Ziggy always shared some bit of wisdom. This wall hanging I have at home, a gift of cross stitch from my Mom, has some of the wisest words that little roundish guy ever spoke.
Give a little, get a little.
Seems like a good philosophy.
What will you do today, or tomorrow, to start your day with a little love?
Bouncing the basketball across the driveway to my son, I imitate a teen boy swagger and say, “You didn’t think I could do that one, did you?”
Standing where he caught the ball, he bounces it once, twice, tilts his head back, then lobs the ball with finesse into a full arching trajectory into the waiting hoop.
I am doomed.
I step into the spot he just shot from, bounce once, bounce twice, tilt my head back, let the ball fly and watch as it ricochets off the rim and lands in a nearby bush.
“S!” my sons exults.
“You’re still ‘H’,” I counter, as if his one missed shot were a significant point difference.
He usually won most of our games of H.O.R.S.E. At least I had a modicum of a chance to win, where at a regular game of one-on-one, he’d always win. He was lighter, faster, more experienced and he had the added pressure of shame if you lost to your Mom.
When it comes to shooting hoops, I have no idea how my son felt about it. Young enough to not be too embarrassed about hanging out with his Mom, we had some good times. If he had other guys to play against, I was, of course, not particularly needed or welcomed. But given a boring afternoon or early evening, I was as good an opponent as any. I enjoyed the exercise. And it brought back some fun memories.
As a girl, how many times I had looked on as a giggling gaggle of girls watched a posturing bunch of boys playing a game of shirts and skins. I didn’t care for the gaggle. I always wanted to actually play.
Back then, I spent time practicing shots on my own when a basket and a ball were available, so that when the chance came around, I could pull my weight. Or at least, I’d have decent enough skills to make the basic shots in a game of H.O.R.S.E.
A great equalizer, the game of H.O.R.S.E. pits young against old, short against tall, talented against beginner. The rules can be tweaked to accommodate more than two players, make concessions for weaker players, give everyone a chance to enjoy and feel like there’s a chance, however slim, of winning. Or consummate players with incredible shots in their repertoire can wow onlookers and hone skills.
The ball lends itself to contemplation, the tiny round dots on the surface of the ball mesmerize and calm. The feel of the rubber, smooth and sticky, firm and pliable, relaxes your hands. The reverberating echo of the ball as it hits the concrete, bounces back into your hands, over and over and over, in a hypnotic lull. Then there’s the smell of dust on the ball mingled with a sheen on faces and the slight tang of sweat.
There’s something about the kind of conversation that goes on during a game of H.O.R.S.E.. Talk simply evolves. Words slip out more easily. Chatting happens about things that would never get discussed around the dinner table.
The hoop, netted or not, calls out, taunts, whispers. Again, again, again, just one more time, and one more. One more shot, one more game, one more bounce.
If you’ve never played a game of H.O.R.S.E. you can find the rules here. If it’s been a while since you’ve picked up a basketball maybe it’s time. Maybe running your fingers across the texture of the ball, letting it bounce beside your feet, tossing it between one hand and the other, sending it flying toward ‘nothing but net,’ is just what your soul needs today.
I can feel a game coming on. Anyone up for a game of H.O.R.S.E?
I need to sound really cool, like I know the game in my sleep!
For the past three years I’ve driven a Toyota extended cab pickup truck. I don’t know the name of the model, or even the year. Here’s a photo of it. That should give you an idea of the year. Ish.
As you can see, it’s not a newer model vehicle.
In fact, I was recently transporting several teenage girls one evening in it. As we pulled into traffic I rolled my window down, meaning, I turned the crank handle to open the window.
“What they heck did you just do?” one of the twelve-year olds said in disbelief. “Did you just open the window by turning something?”
“This is a really, really old car isn’t it?” another one said.
Stunned into momentary silence I shook my head. I suppose the truck is probably older than those girls are. Strange thought.
I considered referring to the Flintstone’s foot-powered vehicles, but knew they wouldn’t know what I was talking about.
My truck also has a cassette-tape player that works! Luckily, the teens in my car didn’t notice that bit of antique hardware. I might have to show them next time we go somewhere. Won’t they be overwhelmed with awe! More likely they’ll be completely convinced of my total lack of coolness.
There’s also a back seat that holds three people with smallish legs. It’s only a two-door truck though, so getting back there takes some maneuvering and flexibility.
When I start the engine on this vehicle, you can hear it! How’s that for amazing?
Sometimes when I drive my best buddy Kathy somewhere in her van, I inadvertently try to start it when it’s already running! Oops. If I can’t hear the engine I assume I need to start it. That’s how mine works.
Her van, a newish one with power windows, power locks, powertrain warranty, and some get up and go is a delight to drive. In her van I can make left hand turns with ease and speed. In her van I merge onto the freeway without any puffs of smoke coming out the exhaust pipe.
My truck drives more like its get up and go has got up and went. It wants to think about picking up speed. There’s some hesitation in its idling. If the AC is running while I’m stopped at a light, the cool air will stop and warm air will blow instead. Kind of temperamental, wouldn’t you say?
Kathy has named my little truck ‘Trusty Dusty.’ She named her van ‘Chocolate.’ I’m a little jealous. But both names fit. Hers is smooth and delightful. Mine looks like it needs a wash all the time. In spite of its slowness and well-used looks, it gets me where I need to go.
I don’t usually take Kathy anywhere in Trusty Dusty because the shocks aren’t very absorbent, or whatever they need to provide a smooth ride. Her bones can’t take hits from bumpy roads like my truck offers. So if her van is available, we drive that. (Well, I drive, she rides, let’s be clear about that, since as I wrote about in this past blog post, she shouldn’t be behind the wheel of a car.)
We do own another car, but it decided to give out last week. It’s been on the brink for a while. In fact the mechanic had said, “don’t take it out-of-town, always have a cell phone with you and just drive it until it drops, then buy something else.” Three drivers, three work schedules, one vehicle makes for tricky math, but we manage. We have before.
I like my little truck. It’s handy. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve hauled stuff in it. Beds, appliances, camping gear, wedding decorations, food, top soil, bikes, plants, potting soil, water barrels, rocks, college kid supplies, moving boxes, even catering supplies and meals. It’s been ‘worth its weight in gold’ on many occasions. (I suppose if that cliché were really true I’d own some spiffy newer model year kicking it into high gear dual wheel truck with shiny all over it.)
Yup, that’s over 200,000 miles your reading.
We thought last year that it was time to retire Trusty. I was sad and forlorn about it. Then my son decided he might be able to perform surgery on it and bring it back to life. Our driveway looked a bit like Frankenstein’s laboratory for a few weeks. (Much to the HOA’s chagrin.) A spider took up residence between a wheel and the edge of the driveway. It thought it had found a permanent home, no doubt. But tools, skills, the internet, perseverance and desperation won out and Trusty revived for another 15,000 miles or more.
Sure I’d like to drive something sleek and shiny with a state of the art sound system, and all the bells and whistles. But that’s not really in the budget, nor has it ever been. We paid cash for Trusty, so no monthly payments. That’s a nice bonus. Maybe someday I’ll drive something admirable and more reliable. Or maybe not. I’m just glad I have some means of transportation with AC for the desert heat.
Luckily, I can simply keep on keeping on! For the time being.
Yesterday I got the chance to watch the second installment of home 8mm films that my Dad has transferred to DVD. If something like that doesn’t fire up the old neurons of memory, then nothing will!
Ben Lomond Peak (Photo credit: OwnUtah.Com)
I was the opening shot, well, me and Mom. I looked extra adorable in my frilly bonnet and chubby cheeks. Mom looked stylish as she always did and does. There followed scenes of my older brother in various stages of helping Mom in managing this new little sister he had.
Loved seeing Dad do his famous tricycle riding trick. He’d kneel on the back and pedal with his hands. That’s not an easy feat to pull off, but he could do it with a grin.
Ah, they were so young! The world seemed new and young. Life was new. For me, that is when the world began. (Insert a long, audible sigh here, if you would please.)
I cheered my baby self on when I lifted my head, crawled, walked and fell down. I watched, amazed, as I saw myself grow from a baby to a five-year old in less than twenty minutes. Looking back on my life, sometimes that ‘s about what it feels like. Yet, my childhood had a timeless quality about it that felt as if I’d always be a child. I was protected, provided for, well-loved, and given a wonderfully varied exploratory life filled with fun and adventure.
(Photo credit: Wikipedia)
A trip or two to Yellowstone National Park was a highlight and a memory I still cherish. The bears ran as freely and as abundantly as chipmunks. Even without the film memory jog, I still remember the fishing bridges there, seeing fish thick in the water. Nothing can erase the memory of the smells of Yellowstone, the sound of footsteps on the wooden walkways, the feel of my hand in Mom’s hand.
I watched as we enjoyed breakfast picnics in the mountains, trips to Bear Lake, camping trips, hikes up Ben Lomond. What child could ask for more? Not me. I was happily allowed to explore my world, taken out and about often to see the wonders that this life has to offer. I think I fell in love with it all at a very early age because of exposure to so much abundance. I haven’t been able to narrow in on one particular favorite. The world is full and rich and I have tried to take in and be a part of as much of it as I have been able to.
(Photo credit: moirabot)
One thing I found particularly fascinating in this DVD that I’d hardly noticed in the first one was the backdrops in each scene. There was the beautiful hexagon shapes in the Grandmother’s Flower Garden quilt on the bed my brother and I were playing on. The cars that drove past were classics from the 50’s and 60’s. The television was vintage, the furniture now collector’s items. Even the drinking glasses were particular to that era. What I wouldn’t give to own a set of aluminum colored drinking cups now! The piano I learned to play on, the one destroyed in my parent’s house fire, made an appearance. Changes in the landscaping of the yard, neighbor’s houses I haven’t seen in decades, the up close view of the mountains that surrounded my childhood home all served as key elements in the background to this trip down memory lane.
Feeling very nostalgic today. Wishing for a time machine to visit those innocent, sweet days of love and learning.
Thanks Dad and Mom for the DVD, for the amazing childhood, for a wonderful life!
Astounded at the depth of color with that little burst of sunshine in the center, I snapped this photo of some Pansies in my garden. There’s some slight variation in the purples, almost neon in some, bluer in a few others.
Nature always manages to surprise and delight me.
Lately I’ve watched as the seeds I planted a week ago push through the ground, transformed into minuscule green leaves. Amazing! I understand it, but I don’t.
I’m also never sure why some spots I plant turn green and flourish, while others remain a blank landscape of soil. That’s a mystery, too.
Pansies appear just as temperamental as seeds. Not four feet away from these beautifully abundant blooms, struggles a similar Pansy plant, barely managing to put out a couple of pale blooms, the foliage equally pale. Why is one thriving and the other just hanging on? Both plants are in the same bed, same soil, same watering schedule, same sunlight. I’m clueless.
I find it fascinating to see children from the same family, like these plants, respond to the same conditions with completely different results. So too, can people respond to troubles and challenges that seem the same, with vastly different results. Every seed, every person, every situation, varies in subtle ways. Combine those tiny variances and the resulting differences can become huge.
That’s what makes a garden so delightful; the different shades of colors, heights, hues, patterns, textures, not just between species but within the same plant family. Those combinations can complement and play off one another in a spectacular way.
Gardens and people, two of my favorite unpredictables in life. Never sure of what’s going to pop up next. Always some nurturing required and some love given back in return. Anticipation and hope in every single day.
Mornings are second chances. Another day to try to get things right.
Perhaps that’ why mornings feel so good to me. The earlier I am up, the greater the potential for getting a firm grip on the day. That, of course, requires a discipline in the evening that I seem to lack lately. Early days can’t happen if the night lasts too late.
Living with a bunch of night owls makes it tough to go to bed at a “decent” time. I don’t want to miss out on anything or anyone.
Then I see a sun rise, like this one and I’m reminded of that second chance feeling. Perhaps I need some sunrise photos displayed near my bed, to coax me under the covers.
There’s so much I miss in a morning when I stay in bed. Besides the sun rise, there’s the first songs the birds call out, the coolness of the air, the fresh feeling that early light bestows on every object.
And the quiet. The quiet in the morning, especially on a weekend morning, settles me in a way little else can.
My life overflows with noise. One of the most precious commodities I know is stillness, quietness, silence.
That alone should remind me that I want, no, crave, an early morning.
A second chance waits for me tomorrow. Until then, I’ll see what I can do with the one I got this morning.
So it’s finally happened. After nearly six full months of cheerfully (mostly) counting my blessings, I’ve hit a snag. I find myself being a bit irritable lately.
Nothing major, just a kind of pebble in my shoe sort of irritability. It’s a kind of “I can’t quite put it into words but the people I know and love are avoiding me when they see me coming” kind of grouchiness.
Grouchy (Photo credit: RachelEllen)
Like I said, it’s nothing serious.
But I am considering asking for advice. Not from a professional. Oh, no, certainly not. Thank you very much. No. I simply want common sense, unschooled by books, unsullied by research.
What do you do to keep from being sidetracked by the negative vibe from certain people?
How do you keep the swing out of your mood?
What helps you not scratch the itch of niggling pet peeves?
When the slurp at the bottom of the cup has finally become too much, what keeps you in your seat with your hands safely, serenely at your side?
Who in their right mind (cliché’, yes, I know, another irksome thing to my writerly self) but I digress. Who in their right mind doesn’t get aggravated at life occasionally. And if you are one of those calm, collected, peaceful souls, can you tell me your secret?
(Photo credit: Revolt! Puppy)
Most people who know me think I am one of those calm, cool, collected, peaceful people. Boy, do I have them fooled. If they could see the real me, when the door closes, the windows shut, a fan runs to provide white noise; I look exactly the same. Mostly. Except for the little telltale signs of exhaustion around the eyes and a tendency to bite, snarl and snap at innocuous, normally wonderful things.
Yes, I need advice. And I need it now!!
Or not.
Counting to ten is itself an irritation, so please, no such suggestions on that score.
See, my moodiness is showing through already.
I should take a nap.
Or go to bed early, and then sleep in late.
Or go for a bike ride.
Or fly off in an airplane to go visit someone.
Or join a circus.
Or breath deeper.
Your suggestions are welcome, encouraged, needed, required, necessary.
(Photo credit: garrettc)
It would be nice.
But I’ll be fine, eventually.
I’m fine. Really. Just a bit snappish.
And peevey.
But I’m fine.
Really.
Have a nice day!
It’s GRATITUESDAY today! Yes, I capitalized it, because I am extra grateful today. Two years ago, three people saved my son’s life. Rarely does a day pass that I don’t think about and feel thankful to them for being willing to help out a stranger. Thank you Michael Harrison, Rustin Crawford and Sarah Crawford for being Angels that day!!
Sarah wrote on her blog about the rescue. So in celebration, today’s post is Sarah Crawford’s words telling her story of saving my son’s life. It’s a great story, with a wonderful ending. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!
“Rustin and I were blessed to be at the right place at the right time to help save an unconscious man from a burning car on Saturday (March 26, 2011) evening at 5:00 pm. Rustin was driving (just got his permit) and we were headed to a lacrosse friends house. As soon as we turned from our street to the main street that runs through our neighborhood (Juniper) we saw a white car parked on the side of the road with a lot of white smoke coming from the hood and pouring over the car.
Another person (Michael Harrison, whose family I know well) had already stopped and had discovered that there was a person in the car who was unconscious. Rustin immediately pulled over and ran to help Michael pull the man out of the burning car. He did have to show me how to dial 911 on his phone really quick first! The call would not go through because all the lines were busy and so I ran to help Rustin and Michael who had the guy out of the car, but he was still laying on the street by the door. He was a very heavy (220 lbs) and floppy man and was extremely hard to move. Rustin said later that he was really glad he’d been in weightlifting class at school. NO KIDDING!!!
Look how much bigger Jeremy (220 lbs) is than Rustin who is 5’10” and 150 lbs. The other rescuer was taller than Rustin but much skinnier and was happy to have Rustin’s muscles there to help!
We moved him to the side of the road behind the car, but didn’t stay there long as we were getting covered with smoke that was increasing in volume rapidly and had turned black as the car started to really catch fire. We hefted poor Jeremy (who was still totally out) and carried him to the other side of the road in the bike lane. We layed him there and rested a bit. His eyes were a little bit open but he couldn’t move or speak and looked really sick. I had no idea what was wrong with him, if he had inhaled enough smoke to pass out or had passed out before the car caught fire or what but I was very concerned and just rubbed his head and told him everything was going to be okay and prayed and prayed and prayed that it would be. After a bit, we decided to move him because the fire department was still not there and the fire was getting really big and hot and I could hear things exploding and popping inside the car and I thought it might blow up.
Fortunately, the car never blew up but it left a lot of ashes and debris behind after they towed it!
When Rustin and Mike and I and a few others moved him further down the road, he was starting to wake up and was actually moving his feet a little for us. As he started becoming more aware, he became anxious and tried to walk away from us, though he couldn’t really walk. There was no way we were going to let this potentially very sick individual wander off before the ambulance go there so we tried to wrestle him to the ground. It didn’t work. As you can see from the picture, he is a very big and VERY strong guy. Randy Harenberg, my husband, Russ- who Rustin had run and gotten, and others, tried to calm him down and keep him around while we waited for the fire trucks to arrive. They finally got there and… No, it wasn’t MY firemen, the Gilbert firetrucks were all out on calls and this was Mesa fire to the rescue.
Unfortunately, they had only heard that there was a car fire but not a victim in the car, so at first they just worked on getting the car fire out until finally a paramedic noticed my dad and I frantically waving at them to come help Jeremy. We told them what was going on and they soon found out how strong Jeremy was. It took several police officers and firemen to finally tackle Jeremy into the bushes and get some handcuffs on him to keep him down. Poor guy!!!! He kept asking for someone to help him and saying “Ow!” I felt so bad and just stayed close to try to offer any comfort I could.
After a while they got him some tranquilizers to sedate him a little and then got him on a stretcher. As he calmed down, he was more responsive and told them his name was Jeremy and that he suffered from seizures. They figured that the medicine on the front seat (that he had just picked up from Target) was his anti-seizure medication.
Rustin and I stayed and gave a statement to the police and gave them my number and asked them to call and let me know how Jeremy was doing and if they ever figure out just what had happened. They said they would try, but might not know themselves.
After Jeremy was safely on his way to the hospital, I took Rustin to his friend’s house and then zoomed home for a quick shower and some clothes (By the way- all of this was happening as I was wearing only a swimsuit and a sweatshirt! Put on clothes before you leave the house! You never know what might happen!!!) then I took off for the dinner and a meeting I was missing.
About 45 minutes after I got there, Russ texted me the most amazing text:
“The kid whose car burned was Kami Tilby’s son!”
I can’t explain the emotion to know that poor Jeremy, who I had been praying over, was the son of one of my most favorite friends in the entire world. She has helped me in so many ways through every step of the last few insane and very difficult months of my life, starting before my sister Liza died, but especially since then. To have been able to help save her son’s life and bless hers forever in a very real way is such an honor. I am so grateful that Rustin and I were there to help him and her and her precious family!
So on Sunday night we got to meet our Jeremy!!!!
It turns out that Jeremy does indeed suffer from seizures and takes medication to control them. He had missed two days of medication and had just refilled his prescription and then visited his parents who live just a few houses from me. As he rounded the corner to Juniper, he felt the aura of a seizure coming on and knew he had to pull over and put the car into park. It took his body about 100 yards to be able to do that and he stopped about 20 yards before the main intersection at Val Vista! Phew!!!
Then he had a seizure and it is believed that he must have accidentally pushed down on the pedal and revved the engine so high that it overheated and caught fire. Sometime after that we arrived on scene.
He doesn’t remember being pulled from the car or being carried around but does vaguely remember the struggle on the ground with the police, and asking for help. He says it is foggy like a dream. Then he “woke up” in the hospital, not really sure why he was there and why he had grass (which was actually straw from one of the bushes) all over him.
He was so sweet when he met Rustin and I, reaching out for big bear hugs and saying “Thank you, Thank you!”
You are so welcome Jeremy!!!
So glad we could feel what it feels like to be an angel and be part of a miracle. That same day, Saturday, was the two month anniversary of Liza’s death and I had cried quite a few tears just a few hours before this happened. It was so nice to have things turn around and get to be part of such a happy ending for such a great person and family.
Maybe Liza was there helping too!
Maybe we were both angels that day?!”
Real, unadulterated, pure citrus blossom scent dances through the air this time of year. So heady, the fragrance at times throws my equilibrium off ever so slightly.
Who’d have thought such a small delicate looking blossom could carry so much weight. Of course, it helps that each tree holds hundreds of blossoms and that there are thousands upon thousands of citrus trees in our area.
The Phoenix area once was filled with many, many more orchards, but those have given way to houses and retail spaces, parks and roads. But there remain enough trees to fill the air to overflowing with an ocean of citrus scent.
Driving past an orange grove causes gas pedals to lift, cars to slow. Runners strides shorten, walkers linger, bicyclists find a reason to stop. Everyone breathes deeper when the breath of citrus blossoms pirouette in the breeze and flit about in the open.
There it is. That sweet, tangy burst of color in a smell. Can you sense the bright mellow, flourescent pastel taste mixed with oxygen? Add a sparkle of fairy dust and you have the exact recipe for this cologne.
There it is again. Take a deep breath. Hold it, let it swirl through your mind, now exhale slowly. Then grab another breath, don’t get too greedy, there’s plenty for everyone. Ahhhh. Now don’t you feel better? I know I do.
The perfume of citrus blossom energizes, fills, enhances, charms, freshens, enlivens and lifts even the most curmudgeonly of souls.
A temporary scent at best, in a few brief weeks its intoxicating powers will disappear, leaving behind a memory that many will recall throughout the year. Anticipating the nirvana of blooming trees rivals Christmas. I wonder at the lack of an orange festival in an area filled to overflowing with citrus. How about a grapefruit fiesta, a lemon merengue menagerie, a tangelo tango, a lime holiday, a kumquat parade?
I suppose we all celebrate and imbibe in our own private ways.
Like a fine Dandelion Wine, the memories of a beautiful day are hidden and kept, bottled and stored in an orange, a grapefruit, or a lemon. The beauty of a spring day bursts out of citrus fruit like the riot of blossoms in March. Bite into an orange, slice a grapefruit, squeeze a lime, press your lips to a lemon and tell me it isn’t so.
Me, I prefer to simply be outdoors, letting the blossom revolution of citrus fill my head. The cologne eau de citre’ sings a melody so memorable, I find myself almost dancing. Nothing else says spring quite like this.
Kami's Beautiful Morning 