How will we remember “Charley”? As the hurricane that some say equaled “Andrew”? Or, as others say, was not as bad as “Andrew”? Or as it effected our lives and brought fear to it? Or just as a time we had to evacuate our home, leaving it to the Lord to protect, and then coming home to finding it all intact? No question how I will answer these inquiries, it was a moment and time when we were within the shadow of a giant who chased us from our home and kept us in fear for many hours. Like the September 11th tragedy and the killing of JFK we will remember for the rest of our lives where we were when Charley knocked on our door. It was truly a “Friday the 13th” in all respects. Where were we when Charley finally came ashore? In Land O’Lakes, Florida at the home of Michael Golden, June’s son, which is located north of Tampa in Pasco County.
We, June, myself, and our good friend Shirley Pyle left our home around 6 PM on Thursday, August 12th and headed for Mike’s. We spent the day, Friday, the 13th, watching and listening to movements of Charley. It was initially headed directly towards St. Petersburg, Tampa, and the Bay that lies between. If it struck at the speed of 145 miles per hour, as it ultimately did, in this area we would have had a water surge of 14 feet. This alone was frightening enough without thinking what the wind would and could do to the area. We spent all day Thursday preparing for the worst by cleaning out closets, raising the furniture, removing all that was outside and could be blown around and away. The news got worse as we watched since it was only a category 2 when we first tuned in but by three PM on Friday it was up to a “4”. Then came the blessing. Charley took a “Hard Right” as the newspaper later headlined. It turned ashore some 80 to 100 miles south of us striking at Port Charlotte Bay and that area. There was a visible sigh of relief in the room when that report came. The storm roared across Florida from that southwest landfall. It went Northeast across the center of Florida and headed out to sea near the city of Jacksonville. Though its traveling on land slowed the winds some, the damage, even in center Florida, was extensive. We saw a little rain where we were and returned home on Saturday morning. We had on that day heavy rains, tornado warnings, lightening and thunder but thank God, no more Charley. All of the area we live in was evacuated. It took us nearly an hour to drive across the eleven-mile bridge (Howard Frankland) connecting St. Petersburg and Tampa. It was reported that from nine hundred thousand to a million people evacuated the area. It was a time to move and a time to remember. The news of the effects of the storm continues to come in even now a week later. It will be a long time before normal living is restored to the devastated area. Powers is out, homes have been flattened, and all the things we usually take for granted in our daily lives have been lost or are only slowly working their way back. We who were spared are giving thanks in prayers, donations of all sorts including time and money to help the area recover. Like September 11th and JFK’s assassination the people are united and all the so-called ‘differences’ disappear. Charley will be like them a time to remember and give thanks that we didn’t have him as a guest in Shore Acres.
I received many comments, mostly complimentary, about my jottings last month where I talked about how I got into running. Compliments about the jottings always remind me of what my sister Therese, a Holy Child nun, said about them. She thought them fine, “But what do we do with all the paper?” I know a few who would have given her advice which were not too complimentary. But the remarks brought with them memories. It had me recalling other incidents that running brought to my life between 1971 and 1981. It was in that period that I ran the most distances and especially marathons and three 50 K’s (31 miles 150 yards). One of the memories was of a fellow master but much better performer Seth Bergman.
Thirty years ago in 1974, probably in March, we had a special Marathon. It was to qualify for entry into the Boston Marathon, which is run annually on “Patriots’ Day” in April. A qualify time was required for the first time in Boston’s history due to the number of participants growing in leaps and bounds. The opportunity to go and compete in an already scheduled marathon to qualify was eliminated in most cases because we were suffering at the same time from an ‘refined oil’ crisis. The prices were rising and reaching almost a dollar a gallon for gas, nothing like the two dollars of today. But it struck suddenly and plans had to be altered. I learned later confidently that it seemed to be a planned crisis since while we all waited for more refined gasoline a great deal of it was sitting in tankers in the Delaware Bay. But be that as it may, we had a running Crisis, so a marathon was quickly set up to be run in loops on the East and West River drives of Fairmount Park in Philadelphia.
Now the story I am about to relate happened while I too was competing in that race but I received it from a reliable source and knowing the parties could easily believe it to be so.
At the marathon there was a water station on the West River Drive at the bottom of the hill to Belmont Plaza. At the water station was a non-runner of Jewish heritage who was present to promote a little known running shoe company called “Reebok”. We will call him “Sam”. His main job was in sales of many items along with these new running shoes. He lamented that business was slow since Reebok was unknown then. Nike had command of this new running rage. So what better place to sell running shoes than at a running event.
As the runners passed the water station, Sam, along with other volunteers handed water to the runners in paper cups. Incidentally, they were the paper cups usually found next to office water bottles, not sturdy plastic ones as used today. I remember reaching many times for the hand holding the water cup and having it, the cup, crumble as it was passed from hand to hand. As you passed the volunteers would while holding out the cup chant, “water”, “water”, “here’s water”.
The third or fourth place runner as they passed the water station was Seth Bergman. He may be still running today. I know he was still running in 1981, but that’s another story. He was a medal-winning master in those days. Someone among the volunteers mentioned his name to Sam and he assumed that Seth was also of Jewish heritage.
As the race progressed being run in loops sure enough there was Seth coming by the same water station. Sam jumped out ahead of the other chanting water-servers and he went directly towards Seth shouting “Chicken Soup, Chicken Soup!” while holding a cup out to the striding Seth. Time has moved on, Sam has disappeared from running events, Reebok is a big seller of shoes, and “chicken soup” remains as ever the Jewish mother’s cure-all for both marathoners and non- runners alike.
Back in those halcyon days of my running in the 70’s, we had an annual Thanksgiving Day jaunt on what was called the “Forbidden Trail” in Wissahickon Park in Philadelphia. It was on Thanksgiving morning in order to make the meal seem less filling. A group of runners started at the beginning of the trail, which twisted its way through the country along the Wissahickon Creek for some 11 miles or so. Most would run at least that and some would add more miles by returning to selected drop off points. That morning in the late Seventies there was about twenty runners, including Bill King, myself, Herb Lorenz, Neil Weigandt and Seth Bergman. I discovered in 2001 while in Boston for my son Dan’s running of that classic marathon, that Neil Weigandt was running his 35th Boston! He would thus become the “number one” on list of people who have competed in successive Boston marathons. Herb was a world class marathoner who missed one of the Olympic teams by a place and did represent United State in the World Track & Field Championships held on one of the off years from the Olympics.
We were striding along at a causal pace shoulder to shoulder in a pack of maybe four or five lines. Seth Bergman, whom we mentioned above, was in the first row with the front runners. They passed a couple embracing on the side of the trail. Suddenly the man embracing stopped doing so and stared at the runners. He said something aloud like” Well, I’ll be damned, Seth?” We passed and nothing was said for some yards then someone asked, “Who was that Seth?” He calmly answered, “My Dad”. A few more paces and several yards, when Seth just as quietly said, “But that wasn’t my mother”.
In September 1981, June and I took a belated honeymoon trip to San Francisco. We stayed at Fisherman’s Wharf. We usually took a walk in the morning to maybe see some sights in the area and get some exercise before breakfast. One morning as we came out of the hotel and walked up to the street curb we stopped to decide which way we would go. As we stood there from our right came a runner and as he breezed by he said “Good morning Paul!” and kept on running. June asked, “Who was that?” I said, “It was Seth Bergman from the Elkins Park Roadrunners Club in Philly”. She, as well as I, was quite surprised as we learned “it is a small world”. Then June added, “Why didn’t he stop?” I told her because he was “running’, and stopping is not on your program when you are training. Later I talked to Seth about his surprise and leaned that his job often took him to San Francisco, and he loved to do his runs down by Fishermen’s Wharf. By coincidence these stories might sound like the “Seth Bergman Saga” but it just happens that he played a major part in each one of these ventures.
We had anticipated before these writing went out that we would know when Mary Lou was to have her surgery. It has been postponed until after September 15th. So we let you know when we know. Keep us and her in your prayers.