Posts filed under ‘Life Preservers’
Anna & Oscar Schmidt
In 1916, Anna Groll met Oscar Schmidt. And the rest is half of my history.
The Schmidts are a special kind of life preserver.
We like jokes: good jokes, bad jokes, new jokes, old jokes, older jokes, and jokes your great great grampa fell out of his cradle laughing at. We appreciate clever wit, dumb puns, and the corniest corn. We enjoy intentional and unintentional physical comedy. We love practical and impractical jokes. We like to make other people laugh, and getting our own family members to laugh is one of our favorite things.
Seriously, if we were in a situation where the sound of one tiny titter could trigger an avalanche that would kill us all, someone would tell a fart joke.
(And you know Joel just giggled at the phrase tiny titter.)
As much as we like to laugh, we like to talk. We are story tellers. We are enthusiastic conversationalists. We have this hereditary ability to take part in three to four conversations simultaneously, which comes in handy in a large family. Sometimes, after an evening together, going back out into the real world is like being in a bar when the music suddenly pauses.
I guess what I’m saying is, we’re loud.
We are a down-to-earth and practical people. We were taught to live by good, old-fashioned values. Do what’s right. Help others. Be kind. Tell the truth. Share your stuff. Honor your parents. Help with the dishes. Don’t leave your camera unattended at a family get-together.
And never ever ever forget that family is important — and that you are loved. From the day you are born til long after you leave this world, you will be cherished and adored, warts and all and always, no matter time nor distance.
And that’s a good counterweight for the merciless teasing.
If you’re not family, we won’t tease you . . . as much. But we’ll shake your hand and welcome you in and ask about your family and treat you like a long-lost friend. Even if you were only stopping by to take our order.
We presume jolly goodness in everybody. If you are a meanie or a sourpuss, you will confuse the heck out of us.
But we’ll try to make you laugh. And we’ll probably try to feed you.
We like to cook, and we like to eat, but mostly? We like to see other people eat what we have cooked. Bring us all together and we could feed an army. And send each soldier off with a leftover container. And a hug. And a story about Grandma’s donuts or Aunt Theresa’s nut rolls. Or Uncle Tom’s mashed potatoes, Aunt Margie’s green beans, Aunt Annie’s maple brownies, or Uncle Joe’s fried sweet potatoes. Or a time you picked berries at Aunt Marie’s and she put them in a pan on the stove and made the best jam you had ever tasted (or ever will). Right on the spot. Without a recipe.
And I’m sorry if I just made you tear up. Or feel hungry. But you know and I know there’s a crowded, bustling kitchen in the afterlife. And it smells like heaven.
Yes, we are also a sentimental people. And, despite a great deal of splashing about, our waters run deep. We know heartache can be survived. We know Goodness triumphs. We know the world isn’t perfect. We know Life can be funny. We know we are blessed and lucky.
We are who we are. Because sweet Anna Groll met Oscar the nut.
The Bubble Gum Incident
In Catholic grade school in the early ’70s, things ran mostly on fear and the ringing of bells.
Most nuns still wore full habits. All teachers were allowed to employ paddles. And discipline was both strictly and creatively enforced.
One teacher used to throw chalkboard erasers at children who weren’t paying attention. Another teacher once stuffed a noisy child into a trashcan. Another, who caught a kid nibbling on his lunch tickets, was so enraged that she placed her in-box on the child’s desk and instructed every other child in the class to walk by, single file, and place a piece of paper in the box. She then instructed the nibbler that, if he was going to destroy his lunch tickets, he could eat every piece of paper in that basket for his lunch instead.
I swear on a bible these stories are true. I saw them happen. And they all happened to one classmate: the indomitable Paul Scott.
Zealously hurled erasers bounced right off him. He sat in that trashcan like a rag doll and made a funny sad face until the teacher put her head down on her desk and shook with laughter. In the paper-nibbling incident, he smiled at each of us as we — sorry, terrified, miserable weaklings — brought him our offerings. Then, he calmly, happily, hungrily began to eat that paper, piece by piece, until the teacher caved in and took it all back.
No tears, no flinching, no smart-ass-ery. He was fearless. A peaceful rebel and a natural comic, he just took things in stride and kept right on smiling. How someone so young knew how to do these things, I cannot fathom. They don’t track that type of brilliant on report cards.
I wish I could say that I was even one-gazillionth as brilliant when Sister Mary Grace caught me chewing gum in her 5th grade English class.
“Are you chewing gum?!” she demanded. I had seen what happens to gum chewers. They had to stick the gum on their nose and walk to the Principal’s office. I panicked. I swallowed the gum and said, “No.”
Merciful heavens! Unlawful gum chewing was bad enough. But lying? To a nun?
I was told to stand up. I stood. She asked me again. And I lied again. She knew it, too. Calmly, confidently furious, she said, “Well. Tell me then what it was that I saw you chewing on.” And I said something ridiculous, like, “I was chewing on the inside of my cheek.”
As that big fat whopper hung in the air, I knew: I was bad. I was wicked. I was doomed.
And then. Something happened, which, although it has yet to pass the scrutiny of beatification or canonization, I am going to call a miracle.
“She wasn’t chewing gum!” Paul Scott blurted (without even raising his hand or getting permission to speak). “I sit right here next to her,” he continued, “And she wasn’t chewing gum. She does that thing she said. She chews on her cheek. I’ve seen her do it.”
I was flabbergasted. And I was saved.
I doubt that she bought it, but I had a witness. And she wasn’t going to find my gum any time soon. And, in a wonderful moment of solidarity, no one else in the class said a word. I was told to sit. I sat. And it was all I could do to not turn and stare at Paul in gaping adoration for the rest of the class.
Perhaps I am even more in awe now. Such bravado is more audacious and delightful seen through the lenses of time and experience. This guy knew things at 10 years old that take the rest of us at least 30 years, maybe a lifetime, to figure out. Things like:
- Don’t take it all too seriously.
- A sense of humor can soften the edges of pretty much anything.
- A good friend has your back no matter what.
- Don’t be afraid of nuns; they probably are not allowed to kill you.
Cheers, Paul Scott, wherever you are.
Work. Not Work.
Spring was late this year; the garden’s not going to have time to fill in properly, I told myself. The instructions to plant things 10 inches apart can’t possibly take into consideration this heavy, clay soil, I told myself.
She really just wanted to play in the dirt, you’re saying to yourself.
Yep.
Last Sunday, I decided my place needed a few more flowers. And so, like an indulgent granny, I slipped myself a 20 and drove back to the local nursery for the third (maybe fourth?) time this year. Returned home and spent the entire day outside. Planting, weeding, fertilizing, moving this plant here and that plant there, wheeling around the wheel barrow, and generally just futzing around in a state of dippy bliss.
Smiles relax every worry line. I hum involuntarily. I stop and smell roses, literally. When I’m out there in the garden, it’s like someone turns on the auto focus. Or turns down the gravity. Or gives me a peek behind stage. And in that little glimpse of Real, I am as certain as Mary Poppins, as graceful as Ginger Rogers, as wise as Obi-Wan, as content as Baloo.
All is well.
I was finishing up with the watering as one of my neighbors was bringing his garbage to the opposite curb. “You’re working too hard,” he called out.
What went through my mind was, Work?! This isn’t work! Sitting at a desk is work. Editing a novel is work. An old dog learning the tricks of publishing is work. Drying dishes is work. Folding laundry is work. Raising cage-free dust bunnies is work. Grocery shopping is work. Driving in the South Hills of Pittsburgh is work. Scooping the litter box is work. But this? This is lovely. This is playtime.
This is filthy, sweaty, smelly, sunburnt, life-preserving awesome!
Ginger Rogers wanted to do a rousing number with lots of brass and some Busby Berkeley chorus girl flower arrangements. But I just smile-chuckle-nod-waved because that’s how you communicate in a brief, holler-across-the-street sort of way. And he was already heading back inside anyway.
And now, I’m back in the midst of the work week. As I look over my to-do list here at my desk, which faces the window, which overlooks the front garden, I . . . uh . . . you know? I think I see some weeds. Maybe I should get out there and check on that.
Growing Older but Not Up
Today, I took this T-shirt out of the dryer and realized it was ready for the rag pile. Overdue. Long overdue.
Frayed edges. Holes. Paint stains. Discoloration. Fading. So worn in places that it’s practically see-through. No self-respecting person would keep this shirt. No sane person would think twice about this shirt. No normal person would write a blog about this shirt.
But then.
I bought this shirt for five bucks at a Jimmy Buffett concert. Got it from one of those wily parking lot guys. Yeah, I buy unlicensed apparel while keeping an eye out for security. Do you think me a scallywag? Yo ho!
As it turns out, this five-buck shirt was an exceptional bargain. Before shoving this tattered bit of cotton into the rag pile, I checked the date.
1998. Seventeen years ago. Jinkies!
1998 was the Don’t Stop the Carnival tour. Day before the concert, I got to shake Jimmy Buffett’s hand on 6th Avenue in downtown Pittsburgh. (But that’s another story.)
Nine. Teen. Nine. Tee. Eight. I was in my 30s. My favorite decade. Every happy possibility lay ahead. The 9 to 5 was a temporary gig. Working in advertising seemed fun. Happy Hours lasted as long as the work day. I played volleyball three or four times a week and could dive and roll across a volleyball court with less effort than it now takes me to stand up when it’s my turn to bowl. I drove a Mustang. I had a great hair cut and a closet full of high heeled shoes. I went sleeveless.
{Now, I’m not saying the present isn’t fun. But, kiddos, there ain’t no fun like being in your 20s and 30s fun. Never has been. Never will be. Live it up.}
In 1998, Buffett tickets were cheap, and it didn’t take 14 hours to drive the last 50 feet into (or out of) Star Lake. The eccentric tradition of a Buffett concert had not yet attracted mainstream attention. Hawaiian shirts, mini beaches, and brilliantly rigged blenders had not yet been replaced with a guy in a thong doing keg stands, busloads of one-up-man-ship, and teenage boys saying, “Show us your tits.” People didn’t steal other people’s party decorations. And drunken shenanigans had not transmuted into people throwing up and even urinating amidst the lawn seating. (Directly behind us. On a hillside sloping down.)
If I could snap my fingers and be there again (with a shade tree, a bottle of Captain Morgan, a bottle of idiot repellant, and a private driveway) I’d be there in a snap. Otherwise, these days, I don’t much feel like going to see Buffett in anything less than a time machine.
But I have been there. And I have done that. I haven’t always been a middle-aged fuddy duddy. The shirt is proof.
Oh, ratty old shirt. You’re a raggedy old life preserver. Threadbare as my dreams. As worn as an over-dramatic analogy. I should have put you in the rag pile. But, I have, apparently, folded you with care and carried you upstairs in the laundry basket.
So I guess I’ll put you in the drawer and keep you a bit longer. Who knows? Tomorrow, I might even show you my tits.
I Decided Not to Get a Tree This Year
Christmas is easier when you’re a kid. Naughty and nice is pretty uncomplicated. The fondest desires of your heart fit in a short letter. Reindeer can fly. And, after your Dad purchases, carries, and puts up the tree, you hang ornaments on it.
As an adult, Christmas can be a bit more complicated. There’s a whole lot of extra stuff to do in December—in addition to getting through a month with a balanced bank account, food in the ‘fridge, and pants on whenever you leave the house.
It’s not that grown-ups dislike Christmas. It’s just that, as you get older, you gain a better understanding of the villainous perspective. In the midst of shopping, baking, greeting cards, get-togethers, grab bag coordination, extreme calendar juggling, extension cord quests, and multiple runs to the state store, it’s possible to see a certain allure to the idea of tossing it all off Mt. Crumpit.
For me, when all else fails, Christmas comes when I’m decorating the tree. It’s the first time I play Christmas carols, the perfect soundtrack for reviewing ornaments. Little balls of time travel wrapped in tissue. I smile. I tear up. I handle bits of molded plastic as if they were Faberge eggs. It’s about the only time I sing something besides Happy Birthday. And it sometimes leads to dancing.
Putting up the tree is the most Christmasy thing I know. It’s more Christmasy than Christmas Day. It’s more moving than a church service. It’s transformative. It’s peaceful. It’s magic.
If that kid from Polar Express came in and shook the bell while I was decorating my tree, I would absolutely hear it jingle.
So, it may come as a surprise to hear that, this year, I decided not to get a tree. It seemed the sane thing. I was feeling overwhelmed. I was running out of time. And, it’s silly really, for me to go through all of that effort when, most years, I’m the only one who even sees my tree. (Really, who would even know if I decided to not get a tree?)
And, so, last week, being a mature adult who knows how to prioritize and get things done, I decided not to get a tree. And I felt relieved. And kind of sad.
And I told a good friend, “I’m not getting a tree.” And then, a bit surprised and a little annoyed, I heard myself add, “Well, maybe. I’m not sure. I might get a tree.”
And I decided to get a tree.
Then I wrenched my knee. There was no way I’d be able to get up and down the attic steps 432 times, let alone drag and lift a tree into the stand. And, so, last week, I decided not to get a tree. And I felt relieved. And kind of sad. And kind of old.
Then I heard my nephew was coming for a visit, and I knew: I have to have a tree! But the week got crazy. And windows of opportunity kept slipping shut. And, all of the sudden, the debate was over. Time was up. I was kind of stunned, really, but, at that point, I could allow that it wasn’t my decision. There simply wasn’t time left.
And so, yesterday, I sadly, glumly, sullenly, horribly, despairingly, finally decided that I would not get a tree this year.
I left the house with a pretty long to-do list. By late in the day, I had finished off the Christmas shopping, stocking stuffers included, and met a friend for lunch. The packages that had to be mailed were at the Post Office. Groceries for cookie baking and various get-togethers were in the trunk. All I had left to do was deposit checks, which I had been carrying around in my purse — endorsed! — for weeks. Walking into that bank felt like breaking the tape at the end of a very long marathon. Not that I have any idea what running a marathon actually feels like, but I was feeling like I might just make it through the holidays. I felt very grown-up and responsible and on top of things. I slipped the checks — which would cover the mortgage, car, lights, etc. — to the teller. She said, “Okay, you’re all set to deposit. Do you want anything back?” The answer was No.
But, then. I decided to get a tree.
Good luck, everyone. I hope you find your own life-preserving moment when it all comes back to you.
Dear Younger Self
I’d like to invent a time machine and take this note back to 1980. I would sneak into Shaler Area High School and put it in my locker. (Believe it or not, I still know the combination.)
Dear Younger Self,
There are so many things I wish I could tell you, but a blog can’t be overly long. (Oh, yeah, you’ll have a blog someday. And you write it in your own house, using a thing called a computer!) Anyway I hope this helps you survive the sucking sucktacular suck-fest that is your senior year of high school.
Hang in there, Weirdo!
Trust me. The things that make you different are the things that make you cool. Or, if they don’t make you cool exactly, they make you you, and when you figure that out, cool doesn’t matter.
Sail on!
If rough winds throw you off course, it only means you’re moving in a new direction. Might be a worse one, might be a better one. You won’t know for a while. No matter. The world is round. Sail on.
Sh*t Happens
Walk past it. Work around it. Light it on fire, ring a doorbell, and run. Just don’t carry it with you.
The Cute Boy
One sunny day, about five years after you’ve graduated from Shaler, you’ll run into The Cute Boy. You’ll be sweaty and wearing the ugliest outfit you’ll ever wear (an orange and brown polyester uniform), so maybe work on your sparkling conversation skills? Or learn how to flirt? Try not to be as dorky as your outfit.
F*** Sports
You have 20-plus years of ridiculously awesome fun volleyball in your future with some of the best people you will ever meet in your lifetime. When the strike ends, walk away from high school sports.
My recommended exit line is a phrase you don’t use. (Yet.)
It’s a Trap!
There are gazillions of jobs that exist in the world that may or may not correlate to knowing something about algebra, English lit, the dissection of small dead animals, and/or murder ball. Aptitude tests are, at best, useless; at worst, perilous confusion.
I can’t remember if they were mandatory. If not, skip them. If so, give crazy answers. Then, go do what you love.
Back-up Plan
I know that you are going to be a wife and mother and all that and it will be fabulous and happy with a great guy who loves you, but, just in case, um, crazy talk, haha, maybe consider having a back-up plan of something you might enjoy doing for a living for, oh, say, 30 or 40 years. No, no, don’t worry. I’m just messing with you, hahahaha.
But, um, just in case.
Show Up
Many years from now, late in November, fourteen years into a new millenium, there’s going to be a Shaler get-together called a Show Up. You won’t be sure you want to go. You’ll worry you don’t really have much to show for having been out in the world doing stuff for over 30 years. You don’t really like the idea of a room full of strangers. You dread the possibility of ending up standing in a corner by yourself, feeling awkward and socially inept. You’re afraid there just might be giant flashing spotlights and a monster truck announcer at the front door who will grab a microphone and yell, “Older! Fatter! Grayer! And stillllllll without a date to the prom — iiiiiiiit’s Beth!” as you walk into the bar.
Go to the party. Show up. You’ll have a blast. (There’s no announcer.)
Yes, young self, it’s true, even when you’re a middle-aged grown-up, there’ll be times when you have to find a way to be brave.
But, don’t worry, by then, you’ll be old enough to buy vodka.
Peanut Butter Fishes
There is nothing quite like the smell of toast on a chilly morning. I like it better than raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. It makes me think of peanut butter fishes.
Have you ever had peanut butter fishes?
My Grampap Daugherty made them best. I believe it was his own recipe. And, by recipe, I mean something he thought up on the spur of the moment one morning long, long ago.
In the ’60s, more so than now, meals were handled almost exclusively by the womenfolk and mealtime was a structured thing: A time to behave, a time to eat your vegetables and clear your plate, a time to mind your manners, a time when it might be your turn to stop playing and come set the table.
But, sometimes, Grampap made breakfast.
It is an inexplicable, wonderful bit of magic how some memories can pop out clear and whole. My desk feels like a table cloth, and I am small and young. I can hear my brother and sister and I being rowdy and greedy and silly. I can hear my grandfather’s chuckle. I smell toast. Grampap is making us peanut butter fishes. And we are gobbling them up.
RECIPE FOR PEANUT BUTTER FISHES
Make toast. Spread peanut butter on toast. Cut once horizontally and multiple times vertically. 
We’d yell for more. And he’d make more. I think he would have made peanut butter fishes for us all day long.
It wasn’t that we loved toast. Or fish. And I seriously doubt that peanut butter tastes good on any sort of fish except the imaginary ones. The wonderful thing about peanut butter fishes was the novelty of having our grandfather do the cooking. It was a break from the rules, a diversion from the norm. It was silly and fun and joyful and a thing we can only fully understand in retrospect: those glimpses of grown-ups acting like kids.
Being a grown-up isn’t easy. Sure you choose your own bed time and you can drive a car and you can kiss a boy without getting into great big trouble with the kindergarten teacher. But you have to pay taxes and buy groceries and clean an entire house. You don’t get three months off every summer. There is no Santa. The homework is a lot more complicated. Your allowance is, relatively, smaller. Your stresses are bigger. You have to cut grass and rake leaves and shovel snow. And you still have to get a bath and brush your teeth every day.
With all of that going on, some days, it can be hard to get out of bed. Some days, you wake up feeling tired and defeated and overwhelmed by grown-up life. And you just know it’s going to be a bad day.
That’s when I make peanut butter fishes for breakfast.
I can hear my Grampap chuckle. And I remember not to take it all too seriously. I smell toast. And I know everything is going to be okay.
Name 10 Books
Bless me father, for I have coveted books. And I am likely to continue to do so.
I love books. I love to read books. Sometimes I hug books. I have a fair number of books. I want more books.
You may look at my books. I may even let you touch my books. You may not borrow my books.
In short, I love books more than I hate chain letters. So having been tagged via facebook to name 10 books that stayed with me, I wanted to do it. Although, as you will see, I failed miserably at the game’s rule to “not give it much thought.”
Asking me to name books is like asking a kid in a candy store to name candy. And, like M&Ms and my hips, more than 10 have stayed with me.
I did not begin reading with Dick and Jane. I began reading with Al and Kay. Snuggled on the couch or tucked in bed, being read to is one of my very earliest memories, binding forever the concepts of love and comfort to bits of paper and board.
(i.e., Dammit, I could pick 10 books that have stayed with me since before I could even read them.)
When I was seven years old, doctors still made house calls, and I was diagnosed as “reading too much.” The word dismay was not yet in my vocabulary, but I felt its meaning. I also felt it ease when Mom and the doctor left the room without noticing the book on my nightstand.
I got better. But I was not cured.
A few years later, I had a friend over for a play date. When she asked me what we should do, I suggested “reading.”
Reading is a most excellent past time. But it is important to also interact with real people. Else, you might go through life saying dis-heave’ld when you mean to say disheveled.
Aside from vocabulary, books will expand your soul. Books can make you laugh out loud. Books can make you sigh. Books will ping your heart with truth. Books are life preservers. The good books I have read, as much as my Daugherty hair and my Schmidt nose, are a part of who I am.
I have often thought it would be a great idea to get a book journal and keep track of what I’ve read, to capture where these bits and pieces of me came from.
I wish I’d done it long ago. But I finally ordered one from amazon.com — at 2 a.m. last night when my list of 10 books was stuck firmly at 47 and I gave up for the night.
So, finally, agonizingly, and with a ridiculous amount of self-inflicted, painstaking consideration, here is my list of 10 books that have stayed with me.
The Mystery at the Lilac Inn, Carolyn Keene
A Wizard of Earthsea, Ursula K. Le Guin
Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger
Illusions, Richard Bach
Touch Not the Cat, Mary Stewart
Coyote Blue, Christopher Moore
Herb & Lorna, Eric Kraft
Dandelion Wine, Ray Bradbury
The Shipping News, E. Annie Proulx
The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
I tag Tracy D., Valerie G., and Dan T. Good luck.
Go Ahead, Make Fun of the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge
Some people sniff out enthusiasm like a dog looking for a place to poop. You knew it was only a matter of time until the Negative Nancies started in on the Ice Bucket Challenge for Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), better known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease.
Well, go ahead and make fun of me. I’m not embarrassed that I did the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge. Amazingly, I’m not even embarrassed that I displayed my fat body sopping wet on facebook.
I was challenged by a good friend, so there was peer pressure. I am also a silly-leaning human who has worked in both marketing and fund-raising, so the campaign itself caught my interest.
But the reason I made extra ice and charged up my video camera last week was for my Uncle Tom.
He was a wonderful human being. He was kind, funny, generous, and very active. One of those people who always had something going on, places to go, things to do, pranks to set up. He was my Dad’s best friend. He was my cousins’ loving father. He was one of the good guys.
I should note that the doctors never specifically diagnosed what he was going through. The only explanation they were ever able to give was that it was “like ALS.” And, like ALS, the connections from brain to spine to muscles were being disconnected one by one. Click, your feet don’t work. Click, your eyelids won’t stay open even when you’re awake. Click, you’re not allowed to drive anymore. Click, people can’t understand what you’re trying to say. Click, you can’t climb stairs. Click, you’re not allowed to live in your home anymore. Click, you can no longer swallow food. Click. You were gone much too soon.
I did the challenge for a guy who, even in his toughest moments, would have gotten a good laugh from seeing people pour a bucket of ice water over their heads. He would have liked the creativity. He would have understood the math of how word spread. He would have gotten a kick out of the fact that silliness can be a power for good.
I did the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge. Feel free to make fun of me. Make fun of everyone who took a moment out of their day to honor a friend or help raise funds. Go ahead, because even your sarcasm will help raise awareness.
Links:
To donate: http://www.alsa.org/donate
Here’s a great blog post about the challenge: What an ALS Family Really Thinks about the Ice Bucket Challenge
The best challenge video I’ve seen: Bill Rudy
Never Tailgate is a gift book with car photos and tips for new drivers. Dare to be Happy is a gift book with advice about life (and doodles). Both are available on amazon.
Life Preservers 
Let’s Go Bowling
If I win the lottery, I will buy a bowling alley.
I just found out that Route 19 Bowling Center (the place where I currently bowl) will be gone in a few months. Done. Gone. Bulldozed. For a mall.
Crap.
I like that bowling alley. I like bowling. I like bowling night.
Bowling is a family-friendly, date-friendly, friend-friendly, clutz-friendly, age-friendly outing. It’s an inexpensive bit of fun. It’s a stress-free escape. It’s a place where everybody gets a level playing field, and being average is perfectly all right.
I’m a single person who works from home. Bowling night is a life preserver. On bowling night, I get to leave the house. I get to knock down pins, knock back a couple of brewskis, hang with my friends, and laugh a full week’s worth. Bowling is the last vestige of Younger Days, when nights out were almost nightly. It is also the near end of a thread that weaves back even farther, to my earliest childhood . . . if an unsanctioned four-year-old wearing no shoes, standing at the foul line, and dropping a 12-pound ball onto a big toe can be considered bowling.
That cherished moment took place at the Mt. Royal Bowling Alley in Glenshaw, an alley within walking distance of where I grew up. It’s where I won my first bowling trophy.
I should note that (A) it was a mother-daughter tournament with the winning score based on a combined total; (B) my mom is a really good bowler; and (C) it’s where I won my only bowling trophy. But I broke 80 that day, my mom kicked butt, and we took first place. In the tangled jungle of my aging brain, that moment is a sun-drenched clearing. Unadulterated joy. Vainglorious triumph. In my mind, that bowling alley is perfectly preserved.
In real life, it’s a drug store.
Folks in the North Hills of Pittsburgh will also remember another once-great bowling alley: McKnight Lanes. That building is now a Bed, Bath, and Beyond. (I still stick out my tongue anytime I drive by.)
McKnight Lanes is where I bowled in my first league and enjoyed many happy, silly times as a kid, a teenager, and a young adult. I broke in my very own bowling ball there in the late ’70s. It is actually the same ball I used right up until a couple of months ago when it was, well, broken in completely. (See photo to fully appreciate bad pun.)
Mount Royal Lanes. McKnight Lanes. And now, Route 19 Bowling Center. The three main places I have bowled, gone, gone, and going soon.
I am bummed. I am sad. I am disappointed with the world.
I want to wail like a four-year-old with a bowling ball on her foot.
Yeah, I know. Time rolls on. Things change. And, while I kind of adore the tradition and kitsch of bowling, it’s not the everyman activity it used to be. I know not everybody loves bowling. But do we really need another mall?
No. We do not.
We need more bowling alleys. Bowling alleys with cabana boys.
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January 22, 2016 at 8:01 pm 2 comments