I am decompressing with a Manhattan wishing it was a G&T listening to Ziggy Stardust & the Spiders.
I've seen the Yankees, Orioles, Rays, Blue Jays and other assorted ball clubs play. I've been to Framingham, BC, BU, Hereford and Newbury, Boylston, and spots in between. Others have been to the Bruins or Celtics following the marathon. It's been cold, it's been hot, sunny, cloudy, and windy. If there is a watering hole between Fenway Park, BPL and beyond, I've celebrated. This one will be celebrated too. April 15, 2013 will prove to be the beginning of a great new tradition next year in the 118th Boston marathon.
This year my wife ran the marathon. This year is the second year my brother ran the marathon. I knew ten people running it. I knew a hundred people attending the race. From Ashland, Framingham, Newton, BU, Cleveland Circle, Charlesgate and Comm Ave, and Lord & Taylor's, the grand stands and VIP seating on Boylston were friends rooting on all the runners, including the ones they knew. The pipe bombs affected each of us. The marathon is this City's Mardi Gras: 26.2 miles of humanity.
This is vacation week around here. It starts on Monday, Patriot's Day, a local holiday commemorating the first shots on Lexington Green to gain independence. I have been glued to the TV. I have apologized to my kids for being distracted. All spring cleaning has been postponed. Some of the most powerful words I've ever heard was at the interfaith service on Thursday. I remember 1/14/91, 9/11/2001 and now 4/15/13.
The days in between Monday and today provided small details, insights, then finally images. What ensued couldn't have been scripted. It shut down a town. No one in or out of Watertown; shelter in place in several other cities and towns including Boston. At points, it shut down transit and taxi service. Murder in cold blood, an incredible manhunt, a brother driving over another and a city rejoicing.
Since Monday, I have received texts, calls, emails, Facebook messages, and Twitter DMs from so many people. I only watched the race, and live on the South Shore of Boston. René Descartes may have it right philosophically, but I disagree: to be thought of is to be.