at the train.  I don’t think he saw me but I saw him- and suddenly I knew that someone in that town knew me and cared for me; cared enough for me to come out to the train station at 3:00 in the morning and wave to a train.  He didn’t even see me, but he waved anyway.”

Love can be found in the most unusual places; on a deserted train platform at 3:00 in the morning; in the wave of a person who does not even see you; in a memory on a long car ride from Florida; on the day of a funeral; in the words of a cousin you barely knew.


Copyright ©Eric Lanier.  The right to download and store output of the materials from this website is granted for your personal use only, and materials may not be produced in any edited form. Any other reproduction or editing by any means, mechanical or electronic, without the express written permission of Eric Lanier is strictly prohibited. For additional information, contact Eric Lanier at ericelanier@gmail.com

The Very Bad Day

Sometimes things don't go our way and we think, "I am having a bad day".  But the worst day on record, as far as I am concerned, belongs to a temporary employee who worked in a department in which I used to work.

His day began better than the average day.  He was reporting to work in his new job working as a temporary; he had maneuvered his way around the Charlotte rush hour traffic in his new used car that he had purchased from the friend of a friend; and best of all, he had found the parking spot to beat all parking spots.  And this is what he was telling us about when he walked into the office.  It seems it was only a block away and he did not have to pay anything for it.  In downtown Charlotte, this seemed impossible, so we thought he was not being truthful. 

But, he really had found this parking space, next to the Sheriff's Department where such spaces are reserved for Deputy Sheriffs.  Needless to say his car drew the immediate attention of the Sheriff's Office.  The license number was quickly run through the system and a thorough check was performed of the driver and the vehicle.  They discovered that the temp was driving a stolen vehicle.  The friend of a friend from whom he had made the purchase had promised him the title, but the temp had not yet received it. 

The zealous Sheriff's Deputies spotted a briefcase lying in the backseat of the stolen vehicle and they immediately began treating the car as a bomb.  Now, to understand the mindset of the deputies, you have to realize that this event that I am describing happened shortly after 9/11.  The deputies picked the locks to the doors of the car, grabbed the briefcase with a bomb robot and took it off to be blown up, where nothing but sandwiches and papers rained down.

Around lunch time, the hard working temp walked back to his car to retrieve his lunch from his briefcase.  Standing around his new used car were a half dozen deputies with weapons.  As he approached his car one of the deputies asked him if he was the owner.  When he acknowledged this fact, he was grabbed and slammed against the hood of the car, and told to spread his legs.  He was searched, arrested, and taken away to be booked.  He spent several hours explaining his situation and the reasons why he had parked in a reserved area.

He was finally released from custody, only to find that his car had been impounded.  He rode home on the bus.  Getting off the bus he forgot to look for oncoming traffic as he was stepping out from the front of the bus and he was struck by a car.  He suffered a broken leg.

Since he was a temporary worker he was soon replaced and we never saw him again.  But I often think of him when I am having a bad day.


Copyright ©Eric Lanier.  The right to download and store output of the materials from this website is granted for your personal use only, and materials may not be produced in any edited form. Any other reproduction or editing by any means, mechanical or electronic, without the express written permission of Eric Lanier is strictly prohibited. For additional information, contact Eric Lanier at ericelanier@gmail.com

Two Stories

Two stories were published recently, several months apart, in the morning newspaper that I read.  One story was about a billionaire who wants to build a golf course and luxury hotel on a 100 square mile area of frozen wilderness in Iceland.  Apparently this billionaire has partners and investors who are willing to do what it takes to grow grass in a part of the world that has not seen grass for thousands of years.  One of the Icelanders was quoted as saying, "Golf here is difficult."  Yes it is.

The second story was about a shop owner in India who, while walking to the train station, saw children playing in the dirt under a bridge.  He wondered why they were not in school so he asked their parents.  He discovered that they could not afford to send their children to school and that the schools were too far away in inaccessible places.  So, this shop owner, with no formal training, decided to become the teacher of these children.  But he had no supplies, no books and more importantly no building in which to teach. This did not stop him.  The next morning he came back with a chair, sat it under the bridge and began to teach the children.  Weeks went by and the number of his students grew from just a few to over 100.  People began to see the good he was doing and donated supplies and clothing.  The children now have foam mats to sit on while they listen to their shop owner teacher.

Two stories about two men.  Both men wanting to do the impossible; one man whose efforts will cost millions of dollars and will change a landscape; the other man whose efforts depend on the donations of others but is changing the lives of hundreds of people. 

So, which of these two people are we?

Running with My Heroes

Two of my heroes growing up were Glenn Cunningham, and Jim Ryan.  Cunningham was badly burned in a fire when he was 9 years old and doctors told him that he would never walk again.  Fourteen years later he broke the world record in the one mile run.  Jim Ryan was the first high school runner to break the 4 minute mile barrier.  He went on to shatter  the world mile record in college and some think he was the greatest runner of all time.

These two people inspired me to run, although I never accomplished what they did.  I began running at an early age.  I ran everywhere I went. This concerned my grandmother so much that she stopped me one day and told me "If you don't stop running everywhere your heart is going to burst."  But I didn't stop.  I loved to feel the power in my legs and the movement of my body.  There was a joy in it I could not explain.  And I still have trouble explaining why I run.  But those who run will understand.

Running is the common thread that runs through all of my life.  Running has taken me to different places; on busy streets and deserted trails; to early morning lakes with fog coming off the water; to blazing hot asphalt streets; to college towns; to country roads; to the mountains and to the beach.   I have run in all the variations of weather; in the 90 degree heat of August; in the snow and deep, bone, chilling cold of winter; in the beauty of autumn and spring. I have met many different, interesting people; blind people who hold a partner's shoulder while they run 6 minute miles together; a man who ran the Cooper River Bridge Run with a trained seagull flying just above his shoulder; people who run in costumes.

And there is nothing better than reaching the point in your run where you feel like you can run forever.  You can't, really.  But in that moment of euphoria, you feel like you can.  And in that moment, things come into focus and you hear things you have not heard before and you see things in minute detail.  It is an out of body experience.

So, for 51 years I have been running.  I have had my running highs and my running lows.  But, about a week ago, I had the greatest moment of all of my running days.  Erin, my daughter, and Jeremy, my son, ran with me in the Skyline 5k here in Charlotte.  My wife, Melanie, walked the distance. This was the first time that we had all been part of the same running event.  Erin finished first of us all.  I came in a distant second.  But, as I ran to the finish line, I saw her standing nearby cheering me on and I felt nothing but fatherly pride.  She and I waited at the line for Jeremy and I felt another burst of love for him as he finished.  Melanie finished a few minutes afterward and as I stood looking at the three of them, for one glorious morning I was truly in heaven.

Copyright ©Eric Lanier.  The right to download and store output of the materials from this website is granted for your personal use only, and materials may not be produced in any edited form. Any other reproduction or editing by any means, mechanical or electronic, without the express written permission of Eric Lanier is strictly prohibited. For additional information, contact Eric Lanier at ericelanier@Gmail.com

Snake Dancing

My wife's father was a master woodworker.  Using his many talents, he built us a bedroom suit as a wedding gift. He sculpted a grandfather clock that stands in our den.  A set of wooden hurricane lamps rest on our fireplace mantle.  A wooden mirror frame hangs on our wall.  But, I think his favorite things to build were his bluebird boxes.  He had a love for bluebirds and it is impossible for me to see a bluebird and not think of him.

He built the bluebird boxes with love and care for detail.  He discovered that bluebirds would only nest in a box that was so many inches tall, so many inches deep.  The hole of the bluebird box could not exceed a certain circumference. All of the boxes that he built complied with these set of specification.  But his love for the bluebird was so great that he built the boxes with a hinged top, so that he could open the lid and peer inside to see the mother with her babies.  Over the years he recorded the number of eggs in each box, the number of eggs that hatched, the rate of growth of each baby bluebird, and the time when each baby flew away.  He read somewhere that the babies as adults would return to the box in which they were raised and lay their own eggs in them. So, when the box was empty, he would clean the nest from the box, and await their return.

He passed his love of the bluebird to me and he built two boxes for me that I hung in my backyard.  However, he neglected to tell me two very important things.

First, he did not tell me that the mother bluebird flies out of the box at 100 miles per our when you lift the lid of the box.  So, it is important to stand to the side of the hole rather than in front of the hole when you lift the lid.  But, no worries.  After you do this once you always remember to stand to the side.

The second and most important thing that he did not tell me was that snakes will occasionally climb into the bluebird box and eat all the baby bluebirds.  Had I known this important detail I would have asked him to nail the lids of the box shut.  But I didn't.

So, one beautiful Saturday morning I went into my backyard and walked to the bluebird box to check on the babies.  I stood to one side and carefully opened the lid.  The mother did not fly out, so I figured that she was out gathering food.  I lowered my head to the box and peered inside.  It took one nanosecond for me to realize that I was looking straight down the throat of a black snake.  I slammed the lid down on the box so hard that the box fell off the pole on which it was mounted  and the snake crawled out the hole into the yard.

Then I did something that all human beings have done since the beginning of time when they have had a close encounter with a snake- the snake dance.  I can't explain it.  This movement takes over your body and your arms and legs begin to twist and turn and you shimmy and you shiver and once in a while a sound like a whoop or a hoot will come from deep within your throat.  Anyone seeing this from a distance without knowing about the snake will think you have lost your mind.  When you tell them about the snake it all makes sense and your behavior is seen as perfectly natural.

After I recovered and went inside, my daughter Erin was standing in the kitchen by the window.  "Daddy," she asked, "why were you dancing in the backyard?"  "Well, " I said, " I saw a snake."  And she replied, "Oh, OK.  That explains it."

Copyright ©Eric Lanier.  The right to download and store output of the materials from this website is granted for your personal use only, and materials may not be produced in any edited form. Any other reproduction or editing by any means, mechanical or electronic, without the express written permission of Eric Lanier is strictly prohibited. For additional information, contact Eric Lanier at ericelanier@gmail.com

Cleaning Out the Car

A few years ago my wife, Melanie, was on her way home when a car, traveling in the opposite direction, crossed the center line and struck her car head on.  Fortunately, Melanie's injuries were not serious, but her car was totaled.

Before the car was disposed of, I traveled to the lot where it had been towed so that I could clean it out.  Melanie is a teacher so she always carries a car full of "stuff" for her classes and her children.  Her front and back seats are full of treasurers that, until that time, I had called "trash".  Whenever I rode in the car with her she had to clean out a space for me.  Waiting for her to do this was aggravating and she would never let me do it.  God forbid that I rearrange her papers that were strewn about in what appeared to be a random fashion. This caused some arguments about the virtues of a clean car, which I never won.

I arrived at the lot where a number of other wrecked cars sat looking like some scene from a movie about the end of the world.  And in the middle of them sat Melanie's car; crumpled and broken and dented.  And the full impact of her accident began to creep upon me.  It dawned on me that she was alive by the smallest of margins; a few inches, a half a second, the blink of an eye.

I looked into the interior of her car.  Her "stuff" was scattered about.  I pried the door open and sat down on front the passenger seat.  I began to load her "stuff" into a bag.  I looked at each paper, each pencil, each item connected to her, and suddenly her "stuff" was no longer "trash" but had been transformed into treasure.  And I handled each book, each clipping, each rubber band and piece of cloth as if it were made of gold.

I still tease her about her untidy car.  But I now know, after she has cleaned a spot for me to sit, how lucky I am to be sitting with her among her "trash".

Copyright ©Eric Lanier.  The right to download and store output of the materials from this website is granted for your personal use only, and materials may not be produced in any edited form. Any other reproduction or editing by any means, mechanical or electronic, without the express written permission of Eric Lanier is strictly prohibited. For additional information, contact Eric Lanier at ericelanier@gmail.com

The Tree

There is a tree in a neighborhood near where I used to work.  It is a very large, old tree; tall with a gnarled, thick trunk.  Its limbs are long and winding and as thick as the trunks of most trees.  And on these limbs are scars where old branches had been.  There are old carvings of initials encircled by hearts. Further up is a limb with an old chain sprouting out of it.  The chain, once part of a swing, is now part of the tree and the children who once laughed and swung in its shade are now adults with children of their own.  Near the top of the tree are traces of an old lightening strike and I could see where the top of the tree once died and one of the upper limbs took its place.

This may sound strange, but whenever I was under a lot of stress or was dealing with a problem at work I would take a break from what I was doing and walk over to this tree and I would instantly find comfort and calm.  Something about this tree put all of my problems and worries in perspective for me.  This tree actually spoke to me, not in words, but in a way that nature speaks, through God.  This tree had originally grown in a forest surrounded by other trees.  It had suffered and barely survived when the neighborhood was built.  But from that neighborhood had come children who had played in its limbs, and lovers who had spread a blanket near by in its shade. And as the years passed it had survived hurricanes and thunderstorms and lightening strikes.  Old limbs were replaced with new, the neighborhood was replaced with condos.  A new tire swing was now hanging by a rope on one of its larger limbs.  And now I, standing beneath it, was part of its story and it was part of mine.

After these trips to the tree, my problems did not seem so large or insurmountable. I had learned that the problems of work were but one limb of my life; and if I stepped back just a little I could see the totality of my life.  I could see the limbs of the people I loved; the limbs where childeren played; the limbs of home; the limbs of faith; the limbs that had survived the hurricanes and lightening strikes of the past.   And I was filled with a sense of purpose and hope.

Copyright ©Eric Lanier.  The right to download and store output of the materials from this website is granted for your personal use only, and materials may not be produced in any edited form. Any other reproduction or editing by any means, mechanical or electronic, without the express written permission of Eric Lanier is strictly prohibited. For additional information, contact Eric Lanier at ericelanier@gmail.com