Looking down at my bruised, bloodied knees I sigh. While lunging for the tennis ball, my feet just couldn't keep up with my enthusiasm, and I fell. My brand new shirt was now stained with the dust of the clay court. I wiped the dirt off my perspiring skin, and the gravel from my palms. I'm not sure if we won the point, but it was certainly worth it.
I can recount the adventures I had as a kid, by the scars and the chipped tooth I still wear on my body. The chip on my front tooth, which I never had fixed, is from the time I was racing the guys in the neighboorhood on my Schwinn Sting Ray, ladies edition,with a banana seat, around a tight corner out of the alley. I was in the lead. First one home was the winner! Last one was a rotten egg.
I didn't see the loose gravel on the road, as my back tire skidded out from under me. I lost control and I came tumbling down, mostly on my face....mostly on my two front teeth. There was concern that I would lose them, but I didn't. Neither did I lose the story of why I have the chip.
The scars on my knees were from endless adventures in the neighborhood. Before the shopping center came, and the construction on all the new homes, our house was surrounded by orchards of various fruit, and tomato fields. Great places to fight the enemy, with endless supply of ammo.
I like my scars and imperfections. I like my white hair. It would be a shame to have todays lasers blast my skin to make it smooth again and dyes to cover my hair. It would be blasting out my past, as if it never happened. I don't want my skin pulled tight, or my chipped tooth fixed, or my boobs enlarged. It took all this time to become who I am. It would be a shame to lose all that history.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Pepper Steak
Last night my older brother Chuck and wife Kathy took me out to dinner at a fine restaurant by the ocean. We had to wait about an hour to be seated so we wandered around looking in art galleries and walked on the boardwalk. The smell of the sea, and the sound of the crashing waves were nice. I love the smell of salt air and the sound of the surf. In the near distance is the pier, where many early mornings Chuck and I would ride our bikes to fish.
As we ate we talked about growing up, and how different our perspectives were for being raised in the same house. Chuck remembers the silent treatment... I remember the yelling. He remembers a dad that would never do anything with him... I remember a dad who was always doing something with him in the Boy Scouts. "Do you remember the pepper steak dad used to make?" My glands started salivating at the mention of the words. "Yes, that was the best tasting meal I ever ate." "Do you think Mom still has the recipe?" I've looked for it and can't find it. We both knew exactly where the recipe was kept. That space is now filled with candy bars and treats.
It wasn't often that we had company over. I think it happened 2 or 3 times, but when it did, we had pepper steak. It was an all-day ordeal as my dad would prepare the 2-inch thick slab of beef and marinated it for hours. It sat on the counter, in an aluminum pan. The smell was something that tortured us with anticipation. The baked potatoes, wrapped in mud, in the coals waited until the steak was done, as we gathered to eat. What a meal!!!
This morning I was sitting at the kitchen table with my mom and this alien that has the name Dad attached to him. "Mom, do you remember the pepper steak Dad used to make?" "No, she said... I don't like beef." "You don't remember? Oh my gosh, Chuck and I were just talking about it last night. Do you have the recipe?" "I don't know.... but you can look." "It was a newspaper clipping that Dad used to keep right here in the space." So I started through the books, not really thinking I would find it. I flipped open Betty Crocker, and The Joy of Cooking.... nothing. I picked up an old yellowed barbecue cookbook and opened the cover. There, in the inside flap, my dad had hand-written the whole thing, and a few pages back, the newspaper clipping fell out. I just won the lottery.
I'm all excited now, and my dad is looking at me. "Dad, do you remember cooking outside?" He didn't and I went on and on about how good it was. I read him the ingredients. "I did that? How long ago was that?" "Many, many years ago." He started touching the page that had his writing on it. He wanted to put his name on it, and I told him his name was written all over it. Every time I laid the newspaper clipping on top of his writing, he moved it off. He didn't want himself covered up. "I think I need to take this out and put it with my pictures." He is looking at the shrine on top of the TV that displays pictures of himself from years past. My mom raised her voice. "No, it is not going on the TV. It is not a memory." "But, Mom, it is... and he remembers." "If you put it there, I will take it down." So it is not going up on the shrine, but I get to take the original newspaper recipe home with me. I've made a copy and put it back in the book, in case my dad goes looking for it. And the cookbook will go to my brother Chuck.
As we ate we talked about growing up, and how different our perspectives were for being raised in the same house. Chuck remembers the silent treatment... I remember the yelling. He remembers a dad that would never do anything with him... I remember a dad who was always doing something with him in the Boy Scouts. "Do you remember the pepper steak dad used to make?" My glands started salivating at the mention of the words. "Yes, that was the best tasting meal I ever ate." "Do you think Mom still has the recipe?" I've looked for it and can't find it. We both knew exactly where the recipe was kept. That space is now filled with candy bars and treats.
It wasn't often that we had company over. I think it happened 2 or 3 times, but when it did, we had pepper steak. It was an all-day ordeal as my dad would prepare the 2-inch thick slab of beef and marinated it for hours. It sat on the counter, in an aluminum pan. The smell was something that tortured us with anticipation. The baked potatoes, wrapped in mud, in the coals waited until the steak was done, as we gathered to eat. What a meal!!!
This morning I was sitting at the kitchen table with my mom and this alien that has the name Dad attached to him. "Mom, do you remember the pepper steak Dad used to make?" "No, she said... I don't like beef." "You don't remember? Oh my gosh, Chuck and I were just talking about it last night. Do you have the recipe?" "I don't know.... but you can look." "It was a newspaper clipping that Dad used to keep right here in the space." So I started through the books, not really thinking I would find it. I flipped open Betty Crocker, and The Joy of Cooking.... nothing. I picked up an old yellowed barbecue cookbook and opened the cover. There, in the inside flap, my dad had hand-written the whole thing, and a few pages back, the newspaper clipping fell out. I just won the lottery.
I'm all excited now, and my dad is looking at me. "Dad, do you remember cooking outside?" He didn't and I went on and on about how good it was. I read him the ingredients. "I did that? How long ago was that?" "Many, many years ago." He started touching the page that had his writing on it. He wanted to put his name on it, and I told him his name was written all over it. Every time I laid the newspaper clipping on top of his writing, he moved it off. He didn't want himself covered up. "I think I need to take this out and put it with my pictures." He is looking at the shrine on top of the TV that displays pictures of himself from years past. My mom raised her voice. "No, it is not going on the TV. It is not a memory." "But, Mom, it is... and he remembers." "If you put it there, I will take it down." So it is not going up on the shrine, but I get to take the original newspaper recipe home with me. I've made a copy and put it back in the book, in case my dad goes looking for it. And the cookbook will go to my brother Chuck.
Monday, March 21, 2005
Happy Meal
The well dressed man sat across from me in the crowded LA airport waiting area. The drone of humanity moving from one terminal to another was contrasted with the loud announcements of airline departures, boarding and lost people meeting other lost people in designated places. I love airports. Such a variety of cultures and nations. He was dressed in the typical Dallas style-leather jacket, cowboy boots. Such a symbol of Americana.
It was breakfast time, as he opened his McDonalds sack. Another symbol of America. Golden arches. He unwrapped his Egg McMuffin, opened his orange juice, and slowly without anyone noticing empty a bit of spirit into his juice. I smiled. Happy Meal.
It was breakfast time, as he opened his McDonalds sack. Another symbol of America. Golden arches. He unwrapped his Egg McMuffin, opened his orange juice, and slowly without anyone noticing empty a bit of spirit into his juice. I smiled. Happy Meal.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Menopause......So
so
my mother went thru the same thing
our paths now somehow joined
except she disappeared then
and wanted to die
and I was to blame
so
its time for the next phase of life.
when my body starts to slow down
and the eggs that it has so faithfully produce
shrivel up and die
I'm not to blame
so
the flashes of heat
from the inside
that warms my being, and wets my brow
reminds me
that life is constantly changing
so
my friends laugh at me
they have been thru it
others have paved the way
since the beginning of time
so
there's noone to blame.
my mother went thru the same thing
our paths now somehow joined
except she disappeared then
and wanted to die
and I was to blame
so
its time for the next phase of life.
when my body starts to slow down
and the eggs that it has so faithfully produce
shrivel up and die
I'm not to blame
so
the flashes of heat
from the inside
that warms my being, and wets my brow
reminds me
that life is constantly changing
so
my friends laugh at me
they have been thru it
others have paved the way
since the beginning of time
so
there's noone to blame.
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.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
studio at siesta key
A space for my creative side. A small art studio tucked away at siesta key, where it is a short walk to one of the prettiest beaches in the world. I share this with another artist. It truly is a haven away from my "other" life.
Friday, January 14, 2005
judymarathon
I did it!!! After 8 months of hard work and training, I joined 24,000 other runners as we all ran...one step at a time.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Zoe
yes, she does look cute! And she got on the kitchen counter, got a bagel and was sitting innocently on the couch. She thought I wouldn't notice what she was about to bury...later that day, I found the bagel....under my pillow. She is definitely possessed.
In the company of women
I sit, surround by you, Women. Some of you I know, and others I don't. We are joined by the fact we all have body parts named the same. Some of you have lost some of them, a breast, maybe two. Surgeries have removed some of what we have in common.
I am not afraid of you, and for once, I'm not comparing. We are all together, and I can feel the bond, even though I do not know your stories...or your names.
And I look around, and our eyes make contact, and I sigh. "Where have you been my whole life? Have I not noticed? Have I not cared? I crave being with you. I long for shared stories, of rebirth. of struggles and triumph.
we are in each others company. we are each other.
and for that I sigh a big - - - - - y e s
I am not afraid of you, and for once, I'm not comparing. We are all together, and I can feel the bond, even though I do not know your stories...or your names.
And I look around, and our eyes make contact, and I sigh. "Where have you been my whole life? Have I not noticed? Have I not cared? I crave being with you. I long for shared stories, of rebirth. of struggles and triumph.
we are in each others company. we are each other.
and for that I sigh a big - - - - - y e s
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Rear View Mirror
I'm a firm believer in looking ahead, and not looking back. There is something optimistic about the future and all that is ahead. But these last few days events have made me stop and think that it is good to glance back once in awhile.
I was driving down a well-traveled road, minding my own business. I was in that space where time stands still, and I was moving and flowing with the traffic. I'm always checking my mirrors to see what is going on. I live in a tourist town, and the visiting snow birds puts all of us here in high alert. It is not unusual to see cars doing U-turns and ending up on the sidewalk or people stopping in traffic, to ask directions. My kids call elderly drivers "q-tips", because all you can see is the white tops of their heads. These sweet sweet grandparents we all love become lethal on streets far from their familiar surroundings.
So, I'm slowing down at a stop light and I glanced in my mirror. A woman was wiping tears from her face. She was crying! Now, I have had many good cries in the privacy of my auto. I've always assumed that it was a place I could let it all out, and bother no one, or have anyone bother me. I drove on with one eye on the road ahead, and one eye watching her. She turned later and took her tears down another road.
I stop at the next light and looked in my mirror, and there is another lady wiping away her sorrow. Two different people. Two completely random ladies, with their own random story. I wanted to stop my car, right there in traffic, I wanted to make a U-turn and end up on a sidewalk, just so I could say to either one of them "Why are you crying? Is there anything I can do for you?" I left them with their tears, and the privacy of their autos.
Today, I looked in my rear view mirror, and a lady was holding a hand towel on her right eye. There is so much to see, looking forward, in my rear view mirror.
I was driving down a well-traveled road, minding my own business. I was in that space where time stands still, and I was moving and flowing with the traffic. I'm always checking my mirrors to see what is going on. I live in a tourist town, and the visiting snow birds puts all of us here in high alert. It is not unusual to see cars doing U-turns and ending up on the sidewalk or people stopping in traffic, to ask directions. My kids call elderly drivers "q-tips", because all you can see is the white tops of their heads. These sweet sweet grandparents we all love become lethal on streets far from their familiar surroundings.
So, I'm slowing down at a stop light and I glanced in my mirror. A woman was wiping tears from her face. She was crying! Now, I have had many good cries in the privacy of my auto. I've always assumed that it was a place I could let it all out, and bother no one, or have anyone bother me. I drove on with one eye on the road ahead, and one eye watching her. She turned later and took her tears down another road.
I stop at the next light and looked in my mirror, and there is another lady wiping away her sorrow. Two different people. Two completely random ladies, with their own random story. I wanted to stop my car, right there in traffic, I wanted to make a U-turn and end up on a sidewalk, just so I could say to either one of them "Why are you crying? Is there anything I can do for you?" I left them with their tears, and the privacy of their autos.
Today, I looked in my rear view mirror, and a lady was holding a hand towel on her right eye. There is so much to see, looking forward, in my rear view mirror.
Monday, January 03, 2005
How's The Weather and Other Ways To Say I Love You
There are many ways to say I love you. Some people say it with roses. Some with candy. The most common way is just to say it "I love You" Then there is the way my dad has said it for as long as I can remember.
"How's the weather?"
Our phone conversations through the years have always been the same.
"Hi, It's good to hear from you.
How's the weather?"
I come to realize that what he's really saying in
"Hi, It's good to hear from you.
I love you."
Words that have been hard for my dad to form with his lips, have been spoken in other ways. I don't know if its because of his generation, or his upbringing. I don't remember him saying I love you to anyone much, until old age set in, and his alzheimer's stripped him of the reason why he won't say it. He says it now, "I love you a big bunch." My dad has always like bunches....bunches of tools, bunches of buddys to hang out with at the bars, bunches of orchids, bunches of kids he had.
I like how's the weather? It covers all of lifes journey.
How's the weather? How's your life...how are the kids...how is your health... It's much easier to talk about the weather and its storms than what is really happening.
In years past, I've always filled him in on the tornadoes of Texas and how close they were to where I lived. Hurricanes are harder to describe to him now. His memory is failing and he doesn't have the words to ask about hurricanes. I showed him a picture of the hurricanes covering the state of Florida, where I now live. In years past, we would have talked on and on about how could three hurricanes hit in one month. He didn't remember I moved there.
He has for years told me, when the weather gets better he'd come for a visit. Maybe he knows of some turmoil either side of the airport. Maybe he is waiting for life to clear up a bit, so he can come in for a smooth landing.
Sometimes when I call him, I beat him to the punch, and I'd ask him how's the weather on his end. I don't do it anymore, It changes the rhythm of our conversation. It takes away the chance for him to reach out to me.
He hardly knows my name anymore. I'm the nice lady that lives across the country. but so far, he continues to ask about the weather....and everytime he does..I smile. How's the weather? Fine Dad...just fine.
"How's the weather?"
Our phone conversations through the years have always been the same.
"Hi, It's good to hear from you.
How's the weather?"
I come to realize that what he's really saying in
"Hi, It's good to hear from you.
I love you."
Words that have been hard for my dad to form with his lips, have been spoken in other ways. I don't know if its because of his generation, or his upbringing. I don't remember him saying I love you to anyone much, until old age set in, and his alzheimer's stripped him of the reason why he won't say it. He says it now, "I love you a big bunch." My dad has always like bunches....bunches of tools, bunches of buddys to hang out with at the bars, bunches of orchids, bunches of kids he had.
I like how's the weather? It covers all of lifes journey.
How's the weather? How's your life...how are the kids...how is your health... It's much easier to talk about the weather and its storms than what is really happening.
In years past, I've always filled him in on the tornadoes of Texas and how close they were to where I lived. Hurricanes are harder to describe to him now. His memory is failing and he doesn't have the words to ask about hurricanes. I showed him a picture of the hurricanes covering the state of Florida, where I now live. In years past, we would have talked on and on about how could three hurricanes hit in one month. He didn't remember I moved there.
He has for years told me, when the weather gets better he'd come for a visit. Maybe he knows of some turmoil either side of the airport. Maybe he is waiting for life to clear up a bit, so he can come in for a smooth landing.
Sometimes when I call him, I beat him to the punch, and I'd ask him how's the weather on his end. I don't do it anymore, It changes the rhythm of our conversation. It takes away the chance for him to reach out to me.
He hardly knows my name anymore. I'm the nice lady that lives across the country. but so far, he continues to ask about the weather....and everytime he does..I smile. How's the weather? Fine Dad...just fine.
Thursday, November 25, 2004
Running Away
thanksgiving day 2004
Running north
For a moment I felt like Forrest Gump. Getting on the road and just running. I left the house, and headed for the beach. I knew there was a bike/running trail that went along the coast. I had no idea how far I was going to go, I just wanted to get out and run. There were few cars early Thanksgiving morning. The air was brisk, and I could smell the salt air. Such a beautiful day.
So I ran.
I ran out of my neighborhood, past homes that brought back many memories. Friends I grew up with. Past the church and schools where I learned all sorts of things besides a good education. There was the parking lot I stole cars from, and there was the stairs I smoked my first cigar, and behind the school is where the priest used to meet me with beer. Right there on the picnic benches, next to the playground with the merry-go-round. Quite an education.
I ran past all the bars my dad used to spend all his free time in. I ran past the hang-outs I used to visit as a teenager. There's a bowling alley, and tennis courts. I ran to the beach, where I used to ride my bike and spend many afternoons. I ran past the pier where my brother and I used to fish on cold early mornings. I ran.
And then I started passing lots of people, and I started to listen in on 10 seconds of their lives. A son and dad riding bikes, and I heard "That's cool, Dad". past two ladies "she always lets her chickens run wild" and two silicon enhanced ladies "she's always telling stories". Bits and pieces of humanity, there on my run.
I ran over the railroad tracks, to Hobo Jungle, an area that was off limits to us as children. Hobo's lived there. It wasn't until much later I realized they where homeless. But it was thrilling to finally enter that forbidden area, even though it was 40 years later.
I ran past trailer parks, and smelled the wonderful aromas of Thanksgiving dinners cooking. Dogs hanging out, and children playing in the surf. I saw a college aged son, embrace his father at the gate of his beach front home. It was an awkward hug, and I wondered what the story was there. I saw a man in his huge trailer, his back to the ocean, sitting in front of lots of computers, wondering why he didn't turn around and enjoy the surf. He looked like a computer nerd. I ran past three middle aged heavy set men, drooling over there shiny Harley motorcycles. I had to comment as I ran by "Nice bikes, I said.
I wonder how far this road goes? I was joined on occasion by bikers, not a very friendly group. A car stopped up ahead and two men got out, I crossed over to the other side of the road. I'm not getting mugged here.
I want to run on forever.
My phone rang and it was Bruce...."where are you?" "I'm running north" "are you running away" "Yes, but only for a time, and then I'll run back"
Running north
For a moment I felt like Forrest Gump. Getting on the road and just running. I left the house, and headed for the beach. I knew there was a bike/running trail that went along the coast. I had no idea how far I was going to go, I just wanted to get out and run. There were few cars early Thanksgiving morning. The air was brisk, and I could smell the salt air. Such a beautiful day.
So I ran.
I ran out of my neighborhood, past homes that brought back many memories. Friends I grew up with. Past the church and schools where I learned all sorts of things besides a good education. There was the parking lot I stole cars from, and there was the stairs I smoked my first cigar, and behind the school is where the priest used to meet me with beer. Right there on the picnic benches, next to the playground with the merry-go-round. Quite an education.
I ran past all the bars my dad used to spend all his free time in. I ran past the hang-outs I used to visit as a teenager. There's a bowling alley, and tennis courts. I ran to the beach, where I used to ride my bike and spend many afternoons. I ran past the pier where my brother and I used to fish on cold early mornings. I ran.
And then I started passing lots of people, and I started to listen in on 10 seconds of their lives. A son and dad riding bikes, and I heard "That's cool, Dad". past two ladies "she always lets her chickens run wild" and two silicon enhanced ladies "she's always telling stories". Bits and pieces of humanity, there on my run.
I ran over the railroad tracks, to Hobo Jungle, an area that was off limits to us as children. Hobo's lived there. It wasn't until much later I realized they where homeless. But it was thrilling to finally enter that forbidden area, even though it was 40 years later.
I ran past trailer parks, and smelled the wonderful aromas of Thanksgiving dinners cooking. Dogs hanging out, and children playing in the surf. I saw a college aged son, embrace his father at the gate of his beach front home. It was an awkward hug, and I wondered what the story was there. I saw a man in his huge trailer, his back to the ocean, sitting in front of lots of computers, wondering why he didn't turn around and enjoy the surf. He looked like a computer nerd. I ran past three middle aged heavy set men, drooling over there shiny Harley motorcycles. I had to comment as I ran by "Nice bikes, I said.
I wonder how far this road goes? I was joined on occasion by bikers, not a very friendly group. A car stopped up ahead and two men got out, I crossed over to the other side of the road. I'm not getting mugged here.
I want to run on forever.
My phone rang and it was Bruce...."where are you?" "I'm running north" "are you running away" "Yes, but only for a time, and then I'll run back"
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
VESPA
Local paper did a story on me. Read it at
(copy and paste into your browser)
http://search.heraldtribune.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=2004406150596
(copy and paste into your browser)
http://search.heraldtribune.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=2004406150596
Tuesday, September 02, 2003
A Poem of Choicefulness
I like the word choicefullness...hmmmm
choosing with integrity
with honesty
with love
with no malice toward others
being aware of how it will affect others
and still being true to oneself.
now always agreeing
but having an open heart
not grabbing to get
but being patient to see what unfolds
hmmmmm
choosing with integrity
with honesty
with love
with no malice toward others
being aware of how it will affect others
and still being true to oneself.
now always agreeing
but having an open heart
not grabbing to get
but being patient to see what unfolds
hmmmmm
Saturday, October 28, 2000
Twilight Zone or Evil Disneyworld
I must admit, the glamour and sparkle of Las Vegas was hard to resist. The food buffets as far as the mouth could reach. The shows from white tigers to blue men put my artistic nature into overdrive.
I have never been in such a place before that had so much to offer. Did I like it? Sure. I loss my money in the slot machines, hoping to win a new car. I desperately wanted to get that loud siren to go off, or to hear the constant stream of quarters hitting the money catcher. I heard it in the distance as I went by. I only managed to win a few, lose a lot.
I must have entered 20 casinos in three days. My favorite was Paris. Ahhhhh Paris. The eiffel tower, the french bakeries, the streets to stroll on, even street painters, and the men in berets singing Italian on the waterway of Venice....
There was a constant stream of tourists to that fair city of Paris. It was only when I looked up, and saw the painted sky that I realized I was still in Las Vegas. Then I noticed there were no windows out to see the real world. I couldn't find a drinking fountain, and there was no clocks to be found. I was trapped in either a Twilight Zone episode, or an evil DisneyWorld.
It was time for a commercial break, so I went outside. The streets were so crowded. Old people, young people, small kids, lots of families, lots of hookers, lots of drunks. So many nationalities. I love to hear foreign languages spoken. It makes my world bigger to hear them. People seemed to be polite. And there were always people on the streets happily handing out free
business cards to their place of business.
Driving down the strip was fun. I learned to drive it really fast. I managed to "almost hit" a grandmother dragging her small grandson across the street. She had a determined look to get across the street, no matter what.
I didn't realize how many roller coasters they had in their fun city. They came out of buildings and went underground. The hotel I stayed at even had one at the top of the tower, 1200 feet up. I enjoyed racing thru parking garages, with a van load of people. There's nothing like going fast, up and down those lanes, with the concrete pillars looking like they'll take your head off any moment.
I understand the city never sleeps. Well, I did. I could have gone out drinking to all hours of the night, but I didn't want to ruin the next day of recovering from all the booze. There is a small line that drinking people cross over when they drink too much. If you aren't crossing with them, they look really stupid. If you are, then it doesn't matter. Anyway, I was saving my energy for getting womped in the women's hockey tournament. (that's another story)
Would I go back? Yep. I was just getting the hang of the roulette table. The day I checked out of the hotel, I took my free complimentary chips ($10) and headed for the first uncrowded, no players within 25 feet table. I admitted that I was a newbie, and placed my bet. One chip was for Jake, one was for Sammi. Whatever I won I would split between them. I won, then I lost, then I won, then I got brave, then I got stupid. When I reached $100, I dragged myself away from the table and cashed in. On the way out the thought cross my mind "I could give the kids each 10 dollars. They would never know" Then I realized that is bad gambling karma. I will need all the help I can get next time I visit Las Vegas.
I have never been in such a place before that had so much to offer. Did I like it? Sure. I loss my money in the slot machines, hoping to win a new car. I desperately wanted to get that loud siren to go off, or to hear the constant stream of quarters hitting the money catcher. I heard it in the distance as I went by. I only managed to win a few, lose a lot.
I must have entered 20 casinos in three days. My favorite was Paris. Ahhhhh Paris. The eiffel tower, the french bakeries, the streets to stroll on, even street painters, and the men in berets singing Italian on the waterway of Venice....
There was a constant stream of tourists to that fair city of Paris. It was only when I looked up, and saw the painted sky that I realized I was still in Las Vegas. Then I noticed there were no windows out to see the real world. I couldn't find a drinking fountain, and there was no clocks to be found. I was trapped in either a Twilight Zone episode, or an evil DisneyWorld.
It was time for a commercial break, so I went outside. The streets were so crowded. Old people, young people, small kids, lots of families, lots of hookers, lots of drunks. So many nationalities. I love to hear foreign languages spoken. It makes my world bigger to hear them. People seemed to be polite. And there were always people on the streets happily handing out free
business cards to their place of business.
Driving down the strip was fun. I learned to drive it really fast. I managed to "almost hit" a grandmother dragging her small grandson across the street. She had a determined look to get across the street, no matter what.
I didn't realize how many roller coasters they had in their fun city. They came out of buildings and went underground. The hotel I stayed at even had one at the top of the tower, 1200 feet up. I enjoyed racing thru parking garages, with a van load of people. There's nothing like going fast, up and down those lanes, with the concrete pillars looking like they'll take your head off any moment.
I understand the city never sleeps. Well, I did. I could have gone out drinking to all hours of the night, but I didn't want to ruin the next day of recovering from all the booze. There is a small line that drinking people cross over when they drink too much. If you aren't crossing with them, they look really stupid. If you are, then it doesn't matter. Anyway, I was saving my energy for getting womped in the women's hockey tournament. (that's another story)
Would I go back? Yep. I was just getting the hang of the roulette table. The day I checked out of the hotel, I took my free complimentary chips ($10) and headed for the first uncrowded, no players within 25 feet table. I admitted that I was a newbie, and placed my bet. One chip was for Jake, one was for Sammi. Whatever I won I would split between them. I won, then I lost, then I won, then I got brave, then I got stupid. When I reached $100, I dragged myself away from the table and cashed in. On the way out the thought cross my mind "I could give the kids each 10 dollars. They would never know" Then I realized that is bad gambling karma. I will need all the help I can get next time I visit Las Vegas.
Thursday, October 26, 2000
Hockey Momma
We came in second!!!
to last that is. The good news is we weren't the worse.
but let me take you back to the beginning...
I'm sitting on the plane, visualizing taking someone out on the rink. My hand brushed my watch, and the crystal was gone. The second hand had poked me. How odd, I thought. Time was not only standing still at the moment, but was trying to get my attention. Then I broke a fingernail. I got up to use the restroom and my favorite earring was just barely hanging on....
I'm not superstitious. Here I was leaving for Las Vegas and all this happen in the first five minutes or so. My thoughts went to "I wonder how many pieces I might be coming back in!"
We arrived safely, I might add. Checked into the Stratosphere. It looks like the Space Needle in Seattle except it has a roller coaster on the very top. We all sat around as a team and looked scared. I was of course, trying to be brave, and not telling everyone about the run of bad luck on the plane.
Our first game was at 11:00pm. Before we went in to face our enemy, we gathered around the car, and I had everyone join me as we prayed for the rapture to take place immediately. I know God answers prayer. I felt for a moment that he had abandoned me. But I realized He was telling me to go in there and kick some butt...
We got womped! I would have kicked some butt, but I couldn't catch them. Those butts were fast! There were college girls who where born with skates on their feet and pucks for pacifiers. They were gracious winners. We decided as a group that we were going for the sportsmanship award.
We lost the sportsmanship award in the next womp! Their butts weren't quite as fast, and I was able to kick a few of them. Our confidence was building.
We lost our third game, but at least we had a few goals. I got tangled with one of them, wouldn't let go of her, and she wasn't able to score. I want to tell you I saved the game, but they were too far ahead by then. So it didn't really matter much, except I look good on the video.
Our fourth game was much the same. Fast butts, a few kicks here and there. More points off our sportsmanship award. But this team was fun. They were only about one level above us. As we were playing, I got to leaning on one of the defensive players -- she looked at me and said "Hey, another old player like me" which I quickly replied "Yeah, so lets be easy on each
other!" The players on the bench were wondering what in the world we were talking about.
By this time I was going thru the grieving process. Mad that this old body just couldn't do what I wanted it to. Then I got embarrassed that I was even there. Then I decided what the heck, it will make a great story. I can honestly say that I played in a tournament with the first women hockey player in the NHL...
They did at some point in the games, divide the Great Ones from the recreational ones...It didn't help.
Here are some comments overheard in the arena:
Bless their hearts!!!!
Keep trying!
You all are looking better!
Why don't we have as nice of jerseys as them? (We at least looked good)
Skate Hard!
What the hell am I doing here?
I think I'm going to throw up!
You aren't out of it yet!
We left the tournament, not in last though. We got second to last. I met lots of wonderful female hockey players of all ages. Mostly younger though.
That was the fun part.
I found myself in the casinos, still leaning on people to get them out of my way.
They are having this tournament next year.
Am I going?
Are you nuts!
to last that is. The good news is we weren't the worse.
but let me take you back to the beginning...
I'm sitting on the plane, visualizing taking someone out on the rink. My hand brushed my watch, and the crystal was gone. The second hand had poked me. How odd, I thought. Time was not only standing still at the moment, but was trying to get my attention. Then I broke a fingernail. I got up to use the restroom and my favorite earring was just barely hanging on....
I'm not superstitious. Here I was leaving for Las Vegas and all this happen in the first five minutes or so. My thoughts went to "I wonder how many pieces I might be coming back in!"
We arrived safely, I might add. Checked into the Stratosphere. It looks like the Space Needle in Seattle except it has a roller coaster on the very top. We all sat around as a team and looked scared. I was of course, trying to be brave, and not telling everyone about the run of bad luck on the plane.
Our first game was at 11:00pm. Before we went in to face our enemy, we gathered around the car, and I had everyone join me as we prayed for the rapture to take place immediately. I know God answers prayer. I felt for a moment that he had abandoned me. But I realized He was telling me to go in there and kick some butt...
We got womped! I would have kicked some butt, but I couldn't catch them. Those butts were fast! There were college girls who where born with skates on their feet and pucks for pacifiers. They were gracious winners. We decided as a group that we were going for the sportsmanship award.
We lost the sportsmanship award in the next womp! Their butts weren't quite as fast, and I was able to kick a few of them. Our confidence was building.
We lost our third game, but at least we had a few goals. I got tangled with one of them, wouldn't let go of her, and she wasn't able to score. I want to tell you I saved the game, but they were too far ahead by then. So it didn't really matter much, except I look good on the video.
Our fourth game was much the same. Fast butts, a few kicks here and there. More points off our sportsmanship award. But this team was fun. They were only about one level above us. As we were playing, I got to leaning on one of the defensive players -- she looked at me and said "Hey, another old player like me" which I quickly replied "Yeah, so lets be easy on each
other!" The players on the bench were wondering what in the world we were talking about.
By this time I was going thru the grieving process. Mad that this old body just couldn't do what I wanted it to. Then I got embarrassed that I was even there. Then I decided what the heck, it will make a great story. I can honestly say that I played in a tournament with the first women hockey player in the NHL...
They did at some point in the games, divide the Great Ones from the recreational ones...It didn't help.
Here are some comments overheard in the arena:
Bless their hearts!!!!
Keep trying!
You all are looking better!
Why don't we have as nice of jerseys as them? (We at least looked good)
Skate Hard!
What the hell am I doing here?
I think I'm going to throw up!
You aren't out of it yet!
We left the tournament, not in last though. We got second to last. I met lots of wonderful female hockey players of all ages. Mostly younger though.
That was the fun part.
I found myself in the casinos, still leaning on people to get them out of my way.
They are having this tournament next year.
Am I going?
Are you nuts!
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