I did the only sensible thing. I got back on anti-depressants, stopped reading and watching the news and began clearing out my e-mail inbox.

Before I toss it, I’m sharing with you this e-mail exchange with my son Burton, just in case your summer is going as miserably as mine.

You may know from reading my columns on downtown noise that as new empty-nesters, Ian and I downsized into a 1,550-sqare-foot loft in 2004. We had just moved out of our old place when I sent the following e-mail to our three grown children:

TO: Burton, Erin and John

FROM: Toni Inglis

SUBJECT: 1-GALLON GLASS JARS UP FOR GRABS

DATE: Oct. 16, 2004

I’m rearranging my limited kitchen space and have several nice glass one-gallon jars with tasteful white plastic lids up for grabs.

Remember ’em? When several of you heathens were living with us, we stored flour, sugar, rice, cornmeal, etc., in them. Now, with only two of us, we need smaller containers. I know what you’re thinking — why doncha just pitch ’em?

Well, there’s a reason. We couldn’t find them anywhere in the ’70s, so even though it took several years, I begged them all off the Seton dietary people who were kind enough to save them for me. They had pickles and stuff in them, and it took forever to get the pickle smell out! But they’re the good, threaded jars.

As the metal lids failed over the years, I found nice white plastic lids for them at the Container Store. Glass one-gallon jars that properly seal are still hard to find, so if any of you want them, let me know. They’re airtight and great for storage.

Mom

TO: Toni Inglis

FROM: Burton Knight

SUBJECT: Re: 1-GALLON GLASS JARS UP FOR GRABS

DATE: Oct. 17, 2004

While I have struggled to live my life, as one of your children, as if there simply WERE NO JARS, I see now that I must address my heir-ship to the JARS immediately.

All my life I have truly struggled NOT to covet the spoils of maternal mortality. Yet I find myself unprepared for their being offered up so selflessly by you, not in death, but in the prime of peri-geriatric, empty-nest decadence.

Is this a noble goodbye from the far end of hospice soul-searching, or a stoic, Christ-like sacrifice? I could only wonder, if I weren’t fiendishly scheming for ways to eliminate my siblings. We both know how you loved me most — your firstborn.

When my wife read your missive, she finally confessed her longtime interest in the JARS with giddy anticipation. Yet I mustn’t let avarice take control.

The JARS, like your soul, cannot be possessed by one person. If only we could fragment the JARS, so that each person whose life you touched could enjoy a piece of your legacy, as it exists, so beautifully distilled into material treasure … the JARS!

Sadly, such an egalitarian paradise is a naive pipe dream at best. So, let us be frank. I am willing to offer you $100 per jar, or twice whatever either of my (unmarried!) siblings offers you. Surely you wouldn’t consider wasting such treasures on them! They wouldn’t know the first thing to do with a fine glass JAR.

I beg you, do not squander the fruits of your resourcefulness. I have mouths to feed! Maybe you would have your granddaughter eat cornmeal and brown sugar from Tupperware, [expletive] dammit!?

I’m sorry. It’s your decision. I know you’ll make the right one.

Your firstborn son,

Burton

I never heard back from the other two “kids” — siblings of Burton, as he points out, who were younger and unmarried. Burton got the jars. Free of charge.

Somehow I feel better now. Maybe I’ll start reading the news again — tomorrow morning.

In 1997, I was ranked by USA Triathlon’s National Rankings Program as LAST in my category — female 50-54. Yes, 57^th of 57. USA Triathlon’s Tim Yount assured me that I did beat one woman in the 75-plus age group. Then, in an amazing burst of speed, I rose to 68^th of 81 triathletes in the female 50-54 category in 1998.

I remember my first triathlon: the 1997 Lone Star in Pflugerville, Texas. Clueless, I was standing in line for the swim when my eyes met those of a friend whose (buff triathlete) daughter was racing. With an audible gasp, my friend’s eyes widened with an expression that could only mean: “I can’t believe you’re exposing these poor young people to your lily-white, hail-damaged thighs and that mid-section that has given birth to three children.”

Thus inspired, I did the swim — no big deal. But that 16-mile, hilly bike ride was a killer. The farthest I’d ridden at that point was 14 flat miles. When I got off my bike, the seat of which was made of concrete, I was stunned to discover I had no feeling from the pelvis down. I told myself, “If you’ll just put one foot in front of the other, you won’t crumple to the ground and confirm for all the world that you are, in fact, A TOTAL IDIOT.”

Having started the “run” with no feeling in my legs, I decided it was time for some positive self-talk. “Okay, you’re really a stud here. How many other 50-year-olds do you see? In fact, where is everybody? I’m alone. My God, I must be ahead of the pack! Yyyeesss! Can’t wait to tell my husband and children that by some fluke I won the first triathlon I ever did! Now that’s raw, inborn talent. There’s a nice lady at the water table. She looks like she could stand to do a few of these. Hey, she’s leaning out over the table, looking at me! I must really be an awesome sight.”

I reach out to get the water she’s handing me, and she says, “Hon, do you know if you’re lay-est? I’d like to go home.” (In Pflugerville, “last” is a two-syllable word.)

“Hon? Last? Go home?” With the soft ping of a bubble bursting, I hear the music from the slash scene in “Psycho”, and I feel just like the guy with the knife. She’ll get home all right.

That was my first triathlon, and I won first as well as last in my age group. In fact, I got my name in print in the Austin American-Statesman and Runner Triathlete News with a time a good hour slower that anyone else in the listing. But this year, ’98, I kicked butt. No more hail damage. No more lily white. Weighing in at 118, I’ve dropped 19 pounds from last year without dieting, and I look like I’ve had maybe two children instead of three.

How have I done it? After I finished my third triathlon last year, a friend (and buff triathlete) who looked like she was explaining a complex mathematical formula to an oyster, informed me that I could improve my time by jogging rather than walking during the part called “The Run”.

Another big help was replacing my 32-pound, Sherman-tank bike with a sleek, 20-pound bike named after some dude named LeMond. He must be a god because there were giant posters of him hanging from the ceiling of the bike shop where I bought it. The guy’s got thighs the size of prize-winning hogs and has a pretty intense look on his face — not unlike the guy with the knife in “Psycho”. Frankly, I think he’s got a real problem with sweat, and I worry about the mental stability of a guy who would tape his feet to his pedals for a time trial. Not even the buff triathletes featured in this publication would do that. Would they?