Skating Tricks, Licorice Sticks and Other Feats

Old Comiskey, Harry Caray, Jimmy Piersall

I had a dream....

Crinoid stems in limestone

Brachiopod fossil 

I had several dreams, actually.  Ones that I admitted to all the world when I filled out an interest survey in the library of the Orland Junior High.  Of course, I don't know what occupations the other boys and girls signed up for after browsing through the various options. The cards were quite pragmatic about the job prospects for each career.  Because I loved collecting rocks and fossils, walking along stream beds and hiking trails with my head down, I thought being a geologist would be interesting.  The career card was quite frank about the prospects, cautioning me that I was unlikely to get paid for being a rock hound; most geologists worked for petroleum companies after taking lots of science and math.

My other aspiration was even more quixotic:  I wanted to be a baseball announcer.  I had spent my entire life listening to Jack Buck and Harry Caray...even Jack Brickhouse!   I could just see myself taking a seat up in the booth, donning a headset and marking up my scorebook while sending the play by play over the airwaves to fans all over the Midwest.

Alas, I could find no card in the library with the prerequisites for becoming a baseball announcer...

The arrowheads and brachiopods and crinoid stems stayed in their shoeboxes...as did the baseball cards.

Even though Laura and I both had tricycles when we were little, the next step up from three wheels  was not a bicycle, but roller skates. Our house was on a corner lot, so a girl could get a little wind through her hair sweeping around the curve.  Steel wheeled skates like "I've got a brand new pair of roller skates"  didn't have a long life span; the wheels picked up little bits of gravel, pitching the skater onto her knees, and eventually, the bearings would spread and the bb's inside would spill out onto the sidewalk.  What a joy it was to go a skating rink where the wooden wheels glided across the floor!  I learned to skate backwards and even crossover going around the rink.  I may not have been going that fast, but the rumbling of the wheels made me feel like a freight train under a head of steam.

Of course,  I was an utter failure at other athletic endeavors; I could run, but could never master a cartwheel, ruining any chance of being a cheerleader, though I jumped and yelled at recess with all the other little girls.  I flung myself into the air from the mini-trampoline...only to land flat on my back attempting a front flip, losing my breath and walking on tenterhooks for weeks afterwards.

I did write lots of stories, even a book(!)..of sorts...titled Time Machine Travels featuring my two best friends at the time...and me.  Funny thing is I don't even remember which time travel book provided the idea, but I do know that my grandmother's writing was the inspiration.  All those little newsprint note pads covered with 10 year old cursive!  I scribbled on all kinds of scrap paper, numbering every sheet to measure my accomplishment.

Thanks to my father's perseverance, I finally took on a project for life when I stuck a reed in my mouth and learned to assemble the Normandy clarinet he bought for me.  Music, as my father said once, has no evolutionary reason for existing: man can and does live and work without it.  'Why Beethoven', he would ask the air, 'If not for God?'  Certainly the angels plugged their ears for years as I learned the physical mechanisms for making sounds from my licorice stick, but the associated benefits..perseverance, routine, patience, sacrifice...are not limited to the world of music.  Listening to music makes the world richer, but playing an instrument ties you to past, present and future. I first buzzed a reed more than a half century ago...and still do....happily if not perfectly....

Lord knows I can't turn a cartwheel!

And If Not, He is Still Good

I have been known to kick the trash can, slam the door, hurt my toe, and scream 'why me'.  I'm not proud of it. I know good and well these dramatics are unproductive and even silly, especially since this kind of outburst is provoked not by real pain, real trouble, or real distress, but by short term frustration.

Real heartache does not make me shake my fist at the heavens.  Real heartache, wherever and whatever it may be, makes me pray. Then, I am reminded to be thankful for every good thing I take for granted.....filling two cups of coffee at breakfast, comfortable shoes, beautiful music on the radio, challenging work with people I love.  When the tribulations of life come around, I recognize my limitations, taking to heart the Scripture that assures us our entreaties are heard even when they are wordless.


"When we don't know what to pray for..."  My memory is chock full of times when prayers were answered...prayers for healing, for rescue, for happiness, for safety, for good news, but when my father had a stroke and my parents' world was upended, I could not find the words to pray.  We were always winging it, always trying to solve yesterday's problems, trying to wrest contentment and compassion from chaos.  Health and happiness faded as spring bloomed.

But even as we grieved, God's merciful hand was easy to see.  With gratitude we remembered the times we had gathered to celebrate at Redbarn.  The hard choices to uproot them, to buy a house, that seemed so fruitless, upon reflection, turned to blessings as their loving family and our caring community showed patience and compassion and the best of human kindness.  Until the very end of their trip from this world to the next, my mom and dad were together.... as they always had been.  A final gift to them from their loving Father....and a comfort for all of us saying goodbye.

Hard times call for trust. Faith trusts in the story.  And whether or not we understand the story, we are called to believe it.  We will see it clearly someday.

And if not, it is still good.

Common Ground

When the girls were little, they colored and painted, drew pictures and dressed up, and played with dollhouses and Barbie dolls.  Their bedroom was sometimes a playground, sometimes a city, sometimes a garden for toys they made themselves.  It was always untidy.

With such a large group of good and loyal friends, it is no surprise that Laura and Mark have been auntie and uncle par excellence. Elementary basketball and volleyball games in the friendly confines of small school gymnasiums, pints and half pints baseball in towns without Starbucks,  outings to the Zoo, the Arch, the Science Center, even the tippy top of the City Museum in St. Louis.   Pernod Gardens is a home away from home with surf 'n turf from Chef Mark...especially for college freshmen. We celebrate whatever the occasion: Farm Bureau Nights at the Ballpark with Kosher brats, New Year's Eves with party poppers and silly hats,  July 4ths with epic fireworks, golf for fun and good causes...

 One of us is a country mouse and one a city mouse, but though we live a state apart, we have many shared loves.  Laura was the very first transplanter at Hurst Greenery years and years ago, and it's still a great pleasure to task Mark with packing posies in the back of their car for a summer's sojourn in St. Louis.  We commiserate when the weather is dry..or hot...cold or windy...we celebrate the beauties of orchids, daylilies, pansies, and hibiscus. Pottery from across the country graces the tables and shelves of our homes; magnets from far and wide decorate the doors of our refrigerators.  Each of us keeps a stack of books close at hand in various states of read and hope to read. And both of us carry the story of our lives in photographs: from Instamatics to iPhones, from big hair to big hats, babies to grandbabies,  weddings and reunions, graduations and good-byes. 

These are the ties that bind through the years, that weave a family history across the miles, and make sisters friends.....