She couldn't have been more than nine. Just a little slip of a thing with chocolate braids and scuffed knees. We cannot know for sure if she was sweet but her pictures show her smilingly cute. It is probably safe to assume a certain measure of sugar as all the little bees came buzzing....
Her family loved to camp. Yosemite was the place to be in 1940. Bring the family to the wilds of nature. Lots of families joined in. Campfires and hiking and fishing and swimming. And pony rides. If you had the money. She didn't. Her daddy was a preacher and with the title came nothing. No big salary. If you were a traveling preacher you got your dinner provided after meeting. Maybe a bag of apples to take home. Always there was enough food but not much else.
Poor for the Lord. Nothing extra. Certainly not pony rides.
She never even asked. It was enough for her to watch the ponies. She would lean on the fence and smile and wave as each pony clopped by her. She didn't wave to the riders. Not because she was jealous. No, the riders didn't even matter. All she could see were the ponies. She waved to them and smiled friendship smiles into their beautiful faces. Every so often a pony would toss his head and she felt honored by his acknowledgement of her. His soft eyes would reflect her admiration. Her heart would swell again with every pass. They shared that bond that little girls and ponies share. They understood each other. Friendship and devotion. And that was enough.
Sometimes she would see an empty saddle and there is where she would dream. She'd sigh as she watched that pony trot all the way around the circle. This was her ride. Her time to believe all the little girl longings for freedom. She could imagine the wind in her hair as she floated through the air on her noble steed. She knew without a doubt that life was best when lived atop a pony. She would watch and hardly dare to blink. And she would smile and sigh again.
If given the chance, she would stand this way for hours. Her friends always knew where to find her. They looked for her there when their camp chores were done and it was time to play. They liked playing with her. She was quick to smile and always ready for a laugh. Not too prissy. One of the boys except for the braids. She could climb trees quicker than a squirrel. Probably because she was so little. She could skip rocks and catch bugs. And she could belch. Oh, she was fun.
The boys would gather round her as she stood beside the pony pen. She would grin at them as they ran up with their dust cloud billowing around them. She enjoyed their rowdy camaraderie. A few more minutes, boys. Just a few more minutes. They knew that they could tease her away but they didn't usually have the heart. If they waited just a bit the ride would shut down to give the ponies a rest and then she would wholeheartedly join their camp games. So they did wait. All arms and legs threaded through the bars of the fence. Shoelaces dangling while feet swung back and forth and back and forth. One would inevitably sit on top of the fence and would inevitably, but of course accidentally, get pushed off. They would tussle and they would wait for her. She was worth it.
She had come to expect these gatherings. Wherever she was, she was not alone for long. That pleased her. She liked sharing her happiness with her friends. She knew they liked the ponies. Clapping and whistling, the boys would take turns
standing beside her to point out their favorite pony or to giggle at
some rider. A pleasant daily routine.
It took her by surprise the day that no one came to join her beside her ponies. She wondered where they had gotten to. Oh well. She missed them but was quite content to stay right here.
They weren't far away. Those boys. The thing she didn't know was that they were all gathered without her. Clustered back amongst the trees just out of sight, they whispered as they offered up their grubby paws and clinked their coins together in one happy little pile. They had been planning this all morning long. Nobody knowing or caring who first had thought the thought. They put together what each one had to please their friend. Ten cents. All counted up. Just the right amount for one pony ride. Exactly enough to bring a smile.
It must have been funny to see them trudging up behind her. Not one boisterous group but a bashful line of fellows not quite sure what to do with their grins. A tap on her shoulder startles her. She didn't even know they were there. She turns around a little puzzled but soon enough she sees why they are acting all so strange. They give their gift without a word and silently stand guard as she smiles and steps through the gate.
She remembered that gift for the rest of her life. Each time told reliving the thoughtfulness of her sweet companions. They waved to her from the fence. And hollered. And clapped. Her sweetness rubbing off on them. Their sweetness impacting her, forever.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
6.02.2013
2.26.2013
hidden tiger, crouching dragon
Last time we talked it was something about surviving and/or thriving. I babbled a bit about the how's and why's of getting along with yourself and with others. Learning lessons. Hurting feelings. Standing up for yourself. It is still confusing to me, this tension between telling your truth and "being nice". What do you do when life isn't fair? What happens when you are being oppressed by the insensitivity of others? How do you proceed when what you need is going to tread on somebody else?
Let's get into it.
I have children. They interact. They get along mostly. Sometimes somebody gets punched or kicked or body slammed. We are not overly violent around here but we do get rowdy.
When it comes to the boys I tend to let them work things out. I believe in pack order. It helps you learn how to survive.
Sometimes tho, the warfare is psychological. That kinds usually hurts worse. Still, survival is a big deal.
Survival...
Just the other day I instructed a younger brother to thank his older brother for tricking him out of five bucks.
Story goes that big brother offered to pay whatever change he had in his room in return for little bro doing some chore. Something might or might not have been said about the possibility of there being five dollars in change.
Turned out that number was grossly exaggerated.
Nobody counted the change until the job was done. What are ya gonna do?
Parents were consulted. A fair settlement was sure to be had. Mom? Dad?
You gotta learn these hard lessons in life son. Be thankful that it was your brother that gave you this lesson in the dangers of being gullible (instead of some stranger on the street).
Right or wrong, that little brother now knows the term "show me the money" and he knows when to use it.
There was nothing fair about that. Not if you think we should have come to the rescue and made big bad brother cough up the dough.
Big brother got his lecture about kindness and honesty. But he also knows that we value his contribution in the raising of this family. We are well aware that his contribution might not always be on the up and up. He has his boundaries and he mostly stays within them although sometimes he does apply some creative restructuring to those lines. Sometimes a lesson learned the hard way is learned the best way.
Think about that what you will.
For the record, little brother did get to have his say. Speak his truth. "this really RIPS!" was hollered and whined throughout the evening.
And then it was over. But it will be remembered. He survived. I can't honestly say that his spirit was honored. But, would it have been an honor to have received his reward by bringing down his brother?
Was he better served in learning this lesson and growing stronger in the process? I think yes.
Now let's look at an if.
IF he had been stronger, faster, smarter (as in street smarts) he could have honored his own spirit and stood up for himself. He could have spoken up when he smelled the rat. He could have refused to do the work. He didn't. He didn't know any better. He had to learn. The hard way. I am glad it was his loving (cough, cough) brother that was there to teach him.
In our house we get many other loving lessons. Siblings are ready instructors. For instance, nobody can teach self defense like a brother. Mind you, self defense lessons look like torture to the untrained eye. (I am not gonna lie to you, self defense quickly turns to torture so beware) Keeping my parental wits about me is a struggle at times but well worth the effort when I see my youngers learn to slough off enemy attack and give it right back. I love those underdogs.
One underdog that sometimes needs help is the princess.
Baby sister can scrap with the best of them but there are times when she ends up on the wrong side of the dog pile. We try to watch out for that. Mom has declared a no pile zone where the bruiser brothers are concerned. They don't try to injure. They just can't help themselves. So, no piling on the princess. Still, if the odds are more evenly matched a wrestling match does occasionally occur with baby sister as the target. This is allowed, but closely monitored.
Standing rule at our house...say "stop" if you want them to stop. If they don't stop you have the right to use force to get them off you. Hitting, kicking, biting...whatever.
I feel very strongly about this. I want to equip my children, especially my girls, to be able to defend themselves forcefully if need be. It doesn't happen often but there have been a few times when somebody got hurt because they did not respond to the verbal "stop". Too bad for them.
Listen better next time. Another great lesson learned the hard way.
This method seems to work for us. Except for two specific instances.
One problem that seems to be popping up lately is that we forget to say "stop" before we pummel.
This almost never turns out good. The pummeler gets a lecture about giving a warning. The pummelee gets a lecture about sensitivity and learning to back off before it gets so serious. Nobody likes a lecture. Especially if you're the one who just got kicked in the shins.
We are still learning.
Another problem comes when someone says "stop" but they are laughing, or gasping for air, or some such thing in such a way as their "stop" cannot or will not be heard.
This is a serious issue.
How do you get your "stop" heard?
I think we all need lessons in this.
This brings me back to the beginning... How do you proceed when what you need is going to tread on somebody else?
I believe, and trust me, this is a new stance for me...I believe that you have to man up and go on ahead and tread.
Yell. Hurt some feelings. Punch somebody right in the nuggets.
Ouch.
Then sometimes you run. Get away and never come back.
But sometimes...oftentimes...more times than not, after knocking their block off physically or verbally you gather them up in a big hug.
Why?
Because more times than not, the perpetrator is your big brother that loves you more than sunshine. Sure, he is a big stinky jerk-wad that totally ignored your need. But that is the way it is in families.
Relationships...the best and closest ones...are rife with traumatic moments where you said stop and they didn't, couldn't or wouldn't hear you.
You need to stand up for yourself. It is ok to take up space. Your voice matters.
Say what you need to say and love them more than you want to kill them. It will smooth out.
I am not in any way addressing abuse situations here. Those are the ones where you punch and run.
No niceties necessary.
My message is for people that get so used to being dog piled that they forget they even have a voice. It is so easy to feel like the world and all your loved ones are dogging you to the point that you pummel first without warning...or you just remain "victim" because you can't seem to make your needs known.
You need to stop that.
You have my permission to stop being so nice.
No really.
Do you see the hidden tiger, crouching dragon response here? Be nice. Understated. Ladylike.
But take good care of your inner fierce. Do not starve it to death. Do not shame it into submission.
It is valuable to you to use your dragon breath and tiger claws to defend yourself and others.
It is good for you. Needful.
Caution is needed tho. Feed your fierce with love, not hate. Compassion and honor raise strong healthy warriors. Spite and frustration fuel venomous beasts.
Stand up. Speak up. Love up most of all. Don't wait any longer.
Tune in next week for lessons in not being hateful and spewing on people because you held it in too long.
Let's get into it.
I have children. They interact. They get along mostly. Sometimes somebody gets punched or kicked or body slammed. We are not overly violent around here but we do get rowdy.
When it comes to the boys I tend to let them work things out. I believe in pack order. It helps you learn how to survive.
Sometimes tho, the warfare is psychological. That kinds usually hurts worse. Still, survival is a big deal.
Survival...
Just the other day I instructed a younger brother to thank his older brother for tricking him out of five bucks.
Story goes that big brother offered to pay whatever change he had in his room in return for little bro doing some chore. Something might or might not have been said about the possibility of there being five dollars in change.
Turned out that number was grossly exaggerated.
Nobody counted the change until the job was done. What are ya gonna do?
Parents were consulted. A fair settlement was sure to be had. Mom? Dad?
You gotta learn these hard lessons in life son. Be thankful that it was your brother that gave you this lesson in the dangers of being gullible (instead of some stranger on the street).
Right or wrong, that little brother now knows the term "show me the money" and he knows when to use it.
There was nothing fair about that. Not if you think we should have come to the rescue and made big bad brother cough up the dough.
Big brother got his lecture about kindness and honesty. But he also knows that we value his contribution in the raising of this family. We are well aware that his contribution might not always be on the up and up. He has his boundaries and he mostly stays within them although sometimes he does apply some creative restructuring to those lines. Sometimes a lesson learned the hard way is learned the best way.
Think about that what you will.
For the record, little brother did get to have his say. Speak his truth. "this really RIPS!" was hollered and whined throughout the evening.
And then it was over. But it will be remembered. He survived. I can't honestly say that his spirit was honored. But, would it have been an honor to have received his reward by bringing down his brother?
Was he better served in learning this lesson and growing stronger in the process? I think yes.
Now let's look at an if.
IF he had been stronger, faster, smarter (as in street smarts) he could have honored his own spirit and stood up for himself. He could have spoken up when he smelled the rat. He could have refused to do the work. He didn't. He didn't know any better. He had to learn. The hard way. I am glad it was his loving (cough, cough) brother that was there to teach him.
In our house we get many other loving lessons. Siblings are ready instructors. For instance, nobody can teach self defense like a brother. Mind you, self defense lessons look like torture to the untrained eye. (I am not gonna lie to you, self defense quickly turns to torture so beware) Keeping my parental wits about me is a struggle at times but well worth the effort when I see my youngers learn to slough off enemy attack and give it right back. I love those underdogs.
One underdog that sometimes needs help is the princess.
Baby sister can scrap with the best of them but there are times when she ends up on the wrong side of the dog pile. We try to watch out for that. Mom has declared a no pile zone where the bruiser brothers are concerned. They don't try to injure. They just can't help themselves. So, no piling on the princess. Still, if the odds are more evenly matched a wrestling match does occasionally occur with baby sister as the target. This is allowed, but closely monitored.
Standing rule at our house...say "stop" if you want them to stop. If they don't stop you have the right to use force to get them off you. Hitting, kicking, biting...whatever.
I feel very strongly about this. I want to equip my children, especially my girls, to be able to defend themselves forcefully if need be. It doesn't happen often but there have been a few times when somebody got hurt because they did not respond to the verbal "stop". Too bad for them.
Listen better next time. Another great lesson learned the hard way.
This method seems to work for us. Except for two specific instances.
One problem that seems to be popping up lately is that we forget to say "stop" before we pummel.
This almost never turns out good. The pummeler gets a lecture about giving a warning. The pummelee gets a lecture about sensitivity and learning to back off before it gets so serious. Nobody likes a lecture. Especially if you're the one who just got kicked in the shins.
We are still learning.
Another problem comes when someone says "stop" but they are laughing, or gasping for air, or some such thing in such a way as their "stop" cannot or will not be heard.
This is a serious issue.
How do you get your "stop" heard?
I think we all need lessons in this.
This brings me back to the beginning... How do you proceed when what you need is going to tread on somebody else?
I believe, and trust me, this is a new stance for me...I believe that you have to man up and go on ahead and tread.
Yell. Hurt some feelings. Punch somebody right in the nuggets.
Ouch.
Then sometimes you run. Get away and never come back.
But sometimes...oftentimes...more times than not, after knocking their block off physically or verbally you gather them up in a big hug.
Why?
Because more times than not, the perpetrator is your big brother that loves you more than sunshine. Sure, he is a big stinky jerk-wad that totally ignored your need. But that is the way it is in families.
Relationships...the best and closest ones...are rife with traumatic moments where you said stop and they didn't, couldn't or wouldn't hear you.
You need to stand up for yourself. It is ok to take up space. Your voice matters.
Say what you need to say and love them more than you want to kill them. It will smooth out.
I am not in any way addressing abuse situations here. Those are the ones where you punch and run.
No niceties necessary.
My message is for people that get so used to being dog piled that they forget they even have a voice. It is so easy to feel like the world and all your loved ones are dogging you to the point that you pummel first without warning...or you just remain "victim" because you can't seem to make your needs known.
You need to stop that.
You have my permission to stop being so nice.
No really.
Do you see the hidden tiger, crouching dragon response here? Be nice. Understated. Ladylike.
But take good care of your inner fierce. Do not starve it to death. Do not shame it into submission.
It is valuable to you to use your dragon breath and tiger claws to defend yourself and others.
It is good for you. Needful.
Caution is needed tho. Feed your fierce with love, not hate. Compassion and honor raise strong healthy warriors. Spite and frustration fuel venomous beasts.
Stand up. Speak up. Love up most of all. Don't wait any longer.
Tune in next week for lessons in not being hateful and spewing on people because you held it in too long.
8.15.2012
here's the story
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9.05.2011
cloud dancer
my son is such a one that thinking men might think him silly in the head
but silly he is not
he is a thinker of ethereal things that skip along outside the boundaried mind
my son is such a one that focused men would tend to disregard him as distracted
when fact is that he does not idly dwell in nothingland
but takes his journey's road through ethan-world
because the colors there are brighter
my son is such a one that learned men might wonder at his wit and call it half
tho in reality the concept of intelligence
to him is nothing more than folly
he seems to sense the need to think inside the box
but such an act would be as difficult for him
as life is for conformist folks who dare to try and dream outside
my son in younger times could call upon creative muse
and dance his way through childhood games
in ways that made attention paying grown-ups awe
while other children chose to be a tree
this child would chose instead to be the leaves in process of revealing their fall color
when others played charades by being butterflies or bacon
my son became his views of water dripping through a straw
my son cannot quite seem to grasp the concepts of mundane and ordinary
his thoughts instead refuse to leave the realm of the bizarre
he sparkles up the daily grind
with questions that can blow your mind
and often seems too hard to find amongst the wreckage of the logical
he dwells, my son, in all his glory
challenging convention while his spirit soars
refusing ropes that hold him down
he bounces
from one thought cloud to another
and I suspect he watches with a smirk
and whispers
"freedom!"
for all with ears to hear
but silly he is not
he is a thinker of ethereal things that skip along outside the boundaried mind
my son is such a one that focused men would tend to disregard him as distracted
when fact is that he does not idly dwell in nothingland
but takes his journey's road through ethan-world
because the colors there are brighter
my son is such a one that learned men might wonder at his wit and call it half
tho in reality the concept of intelligence
to him is nothing more than folly
he seems to sense the need to think inside the box
but such an act would be as difficult for him
as life is for conformist folks who dare to try and dream outside
my son in younger times could call upon creative muse
and dance his way through childhood games
in ways that made attention paying grown-ups awe
while other children chose to be a tree
this child would chose instead to be the leaves in process of revealing their fall color
when others played charades by being butterflies or bacon
my son became his views of water dripping through a straw
my son cannot quite seem to grasp the concepts of mundane and ordinary
his thoughts instead refuse to leave the realm of the bizarre
he sparkles up the daily grind
with questions that can blow your mind
and often seems too hard to find amongst the wreckage of the logical
he dwells, my son, in all his glory
challenging convention while his spirit soars
refusing ropes that hold him down
he bounces
from one thought cloud to another
and I suspect he watches with a smirk
and whispers
"freedom!"
for all with ears to hear
7.07.2011
a picture's worth a thousand words
“Ya wanna take a little ride in my doat tart?” he said.
Her curls bobbed up and down as she climbed aboard his goat drawn cart. She didn’t mind his lisp. She was just so pleased to get to ride in that cart.
A flick of the reins and a gentle, “Dit up doat” put the little wheels in motion.
They rode together in silence for a while before the young lad whispered to his companion,“can I have a little kiss?”
“Oh no!” she wailed, her curls bouncing once again. She had answered quickly, maybe too quickly, for she found the cart drawing to a halt.
“Whoa doat!” commanded the boy.
“Det out den” he said to her as she unhappily climbed out of his goat cart.
“Dit up doat,” his final words floated to her on the breeze.
It wasn’t long until he spied another pretty young lady walking along the lane.
Again he asks the question, “Ya wanna take a little ride in my doat tart?”
Again an eager lass climbs aboard.
It isn’t long before the young boy whispers his next question.
“Can I have a little kiss?” he blushes.
She blushes, also embarrassed, but maybe a little flattered . Still, what is a proper young lady of five supposed to do? She lowers her eyes and shakes her head.
“Whoa doat!” Another heart gets broken as the boy stops the cart.
“Det out den” his heart is heavy this time as he says the words.
“Det up doat”, the words send the little goat steadily onward.
He is about to turn around for home when he sees a pale blue dress at the top of the hill.
“Det up doat”, he clucks and urges the cart faster.
“Whoa doat”, he says and hurries through his next question.
She is climbing aboard before he can get the words “doat tart” out of his mouth.
A quick smile greets him as she settles herself into the cart.
This time the cart doesn’t stop.
His request for a kiss is met with a perky peck on the cheek that almost makes him drop the reins. A broad smile warms his face as he tightens his grip and sits a little straighter in the seat.
“I wish my brother was here” he sighs, and dreamily guides his little goat cart down the hill.
(I never could quite figure out why he wanted his brother to be there…)
This was the first of many stories Papa told me when I was a little girl. His stories always seemed so long ago and far away.
“Could he really remember that far back?” I thought. The 1930’s did seem like a hundred years before my time.
I guess it takes getting older to make one appreciate how close childhood really is.
It must be just yesterday that someone asked me for a little kiss in the cloakroom of my Kindergarten classroom. Almost 40 years ago. A lifetime of lifetimes to my children. My stories seem to fascinate my kids as my Papa’s stories fascinated me. It didn’t really matter when they happened. The important thing to me was that they had happened to my dad.
Somehow, ageless, stories live on. Time may fuzz the details a bit but that doesn’t really matter. It is the thought, the memory, the telling that is important.
The stories are important because they are alive. They live in the teller. The spoken word brings life to events. Firsthand knowledge passed from teller to listener. These are not merely chronological events. Not data to be stored and retrieved for information sake alone. These are happenings. Life changing, mind altering happenings. We hear and we learn. We see through the eyes of the one who’s gone before. We get to sample a piece of life not actually lived by us, yet amazingly and intricately a part of us.
Around a campfire or tucked into bed, on the boring stretch of highway or around the dinner table we tell what we know to each other. We teach one another about family and humanity, successes and mistakes, laughing and loving and living. We open up the stories of ourselves to find that we are wrapped up in the stories of others. Our common ground is found in our uniqueness. No one has our story, but everyone can tell a tale based on the one we just told. We were created decidedly different but absolutely dependent on one another. The stories we tell become our link to one another. A knowing as we are known.
An open invitation into the secret places of the heart. In open hearts we find a place of true community, pictures painted by the words of testimony. We come together to share ourselves with one another.
We learn about each other and that seems to draw us closer. Even the stories that are sad, or unlovely in some way seem to draw us in. We accept the vulnerability of the teller. We get a glimpse of who they were at that time. We also begin to recognize the similarities and differences between the teller then and now. We actually get a picture of their lives.
As we listen to the story we find that the voice imparts a color to the tale. Body language brings a depth to the story that cannot be given to a written page. Excitement or hesitation paints hills and valleys as memories draw details for the listeners to see. The true beauty of the tale emerges through the telling. We find that this picture can never be reproduced in exactly the same way. This is a precious gift. It cannot be taken back. Once spoken it is a timeless, priceless, endless treasure.
We have shared a part of one another and we find that these pictures truly are worth a thousand words.
7.05.2011
lazy in the eye...with diamonds
I have a lazy eye.
I got it as a small child when I had a high fever. Most people don't notice it. It is such a part of me that I forget about it sometimes.
There are people in my house that take it upon themselves to remind me.
My children think it is funny to talk about my lazy eye. They ask me to show it to them. They bring it up in conversation.They refer to it at the dinner table.
My response?
I laugh.
Sometimes I laugh because what they say is really funny. They get to me that way.
Sometimes I laugh because I am completely astounded at their sheer audacity.
What am I supposed to do?
Have I taught them nothing about manners and respect? Do I call further attention to my eye by yelling at them to stop?
Should I beat them?
Mostly I say "hey! that is not cool. We do not go around calling attention to others by pointing out the ways that they are different or odd."
They mumble something about being sorry. And I truly think they are. I try to keep it low key because it doesn't really bother me and I feel like making an issue of it will only compound the problem. We address it repeatedly...because it comes up repeatedly. Eventually it will sink in.
For now, lets face it, lazy eyes are just funny.
See, I can poke fun at this because it doesn't bother me. I don't remember being mocked because of my eye.
I was mocked because of my buck teeth. Then I got braces so that really isn't an issue anymore either.
(I did make my first child a bit neurotic because I would pray to God and command her teeth to line up in the name of Jesus...until, at the age of four, she asked me to please stop praying for her mouth...sigh)
So the Bucky Becky thing isn't really an issue.
Not. at. all.
Well ok, maybe a little bit.
Wanna know my real childhood issue?
Are you ready?
Baseball.
You heard me. Baseball.
I come from a ball family. Dad was a great catcher. Big brothers were constantly on the field, baseball, football, soccer. Big sister was a mean basketball player back in the day. Little sister could smoke em in Softball.
Me, notsomuch.
You might be wondering why I would even step onto a ball field. Well, when you come from a sports family you just do these things. There really is no thought about other options. If you say "I'd rather not play" you will be looked at like Grandma saying "these cinnamon rolls probably aren't worth eating"...nonsense. Of course you want to play.
C'mon Beck! Let's get on out there and hit some balls!!
I remember standing with a bat in hand at Pile-High Stadium (we played in a cow field).
Everyone was so encouraging to me.
"Come on Beck...you can do it. Keep your eye on the ball!"
Now you might just be thinking...which eye?
Think it all you want but don't ask it out loud. Even tho it doesn't bother me I might get irritated.
Don't get me wrong, I would laugh.
And then I'd punch you a little harder than necessary in the arm with one hand as I slapped my knee with the other.
But seriously, which eye? I have this little depth perception problem. I have a really hard time tracking a flying object that is hurtling towards my person at 50 something miles per hour.
Anyone with an ounce of athletic ability will say that such a thing is easily overcome. I beg to differ.
Well, I guess I can't really argue. It is that pesky "ounce of ability" that ruins my position on this matter.
See, I have not one ounce of said ability.
Nor do I want any.
Even tho, as a child I wanted more than breath itself to be able to knock that ball into next week.
But I just couldn't do it.
Honestly, I really should get points for chutzpah. (hoot-spa)
I would stand at the plate every Sunday afternoon and and beg for God to "please for everything that is good and right, please please please let me at least make contact with the ball".
I don't think He ever said yes.
I think I would remember.
I do remember feeling the humiliation of having the other team motion all the outfielders inside the baseline.
Yeah...that'll stoke your confidence.
The pitcher would walk forward to about midway between the mound and the plate and lob a gentle one right at my bat. I believe a toddler could have hit that ball.
A toddler with two good eyes that is.
I am ok with the fact that you are snickering.
I was mature enough to know when to swing the bat. I was just not capable of swinging it a straight line which is what was required to actually hit the ball.
I would swing mightily. And the ball would laugh as it hit the catchers glove. Nobody else laughed. They were busy yelling "good try Beck! Watch the ball, Beck! You can do it Beck!"
"Keep your eye on the ball Beck! " they would chorus and I would watch...as the ball danced its way past my bat two more times.
I knew how to watch the stupid ball ok? I just didn't know how to hit it with the stupid bat.
The very best thing about baseball was each time my at-bat was over. My torture had ended.
I did not step away from the plate in humiliation hanging on me. I stepped away in relief. I was done.
Praise God! (even tho He didn't say yes to my plea.)
I would return to the sidelines and read my book while my teammates took their turns at ball smacking.
I was free...until the next part.
Actually, the other part of baseball was not nearly so bad. In fact you might say that it was kind of payback for the batting humiliation. This part was called "in the field".
Now, when I say in the field, I mean in the field. That whole depth perception thing...yeah...I was no better at catching balls than I was at hitting balls. In fact, if you can believe this, I was even worse at it. At least I had an inner desire to hit the ball with the little stick.
In the field I had no desire, not one, in any part of my body, nope, no desire to catch that ball.
This is why they put me in the field.
Because they knew.
They knew from experience that should the ball come towards me I would duck. Or move out of the way. Maybe,on a good...really good...day I might stick my glove out but you can bet yer bottom dollar I would be praying hard for that ball to land anywhere else.
Picture me, wayyyy out in the field in my polyester shorts and buck teeth squeezing my eyes closed while holding a glove bigger than my head out in front of me and chanting "pleasegodpleasegodpleasegod-not-in-the-glove".
He always answered that prayer with a yes.
Then the ball would bounce and roll on past and I would open my eyes to see the rest of my team windmilling the air and shouting "GET THE BALL BECKY!" and I would turn and chase the bouncing ball and pick it up and throw it towards the infield and it would fly.
About three feet.
So I would (sort of) run up to it and pick it up again and it would go another three feet. And I might do this one more time before some big boy would lumber out and pick the ball and launch it all the way to home plate. Which was a good thing because that was where the runner was heading by now.
I think they should have been smarter about putting me wayyyy out in the field.
There is always gonna be a ringer on the other team that can knock it right through the hole and every man on that team knows just where the hole is...look for Becky...
I think the decision to put me out in the field was a calculated risk. I might miss every ball that flew at me but at least if I was out there...nobody would trip over me.
Thank goodness for small favors.
I mean that so seriously.
In the outfield is peace. No sweaty bodies barreling toward that tiny tiny white island that you defend. No hard flying objects launching toward your head every few minutes. Nobody breezing by you as you try and locate the ball visually while it jolts and bounces from glove to glove to glove.
Every glove except yours, that is.
Peace.
Like Ferdinand in his field of flowers I could reflect on life and witness from afar the ludicrous antics of the sportsmen infield. My sanity assured me no contusions, concussions, dislocations, or even rash. What's a little verbal harassment between friends (or siblings)? I could face it all if it meant that the ball, and my body, would not, under any conceivable circumstances, ever, make contact.
Ever.
And in my peaceful reflection I could laugh. These people would get so stressed out about that little ball.
What is up with that anyway??
Veins would bulge. Sweat would drip. Knees would bloody. Life and limb would be continually sacrificed to the baseball "gods"...all in the name of either stopping that ball, or launching that ball.
Silliness I tell ya.
I chose to rise above. To exist on a higher plane.
Maybe my utter failure at hitting the ball allowed me a certain superiority in my self preservating aloofness.
Nobody expected me to shine in the field. I was free from all preconceived notions about ability or might.
I could write my own ticket. And I did...
I chose to be cool. Too cool to care. Let the commoners do the dirty work. I had flowers to smell.
Baseball nirvana?? (Nirvana- in the state of being free from suffering)
Maybe.
But it would have been sweeter with one good hit.
I got it as a small child when I had a high fever. Most people don't notice it. It is such a part of me that I forget about it sometimes.
There are people in my house that take it upon themselves to remind me.
My children think it is funny to talk about my lazy eye. They ask me to show it to them. They bring it up in conversation.They refer to it at the dinner table.
My response?
I laugh.
Sometimes I laugh because what they say is really funny. They get to me that way.
Sometimes I laugh because I am completely astounded at their sheer audacity.
What am I supposed to do?
Have I taught them nothing about manners and respect? Do I call further attention to my eye by yelling at them to stop?
Should I beat them?
Mostly I say "hey! that is not cool. We do not go around calling attention to others by pointing out the ways that they are different or odd."
They mumble something about being sorry. And I truly think they are. I try to keep it low key because it doesn't really bother me and I feel like making an issue of it will only compound the problem. We address it repeatedly...because it comes up repeatedly. Eventually it will sink in.
For now, lets face it, lazy eyes are just funny.
See, I can poke fun at this because it doesn't bother me. I don't remember being mocked because of my eye.
I was mocked because of my buck teeth. Then I got braces so that really isn't an issue anymore either.
(I did make my first child a bit neurotic because I would pray to God and command her teeth to line up in the name of Jesus...until, at the age of four, she asked me to please stop praying for her mouth...sigh)
So the Bucky Becky thing isn't really an issue.
Not. at. all.
Well ok, maybe a little bit.
Wanna know my real childhood issue?
Are you ready?
Baseball.
You heard me. Baseball.
I come from a ball family. Dad was a great catcher. Big brothers were constantly on the field, baseball, football, soccer. Big sister was a mean basketball player back in the day. Little sister could smoke em in Softball.
Me, notsomuch.
You might be wondering why I would even step onto a ball field. Well, when you come from a sports family you just do these things. There really is no thought about other options. If you say "I'd rather not play" you will be looked at like Grandma saying "these cinnamon rolls probably aren't worth eating"...nonsense. Of course you want to play.
C'mon Beck! Let's get on out there and hit some balls!!
I remember standing with a bat in hand at Pile-High Stadium (we played in a cow field).
Everyone was so encouraging to me.
"Come on Beck...you can do it. Keep your eye on the ball!"
Now you might just be thinking...which eye?
Think it all you want but don't ask it out loud. Even tho it doesn't bother me I might get irritated.
Don't get me wrong, I would laugh.
And then I'd punch you a little harder than necessary in the arm with one hand as I slapped my knee with the other.
But seriously, which eye? I have this little depth perception problem. I have a really hard time tracking a flying object that is hurtling towards my person at 50 something miles per hour.
Anyone with an ounce of athletic ability will say that such a thing is easily overcome. I beg to differ.
Well, I guess I can't really argue. It is that pesky "ounce of ability" that ruins my position on this matter.
See, I have not one ounce of said ability.
Nor do I want any.
Even tho, as a child I wanted more than breath itself to be able to knock that ball into next week.
But I just couldn't do it.
Honestly, I really should get points for chutzpah. (hoot-spa)
I would stand at the plate every Sunday afternoon and and beg for God to "please for everything that is good and right, please please please let me at least make contact with the ball".
I don't think He ever said yes.
I think I would remember.
I do remember feeling the humiliation of having the other team motion all the outfielders inside the baseline.
Yeah...that'll stoke your confidence.
The pitcher would walk forward to about midway between the mound and the plate and lob a gentle one right at my bat. I believe a toddler could have hit that ball.
A toddler with two good eyes that is.
I am ok with the fact that you are snickering.
I was mature enough to know when to swing the bat. I was just not capable of swinging it a straight line which is what was required to actually hit the ball.
I would swing mightily. And the ball would laugh as it hit the catchers glove. Nobody else laughed. They were busy yelling "good try Beck! Watch the ball, Beck! You can do it Beck!"
"Keep your eye on the ball Beck! " they would chorus and I would watch...as the ball danced its way past my bat two more times.
I knew how to watch the stupid ball ok? I just didn't know how to hit it with the stupid bat.
The very best thing about baseball was each time my at-bat was over. My torture had ended.
I did not step away from the plate in humiliation hanging on me. I stepped away in relief. I was done.
Praise God! (even tho He didn't say yes to my plea.)
I would return to the sidelines and read my book while my teammates took their turns at ball smacking.
I was free...until the next part.
Actually, the other part of baseball was not nearly so bad. In fact you might say that it was kind of payback for the batting humiliation. This part was called "in the field".
Now, when I say in the field, I mean in the field. That whole depth perception thing...yeah...I was no better at catching balls than I was at hitting balls. In fact, if you can believe this, I was even worse at it. At least I had an inner desire to hit the ball with the little stick.
In the field I had no desire, not one, in any part of my body, nope, no desire to catch that ball.
This is why they put me in the field.
Because they knew.
They knew from experience that should the ball come towards me I would duck. Or move out of the way. Maybe,on a good...really good...day I might stick my glove out but you can bet yer bottom dollar I would be praying hard for that ball to land anywhere else.
Picture me, wayyyy out in the field in my polyester shorts and buck teeth squeezing my eyes closed while holding a glove bigger than my head out in front of me and chanting "pleasegodpleasegodpleasegod-not-in-the-glove".
He always answered that prayer with a yes.
Then the ball would bounce and roll on past and I would open my eyes to see the rest of my team windmilling the air and shouting "GET THE BALL BECKY!" and I would turn and chase the bouncing ball and pick it up and throw it towards the infield and it would fly.
About three feet.
So I would (sort of) run up to it and pick it up again and it would go another three feet. And I might do this one more time before some big boy would lumber out and pick the ball and launch it all the way to home plate. Which was a good thing because that was where the runner was heading by now.
I think they should have been smarter about putting me wayyyy out in the field.
There is always gonna be a ringer on the other team that can knock it right through the hole and every man on that team knows just where the hole is...look for Becky...
I think the decision to put me out in the field was a calculated risk. I might miss every ball that flew at me but at least if I was out there...nobody would trip over me.
Thank goodness for small favors.
I mean that so seriously.
In the outfield is peace. No sweaty bodies barreling toward that tiny tiny white island that you defend. No hard flying objects launching toward your head every few minutes. Nobody breezing by you as you try and locate the ball visually while it jolts and bounces from glove to glove to glove.
Every glove except yours, that is.
Peace.
Like Ferdinand in his field of flowers I could reflect on life and witness from afar the ludicrous antics of the sportsmen infield. My sanity assured me no contusions, concussions, dislocations, or even rash. What's a little verbal harassment between friends (or siblings)? I could face it all if it meant that the ball, and my body, would not, under any conceivable circumstances, ever, make contact.
Ever.
And in my peaceful reflection I could laugh. These people would get so stressed out about that little ball.
What is up with that anyway??
Veins would bulge. Sweat would drip. Knees would bloody. Life and limb would be continually sacrificed to the baseball "gods"...all in the name of either stopping that ball, or launching that ball.
Silliness I tell ya.
I chose to rise above. To exist on a higher plane.
Maybe my utter failure at hitting the ball allowed me a certain superiority in my self preservating aloofness.
Nobody expected me to shine in the field. I was free from all preconceived notions about ability or might.
I could write my own ticket. And I did...
I chose to be cool. Too cool to care. Let the commoners do the dirty work. I had flowers to smell.
Baseball nirvana?? (Nirvana- in the state of being free from suffering)
Maybe.
But it would have been sweeter with one good hit.
11.23.2010
How I really feel about thanksgiving...
I kinda dread it.
Lets just be honest here...I don't like it.
I like pumpkin pie. I like turkey. I like family, friends, and fun.
Why is it that all those are ingredients for thanksgiving yet I dread the day?
This is clearly not going to be a fun post. Stop reading now if you can't handle the heat.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
I don't like thanksgiving because it is a day of potential sap. Running, dripping, oozing sap.
It is a day that is set up to be about bonding and reconnecting and loving on one another.
Family...being together...being all thankful together....gag.
The pressure to perform can be so huge that it chokes me.
Family comes in with their hugs and their smiles and their lovely sweetness and it completely overwhelms me. Don't get me wrong...I love the family.
Truly I do.
Family reading this...I love you. None of this is directed at you.
I am writing this to purge the mounting stress that is making my tummy feel all woogy.
Call it a self mutilating...I mean motivating.... counseling session.
When my family gets together it un-dones me. Undone. That is me.
Family that I love to be with...especially when it is one to one....can be daunting when unleashed in multiples of ten.
Juggling personalities, food preferences, interdepartmental memos, and insider family snark can leave me exhausted on a good day.
Add in a little sugar coma, stairway pounding, and familial hymn singing and I might just tip over the edge.
Let's not even get into the fact that I am somewhat socially retarded.
I think they make a pill for this.
Now you may think that I should just shuck the family and get on with my life.
You might be right.
But I think I will keep them for now.
I just need to be real about how I really feel. I feel overwhelmed. My family...being the lovely lovely people that they are...will be distressed to find out that this is how I really feel. They will be all ministering and sincere about not wanting to stress me further. They will think that they shouldn't come over. They would be wrong.
I want them to come over.
Family is very very important to me. I love being with them. I love playing games and talking and reconnecting.
It is just this stinkin holiday push. I can't take it.
Maybe it has to do with my intense desire to be consistent. Maybe it is my not so secret resentfulness about having to have "a day" to get together.
Maybe it is my wanting to buck the man.
Whatever it is, it irks.
I don't want to do it. Just because the rest of the world (ok the US) is doing it.
Just like when I was a kid and the whole world discovered strawberry shortcake
(the doll...not the food) and then I didn't like it anymore.
See...if I had been born pre-Abe Lincoln I probably would have really got into the whole thanksgiving thing. But no...old Abe hadta go and declare it a national "holiday". Ruined it for everyone.
sheesh!
Now what I get is a day that has this huge scary potential to be drippy. Somebody is going to talk about how thankful they are. It isn't that I am not thankful. I am very thankful. I could write an entire post on my thankfulness and how important i think it is to be thankful. Truly. I am thankful.
It is just the thought of going around the table, one by one, listing the thing that you are thankful for. sigh. Things could get awkward.
(I may need to go to the bathroom for about thirty minutes until this part is over.)
It is almost as intensely nauseating as a chain prayer.
I really hate those.
The only thing that saves you is the little hand squeeze "I pass" part.
Every eye is closed...every head bowed...everyone too serious to call you on the fact that you flaked in the prayer.
Not so much with the thankfulness. Grampa is sure to nail you if you try to pass.
People will laugh the family laugh that seems intended to put you at ease but in reality just makes you revert to a 9 yr old with deathray vision that you skillfully aim at your sister with her big flashing teeth.
Everyone is looking at you. You have to set a good example for the kids. Think of something...anything....you have to think of a whole new thing because somebody took yours!
Could we pretty please just skip this part? Pretty please?!
sigh again.
Oh...this is just going round and round. I am not certified for this type of rubbish.
I think I am going to change the subject.
I like pie.
Pumpkin pie is my favorite.
I could eat it warm or cold.
It is best when it is leftover and you go into the kitchen and sneak another piece when nobody is looking.
I like that last piece in the pan. But you have to eat it before it gets all watery.
I am very thankful for pumpkin pie.
The end.
Lets just be honest here...I don't like it.
I like pumpkin pie. I like turkey. I like family, friends, and fun.
Why is it that all those are ingredients for thanksgiving yet I dread the day?
This is clearly not going to be a fun post. Stop reading now if you can't handle the heat.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
I don't like thanksgiving because it is a day of potential sap. Running, dripping, oozing sap.
It is a day that is set up to be about bonding and reconnecting and loving on one another.
Family...being together...being all thankful together....gag.
The pressure to perform can be so huge that it chokes me.
Family comes in with their hugs and their smiles and their lovely sweetness and it completely overwhelms me. Don't get me wrong...I love the family.
Truly I do.
Family reading this...I love you. None of this is directed at you.
I am writing this to purge the mounting stress that is making my tummy feel all woogy.
Call it a self mutilating...I mean motivating.... counseling session.
When my family gets together it un-dones me. Undone. That is me.
Family that I love to be with...especially when it is one to one....can be daunting when unleashed in multiples of ten.
Juggling personalities, food preferences, interdepartmental memos, and insider family snark can leave me exhausted on a good day.
Add in a little sugar coma, stairway pounding, and familial hymn singing and I might just tip over the edge.
Let's not even get into the fact that I am somewhat socially retarded.
I think they make a pill for this.
Now you may think that I should just shuck the family and get on with my life.
You might be right.
But I think I will keep them for now.
I just need to be real about how I really feel. I feel overwhelmed. My family...being the lovely lovely people that they are...will be distressed to find out that this is how I really feel. They will be all ministering and sincere about not wanting to stress me further. They will think that they shouldn't come over. They would be wrong.
I want them to come over.
Family is very very important to me. I love being with them. I love playing games and talking and reconnecting.
It is just this stinkin holiday push. I can't take it.
Maybe it has to do with my intense desire to be consistent. Maybe it is my not so secret resentfulness about having to have "a day" to get together.
Maybe it is my wanting to buck the man.
Whatever it is, it irks.
I don't want to do it. Just because the rest of the world (ok the US) is doing it.
Just like when I was a kid and the whole world discovered strawberry shortcake
(the doll...not the food) and then I didn't like it anymore.
See...if I had been born pre-Abe Lincoln I probably would have really got into the whole thanksgiving thing. But no...old Abe hadta go and declare it a national "holiday". Ruined it for everyone.
sheesh!
Now what I get is a day that has this huge scary potential to be drippy. Somebody is going to talk about how thankful they are. It isn't that I am not thankful. I am very thankful. I could write an entire post on my thankfulness and how important i think it is to be thankful. Truly. I am thankful.
It is just the thought of going around the table, one by one, listing the thing that you are thankful for. sigh. Things could get awkward.
(I may need to go to the bathroom for about thirty minutes until this part is over.)
It is almost as intensely nauseating as a chain prayer.
I really hate those.
The only thing that saves you is the little hand squeeze "I pass" part.
Every eye is closed...every head bowed...everyone too serious to call you on the fact that you flaked in the prayer.
Not so much with the thankfulness. Grampa is sure to nail you if you try to pass.
People will laugh the family laugh that seems intended to put you at ease but in reality just makes you revert to a 9 yr old with deathray vision that you skillfully aim at your sister with her big flashing teeth.
Everyone is looking at you. You have to set a good example for the kids. Think of something...anything....you have to think of a whole new thing because somebody took yours!
Could we pretty please just skip this part? Pretty please?!
sigh again.
Oh...this is just going round and round. I am not certified for this type of rubbish.
I think I am going to change the subject.
I like pie.
Pumpkin pie is my favorite.
I could eat it warm or cold.
It is best when it is leftover and you go into the kitchen and sneak another piece when nobody is looking.
I like that last piece in the pan. But you have to eat it before it gets all watery.
I am very thankful for pumpkin pie.
The end.
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