The Back Story

The story behind: Run for the Coach 5K

By Sue-Ellen Sanders

The plan for a 5K race to honor Coach Wayne Cross began in Kathy & Tom Perona’s kitchen, while our daughters, who were taught English by Wayne Cross the year before, in 6^th grade, and run cross-country for him the same year, were entertaining teens in the other room.

Our girls had loved Cross as both a teacher and a coach; his laid-back easy-going manner was comforting to young teens going through turbulent times.  We were sad to hear he was ill with melanoma.  The man was a legend among the students and yet so humble, I’m sure he never knew.  Kathy and I, both runners ourselves, had run with him and helped him out coaching occasionally, in fact, her husband, Tom, had run marathons with him in years past.

“Let’s start a race!”

 It was the way we celebrated everything.  We wanted a way to show Coach Cross what he meant to the students, athletes and parents whose lives he had affected and pictured this great 5K race to honor him, with a frail, but recovering Wayne Cross helping to give out the medals at the end of the race.  We would get first-time runners to come, student athletes and coaches of all ages; and award so many medals to teens that even the middle-of-the-pack runners would be feted, just as Coach Cross had done for his students and his athletes.

When I mentioned the plan to my running partner, the mother of one of Coach Cross’s star athletes, she was all for it and spread the word like wildfire through the student running and soccer community.  Cross also coached the Lincoln Park Academy girls’ soccer team and soon those parents and kids were anxious to do what they could.

“We love you!”

As the race plans progressed, so did Wayne Cross’ cancer.  Bedridden and seriously ill, it became obvious that Cross would not be able to participate in the race, so we made a large banner for him. “We love you, Coach Cross!” it read and we bought markers in every color, so everyone could sign it for him and he could display it in his room and know how those kids, how those parents, all cared for him and held him in the highest esteem.

The race tee-shirt was designed by Martha Cross, featuring a runner making his way over the South Beach bridge, as the sun rose, on the course where Wayne Cross trained his kids—both his own, growing up- and his students, every Saturday morning.

“We didn’t come here to walk.” 

There was a Wayne Cross quote on the race tee-shirt, “We didn’t come here to walk.” It was what Cross had called out to Tom Perona while they were both running the Chicago Marathon, many years before.  Tom had started the race too fast, passing Wayne and a bunch of others, and when Wayne Cross had come upon Tom walking about 20 miles into the race, it was what he said as he passed him by, in jest.   We planned to have Tom tell the story at the race; it was sure to make Wayne Cross laugh.

It was 5 days before race day, when we got the call:  Wayne Cross had died.  We all cried, for a man who had given everything to his students, for his family who now would have to continue on without him and for a world that was colder without a man like Wayne Cross.

Hundreds of students and parents and runners attended the funeral; a celebration of Wayne’s life.  And the next morning, many of them showed up at the first Run for the Coach 5K, a race first planned to honor him, but now held in his memory.  Students still signed the banner for him, even though he was not there to see.

As that first field of over 600 runners and walkers took off across the South Beach Bridge, on a clear and cool morning, just after sunrise, there was a feeling of both sadness and peace.  We were sad that Wayne Cross was not there to see how everyone cared about him, but glad he was out of pain.

When the hordes of runners and walkers finished the course, the Cross family and friends spoke about the man who was honored there; his presence hovering over us like a heavenly spirit.  And when Tom Perona told his funny story about the quote on the tee-shirt, we could almost hear Wayne Cross laugh.

The 7^th Annual Run for the Coach 5k will be held on Saturday, January 26, 2013.  Former students and student athletes of Wayne Cross who live from California to New York, return each year for the race, as well as students now away at college.  The race has expanded to honor coaches and teachers throughout the Treasure Coast and offers trophies to the top teachers and coaches, along with traditional medal categories. 

Martha Cross, Wayne’s widow, has designed art that combines an old photograph of Wayne Cross with a rendering of the South Beach Bridge at daylight, which graces the race tee-shirts.  Both she and her daughter Kate Cross Rotindo, who coached girls’ soccer like her dad, are involved with helping to put together the race each year, along with the parents of Wayne Cross’ former students.  Funds raised will go to benefit the building of running trails in Northwest Fort Pierce.  Call 772-971-6868 to information on the race.

Taking Back the Music

I can still remember how
That music used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my chance,
That I could make those people dance,
And maybe they'd be happy for a while…

 Bye Bye Miss American Pie, Don McLean, 1972

I was in still in high school when Don McLean sang about the day the music died, in his anthem for Buddy Holley.  It was a time of change and excitement for me, of first boyfriends and dreams of college and what I would be when I grew up.

I could only imagine the family I’d have one day, two beautiful children, one boy, one girl (preferably) and of course the requisite husband.  He’d be funny, successful and good-looking and we would all live happily ever after in a television sitcom.

The music was always a part of my life in high school, college, and beyond.  Like the Fleetwood Mac album my college roommate and I  played over and over, our class high school graduation song- “Crosby, Still and Nash- We May Never Pass This Way” (we were a sarcastic bunch of kids)and the song we played for the first dance at our wedding “It Had to be You.”

From an early age, my kids rock and rolled in their car seats and sang back-up in the living room, to our family’s first home karaoke machine.  I danced around with them in my arms, crooning Linda Ronstadt, Carly Simon and James Taylor lullabies.

My kids grew older and the music changed, from Disney show tunes to Britney Spears, The A-Teens and the Back Street Boys.  I felt blessed that they skipped the rap stuff entirely and now sing along to Jason Mraz, Eric Hutcheson, Taylor Swift and Maroon 5.

But, not me. I don’t get to sing anymore.  About the time Bud and Sissy (not their real names, of course) hit their early teens, I stopped being the most wonderful woman in the world to them.  Along with that comprehension came many more:  that I was not beautiful, that I was not wise, that I was not perfect.

Okay, you say, they’re teenagers.  What did I expect?  And indeed, I somewhat expected my fall from grace. 

Even though when my kids were little and still adored me, I listened to my friends who were the mothers of teens bemoan their challenged parent/teen relationships with a silent but deadly air of confidence, knowing that would never be me.  That would never be my kids, disrespecting the ground I walk on, making me feel like dog-poopy, capable of even making me cry.

As pre-teen years turned to teens, I saw the writing on the wall.  I went from Mom the superhero to Mother the Maniac, who knows nothing.  I hung with other mothers of teens and we shared our sad tales.  I watched the other mothers, the worshipped mothers of the little kids out of the corner of my eye, and wondered if I should warn them.  And decided against it.  Let them enjoy their blessed ignorance. 

But I have to speak out about the music.  I have to warn those moms that they should sing all the time, because you never know when that song will be the last.

First the kids were embarrassed when I sang karaoke.  Then, they left the living room and made fun of me, even if I sang to myself.  They told me I couldn’t sing along out loud to the radio unless I knew all the words to the song.

They took the joy of music from my life.  They told me that I couldn’t sing. But now, I am taking the music back.  I’m going to sing when I want, where I want, teenagers be darned.  The music belongs to all of us not just them.

So I’ll …

Sing, Sing a song

Sing it loud Sing it strong

Sing about good times and bad

Sing about happy and sad

Don’t worry if I’m not good enough

For anyone else to hear                              

Just sing, sing a song….

<3 <3 <3

TV Time

Life is just one step away from a TV sitcom.  Or maybe the sitcoms are just one step away from life.  I’m not sure.  But, that’s why I watch TV, to escape from real life.  There are some times when it’s more fun to watch other families deal with the same things I deal with, day after day. 

On the small screen, it’s funny.  In real life, not so much.  We all laugh.  Hahaha.  Life is good.

Also, as the mom of teenagers, I am on the lookout for any bonding experiences I can find that the family can participate in together.  If we are enjoying ourselves, that’s even better.  Some days I would be satisfied with just sitting alongside the teens ( Call them Jack & Jill) laughing at the same thing.  So, if it happens to be a silly sitcom on television, is that so bad?

Last winter we spent copious amounts of hard-earned dollars on a winter ski vacation in Maine, even though I do not like to fly and I am not particularly gifted at skiing.  The days spent skiing were great, but the nights that were most successful were the evening spent with rented videos- the fulltime version of a television sitcom.  Otherwise, they just sat around and texted their friends, searching for cell phone reception and internet connection in every room of the quaint Maine house we had rented.

When the kids were younger we spent our fair share of evenings playing Monopoly, Scrabble or working on puzzles together.  With the long summerlike season, there were many playful night swims.  I remember games of Marco Polo and pool tag- or was that on TV?  Now, we are the uncool parents of teenagers and not worth playing with unless other guests are present to make it interesting.

So, we the family, have our favorite shows that we watch together, that help us to bond and to relate to one another.  For a golden half-hour or hour less the commercials, we are on the same page of life.  Is that so wrong?

Cartop Carrier Only Casualty of Family Vacation

“I’ve got some good news and I’ve got some bad news,” announced my husband, as he returned from parking our Honda Pilot SUV in the parking lot, at the ski resort we visited last week. 

We had unloaded the suitcases, duffle bags, blankets, pillows and groceries from the car and brought them up to the room.  Then Marty had gone to park the car, leaving the rest of the family to arrange suitcases into nooks and crannies and put away the groceries into the refrigerator.

“Which do you want to hear first?” he asked.  Without hesitation I answered, “Good news.”

 “Well, the good news is that there’s plenty of parking in the parking garage below,” said my husband, still smiling. “The bad news is that the Honda doesn’t quite fit underneath.” 

He continued on, “I only missed it by inches.”  Tired from the day of traveling up mountain roads, standing in lines for check-in, ski rentals and lessons, I seemed to be missing his point.

“I forgot that the hard top luggage carrier was on top of the car and I didn’t make the clearance,” he clarified.  “The carrier’s trashed.” 

I thought I might tell him he was stupid.  I thought I might say our luggage will never all fit back into the car without putting something on top of the car.  I thought about reminding him that the carrier wasn’t even ours, because we had borrowed it from our friends, the Whitleys, who had used it many times without incident.  I could say, Tom Whitley never forgot the carrier was on top of his car and drove it into an underground garage.

Then, I remembered that it was the season of grace and forgiveness and that Mary would never have chewed out Joseph in front of the children, and I didn’t say a word.

I’ll admit, I sulked a little that night at dinner.  But, the next morning when we loaded our ski equipment into the car to drive to the nearby ski area, we headed straight to our car in the parking lot.  It was easy to spot, with that big, destroyed black box on top.

I did draw the line on purchasing some rolls of duct tape to strap around the top of the carrier for a temporary repair, even though my husband, along with many other men, thinks duct tape can repair anything.

The rest of our time skiing was a great success.  We didn’t break any arms or legs on the slopes.  I didn’t fall off the ski lift, a constant but unreasonable fear.  We even drove several hours in a snow storm, over slippery mountain roads, to visit my husband’s family, in nearby Webster Springs, without incident.  That is, unless you count the multiple stops for puking.

So, all in all, I’m thinking that the loss of the carrier wasn’t such a big deal after all.  We’ll get home and buy our friends a new one.

Anyhow, when we got to Webster Springs, the fresh snow made making a snow man, snow angels and snow ball fights grand for our Florida–born and bred children and their cousins.  And, turned upside down, the damaged car top carrier made a dandy sled for everyone to ride coming down those snowy hills.

Plus, we determined that if all the blankets, pillows, suitcases and duffle bags didn’t fit back in the car, that tying a child or two to the top of the car, might make for a peaceful ride home.

Taking the Music back

I can still remember how
That music used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my chance,
That I could make those people dance,
And maybe they'd be happy for a while…

 Bye Bye Miss American Pie, Don McLean, 1972

I was in still in high school when Don McLean sang about the day the music died, in his anthem for Buddy Holley.  It was a time of change and excitement for me, of first boyfriends and dreams of college and what I would be when I grew up.

I could only imagine the family I’d have one day, two beautiful children, one boy, one girl (preferably) and of course the requisite husband.  He’d be funny, successful and good-looking and we would all live happily ever after in a television sitcom.

The music was always a part of my life in high school, college, and beyond.  Like the Fleetwood Mac album my college roommate and I  played over and over, our class high school graduation song- “Crosby, Still and Nash- We May Never Pass This Way” (we were a sarcastic bunch of kids)and the song we played for the first dance at our wedding “It Had to be You.”

From an early age, my kids rock and rolled in their car seats and sang back-up in the living room, to our family’s first home karaoke machine.  I danced around with them in my arms, crooning Linda Ronstadt, Carly Simon and James Taylor lullabies.

My kids grew older and the music changed, from Disney show tunes to Britney Spears, The A-Teens and the Back Street Boys.  I felt blessed that they skipped the rap stuff entirely and now sing along to Jason Mraz, Eric Hutcheson, Taylor Swift and Maroon 5.

But, not me. I don’t get to sing anymore.  About the time Bud and Sissy (not their real names, of course) hit their early teens, I stopped being the most wonderful woman in the world to them.  Along with that comprehension came many more:  that I was not beautiful, that I was not wise, that I was not perfect.

Okay, you say, they’re teenagers.  What did I expect?  And indeed, I somewhat expected my fall from grace. 

Even though when my kids were little and still adored me, I listened to my friends who were the mothers of teens bemoan their challenged parent/teen relationships with a silent but deadly air of confidence, knowing that would never be me.  That would never be my kids, disrespecting the ground I walk on, making me feel like dog-poopy, capable of even making me cry.

As pre-teen years turned to teens, I saw the writing on the wall.  I went from Mom the superhero to Mother the Maniac, who knows nothing.  I hung with other mothers of teens and we shared our sad tales.  I watched the other mothers, the worshipped mothers of the little kids out of the corner of my eye, and wondered if I should warn them.  And decided against it.  Let them enjoy their blessed ignorance. 

But I have to speak out about the music.  I have to warn those moms that they should sing all the time, because you never know when that song will be the last.

First the kids were embarrassed when I sang karaoke.  Then, they left the living room and made fun of me, even if I sang to myself.  They told me I couldn’t sing along out loud to the radio unless I knew all the words to the song.

They took the joy of music from my life.  They told me that I couldn’t sing.

But, now, I am taking the music back.  I’m going to sing when I want, where I want, teenagers be darned.  The music belongs to all of us not just them.

So I’ll …

Sing, Sing a song

Sing it loud Sing it strong

Sing about good times and bad

Sing about happy and sad

Don’t worry if I’m not good enough

For anyone else to hear                              

Just sing, sing a song….

<3 <3 <3

Purple Aunt Saw Every Shade of Rainbow

Purple Aunt saw every shade of rainbow

By Sue-Ellen Sanders

“I just try to be the best I can be and hope that is the best ever.”
-Tiger Woods

My aunt always expected the best from me, even when I wasn’t sure myself what life would bring.  She was one of life’s biggest cheerleaders, finding silver even in the dullest of linings.  Her name was Aunt Bobbi, but when we were little we called her the purple aunt, because she loved to wear purple.  In truth, she was our only aunt, my mother’s only sister, in any color.  And boy, we hit the jackpot with Aunt Bobbi.

Like the time I decided to run my first marathon.  I was single at age 29, sick of dealing with men and the games they played.  I was going to pour my heart and soul into running, a favorite pastime that had never let me down.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” my mother cautioned, at my announcement that I was registered to run the New York City marathon, a 26.2 mile road race that runs through the four boroughs of New York.

“That’s wonderful,” said my Aunt, as though I had already finished the distance and the running was only a formality.  “I’ll meet you at the end with champagne!” she joked.

After months of training, I flew into NYC with a handful of friends to run the marathon, not knowing if I would finish but only knowing I would try.  It was a quick 2-day trip and we had no transportation, so I called my aunt on Long Island to say hello and promise I would come back soon to see her and my cousins another time.  Then I went to bed to be fresh for the morning start.

Marathon morning was a flurry of hurry-up-and-wait.  We were bused out to the tent city that was the marathon start and then waited for hours until the actual start.  I ran the first 20 miles at a conservative pace and then, having figured out I was actually well-trained enough to do this, I finished the last 10K through the park at a personal record pace.

We were wandering around near the race hotel, surrounded by 15,000 other finishers at the end of the course when I heard someone calling my name.  It was my aunt, who along with my uncle had driven in from Long Island to watch me finish, somehow finding me in that crowd.  Aunt Bobbi clutched a bottle of iced champagne in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other.  She didn’t care if I was smelly and sweaty.  She gave me a hug that almost knocked me over.

We popped the champagne cork together. And I flew back to Florida to find out what was right around the corner for me, a devoted husband, an exciting career and finally, children of my own.  Over the years, the pattern repeated itself whenever I saw Aunt Bobbi-- Whenever I doubted myself, she had enough confidence for both of us. 

I was remembering how my aunt believed in the powers of thinking positive, when she was diagnosed with cancer last year.  If anyone could beat the odds it was Aunt Bobbi.   But, then, two days later she died.  Her family was devastated—and we were heartbroken.  She’d lived a full life, touching everyone around her with her magic wand, but it was too short, her death too sudden.

But, even in death, Aunt Bobbi made something magical happen.  All my mother’s children surrounded her, the four of us together for the first time in years, to mourn the loss of our purple aunt and celebrate her life.  I would have to believe that my aunt was in heaven smiling down upon us.

Undercover Teacher

First, let me explain:  I wasn’t really undercover when I began teaching Senior English last year.  I mean, I was legit—I had a temporary teaching certificate from the state to teach English in secondary schools with a three-year expiration date.  I was good to go.

So I wasn’t a detective hiding undercover in the school system to dig up corruption and drug deals; I was simply a writer looking for a way to supplement my income.  The only corrupt things I would have found were some computer files and someone stealing someone’s else yogurt from the break room refrigerator.  Drug deals, what do I know from drug deals?  I did hand out Advil occasionally from my desk drawer.  It was not name-brand, though, so I think it was okay.

Undercover might refer to the place that I really wanted to be, at 7 a.m. in the morning, under the soft comforter on my bed on chilly winter mornings, instead of chained to a desk, with 25 different pair of eyes staring at me each class.  But, we’ll get to that.

I had approached the high school looking for a part-time gig teaching creative writing, something I knew all about.  The administration told me they had a position in Senior English open.  I took the test for my certificate and passed.  They unlocked the door to my classroom and those first 25 faces watched my every move.  I was home.

The honeymoon period went well, I think, even though I remained in a slightly overwhelmed state for most of that second semester, my first year teaching.  I had 6 classes, 135 students and many of those teens actually seemed to like me better than the two teenagers I had at home. We learned about satire and the English poets together, I was learning the material just one step ahead of my students, following and adapting another senior teacher’s well-thought out lesson plans, to allow for creative projects and more writing assignments, which became my trademark.

A teacher’s life was much tougher than I thought it would be.  There were students who had challenges at home, spilling out into their school life; there were others who were so needy they glommed onto their English teacher for support, risking pulling us all down.  There were students with senioritis- yes, a real disease, affecting those kids so close to high school graduation that they chance losing it all from their lazy behavior.  And there were kids with attitude.

It was an adventure of the highest degree, one that I will never regret.  I probably learned just as much from those kids as they learned from me and I will be forever grateful.  But, continue teaching at this time in my life?  Not so much.

One of the first things I learned as a high school teacher was to show no fear.  Just like rumors of sharks and feral dogs, students can sense the fear and the slightest lack of confidence.  Then once one student attacks, the others will see your weakness.  They won’t listen, they won’t learn.  They won’t behave.  And for God sakes, don’t CRY in front of them.  Eyes wide open and face the class.  Laugh when you feel like crying. 

Feed them regularly and they won’t bite.  A little candy goes a long way, so do donuts and orange juice.  If you feed them sugar in your class, they will love you and get all crazy in the next class period for another teacher.  It’s a win-win.

Find someone who will respond when you ask for help and don’t be afraid to ask for it. This became difficult this year, as the amendment limiting class size dictated smaller classes, which meant more teachers were needed. Budget didn’t allow hiring new teachers, so the high schools teachers had to teach 7 classes instead of 6.  As every high school teacher in our county took on an extra class, that meant  extra 25 students= 25 more papers and tests to grade, names to learn and no more free period in the middle of the days to catch up on work and plan ahead. 

My slightly overwhelmed state became completely overwhelmed.  Even well-trained, experienced teachers had their hands full.  That meant few were available to lend their voice of experience to a newbie.  And also, since teachers no longer had a free mid-day planning period, there was no time or opportunity to ask another teacher how they were handling things.  I was in solitary confinement.

That leads right to the next insight: Don’t drink coffee or ice tea in the morning because the bathrooms are far away and hard to reach in the short 5 minute intervals between classes.  If you run, the deans ask if there’s something wrong—besides it’s hard to navigate in a hall full of teenagers all trying to saunter around and look like they have no particular place to go.  Calling out, “Move, I have to go potty,” will not engender their respect.

Oh, I learned so much more in the year that I taught Senior English, and if held hostage by an enemy spy, I could probably bore them to death with some of that material.  For instance,   I learned that Beowulf the movie is nothing like the famous Anglo-Saxon poem.  Angelina Jolie is not what Grendel’s mother really looks like.  And if you show the kids the movie, all they remember is Jolie.

I learned the lesson of Macbeth may be that absolute power corrupts absolutely and everyone can learn from that. (Oh, here’s the corruption you may have been seeking!)  Note to those seeking elected office, read Macbeth!

I learned teaching is so much more than what it looks like  from the outside and that there truly is a way to reach most students, sometimes through different methods of teaching, sometimes through hard love and sometimes by taking no prisoners.   There are also students, forgive me, superintendent, who deserve to be left behind. 

I wish I had discovered how hard it is to be a teacher while my children were young, so I could have appreciated their teachers more all through their school years.  Bless you, teachers, where ‘ere you be.

As for today, the sky is an inviting blue, and calling my name.  My running shoes won’t lace themselves and the computer won’t turn itself on and write my assignments. But I can turn my pillow over to the cool side and lie in bed for just a few more minutes, before I head out to the possibilities in the world beyond the classroom.