What is it about ladies perfumes? Some of them are as heavy and cloying as a brocaded curtain, while others are ethereally whispery as a silk stocking. I never got the hang of perfume. Oh, I wear some every day, the same scent Monday through Friday. I wear something a little heavier on Sundays when I get all "gussied" up for church. I don't usually wear a scent on Saturdays. I don't wear make-up then either. But other women I know seem to get wearing perfume. It's an accessory, like rings or the right pocketbook. Their scent matches their outfit.
Of course, some women wear perfume and wield it like a club. Recently, I was mingling with a lot of different people. I was acquainted with some of them, some were total strangers. I happened to see a young woman I hadn't seen for quite some time. She gave me a hug along with a full onslaught of her perfume. And I could smell it hours afterwards. I kid you not, hours. When I got home, hubby, who hadn't attended the soirée moved to the other side of the couch. It was worse than tobacco smoke. I went upstairs to take a shower, sure that the scent of my shower gel would obliterate it, but no it didn't. What kind of ingredient is in perfume that would resist soap? And would you wear it? Well, I wouldn't. But apparently she finds the scent so attractive she bathes in it. Then I thought perhaps, maybe she doesn't smell it anymore since she wears it so strongly. Maybe she has gotten immune to the fumes. Whatever the reason,it still lingers around me, not quite as strongly, but there nonetheless. Hubby said he would sleep in the spare bedroom tonight until it wears off. I wonder if it will clash with my scent tomorrow morning? I wonder if I will now have to begin wearing this clinging, cloying smell because I can never be rid of it. Maybe that why she wears it! Oh, Lord. I'll have to buy stronger soap. What do they use to get the smell of skunks out of dog fur? But seriously, the smell was noxious or even gagging. Just strong, pungent. I won't forget this young woman for a while now. And maybe that's why she wears this scent.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Sunday, August 24, 2014
A New And Different World
I spent yesterday in the Big Apple with my younger brother. We went places I hadn't been before. He indulged me as he's seen most of this stuff. But one place we hadn't seen was this store we went to. Now we didn't go to NYC to shop, that isn't the appeal for us. We go to museums or galleries or Central Park. But shopping? Nope. However, we had some time to kill before our train left the tracks and we decided that a good way to end the day was to buy some chocolate. Chocolate is a perfect way to end a day. Of course, it's a perfect way to begin a day, too, but I digress.
He used his "magic phone" to find a store, and the closest one was not what we expected. It was an entire store dedicate to a well-known, small, hard coated with chocolate inside candy. An entire store! Three floors dedicated to these small candies that marketing has evolved to have personalities. There are red, orange, brown, green, blue, which most of us are aware of, but did you know they have purple? Or ivory? Or pink, maroon, teal, and even more variations? The entire first floor looked to be dedicated to T-shirts, pajamas, and other paraphernalia. We were in awe! And the shirts were emblazoned with the personalities of the colors: yellow the sort of dopey guy, brown with the eyeglasses. Brother and I were giggling as we climbed aboard the escalator to the second floor. Again a merchandising paradise of mugs, sippy cups, onesies and even poker chips!
But the wonder didn't stop at the bounty of items to purchase! You could get personalized candies! That's right, get some special initials, names, clip art...all kinds of stuff put on the outside of these candies. Imagine melt in your mouth, not in your hand candy with your name on them! It was ingenious! Now to be perfectly honest, I knew you could do this, but I thought it could only be done on-line. Here we were in person! It was an opportunity too good to miss.
And so the brother and I stood in line. For quite a while. Were there a lot of people? No, but the family from a distant land in front of us was having a hard time negotiating the computer which generates the lovely names, pictures, initials, what-have-you. They were gesturing grandly to each other in what sounded like the language of the Swedish Chef from the Muppets show. They didn't look especially thrilled about the experience either. When you go about getting personalized candy, shouldn't you be happy about it? Anyway, brother and I finally got our chance and it was a hoot! I laughed so much my face hurt. And we missed our train. But I will always remember the candy store and the millions of variations of colors and laughter we shared all wrapped up in a hard candy shell!
He used his "magic phone" to find a store, and the closest one was not what we expected. It was an entire store dedicate to a well-known, small, hard coated with chocolate inside candy. An entire store! Three floors dedicated to these small candies that marketing has evolved to have personalities. There are red, orange, brown, green, blue, which most of us are aware of, but did you know they have purple? Or ivory? Or pink, maroon, teal, and even more variations? The entire first floor looked to be dedicated to T-shirts, pajamas, and other paraphernalia. We were in awe! And the shirts were emblazoned with the personalities of the colors: yellow the sort of dopey guy, brown with the eyeglasses. Brother and I were giggling as we climbed aboard the escalator to the second floor. Again a merchandising paradise of mugs, sippy cups, onesies and even poker chips!
But the wonder didn't stop at the bounty of items to purchase! You could get personalized candies! That's right, get some special initials, names, clip art...all kinds of stuff put on the outside of these candies. Imagine melt in your mouth, not in your hand candy with your name on them! It was ingenious! Now to be perfectly honest, I knew you could do this, but I thought it could only be done on-line. Here we were in person! It was an opportunity too good to miss.
And so the brother and I stood in line. For quite a while. Were there a lot of people? No, but the family from a distant land in front of us was having a hard time negotiating the computer which generates the lovely names, pictures, initials, what-have-you. They were gesturing grandly to each other in what sounded like the language of the Swedish Chef from the Muppets show. They didn't look especially thrilled about the experience either. When you go about getting personalized candy, shouldn't you be happy about it? Anyway, brother and I finally got our chance and it was a hoot! I laughed so much my face hurt. And we missed our train. But I will always remember the candy store and the millions of variations of colors and laughter we shared all wrapped up in a hard candy shell!
Balloons and their symbolism...discuss
I was in a hurry this morning. I had things to do, places to be. But I had to stop at the grocery store for a quick minute to get some milk. We were almost out and I was going to be having breakfast when I got done my errands and I hate running out of milk for my cereal. I was sort of rushing after buying it, thinking of what the day would look like, if I would get the things done I had envisioned, focused on crossing the parking lot, when something flashed just overhead. Now, usually when something flashes overhead in this neck of the woods, it's a plane. We're on the landing pattern for a large airport, so planes are an everyday, no, hourly, occurrence. But this flash was closer and there was no engine noise. So I looked up. And saw a green, shiny, star-shaped balloon floating above the parking lot. The curious thing was this--there was not one crying child in the vicinity. You know what I mean, how a child whines and whines to be allowed to hold the balloon and as soon as their chubby little fingers get a hold of it, the ribbon escapes their grasp and they are left bereft, watching their treasure float off to join the airplanes. No child. The other interesting thing? It was not floating up. It was floating horizontally about 15 feet off the ground. It was very curious. I stood stock still for several moments watching it's slow and stately procession above the crowded lot and loft just above the trees which separate the shopping center from the local high school football field. It was mesmerizing, watching it take it's time, ambling along just slightly below the telephone and power lines. I couldn't imagine the science responsible for making this balloon sailing as it did. Wasn't helium supposed to be lighter than air? Shouldn't it have been racing up to the clouds towards its implosion in the upper atmosphere? I puzzled about it through the rest of the day. Stopping at various points and wondering if it was still traversing it's lateral path many miles from here. And if anyone else had taken the time to see it.
Saturday, August 16, 2014
Uh-Oh
I feel it coming. A disaster is on the horizon. I know it. How do I know it? Well, I usually get this feeling of disquiet or discontent. This is usually followed by my saying or doing something so incredibly dumb, even for me, that socially I'm suddenly a pariah. Or I find a financial disaster is looming on the horizon that I should have seen on the horizon is suddenly looming IN MY FACE, and other people would have seen it coming, but no, not me.And I have to scramble to raid my savings account (what little is in there). But I always get this premonition though, that things are about to go south (or in deference to my brother and sister-in-law) go wrong. I don't know when or what it will be, but it's definitely coming. I just don't know when. Or what manner. And I really can't be ready for it as I don't know what quarter it will come from. I've tried heading things off by keeping myself contained to the house, but there is always email. And the phone. I could say I've gone off on vacation I guess and removed all outside influences. But the temptation to plug back in again is too great. Nope. I'll just have to tread carefully and quietly for the next few days.
The other way to do this I guess is to just go ahead and do something disastrous on purpose and get it out of the way. It usually takes a couple of weeks for the dust to settle after that, but then it's another year or so before I get this again. But the consequences...that's what I hate. The consequences of whatever this thing is that is looming on the horizon.
So I tiptoe gingerly around the house. Letting the answering machine pick up the phone. Letting my email go unanswered as long as I can without appearing rude. While my stomach churns (of course it could be what I had for dinner last night) and I wait in anticipation. It's coming. I just don't know when.
The other way to do this I guess is to just go ahead and do something disastrous on purpose and get it out of the way. It usually takes a couple of weeks for the dust to settle after that, but then it's another year or so before I get this again. But the consequences...that's what I hate. The consequences of whatever this thing is that is looming on the horizon.
So I tiptoe gingerly around the house. Letting the answering machine pick up the phone. Letting my email go unanswered as long as I can without appearing rude. While my stomach churns (of course it could be what I had for dinner last night) and I wait in anticipation. It's coming. I just don't know when.
Thursday, August 7, 2014
A New Day
I'm sitting here quietly in the morning, listening to birdsong and seeing the dew on the grass. It's morning at my brother's house and the world is just waking up. As am I! I'm contemplating the day to come and the day before this one. I'm thinking about events planned months from now. I'm thinking about our kids-hubby and I have these great adults who are part of us wherever we go. I am also wondering if hubby is awake yet to greet the day.
The opportunity to just sit and ponder things, reflect and just drink the quiet in happens so rarely. From the time we get up to the time we slump boneless into bed is filled with busyness, noise, tedious minutiae of everyday life, it becomes harder to process or even savor the life that is. And so before our day, I sit and listen to the beat of the world around me. A great gift, this day.
The opportunity to just sit and ponder things, reflect and just drink the quiet in happens so rarely. From the time we get up to the time we slump boneless into bed is filled with busyness, noise, tedious minutiae of everyday life, it becomes harder to process or even savor the life that is. And so before our day, I sit and listen to the beat of the world around me. A great gift, this day.
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
It Was Amazing!
Those of you who know me or my physical prowess (or lack of same), know that I go to a gym these days. It is an interesting time for me. I find out my limits, my abilities and my lack of coordination all while paying someone who, patiently I must add, encourages me while I puff and pant. We have done some exercises that I had never done before, like grabbing an enormous python-like rope and slapping it on the ground and even kicking a standing pillar of gym mat (oddly satisfying). Of course there are the exercises that I gave up on, too, like sit ups or lunges. All of these things are good for me to do, else I would sit in a gelatinous mess on a chair, reading yet another book.
The thing is, there are certain things I have never been able to do, like cartwheels. They look fun, but my legs would never straighten when going over, so I resembled a crab rolling on the sand in gym class. And I could never do a chin up. For love or money, though no one offered me money. The physical strength needed to pull myself up just plain wasn't there. So when my lovely, patient trainer suggested a kind of chin up today, I thought she'd finally gone 'round the bend. "A chin-up?" She nodded her head, she made encouraging noises and then she showed me what she had in mind.
There is a piece of equipment in the gym which has two vertical uprights, weights in back of them and other instruments of torture attached to the top of the uprights. She showed me a piece of webbed strap connected to the uprights and weights. If you asked me exactly how it worked I wouldn't have any idea, but the trainer had me step on the strap and essentially hang down while holding the horizontal bar. She told me to pull up towards the bar and VOILA I did a chin up! For the first time in my 59 years, I did a chin up! It was amazing. I was so excited and happy! And honestly that isn't how I frequently respond to my workouts. But I have to say, if she offers this to me again, I will definitely try it again. It was amazing!
The thing is, there are certain things I have never been able to do, like cartwheels. They look fun, but my legs would never straighten when going over, so I resembled a crab rolling on the sand in gym class. And I could never do a chin up. For love or money, though no one offered me money. The physical strength needed to pull myself up just plain wasn't there. So when my lovely, patient trainer suggested a kind of chin up today, I thought she'd finally gone 'round the bend. "A chin-up?" She nodded her head, she made encouraging noises and then she showed me what she had in mind.
There is a piece of equipment in the gym which has two vertical uprights, weights in back of them and other instruments of torture attached to the top of the uprights. She showed me a piece of webbed strap connected to the uprights and weights. If you asked me exactly how it worked I wouldn't have any idea, but the trainer had me step on the strap and essentially hang down while holding the horizontal bar. She told me to pull up towards the bar and VOILA I did a chin up! For the first time in my 59 years, I did a chin up! It was amazing. I was so excited and happy! And honestly that isn't how I frequently respond to my workouts. But I have to say, if she offers this to me again, I will definitely try it again. It was amazing!
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
For Barb's Information
The prep begins the day before. You are told through pamphlet and phone calls to eat a liquid diet. Broth, fruit juices, water, flavored seltzer. But they add in ominous overtones, NOTHING with blue, purple or green dye in it. Or was it red dye? Well, whatever, so you drink your breakfast and lunch and think, well, this is no big deal. But then comes the drinking of the evil liquid. Six ounces poured into a large plastic cup, you add water to fill to the 16 ounce line and begin to drink. You were warned that it tastes like sea water, or some noxious chemical. To me it had a slight fake grape aftertaste. Of course, I really hate fake grape anything, so this was not a selling point to me. You are told to drink it all down then follow up with two sixteen ounce glasses of water. I finished the weird drink and felt full. But I still had 32 ounces of water to take in within an hour. I sat and sipped while reading, waiting for something to happen. But nothing did for a while. I decided I needed to move to sort of "get things going" so I began to walk around the house. Then I realized I had only had a little of the "follow up" water. I went in to get some more and tried gulping it down. But I still felt full. And the water made me feel fuller. I started sloshing around the house again. And then I had to get to the bathroom very quickly, where I stayed for the next two hours. It was okay in a way. I had my reading materials. I had my iPad to play games on. But every time I thought things were slowing down, and I moved to the room next to the bathroom, oops, I had to hotfoot it back to the bathroom again. I didn't feel queasy, or crampy. It was just sort of, well like someone had turned on a faucet and left it on. You wouldn't think a person who was on liquids all day could possibly have that much in them!
But then the worse part comes. Because you think things have finally slowed down enough to sit for a while when you realize it's time to take the next liquid dose of the mystery chemical! Another sixteen ounces. And this time it seemed harder to get it all down. The gag reflex was working, and even though the directions tell you that you have x amount of time to finish the drink, you REALLY, REALLY want to finish it as soon as possible because it's really starting to taste bad now. And you still have to drink another 32ounces of water after this! You don't believe it's humanly possible to swallow this much liquid and aren't you all flushed out anyway? And the answer is no, you're not. So it's back into the bathroom again for a few more hours and you are beginning to be cold and sleepy and you are pretty sure you are either going into shock or something when your body finally, finally, let's you drag yourself to the bed, where you fall into a fitful slumber, dreaming of bathrooms and endless glasses of water and the sound do the toilet paper roll running out of paper.
The morning comes. Your appointment is happily in the morning so you can get it over with quickly. You dress, visit the bathroom a couple of more times (hard to believe ther's anything left), and finally you ge to the surgical center and
EVERYONE is so nice. It's like they realize that the prep is so gross, they want to make up for it. You are whisked away for an IV, a quick consult with the anesthetist, and you find yourself in the operating room getting an injection to put you to sleep. When you awaken, you are full of gas, but that passes quickly. Then you are up, given cookies and soda and sent on your way with the information that since a polyp was found, you will be visiting in three years.
And, that Barb, is what to expect!
But then the worse part comes. Because you think things have finally slowed down enough to sit for a while when you realize it's time to take the next liquid dose of the mystery chemical! Another sixteen ounces. And this time it seemed harder to get it all down. The gag reflex was working, and even though the directions tell you that you have x amount of time to finish the drink, you REALLY, REALLY want to finish it as soon as possible because it's really starting to taste bad now. And you still have to drink another 32ounces of water after this! You don't believe it's humanly possible to swallow this much liquid and aren't you all flushed out anyway? And the answer is no, you're not. So it's back into the bathroom again for a few more hours and you are beginning to be cold and sleepy and you are pretty sure you are either going into shock or something when your body finally, finally, let's you drag yourself to the bed, where you fall into a fitful slumber, dreaming of bathrooms and endless glasses of water and the sound do the toilet paper roll running out of paper.
The morning comes. Your appointment is happily in the morning so you can get it over with quickly. You dress, visit the bathroom a couple of more times (hard to believe ther's anything left), and finally you ge to the surgical center and
EVERYONE is so nice. It's like they realize that the prep is so gross, they want to make up for it. You are whisked away for an IV, a quick consult with the anesthetist, and you find yourself in the operating room getting an injection to put you to sleep. When you awaken, you are full of gas, but that passes quickly. Then you are up, given cookies and soda and sent on your way with the information that since a polyp was found, you will be visiting in three years.
And, that Barb, is what to expect!
Late Night Melancholia
I really want to be asleep right now. I closed my eyes about an hour ago and they just opened and stayed that way. Heavy sigh. I got up. What's the use of trying to sleep when your mind is running, running, running. There are a million and one things to think about right now and they are crowding into the brain at alarming speed. However, I am shoving them to the side (or back or whichever lobe has room at the moment). And the reason is this: I just re-read my older brother's blog post from April. He celebrated the 6th anniversary of his blog with a jaunty playlist and some honest realizations. I went on to read the comments because I didn't remember if I had commented and wanted to see what others wrote. And there was my other brother commenting in his insightful and wistful way. And I realized I missed them.
When you grow up and move away from family, you start to rework your priorities. Everyone knows this. and Everyone does it. You begin to carve out time for the spouse, the pets, the kids, the job, then the taking care of the house, then the taking care of the kids, then the cleaning of said house, then the maintenance of the car, then the maintenance of the marriage, then--hopefully--the maintenance of sanity by finding a small space to simply stop and breathe. And with all this rearranging of self and time and space, you suddenly notice that its been weeks--no, let's be honest, months since you've conversed with the people you used to live with 24/7. Now, if you don't happen to like your parents or your siblings, this could be freeing and indeed liberating. However, if, like me, you enjoy your family and find them comforting and good companions, this is the opposite of being free. You suddenly feel guilty for having a life outside of them. So you decide to reach out to them and find they are busy with their lives and they haven't gotten to that point yet of, oh, yeah, we haven't talked for a while, have we? So you back off and don't talk to them for even longer, because you don't want to whine or be a pest. It's not a happy place to be.
Recently some people that I thought would always be there were suddenly not. One of them passed away and the other one is moving. I had a rush of feeling that nothing is permanent. No one is there for you all the time. And maybe I'm not quite as lovable as I hoped I was. It's a ridiculous train of thought since the world doesn't revolve around me, but my perception kept poking at me. And then I thought, wait, this isn't true. My family is permanent. My siblings and I really love each other and are there when we need to be. And so I dab my leaky eyes at midnight, thinking of my brothers and sister who I love very much. And hoping they know how much I think of them even when I'm up in the middle of the night, with way too much to think about.
When you grow up and move away from family, you start to rework your priorities. Everyone knows this. and Everyone does it. You begin to carve out time for the spouse, the pets, the kids, the job, then the taking care of the house, then the taking care of the kids, then the cleaning of said house, then the maintenance of the car, then the maintenance of the marriage, then--hopefully--the maintenance of sanity by finding a small space to simply stop and breathe. And with all this rearranging of self and time and space, you suddenly notice that its been weeks--no, let's be honest, months since you've conversed with the people you used to live with 24/7. Now, if you don't happen to like your parents or your siblings, this could be freeing and indeed liberating. However, if, like me, you enjoy your family and find them comforting and good companions, this is the opposite of being free. You suddenly feel guilty for having a life outside of them. So you decide to reach out to them and find they are busy with their lives and they haven't gotten to that point yet of, oh, yeah, we haven't talked for a while, have we? So you back off and don't talk to them for even longer, because you don't want to whine or be a pest. It's not a happy place to be.
Recently some people that I thought would always be there were suddenly not. One of them passed away and the other one is moving. I had a rush of feeling that nothing is permanent. No one is there for you all the time. And maybe I'm not quite as lovable as I hoped I was. It's a ridiculous train of thought since the world doesn't revolve around me, but my perception kept poking at me. And then I thought, wait, this isn't true. My family is permanent. My siblings and I really love each other and are there when we need to be. And so I dab my leaky eyes at midnight, thinking of my brothers and sister who I love very much. And hoping they know how much I think of them even when I'm up in the middle of the night, with way too much to think about.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
The Name is Gom
I have two talented, wonderful children. I don't say this often enough. Or even loudly enough. They bring joy and laughter as well as heart bumping angst. Don't all children?
My oldest has a birthday today. I remember her early steps around the perimeter of the living room at Talking Stair Inn. She was so proud of her accomplishment. And we were so excited to have such a sunny, beautiful little girl. I remember our early walks, she stopping every few feet to admire a leaf, a dandelion, or a particularly interesting stick. We would, of course, have to bring the stick home with us to admire at a later time. There was quite a collection of them at the back door. I remember walking to the local elementary school, golden ringlets bobbing down the street, and attacking the swing set with fierce joy. She would belt the ABCs whilst reaching to the sky with those pink and white sneakers. I remember the smile on her face as I came to pick her up at Nursery School. I remember the frowning concentration of drawing and coloring at the little yellow table.
When I see her as a young woman now, it seems like those memories are a million years away. They happened to two other people, distinct from the two of us. But then she smiles joyfully at her accomplishments and I am whisked away to the time of sunny afternoons singing the ABC song holding a little hand, and a stick in the other, ringlets bobbing down the sidewalk.
Happy Birthday sweetie. Love you lots!
My oldest has a birthday today. I remember her early steps around the perimeter of the living room at Talking Stair Inn. She was so proud of her accomplishment. And we were so excited to have such a sunny, beautiful little girl. I remember our early walks, she stopping every few feet to admire a leaf, a dandelion, or a particularly interesting stick. We would, of course, have to bring the stick home with us to admire at a later time. There was quite a collection of them at the back door. I remember walking to the local elementary school, golden ringlets bobbing down the street, and attacking the swing set with fierce joy. She would belt the ABCs whilst reaching to the sky with those pink and white sneakers. I remember the smile on her face as I came to pick her up at Nursery School. I remember the frowning concentration of drawing and coloring at the little yellow table.
When I see her as a young woman now, it seems like those memories are a million years away. They happened to two other people, distinct from the two of us. But then she smiles joyfully at her accomplishments and I am whisked away to the time of sunny afternoons singing the ABC song holding a little hand, and a stick in the other, ringlets bobbing down the sidewalk.
Happy Birthday sweetie. Love you lots!
Thursday, June 5, 2014
Ambivalent Mourning
A person I know died this week. Actually, that's inaccurate. Two people I know died. One is much beloved and his passing will leave a hole in my life for a while. But the other person, well, she's a little harder to define in terms of the space in my life where she used to be.
The woman who died, was in a plane crash. She was a dynamic sort of person. She was always moving. Walking, running, talking, doing, doing, doing. She could be annoying in her movement, if you were in her way, if you didn't move at the same pace, if you didn't see the next place to be was important. Bur I liked the courage of her convictions, even if they weren't mine. I appreciated her drive, even if I didn't have the same. And I did like her smile, which she gave out generously. But, I hadn't really seen her lately. I used to run into her in the local town and find out what she was up to. But when I heard of her death, I realized how long it had been since I actually saw her. She was a part of the landscape in our town. One of those people you just saw from time to time and updated the goings on when she stood still enough to talk. We knew each other better when our children were in the same preschool, although I think my youngest was a year older than hers. There was a fluctuating group of moms who congregated in the local cafe before picking up the kids and she was of that group. There were also a few of us who went to an exercise class before pick up time and she was definitely a part of that group as well. It's hard for me to believe I won't see her again. She was younger than me. It seems harder to swallow when someone younger than you dies so suddenly. There were still some things we had left to say to each other. There were still some memories to share. The weird thing is, if I were to send a sympathy card to her kids, they wouldn't have a clue who I was. It's hard to mourn someone you knew, who you talked to, but never really got to know at all. Bye, Marc.
The woman who died, was in a plane crash. She was a dynamic sort of person. She was always moving. Walking, running, talking, doing, doing, doing. She could be annoying in her movement, if you were in her way, if you didn't move at the same pace, if you didn't see the next place to be was important. Bur I liked the courage of her convictions, even if they weren't mine. I appreciated her drive, even if I didn't have the same. And I did like her smile, which she gave out generously. But, I hadn't really seen her lately. I used to run into her in the local town and find out what she was up to. But when I heard of her death, I realized how long it had been since I actually saw her. She was a part of the landscape in our town. One of those people you just saw from time to time and updated the goings on when she stood still enough to talk. We knew each other better when our children were in the same preschool, although I think my youngest was a year older than hers. There was a fluctuating group of moms who congregated in the local cafe before picking up the kids and she was of that group. There were also a few of us who went to an exercise class before pick up time and she was definitely a part of that group as well. It's hard for me to believe I won't see her again. She was younger than me. It seems harder to swallow when someone younger than you dies so suddenly. There were still some things we had left to say to each other. There were still some memories to share. The weird thing is, if I were to send a sympathy card to her kids, they wouldn't have a clue who I was. It's hard to mourn someone you knew, who you talked to, but never really got to know at all. Bye, Marc.
Monday, May 26, 2014
Patriotic Tics
Every Memorial Day, the bubble "celebrates" or more likely honors those who have gone before us in the service to our country. They march down Main Street, they stop at the memorial placed on the high school grounds. There are a few speeches and a gun salute. Then everyone merrily goes on their way to a picnic or family barbecue and the wreath placed there is left to disintegrate unless someone thinks to remove it. I'm not complaining, really. It's a nice way to remember those who gave such sacrifice without overpowering the day itself. I don't get choked up with this memorial, I don't know if anyone does for that matter. Perhaps if I went somewhere in a grander scale, like say, Arlington cemetery in Virginia, I would be affected.
But I will tell you what makes me full of patriotic pride. When I hear The Star Spangled Banner played somewhere other than a sporting event. When I hear Taps. When I do go the cemetery and visit my father's grave and am surrounded by all those little American flags someone puts on the grave sites. That's when I remember that I live in a country where I am free. I don't want to talk politics today, or sermonize about how democracy has been shot to hell and we're worse off than ever before. There are days I believe it. But today, with a small breeze rippling through the grave flags, and Taps still lingering on the air, no, I believe that America is beautiful and I give thanks to the Lord for the people who fought for the right for me to be able to say it out loud.
So thank you to all who served, living or dead. My heart swells with pride for the country we are so privileged to live in. Thank you for your dedication to that right to live free.
But I will tell you what makes me full of patriotic pride. When I hear The Star Spangled Banner played somewhere other than a sporting event. When I hear Taps. When I do go the cemetery and visit my father's grave and am surrounded by all those little American flags someone puts on the grave sites. That's when I remember that I live in a country where I am free. I don't want to talk politics today, or sermonize about how democracy has been shot to hell and we're worse off than ever before. There are days I believe it. But today, with a small breeze rippling through the grave flags, and Taps still lingering on the air, no, I believe that America is beautiful and I give thanks to the Lord for the people who fought for the right for me to be able to say it out loud.
So thank you to all who served, living or dead. My heart swells with pride for the country we are so privileged to live in. Thank you for your dedication to that right to live free.
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Life is Full of...Discuss
How can life be so full of goodness and exuberance and light one day and be so damned depressing the next? We spent a recent afternoon with family a little while ago. Lots of laughter, smiles, hugs and baby-adoring. A good afternoon for sure. This past week at work I have endured petty squabbles, gossip of the worst kind, and a boatload of self-doubt.
I want to rise above all that negativity and float amongst the fluffy clouds again. ButI have one more day before the weekend and it looks like another baffling, wearying, day do swimming up stream. I am sorry this post isn't helping the way I thought it might.
I'm going to bed. As Scarlett would say, "Tomorrow is another day."
I want to rise above all that negativity and float amongst the fluffy clouds again. ButI have one more day before the weekend and it looks like another baffling, wearying, day do swimming up stream. I am sorry this post isn't helping the way I thought it might.
I'm going to bed. As Scarlett would say, "Tomorrow is another day."
Monday, April 21, 2014
A Rearranging of Self
So, here's the thing...I was looking for something on the small shelf next to the headboard of my bed. If you were to ask me what it was I was looking for I would be unable to tell you. Because a series of things took place that completely obliterated whatever it was.
I began to notice that there seemed to be a lot of dust accumulated on this shelf. Then I noticed the headboard, which has a shelf built into it was quite dusty as well. Granted I can't remember the last time I took a dusting to the bedroom, which I suppose is telling in itself. Anyway, on the shelf on the headboard I have placed books that I return to again and again. There is something about these particular books which calls to me at different times. There is a copy of The Once And Future King by T.H. White, there is a romance entitled, Slightly Dangerous by Mary Balogh and there are a number of books by Robert Fulghum. He writes so wonderfully and honest. And his writings are usually short pieces that, to tell you the truth, make me want to write just like him. So I'm standing there immobile looking at the dust on these tomes, when I remember a piece Fulghum wrote about dust. Something about it being made up of pieces of humans and meteorites. I loved that writing. So, instead of dusting off the books, I begin picking them up and, after blowing the dust onto the bedroom carpet, leaf through them to find the passage I'm thinking of. Along the way of course, I find those other writings of his that I so loved; the one about the ashes of a deceased being poured out a plane and coming right back in the aircraft; the one about the kid who raked his leaves; the one about the Mother of the Bride. I was totally engrossed and realized that it was about an hour later and I was supposed to be leaving to go somewhere! I put the books back on the dusty shelf and hurried on my way.
Just as I was sitting down to write this post I noticed the books again, not so dusty now as I had essentially dusted them when I was looking through them and thought, you know, I really should get out the dust cloth. Instead I've decided to post this and go back to look for that writing about dust. It was really good. And I can always dust Saturday.
I began to notice that there seemed to be a lot of dust accumulated on this shelf. Then I noticed the headboard, which has a shelf built into it was quite dusty as well. Granted I can't remember the last time I took a dusting to the bedroom, which I suppose is telling in itself. Anyway, on the shelf on the headboard I have placed books that I return to again and again. There is something about these particular books which calls to me at different times. There is a copy of The Once And Future King by T.H. White, there is a romance entitled, Slightly Dangerous by Mary Balogh and there are a number of books by Robert Fulghum. He writes so wonderfully and honest. And his writings are usually short pieces that, to tell you the truth, make me want to write just like him. So I'm standing there immobile looking at the dust on these tomes, when I remember a piece Fulghum wrote about dust. Something about it being made up of pieces of humans and meteorites. I loved that writing. So, instead of dusting off the books, I begin picking them up and, after blowing the dust onto the bedroom carpet, leaf through them to find the passage I'm thinking of. Along the way of course, I find those other writings of his that I so loved; the one about the ashes of a deceased being poured out a plane and coming right back in the aircraft; the one about the kid who raked his leaves; the one about the Mother of the Bride. I was totally engrossed and realized that it was about an hour later and I was supposed to be leaving to go somewhere! I put the books back on the dusty shelf and hurried on my way.
Just as I was sitting down to write this post I noticed the books again, not so dusty now as I had essentially dusted them when I was looking through them and thought, you know, I really should get out the dust cloth. Instead I've decided to post this and go back to look for that writing about dust. It was really good. And I can always dust Saturday.
Monday, April 14, 2014
The Reality of Movies
This past weekend, hubby and I watched a movie about an author who reluctantly sold her rights to a book she wrote to a huge movie studio. It was based on the truth, but it wasn't totally the truth. Hubby shared that he read somewhere that the studio head, played by Tom Hanks (one of my very favorist actors of all time), was not shown smoking and this particular studio head smoked like a chimney. The article criticized the movie for this point. Really? That's what decided the "realness" of the movie for you? That the character portrayed on the big screen didn't puff away? The fact that the female character vascillated between memory and present tense didn't't bother you, but the lack of cigarettes did? Buddy, whoever you are, you need to get a life!
Movies, no matter how real we think they are, no matter how "stick to the facts" we say they are, are make believe. I reiterate for those who aren't sure they heard me. They are make believe. You can be sure that a plot twist or a juicy scandal would be inserted in even the blandest of true stories if the movie maker thought it would get you to buy a ticket. For heaven's sake, documentaries are even edited to give us more action! This is what makes going to the movies so much fun. Movies are ENTERTAINMENT. Their sole purpose is to take your mind off of whatever you are obsessing about at the moment and suspend reality.
Anyone who doesn't comprehend that, needs to rethink. And get on the boat to Fantasyland, which is the starting point for movies in the first place. Oh, and stub out your cigarette, you're in the theatre, buddy!
Movies, no matter how real we think they are, no matter how "stick to the facts" we say they are, are make believe. I reiterate for those who aren't sure they heard me. They are make believe. You can be sure that a plot twist or a juicy scandal would be inserted in even the blandest of true stories if the movie maker thought it would get you to buy a ticket. For heaven's sake, documentaries are even edited to give us more action! This is what makes going to the movies so much fun. Movies are ENTERTAINMENT. Their sole purpose is to take your mind off of whatever you are obsessing about at the moment and suspend reality.
Anyone who doesn't comprehend that, needs to rethink. And get on the boat to Fantasyland, which is the starting point for movies in the first place. Oh, and stub out your cigarette, you're in the theatre, buddy!
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
Getting to The Foot of The Matter
I'm thinking about feet this evening. Mainly because mine are sore. For some reason they are aching. Well, everything is aching really. The workout at the gym was hard yesterday and so today I'm feeling every one of my years. But my feet are especially complaining. I didn't really do any exercises for my feet so I don't know what they're grousing about.
Feet are weird anyway. I mean if you really think about them, they are the only horizontal appendages you have. They keep you upright. But finding shoes for them is a problem. No, it's not because my feet are overly large or small or deformed in some way. They are just regular feet, I guess. No, the problem lies in my unwillingness to buy shoes. A lot of women I know love shoe shopping. My daughter is one of them. She has pairs of shoes that look to me exactly the same as some other pair, but she swears are completely different. I just don't get the whole shoe buying frenzy. I own two pairs of brown shoes and three pairs of black. I can never seem to get around to throwing away my old sneakers so I have more of these than anything else. They are under the bed with the dust bunnies. In fact, I think that's where the dust bunnies live! Who am I to throw some creature out of its habitat? And shoes that are comfortable? Well, they feel fine in the store walking up and down the aisle a few times. But when you come home and try to wear them to work? You wonder what you were thinking as your toes are squashed and your ankle bones are rubbed raw. I have found a place to get good shoes, but the price makes me go there only once every two years when I've saved enough to buy one pair. They are NOT designer shoes either. They look like shoes my grandmother wore. But they are comfortable both in the store and out. I own a couple pairs of sandals too. But my feet are usually cold, even in the summer, so they look brand new even though they are a couple of years old as wearing sandals with socks is just wrong. No matter who is wearing them.
So I'm sitting here with my feet up, wearing socks of course, and trying to decide which to wear tomorrow, the brown or the black. It's easier when you only have two choices!
Feet are weird anyway. I mean if you really think about them, they are the only horizontal appendages you have. They keep you upright. But finding shoes for them is a problem. No, it's not because my feet are overly large or small or deformed in some way. They are just regular feet, I guess. No, the problem lies in my unwillingness to buy shoes. A lot of women I know love shoe shopping. My daughter is one of them. She has pairs of shoes that look to me exactly the same as some other pair, but she swears are completely different. I just don't get the whole shoe buying frenzy. I own two pairs of brown shoes and three pairs of black. I can never seem to get around to throwing away my old sneakers so I have more of these than anything else. They are under the bed with the dust bunnies. In fact, I think that's where the dust bunnies live! Who am I to throw some creature out of its habitat? And shoes that are comfortable? Well, they feel fine in the store walking up and down the aisle a few times. But when you come home and try to wear them to work? You wonder what you were thinking as your toes are squashed and your ankle bones are rubbed raw. I have found a place to get good shoes, but the price makes me go there only once every two years when I've saved enough to buy one pair. They are NOT designer shoes either. They look like shoes my grandmother wore. But they are comfortable both in the store and out. I own a couple pairs of sandals too. But my feet are usually cold, even in the summer, so they look brand new even though they are a couple of years old as wearing sandals with socks is just wrong. No matter who is wearing them.
So I'm sitting here with my feet up, wearing socks of course, and trying to decide which to wear tomorrow, the brown or the black. It's easier when you only have two choices!
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Learning to fish
I just read a daily devotion that used this line, "Jesus taught us to fish from the other side of the boat." It is sticking to my mind and seem to be caught there.
I've noticed over the years that I don't always follow a linear path. My general approach to things seems to be "let's try this until it doesn't work anymore." This approach to just about anything has sometimes tripped me up. I've found out that a short cut exists where I would travel the long way for years. Someone would point out a way to do something that appeared so logical and astoundingly easy, that I would smack my head surprised that I hadn't thought of it myself. It seems to me that finding out that the fish are on the other side of the boat pretty much sums up what happens to me regularly. But the problem is , I don't recognize that I'm doing this until someone points it out to me. So I'm not exactly sure how to "break the cycle" if I'm not even aware I'm in one!
This will take some pondering. I'll let you know what I come up with.
I've noticed over the years that I don't always follow a linear path. My general approach to things seems to be "let's try this until it doesn't work anymore." This approach to just about anything has sometimes tripped me up. I've found out that a short cut exists where I would travel the long way for years. Someone would point out a way to do something that appeared so logical and astoundingly easy, that I would smack my head surprised that I hadn't thought of it myself. It seems to me that finding out that the fish are on the other side of the boat pretty much sums up what happens to me regularly. But the problem is , I don't recognize that I'm doing this until someone points it out to me. So I'm not exactly sure how to "break the cycle" if I'm not even aware I'm in one!
This will take some pondering. I'll let you know what I come up with.
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
The Front Steps
I've always been a step sitter. As a child at the old homestead, I recall sitting there watching bugs trundle across the cement sidewalk. I would watch how the trees whispered to each other in the summer breezes. We had two steps to the front door. They were brick, I think. The cement slab before the door didn't count as a step, just the steps themselves. They were warm in the summer. And even if the sun was bright in the winter they were kinda warm. I would watch the cars and trucks and kids on bikes go by, although it wasn't that busy of a street. I could watch my brother play cars or toss a football, then decide I would join him, if he let me, that is. Some days I would just sit there and watch the world go by for a long time, dreaming, wishing, puzzling for what seemed like hours.
When I grew up, the first house we owned had an enclosed porch. There were steps out front, but I don't recall having much time to sit then. Until we moved to the new house, I seemed to have kept indoors to sit and think. Of course we had a toddler to walk around with before too long and sitting seemed out of the question.
The house we moved to has five brick steps. The house was built in 1926 and the bricks on the facade and the steps look to be that old. As the children (yes, there were two by then), grew, they loved to step sit with their mom. We would watch the birds fly by and name them if we could. We watched the plants grow, felt the sun on our faces, waved to the neighbors. The cats would come and sit with me, getting a scratch behind the ears. Sometimes they would settle near me and watch the birds with more interest than I. When the children were in school, and before I was working, I would wander out on nice days before they came home and wait for them. They would come chattering down the street (or slouch sullenly during middle school years) and we would share a few moments looking at artwork or homework or talk about the doings of the day. Occasionally, I would wonder what it would feel like when they moved out, sitting here in the sun watching other kids come home.
And so now, I don't have to wonder anymore. The children have indeed moved on and out. Hubby and I have the place to ourselves. I still like to step sit, although it seems harder to get up from them now. I watch the neighbors children come home from school, I see the cat from down the street pause on the sidewalk in front of our house and watch me watching him. And I can still hear the trees whispering to each other in the breeze. Some things just don't change.
When I grew up, the first house we owned had an enclosed porch. There were steps out front, but I don't recall having much time to sit then. Until we moved to the new house, I seemed to have kept indoors to sit and think. Of course we had a toddler to walk around with before too long and sitting seemed out of the question.
The house we moved to has five brick steps. The house was built in 1926 and the bricks on the facade and the steps look to be that old. As the children (yes, there were two by then), grew, they loved to step sit with their mom. We would watch the birds fly by and name them if we could. We watched the plants grow, felt the sun on our faces, waved to the neighbors. The cats would come and sit with me, getting a scratch behind the ears. Sometimes they would settle near me and watch the birds with more interest than I. When the children were in school, and before I was working, I would wander out on nice days before they came home and wait for them. They would come chattering down the street (or slouch sullenly during middle school years) and we would share a few moments looking at artwork or homework or talk about the doings of the day. Occasionally, I would wonder what it would feel like when they moved out, sitting here in the sun watching other kids come home.
And so now, I don't have to wonder anymore. The children have indeed moved on and out. Hubby and I have the place to ourselves. I still like to step sit, although it seems harder to get up from them now. I watch the neighbors children come home from school, I see the cat from down the street pause on the sidewalk in front of our house and watch me watching him. And I can still hear the trees whispering to each other in the breeze. Some things just don't change.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
In the Still of the Night
I have returned from a trip to see my son. In some ways I wished I had never left. Because when you come home everything is pushed up on the calendar and you no longer have weeks in which to accomplish them. You have days, sometimes hours. And they are things you meant to do earlier. They are things you need to have done, in a timely fashion. But time is not and probably never will be your friend. And you face these things in the dead of night, while everyone else is blissfully snoring in their beds.
When the world is in slumber, I should be sleeping. But I'm making a list, then a sub list, then an even smaller sub list of what needs to be accomplished. I do not resent going to see my son. I resent the mess when I come home. And it seems night-time is the time to think about it. And wonder about what would happen if I missed this deadline or that on the horizon.
What is it about the night? I've spent a goodly portion of them sitting or half-reclining on the couch in the living room staring at the screen of the laptop or the iPad. Playing endless games of solitaire. Reading stupid books that I haven't really enjoyed just to get bored enough to fall off to sleep. When I was pregnant with my children, night was the time I paced the floors and wondered what kind of crazy person I was bringing a child into the world such as it is (or was about 30 years ago). And there are those nights when it might as well be the middle of the afternoon for how un-sleepy I have felt. Time drags when you can't sleep. I don't care what Einstein said, light at night slows down and there is no way an hour is just an hour.
I have spent a significant portion of nights finishing up really good books that I couldn't put down. Those are the nights when I finally stumble upstairs, bleary eyed but content that I figured out the plot before actually finishing the book. There were occasionally books that freaked me out at night. When the boogey man definitely is waiting at the top of the stairs after I have turned off the lights to go up to the bedroom. A couple of them disconcerted me so much that sleeping never came until the dawn. I try to avoid them as I'm not pleasant when I don't get my 7 hours. With no sleep at all? Well, it's just not a good thing, trust me.
I've had more regrets, more sobering thoughts, more depression than at any other time when this part of the world is sleeping. I seem to be able to enlarge and extrapolate troubles in the "dark watches". I become convinced that certain problems will never sort themselves out or certain unpleasantness will inevitably happen when faced with endless darkness (or at least about 10 hours of it). Sunlight seems to make me more rational. Starlight makes me a little crazy. I believe in magic more at night. I believe the impossible can and most likely does happen then. And when the sun comes up and proves me wrong, I shake my head at my foolishness until the sun goes down again and I wander the dark, looking for some light.
When the world is in slumber, I should be sleeping. But I'm making a list, then a sub list, then an even smaller sub list of what needs to be accomplished. I do not resent going to see my son. I resent the mess when I come home. And it seems night-time is the time to think about it. And wonder about what would happen if I missed this deadline or that on the horizon.
What is it about the night? I've spent a goodly portion of them sitting or half-reclining on the couch in the living room staring at the screen of the laptop or the iPad. Playing endless games of solitaire. Reading stupid books that I haven't really enjoyed just to get bored enough to fall off to sleep. When I was pregnant with my children, night was the time I paced the floors and wondered what kind of crazy person I was bringing a child into the world such as it is (or was about 30 years ago). And there are those nights when it might as well be the middle of the afternoon for how un-sleepy I have felt. Time drags when you can't sleep. I don't care what Einstein said, light at night slows down and there is no way an hour is just an hour.
I have spent a significant portion of nights finishing up really good books that I couldn't put down. Those are the nights when I finally stumble upstairs, bleary eyed but content that I figured out the plot before actually finishing the book. There were occasionally books that freaked me out at night. When the boogey man definitely is waiting at the top of the stairs after I have turned off the lights to go up to the bedroom. A couple of them disconcerted me so much that sleeping never came until the dawn. I try to avoid them as I'm not pleasant when I don't get my 7 hours. With no sleep at all? Well, it's just not a good thing, trust me.
I've had more regrets, more sobering thoughts, more depression than at any other time when this part of the world is sleeping. I seem to be able to enlarge and extrapolate troubles in the "dark watches". I become convinced that certain problems will never sort themselves out or certain unpleasantness will inevitably happen when faced with endless darkness (or at least about 10 hours of it). Sunlight seems to make me more rational. Starlight makes me a little crazy. I believe in magic more at night. I believe the impossible can and most likely does happen then. And when the sun comes up and proves me wrong, I shake my head at my foolishness until the sun goes down again and I wander the dark, looking for some light.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Moving to..What is that?
I decided recently, that I should begin an exercise program again. I had not done anything physical except walk for a long time. Lest you think I was a regular walking fiend, I walked only when the mood struck, which wasn't very often at all. I joined a gym in the same town we live in. I liked that its never an "open gym". You have to train with someone there. This is really good for me, asif I know someone is going to be there for me, I will make an effort to show up. I was never good with independent study at school either.
So here I am "suiting up" so to speak. I even bought new sneakers. The trainer is really nice. A good listener. She seems to know how far to push me and I remember now what aches and pains felt like when I exercised all those years ago. It's not a large space, so it keeps me from getting lost in a crowd. So far so good.
There is really only one thing I would complain about. It isn't really a big thing, but you see the music she plays? Well, let's just say it's not really my thing too much. Most of it just sounds like noise, but she apparently thinks it's motivating. I guess it could be. But I like music I recognize. Which is probably the kind of music that really isn't that great to work out to. Let's face it you really can't work up a sweat to Sinatra too much. So, maybe I'll learn to like whatever this stuff is she puts on. Or maybe I'll just switch off the hearing aids. And lip read. Sigh. I was never very good with change.
So here I am "suiting up" so to speak. I even bought new sneakers. The trainer is really nice. A good listener. She seems to know how far to push me and I remember now what aches and pains felt like when I exercised all those years ago. It's not a large space, so it keeps me from getting lost in a crowd. So far so good.
There is really only one thing I would complain about. It isn't really a big thing, but you see the music she plays? Well, let's just say it's not really my thing too much. Most of it just sounds like noise, but she apparently thinks it's motivating. I guess it could be. But I like music I recognize. Which is probably the kind of music that really isn't that great to work out to. Let's face it you really can't work up a sweat to Sinatra too much. So, maybe I'll learn to like whatever this stuff is she puts on. Or maybe I'll just switch off the hearing aids. And lip read. Sigh. I was never very good with change.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Sports as a Learning Experience, Discuss
I was reminded of something today regarding sports. But before I share the picture which was brought forward so clearly to my mind, I have to fill in some details. I like sports. I really like to watch pro baseball and football. I will occasionally watch basketball, ice hockey, even golf (though it usually has to be around the 16th hole or I turn the channel). I am not and probably never will be a rabid fan of any one sport, it just doesn't move me the way a book does. BUT when our kids were growing up, I knew it was important to play sports for lots of reasons. They learned how to use their bodies to do something besides watch television. They learned to be part of a team. They learned the rules of a game and how to conduct themselves when representing their town in traveling around local towns playing their sport of choice. When our kids were growing up, soccer had become all the rage. Parents were encouraging their kids to play when the kids could barely understand the concept of "kick the ball". Both of our children wanted and liked to play soccer. They were not star athletes by any means, but they consistently showed up and did their part. They were not picked to be part of the elitist traveling teams, but I didn't think this was tragic. They learned something from that as well, I like to think. Something along the lines of, "not everyone can be a superstar at everything." A good life lesson in my opinion.
So, today, the lady I work with and I were discussing our sons and the sports they participated in. Her sons did karate for a while (she shared her terror of having one son race towards her as she held a block of wood to be annilated by his foot--as she dropped it and waited for the impact). And that's when I saw this picture in my mind. It has been dormant for a while, but it was so clear, I was transported just for a few moments.
Picture if you will, a tall, gangly young man in his freshman year of high school. He has played soccer since he was knee high to a grasshopper and it is the only sport he is interested in playing. He is not consumed with it, as some of his contemporaries are, he is simply interested. There are stellar players on the team, to be sure, but this is freshman year in a four year school and the school has a generous no-cut policy which means everyone who wants to play is suited up. The mother of this young man (me), is just happy he's out in the sunshine getting some fresh air. However, into the first few weeks of the season, it has become apparent that the coach is out to win at all costs. Therefore, the less than outstanding members of the team will not be playing in any game. They will be observing their team mates running up and down the field exhausting themselves, while the bench sitters get neck strain watching, but not participating in the action. I am appalled. And annoyed. And beyond livid when during one such game, played in the pouring rain, the bench sitters sat huddled together getting cold and wet while the super stars were wiped down with towels when they arrived gasping for air at this same bench. I did not intervene. My son learned any number of lessons that season. He also never played any sport in high school after that. And why would he? He was embarrassed enough that season, why go through that again?
He is accomplished and grown up now. He probably doesn't even remember the incident above. But I do. That coach's son attends the high school my son once attended and I wonder if he will be treated the same. Somehow I think not. And it's a curiosity to me why I still remember this so clearly after all these years. But remember it I do. Sports can be a good thing or a bad. Discuss among yourselves, but leave me out of it, thank you. I probably wouldn't be very objective.
So, today, the lady I work with and I were discussing our sons and the sports they participated in. Her sons did karate for a while (she shared her terror of having one son race towards her as she held a block of wood to be annilated by his foot--as she dropped it and waited for the impact). And that's when I saw this picture in my mind. It has been dormant for a while, but it was so clear, I was transported just for a few moments.
Picture if you will, a tall, gangly young man in his freshman year of high school. He has played soccer since he was knee high to a grasshopper and it is the only sport he is interested in playing. He is not consumed with it, as some of his contemporaries are, he is simply interested. There are stellar players on the team, to be sure, but this is freshman year in a four year school and the school has a generous no-cut policy which means everyone who wants to play is suited up. The mother of this young man (me), is just happy he's out in the sunshine getting some fresh air. However, into the first few weeks of the season, it has become apparent that the coach is out to win at all costs. Therefore, the less than outstanding members of the team will not be playing in any game. They will be observing their team mates running up and down the field exhausting themselves, while the bench sitters get neck strain watching, but not participating in the action. I am appalled. And annoyed. And beyond livid when during one such game, played in the pouring rain, the bench sitters sat huddled together getting cold and wet while the super stars were wiped down with towels when they arrived gasping for air at this same bench. I did not intervene. My son learned any number of lessons that season. He also never played any sport in high school after that. And why would he? He was embarrassed enough that season, why go through that again?
He is accomplished and grown up now. He probably doesn't even remember the incident above. But I do. That coach's son attends the high school my son once attended and I wonder if he will be treated the same. Somehow I think not. And it's a curiosity to me why I still remember this so clearly after all these years. But remember it I do. Sports can be a good thing or a bad. Discuss among yourselves, but leave me out of it, thank you. I probably wouldn't be very objective.
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