This is a picture of my parents and siblings. Hands tell such an interesting story.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
earlybirds
My day starts at the gym, working out with friends. Then we gather at different restaurant tables around town to eat. Daily they amaze me and daily they show me the way to a life full of energy, love and sharing...no matter what the age.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
My First Love
I found my childhood dream, tucked away in a closet gathering dust. The grip was worn, not only from years of sweat and use, but age had taken the shine off the leather surface. The strings that once were so tight that I could hear musical notes when the ball was bounced on it, were broken. The only possession of my youth, that will bring tears to my eyes. My tennis racket.
Hours were spent at the Thrifty's drug store, in the sporting goods aisle. I would hold the tennis rackets and dream of greatness. Then I would jump on my bike and ride to the courts to play tennis late into the afternoon. It became my place, the place I could dance on the hard courts. Fellow tennis players of all ages became my friends.
I entered all the local tournaments and I managed to win my share - winning in divisions much older than me. Some of my friends had private lessons. PRIVATE LESSON! Oh, how I begged my mom for them. It just wasn't to be. So I would sit on the bench, watch and listen to the instruction, then dash to a side court and practice what was taught. I was the most attentive sideline student out there. And when I played tournaments, and a new coach was around, I played even harder, hoping and praying to be "discovered". I still remember one coach say of my playing "She has great concentration. She has good hands and a light touch".
My friends had the fancy tennis outfits. I had hand me downs. They had the pretty skirts, I wore shorts. What I lacked in proper tennis attire, I made up with a killer serve.
My dreams of Wimbledon faded, and so did my tennis fervor. It has always been in my mind to come back to my first love. To the place I remember. So when my friend called to play tennis at a country club my heart lept. I went out and bought a fancy tennis outfit. I went out and got the latest racket. I am coming back 40 years later. And tomorrow, I'm going to take a tennis lesson. On the court. With a pro.
Not on the sidelines.
Hours were spent at the Thrifty's drug store, in the sporting goods aisle. I would hold the tennis rackets and dream of greatness. Then I would jump on my bike and ride to the courts to play tennis late into the afternoon. It became my place, the place I could dance on the hard courts. Fellow tennis players of all ages became my friends.
I entered all the local tournaments and I managed to win my share - winning in divisions much older than me. Some of my friends had private lessons. PRIVATE LESSON! Oh, how I begged my mom for them. It just wasn't to be. So I would sit on the bench, watch and listen to the instruction, then dash to a side court and practice what was taught. I was the most attentive sideline student out there. And when I played tournaments, and a new coach was around, I played even harder, hoping and praying to be "discovered". I still remember one coach say of my playing "She has great concentration. She has good hands and a light touch".
My friends had the fancy tennis outfits. I had hand me downs. They had the pretty skirts, I wore shorts. What I lacked in proper tennis attire, I made up with a killer serve.
My dreams of Wimbledon faded, and so did my tennis fervor. It has always been in my mind to come back to my first love. To the place I remember. So when my friend called to play tennis at a country club my heart lept. I went out and bought a fancy tennis outfit. I went out and got the latest racket. I am coming back 40 years later. And tomorrow, I'm going to take a tennis lesson. On the court. With a pro.
Not on the sidelines.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Pictures Hung Askew
I've walked thru the front door of my childhood home many times and I've seen it thru many eyes. Childhood eyes that were high enough to see through the mailbox cutout in the door. Adolescent eyes that finally where able to see in and out of the little window on the top half of the door. I've noticed the change. Now with my adult eyes, I open the door and announce my arrival. I walk passed familiar scenes that have greeted me for 50 years. The paintings that hung on the left wall, were done years ago by my mother. Her art has always cover the walls. They remind me that the artistic talent I carry around in my soul, was created in the womb of my mother.
The scene has changed recently, and not in small ways. My dad has taken down some of the all too familiar paintings, and nailed an old black and white portrait of himself from his younger years, with stoic photos of his mother on the left, and his father on the right. These are not hung on a nail with a wire. They are pounded securely to the wall with large construction type of nails. Those pictures aren't going anywhere soon. Reminds me of photos hung in popular restaurants, where they can't possibly be stolen. The fireplace that has the african masks lined up, now displays my dad's navy uniform, also pounded securely to the bricks and his name is visible on the inside collar. The top of the TV, that was a showcase for small pieces of art and sculpture, now has my dad's passport, and any other photo document that bears his face. These reminders of who he was are all askew kinda like my dad. He's nailing his life to the wall. His photos tell me where he's come from, and what he has done in his life. He doesn't want to loose himself. I'm sure there was a time where he realized he was loosing his memory. I've never heard him speak of it with his words. But his actions speak so much louder. Don't forget where I've come from. Don't forget who I am. Don't let me get lost . That's why he's nailing his life on the wall. So his kids and family won't forget. So he can have some tangible reminder of who he is. Every time I visit, and walk in the door, I stop and look and listen to him tell me all over again who those people are and who that guy is in the middle.. It doesn't matter if it was 30 minutes ago. I stop and listen. I won't forget you dad. I won't. And those nail holes on the wall? Someday when you are gone, someone will probably want to fill and covered them up. But I won't be the one to do that. Not me. I will carry those holes in my heart always.
The scene has changed recently, and not in small ways. My dad has taken down some of the all too familiar paintings, and nailed an old black and white portrait of himself from his younger years, with stoic photos of his mother on the left, and his father on the right. These are not hung on a nail with a wire. They are pounded securely to the wall with large construction type of nails. Those pictures aren't going anywhere soon. Reminds me of photos hung in popular restaurants, where they can't possibly be stolen. The fireplace that has the african masks lined up, now displays my dad's navy uniform, also pounded securely to the bricks and his name is visible on the inside collar. The top of the TV, that was a showcase for small pieces of art and sculpture, now has my dad's passport, and any other photo document that bears his face. These reminders of who he was are all askew kinda like my dad. He's nailing his life to the wall. His photos tell me where he's come from, and what he has done in his life. He doesn't want to loose himself. I'm sure there was a time where he realized he was loosing his memory. I've never heard him speak of it with his words. But his actions speak so much louder. Don't forget where I've come from. Don't forget who I am. Don't let me get lost . That's why he's nailing his life on the wall. So his kids and family won't forget. So he can have some tangible reminder of who he is. Every time I visit, and walk in the door, I stop and look and listen to him tell me all over again who those people are and who that guy is in the middle.. It doesn't matter if it was 30 minutes ago. I stop and listen. I won't forget you dad. I won't. And those nail holes on the wall? Someday when you are gone, someone will probably want to fill and covered them up. But I won't be the one to do that. Not me. I will carry those holes in my heart always.
Dad
Wade, sitting in front of his life from long ago. Navy uniform, ribbons and certificates, wearing a florida hurricane tshirt, given to me by a dear, dear friend in Florida, and passed along to him He's always liked tshirts.
See story above.
See story above.
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