Posts filed under ‘Life Preservers’
Thanksgiving
If I had to pick a favorite holiday in the year, it would be Thanksgiving. As an adult, I like the sincerity of it. The lack of advertising-skewed priorities. The quiet days off. The unadulterated meaning: to simply give thanks.
As a kid, the appeal was a little different. Thanksgiving was the annual mega-gathering of my Dad’s side of the family. Thirty to forty people, with more than half of that crowd the funny, cool playmates called cousins. It was the one time of year that we all saw each other. And it was a big, loud, boisterous day. Hug lines forming as each new relative came in the front door. Food lines forming for dinner as we navigated around the kitchen buffet style and, with our well-laden plates, wandered to one of many tables set up around the house. And, of course, the well-worn lines of family jokes to make us giggle again and again. It was a day filled with story-telling, catching up, practical jokes, skits, live music, dancing, cards games, ping pong, and more.
I find it impossible to recall a single Thanksgiving. Rather all the years exist as a jumbled blur of all of these things, a constant whir of voices and laughter and tradition, punctuated by individual memories: Aunt Margie’s perfect green beans with bacon; Aunt Ann’s chocolate maple brownies; Grandma’s stuffing served in a great big cooker by ice cream scoop; listening to grandma and my dad and his brothers and sisters tell stories of their growing up; the year we hung underwear on Aunt Theresa’s car; the year Denny, Joel, and Tommy were missing for military duty; the year that Johnny, Denny, and Tommy mooned and took pictures on my unattended, undigital camera; the year(s) we oohed and awed over the arrival of the great-grandchildren; the time Uncle Tom sat in front of Aunt Marie and poured gravy on the angel food cake she’d made and ate it without saying a word as she spluttered and we all played along as if this were a perfectly normal way to eat angel food cake.
This mush of memories means that sometimes Thanksgiving includes time spent throwing a football out in the street without coats on as well as the adventure of battling treacherous snow and ice to arrive in time. It means that Thanksgiving includes the entire family all at once, whether they attended each year or not. It also means that Thanksgiving includes everybody, including the dear ones we have since said good-bye to.
My sentimental side yearns for a time machine for just one more chance to gather on Thanksgiving, to hug each one coming through the door. To hear Uncle John’s laugh. To see Grandma’s eyes mist up as she tells about the day she met her Oscar. To hear Aunt Marie describe her most recent recipe in complete detail. To pull up in front of that big house and know that both Aunt Pat and Uncle Tom would be there to greet me. To set up Uncle Joe with a “How are you?” so that he could grab someone’s butt and say, “Ah, I’ve been feeling bum all day.” Even, yes, to help wash the dishes after 30-40 people had snacked, dined, and had dessert.
In the looking back, my heart aches. And the feelings of loss are nearly unbearable.
But.
That is Life. As we get older—if we were lucky enough to be part of a big loving family—we must say a lot of good-byes. And Life does go on if we remember to be thankful for the big loving family part. And to balance the sadness of good-bye with the happiness of saying hello to new spouses, new babies. To understand that change isn’t always bad. And to realize that the Thanksgiving dinner tables, which used to sit in dining room, living room, family room, basement, and den of one house are simply a bit farther apart in homes in Pennsylvania, in Virginia, in Utah, in Colorado, in New Jersey.
I know that, at each of those tables, the traditions go on. The last name is handed down. Someone is still making perfect mashed potatoes. That smell of turkey still permeates the air. A sincere prayer is said. The tales of Anna and Oscar and their offspring are told. And the laughter rolls.
Tradition is one of the ultimate life preservers. But its magic lies not in tedious, unchanging repetition. The magic is in the oral history that tells us where we came from, in the people we learned to admire, in the activities that teach us what’s important and what’s to be forgiven, in the honoring of father and mother, in the joy of children, in the preservation of values, in the sacred knowledge of unconditional love.
So today, as I have a slice of my Mom’s pumpkin pie for breakfast, as I enjoy the break from my adult responsibilities, as I find a little time to reflect on more than chores to be done and deadlines to be met and the accumulation of failures and disappointments that can make us doubt who we are, I see clearly, above all, the blessing of being a granddaughter of Anna and Oscar. And I give thanks for my place in the world as daughter, sister, niece, cousin, and aunt.
What’s your favorite Thanksgiving tradition?
There Was This One Time . . .
Last night we celebrated friend Julie’s 50th Birthday. A strange occasion.
Strange, not because it was held at a Croatian Club. Strange, not because she made us drink some traditional Croatian shot (not sure how to spell it, but I’ll try: t-u-r-p-e-n-t-i-n-e). Strange, not because we toilet papered the guest of honor. Strange, not because she allowed us to do so.
But strange because it really seems impossible that anyone in this group of friends could be 50. Wasn’t it just a couple of years ago that we met?
Our paths crossed initially because of softball. I can remember the first practice I went to, and I know, rationally, that I arrived there alone and introduced myself to a bunch of people I didn’t know, but, in the brain succotash of 30 years of memories with the cells sacrificed to good cause, I can’t quite recall not being friends with these women.
But. Well.
We made plans to go out 3 and 4 times a week—without having cell phones. We remembered each other’s Birthdays without email reminders. I could, on my way to meet you all with a 20 in my pocket, stop and fill up the tank and still have beer money left. And, once with you, I could hand the bartender a driver’s license made of paper that had no photo on it.
(Our friend Julie, the first to turn 50, was also the first to turn 21. You can sort out the relevance of the last sentence of the previous paragraph on your own.)
So, yes, I guess it has been a while since that day I borrowed my parents’ car to drive to the field on Scott Rd. in Shaler. And stereotypical jokes about aging aside, I’m proud to think that we’ve been friends through boyfriends, breakups, marriages, children, divorce, endings, beginnings, moves across town, moves out of state, scares, loss, and joys.
It’s true. I am on the verge of breaking into a loud rendition of Dionne Warwick’s “That’s What Friends Are For”? (As we did when that song was Top-40.)
Yes, that video is sappy and corny. And, if you want to tell me you didn’t get teared up listening to it and that I’m a big dork, that’s okay. I can freely admit my dorkitude because (A) I’m not a teenager anymore and (B) I know you know and you love me anyway.
I could, if I chose to, blog non-stop until Julie’s 51st, beginning each paragraph with “There Was This One Time. . . .”
But. Those who don’t know us would be bored. Those who know us have heard them all. And there may be those who would want us arrested. So. I’ll skip the long, sentimental, hilarious ramble that has been running through my head since the Birthday Party Invitation arrived and just note that There Was This One Time . . . last night. And There Was This One Time a few weeks ago. And There Will Be This One Time around Christmas.
It is human nature, on significant occasions in a time when we are (just slightly) beyond our prime youth, to look back. And, if you are lucky, the looking back is freakin’ awesome. But that is not what makes this friendship special. All human contact has a past. Not all has continuation. Whether fate or dumb luck, we have an unbreakable connection, a no matter what, a You’re stuck with me; deal with it, and an Of course, I do so gladly even if you are a big dork, even if you do get a cramp doing The Twist, even if you used to run really really slowly, even if you lost the Jimmy Buffett tickets, even if you are tall and blonde and we only see you once in a rare while, even if you are 50.
So, to Julie, who was once so much older than the rest of us, who led the way, who shared her I.D., who, as one of the first to own a car, did a lot of the driving, who, as the first home-owner, hostess-ed more than her share of the early day parties and did so again last night: 50 really is just a number. If it is significant, it is that it gave us a good reason to meet up once again. And it gave us a reason to celebrate you.
Yes, we gave you Bingo and colon cleanse and curlers. But, you know, that’s only funny because you won’t need such things until far into the future. A future, perhaps, like the one pictured below, in the card you made for me when I turned 30.
Happy Birthday, Jules. Great party. Thanks.
Happy Halloween, Kids
My pumpkins are carved. Bags of candy have been purchased. And I’m heading up Grandview, down Thermon, up Clifton and Pennsylvania, through the wonderful neighborhood where I grew up.
Yeah, it’s a little stroll down memory lane.
A month or so before the big day, Mom would venture into the attic and bring down the costume supplies for my brother and sister and I to review. There were a couple of store-bought cardboard boxes (the ones with the pajama outfit and a plastic mask) and another big cardboard box that contained miscellaneous clothing and wigs and such. Some of the best bits over the years came from trunks my Dad had, which were filled with props used by The Jesters, a comic group he belonged to. I keep a similar box o’ stuff in my own attic now.
We’d sort out who wanted to be what, re-purposing the old things, and Mom making new things. My absolute favorite was a sort of Bedouin costume she made from scratch for me. Satin pantaloon pants and a top decorated with beads and sequins, completed with a headpiece and veil that left only my eyes showing.
Would that be considered politically incorrect these days? Would my pillowcase be subject to Xray inspection? I don’t know, but I have never, as child or adult, felt that pretty or that exotic—or that annoyed to wear a coat on Halloween night!
At the appointed time, we’d leave the house with my Dad and head four houses up to meet up with two of our friends and their Dad.
We’d start at their next-door neighbor’s house. Our Dads would have a beer with the gentleman who lived there, while the lady of the house pretended to guess who we were, thoroughly oohing and awing over our costumes. As we left, our Dads would always hide one of the beer bottles in their yard or mailbox, the two of them snickering like school boys, the neighbor at his door, pretending it wasn’t funny.
There was another lady who made donuts on Halloween. And she didn’t just drop them in our bags; we went into the kitchen and sat down and had one with a glass of milk. Then, we were on our way again, ringing doorbells, hollering “Trick or Treat,” tugging and adjusting, and visiting friends around the block.
The traditions of Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, Birthdays, Valentines—they change as we change, adapting so slowly into their more mature variations that we don’t notice as much. But Trick or Treating is, alas, something we grow too tall for.
These days it’s my turn to be the grown-up. To stand on the sidewalk while my niece and nephew go door to door or to turn on my porch light and listen for the happy tromp of footsteps.
As I look back, feeling a bit overly nostalgic, tugging at the awkward grown-up get-up I must wear, I have one of those moments of a-ha clarity about the talents, imaginations, creativity, humor, and priorities of two life preservers who wore their costumes so much better than I ever will.
Thanks Mom. Thanks Dad.
What was your favorite costume (or tradition) for Halloween when you were a kid?
Happy Columbus Day
[Note: Sorry for the double-post. I originally posted an old draft.]
I watched the History Channel’s “Who Really Discovered America?” over the weekend. They didn’t really answer the question except to say that Signore Columbus was definitely not the first to arrive.
The show reviewed theories of discovery by the Vikings, the Native Americans (er, um, Native Russians?), the Irish, One of the Lost Tribes of Israel, the Japanese, the Chinese, Polynesians, and others. Evidence presented included architecture, language, physical features, skeletal remains, fish hooks, weaponry, architecture, disease, art, and DNA.
Scientists now have DNA testing capabilities to examine and trace physical traits via genes back thousands and thousands of years—which they are now using to try to confirm genetic patterns to support (or disprove) some of the discovery theories.
The theory that went farther back than any other was that a group called the Solutreans arrived, from Southwestern Europe, in 22,000 B.C. (i.e., not just Before Columbus).
Really makes ya wonder how come Columbus got all the attention and is remembered well enough to close banks and schools on an annual basis more than 500 years after the fact.
(I’m thinking it could be because he’s the only one with a cool mnemonic device.)
In the end, the show concluded by saying that, the more we learn, the more likely that the question of Who Discovered America? will become Who Didn’t?
Although the show’s title remains a bit perturbing, especially for someone who does not like cliff-hanger endings, I think I’d find it much harder to believe that one person discovered America than to believe that people from a variety of cultures were sticking a foot in Alaska, California, Florida, and Connecticut all at the same moment.
Eenie, meenie, miney, moe. I say, take your pick.
What fascinates me more than that is the type of the human being who ventured out. Yes, the documentarians surmise that some of the voyages were initiated by a flight from tyranny or earthly disaster, but some of these folks? They just wanted to go find out.
As I get into my car and go buy groceries that have been grown, picked, wrapped in plastic, and stacked up to await my arrival at 2:00 in the afternoon or 2:00 in the morning; as I grumble about a 1/2-hour delay on a flight that will take me across the country in a matter of hours; as I recall the preparations, car problems, and pit stops of various vacations, I find it absolutely mind-boggling.
And also exhilirating.
Consider the imagination and spirit (and cojones) of these adventurers. Getting into hand-made boats, some without sails. Planning to catch their own dinner as needed. Pushing off from shore without checking the Weather Channel or turning on the GPS. Wondering just how many miles of ocean rolled and crashed beyond the horizon. Not knowing what—if anything—awaited them, but darn near certain it wouldn’t be a HoJo’s and a plate full of fried clams, hush puppies, and a Coke.
I don’t think it matters who got here first. I think what matters is that we are descended from explorers and trail-blazers, that we each have some guts in our guts. A deeply held memory of derring-do. A hint of faith that defies impossibilities. The twist in our double-helix.
And, whether or not the grade-school history lesson was completely accurate, I think this remains a day worth celebrating (and certainly a day for life preservers).
Happy Columbus Day.
(Or, Happy Solutrean Day, just in case.)
Nice Day, Isn’t It?
Late summer, early fall, Indian summer, Autumnal Equinox, ohmigawd-it’s-late-September? Call it what you will, I call it darn-near perfection.
Your favorite season and mine may not be the same. But, will you do me one favor, fair people of Earth?
Over the next several weeks, keep an eye out for co-workers, friends, and fellow human beings with a look in the eye that—if you take the time to look—bluntly and gleefully tells you, “Given half a chance, I will run from this office building to go out and play.”
You will see these people. They may be complete strangers. But one of them will turn to you, with a big ol’ grin and kite-flying eyes, and say, “Nice day, isn’t it?”
Here’s the favor. Try, please try, not to respond thusly:
“Eh, we’ll be needing snow shovels before you know it.”
“I guess, but . . .”
“Unh, but you know what’s coming.”
“Santa’s not real; you’ll never find love; and falling stars are, in actuality, flaming planets, inhabited mostly by puppies, hurtling toward certain destruction.”
Keep it to yourselves you party-pooping, parade-drenching doom-doom heads!
Yes. As a matter of fact, I do know that after autumn comes winter. I kind of mastered all four seasons a while back. (I also tie my own shoes and can draw an awesome turkey with a thumb-shaped head.)
Winter comes each year. But autumn is here now.
Grass and weed growth have slowed. Bathing suit as well as galoshes lie un-needed in the bottom of the closet. Sweatshirt weather. Rag-top days with brilliant sunlight and fabulous, numerous cumulus in startling Crayola skies. Jean jackets. Suede shoes. Campfires. S’mores. Football Sundays. Crock pot stews, crusty bread, Cabernet. Windows-open-no-furnace-needed-and-no-AC-neither sleeping weather. No humidity. Not much rain. Woodsy, ancient smells and scrunch-crunchiness and landscapes of impossible shades.
C’mon people!
It’s autumn. Gorgeous, lovely, genteel, snuggly, be-outside-without-sweating, breathe-without-your-boogars-freezing autumn.
Take a breath. Take a look. Take a moment to enjoy it.
What’s your favorite thing about autumn?
Win
In July 2010, at 91, a man named Win passed away. High school football star, WWII veteran, husband, father, grandfather, great-grandfather. And, for the past 13 years, my neighbor—and friend.
Up until about two years ago, he was a force of nature. Cutting hedges. Mowing the lawn. Always at work. No weeds growing out of his driveway. No cinders or gum wrappers in front of his sidewalk. And snow? Pfft. His was gone before I’d even got a boot on. And never moved out in blobby patches. We’re talking pristine, edge to edge, straight lines and bare concrete. No snow-blower, just a shovel.
He always kept an eye on my place. One, because he was watching out for me. And two, because I am fairly certain that my obvious lack of skill, blatant procrastination, and resulting misadventures were a regular source of amusement.
When my garage door went bonkers, he was the one who crossed the street when I was out to re-shut it and/or scramble under it. The icy winter morning my driveway wall fell, he called to warn me before I’d even looked outside. It was his ladder that got me in the dining room window when I locked myself out. His hand that scattered the mystery salt on my sidewalk on days that it snowed while I was at work. His concern breaking into laughter at the inadvertent somersault or prat fall.
He has always been that sweet old guy masquerading as curmudgeon, and a bit of deserved and rather charming actual curmudgeon, a wise man, an extra grandparent, a firecracker.
I got another glimpse of him this week in some photos his wife shared.
In a scrapbook he made, these guys were “The Gang,” and they had nicknames (I kid you not) like Shorty and Jitterbug. Most of the above were taken in Arizona (near the Boulder/Hoover Dam) shortly before he left for France and Germany and World War II. And, although taken long before I was even born, I love these pictures, and I am somewhat overcome with a sense of joy and relief that he did all this and then came home, married his sweetheart, raised a family.
It was about 2 years ago that his legs, which had carried him around a football field, the City of Pittsburgh, and the world, began to slow. A betrayal in his eyes as everyday things became difficult and surgeries and long stays in rehab centers took their toll. He drew the line when the only remaining option, and the recommendation by doctors, became amputation. There was a fierceness and strength and dignity in his decision. He wanted to go home. And there was an acquiescence by doctors. And understanding as well as tremendous support from his family.
I admire them all.
When he arrived home later that day, he emerged from the passenger side of the car and was helped into a wheelchair. They were wheeling him into the house backwards, so he was facing me, and I was stunned to see this thin, ghostly pale figure; hands held still in his lap; head down. They were having a time of it, getting the chair up over the threshold. The jostling made him look so fragile.
Then, with one last big ol’ bumpity-bu-bump and the front two wheels precariously high in the air, Win raised his head. He gave me a great big smile, threw his hands in the air, and yelled “Wheeeee!”
I raise a glass to humor and bravado and life. To our elders. To our veterans. To our tough guys.
God speed, Win McCluskey.
Thank You, U.S. Soldier
September 11 is not a subject I would normally consider a topic for this blog. But, with respect, I would like to share a story.
A few years back, I joined a group called Soldiers Angels, a non-profit organization designed to support the troops. You sign up and, once approved, receive a name and a military address of an active-duty military person.
You “adopt” a soldier and commit to sending letters and care packages for as long as that person is deployed. (I do think “adopt” is a bit too familiar and quite the overstatement. I think of it more like being a secret Santa or airmail waitress.)
Should you want to, you can learn more about Soldiers Angels at soldiersangels.org. In addition to adopting a soldier, there are a variety of one-time things you can do to support the troops via the website.
On Tuesday of this week, in a completely unexpected, totally unnecessary table-turn, I received a care package from one of my “adopted” soldiers. (He is home safe.)
Inside the box was an American flag with a note explaining that this flag had flown, in Iraq, on the anniversary of September 11 in 2008.
I was stunned and amazed.
And goose-bumped and teary-eyed.
And something more. Something I’m not sure I can totally explain, but I feel the need to try.
The idea of where this flag has been and what it stands for. This banner o’er the Land of the Free and Home of the Brave. This badge of power. The Good Guys panache. This symbol of who we are. Of who we have always been.
For nine years, September 11 has triggered nothing but a deep and inconsolable sadness, a thick shadow of grief that doesn’t ebb, an abyss I must draw back from to function in the everyday. But. To have this flag in my hands and to have in my head this image of the spirit of those who serve. To imagine an American soldier flying this flag, honoring the Stars and Stripes–and all of us–in Iraq, on September 11. To hold something so beautiful and patriotic and . . . tangible.
Well.
It comforts me.
It humbles me.
God bless America. And God bless those who serve.
The Flat Tire
When you’re in your 40s, your metabolism slows, your hearing goes, knees ache, your back goes out more than you do, disappointments can fill a pretty big trunk, and “hangovers hurt more than they used to.” But. There are certain benefits.
For example, my 20-something-year-old ear could never have recognized the creaky-rubby-subtly strange sound that a flat tire makes. As I backed out of the garage today, I knew without looking. But I looked. Yep, that slow leak I have been nursing since June turned into a fast leak overnight.
Completely. Utterly. Pancakely. Flat.
Annoying, yes. But, I was able to do a quick forage through my garage to find an industrial-strength extension cord and an air compressor. I had none of those things in my 20s—including the garage.
Again, in my 20s, I would have thought, “Eh, I’m taking it in to get inspected tomorrow, might as well just put in some air and head to the mall to go clothes shopping as planned.” But you know and I know, I would have ended up stranded, either in the mall parking lot or, worse, on the way to work in the morning. (I already need to be three places at once at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow. Sitting on the side of the road waiting for a tow truck isn’t one of them.)
So, it’s Sunday. My only choice? Pep Boys.
I’ve gone there before. I know it doesn’t have the best reputation for car work, and I know it’s the expensive choice. But, it’s Sunday and, yeah, I do know better than to procrastinate on this, so I dropped off the car and walked to the mall from there.
Tangent. As I walked, I thought, “Huh, I just gave my car to a total stranger who didn’t give me a receipt of any kind. I mean, you get a sticker for your luggage, you get a little pink itemized list from the dry cleaner, you even get a little ticket if you check a hat. But. I just gave some kid, who is way too young to have his own garage or an ear for flat rubber, my car. Along with my keys, my address, and my garage door opener. Huh.”
Anyhoo, about an hour later, I walked back into Pep Boys. Had to wait in line behind a guy who was well into a not-so-happy discussion (with the kid who had taken my keys) about the work they’d done on his car.
Not boding well.
About 10 minutes further into that discussion, another employee stepped up to the register to help. I told him what kind of car. He tap-tap-tapped on a keyboard and shook his head. I gave him my name. Tap-tap-tap. Again, nothing. He said, “You got an oil change, right?” I explained no, a tire repair. Tap-tap-tap. Nope. I said, haltingly, “It’s not where I parked it? So? I assume? It’s done?” Uh-oh.
But, then, he turned away from the computer, took a look around, and voila, came up with my keys. (Well, you know, I didn’t really think they’d gone joy-riding or had sent someone to ransack my house, but, still, I was a wee bit relieved.) He handed the keys to me along with an envelope and said, “Okay, you’re all set.”
I don’t know a lot about fixing cars but I have had years of experiences that have taught me the chances of fiasco, the multiplying frustrations of a lemon, and the potential for rude, often chauvenistic, frequently duplicitous, snickering-snarling gremlin antics of the average unknown grease monkey. I stood there, credit card in hand, arm extended, and he was turning to the next person in line. And I didn’t know what to think.
“Uh, excuse me, but, I haven’t paid yet.”
“Nope. You’re all set.”
Arm still extended. Brain scrambling. Vocabulary stunted.“But . . . Wha-? Huh? ”
Apparently other-kid had proactively finagled some paperwork in my absence and signed me up for some kind of rewards program, which made me eligible to get the work done for free. He did what? The program is huh? The repair was free?
Free? Really? You’re sure? I can, just, uh, go? Really? (I still don’t understand it, but, yes, really.)
And I thought finding pants that fit in under an hour was the most amazing part of my day.
Pleasant surprises are like a mini life preserver. Had any of your own recently?
Buffett Babies?
Tomorrow, in Pittsburgh, the Parrot Heads will congregate at StarLake. I’ve lost count of the concerts, but it’s at least my 22nd time to see Jimmy Buffett. (23 if you count the time I shook his hand and said hello on 6th Street in downtown Pittsburgh, when I happened to see him on my lunch hour.)
I’ve been going with pretty much the same friends all these years. And, I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later. Drum roll and a short one. This year. August 12, 2010. We are about to introduce some of the next generation to the parking lot. For the girls, a few tips.
1. Eat a good, absorbent breakfast.
2. Wear sun screen and a hat–preferably a straw hat with tropical flowers, plastic hamburgers, or even a game of ring toss on it.
3. Bring toilet paper. If you’re going to use the porta-johns, learn to hover. If you’re going to use the woods, you’re going to need superhuman balance by the end of the day and shorts or a skirt that aren’t too complicated. You’re probably going to pee on your shoes.
4. Speaking of shoes, wear comfortable ones. Ones that do not require superhuman balance, ones you can walk around in all day, ones you don’t really care if you trash (or give away).
5. You can’t take any alcohol into the concert. Or can you? 20-some years running, I have carried in a beer. And, one year, two oranges injected with vodka. (The gate attendant not only let me in that year, I think he had a crush on me.)
6. Don’t buy a souvenir T-shirt inside the concert. First, they’re ridiculously expensive and you’ll either forget it on the lawn or have to carry it around all night. It’s illegal to sell knock-off T-shirts in the parking lot, and security keeps an eye out. So, as you’re buying one, keep it low-key.
7. There are two ways to approach the concert: Go all out and build an attraction around your parking space. Or, travel light and go sight-seeing. Either way, get to the parking lot early. (And ignore all the warnings on the radio the day before the concert when they tell you the gates won’t open early.)
8. Lots of beer. Lots of ice.
9. The fun seats are the lawn seats. You’ll want a blanket, not so much to sit on but to mark your territory on the hill. It’s going to get crowded. Most people will be super friendly and loads of fun. However, there are about 2 people per 100 who are lightweight a-holes. They may sit behind you. Remember that puke and pee run downhill.
9b. Don’t be a lightweight a-hole.
9c. We’ll take care of you no matter what.
9d. But don’t be a lightweight a-hole.
10. Hydrate. And, if you have a friend who doesn’t hydrate and makes fun of you for doing so, don’t make too much fun of her when she gets carted off to the hospital. (Love you Nancy.)
11. You will be asked, many times, to “show us your tits.” It’s your call.
12. Bring cheap sunglasses. They will get stepped on, sat on, danced on, and probably conga-lined on.
13. Soon as you park, memorize your parking area. Write it on your arm if you have to. (Brain cells will die this day.)
14. Bring a chair and a koozie.
15. If you show up in jeans, wearing heels, sans Hawaiian accessories, carrying a purse, in a state of extreme sobriety, or worried about working the next morning, we will make fun of you all day. (Also, if you show up appropriately attired and in the right frame of mind, we will probably still make fun of you all day.)
Okay kids. The Big Day starts in about 14 hours, and I’m looking forward to it in a whole new way. You’re about to see humanity at its odd best. Get ready for a silly, whacky, very friendly, free-for-all, life-preserving break-from-reality sort of day.
If we couldn’t laugh, we would go insane.
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 
Do You Believe in Golf?
Yesterday I had my “Golf Final.” I passed. Let’s call it a C+ on nine holes, par 3. We didn’t keep score, my short-term memory is shakey at best, and I’ve read but not memorized the penalty stroke rules, so I honestly can’t tell you my score. But I got a couple of drives to the green and had a couple of very long putts that (nearly) went in. I also had a couple of terrible drives and on two, maybe three, occasions, had to pick my ball up and walk on due to the three drive/three putt limit.
I avoided the trees. I stayed out of the water. I didn’t hit the ducks on 2 or the cars near 9. More important, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. So, let’s add golf to the very short list of sporty activities that I can suck at but still have fun playing. (The others are darts and pool.) Most important, I took a step toward overcoming what I think has to be my biggest handicap: I don’t actually believe that golf is possible.
I find it incomprehensible that a person can hit a small ball a hundred yards or more and have it end up in that tiny little hole in the ground. And that’s not just a euphemism for the difficulty of the game. I mean I have never believed with my brain that it can happen.
I know that 2 plus 2 is 4. I know if I set a volleyball, a hitter will be able to take a good swing. I know if I take my vitamins, I won’t get sick. I know that, if I mix flour, sugar, brown sugar, baking soda, salt, egg, vanilla, and chocolate chips, some darn good cookies will come out of the oven.
But. That tiny ball that sits much too close to my feet as I fight the urge to back away. That far-away hole (which some talk about aiming for). That club that transmogrifies into a softball bat as soon as it leaves my line of sight on the backswing.
I just don’t believe it can be done.
For many years, that disbelief kept me from playing the game. Me not having a set of clubs didn’t help either.
Friends played a lot and I always felt left out, But I also had no desire to go out and make a total fool of myself and/or mess up their good time. So I did not play golf.
Then something changed. A very dear friend passed away, and a special group of friends began an annual golf outing to honor his memory. How could I care if I made a fool of myself for that?
So I blatantly warned some friends about my lack-of-skill level and put a team in. (And a very special thank-you to life preservers Steve and Nancy who put friendship above winning, not just that first year but each year since, i.e., even after seeing me play. I hope you know how much it means to me. Your kindness and humor and sincere tolerance—well, that’s exactly what that day is all about, isn’t it?)
At these outings, I discovered something. I actually enjoy this odd sport. So, this fall I signed up for lessons via CCAC, the local community college, and ended up at Denise’s Golf Academy. (If you’re looking for a great instructor, I recommend this place.)
Yesterday, the class ended with nine holes of par 3. It was a gorgeous day to be out and about. And on one or two occasions, I got that ball where it needed to go without feeling totally awkward or completely lucky.
I was feeling pretty good afterwards—excited by the lessons learned, uplifted by the gorgeous fall weather—and just not ready to be done. Instead of going home, I stopped at a driving range. Got a bucket.
And, let me tell you, the golfer on the next tee was so impressed with how I was hitting them that he exclaimed more than one loud and boisterous “Wow!”
He was five years old.
Got any golf tips for me?
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October 17, 2010 at 3:22 am 9 comments