An ERA of Infinity

Frank wants to pitch. He practices pitches against the side of the house pretty much endlessly. He studies pitchers and talks about different pitches. His coach plays him at second base a lot and it's a good position for him. He does exactly what he's told to do. His second favorite position is catcher, which he also plays a lot.

They got creamed tonight. Innings ended because of the five-run rule - that's the rule in Little League where if the other side has five runs then their at bat is just over. I don't think I've seen it so much all year as what I saw last night. The score was 16-0 or something. The other team had three runs so far that inning and the bases loaded, when to my surprise I saw the coach walk to the pitchers mound and gesture for Frank. He talked to him and Frank nodded earnestly, and I realized that Frank was going to pitch. I thought I was going to throw up.

His pitches were over the plate, but they were high - really, really, really, really, not a chance anyone would swing at them high. He stuck at it doggedly, but he walked two runners (8 balls) and two runs came in and the first half of the inning was over.

My son's Little League pitching debut did not go so well. But he jogged into the dugout and while he did not look ecstatic, he looked fine. Better than me, really.

I realized what a perfect time it was to let him pitch. It would be over mercifully quickly. And the damage was already done in the game. It didn't really matter. But it mattered that an 8 year old got a chance to pitch.

"Should I point out that he has an ERA of Infinity?" Bill asked.

Good grief. No.

Food! Glorious Food!

The Lonely Planet has guide books about FOOD now!

Right. So I know that I have never been out of the United States or anything, but the places I want to visit are all based on my love of the cuisine - India (!!!!) and Greece are at the top of my list. So is Italy (sounds better to me than France) and China (and no, I don't expect crab rangoon - I want street meat and live squid).

I specifically do not want to visit Great Britain because the cuisine does not appeal to me at all. I mean, yeah, I could drink beer and eat fish and chips for a week, but why do that if I can stuff myself with 5 kinds of curry and dahl?

We Spam A Lot

The party was fantastic. Bill took the younger kids to a movie in the early evening so that King Arthur could greet her guests on her own. After everyone arrived, I played the role of God and gave them the first clue in the search for the Holy Grail. They were adorable child-like adult things racing from clue to clue before finding the Holy Grail(s). We got glass goblets for each guest at the Dollar Store and filled them with Hershey's kisses and a plastic ring and a rubber organ. A round table was easy to make - we just took out the leaves. She wore a crown from Burger King and carried a plastic sword.

Dinner was chicken kebabs and separate veggie kebabs with rice.

The cake was a cake sculpting masterpiece - two differently shaped cakes made the stone and one of the kids made the handle for a steak knife to make it look like a sword.

They watched the movie on DVD and played Apples to Apples and I would judge by my delighted birthday girl's face, that she had a good party. The theme was her idea and I suggested the treasure hunt and came up with the cake (other considerations were a bunny and a coconut cake). If you had told me in junior high when my friends and I were obsessed with this movie that one day my daughter and her friends would be obsessed with MOnty Python's Search for the Holy Grail? I would laugh and tell you that you were an empty headed animal food trough wiper.

"When this movie first came out, people listened to music on this." (The next clue was on the record player.)

Welcome Home

As is typical for me, the morning got away from me. I went to dance and took a jog/walk with the dog and took a bath. I checked the time expecting it to be 10am and it was actually 11am. I panicked and rushed to get ready. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and thought, "Dammit, I forgot to lose ten pounds, color my hair and get my eyebrows waxed." I went anyway.

I drove North to my little hometown of 30,000 people. I drove the highway I drove so many times to go to debate tournaments or cross country meets in Lincoln. I was driving away from my home while somehow "returning home" - whatever that is.

Michele arranged for us to meet at Runza. As I pulled into town and passed the golf course where her house was and the river where we hung out and the road around the lake that I would ride on my bike I felt myself choking up. The town festival was in full swing as I drove past the city park. I passed the McDonalds where I once worked and the Mall where I hung out - all on the "Square" (like the strip or drag or whatever other small town name there is) which I idly wondered about - do teens still drive the Square in these days of $4+ gas? I wondered if I would recognize her when I got to the place, but of course it was easy. She stood and smiled and hugged me. And Dave showed up next driving a giant red pickup. I hugged him with exuberance and we ordered cheese Runzas and crinkle fries. John came through the door with a grin and a hug, and by now I had relaxed and felt only happiness to be together in this town again.

This is us twenty years later I thought. The faces are the same but different. What is most the same is the people behind the faces. At one point I reached out and touched John's hands. I had forgotten how he gestured when he was making a point, but of course I had not really forgotten, because when I saw his hands come together and separate to make a small chopping sensation, I remembered. Debate class, debate practice, debate research, debate tournaments, including overnights, and even debate camp in the summer. I didn't spend more time with anyone in high school than these three people. I wonder sometimes if the four of us would have otherwise been friends. It was a small debate team (just the second year in existence when I joined it) and our coach was young and we were talented, but clueless.

They were surprised to see that I came with piles of papers - mostly notes from my friend Michele, she would write me notes every day - a previous generation's text messages or blog - but also the postcards she sent me from Europe and from college. Dave was surprised to see that I had the birthday card that he gave me for my sixteenth birthday. (I also have his letters from his years in the Navy - I did not bring those with me.) John pulled out the old debate ballots and laughed at the nicknames our coach put on the practice round ballots. He was incredulous that I had an old case that I had written and that he had added to - my small, perfect cursive with his confident script noted in the margin.

We were there all afternoon. Michele and I finally left at 5:00 and went to visit Dave's mom before heading to the cocktail reception. The reception had old pictures and 80s memorabilia everywhere.

Michele swears she will come back for the next reunion and I think that she just might.

"There's been enough time," she said, by explanation about why she returned.

Both she and I had a rough high school experience. And our parents moved out of town, hers to Canada and mine to Texas, so there was no reason to go back until we wanted to. But she's right, there's been enough time now.

I kept those papers because they were the best part of my life at that time. They represent fun and friends and my home.

All is Well

My campers are home.

I picked Frank up from his Den Leader's house and we drove out to Gretna to pick up Mary. Greg, his Den Leader, told me that Frank was a very considerate camper and did well in archery and led the skit on the last night. Frank showed me his new rocks and the snake skin he found on a hike and then fell asleep once we got on the Interstate.

Mary talked the whole way home from 4-H camp, or rather, she sang the whole way home. She enjoyed the hiking and canoeing and overnight at the Henry Doorly Zoo. She walked in the door, dropped her backpack and fell asleep on the couch.

I can hear Frank's ball hit the side of the house as he plays catch with himself. It is a metronome for Anna, who is practicing the piano. Bill is broiling turkey burgers. Mary is sleeping through it all.

There are storms coming tonight. The wind is crazy and the sky is full of clouds. I am glad that my kids got a camp adventure and that my oldest kiddo got some time as an only child, but really I am most glad that we are all back together under the same roof. With a basement in case we need it.

My Neighbors and My Neighborhood

This is my neighborhood. (That's not my house though.)

I have been biking to work and I have been changing the way that I think about biking. Inspired by pictures from Amsterdam, I have been riding in whatever I plan to wear to work (office casual most days). So skirts and sandals usually. A safety pin between the knees works fine to keep my skirt down. I am riding a women's 3 speed, so I am sitting upright. I enjoy being able to cruise into work in less than ten minutes. I certainly feel more relaxed than I do in my car.

Yesterday I ran into my neighbor coming home from work on her bike. She noted how brave I was for wearing a skirt. I laughed and told her that it was actually quite comfortable and that now that I was used to it, I preferred it because I didn't have to let my transportation dictate my outfit for the day. "And it's more modest than what I am wearing," she observed as she gestured at her tank top and shorts. Why yes, I guess it is, I thought. I have always had religious neighbors for some reason. (The neighbor who helped me pick up my spilled trash cans but wanted to pray first - Lord, we don't know why this happened today, but we know that you have a reason...was the weirdest.) Current Religious Neighbor always has a way of finding some religious meaning in my behavior and it is in a non-threatening way. So now when I get dressed to ride my bike to work I can be rest assured that God is pleased with my modest biking attire.

Yesterday evening I was cleaning a shelf in the yard when my Pit Bull neighbor came by. (He is not to be confused with Pit Bull Neighbor Who Chains the Dog to the Wall all Night and Lets it Bark. He's just Pit Bull Guy.) He's friendly and in control of his dog, and I know him because he exercises his dog multiple times a day and practices obedience lessons in their yard. So he came by yesterday when I was in the front yard and he had his Pit Bull and a new dog - a silly, fluffy white dog who jumps around. And he was in control of both of the dogs who are so different. He was correcting silly, jumpy dog and controlling pit bull dog, and making eye contact with me. "Hello," he said. "Your dogs are so different," I observed. He smiled and said, "They get along," and they went on down the sidewalk. And that's when I realized that Cesar Milan's cousin lives on my block.