Steaks and Games

This morning my throat hurt and I popped two ibuprofen with my chocolate milk.  There was coffeecake:  it makes the alarm more bearable on Saturday when you remember there's coffeecake. The first gulp of coffee burned all the way down; in this house, we call it "cutting the crap", and though a temporary fix for congestion, it's a homeopathic remedy that's always on hand. 

Cake, coffee and I'm out the door and on en route for some a.m. basketball.  Abbie and Lizzie and Gabe have an early start in Mound City.  I'm behind a semi when Grandma Millie and Grandpa Charlie blow by me running 80 mph.  They are hosting bridge club tonight and won't be able to stay, so I imagine a conversation about being late.  Or, then again, maybe they are paying no attention to the speedometer...they certainly don't see me as they fly by...

Sitting in a small town gymnasium is not a half bad way to spend a winter Saturday.  Kids in bright colored jerseys pound up and down the floor, or the bleacher stairs, or flop down on coats and duffles to stare at each other's phones.  Moms and dads and grandmas and grandpas are, for the most part, pretty relaxed; their kids may be emotional after a game because they won, or lost, or didn't get to play enough, but by Sunday, they're on to the next thing.  A few folks get revved up at the refs, but these games are for exercise and maybe a medal, so how upset can you be?  Our kids win some and lose some and we are home for lunch, a better outcome than the day long wrestling tournaments Ben competed in.  Win or lose, he still had to make weight next time so even the joy of big meal was tempered.

I had a plan this Saturday, and it involved steak.  The wind was strong from the south; the thermometer crept up past 40.  Four thick steaks and the makings for salad came home from the HyVee. More years than not, there's a Saturday evening or two in the dead of winter with a magic moment for standing outdoors with a glass of wine in one hand and grilling tools in the other.  With Blake sharing the gathering twilight, this Saturday is a foreshadowing of all those summer evenings we spend out on the porch while the sun sinks and the smoke rises lazily from the Weber.  A steak dinner is most likely to happen on a Saturday.

Cleaning house on Saturday may not be my favorite thing to do, but it feels like I'm getting away with something when I do.  All of a sudden, Sunday afternoon is relaxing even if I've been at work. Instead of coming home to sheets in the dryer and dust bunnies in the hallway, it's like a good fairy has waved a magic wand; instead of entropy, and chaos, there's the couch with no guilt.

Last Saturday night the kids were here. We ate take and bake pizza and played ping pong which gradually morphed into a rough and ready form of handball...with slippers of various conformations..and finally into a pillow fight..with ping pong balls.

Sometimes it's wonderful to dress up on Saturday night and spend the evening transported by wonderful music and song; but other times staying home and sharing a chair with your grandkid, or practicing Spanish, or putting together a puzzle, or making cookies, or playing games by lantern light, or just watching the Cardinals is like a group hug. I love those Saturday nights...with kids quiet in their beds but for an occasional snore echoing that of the Grandpa in our room.

I even like Saturdays in the spring.  Gabe and Abbie come out to work.  Annie brings the makings for lunch as well as the Schlueter helping hands.  Family at work somehow becomes family at play, even at the end of some very long weeks.

To work, to play, to garden, to cheer, to travel, to listen, to cook and laugh for those I love most....whether its Saturday or not....

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The Second Time Around

Makes you think perhaps that love, like youth, is wasted on the young

Love's more comfortable the second time you fall
(Sammy Kahn, Jimmy Van Heusen)

Mr. Bustepher Jones and Mr. Mistoffelees

The theater is aquiver.  Moms and Dads crane their necks in the dark of the audience, cell phones at the ready.  The performers are so tightly wound, they practically vibrate with suppressed energy.  Thank goodness these are dancers, and all this potential will be unleashed in spins, and leaps, toe tapping and hip-hopping.  The moms and dads may be nervous, but not one child will forget a line, nor will anyone know if a move is choreographed....or ad-libbed.  No medals will be awarded...everyone will take bows....and whether a tiny tot stays on stage into the next scene...or makes her getaway to the safety of her parents, we will applaud and celebrate every moment because it has been FUN...

That's not always the case.  I am a grandma now, but Blake and I used to be the mom and dad of the kid on the stage, or at the podium, or on the court or the track or the mat....or the bench.  We held our breath, crossed our fingers, yelled at refs, bit our tongues, mouthed the words, clenched our fists, prayed, paced, and encouraged silently and out loud to hold on, keep going, and don't give up.  We rejoiced sometimes, were relieved others, and spent the rest of the time thinking of the right words to say to reassure or comfort the broken hearts or hurt feelings of our children when they felt they had failed.  Speeches and races, spelling bees and solos, free throws, at bats;  black holes of memory, dropped passes, false starts; all these bring to mind Adam Smith, if you can believe it.  "There's a lot of ruin in a nation," said he, and my application to child rearing is thus: kids are resilient. Failures will come and perspective...and a tougher hide...can only be gained by getting over it.  Kids hurt...and the moms and dads hurt more, because as parents we are forced to be adults.  

 Love is lovelier the second time around

Just as wonderful with both feet on the ground....

But... grandparents can give hugs and know they won't be rebuffed....grandparents don't have to analyze the aftermath, they can listen.  Grandmas and grandpas can simply enjoy the spirit of the endeavor, the energy and the heart and the will; we can appreciate the practice and effort....and not  bound by the skill or end result.  We aren't wiser...but we are older...and we see the parents of our grandchildren superimposed in the time/space continuum every pitch or performance. We know they survived the strain then and will live through both the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat...and the hours of bleacher butt in between.  

Meanwhile, Gabe will be investing in a first basemen's glove this spring and Aaron just played his trumpet during Junior High Performance night.  We laughed reliving Ann's exit from the county spelling bee after spelling 'raspberry' the fruit like 'razzberry' the noise.  Lee blacked out and forgot half a page of her solo at State Music contest.  Aaron showed remarkable equanimity while pitching last year, but his uncle Ben didn't bother to throw four balls; like Bob Gibson, he saved time and energy by just hitting the batter.

All the dances in CATS were delightful; shrinking the show to an hour and having adorable children, not underfed adults, dressed to the nines as felines, made it so much fun.  But  my eyes and camera were pretty well glued to the grand girls each time they took the stage.  Mr. Bustepher Jones twirled his giant spoon with élan, tripped and bounced right up before his fellow CATS could aid him.  Miss Abbie Harms, playing Mr. Jones, knew every word to every song and sang them all under her breath, at the very least, thereby proving that this particular apple hadn't fallen very far from her mama's tree.  Mr. Mistoffolees, radiated energy and joy in every move. Lizzie's smile never failed, even when her dance slippers led her astray during her song and she landed hard on her side.  She kept her place in her routine and made each subsequent pirouette and jump with confidence.  

  When the dawn comes

Tonight will be a memory too

And a new day will begin

(Andrew Lloyd Webber)

 

Sportin' Life

'Tis the season for t-shirts and jerseys, hoodies and jackets, pennants and stickers on rear windows. The appropriate costume for the season is not a scary mask or a witch's hat: it's the logo of your favorite team. And what a wealth of choices!

The Cardinals and Royals will be the Boys of October once again this year. The long summer of daily baseball is over and the nerve wracking process of sweating through the playoffs begins. I am a pathetic fan in October, sometimes glued to every pitch, sometimes isolating myself from every device that might deliver bad news. This is the 'thrill of victory and agony of defeat' part of being a fan that I wish I could lose.

I spent the last two weekends in airports, the ultimate melting pot of fan allegiance. The sports bars at Midway Airport were packed three deep around the flat screens; two different volleyball teams waited at baggage claim in two different airports. Fans of all stripes stared intently at muted electronic devices. The emotion was palpable....

Somewhat akin to that of the East Atchison Wolves Elementary volleyballers, third and fourth graders. This is Lizzie and Abbie's inaugural season in knee pads...it takes me back to watch the endless warmup drills and bouncing ponytails adorned with black and orange frippery. I love volleyball...I love the blocks at the net, the dives for slams, a ballet of pass, set, spike, the drama of a long volley. None of this is part and parcel of the game third and fourth graders play. Lizzie yearns to "hit the ball a different way" but her coach (her mom) makes it clear that passing and serving are the baby steps for girls too short to reach the top of the net. The bobbing ponytails are applauded every time a serve makes its target or the ball is hit three times in a row. A close contest makes Lizzie's feet go "all tingly". When they begin their match with the chant,"What do we love?.....volleyball!", I want to cheer too. Welcome, girls, to the sportin' life....

Fall is for football, from front yard scrambles through the fallen leaves to the tailgating cities that spring up like mushrooms just after daybreak every Saturday and Sunday .

Aaron is in his second year of full blown football, cleats and UnderArmour, coaches (dads) stalking the sidelines, fans in snarling Wolves regalia. The kids work hard, playing both sides of the ball in true small town fashion.

Gabe dons his flag football gear for the first time this year. He's just learning the game and saves his biggest grins for the rare opportunities to grab a flag.

The mood among the fans at these games is positive and upbeat. The bitterness of boobirds is reserved for guys that get paid to play. These kids build teamwork and sweat equity and loyalty: the sportin' life at its best.

Homecoming in East Atchison land was heartwarming, an amalgamation of the traditions of two communities with enthusiastic participation all around. While the sportin' life can showcase small town culture at its very worst....this team effort was its very best.

The "big boys" in their shorts and jerseys took on the elementary Wolves in a couple of quarters of flag football to the delight of a sideline full of cheering fans and a full complement of cheerleaders ages 5 and up.

There were thrilling runs and long passes, last minute tackles and general hilarity as the big boys and little boys entertained the crowd and each other. This commingling of young and younger, of older girls encouraging younger ones, of leading by example, builds the ties that will bind us as neighbors in years to come.

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