Echoes

2020 has reminded us, or perhaps in the case of some of us actually made us aware for the first time ever, just how fragile we are.  Certain big-ticket issues have held us under their thumb, regardless of who we are, where we live, and what it is we do to earn our living.  

Unique to each of us, still, are the issues that affect us and either no one else or just a very small, concentrated number of people.  We all get just one life, of course.  Not everything that happens in it produces an echo that resonates far and wide. The reach of that resonance is irrelevant both to its volume and its staying power within the much smaller confines of our day-to-day.  That which is important to us is that which affects our life.  

It is for that reason that responsibility for our life begins and ends with us.  Look inward, not outward. Mount up and ride to your own rescue.  No one else shall...  

...they each have themselves to save.

-AK 
  

About This There Can Be No Debate...

 

Appreciating the significance of this - and applying it in your day-to-day - is the difference between living and merely being alive.  

-AK

Twenty-Eight Words

 

Thus endeth the lesson. 

-AK 

This Time, Next Year

On the final Sunday of every September since 2010, it has been my privilege and pleasure to be among the runners and walkers assembled on the Brooklyn side of the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel for the Siller Foundation's New York City Tunnel to Towers 5K.  Every final Sunday of September since 2010, except for this one.  COVID-19 forced the cancellation of the 2020 NYC T2T 5K, which means that it also cancelled the annual pilgrimage the Missus and I make into lower Manhattan as part of our celebration of this annual event, which pilgrimage includes a trip to the National September 11 Memorial and a trip to O'Hara's.  

I am already looking forward to September 2021's final weekend, which I hope to spend in lower Manhattan as part of the 20th Anniversary New York City Tunnel to Towers 5K.  The Siller Family does simply extraordinary work on behalf of this nation's first responders and the men and women of our military that is truly is my privilege to play my very small part.  As I look forward to 2021, I thought it might be fun today to take a quick glimpse at a decade's worth of Tunnel to Towers weekends.

2010

World Trade Center (under construction)

Photo Credit: A.K. 

T2T Sand Sculpture

 Photo Credit: A.K.

2011

World Trade Center (under construction)

Photo Credit: A.K. 

T2T Sand Sculpture

Photo Credit: A.K. 

2012

World Trade Center (under construction)

Photo Credit:  A.K. 

T2T Sand Sculpture

Photo Credit: A.K. 

2013

World Trade Center

Photo Credit: A.K. 

T2T Sand Sculpture

Photo Credit: A.K. 

2014

World Trade Center

Photo Credit: A.K.

National September 11 Memorial and Museum

Photo Credit: A.K.

T2T Sand Sculpture

Photo Credit: A.K. 

2015

World Trade Center & 

National September 11 Museum

Photo Credit: A.K.  

"NEVER FORGET" banner across street from Ten House

Photo Credit: A.K. 

T2T Sand Sculpture 

Photo Credit: A.K. 

2016

World Trade Center

Photo Credit: A.K. 

The Missus pre-race in Red Hook, Brooklyn

Photo Credit: A.K. 

T2T Sand Sculpture

Photo Credit: A.K. 

2017

World Trade Center

Photo Credit: A.K. 

Ten House

Photo Credit: A.K.

T2T Sand Sculpture

Photo Credit: A.K. 

2018

World Trade Center

Photo Credit: A.K. 

Running through Brooklyn Battery Tunnel

Video Credit: A.K.

T2T Sand Sculpture

Photo Credit: A.K. 

2019

World Trade Center

Photo Credit: A.K. 

FDNY Fire Boat

Video Credit: A.K. 

T2T Sand Sculpture

Photo Credit: A.K. 

See you in September.  

-AK 

Comin' In From The Mystic Far

The second song from the new Springsteen album Letter To You dropped on Thursday.  I listened to "Ghosts" too many times to count.  Every time through, my feet tapped on the floor 'neath my desk while my fingers did likewise on it.  

I was pleased to see Jake Clemons present and accounted for in the video as his absence from "Letter to You" was conspicuous.  He has had a damn big horn to fill, stepping in for his late, great uncle Clarence, and to my ear, he has held up his end quite well.  For all the reasons I am looking forward to 2021, I have added the tour on which I hope Bruce and the E Street Band embark in support of this record.  

I can feel the blood shiver in my bones... 

Bruce Springsteen - "Ghosts" 

-AK 

Actions, Words, and Rule Number Five

 

2016

"I want you to use my words against me.  If there's a Republican president in 2016 and a vacancy occurs in the last year of the first term, you can say Lindsey Graham said let's let the next president, whoever it might be, make the nomination. And you could use my words against me, and you'd be absolutely right." 

2018

"If an opening comes in the last year of President Trump's term and the primary process has started, we will wait to the next election." 

2020

"I therefore think it is important that we proceed expeditiously to process any nomination made by President Trump to fill this vacancy." 

It is painfully obvious to me (as it certainly is to you if you are one of the couple of dozen people who actually have read Pop Pop Rules:  A how-to manual for the little girl who saved me simply by showing up) that among the things Lindsey Graham reflexively disregards is Rule Number Five.  He does so at his peril, given that a very smart (albeit occasionally horribly immodest) man deemed it worthy of inclusion as one of only thirteen Pop Pop Rules: 

Rule Number Five

Always look at yourself in the mirror in the morning. 

The sooner you do it after you wake up, the better. 

This is not done for vanity's sake. 

It is done for accountability. If a day arrives when you wake up and you cannot 

stand the thought of looking at yourself in the mirror, 

then you need to immediately start rethinking your life decisions. 

Each of us plays the movie of our life in our mind's eye. 

It is on all the time so you can watch it whenever you want. 

You will not notice it most of the time because 

it is on in the background as you go about your day-to-day.  

In our life's movie, we inevitably see ourselves in the best possible light. 

It is human nature. It is nothing of which to be ashamed. 

The level of disconnect between the fictionalized version of ourselves 

and the real-life model can be quite humorous. 

If you need proof of that proposition, then use "the Google" 

to find Defending Your Life, a movie starring Albert Brooks. 

Allowing that level of disconnect to wide beyond the point of humor

can be dangerous. Each day, before you go out into the world, look

long and hard at yourself. If you cannot look your own reflection in the eye, 

then chances are you have permitted the gap between who you are and you want

to be to widen to an unsafe distance. 

You cannot look another in the eye if you cannot return the gaze of your reflection

in the bathroom mirror. And if you cannot look another in the eye, 

then you have become a person you do not really want to be. 

-AK

A Full Day's Supply of Vitamin Sea

The summer's final weekend felt suspiciously like "October's second or third weekend" at our little Paradise by the Sea.  Daytime temperatures on Saturday and Sunday topped out in the low to mid 60s and both days a steady, 10-15 mile per hour wind blew from the north/northeast.  It was far too easy to envision the arrival of autumn's ever-shortening days and, behind them, the inevitable onslaught of winter.  

Still, on Sunday, I did what it was I had promised myself I was going to do before I read the weather forecast, which was have my final run of Summer 2020 on the beach at sunrise, down at the waterline at low tide, and barefoot.  Sunday morning, I threw on a long-sleeved t-shirt, a baseball cap, and my flip-flops and ran up 17th Avenue towards the boardwalk. 

I audibled as I reached Ocean Avenue.  Rather than go straight across onto the sand, I turned right.  I ran south down Ocean Avenue into Spring Lake.  I would love to fib about how much running in flip-flops as opposed to running shoes slowed me down.  While once upon a lifetime ago that might have been true, it is no longer the case.  

My path took me past one of the most beautiful places I pass on my running route, which is the September 11 Memorial in Spring Lake, which I saw on Sunday morning perhaps 10-15 minutes before sunrise. 

I continued south on Ocean Avenue for only a couple of blocks before I hopped up onto the boards in Spring Lake, and then down onto the beach.  Other than a few hardy souls who were sitting on the sand at scattered locations - all bundled up awaiting the sun's rise and the folks whose dogs were out and about early - the gulls, the pipers, and I had the beach to ourselves.  I hugged the waterline on my trip north (into a "refreshing" (sure, let us go with 'refreshing') north wind into Belmar and my destination, which was the 17th Avenue Beach...

...at which I arrived just in time to see the sunrise.

There may be equally beautiful places to start one's day but, for me, there is no place more beautiful. 

-AK 

The Balancing Act

The jukebox of my life is filled principally with Bruce Springsteen's music.  Not exclusively, mind you, because space is taken by, among others, John Hiatt, Elvis Costello, Foo Fighters, Tom Petty, Joe Jackson, Tears for Fears, Mark Knopfler, Carole King, Jackson Browne, Johnny Cash, and the criminally underappreciated and never more relevant James McMurtry.  

I am a man born and raised in New Jersey.  It is here I have lived the entirety of my life, except for the four years I was a shuffling Buffalo in beautiful Boulder, Colorado.  I shall likely live here until I die seeing as I have never possessed any desire to live anywhere else.  I am not simply from here. I am here.

For forty-plus years, I have ardently enjoyed the music of Bruce Springsteen, for which I owe a debt of gratitude to my big brother, Bill.  He is the one who introduced Springsteen's music to me.  I honored his gift by paying it forward to my son, Rob.  I have been fortunate to see Springsteen perform live upwards of one hundred times.  Among my favorite shows?  The first two Rob ever saw, which were at Brendan Byrne Arena in East Rutherford on August 9, 1999 and August 11, 1999 as part of the Reunion Tour. We had objectively terrible seats both nights, which did nothing to temper his enthusiasm.  As we left the August 11th show, the two male components of two young couples who had sat a row or two ahead of us lamented the fact, to themselves, to their dates, and loud enough for my then thirteen-year-old son and I to hear, that Springsteen had not played either "Hungry Heart or "Born in the USA".  Rob snorted derisively (is there any other way?) and said, "You just heard "Trapped" and "Freehold" and you're complaining?"  The two men looked at me, waiting for me to check my son.  It was now my turn to derisively snort, which I did.  

Rob has now paid forward his love of Springsteen to the older of his two girls, Abigail, who adores her daddy and the way he sings "The River" to her.  The look on her face, one night much earlier on in the pandemic, during a Facetime call when he told her that Pop Pop also knew that song, and I then sang it along with them for several seconds, was priceless.  

My father died when I was fourteen.  He and I had a very difficult relationship, especially the final year of his life when the words exchanged between us probably could have been counted using nothing but fingers and toes.  Might we have pulled out of it, discovered some middle ground, and forged a relationship that served each of us well when I reached adulthood?  Perhaps.  

I shall never know. 

I do know, however, how much it has benefited me to hear Springsteen speak of the painful relationship he had with his own father for many, many years and their reconciliation not too terribly long before Douglas Springsteen's death.  His music, and the stories behind it, helped me forge a bond with my own son, one which remains as solid today as it was when he was just a little boy.   

Today, the Poet Laureate of the Jersey Shore celebrates a birthday.  I hope it is a happy one.  Although it is his birthday, I come not bearing a gift but rather my thanks - from one Jersey guy to another...  

...for helping me remember the importance of reckoning with one's past to keep it from dictating your future.  

It is a lesson I carry with me every day.  

-AK 

 

Another Summer Gone

 

Sun coming up over the Atlantic as seen from Spring Lake

Saturday, September 12, 2020 (Photo Credit: A.K.)

Today is the Autumnal Equinox in the Northern Hemisphere.  

The inevitable can no longer be ignored...

Summer's gone

Summer's gone away

Gone away

With yesterday.

Old friends have gone

They've gone their separate ways

Our dreams hold on

For those who still have more to say.

Summer's gone

Gone like yesterday

The nights grow cold

It's time to go

I'm thinking maybe I'll just stay

Another summer gone.

Summer's gone

It's finally sinking in

One day begins

Another ends

I live them all and back again.

Summer's gone

I'm gonna sit and watch the waves

We laugh, we cry

We live then die

And dream about our yesterday.

"Summer's Gone" 

-The Beach Boys

Stay safe.  Stay well.  Stay hungry.  Stay alive.  

See you on the beach in 2021...

Brooklyn Boulevard Beach - Sea Girt

July 30, 2017 (Photo Credit: A.K.) 

-AK 

Love is a Power Greater than Death

 

I have known my brother-in-law Joe for almost forty years.  Through him, I had the distinct pleasure and privilege of not only meeting, but getting to know, his parents, Rosemarie and Leon.  Mr. and Mrs. C. are among the finest, most down-to-earth, grace-filled people I have met in my life.  At the risk of embarrassing him, I hasten to point out that the apple who is their son fell, took foot, and sprouted an entirely new tree on the ground immediately adjacent to theirs.  I can pay no higher compliment to my brother-in-law than to say that he is his parents' son. 

Last Wednesday, Mr. C. died.  One need look no further for an example of life's inherent inequity than the physical hardships he endured during the final several years of his simply extraordinary life, which took their toll on him and on his best girl, Rosemarie, with whom he lived his best life.  

I wish I had the language skills to properly convey my sympathies to Mrs. C., to Joe, and to their entire family, which of course includes Jill and my nieces, Simone and Julia.  I do not.  

Safe journey home, Mr. C., and thank you for every kindness you extended to me, to my wife, and to my children.  You made the world a better place during your lifetime. Those you loved, and those you loved most of all, shall do their level best to honor your memory by doing likewise. 

-AK 

  

These Are The Days

 These are the days now that we must savor

And we must enjoy as we can

These are the days that will last forever 

You got to hold them in your heart.

-"These Are The Days" 

Van Morrison

In my dreams, I awaken here every morning.  In my reality, I awaken here three to four times a week between Memorial Day and Labor Day.  The rest of the year, I awaken here perhaps three to four times a month. I long for the day when the life I live and the life of which I dream intersect.  For present purposes, however, they mimic the horizon line; the point at which the sky above and the ocean below appear to intersect but do not. 

I shall return from my morning run this morning, the final Sunday of summer, and for the final time this year I shall stare up at the sky while cleaning myself up in my outdoor shower.  Before we venture north up the Parkway later today, the Missus and I shall turn off the water that supplies it and shall bleed the lines to make certain that no water remains trapped in them as summer cedes the stage to autumn and, thereafter, autumn does the same in favor of winter.

Not everyone loves the ocean.  Not everyone loves the beach.  I do not understand it although I realize it and I accept it.  For me, though, there is no place I would rather be than where I am this morning - running along the waterline, accompanied by the sound of the waves and by the presence of the gulls and the pipers who have gathered to feast on the mussels, clams, and (if fortune is indeed smiling upon them) crabs that low tide has left vulnerable on the beach. Fortune has smiled upon me this morning, presenting me with this final present of the season - low tide at 3:40 am - enabling me to enjoy one final barefoot, sunrise run on the beach this summer. 

These are the days of the endless summer

These are the days, the time is now

There is no past, there is no future

   There's only here, there's only now...

-AK 

     

              

His Life Mattered

Malcolm Nettingham died on Monday, September 14, 2020.  He was one hundred and one years old, having lived in Scotch Plains, New Jersey since he was five. On October 1, he would have celebrated his 102nd birthday. Although the length of Malcolm Nettingham's life was extraordinary, his life's length is not what made him extraordinary. Instead, the breadth and the depth with which he lived it did. 

Malcolm Nettingham

His life mattered. 

In World War II, Mr. Nettingham served this nation as a member of the United States Army's 477th Fighter Group, which was home to the Tuskegee Airmen. The Airmen, of course, were the African-American fighter pilots who embraced the mission of protecting bombers on their missions and who proved to be better at it than any of their Caucasian counterparts.  In 1944, Mr. Nettingham was selected to be one of five African-American soldiers to be part of the Army Air Corps' first integrated radio communications class. This quintet made certain to excel in all facets of the course because, as Mr. Nettingham put it, "They're going to think all black people are dumb, so we decided we're going to be smart."  They were indeed.  

As unfathomable as it might seem now, in the final third of the final year of the 21st century's second decade, this nation's armed forces were not integrated until 1948 when President Truman enacted Executive Order 9981.  Then again, given the present state of affairs in this country, imagining that might not seem particularly hard at all.  

A Congressional Gold Medal was awarded to Mr. Nettingham in 2007.  The late United States Senator Frank Lautenberg presented Mr. Nettingham - and three of his fellow original Airmen - with their medals during a ceremony at the Newark Public Library.  The Congressional Gold Medal is one of this nation's two highest civilian honors.  The Presidential Medal of Freedom is the other.  It is given to honor those, whether an individual or group, "who have performed an achievement that has an impact on American history and culture that is likely to be recognized as a major achievement in the recipient's field long after the achievement."  

Mr. Nettingham was the great grandson of a slave.  He was born in 1918 while this nation was fighting in World War I and Woodrow Wilson was in the White House.  He grew up during the Great Depression.  He lived to see this nation elect our first African-American President in 2008. He attended President Obama's inaugurations in 2009 and, again, in 2013.  Upon his honorable discharge from the United States Army in 1946, he worked for an industrial electronics company for thirty-two years until his retirement. 

He and his late wife Lorena, to whom he was married for seventy years, raised two children, Deborah and Malcolm, and were blessed as grandparents six times.  

Two years ago, as he was preparing to turn one hundred, he spent several hours with Barry Carter for this piece Mr. Carter wrote for The Star-Ledger. I cannot recommend it to you enthusiastically enough.  When asked by Mr. Carter if he had advice to share with the rest of us about how to live life, Mr. Nettingham responded, "Treat your neighbor as you would treat yourself." 

When her dad died earlier this week, Deborah confirmed that her father never failed to heed his own advice.  He treated everyone with whom he interacted like they mattered, because they did.  He lifted everyone up. 

In so doing, he demonstrated unequivocally how much his life mattered...  

-AK 

Youthful Resilience

I was reminded yet again on Wednesday morning that to the extent I am a lesser asshole than I was four or five years ago, all credit for that mellowing goes to my grandchildren.  While I was at work, Suzanne shared photographs of her oldest (and my first-born grandchild) Maggie, on her first day of Pre-K.  Maggie stood waiting outside of her school, backpack on her back and mask covering her mouth and nose, for her "required before entering" temperature check.  Her mother confirmed what the photograph suggested, which was that Maggie was not upset or scared or taken aback at having to wear a mask.  She recognized it for what it is - the cost of doing business if you will - for her to be able to do something that she loves, which is attend school.  

My grandchildren, especially Maggie since she is the oldest and the one who made me Pop Pop, own me.  To the extent I have a heart, it belongs to them.  They are also among the people on this planet I shall fight most ferociously to protect.  I would gladly trade my life - or an extended term of incarceration - to keep them safe from harm.  

Maggie's resilience during this pandemic has never failed to impress me.  She is the only one of my five grand kids who is old enough to understand - even a little bit - what the hell has been going on for the past six-plus months.  On more than one occasion, she has remarked to Nana or to me that she knows presently she cannot go to a particular place or do a certain thing "because of the COVID".  Does she know that "the COVID" is a virus? Probably not.  She knows though that it is something that has limited her life and shall continue to limit it for the foreseeable future.  Yet she never fails to keep her head up. 

It has limited the things can do but she shall not let her define her. She shall simply keep going about her day-to-day without forgetting what it is in her day-to-day that really is important. 

She reminds me by her actions that I should not forget either. 

I shall not.  

-AK 

The Face of Courage

On the Saturday of Labor Day weekend, about a block or so from our beach house, a group of 8th grade students from Belmar Elementary School, supported by several of their parents, set up a lemonade stand on 17th Avenue as part of a fundraiser for their classmate, Jackie Minchala. 

Jackie Minchala

Photo Credit: The Minchala Family

This brave young lady, just thirteen years young, is battling hard against Stage 4 Rhabdomyosarcoma, a rare type of cancer that forms in the body's soft tissues.  Jackie's cancer has spread.  It is inoperable. 

And yet she fights.  

As she does, the community continues to rally around her. 

This Saturday, September 19, a group of fitness instructors shall hold a socially-distanced, outdoor fitness class, wonderfully titled "Jumping Jacks for Jackie" at Maclearie Park, between the L Street Beach and the tennis courts.  The action begins at 9:30 a.m. and the suggested donation for those who want to participate is $10.00.  

The proceeds from Saturday's fundraiser shall be donated to Jackie's family, which has set up a GoFund Me page to help pay for the medical bills related to her care.  As of yesterday, more than $70,000 had been donated to their cause.  

No one's 13-year-old child is supposed to get cancer.  No one's 13-year-old child is supposed to spend summer days and nights undergoing chemotherapy.  Our children should spend their summers at ease, at play, and enjoying their carefree youth that even in the normal course of events blows past them far too quickly.   It is patently unfair for cancer to attack a child. But it does.  

And yet she fights.  

-AK 

On a September Sunday a Half-Century Ago...

...the New York City Marathon was born.  This year's race, which had been scheduled for November 1st in the race's now-traditional "first Sunday in November" place on the calendar, was one of the countless events cancelled due to the COVID-19 pandemic.  Weep not for the Marathon.  Earlier this week, Mayor DeBlasio announced that Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade will not be held this year in its traditional format.  

There was a terrific piece in Sunday's The New York Times that George A. Hirsch, Chairman of the New York Road Runners, wrote honoring the memory of the 1970 Marathon. Gun time was 11:00 a.m. on a sticky September Sunday.  The race took place entirely within Central Park and included four full loops of the Park.  Several years ago, I participated in the inaugural Central Park Marathon, hosted by New York Runs, which was held on a Sunday morning in February over a course that honored the original New York City Marathon course but was modified so that we did not have to deal with the Harlem Hills.  In its adulterated form, on a cold but comfortable February Sunday, the course was hard.  

I was fortunate to run the Marathon three consecutive times, from 2015 to 2017.  Each of those three years, I was among one of approximately 50,000 finishers.  In 1970, only one hundred and twenty-seven runners toed the starting line.  Fewer than half of them, fifty-five, crossed the finish line.  Only one woman entered the race, Nina Kuscsik.  In the 1970 Boston Marathon, five months earlier, she had finished in 3 hours, 12 minutes.  But leading up to the New York City Marathon, she was battling the flu.  She was unable to finish, dropping out at the fourteen-mile mark.  In 1972, she won Boston and New York City, the latter of which she won again in 1973. 

The 1970 champion, Gary Muhrcke, a thirty-year-old FDNY firefighter, who almost slept in instead of running the race that Sunday morning.  His shift the night before had been particularly busy and he had spent it responding to calls and battling blazes near his firehouse in Far Rockaway.  He and his wife had three small children and Mr. Muhrcke called his wife from the firehouse at his shift's end to tell her that he was very tired and really did not feel like driving into Manhattan to run a marathon on what turned out to be an 85 degree, humid day.  However, according to Mr. Muhrcke, "I heard a disappointment in her voice, because we had three little children.  So I said alright we'll go, pick me up, we'll go." 

What was his bounty for winning the first-ever New York City Marathon?  "I got a trophy and a watch. The trophy is broken.  The watch, I don't know where it is." 

Next year, presuming COVID-19 has not morphed into COVID-21 (we know it will not be COVID-1, do we not Mrs. Conway?) the 50th New York City Marathon will take place on November 7, 2021.  This past Sunday, to mark the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of the very first Marathon, Mr. Muhrcke threw on his running gear and ran one lap of the original Central Park course.  His grandson, Colin Kern, kept him company.  Mr. Muhrcke completed the jaunt in 58:21, which was just over a nine-minute-per-mile pace.  

He is eighty years old. 

-AK  

The Importance of Memory

Friday evening, Tim Mahoney kept his promise.  I was among perhaps two hundred people who, thanks to his good efforts, kept ours as well. 

Tim Mahoney is a retired New Jersey State Trooper and (his words), "a Belmartian and a proud American." He has annually organized the September 11 Memorial Run, which is a simply wonderful event - even though it is a result of the events of that terrible Tuesday morning nineteen years ago.  Every September 11th, at 6:00 pm runners gather on the boardwalk at Belmar's Sixteenth Avenue Beach.  Once assembled, the process of reading aloud the names of the one hundred and forty-seven Monmouth County residents murdered on September 11, 2001 begins.  Approximately one-third of the names are read.  

16th Avenue Beach - Belmar

September 11, 2020 (photo credit - A. Kenny)

Upon completion of that portion of the list, the assembled runners move in silence south along the boardwalk, through the arches separating Belmar and Spring Lake, and run to the Spring Lake September 11 Memorial.  At the Memorial, roughly one-third of the names of the victims are read aloud and flags are placed at the Memorial.  

Spring Lake September 11 Memorial 

September 11, 2020 (photo credit - A. Kenny)

Spring Lake September 11 Memorial 

September 11, 2020 (photo credit - A. Kenny)

Then, again moving in silence, the assembled runners move in silence south on the boardwalk in Spring Lake to the gazebo at Washington Avenue.  It is there that the remaining names on the list are read aloud.  Runners then, if they want to, offer aloud a memory of someone known to them killed that day.  Once that recitation is completed, a heart-felt (if somewhat off-key) singing of "God Bless America" takes place, the remaining flags are placed, and the runners disperse to wherever it is we are going post-run.  

Tribute at Washington Avenue Gazebo - Spring Lake

September 11, 2020 (photo credit - A. Kenny)

I had feared that COVID-19 would make it impossible for us to gather this year.  Thankfully, COVID-19 was no match for Tim Mahoney and his preparation.  As we gathered at Sixteenth Avenue at 6:00 pm, we were each provided a mask (although everyone I saw, including Yours truly, had worn our own), and directed to stand on the beach, maintaining social distancing from our fellow runners.

Big-headed man wearing a mask

Once it was time to begin reading the names, rather than passing around the list and the microphone, Tim Mahoney simply read them himself.  He did the same thing when we reached the Spring Lake September 11 Memorial and, again, when we reached our final destination at Washington Avenue.  It was a different experience than in past years but it was as memorable and as moving as always.  

This weekend, I availed myself of the opportunity to run past the tributes we had placed on Friday night.  On Saturday morning, as I was heading north on the boards in Spring Lake shortly after sunrise, I ambled down the stairs onto the sand at Washington Avenue to view it in the light of early morning... 

Tribute at Washington Avenue Gazebo - Spring Lake

September 12, 2020 (photo credit - A. Kenny)

...and was not surprised even a little bit to see how beautiful it looked.  Sunday morning, on my way north I ran off of the boards in Spring Lake so I could stop briefly at the September 11 Memorial to pay my respects and to appreciate its beauty in the early morning...

September 11 Memorial - Spring Lake

September 13, 2020 (photo credit - A. Kenny)

...and was reminded just how beautiful it is. 

-AK