The Race Is Not To The Swift

I could have been an athlete. I was really good at foursquare when I was in elementary school. I ran fast. Could dodge the heck out of a big rubber ball. Was never chosen last on a team. I even learned to go backwards on roller skates with my Girl Scout troop. I had potential, but no one saw it except me. Instead, we went to church and I focused on the piano. But music was never my first love.

Rob was.

Rob was an athlete. It’s the reason I first fell in love with him. Until I saw him hurl a ball and run the bases like the boss he was, I nearly dismissed the quiet, small-statured blonde guy who told me he was from Florida. Florida? Nobody comes from Florida. Its entire population is made up of old guys in ugly shorts on golf courses. You retire to Florida, you aren’t born there.

I was mistaken. Just as I was mistaken about that inconspicuous ball player I fell for. It was his strength and determination that I admired. I’d never seen anyone as humble and confident as Rob. It’s a winning combination that stole my heart.

I wanted to be athletic like him. I love watching baseball and wondered if I could up my own game. Rob bought me my first ball glove and tried to teach me how to develop a throwing arm like his. I played on a women’s church team for one season and threw like a girl, sending an outfield catch soaring as far as second base instead of reaching the pitcher where I was aiming. I caught fly balls against my stomach instead of in my new glove and struck out more times than I ever connected my bat to the ball. Finally, I realized I was better at keeping score in the stands than playing on the field.

You gotta know your strengths.

There aren’t many sports I enjoy watching, but when it comes to an Olympic year, I’m all in. Rob and I both were. From the opening ceremonies until they extinguished the flame at its close, we, like you, loved seeing people push themselves to achieve the impossible. Their wins were ours and we felt their defeats as well.

This morning that was the story for Brody Malone, the USA team leader in men’s gymnastics all-around finals. This is why I love the Olympics. When I turned on the TV today, I didn’t know a single man on that team. By the time the brief competition was over, I was in tears. I guess the glory of sports is supposed to belong to the winners, to the players who have a great day and never fall off of a pommel horse or miss a grab on the high bars.

But I think the glory goes to those who give it their all and still come up empty-handed.

Fifteen months ago, Brody’s knee was destroyed when he fell from a high bar during competition. After enduring three surgeries, there was doubt as to whether he would ever walk normally again. Fifteen months ago it looked like his career was over. Today he competed in Paris as the leader of an elite team of gymnasts. Today he had a bad day, but he’s still walking. His medal chances are in question, but he beat the odds to even be there. The sportscasters said he could have been the face on a Wheaties cereal box, but now someone else’s name will be memorialized instead of his.

I disagree.

I don’t want to discount all the pain and sacrifices the other athletes on his team have endured. I just want to point out that Brody Malone showed us what courage looks like. He’s still the team captain and will finish his race, but it's unclear whether he will get to stand on the podium with his teammates. I know that’s hugely disappointing to him, but that’s not why I was in tears today. I don’t know how to say this because I’m not in his league and it seems brazen for me to make a comparison. But I lost all my dreams after working for them my entire life and I know what it feels like to be down. To watch the world race by, achieving all their goals, celebrating all their victories, while you can barely stand up on your feet again.

That’s what I was thinking about as I watched his Olympic dream fade with every low score that was posted. Sometimes you fall. Sometimes you lose it all and watch helplessly as your dreams evaporate. Sometimes, no matter how hard you work at learning how to walk again, beating all the odds, there will be days when you find yourself on the ground once more and your biggest win is simply standing up.

No, I’m not an athlete. I’m the furthest thing from one. I cheer for Team USA every couple of years from the comfort of my living room and wonder at the enormous price each one has paid for years to make it this far. I don’t think I could have done it. But then again, you never know what you can do or what you can survive until you have no other choice.

It’s not the end for Brody Malone. And as I pay close attention to the stories of defeat in these Olympics even more than the stories of victory, a little flame sparks in my own heart reminding me that I will learn to walk again, too. It’s going to take time. It means I’ll have to pace myself. But however long it takes, I know Rob would be proud of me.

Maybe I have the heart of an athlete after all.

With thanks to Tom Driggers for the great photo seen above. The original can be viewed by following this link: Olympic Spirit | Within the Olympic rings of the Olympic fou… | Flickr

Learning The Ropes

There’s an old man visiting me this week. 

His curly hair is a bit long and he’s missing some teeth but since he doesn’t eat much it doesn’t much matter. He doesn’t mind a cold breakfast, or lunch or dinner. Or leftovers. He sleeps a lot. Lies around the house looking bored to tears, like staying here wasn’t his idea. Because it wasn’t. We don’t have a lot in common, so we don’t talk much. He doesn’t talk at all. 

But he’s another breathing body in the house and that’s a nice change.

He also has an old man sort of problem. Kind of awkward to discuss here but let me just say we’re depending on Depends this week. This is a new one for me. It’s new for him, too, and he’s not a fan. I don’t blame him. At his age, all he has left is his dignity and the adoration of three kids who think he’s the best dog God ever created. Because he is. But the need to walk around wearing a doggie diaper is putting a kink in his confidence and makes him sigh sometimes. Me, too.

I mean, I can kind of relate. Sort of awkward to discuss that here, but I feel his pain in a way that’s none of your business. I’m not an old man or an old dog, but I’ve met some people who think I’m old. Most of them are new and ride their bikes around the neighborhood when school lets out, but some of their parents think I’m old, too. I don’t mind. I don’t even think it’s a criticism. It’s more like a badge of honor.

At my age, I’ve earned every strand of this gray hair.

Rocky the golden retriever is hanging out with me while his family hangs out with other people this week. He’s pretty easy company. He’d spend more time outside if it wasn’t so hot and he wasn’t wearing that perpetual fur coat. So would I if it felt more like Alaska and less like Arizona out there. I know. And no, I don’t know why I live here.

Here's the problem. When you’re a dog, the bathroom is outside. Where it’s hot. I can’t fix either one of those things. Not even if you’re wearing a diaper. When you gotta go, you gotta go, and in his case he’s gotta go outside and somebody’s got to take that thing off before he does. We’ve almost got it down to a science now, if science means repetition but not perfection. Standing side by side at the back door, I count to three, pull open the slider, yank off his impediment, and just like that he’s a free man, running wild across the back yard, au natural the way God intended. 

Just like every two-year-old I’ve ever known.

This morning when he finished his business, he waited for me on the patio while I grabbed a new diaper and met him out there. That’s when I saw them. Seated side by side like two concrete yard ornaments. I don’t know how long they’d been watching us, but from the judgy tilt of their synchronized heads, they’d grabbed the cheap seats a while ago. We had an audience, and they were ready for popcorn and a show.

The judgy sister sheep.

Curious and critical, all at the same time, they barely like one another, let alone anyone else living near their pasture. I could practically hear what they were saying, the cackly old maids.

“What’s she doing to him now?”

“I dunno. Looks like she’s decorating him.”

“What for? It’s not Christmas.”

“Beats me. She has awful taste in fashion. Got any Milk Duds left?”

Sheep don’t have a clue. I wasn’t decorating him. I was wrestling him. Remember what it was like to put pre-folded paper and elastic rectangles on a nine-pound squirming newborn with two gyrating legs? Now picture doing that to an upright, four-legged, seventy-pound hairy Sasquatch who wants to sit on your feet while you finish.

I’ve been to a couple of rodeos. You know the part where the cowboy races on his horse across a dusty arena in hot pursuit of a calf who weighs twice as much as he does, then throws him to the ground and, without help from anyone, holds him there and trusses him up like a Thanksgiving turkey? When he’s finished, gallons of sweat pour out from beneath his ten-gallon Stetson while he throws his hands in the air in victory and walks away exhausted. It’s a weird way to make a living.

That’s how I felt every single time I diapered a baby. And more than once I threw my hands into the air in victory when I was finished. That’s how I feel now with every diaper I strap around the dog. At least I’ve got experience.

He’s a good boy, though. A sweet old guy who tolerates the way we dress him and puts up with my bad cooking. He takes a nap while I watch Hallmark movies and doesn’t mind if I ignore him to pick up my knitting or post another blog. He’s tolerant and just wants a little peace and quiet. In a way, he reminds me of Rob. Who, right now, from the cheap seats in heaven, is giving me “the look.”

Enjoy your popcorn, Rob. Just don’t laugh and point. That’s the job of the sister sheep. And if they keep it up, I’m going to chase them down and put a diaper on them for spite. I may not have my youth or natural hair color anymore, but I’ve overcome those deficits with the only thing that matters.

I’ve got experience.

With thanks to Bruno Pedro for the picture seen above. The original can be viewed by following this link: The WireIt logo | WireIt is an OpenSource javascript library… | Flickr

For The Birds

Remember that vast flock of starlings or sparrows or whatever kind of dinky little birds we have here in Arizona that I saw swimming outside a few days ago? Right. The ones at the pool party, doing high dives from the massive ash tree that shades the kids’ trampoline, skipping over the water’s surface like they’re barefoot water-skiers, and wiping out in that huge mud puddle at the end of their runway?

Well, I was sitting here at my desk today, writing my first potentially uber successful future novel while I drummed on the keys and stared out my picture window at the sister goats across the street, when a big shadow passed overhead, blocking out the sun. I looked up at the formerly blue sky in curiosity and, to my amazement, it was obliterated by an entire squadron of starlings all heading north to find another water hole to play in. I assumed.

A strange longing rose up in my chest, and I thought to myself, why can’t I fly through the air like those backyard sparrow things? The answer burst my helium balloon. Because a hawk would snatch you right out of the sky, that’s why.

I’m not kidding. I witnessed it once, right above Katy’s house. We were standing outside together, her family and I, marveling at God’s beautiful spring evening, its sunset sky painted in ever increasing hues of purple and orange when, cue the birds, two dark figures emerged like planes soaring overhead, a smaller one in front with a larger one flying in tandem above it. That must be its wingman, I thought in admiration. Isn’t nature simply beautiful? So peaceful and . . . oh, my God. Did that big bird just eat the other one?

It happens. Right in the middle of your Wonderful World of Disney, the Pirates of the Caribbean get radar lock on It’s A Small World and the next thing you know, everyone in the audience goes home with PTSD as a souvenir. That mesmerizingly beautiful hawk you admired? He’s a traitor. Watching in horror as the raptor closes the gap between himself and his prey, you realize how wrong you were. He wasn’t the wingman for that starling. You’ve been watching an aerial dog fight between the Red Baron and Tweety Bird, only this time being small and cute is what foodies call “an appetizer.”

“Abort! Abort!” you frantically yell, but it’s too late, and you don’t speak bird anyway. It’s over. Your idyllic view is ruined by reality. It’s the call of the wild. The way of the world. Survival of the fittest. Every bird for himself. Set against the crimson and burnt orange backdrop of a fading sunset, the hawk flies away and a solitary feather flutters to the ground below. Bon appetit.

Eewww.

I’d give up on my attraction for hawks except that I remember seeing all those birds trying to drown each other in our backyard pond. There’s a reason we use the term, “bird brain.” Remember how I told you about how many of them keep nosediving into the windows on my house? Until last night, there had never been a casualty. I heard the crash, the loudest so far, but since it was the Fourth of July, I assumed it was a firecracker exploding. The thought crossed my mind it might be a sparrow instead, but either it had to shake it off or else it was time to go meet Jesus. I don't do CPR on birds. This morning, I counted to ten over the lifeless body of a mourning dove lying outside on the ground and credited the Knockout to the living room window. 

It's kind of unfair to the window to put the blame there. After all, it was just an innocent bystander, standing its ground. Frankly, I think it was a successful kamikaze maneuver on the part of the dove except my house didn’t burst into flames.

It's just plain dangerous to be a bird around here. There’s Jules’ cat, Ruthie, who is always stalking them and leaving piles of feathers at our front doors like grisly love notes. You’d sure expect something sweeter and more refined from someone with a name like Ruthie. Then, as I mentioned, there's my house with all of its villainous windows. And hawks are always on the prowl for fowl. For several years, there’s been a tight-knit family of these peregrines house-hopping from neighbor to neighbor, setting up residence in their tall trees. This year they found temporary shelter in Katy’s yard until the eight-year-old boy living next door peddled his little bike, Wizard of Oz style, down the street and up Katy’s driveway, pounding on her front door in agitation. Her twelve-year-old son answered the door.

“Your hawks are killing our chickens,” the boy exclaimed, “and you’d better do something about it!” Then he turned around and left on his bike, his threat hanging heavy in the air as if we should dispatch the wild creatures or our little dog might be in jeopardy. If we had a little dog.

We dispatched nothing. We’re afraid of the hawks, too. We saw what they did to that poor little starling.

I don’t know. They make flying look so fun. And then there's all that splashing around in mud puddles. But I don’t think being a bird is as wonderful as I once imagined. I know God said he notices every time one of them falls to the ground. But if what they’re known for is falling to the ground, then I’m gonna cross them off my list of things I want to be when I grow up.

I already have both feet on the ground. I think I’ll just stay put and keep enjoying the Enchanted Tiki Room from the safety of my front row seat.

Right here, behind my dangerous windows.

With thanks to Aaron for permission to fly his Disney balloon here. The original photo can be viewed from this link: IMG_1394 | Disney double balloon. Road Trip to Disneyland, D… | Flickr

A Mixed Bag

There’s a pool party going on next door in honor of tomorrow’s American birthday. Everyone in the neighborhood was invited, including me, but there are a couple of reasons why I couldn’t make it. For one thing, it’s a hundred and thirteen degrees in the shade right now and I’m allergic to furnaces. Also, I’m pretty busy right now turning into a recluse. Introverts at pool parties mix like oil and water, to coin a terrible analogy. Nobody likes swimming in stuff like that.

I don’t want to be a recluse. It seems to come with the territory though, that and loneliness. But I’ve been told I don’t have to view things that way. I can find a new story to tell as there are plenty of ways to reframe my perspective. For example, I’m learning to be my own best friend. I’m finding out who I am without Rob. I’m noticing details in the world around me and spinning them into blog posts. Stuff like that. And it gives me lots of time to eat chocolate.

That might be the reason I’m turning into a recluse. Too much chocolate.

There's still plenty of funny in my reclusive world. I just have to look a little harder for it from inside these air-conditioned walls. Today as I sat in my recliner, I read a book written by another widow about the disastrous foray she took into the world of online dating. What a nightmare. Just reading it is keeping me on the straight and narrow, except for that chocolate addiction. But she’s funny, our stories of loss are surprisingly similar, and I’ve got a bag of Dove milk chocolates sitting beside me keeping me company.

You know what’s fun about Dove chocolates besides letting them melt in your mouth? The “silky smooth promises” written inside the foil wrappers. Every couple of pages as I read the author’s struggle to fill out a profile for herself, I picked up another Dove chocolate and decided I’d never expose my soul like that online.

Oh, yeah. Well. Anyway.

“Things I could never live without,” she was asked. “My late husband,” she wrote. I loved her already. She wasn’t gonna get any dates that way, but I knew we could be friends if our paths ever crossed. “Write your own fairytale and be your own hero,” my chocolate therapist wrote. Of course. Table for one and you don’t have to share.

“What are you looking for?”  “A time machine to take me back to when my husband was alive,” she answered. You go, girl, I thought, unwrapping another blue foil with its milk chocolate treasure. “Don’t let anyone dim your light,” Dove agreed. You gotta be you. No one does it better.

It’s a pretty good read. I already knew from watching her interview that she gets a second chance at love in the end, but reading about all the frogs she had to kiss before a prince showed up is entertaining.

I stared off into space, through the sliding glass doors, and out to the pasture beyond. Dan and Katy’s irrigation came in last night and the grass in my front yard and theirs plus everything in the back is a collection of ponds as gallons of water absorb into the thirsty ground. Judging from the arrival of feathered friends, the birds eye view from above must resemble Minnesota, the land of ten thousand lakes.

Earlier, glancing out my bedroom window, I counted at least forty sparrows having their own pool party in a large puddle near the kids’ trampoline in my daughter’s backyard. Now, I spotted one of the neighbor’s white chickens at the far end of Katy’s pasture near the old chicken coop. She was having the time of her life. It was like she’d found the holy grail of bugs and worms out there, rescuing them from floodwaters where it appeared they were doing their best not to drown.

They weren’t drowning. There was no time. In front of our feathered opportunist, a feast of celestial proportions was laid out for her, and she was getting her fill. Also, I suspect she’s an introvert, too, and was escaping all the splashing across the fence in her own yard.

I went into the office and sat at my desk. In the front yard outside my huge window, a snail vine flourishes against the gate beside my back wall, its little purple flowers balanced on wandering tendrils backlit by healthy green leaves. Jutting up from the ground in the middle of its flowering expanse is a tall weed I would have pulled out by now if not for my fear of furnace-like heat and an allergy to wasps. That weed ruins my view and my perspective. But standing tall like it’s doing today, I’ve seen a steady flight of tiny little finches or starlings or something the size of hummingbirds, but without the humming, land delicately on its stalk, pausing mid-flight to snack on it.

Who knew there was something to appreciate about tall, obnoxious weeds? The birds fly in low like a jet on approach, snag the weedy stalk with their landing gear, and hang on while it lurches back and forth like a ride at an amusement park. They make it look like fun to be a bird.

Across the street where the goats coexist with a herd of chickens and baby chicks in the neighbor’s back pasture, their hens tiptoe through irrigation lakes of their own, like they’re afraid to get their feet wet. Kind of like I do when I forget the front yard is a muddy bog every two weeks like it is today. Irrigation is the entire reason things are green in this little oasis in the desert, though, and I cannot tell you how happy that makes this weary desert dweller.

I’m so tired of the heat. It keeps me trapped in the house, playing snoop dog while I spy on the livestock outside who’ve learned how to survive in these temperatures. Sometimes I escape in my truck—and by ‘sometimes’ I mean three or four times a day—just for an air-conditioned change of scenery that won’t bring on heat exhaustion. I’m an A/C hopper. Hold my breath and jump inside the truck. Hold my breath on re-entry into the garage and run back inside the house.

Come to think of it, I do a pretty good imitation of a chicken, inside and out.

The birds have disappeared and I reach for the Dove bag again. “Chocolate now. Stress later,” the foil promises. I’d vote for skipping deferred stress, but there are still three or four more months of summer left for us so it must be true. “Smile like you found twenty dollars in your pocket,” another bite urges. Well, since the bag of chocolate is running low, twenty dollars would come in handy about now. “Manifest it and you’ll make it happen.” In case you lost count, that was the fifth Dove I stuffed into my mouth. I’m manifesting another couple of pounds on my frame as we speak. I probably ought to put this bag in the trash and slow down on the chocolate therapy. Is it too late to start a diet today?

Okay. One last piece. “If you don’t start today, you’ll regret it tomorrow,” my nemesis warns like a coach at a Weight Watcher meeting. In full on rebellion, I snag the final chocolate in the deflated bag of temptation. “Confidence starts with you,” it reads.

I’m not buying Dove chocolates anymore. They're too judgy.