Jean Knows Cars links you to previews of the commercials car companies will be running during the game. I recognize that adding that link at the beginning of this post may lose you all to teary, nearly-maudlin, smile-through-the-sighs, advertisements, but I'm willing to take the risk.
The 6 minute, extended version of Toyota's tribute to good fathering is worth every second. "All that love stuff"..... "What kind of father do you want to be?" "THIS KIND" (as he pats his dad's shoulder).... not a puppy in sight, and I was still gob-smacked.
*****
It's true that the commercials are usually the best part of the game. By the time the hoopla has died down and the players have taken the field, the game itself is anti-climactic. I was in Chicago for the 1985 Bears, and in the Bay Area for the 49'er's reign, but since then there's been no real rooting interest firing in my breast.
This year, I'm stuck between cheaters and the 9'ers' worst enemy. Can I cheer for the Seahawks when I've spent years opposing them? Can I root for an at-best-disingenuous quarterback and a coach who sees nothing wrong with anything he's ever done?
*****
It was easier when Daddooooo was still alive and making nickel bets with Big Cuter and TBG. He'd choose a side, and I'd be his local, in-house, cheering-section. A life-long Jets fan, he rarely had his team in the big game. He was always willing to take the other side when we had a genuine interest; he took fiendish delight in diminishing our chances and extolling his own.
He thought he knew more about the game than he did, but we never mentioned that fact. Our relationship was purely a sporting one - there was a lot riding on that nickel.
*****
There aren't very many fans at FanFest in Scottsdale, it seems. The talking heads are outside on raised platforms, but the hordes of screaming, sign waving fans behind them, ubiquitous at their college game day appearances, are curiously absent.
Cancelled flights? Lack of enthusiasm? Bored with the whole thing? One wonders.
*****
There was a young man with a sign connecting his testicles, Tom Brady's wife, and deflation standing in the sparse crowd yesterday afternoon. His grin showed that he was very proud of himself and his clever note. I wondered if he had a mother or a sister who might show him the error of his ways.
Were I next to him, his note would not have been in any condition to be shown on the screen. Were there no production assistants nearby to spare the rest of us from his puerile musings.
*****
I've posted on Kroger's Facebook page that I won't be doing my Super Bowl shopping in their stores. Fry's has many discounts, but I really have no interest in encountering an assault rifle over the turnips and pears.
I don't spend much time wondering who has a concealed weapon in her purse; life is too short to be that terrified all the time. On the other hand, seeing a holstered gun without an accompanying badge sends me galumphing quickly to the parking lot, abandoning my goods in the cart in the aisle. I have yet to see an assault rifle amidst the laundry detergent.... Thank God.
*****
The 12 packs of soda are arranged in goal post formation at the store I can shop in safely. The entry foyer is filled with chips and ice covered tables holding guacamole and salsa. The liquor department has had an explosion of excitement - there are streamers and balloons and all manner of not very subtle encouragement to BUY ME NOW.
Blue Apron sent me chicken drumsticks, a spicy coating, and blue cheese. I have beer left from Big Cuter's Christmas visit, and my trusty bottle of Stoli in the freezer. Chili is easy and quick and can sit in the crock pot all afternoon and evening. I bought TBG fresh chips and onion dip, and I have baby carrots tucked away in the veggie drawer of the fridge. As long as no one invites herself over, we're set.
*****
Richard Sherman is everywhere, being Richard Sherman. I'm glad that he has good grammar and a snarky sense of humor. Otherwise, he'd get very old very fast.
*****
Former Commissioner Paul Tagliabue called out his successor, Roger Goodell, for focusing on profits rather than the game and the players. He's not surprised that Goodell is scorned by the NFLPA. He recognizes that the current commissioner sees interchangeable drill bits instead of sentient human beings when he looks at what keeps the league in business - the players.
Has success spoiled the NFL? Without it, what would my boys do on Sundays.... or Monday evenings... or Thursday nights.... or Saturday night? Goodell may have injected football into every nook and cranny, but at what cost?
*****
Friday, January 30, 2015
Thursday, January 29, 2015
System Failures
This could have been labeled Promises Unfulfilled. The story is the same. The aggravation quotient doesn't change. We're still gritting our teeth and worrying.
TBG became eligible for Medicare on January 2 this year. He completed his piece of the application process in early December. It was lengthy. It was on-line. My help was required. I was glad to oblige. We filled in little boxes, we typed in information, we agreed and concurred and allowed and informed and then we clicked Submit.
The pop-up box told us that we were done. We should expect an answer within 3-5 days.
It's been 3-5 weeks and we have heard nothing. There have been no emails, even in the spam folder. There have been no phone calls, even before our area became embroiled in a northwest side outage which will be repaired by 7pm this evening, according to the lovely young woman at Comcast.
This means that my husband is uninsured. This is not a great place to be.
He has a special case number, and heard from a Social Security Administration employee that his case is being processed in the Wilkes Barre office. No one answered the phone there yesterday; we decided that they were on a snow vacation. This morning, though, there was still no human interaction. TBG managed to work his way through a 20 minute voice mail hell and left a message. He was to be called back within the hour.
Remember that Comcast outage? It started in the middle of that hour. Who knows if his call was returned.
Following my suggestion, he called our newly-elected Congresswoman, Martha McSally. The receptionist informed him that a Release of Information form was required before the Congresswoman and her staff could access his information. Since my computer no longer talks to my printer (something I should look into at some point), printing and faxing (faxing??? is this 1985?) required a trip to the library and then FedEx.
I went, I downloaded, I filled in, I printed, I drove, I faxed, I brought the receipt home. He called the office and was told by a staffer that she was, in fact, the person to whom his query would be directed. However, they were still setting up the office. They didn't have a fax machine of their own. My fax went to Washington (I knew that, since the area code was 202) and would probably be in her hands tomorrow, included in the pouch they receive from DC every morning. Until she has it in her hands, she cannot help.
There was no offer to call tomorrow and confirm the receipt (or non-receipt) of my fax. There was no promise of assistance. There was chatter about the lack of office supplies and then a cheery goodbye.
And so, uninsured, unable to receive phone calls, left hanging by our Representative, we sit and watch the clouds scud across the sky. As TBG grumbled, Our government is not impressing me right now.
TBG became eligible for Medicare on January 2 this year. He completed his piece of the application process in early December. It was lengthy. It was on-line. My help was required. I was glad to oblige. We filled in little boxes, we typed in information, we agreed and concurred and allowed and informed and then we clicked Submit.
The pop-up box told us that we were done. We should expect an answer within 3-5 days.
It's been 3-5 weeks and we have heard nothing. There have been no emails, even in the spam folder. There have been no phone calls, even before our area became embroiled in a northwest side outage which will be repaired by 7pm this evening, according to the lovely young woman at Comcast.
This means that my husband is uninsured. This is not a great place to be.
He has a special case number, and heard from a Social Security Administration employee that his case is being processed in the Wilkes Barre office. No one answered the phone there yesterday; we decided that they were on a snow vacation. This morning, though, there was still no human interaction. TBG managed to work his way through a 20 minute voice mail hell and left a message. He was to be called back within the hour.
Remember that Comcast outage? It started in the middle of that hour. Who knows if his call was returned.
Following my suggestion, he called our newly-elected Congresswoman, Martha McSally. The receptionist informed him that a Release of Information form was required before the Congresswoman and her staff could access his information. Since my computer no longer talks to my printer (something I should look into at some point), printing and faxing (faxing??? is this 1985?) required a trip to the library and then FedEx.
I went, I downloaded, I filled in, I printed, I drove, I faxed, I brought the receipt home. He called the office and was told by a staffer that she was, in fact, the person to whom his query would be directed. However, they were still setting up the office. They didn't have a fax machine of their own. My fax went to Washington (I knew that, since the area code was 202) and would probably be in her hands tomorrow, included in the pouch they receive from DC every morning. Until she has it in her hands, she cannot help.
There was no offer to call tomorrow and confirm the receipt (or non-receipt) of my fax. There was no promise of assistance. There was chatter about the lack of office supplies and then a cheery goodbye.
And so, uninsured, unable to receive phone calls, left hanging by our Representative, we sit and watch the clouds scud across the sky. As TBG grumbled, Our government is not impressing me right now.
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
And Then, The Sun Came Out
I slept through my alarm this morning. The pitter-patter of raindrops was a lovely background to a fascinating dream of which I have no memory except that of wishing I were still watching it as TBG rubbed me awake and wondered why I was still abed.
Rain smells different in the desert. Creosote - love it or leave it and no one is in between - delights my nostrils as much as the raindrops dangling from the edges of the cholla's spines treat my eyes. I was too late to enjoy it except through the car windows, but that was enough.
People in the desert do not drive well in the rain. It seems to bring out the worst in everyone. Somehow, late as I was, the gentleman poking along in front of me wasn't putting me out. I breathed in Calm and exhaled Peace and kept my eyes open and focused on the road ahead. My insides were relaxing as my foot modulated the gas pedal. I was already late; 30 seconds more wouldn't change anything.
It was such an unusual thought that it caught my attention. I know that it is true, it's just that I have never said it before. I've been examining the concept of patience as part of a decades old New Year's Resolution. Is it possible that I may have found it?
I did a major shopping after Pilates, and now my larder contains such excesses as eggs and milk and cheese and bacon. There's something satisfying my soul as I put away the jello and Special K. I take time to feel grateful for being able to buy what I want as well as what I need, and I take out one or two items for the Food Bank's box in the library. Free books and a feel good activity; just thinking about it makes me smile.
I put on my Color Dash t-shirt and walked with the kids at Copper Creek Elementary. They are keeping colored cards stamped every time they complete a lap of the playground; a quarter of a mile which can be walked or run or simply ignored. There's a party at the end for all those who fill a card; 13 miles at 1/4 mile a lap seems insurmountable to some, a piece of cake for others. For everyone, though, there's a sticker and smile from the grey haired lady in the colorful cloak. I tied shoelaces and heard stories about pets and agreed that the 4th grade boys were very fast, indeed.
As a volunteer, I followed the Assistant Principal from Prince and Amphi Middle School up to her new digs as Principal; she knew I needed to walk and informed me that her kids could help me every bit as much as those at Prince. Of course, she was right. These students are more interested in talking to me than in hearing me tell stories or sing with them, so I can concentrate on maintaining my stride and my balance as they chatter. The joy I find by sharing their space, even for just a little while, fills me to overflowing.
TBG met me for lunch and now I've come home to write to you. It's been a totally uneventful day, the kind of day that usually has a tendency to blend into the ones before and after. It was exactly what I needed. I'm no longer blue..... I'm feeling turquoise and sparkly, to tell the truth.
Rain smells different in the desert. Creosote - love it or leave it and no one is in between - delights my nostrils as much as the raindrops dangling from the edges of the cholla's spines treat my eyes. I was too late to enjoy it except through the car windows, but that was enough.
People in the desert do not drive well in the rain. It seems to bring out the worst in everyone. Somehow, late as I was, the gentleman poking along in front of me wasn't putting me out. I breathed in Calm and exhaled Peace and kept my eyes open and focused on the road ahead. My insides were relaxing as my foot modulated the gas pedal. I was already late; 30 seconds more wouldn't change anything.
It was such an unusual thought that it caught my attention. I know that it is true, it's just that I have never said it before. I've been examining the concept of patience as part of a decades old New Year's Resolution. Is it possible that I may have found it?
I did a major shopping after Pilates, and now my larder contains such excesses as eggs and milk and cheese and bacon. There's something satisfying my soul as I put away the jello and Special K. I take time to feel grateful for being able to buy what I want as well as what I need, and I take out one or two items for the Food Bank's box in the library. Free books and a feel good activity; just thinking about it makes me smile.
I put on my Color Dash t-shirt and walked with the kids at Copper Creek Elementary. They are keeping colored cards stamped every time they complete a lap of the playground; a quarter of a mile which can be walked or run or simply ignored. There's a party at the end for all those who fill a card; 13 miles at 1/4 mile a lap seems insurmountable to some, a piece of cake for others. For everyone, though, there's a sticker and smile from the grey haired lady in the colorful cloak. I tied shoelaces and heard stories about pets and agreed that the 4th grade boys were very fast, indeed.
As a volunteer, I followed the Assistant Principal from Prince and Amphi Middle School up to her new digs as Principal; she knew I needed to walk and informed me that her kids could help me every bit as much as those at Prince. Of course, she was right. These students are more interested in talking to me than in hearing me tell stories or sing with them, so I can concentrate on maintaining my stride and my balance as they chatter. The joy I find by sharing their space, even for just a little while, fills me to overflowing.
TBG met me for lunch and now I've come home to write to you. It's been a totally uneventful day, the kind of day that usually has a tendency to blend into the ones before and after. It was exactly what I needed. I'm no longer blue..... I'm feeling turquoise and sparkly, to tell the truth.
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
Blue
Maybe it's the gloomy skies.
Maybe it's my little girl bemoaning the fact that work takes her from her infant daughter for twelve long hours, five days a week.
Maybe it's the realization that walking from Burtt and Ernie's house to the lecture at Centennial Hall and then back again will be more than my body can handle.
Maybe it's the minor tumult in my extended family, minor only because some of us have refused to rise and take the bait.
Whatever it is, it's sitting on my shoulders like stubborn dandruff. It won't be brushed away.
TBG is watching Disney's Zorro, reprising his childhood as the episodes unfold. His knee is acting up, his usual spin teacher has been ill, the substitutes have been unsatisfying, he didn't enjoy his food last night.... and Zorro seems to be putting him in a better place.
I wish it were that easy for me to change my mood.
I tried reading, but couldn't keep my mind on Amy Tan's courtesan's daughter.
I tried bagel-and-lox, but it only left me burping and thirsty.
I'm on my way to Pilates and then to meditation and then to spend some quality time with Mr. 9. Perhaps that will help. For now, I have nothing left in my bag of tricks.
I'm blue.
I'm going to go with Heidi's prescription. I'm going to allow myself the privilege of having a bad day.
Maybe it's my little girl bemoaning the fact that work takes her from her infant daughter for twelve long hours, five days a week.
Maybe it's the realization that walking from Burtt and Ernie's house to the lecture at Centennial Hall and then back again will be more than my body can handle.
Maybe it's the minor tumult in my extended family, minor only because some of us have refused to rise and take the bait.
Whatever it is, it's sitting on my shoulders like stubborn dandruff. It won't be brushed away.
TBG is watching Disney's Zorro, reprising his childhood as the episodes unfold. His knee is acting up, his usual spin teacher has been ill, the substitutes have been unsatisfying, he didn't enjoy his food last night.... and Zorro seems to be putting him in a better place.
I wish it were that easy for me to change my mood.
I tried reading, but couldn't keep my mind on Amy Tan's courtesan's daughter.
I tried bagel-and-lox, but it only left me burping and thirsty.
I'm on my way to Pilates and then to meditation and then to spend some quality time with Mr. 9. Perhaps that will help. For now, I have nothing left in my bag of tricks.
I'm blue.
I'm going to go with Heidi's prescription. I'm going to allow myself the privilege of having a bad day.
Monday, January 26, 2015
Friendships in Tucson
The Realtor connected us and it was lovely. We dined, we chatted, we agreed that we'd meet again. We're both busy. She's not here all the time. We'll add one anther to email lists and consider extending invitations to events we're planning to attend.
It's a Tucson friendship.
"How long have you been here?" is the first question asked. Some friends came for college and never left. Some followed spouses with jobs at Raytheon or transferred with military orders to Davis Monthan, our friendly neighborhood Air Force base. Many came for a vacation and couldn't imagine returning to the cold and ice of Minnesota or Michigan or the Dakotas.
I've been in Tucson for nine years, now, and I have yet to find someone who ended up here randomly. No one seems to be stuck; everyone seems to have chosen our little piece of heaven to be their own.
It's a very manageable place, my Tucson. Two-degrees-of-separation is the approximate distance between someone I know and a stranger. My celebrity has something to do with it, certainly, but there's more going on than that. We're a small town, with small venues and a few, discrete areas for entertainment. It's more than likely that I'll see a yoga friend at the Jazz Festival - just as I did last weekend.
Bill Walton was at the concert I attended, but I didn't see him. (The boys tell me that must have been because he wasn't standing up.) Instead, I found my Friday morning yoga companion in an aisle seat as Amster and I sidled by. In class the next week, we discovered others who had been there, too. We were surprised that we hadn't found them all that night.
It's that kind of place.
I'm not a big joiner, but Newcomers Club opened a wide swath of activities and human connections. We bring meals and transportation and comfort when it's needed, and we share our love of butterflies and growing things and bowling and mah jongg and books and fine dining with those we've never met. There's something for everyone. Those who need to serve immediately become Board Members. Those who like to lurk around the edges are pleasantly surprised to find that others are doing the heavy lifting and all that is required of a newbie is a smile and her presence.
Tucson's like that.
The desert is filled with trails, although many of them are inscrutably difficult to follow. Southern Arizona Hiking Club outings left me gasping and drained. Those hikers were more serious about it than I was. I made no friends in that group. I moved on to find individuals who covered the ground at a pace more to my liking, and the Desert Hikers from Newcomers provided a larger pool from which to choose personal companions.
While walking the trails, I found like minded souls for concerts and movies. Often, personal stories were unimportant. We were enjoying the moment and we were not alone. It was a surprising switch for me. I've always wanted to know the other's backstory; here, it seems less important. I'm in the here and now and I'm looking ahead. The baggage brought from previous locations, prior marriages, former places of employment, is immaterial. As I am redefining myself here in the desert, so, it seems, are those with whom I'm surrounding myself.
I'm connected to others through myself - not my children or my work or my spouse. I'm finding myself reflected in those with whom I surround myself. It's a beautiful garden filled with a variety of humans, flowering with spikes or bright blossoms or day-long blooms. I can pick and choose, depending on my mood. There's always someone who will say "Yes, I'd love to join you!"
Is it any wonder I love living here?
It's a Tucson friendship.
"How long have you been here?" is the first question asked. Some friends came for college and never left. Some followed spouses with jobs at Raytheon or transferred with military orders to Davis Monthan, our friendly neighborhood Air Force base. Many came for a vacation and couldn't imagine returning to the cold and ice of Minnesota or Michigan or the Dakotas.
I've been in Tucson for nine years, now, and I have yet to find someone who ended up here randomly. No one seems to be stuck; everyone seems to have chosen our little piece of heaven to be their own.
It's a very manageable place, my Tucson. Two-degrees-of-separation is the approximate distance between someone I know and a stranger. My celebrity has something to do with it, certainly, but there's more going on than that. We're a small town, with small venues and a few, discrete areas for entertainment. It's more than likely that I'll see a yoga friend at the Jazz Festival - just as I did last weekend.
Bill Walton was at the concert I attended, but I didn't see him. (The boys tell me that must have been because he wasn't standing up.) Instead, I found my Friday morning yoga companion in an aisle seat as Amster and I sidled by. In class the next week, we discovered others who had been there, too. We were surprised that we hadn't found them all that night.
It's that kind of place.
I'm not a big joiner, but Newcomers Club opened a wide swath of activities and human connections. We bring meals and transportation and comfort when it's needed, and we share our love of butterflies and growing things and bowling and mah jongg and books and fine dining with those we've never met. There's something for everyone. Those who need to serve immediately become Board Members. Those who like to lurk around the edges are pleasantly surprised to find that others are doing the heavy lifting and all that is required of a newbie is a smile and her presence.
Tucson's like that.
The desert is filled with trails, although many of them are inscrutably difficult to follow. Southern Arizona Hiking Club outings left me gasping and drained. Those hikers were more serious about it than I was. I made no friends in that group. I moved on to find individuals who covered the ground at a pace more to my liking, and the Desert Hikers from Newcomers provided a larger pool from which to choose personal companions.
While walking the trails, I found like minded souls for concerts and movies. Often, personal stories were unimportant. We were enjoying the moment and we were not alone. It was a surprising switch for me. I've always wanted to know the other's backstory; here, it seems less important. I'm in the here and now and I'm looking ahead. The baggage brought from previous locations, prior marriages, former places of employment, is immaterial. As I am redefining myself here in the desert, so, it seems, are those with whom I'm surrounding myself.
I'm connected to others through myself - not my children or my work or my spouse. I'm finding myself reflected in those with whom I surround myself. It's a beautiful garden filled with a variety of humans, flowering with spikes or bright blossoms or day-long blooms. I can pick and choose, depending on my mood. There's always someone who will say "Yes, I'd love to join you!"
Is it any wonder I love living here?
Friday, January 23, 2015
Cheating
Bill Belichik's been accused of leading a team of cheaters, once again. Briefly, for those of you who rely on The Burrow for all your sporting news, footballs are checked by the officials 135 minutes before the kick-off. In the interim, they are returned to the safekeeping of each team's equipment staff. In last week's playoff game, 11 of the 12 balls in the Patriot's care were found to be underinflated to a level below that which is mandated for game play use. Underinflation makes the ball easier to catch, to carry, to throw. It makes it harder to fumble. Tom Brady, Belichik's golden boy quarterback, prefers a softer ball. While it is true that the final score (45-7) belies the notion that the softer balls made all the difference, or even a significant difference, there is no disputing that the Patriots were not using regulation footballs.
Would Andrew Luck have done better tossing a softer ball? We'll never know. Certainly, the softer balls had no impact on the play of the Colts' defense, nor that of their offensive line. That's not the point.
The point is that I have to cheer for the Seahawks next weekend. The point is that this is a second offense for Belichik's Patriots. In 2007 they were called on the NFL carpet for illegally videotaping the Jets' defensive signals during practice. Denials, then and now, seem thin. Tom Brady denying that he noticed a difference in the balls while he was on the field seemed disingenuous, especially following ESPN's talking head former quarterbacks easily identifying the too soft and too hard balls on Sportscenter. After all, Newsday reported Monday that the Colts first noticed something unusual after an interception by Colts linebacker D'Qwell Jackson late in the second quarter, according to espn.com.
If the brief moment in time during which the linebacker held the football was enough for him to notice the softness, how is it possible for the quarterback to be clueless.
There is a process in place for a $25,000 fine for an underinflated ball. There are calls for other sanctions - banning the coach for the Super Bowl or the 2015-16 season - but my concerns are more personal. After having to tell Mr. 9 that his adoration of Aaron Hernandez was inappropriate since the man was awaiting trial on not one nor two but three murders, after removing Ray Rice and Adrian Peterson from his pantheon of heroes for abusing the women and children in their lives, I am now forced to inform him that his man cave, replete with its Patriot's banner and posters and other forms of fandom, is also teetering on the edge of immorality.
Where will he ever find his heroes?
Thursday, January 22, 2015
Winning
The notion has been roaming through my thoughts for the past few weeks - what does it mean to win?
I started with a phrase - Winning Hearts and Minds. From a conversation about Apocalypse Now, half listening to the men in my life dissecting the film, I wandered through history to the underlying thesis of the war - to win the hearts and minds of the populace. If they could be convinced that Ho Chi Minh had nothing on Uncle Sam, the battle would be won.
Using napalm and supporting corrupt officials didn't help our cause, of course, but I was going elsewhere. Does changing someone's beliefs count as a win? By whose lights are beliefs right or wrong? Because you are the other, with skin tinted differently, are you always in the wrong? Was it necessary for the people to look at the world through an American lens in order for us to win?
And why did we need to win? The Domino Theory (if Vietnam falls to Communism, the rest of Asia will not be not far behind), perhaps? Because we'd never lost a war? Because our soldiers had fallen and their sacrifices shouldn't be in vain? The backstory to our involvement in the conflict may never be resolved; the notion of winning lies crumpled on the rooftop of the American Embassy in Saigon, pictured in the faces of the Vietnamese we left behind.
They had hitched their wagons to those they perceived as winners. Being left behind was their reward.
I remember the vindication I felt when the war was finally over. We'd done it. The passion of America's youth had changed the course of history. We'd stopped a war. I thought we had won - the we being those who agreed with me. Our country had certainly abandoned, if not lost, the war. The Vietnamese were left with a damaged countryside and a communist regime; not what America considered a winning scenario.
But I thought that I had won.
Perspective, it seems, makes a difference.
Before being perforated, I never would have tolerated finishing last in a race. ... or in anything else, for that matter. Showing up was not enough. I had to try to win. I compared myself to the first across the finish line, and I measured my competence accordingly. In the first 10K I ran, back in 1979, I decided that winning would be completing the course in under an hour. I was two minutes over that time. Though proud of the accomplishment, I felt that I had failed myself.
Failed myself. Let myself down. Not measured up to my own expectations. It was a hard pill to swallow, even as I accepted congratulations for finishing the wet and muddy course. I never ran another race for time again.
When Brenda Starr and I crossed the finish line at the Pecan Run last Fall, many minutes after the everyone else had packed up and gone home, my reaction was at the other extreme. We had done it! We hadn't sat down or given up or taken a lengthy break. We'd put one gimpy foot in front of the other and, with the encouragement of friends and family, we were done. It was a modest goal, but an achievable one. We were ecstatic.
Some piece of me still longed for the exhilaration of passing a slower participant. Some piece of me wanted to fly by, smiling inside, knowing that someone was less than I was.
That's where I get caught up in winning. Someone has to lose. In my youth, this was less of a problem. I was more self-absorbed, looking for ways to propel myself forward. Now, as age and bullets and grandchild have combined to create a more mellow version of me, I'm less concerned with coming out on top. I'm looking to win my own heart and mind, to make my own contribution the best it can be, even if it did take us an hour to walk 2.3 miles last Saturday.
We finished. We didn't stop. We were smiling. And no one had to lose or sacrifice for us to feel as pleased with ourselves as we were. I had adjusted my expectations. I had satisfied myself. We certainly didn't win the race in a conventional sense, but we won the race we were running.
I've converted my heart and mind.
*****
Thanks to Rain Truax for the post (here) which prompted this.
I started with a phrase - Winning Hearts and Minds. From a conversation about Apocalypse Now, half listening to the men in my life dissecting the film, I wandered through history to the underlying thesis of the war - to win the hearts and minds of the populace. If they could be convinced that Ho Chi Minh had nothing on Uncle Sam, the battle would be won.
Using napalm and supporting corrupt officials didn't help our cause, of course, but I was going elsewhere. Does changing someone's beliefs count as a win? By whose lights are beliefs right or wrong? Because you are the other, with skin tinted differently, are you always in the wrong? Was it necessary for the people to look at the world through an American lens in order for us to win?
And why did we need to win? The Domino Theory (if Vietnam falls to Communism, the rest of Asia will not be not far behind), perhaps? Because we'd never lost a war? Because our soldiers had fallen and their sacrifices shouldn't be in vain? The backstory to our involvement in the conflict may never be resolved; the notion of winning lies crumpled on the rooftop of the American Embassy in Saigon, pictured in the faces of the Vietnamese we left behind.
They had hitched their wagons to those they perceived as winners. Being left behind was their reward.
I remember the vindication I felt when the war was finally over. We'd done it. The passion of America's youth had changed the course of history. We'd stopped a war. I thought we had won - the we being those who agreed with me. Our country had certainly abandoned, if not lost, the war. The Vietnamese were left with a damaged countryside and a communist regime; not what America considered a winning scenario.
But I thought that I had won.
Perspective, it seems, makes a difference.
Before being perforated, I never would have tolerated finishing last in a race. ... or in anything else, for that matter. Showing up was not enough. I had to try to win. I compared myself to the first across the finish line, and I measured my competence accordingly. In the first 10K I ran, back in 1979, I decided that winning would be completing the course in under an hour. I was two minutes over that time. Though proud of the accomplishment, I felt that I had failed myself.
Failed myself. Let myself down. Not measured up to my own expectations. It was a hard pill to swallow, even as I accepted congratulations for finishing the wet and muddy course. I never ran another race for time again.
When Brenda Starr and I crossed the finish line at the Pecan Run last Fall, many minutes after the everyone else had packed up and gone home, my reaction was at the other extreme. We had done it! We hadn't sat down or given up or taken a lengthy break. We'd put one gimpy foot in front of the other and, with the encouragement of friends and family, we were done. It was a modest goal, but an achievable one. We were ecstatic.
Some piece of me still longed for the exhilaration of passing a slower participant. Some piece of me wanted to fly by, smiling inside, knowing that someone was less than I was.
That's where I get caught up in winning. Someone has to lose. In my youth, this was less of a problem. I was more self-absorbed, looking for ways to propel myself forward. Now, as age and bullets and grandchild have combined to create a more mellow version of me, I'm less concerned with coming out on top. I'm looking to win my own heart and mind, to make my own contribution the best it can be, even if it did take us an hour to walk 2.3 miles last Saturday.
We finished. We didn't stop. We were smiling. And no one had to lose or sacrifice for us to feel as pleased with ourselves as we were. I had adjusted my expectations. I had satisfied myself. We certainly didn't win the race in a conventional sense, but we won the race we were running.
I've converted my heart and mind.
*****
Thanks to Rain Truax for the post (here) which prompted this.
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
Creating a Human
She was a blob of protoplasm, carried from room to room, doted on and stared at. She absorbed it all.
Long, slow back rubs led to cat-like stretching. Whispering into her tiny ear brought her head closer to my mouth. Singing Miss Adelaide's songs from Guys and Dolls slowed her breathing. She lay on my chest, swaddled or naked, rising with my every breath.
There were creases and folds and curves to love. The nape of her neck.... the inner bend of her elbow.... all those thigh rolls.... I could lose myself for long, lovely minutes at a time. Her wishes were expressed in scrunched eyeballs and loud yelps, in twisting and curling away. Displeasure was clearly understandable; her face became square and purple and full of angry wrinkles. It never felt sad; she was pissed off and letting us know it.
Falling asleep with the baby on my chest, matching inhales and exhales, everyone tiptoeing around so as not to disturb the scene. Daddy dancing with FlapJilly swaying and dipping and twirling. Thomas the Wonder Dog sniffing and barking and licking and taking care. Through it all, the baby was the axis around which we rotated.
She wasn't bringing much to the table. She didn't initiate activities, unless they were digestive in nature. She was waking up to the world around her, and we were there to be sure that she survived. Little Cuter kept telling her that it would be much easier to be her parent if there were words available; she'd be happy to do whatever it was that the kid wanted, if she could only deduce what it was.
Tracking with her eyes. Seeking the source of a familiar voice. Finding her mouth with her hands, then individuating the fingers. Petting the pooch with those fingers, marveling at the sensation she'd created all on her own. Closing those fingers around Mr. Giraffe and bopping herself in the face with him. Recognizing that getting naked and then swaddled meant bedtime, following the one arm, then the other then the legs routine with a smile on her face. She was investigating her world one little piece at a time as we watched her grow.
She laughed out loud. She rolled over. Then she rolled the other way. It surprised her and she was displeased, but she got over it quickly. There was no time spent wallowing; there were other things to learn. The shiny Nambe rattle kept bonking her in the head; coordination was required. Solid foods were introduced, and the tongue and lips and gums were called on to do new and more interesting things. Peas! Carrots! Apples! On her face and her fingers and down her gullet into her tummy. Ounces and ounces of foodstuffs, pureed and, most recently, in small, soft pieces. Without teeth, cheerios are still unapproved. Slices of avocado can be mashed in her mouth, taking her down the path toward hot dogs and bagels.
And now she is sitting up. All on her own without props or encouragement, she's looking at the world head on. In six short months the infant has vanished and a little girl has arrived. She sits in the pink plastic car we bought her and beeps the horn. She poses for her mother with an upright spine.
She reaches for and knocks over the stacking toy before her and suddenly we know - it's time to start to play!
I miss the infant I knew and loved. I can hardly wait to become acquainted with the little girl now inhabiting her body.
Long, slow back rubs led to cat-like stretching. Whispering into her tiny ear brought her head closer to my mouth. Singing Miss Adelaide's songs from Guys and Dolls slowed her breathing. She lay on my chest, swaddled or naked, rising with my every breath.
There were creases and folds and curves to love. The nape of her neck.... the inner bend of her elbow.... all those thigh rolls.... I could lose myself for long, lovely minutes at a time. Her wishes were expressed in scrunched eyeballs and loud yelps, in twisting and curling away. Displeasure was clearly understandable; her face became square and purple and full of angry wrinkles. It never felt sad; she was pissed off and letting us know it.
Falling asleep with the baby on my chest, matching inhales and exhales, everyone tiptoeing around so as not to disturb the scene. Daddy dancing with FlapJilly swaying and dipping and twirling. Thomas the Wonder Dog sniffing and barking and licking and taking care. Through it all, the baby was the axis around which we rotated.
She wasn't bringing much to the table. She didn't initiate activities, unless they were digestive in nature. She was waking up to the world around her, and we were there to be sure that she survived. Little Cuter kept telling her that it would be much easier to be her parent if there were words available; she'd be happy to do whatever it was that the kid wanted, if she could only deduce what it was.
Tracking with her eyes. Seeking the source of a familiar voice. Finding her mouth with her hands, then individuating the fingers. Petting the pooch with those fingers, marveling at the sensation she'd created all on her own. Closing those fingers around Mr. Giraffe and bopping herself in the face with him. Recognizing that getting naked and then swaddled meant bedtime, following the one arm, then the other then the legs routine with a smile on her face. She was investigating her world one little piece at a time as we watched her grow.
She laughed out loud. She rolled over. Then she rolled the other way. It surprised her and she was displeased, but she got over it quickly. There was no time spent wallowing; there were other things to learn. The shiny Nambe rattle kept bonking her in the head; coordination was required. Solid foods were introduced, and the tongue and lips and gums were called on to do new and more interesting things. Peas! Carrots! Apples! On her face and her fingers and down her gullet into her tummy. Ounces and ounces of foodstuffs, pureed and, most recently, in small, soft pieces. Without teeth, cheerios are still unapproved. Slices of avocado can be mashed in her mouth, taking her down the path toward hot dogs and bagels.
And now she is sitting up. All on her own without props or encouragement, she's looking at the world head on. In six short months the infant has vanished and a little girl has arrived. She sits in the pink plastic car we bought her and beeps the horn. She poses for her mother with an upright spine.
She reaches for and knocks over the stacking toy before her and suddenly we know - it's time to start to play!
I miss the infant I knew and loved. I can hardly wait to become acquainted with the little girl now inhabiting her body.
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
Little Boys Never Change
I took the boys to the card and comic store last week.
Mr. 11 got off the bus as I was two cars behind its yellow rear.
He stopped to get the mail and to pick up the blue recorder Miss Texas had dropped that morning, thus saving it from The Schnozz's tires entering the driveway.
He wondered what adventure I had planned for his little brother; he was thrilled to be invited to join us. "Just send him in to get me," he said, and I did.
The little one was very happy to share the joy with his big brother.
It's part of what makes him the kindest kid I know.
We drove down Campbell, looking on the east side of the street.
We knew it was near the old Coffee X-Change but we weren't precisely sure.
"There it is!" "NO" "Uh-oh... keep going" "YES!"
Who needs Google Maps when there are little boys in the back seat?
Walking through the door was a blast from the past.
Messers 9 and 11 were easily interchangeable in my mind with Big Cuter in his youth.
They had the same determined stare.
They knew exactly what they were seeking.
Their smiles were contagious.
With a little bit of encouragement, Mr. 9 requested the boxes of football cards from the clerk. He was happily perusing the plastic encased oldies but goodies until his big brother walked by and dismissed the whole endeavor.
"They don't have any good ones," Mr. 11 informed me.
Sadly, his little brother took the condemnation to heart and left the remaining boxes untouched.
There's so much power invested in siblings.....
On they moved to the comic books.
DC and Marvel were boxed next to more obscure publications.
There was nothing overtly scatological or salacious, so I relaxed, leaning against the wall, watching.
Aquaman, Superman, Green Lantern.... those were the ones I recognized. There were so many more that were new to me.
The collectibles were stacked on shelves.
Though The Simpsons are fun to watch on television, snuggled up next to Mom on the bed, there was no need to bring a plastic Marge home with us.
Decisions were not easily made.
"I'm going to collect some and then decide," was Mr. 9's plan.
We left with six plastic wrapped comic books and two gigantic smiles.
I'd spent the time in my own head, remembering my little boy reveling in the smells and the textures of similar stores in California. The details were different, but the feeling was the same.
I am so lucky to have generous friends who are willing to share their children with me.... and even luckier to have children who want to spend their afternoons with an old lady and her credit card.
Monday, January 19, 2015
Color Dash - 5K Redux
It's getting to be a regular thing for us.
Brenda Starr and I decided on Monday to do the Color Dash on Saturday.
Somehow, a 5K doesn't seem that daunting any more.
We're each walking with poles, which elongate our stride while providing just enough reassurance. They are equipped with curved rubber tips; Nordic walking poles rather than hiking poles, to be precise.
We arrived early, secured perfect parking, and had a picnic.
The System, a gift from Basil St. John, had plaid cloth napkins and real plates and cutlery and with lox for protein and Simply Orange juice in the tiny china coffee mugs for Vitamin D, we feasted.
There were food trucks, had we been less prepared.
I was introduced to the concept of the poutine, and was left wondering about the person who would eat fries and gravy before exercising.
We arrived ridiculously early, and had plenty of time to watch the pre-race festivities.
There was Simon Says and Macarena like line-dancing
and there were many tutus.
There was only one yeti (lurking at the right edge of the photo).
The emcee introduced Ben's Bells, the charity reaping the benefits of our participation, and we were off. Pink clad volunteers (like these)
were stationed every half mile or so, cheerfully tossing brightly dyed corn starch as we passed by. The sun was out, the breeze was cool, the path was flat and paved, and we only paused twice for water breaks. We never rested.
The course was a bit shy of the promised 3.1 miles, but we calculate that we covered that much between the rest room and the picnic table and the pre-game and just getting to the starting line.
We were tired and ready to be done and very proud ... and colorful.
Friday, January 16, 2015
Dealing With the World
It's been one of those weeks. The celebrations are finished, the decorations are boxed and stored. The house has a curiously empty feeling; it's waiting for Valentines Day to make an appearance. For now, I'm using up all the half burned candles in the pantry, making a drippy mess on the end table, not worrying that the dark green pillar looks pretty creepy next to the deep purple pillar beside it.
TBG and I are concentrating on getting our lives in order for the next era. He turned 65 this month. That means Social Security and Medicare and pension decisions must be made. These require the computer. He made an appointment with me, his secretary, to work on the applications. We spent the morning filling in little boxes, answering security questions, deciding whether to take it all or spread it out, whether to kill trees and get those pieces of paper which warm the cockles of his heart or to have things delivered electronically, through me, to him.
He made phone calls, following up on applications submitted but not reviewed. Medicare's website says the turn around is three or four days. It's been a month. The woman on the phone told TBG that everything looks fine and that there is nothing else he needs to do and that it's all okay. There was no mention of the discrepancy between the expectations set up by the website and our actual experience.
There is no further recourse. His insurance is in the hands of the bureaucracy. Let's hope he stays healthy until it is resolved.
My pool company seems to be going through a divorce. I received a poorly constructed letter from the General Manager of the new company informing me that
I'm curious. What direction can a pool cleaning company take? There are chemicals, there is scraping, there is skimming. The pool doesn't change location. The requirements remain the same. Customer service is all they provide. There is rapid turnover in the industry; we rarely have the same technician for more than a month or two. A quick survey of other pool owners tells the same tale; no one is thrilled.
Do I worry about the random capitalizations in the letter? Thank You in Advance has the grace to put in in lower case, but there is no comma before the following signature line. It is our goal to put our customer's first led me down a merry path of wondering what belonged to me which would be put first.... my pool, my wallet, my ease with the person doing the work?
I love the bookkeeper at my current company. I've left her a message. I've decided to follow her where ever she goes. It's the best decision given the paucity of information available at the moment. She's the only one who's been consistent over the last eight years.
No matter how scattered or overwhelmed I am during the Holiday Celebration Tour, there's an underlying joy which carries me through. Now, though, it's January. Time to confront real life head on. The mundane..... there's a comfort to it, for sure. I just miss the frisson of happy I felt last month.
TBG and I are concentrating on getting our lives in order for the next era. He turned 65 this month. That means Social Security and Medicare and pension decisions must be made. These require the computer. He made an appointment with me, his secretary, to work on the applications. We spent the morning filling in little boxes, answering security questions, deciding whether to take it all or spread it out, whether to kill trees and get those pieces of paper which warm the cockles of his heart or to have things delivered electronically, through me, to him.
He made phone calls, following up on applications submitted but not reviewed. Medicare's website says the turn around is three or four days. It's been a month. The woman on the phone told TBG that everything looks fine and that there is nothing else he needs to do and that it's all okay. There was no mention of the discrepancy between the expectations set up by the website and our actual experience.
There is no further recourse. His insurance is in the hands of the bureaucracy. Let's hope he stays healthy until it is resolved.
My pool company seems to be going through a divorce. I received a poorly constructed letter from the General Manager of the new company informing me that
Due to the difference between the Owner of (my current provider) and some of his employees in the direction he wants to take the Company, I have decided to form a new company that will be totally orientated to providing excellent customer service.Run-on sentences make me anxious. Orientated is not a word. There is only one difference? It must have been a doozy.
I'm curious. What direction can a pool cleaning company take? There are chemicals, there is scraping, there is skimming. The pool doesn't change location. The requirements remain the same. Customer service is all they provide. There is rapid turnover in the industry; we rarely have the same technician for more than a month or two. A quick survey of other pool owners tells the same tale; no one is thrilled.
Do I worry about the random capitalizations in the letter? Thank You in Advance has the grace to put in in lower case, but there is no comma before the following signature line. It is our goal to put our customer's first led me down a merry path of wondering what belonged to me which would be put first.... my pool, my wallet, my ease with the person doing the work?
I love the bookkeeper at my current company. I've left her a message. I've decided to follow her where ever she goes. It's the best decision given the paucity of information available at the moment. She's the only one who's been consistent over the last eight years.
No matter how scattered or overwhelmed I am during the Holiday Celebration Tour, there's an underlying joy which carries me through. Now, though, it's January. Time to confront real life head on. The mundane..... there's a comfort to it, for sure. I just miss the frisson of happy I felt last month.
Thursday, January 15, 2015
More Stroll and Roll
The pictures warm the cockles of my heart.
These were taken by Margo who brought Miss Sugar
and Sara, who brought Earl,
.JPG)
to the Stroll and Roll.
While some of the kids couldn't wait to start chalking the path,
others couldn't get enough off the dogs.
The girls were interested in the free t-shirts, but Miss Sugar found a friend all her own.
She was about as soft a pooch as I'd ever felt.
Being so low to the ground gave me an excuse to sit in the watching-kids-play-soccer chairs and rest.
Mr. 9 thought that Miss Sugar was a lot smaller than his Staffordshire Terriers,
and therefore would be much easier to walk.
Earl, on the other hand, was a much sturdier creature.
This little girl is keeping all her body parts close.
Earl, being a Therapy Dog, knows to give her space.
So, nose to nose, they became acquainted.
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Tentative but brave brings gentle hands to Earl, who's resting comfortably on his mat.
The ground is pretty cold for naked butts.
It's hard to tell who is more grateful, the petter or the pettee.
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And then there was Violet, who pranced and presented herself and was a quiet companion as the artist worked.
She went on a walk later on.
It gives new meaning to this picture.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
Withholding
Connections are tricky. Families are complicated. Personalities get in the way of conventional relationships. Expectations are raised and dashed and often it's the youngest of those involved who are hurt the most. There's almost nothing that can be done.... or so it seems.
There are people in our lives with whom we are bound to interact. Siblings.....Parents...Aunts and Uncles and Cousins and Grandparents.... society expects us to know where they are and what they are doing. Holiday celebrations are designed to bring us closer together, to show our faces to one another, to relive and rehash and reconvene.... often with disastrous consequences.
An aunt reaches out, shares her children and her experience and her love... such as it is. She creates an attachment, she sets expectations for the future, she becomes part of the extended family. The littlest one is thrilled. His family is small and this is a fantastic expansion.
And then, as she always does, as she's done since she was a little kid, as she will, no doubt, continue to do as she enters her dotage, the aunt creates a scene. She's right. She's always right. She knows best. She always has and she always will. Her opinions are golden, her plans perfect, her advice solid.
No matter if you come at the issue from a slightly different perspective. No matter if you think the issue is none of her (DAMN) business. No matter if you weren't looking for counsel on that particular matter.
Agree, or lose the relationship. She's very clear about that. You're on her bus or standing on the sidewalk watching it drive away.
That's easier to deal with when you are a grown up, even if it tears at your heartstrings and puts you in a sad space. But when you are ten, when you've just begun to explore family outside the four walls of your house, that loss is devastating.
There are cousins attached, cousins you'll no longer see, even though they were quite interesting to you. Circumventing the grown-ups is tricky when you are ten.
I can try to replace what is lost, but the larger issue remains.
Those of us on the outside, connected but not involved in this particular piece of her drama ... although we've all had our own personal share of her drama ..... try to reassure. "It's her loss." "You are just the next in a long line of those she's alienated." "It has nothing to do with you and everything to do with her." Coming from experience - long, painful, awkward experience - we know our words are true but ultimately useless.
The loss is there. She cannot be retrieved unless she's willing. She's not..... not without an apology and an agreement that she was right and you were entirely in the wrong.
What she gets out of the tumult remains a mystery. Being at the center of the drama is certainly a piece of it; it's something to talk about, to rage against. With drama comes attention, comfort, solace, conversation. If life goes smoothly, the phone won't ring. If there's An Event, people will come running.
I'm sure she thinks she was doing a service and was poorly repaid. That's the problem with those who are so convinced of the rightness of their position. There's no conversation. There's no discussion. She can't hear it because she's firmly dug into her position, and she's not budging.
I've watched this play out for decades. It's an awful quandary. I try to remove negativity from my personal space, but this little slice is permanently attached. Family is family and the ties bind tightly. She cannot be avoided, but she can be marginalized. That leaves the angst, and the possibility that her personality will overflow the boundaries accepted in normal society and her venom will spread.
I've had relatives I couldn't invite anywhere, relatives I couldn't take out in public, because there was no filter between brain and mouth. It's harder when the trauma is fresh, when you've invited the toxicity into your house and then have to wait for her to decide to go home. She's left behind vitriol and unhappiness and a sense of loss mixed with confusion.
It's the confusion that's the worst of it.
She's awful. Why would I want her around?
She's my cousin. I miss her.
It's a predicament, that's for sure.
There are people in our lives with whom we are bound to interact. Siblings.....Parents...Aunts and Uncles and Cousins and Grandparents.... society expects us to know where they are and what they are doing. Holiday celebrations are designed to bring us closer together, to show our faces to one another, to relive and rehash and reconvene.... often with disastrous consequences.
An aunt reaches out, shares her children and her experience and her love... such as it is. She creates an attachment, she sets expectations for the future, she becomes part of the extended family. The littlest one is thrilled. His family is small and this is a fantastic expansion.
And then, as she always does, as she's done since she was a little kid, as she will, no doubt, continue to do as she enters her dotage, the aunt creates a scene. She's right. She's always right. She knows best. She always has and she always will. Her opinions are golden, her plans perfect, her advice solid.
No matter if you come at the issue from a slightly different perspective. No matter if you think the issue is none of her (DAMN) business. No matter if you weren't looking for counsel on that particular matter.
Agree, or lose the relationship. She's very clear about that. You're on her bus or standing on the sidewalk watching it drive away.
That's easier to deal with when you are a grown up, even if it tears at your heartstrings and puts you in a sad space. But when you are ten, when you've just begun to explore family outside the four walls of your house, that loss is devastating.
There are cousins attached, cousins you'll no longer see, even though they were quite interesting to you. Circumventing the grown-ups is tricky when you are ten.
I can try to replace what is lost, but the larger issue remains.
Those of us on the outside, connected but not involved in this particular piece of her drama ... although we've all had our own personal share of her drama ..... try to reassure. "It's her loss." "You are just the next in a long line of those she's alienated." "It has nothing to do with you and everything to do with her." Coming from experience - long, painful, awkward experience - we know our words are true but ultimately useless.
The loss is there. She cannot be retrieved unless she's willing. She's not..... not without an apology and an agreement that she was right and you were entirely in the wrong.
What she gets out of the tumult remains a mystery. Being at the center of the drama is certainly a piece of it; it's something to talk about, to rage against. With drama comes attention, comfort, solace, conversation. If life goes smoothly, the phone won't ring. If there's An Event, people will come running.
I'm sure she thinks she was doing a service and was poorly repaid. That's the problem with those who are so convinced of the rightness of their position. There's no conversation. There's no discussion. She can't hear it because she's firmly dug into her position, and she's not budging.
I've watched this play out for decades. It's an awful quandary. I try to remove negativity from my personal space, but this little slice is permanently attached. Family is family and the ties bind tightly. She cannot be avoided, but she can be marginalized. That leaves the angst, and the possibility that her personality will overflow the boundaries accepted in normal society and her venom will spread.
I've had relatives I couldn't invite anywhere, relatives I couldn't take out in public, because there was no filter between brain and mouth. It's harder when the trauma is fresh, when you've invited the toxicity into your house and then have to wait for her to decide to go home. She's left behind vitriol and unhappiness and a sense of loss mixed with confusion.
It's the confusion that's the worst of it.
She's awful. Why would I want her around?
She's my cousin. I miss her.
It's a predicament, that's for sure.
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
A Snippet
I spent last week trying to take care of myself. I decided to lose myself in literature. I went to the library and took out the last five books of Marcia Muller's Sharon McCone mystery series.
Muller has a great sense of place. I turn the corners with her. I recognize the buildings she describes. I've sat on the grass in the parks she traverses. I was delightfully invested in the characters and the surroundings.
I wasn't thinking about anything Tucson related at all. That was the goal. I was happy, I went through one, two, three and a half books reveling in my new companions' travels and travails in San Francisco until Sharon McCone hears about the shooting in Tucson... where "Gabby Giffords was shot.... and six people died.... one of them a kid"
NO. That was my kid. I was there. And that's not where I wanted to be again.
The best laid plans.......
Muller has a great sense of place. I turn the corners with her. I recognize the buildings she describes. I've sat on the grass in the parks she traverses. I was delightfully invested in the characters and the surroundings.
I wasn't thinking about anything Tucson related at all. That was the goal. I was happy, I went through one, two, three and a half books reveling in my new companions' travels and travails in San Francisco until Sharon McCone hears about the shooting in Tucson... where "Gabby Giffords was shot.... and six people died.... one of them a kid"
NO. That was my kid. I was there. And that's not where I wanted to be again.
The best laid plans.......
Monday, January 12, 2015
Stroll and Roll, 2015
Ross, Gabe's father, likes to say that Tucson has more hiking trails in its immediate environs than any other city in the USA. Even if it's not true, it feels like it is. We used the path along the Canada del Oro wash. It's paved, with bridges and underpasses and a fence separating the walkway from the sandy wash. Shared by cyclists and walkers and dogs and scooters, it's a well-used exercise venue on the northwest side of town.
On Saturday, friends and strangers joined the Humane Society's VIP Pets
and GRIN volunteers as we moved BEYOND! and shared the love. Free sidewalk chalk let participants give free reign to their thoughts
their talents
and their hearts.
I photographed most of it later in the day.
I spent the morning hugging and laughing and remembering.
Yogi Marsha came and told me I was strong and brave.
Ms Magic Hands and her son rode his fantastic new bike and ran and delivered more chalk to those too far to restock themselves.
Fellow shootees came, as they always do, with their grandchildren, who are no longer the babies who began Strolling and Rolling in 2012. Their big girl, eschewing her scooter, was the subject of a lovely (copyrighted) photograph in the Sunday paper.
Those who were 9 in 2011 have a special relationship to Christina-Taylor.
They have heard her story and have helped me heal and they have shared that with those they love.
They brought their mothers and their fathers and their sisters and cousins, because part of the Stroll and Roll is to share what you love with others. The Prince Mustangs had earned the right to ride the bus that morning by spending the semester walking around the track in the morning, before school. Their laps were recorded by Student Council members, who were justifiably proud of their own efforts.
They surrounded every person they passed - including our Arizona Rangers, with love and joy.
God was there
and so were
and
and
There was artistry
and encouragement
and exhortations
Some caught my heart.
and some made me laugh
and all of them were this:
Someone wrote this
and I'm happy to say "You are welcome" because it's true.