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?
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 Packaging People Must Be Stopped
We all know the OCD-inducing-pick-pick-pick-maybe-some-teeth-okay-the-new-song-I-wanted-to-hear-is-now-an-oldie frustrations of opening CD or DVD packaging. (Honestly? It’s one of the main reasons I like to buy used video games instead of new.) And we’ve all made the transition to the extra bit of paper lid or plastic wrap between us and our over-the-counter medications, a flimsy li’l bit of whatchamacallit to guard us from societal crazies. Heck, there are a lot of kids out there, now old enough to need a couple of Tylenol, Tums, and Vitamin C tablets on a Sunday morning who have no memory of it ever being any easier to get hangover relief.
(Yes, sometimes, on my Conspiracy Theory days, I do sort of wonder if someone didn’t just poison those Tylenol bottles because they had this shiny new business plan in the trunk of their car for a protective packaging business. But I digress. And it’s almost positively not the case.)
(But, you know, if it were true, that a-hole is now very, very rich.)
Some packaging makes sense, and I don’t begrudge the manufacturers a living. That white foam stuff that a computer or microwave oven comes in? Sure, that makes sense. It protects the electronics, makes things less expensive to ship, and getting to your new toy is as simple as opening a shoebox.
Fine.
But why is there a plastic-paper-tin-foil cap on my ketchup? Inside, beneath the real cap, beyond the bit of plastic that was wrapped around the cap. Why is there a super-secret hidden cap that you don’t know is there until you’re attempting to squirt that ketchup. (An-ti-ci-pa-tion, my ass.) Those secrets caps are everywhere now. Ketchup, mustard, mayo (and who the hell thought it was a good idea to put mayo in a squeeze bottle anyway?), salad dressing, chocolate syrup, coffee creamer. Half the time, you can’t get a pinky finger-hold on the spot marked “pull here,” and the other half the time, you pull and the contents go spurt! all over your new work blouse that you are now forced to wear around the office all damn day, including that important meeting with the big boss or the cute vendor.
Now, okay, deep down, you kind of tolerate all of that because, no matter how busy, lazy, or stressed out you may be, you generally don’t want to be poisoned. So, all right, fine.
But.
Let’s talk for a moment about non-edible-product packaging.
All of it designed solely to make a product look good on the shelf. None of it designed to enhance product enjoyment by the customer.
The customer cannot be king if ruled by the evil dictator Twisty-tie.
Twisty-ties made of some super-polymer-covered titanium-like alloy crunched into place by someone very strong. (Picture those hard-core weight lifters every gym has two of, grunting as they put each twisty-tie in place. Unh. Unh. Good one Gunther. Heh heh leetle boy never get to play with toy. Unh.) One small toy; 452 twisty ties holding it place, holding it to the hard plastic envelope thing, holding that to the box it came in. (Hundreds of thousands of twisty-ties that, thanks to my cats quick reflexes and fascination with anything small and plastic, now lie stockpiled beneath my dresser, under the non-rolling rolling file cabinet in my office, behind the dining room buffet, and in every other nook and cranny you might one day have to peer into in search of a dropped pen, a rolling quarter, or a missing passport.)
And if it’s not the twisty-ties, which are designed to make un-twisting, at least, a viable theory, it’s those hard-plastic bands that you need industrial wire cutters to get through. Could there be anything worse?
Uh, yes.
With the long Labor Day weekend, I, like many I would guess, start thinking “home project.” With that in mind yesterday, I stopped in at Bed Bath & Beyond to pick up a few things that needed fixing or replacing. I strolled through the sale rack. (50% off the already marked-down sale price? Who can resist?) There was a lot of really ugly crap. (There’s a reason stuff is 50% off the sale price of course.) But, in the midst of the tie-dye style curtains, the Disco-era bath accessories, and the super-tacky His and Hers laminated faux-antique wall hangings, I spied The Perfect Kitchen Clock.
Round red metal, white face, simple style, kind of 40s or 50s? It looks a lot like the one currently hanging in my kitchen, except that it isn’t a cheap, yellowing, plastic-piece-a-crap that I salvaged and painted red around the edge because I couldn’t afford to buy the cool round red metal clock I’d seen in a catalog. And it was on sale. And 50% off the sale price.
I gleefully snatched that clock out of the Beyond aisle and checked out.
This morning, after a good lounge in bed, sighing, “Ah Saturday.” and a good loungy stretchy yawny Ah-Saturday cuppa coffee, I thought, “Ooh! I’ll start the tasks of the day with a fun and easy one: I’ll put my new clock in its place of honor.”
It’s in a cardboard frame sort of lidless box. There’s not even any cellophane over the front. What could be simpler?
I grasped the clock and, one foot already on the step stool, pulled. Huh? No give. Not a budge. And not a twisty-tie in sight.
This clock is held to its packaging with screws. Screws! Two of them—drilled into the back of the box through washers. And, yep, you know it, Phillip’s head.
And so the Labor Day begins. I’ll be in the basement.
What packaging shenanigans would you put an end to if you could? Or, what sort of Labor Day fun are you getting into?
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?
Dear Nancy Pelosi,
Dear Nancy Pelosi.
I oppose the Mosque. Let me help you investigate me.
I am a proud member of the human race who remembers the brutal heartbreak of September 11.
I am a candid person who isn’t afraid to state aloud that Muslim Extremists are an enemy to America and all that we stand for as a county and an affront to every person who lived and died in defense of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.
I am proud. I am not embarrassed to be an American. I appreciate my home, my job, my right to vote. I think the United States of America is the bee’s knees. I love this country.
I am not an idiot. I am aware that there are well-meaning and good-hearted Muslims in the world and in our country. (Uh, duh.) I am quite capable of comprehending that not not all Muslims practice their religion/way of life in the same way as those who infiltrated our country, abused our freedoms to gain homes and employment–and to learn how to fly airplanes. I have also managed to wrap my brain around the reality that a group of people—who would, if they could, worship at such a mosque—conceived (and celebrated!) a violent and horrible attack on thousands of innocent civilians.
Yes, I am intelligent enough to realize there is a lot of gray among the black and white in the world. But I am not so void of morality to know that there are still some things in this world that are black and white.
I am a well-mannered person who was raised on right and wrong, who was taught compassion and empathy, who knows that there are consequences to my actions and choices, who is cognizant of the effect my actions have on others.
The issue is not political. It is not financial. It is not legal. It is not about religious freedom. It is not about who’s going to win in November.
This is about common decency.
Would we put a military museum next to where the bomb hit in Hiroshima? Erect a Nazi shrine in the middle of Arlington? How about we put this mosque near that scarred wall of the Pentagon?
Forget political correctness. Grow a spine.
If the Mosque builders truly cared about building bridges and making amends—as they claim—why take this on when nearly 70 percent of the people on the other side of that bridge don’t want it? The guy leading the project talks about it one way in front of Americans and another way in front of Muslims. (Hello? You can’t be that naive, can you?) He feigns indignation, saying he began this project by inquiring how people would feel about it, as if, just asking gives you the right to do anything you want—even if the answer you get is obviously, overwhelmingly, a resounding, appalled “No!”
Perhaps. Perhaps, cultural differences make it difficult for you to comprehend how offensive this is. But, you’re in America. You want to be part of it. Try understanding it and adapting to it even one-tenth as much as Americans try to understand and adapt to your way of life.
Ms. Pelosi, your investigation about me would also reveal that I am not a sheep. I don’t care if, to further your own agenda, you call me names or twist my words and deeds. I know what is in my heart.
I know right from wrong. Beneath the ridiculous charade of politics, in a straight line through your maneuverings, more valuable than the millions of dollars changing hands, behind the thick layers of lies (and makeup), the question of whether or not to build a Muslim shrine so near Ground Zero has a very simple answer.
That is my opinion. As an American, I can state this opinion. As an American, I can spend my money to protest. (Might as well spend it on something before all those new taxes that your buddy said my tax bracket wouldn’t see go into effect.) As an American, it is my right to rant a bit on a blog to ease the pain of knowing that such a ridiculous person as yourself holds a place of power in the country I love.
Perhaps, while launching an investigation (on the tax-payers’ dime) into the decent people who oppose this Mosque, you should investigate a little thing called the First Amendment.
God Bless America. In God we trust. E pluribus unum. You bitch.
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.
The Winners’ Circle
Yesterday, I played volleyball for the first time in about two years.
My head was in the game. My heart was in the game. My arms and legs? Not so much. Fifty percent of my serves just barely made it over the net. The other fifty just didn’t. My jumps, or the attempt thereof, weren’t what you’d call vertical. My sets were clumpy, lacking the height and the control that, at one time, I was (I’ll admit it) kinda proud of. Oddly enough, I did actually dive a time or two—apparently due to some sorta spastic kamikaze muscle memory—but the current body is way more rock than roll.
Thud.
In short (and I’ve never felt shorter), I played badly.
Worst of all perhaps, yesterday, I walked out of my house wearing shorts to run around in the heat in front of a large group of people, some with cameras.
It should have been a heart-breaking disaster, a big ol’ mid-life bum out, the final crumbling of the little shred of ego I pretend not to cling to.
But here’s the thing.
I wasn’t stumbling around alone on that court. I was part of a team. We do not wear a uniform. We have no locker room. We have no coach or strategy. We don’t even meet at the same gym on the same day of the week anymore. But we’ve known each other a long time and remain connected by a unique mix of memories, simpatico, respect, abuse, alcohol, silliness, and true affection. You know, we’re friends.
I don’t need trophies. I don’t need prizes. I have no need for any new bragging rights beyond this: Yesterday we sat, as the playoffs continued, in the winners’ circle.
We sat in a circle of lawn chairs. Relaxed in the shade. Sharing picnic food and cold beer. We slipped out of our volleyball shoes, peeled sweaty socks, unhooked braces, and laughed our freakin’ asses off.
We used to play volleyball multiple nights a week and tournaments on the weekends. My life pretty much revolved around it. It took pretty much all of my free time and, in gear, gas, travel, fees, and entertainment, a significant portion of my income.
There is a part of me that doesn’t miss it: that’d be my right shoulder. (And the feet, knees, and back.)
But, the rest of me? Yeah. Most of me misses it. A lot.
Cheers my friends. See you next year.
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