More on Little Sioux

I sent a (small) check to the Mid-America Boy Scout Council and just wrote "LSSR" on the memo line. They have canceled all camps this summer and are working to rebuild the camp itself. More information about rebuilding and donations is here.

Cabela's and Canfields donated camping gear. Henry, though untouched, lost all his camping equipment. He recovered his First Aid Kit and realized after he got it back, that it had been used by someone. The water and blanket and some other things were missing from the kit. He was glad that it was of use.

The Little Sioux Scouts are invited to go to Washington, DC to meet President Bush and get a special tour of the White House.

This tragedy changed so much for so many. Henry now volunteers nearly fulltime at the Red Cross. It was his way to deal with his feelings after the tornado. I have seen him mature in a very deep and permanent way since the tornado.

On the Mid-America Council website they note that there has been an increase in inquiries about how to enroll boys in Boy Scouts. What an interesting result from all of this.

If you ask Henry, he will tell you that he is not brave and that he did not do anything worthy of commendation. He is suffering from some intense survivors guilt. At the same time, he has a renewed commitment to Scouting and it is an essential piece of his identity right now. (Though he is getting tired of being put on display.)

I think that parents are attracted to the image of Scouting that is being portrayed right now by this story. I am attracted to the camaraderie and the activities. Frank is delighted to be a Scout since that means he gets to go camping with his friends. It does mean more than that, but right now I am glad that is what it means to him.

10 Miles Uphill, in a Blizzard

Yesterday the kids all wanted to go to the pool. No problem. We got on suits and everyone got a towel. And then they learned that I expected them to ride a bike to the pool.

We live about a mile from the pool. They walked the distance last year. Mostly I drove them. This year the youngest kid is 81/2, they all have bikes, and they all know how to ride (Sophia was the last holdout on that front, but she mastered two wheels this spring).

Frank needed air in his tires and didn't know how to use the pump. Sophia couldn't get her kickstand up. Mary didn't want to ride to the pool at all because the hills were "so hard." Anna doesn't like her bike since the chain falls off and she can't fix it. Claire expected me to carry her towel for her. (How was I going to carry six towels on a bike? Clearly Claire was not thinking about that.)

"Look, just hang your towel around your neck," I demonstrated to oohs of appreciation as if I had discovered how to travel through time. "It's called a kickstand, because you have to kick it," I said as I put the kickstand up. I gave a quick lecture on the purpose of gears (to make it easier to go up hills, for example) and suggested that easing the gear change helps keep the chain from jumping. I showed Frank that you have to push the lever down to hold the pump to the tire before you begin to pump.

And we were off. We made it to the pool despite the hills. I snagged a lounge chair poolside and the kids jumped in the water. I lay in the sun and wondered how it was possible that I raised such helpless creatures. My parents never drove me to the pool. And I remember putting air in my own tires and putting the chain back on when it jumped off. I would get up, deliver newspapers and take myself to the pool. I would get up, deliver newspapers, return my library books and get new ones and take myself to the pool. I would get up, deliver newspapers, do chores around the house, return my library books and get new ones, and take myself to the pool. I would get up, deliver newspapers, do chores around the house, return my library books and get new ones, make lunch, mow the lawn and take myself to the pool. I would get up, deliver newspapers, return my library books and get new ones, make lunch, mow the lawn and take myself to the pool before coming home to help with home improvement projects and gardening. Then I would shower and go to bed early so I could get up in time to get my newspapers delivered.

That's the way I remember it at least.

No Worries

Frank left for four nights of camping with his Boy Scout Den this morning. I put a pair of underwear, a pair of socks and a clean t-shirt in four different gallon zip lock bags to make sure he had dry clothes and we put his dining ware on strings that hooked on his pack. ("You think of everything, Mom.") He will be gone for four nights camping in a tent away from his parents and grandpa. He is at a remote camp site with no storm shelter. He seems unphased by those things. He is most worried that he will not get enough to eat. We packed snacks in ziploc bags. Nuts, dried fruit and cheese crackers. He had me kiss him before we got to camp so I didn't hug and kiss him in front of his friends. When we got to camp, his pack which he had dragged to the car, was suddenly weightless. He bounded over to his friends with his pack on - water bottle and pocket knife and dining ware swinging behind him.

Mary leaves for four nights of 4-H camp. They have a cabin with a storm shelter at the lodge. She is worried that they are going to make her wear a life jacket in the canoe. "They better!" I said. "Mooooom!" she said.

"So Frank is at Boy Scout Camp and Mary is at 4-H camp and Bill's kids are with their mom? Does that make me an only child?" Anna asked.

"Well, for four days it does, I guess," I said.

"Whoohoo!" she said.

No worries there.

Bobble Heads

I cannot put into words what I felt this weekend going to a Saturday night and a Sunday afternoon baseball game with Bill and Frank. Their interest in baseball surpasses mine by an infinite amount, but I still cannot think of anywhere I would rather be than sitting between the two of them when the closer for the Royals comes out of the bullpen and Frank punches his fist in the air and Bill smiles quietly and the whole stadium stands. I didn't even know that Frank had a favorite closing pitcher.

I am never on time to anything, but I can somehow make it to a baseball ballpark two hours early to make sure I get my free doll (they only gave out 20,000!) and to make sure that my son gets to meet former Negro League Players and get their autographs and so we can watch the visiting team have their batting practice and maybe catch a foul ball or luck out and have one tossed up on purpose.

Baseball is about slow paces and fast movement. It is about standing still and being ready for what's next and being able to respond quickly. I get that. I don't, however, get the statistics part. Other than if I want my free Kansas City Monarchs hat, I better be in the first 20,000 that gets to the stadium.

Little Sioux Camp

Our friend Henry, my friend Ann's son, was one of the last Boy Scouts accounted for last night/this morning. But he is home safely and he is fine. All his camping equipment is gone. He came home in nothing but the clothes he was wearing and his Patrol Leader badge. His mother described the waiting with the other parents as "the worst lottery in the world." "Is it your son or is it mine?"

I made my kids sleep in the basement last night. We had "weather" all night and I did not want to worry about getting them up and to the basement in the night if I needed to do so.

Just Keep Walking

A few weeks ago I listened to an interview on the radio with a Chinese woman walking down the road outside of her town. She had her children in tow. She was wearing high heels. They had nothing with them. Their home was gone. Their village was gone. She just happened to be wearing high heels when the earthquake hit, I guess. She tried to answer the reporter's questions, but her confused purpose was clear through the translator.

I was also wearing high heels that morning. While I cooked eggs in my kitchen for my kids who were going to get ready and go to school.The only thing we had in common were our shoes and our kids, yet I felt a connection to her half a world away from me and recognized that anything can happen to anyone at any time.

While Frank and I ran in a charity run on Saturday, Eric's girlfriend had a heart attack. She was in the hospital in a coma for three days and tests showed that there was severe brain damage. The kids and I went swimming and baked muffins and watched the Yankees/Royals series. She stopped being responsive to light. We made hula hoops and twirled in the yard. She died last night. I had a hearing this morning and stopped a foreclosure sale less than an hour before the sale was scheduled. And then I learned that she died.

Eric is hurting. My heart aches for him. It has been a hard year for him and he really does not need this, too.

I want life to always be the sunshiney goofiness that is hula hooping in the yard. I am lucky that is how things are for me now. But it's not always like that. Sometimes healthy 37 year old women have heart attacks. Sometimes you have to walk out of your destroyed village and head down a road without really knowing where you are going. Just be glad you have your shoes, I guess, even if they are high heels.

Ziggy is Stupid

Today's Ziggy is a good example of why I have never liked this comic. He's just wrong. There is a reality show for dogs. In fact, it's the only one I watch: "The Dog Whisperer."

But Ziggy reminds me of my friend David, because David thought Ziggy was hilarious. And David reminds me of his brother Jim. Jim died this week and it kind of freaks me out since his kids are my kids' ages. Jim wasn't that much older than me. He was survived by both of his parents.

The lesson here? Life is short. Read all the comics. Even the stupid ones.

Breaking Balls and Bathroom Breaks

In the top of the fifth inning, two outs, Frank playing Second Base, it suddenly became obvious to me that he had to go to the bathroom. He was grabbing his crotch and bouncing. Then he began encouraging the pitcher by saying, "Throw a strike! I really need to go to the bathroom!"

The pitcher threw a nice ball through the middle and the nine year old batter made contact. The ball went to Center Field and the runner decided to go for second. My son put his foot on Second Base, caught a short toss from the Center Fielder, tagged the runner, and the inning was blissfully over. He ran for the restroom.

When he got back, he was on deck to hit and I noticed a small wet spot on his crotch. I don't think he made it the whole way to the bathroom.

He got a walk and then eventually stole home. His run was the only run that his team had last night.

So to sum up, got an out, got a run, and wet his pants. That is a great night of Little League, I tell ya.

This morning on the sports page there was a big story about Joba Chamberlain who is starting tonight as a pitcher for the Yankees. Joba is, of course, Frank's favorite player. Frank's breakfast conversations are always sports focused and they usually involve statistics or players that I don't know. He's also the only person in the house that is what I would call alert in the morning. He will often try and engage people in a conversation about the 1932 World Series or the difference between pitches or speculation about Satchel Paige, or just crazy grandiose statements about the Yankees or his favorite players. He is correct about 75% of the time. Usually I am too groggy to understand half of what I am being asked about.

"Joba starts tonight," I said when I handed the sports section to my son.

His face lit up and he read the article and predicted a no hitter.

So good luck tonight, Joba. I know one eight year old in Lincoln who is willing you to a no hitter. I'm a mom, so all I can think of when I see that a 22 year old from Lincoln (so young!) is the starting pitcher tonight for the Yankees is, I hope he doesn't pee his pants.