Running Flip-Flops

Running Flip-Flops

The first time I ran was when I was eight years old. I ran in a pair of flip-flops. I don't remember how far I ran but I ran for more than few hours. I ran the day my two brothers and a cousin died in a motorcycle accident after they spent the day touring the country side and learning how to fish. At dinner time that evening I ran from our house to a place just outside of Saigon where one of my sisters was living at the time. I remember I started to walk and the next thing I knew, I was having a burning sensation in my chest, my throat, and I was gasping for air. I realized then that I was running. I thought because I was sad and in shock so I couldn't breathe normally, so I kept on running. Even when I stopped crying I kept running and my lung kept burning and I was gasping for air. I could see the beating of my heart under my shirt like the speakers with loud music on. I kept on running.

Pray and Deceive

It was a Sunday afternoon in mid September of 1968, I was walking and eating a popsicle on my way home from a morning of playing with my friends. When I turned the corner to our house, I saw lots of people. These were people I had never seen before and policemen hanging around the front porch of the house. I saw my parents, my mother was crying and my dad looked numb. They saw me but no one came up to me and shushed me away. I fought my way inside the house through the crowd. One of my sisters told me to go upstairs and stay out of the way and all I could muster up to say was, “no." I don’t remember who told me the news of my two brothers and cousin’s motorcycle accident – at the time, all that was known was one had died at the scene but as to who no one was sure. After few minutes, my parents left instructions to one of my siblings and left the house with all the strangers. After everyone left, our housekeeper turned to me and ordered me to not to go anyway and to stay put.

I walked upstairs to the tiny but cozy loft and pulled out a little plastic statue of the Virgin Mary that I kept hidden under my pillow, and prayed. I prayed for my mother to be happy and not crying, I prayed for my father to have his smile back on this handsome face. I prayed for my two brothers to be alive and not hurt. I prayed that my cousin did not have a horrible death. A loud noise from the kitchen woke me up from my nap, and the clock on the nightstand showed quarter after five in the late afternoon. I had been asleep since two in the afternoon while I was praying. I came downstairs and heard my mom screaming and yelling at herself for letting two of my brothers go fishing that morning, my mother was never the same... person again. 

I asked my older sister if she was going to take me to visit our brothers, she was crying and said that our brothers and a cousin were killed in the motorcycle accident. I felt like someone just punched me in the stomach to the point that I couldn’t feel it anymore. I went back to the loft, and I started to pray again, but nothing came out of my mouth. I took the little plastic Virgin Mary and put it in my shirt pocket. I wanted to cry but couldn't. I wanted to go down and comfort my mom but I couldn't. I went downstairs and now the house was full of people: the neighbors, my sisters' friends, my brothers' friends, all filled in nooks and corners of our small house.

I went to our next door neighbor's four story building and climbed to the top floor of their house, which was also a big space where we used to play. We used to play up here when the public curfew was 24 hours for few weeks after 1968 Tet's incident – this is when some small guerilla took an advantage of the Chinese New Year to attack the city. I looked down at the street we lived on and took the small plastic statue of the Virgin Mary out of my pocket and threw it straight in the air toward the street below. I didn't care where it landed - that was the first lesson of betrayal I learned at 8 years old: praying did not save lives. Praying gave me hope for the hours that I was sleeping but it did not help my brothers and a cousin back to life.

That evening, my parents and siblings were busy arranging the funeral and investigating the accident: how it happened and who was at fault. Everyone was in shock and no one had mentioned or ordered someone to relay the news to Be, one of my sisters who lived on the outskirts of the city. I wanted to go to find Be and let her know. I wanted her to come home. I sneaked out of the crowded house and started to walk but after few minutes I started to jog because the sun was going down and it was getting dark. I ran along the road leading toward Highway 1 from Saigon to Vung Tau. Highway 1 was the only highway to get out of Saigon to go anywhere. I crossed the bridge as I got near my friend's house and at that point I knew I was very far from home.

My friend's house was just right at the edge of town and was just one of those cluster homes made out of plywood and sheet metal. I ran past her neighborhood and I saw her father cooking behind his food stand with several hungry men waiting and talking with their cigarettes hanging on the corner of their mouths. I wondered what they were talking about and if they had ever watched their parents cry or lost two brothers and a cousin in one day. I wondered if they ever had a very sad day in their life. I wanted to sit next to them and share the laughing conversation as if there was no sadness in the world. I wanted to be one of them smoking and laughing my sadness away.

I didn't know at the time how far the distance was or understood how far a kilometer was, but I know that it usually took more than half an hour or close to 45 minutes by motorcycle. My flip-flops kept slipping off my feet but I was determined to get to my sister's apartment. As I ran I tried to picture the route to her apartment from behind a scooter. I had been there once to visit with my oldest sister a few months after she had moved in. I thought about how much I have missed her and wished she could come home. After I passed the clustered homes, I started to see small part of the countryside and the wire barricade of the army base in the middle of nowhere. The sun had set and the sky had turned from pink to dark purple, to pitch black. The flickering street light along the highway helped me see where I was running and helped me from being afraid of monsters and ghosts.

By the time I got to my sister's apartment, I cried so hard, the type of cry that you can't stop to take a break for air. I saw a man behind the gate sweeping, I asked him to let me in to see my sister but he yelled at me and told me to leave or he was going to call the police to have me arrested or put me in the orphanage. I don't remember how long I was there begging to get in, but in the end, I gave up and started to head back home. I jogged along the shoulder of the highway where it was light enough to see my shadow from one dim street light to the next, the same highway that my brothers and cousin rode on their motorcycle that morning. The sky was pitch black, I saw more stars that night than any other night in my later years. Some stars were more sparkled than others and I wanted to be on one of those sparkling stars. I ran between the darkness of the street and slowed down when I started to see the street light, I kept doing this walk-jog until I got back to the street of my house. By the time I got to the front door I looked down and realized I had blisters on top of blisters between my big toe and second toe on both feet.

Praying and Ibuprofen

Since my two brothers were buried, I haven’t believed in praying. I am not a religious person but I do believe in being kind and friendly to everyone I meet. I do believe praying can give me a sense of hope for few hours, weeks, years, but if the hopeful result lasts that long, then my so called “praying” worked its wonder.

I trained to qualify for Boston marathon in the spring and summer of 2007, I have so many problems with running injuries that I almost gave up. I had invested too many miles and hours for me to quit because of the pain here and there. The first few miles into the race, I started to feel the pain. I popped an ibuprofen at mile 2 and started talking to my brothers and my parents (who have also since passed). I asked them if they could help me finish this race without pain. To my relief the pain went away up until mile 14. I popped few more ibuprofen and prayed to my mother and asked her to help me finish my race and in return I would certainly celebrate Chinese New Year the Vietnamese style. Well I finished the race and qualified for Boston, which I ran six months later. I don’t know if the talking/praying that helped me with my race time or the ibuprofen; but I know praying does not work its wonders without iburprofen.

Misc. Folder - Best 10K time

The night after my mother passed away, my brother and I were going through her stuff, her drawers, her many suitcases and briefcases. I felt somewhat I have invaded my mother's privacy and at the same time learning about my mother's habits and personality at a different level.

My brother was looking through one of my mother suitcases and he broke out a half laugh and half cried and handed me a small piece of paper, it was a receipt dated April 28, 1979. I can't tell what it was that she bought but it was from the store that had gone out of business called Two Guys. He said "wow, look how neat she kept this receipt all these years". 

I took over my mother "briefcase", beside the old birthday and Christmas cards from her friends and her diary, most of her paper works were receipts, neatly in the folder with her other note books. One receipt dated 07/14/1981 for $12.43 from the general store. I can't tell what the items were but whatever it was, my mother bought two of it. One receipt was for the fuzzy wool balls remover, my mother bought 2 of those items too, and the date of the receipts was October 20, 1983. I remember when my mother gave me that wool fuzzy remover in 1983.

My mother said to me as she demonstrated how the little toy worked wonder. She moved the device with the razor side against her sweater up and down slowly and showed me the collected loose fuzzy wool balls inside the clear container and explained to me "see all the fuzzy balls got stuck inside the container? And now you have a perfect smooth wool sweater". Her movements just like the man from the late night on the commercial on television for the same product. I don't know what I did with the novelty gift but the receipt was still in perfect shape in my mother many folders. I wondered if my mother planned to return the item just in case I didn't want it, or was she thinking that the item had a defect and she needed the receipt to return it.

I found a very faded receipt and the date was 2/20/1979 for $19.99 from Macys. I can't tell what she bought but I think it was a black slack. My mother had this black slack that she worn wherever she went. She washed the pants every weekend and put it right back on. My mother had other slacks in many different shades of navy, brown, and beige. But the black slack was her most favorite one because she seemed to wear it wherever we went. If it got too old and out of its shape, she replaced it with another similar black slack.

I asked my brother what he wanted to do with all the receipts, he said he would like me to go through them and separate important papers and the rest just toss it. I felt the time just froze around me and disabled me to move. How can I throw all these receipts and notes out after all these years and the few places that my mom had lived in! I wanted to save them in a time capsule. My brother read my mind and said “if you keep them and when it's your turn to go, Bob or someone else is going to toss them out and you just make an extra job more difficult for them or whoever”. I tried to reason with him that if mom had saved these receipts for all those years, we might as well keep them, they don’t have any value or any memento to them but the fact that the receipts had been with her for over 3 decades. My brother told me I can have them. Few days later, some of my mother old belonging including the receipts and my mother very old black slacks covered with the little fuzzy balls were tossed out in the garbage bin.

Almost 9 years later since my mother passed away, I organized my desk and filed all the old bills to get ready for the current bills in my drawer. I came across my 10K time on the postcard from one of my races in my younger and faster year. I can feel the adrenaline rises slowly in me, those were the fast running year of my life. That same year I was dreaming that one day my mother and I would do a marathon together, I run and my mother walk, because my mother loved to walk. My dream never came true. I looked at the postcard with my time on it, and I wanted to toss it out in the trash.  It does not have any sentimental meaning to anyone but me, instead I put it back in the folder labels “misc. stuff” with my other receipts.

I have acquired my mother's habit!

The Dog Does Not Bite

Hi Odile,

I was cleaning out one of the bedrooms for Christine's visit with the kitties while we were out of town on vacation and I found a pictures of us with mom two months before mom passed away. I remember Helen was asking us to get closer and keep on smiling. The three of us sitting with you and me leaned toward mom and posing for the picture. Looking at the picture I don't remember what we did that day but I do remember we wanted to go to see the sunset by the Gulf. We were, at that time, what the hospice worker said in "denial" stage. Well, I didn't know that there were that many stages of death! Did you?

But I remember vividly the day I flew to Florida to visit mom. I wanted to do a long run before the flight and I knew once I was in Florida I won't be mentally or physically alert enough to run. That morning I went out for a run in my neighborhood, the same route I have ran for years after work or real early in the morning. It was different scenery to run at mid-day, funny how the sun can change the look of the road or the houses.

I was about half way into my run, I saw a lady with a black poodle or some similar type of poodles. The dog was on an expandable lease and the lady was busy looking at the wild flowers along the road. The dog saw me and I saw the dog, we made eyes contact. I didn't think I was a threat to the dog or I didn't think the dog thought I was a threat. As I ran pass the dog, all was fine and dandy until the little black poodle lunged and sunk his teeth in my right calf. I screamed and his owner turned around and gave me a puzzle look. I stopped my run and told her the dog just bite me. She told me that her dog doesn't bite. I pointed to my calf and show her the dog's teeth marks and the blood started dripping out. I couldn't talk for a few seconds but it seemed like hours and asked her if her dog had all the shots. She kept telling me that her dog doesn't bite. I finally asked her for the address and I need to get back to her after my run. I tried to repeat the poodle's house number and the many ways that helped me remember the house number, since the poodle lives just around the corner.

When I got to the turnaround of my run which was near the fish hatchery, the surface of my skin where the dog bite was now swollen. I walked in the fish hatchery visitor center and asked the people if they have any first aid kits that I could use to clean out the dog bite. The workers couldn't find the first aid kits or have any band-aids. I went in the public bathroom and tried to clean the dog bite. I think it was a little late to clean out the bacteria but I kept on cleaning it with soap and good thing the wound didn't sting but my calf was tight and hard as a rock. The bruise was turning blue and became the size of a small lemon. One ranger from the hatchery was waiting for me outside the bathroom and handed me a band-aid from his car for me to put over the infected area. The run back was long and tortuous but I kept on running and started to cry. I don't know why I cried, I guess I needed a hug at the time, or maybe I just needed to hear the owner apologize to me, or knowing the trip I was about to take would be my last trip to see mom. But I was so determined to finish the run since this might be my last long run for a while.

When I got home I called my doctor and told her a little ugliest poodle in the whole wide world bite me and I was going to be out of town for few weeks starting tonight and I need some medication for the infection. The nurse gave me some advice of what to do with the bruised wound and the number to call to report the dog bite to the County. By the time I was done with all the telephone calls, the poodle's owner called me to say that she found the paper works and that the dog was up to date with all his shots. I came to the poodle's house to get the copy of the shot paper and the ugly poodle acted like he was so happy to see me and I was his best friend! The owner saw the bruise on my leg and continued to convince me that her dog doesn't bite. It reminded me of a film clip from Peter Seller, the Pink Panther movie, when he asked the hotel owner "does your dog bite", the hotel owner said "no, my dog does not bite". Then Peter Sellers petted the dog and the dog bit him. Peter Sellers said "I thought you said your dog does not bite" and the hotel owner said "that is not my dog".

That evening Bob dropped me off at the airport and the flight to Florida that night seemed so long and I wish you were with me on the flight.

The picture of the three of us smiling but I can tell that we were both forcing a smile. Mom's smile has a natural happiness, I knew she was happy that the two of us were there visiting. My smile looked faked and sad and your smile was somewhere else. But if you look down by my right calf, you can see the black and blue bruise had covered the entire lower leg.

I remember you and Helen boiled the crabs for dinner that night after the trip to see the sunset, and how mom wanted to fry the crabs with salt but we didn’t want mom to do anything but watch us boiled the live crabs in half water and half beer. I won't remind you of the loud noise coming from the pot full of live crabs. I just couldn’t believe how many crabs Helen, you and me ate that night.

Few months later I came back to Florida for another visit and it would be my last visit with mom.   Helen brought more crabs for Trung and me, what a sweet heart Helen was and still is to this day!. Trung put on band aids on his thumb and his forefinger to eat the crabs because he didn’t want his fingers to get all beat up from the hard shells. I couldn’t stop laughing for a while but I did the same thing. After the first crab, I had to take the band aid off because I rather have beat up fingers from eating the crabs than eating the band-aid flavored crabs.

Love,
Odette
ps. you can watch the Peter Sellers' film clip from  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ue0fZfwHfzo

My First 10k T-Shirt

It’s that time of the year when I start taking my cats to get their lion haircut for the spring, and spring-cleaning. Taking the cats to get their haircut is easy; tackle the spring-cleaning is a little harder. Because one part of the spring-cleanings is putting away my winter wardrobe to make room for my bright summer dresses and a good explanation to my husband why I need more closet space when I “haven’t buy anything in years”. As my little lions look alike cats roaming around the room helping me, I started my Odette’s cleaning machine.

Few hours later, the Rubbermaid storing boxes for my summer shorts and dresses were now filled with my winter jackets and sweaters. But somehow there were few of my winter running gears still need a home for the summer months. I was debating either to hog my husband’s space to store my last few winter running jackets or just hang them up somewhere in the other closets. When I tried to open one of my husband’s drawers to squeeze in my last few items, I was about to suggest to my husband that he needed to donate all those t-shirts that he doesn’t even wear anymore. Then I realized they were all my running t-shirts that I had stored from last winter in my husband's drawer. As I started to put all the cotton shirts in the pile for Goodwill, I chuckled to myself because I haven’t worn a cotton shirt to run in since the invention of “dri-fit”, a real fancy name for polyester. I recognized one of the white t-shirts with faded picture of a pair of sneakers and the helmet with wings from my very first 10k in 1985. The print is now faded but I can still see the date, it was June 8, 1985, on the back of the shirt.  The shirt is small when "small" was really a true small not like the today supersize "small".

It was the day Mather Air Force Base was having a 5K/10K race before the air show. I was planning to run the 5k but one of the runners explained to me that part of the 10k course is on the taxiway. “No way” I remember saying. I haven’t run more than three miles per day but yet I registered to do the 10K, the 6-point-2-miles. Because I wanted to run on the taxiway, the same taxiway that my husband drove on when he was behind the stick of a T-37 or the B-52 (the plane not the music group).

I don’t recall my time or how I did after the race but I remember the first hour of my 6-point-2-miles t-shirt. I remember putting on that brand new cotton t-shirt in the car before the race. The weather was perfect, the sky was deep blue and so clear that you can see the Sierra. I remember I was running on the taxiway at Mather AFB looking at the B-52s and the KC-135s parking by the alert area of the base, and other airplanes parking along the hangers ready for the air show.

I remember how I kept looking down at my shirt and what a beautiful shirt it was for $15, the race registration fee. I kept rubbing my hands against the shirt, the shirt felt so nice and soft. I remember I spilled some water on the six-point-two-miles thick cotton shirt at the first water station and I was afraid it may shrink. I remember I skipped the second water station because I didn’t want to spill any more water on me and ruin the shirt. I wanted to wear the shirt to the air show that day.

By the time I got to the last water station, I was tired, I was hot and I was very thirsty. I stopped to drink the water and was so careful not to spill any drop of it on my thick six-point-two-miles cotton shirt. Then a clumsy runner from behind threw his half-full paper cup toward the trashcan but he missed, and I could feel the cold water running down my brand new thick heavy cotton shirt against my back like a waterfall. I was about to stop and show him what happened, then I heard all the noises of people cheering nearby "good job daddy", "almost there", "go guys", "stay together now", "around the corner and you're there"... By then, the guy who splashed his water on me, was a few step ahead of me, I picked up my pace along with my heavy feet and passed him so he can see what he did to my shirt. As I passed him he didn't seem to notice my thick and heavy cotton shirt was soaking with water from his cup. He turned his head, smiled and said to me "good job, took me at least 10 minutes to catch up to you". He didn't seem like he did anything wrong. I noticed his new shirt was soaked as well with his own sweat, yuck! But he didn’t seem to mind.

The corner or the finish line was nowhere to be found or heard and half a mile seemed like hundreds. I was trying to stay in front of him; I wanted him to see my pristine shirt was now stained from his water cup. I don’t recall my time when I crossed the finish line. But I remember the man who splashed his water on my very first 10k t-shirt holding his young daughter came up to me near the finish line, gave me a high-five and with his gentle and tired smile said to me "thank you".

The shirt is now faded and thin, it has been to many places with me in the last two decades. I don't wear it anymore but yet, it still got a premier spot in the drawer again this year.