“A lot of your blog posts are really sad.” That’s what I’ve been told. Lots of times.
Fair enough. I write
about sad things sometimes because in a lot of ways, the sad times mark a shift
in thinking. Happy times confirm that
you’re doing something right; sad times make you want to change something. Right?
In that way, sad stuff can offer clarity.
Like how I learned to ask for stories—from a woman I barely
knew.
Ten years ago, I went on a trip to Denver for a professional
conference. I traveled with a group of
eight colleagues, a sassy and fun clump of administrators who didn’t work
together very closely, but shared a mutual respect—and a shared deliriousness at
the idea of fleeing Ohio in exchange for the mountains of Colorado. It was February, and Ohio was at its most
miserable: the snow had turned slushy
and gray; the clouds were a disgusting, depressing mass; and the cold was the
type that was making our joints hurt.
The beginning of the trip was unremarkable, because, as is
the case with these types of conferences, the halls of a nondescript convention
center swallowed us up. We dutifully
went to all of the professional sessions; each night at dinner, we talked about
what we’d learned and how to put it into practice back home. All the while, though, our eye was always on
the prize; we had planned to stay an extra day to go skiing in Vail.
Vail! Me!
Skiing in Vail! I felt fancy just thinking about it.
We rented a black Dodge Caravan, and all eight of us stuffed
inside. We were in that giddy, the-conference-is-over-now-we-can-have-fun
place. We left right after breakfast, headed
west, and were on the slopes before noon.
The skiing was really not something that allows
description. The mountains! The soft snow! The mind-blowing heights! The clean air! Oh, oh, oh—the skies!
And the skiing. Oh,
my.
I’d skied for several years by then and had grown into a
confident and ballsy skier. But my
confidence had been built on slopes in Ohio. It took about 4.5 seconds after getting off
the first lift in Colorado to take a look down and decide my breath might stop.
I fell a lot at first, but eventually got some passable ski
legs on. I stuck to the green runs—most
of us did. We were challenged but held
our own. We did all right. And it unfolded into a lovely, lovely
day. The kind of day where everything
seems just right. We took a break from
skiing at one point to gorge on enormous bowls of hot chili and buttery chunks
of cornbread; then we drank the clichéd hot chocolate with mounds of whipped
cream frothing over the edge of our mugs.
When the sun went down and the lodge closed, we folded our
exhausted bodies back into the van.
Driving east back to Denver, a snowstorm blew in like nothing I’d seen
before. We considered pulling over, but
we all had early flights and feared we would get stuck for hours. “I’ve got this,” Lenore said, taking over the
wheel and scrunching down in calm, focused concentration. In the back, we didn’t talk; we let her study
the black air and invisible road as thick, cottony snowflakes whirled and
hurled around us. In the front seat with
Lenore was her friend and work-wife, Linda, a woman I hadn’t known well, but
had grown to know and respect over the four days we’d spent together. She was funny and smart and kind. Gentle.
Frugal with her words. But as the
van crept slowly eastbound through the mountains, Linda murmured nonstop to
Lenore—a soft and encouraging sound that somehow reassured all of us.
The snow lightened as we neared Denver, but by then, a 2-hour
drive had turned into a 5-hour ordeal. When
Lenore pulled the van back into our Holiday Inn Express, we were almost tearful
with relief. We hugged and thanked
Lenore; she stretched her neck and arms from being clenched and clamped by
worry. We went straight to the hotel bar.
“I’ll take a Shiraz,
please,” Linda asked the bartender. She
folded her hands elegantly over one another.
Her lips barely moved as she ordered: Shiraz.
She saw me watching her.
“What?” she asked, smiling.
“I just decided love that word,” I said. “It’s very sophisticated.”
“Shiraz?”
I nodded.
“My daughter loves that word, too,” she said. “Actually, it’s a little embarrassing because
her teachers tell me that she says ‘Shiraz’ all day long, over and over, while
she’s at her job.” She laughed—but the
sound mixed up happiness with melancholy.
“I wish she’d pick a different repetition word.”
And I thought: There is a story there. About her daughter.
And I thought: I want to know it.
And I thought: I want to ask. Can I ask?
I don’t know how to ask.
So I smiled and looked away.
And here’s where the sad comes in.
Two years later, Linda was gone. Not long after our trip, she found a lump in
her breast and, in spite of fighting back like hell—complete with tired smiles,
beautiful wigs, and a valiant work ethic that overshadowed her weak days— she lost
the fight.
And now, years later:
Although I barely knew Linda, I think of her a lot. Every
time someone orders Shiraz, sure, but also when I meet a person who seems to have
a story to tell.
Because now I ask.
“Tell me more about that,” I’ll say.
“It sounds like there is a story there. I’d love to know it,” I’ll say.
“Is it too bold of me to ask you to tell me more?” I’ll say.
I want to hear all the stories. All of them.
And what I learned that day in Denver with Linda: If you lose the chance to hear someone’s
story, you might not get it back.
