Life of Wry

Here is Desmond.  He’s in a bad way, but managed to get out of trouble here and did pretty damn well on the front nine.  I bailed out at the turn on account of stiffness, so wasn’t around to hear if he was able to duplicate his front-nine 44.  That’d make for a very nice score.

I, on the other hand, shot something like a 55 on the front nine, with four triple bogeys, two doubles and three plain old boges.  I like it when a triple is the worst I do on the day.. nothing terrible, no mulligans, no lost balls.  And I did most of it with a 9-iron. Yes, a nine.  Right off the tee.  On the last couple holes, as I got braver, I used a 7-iron.  For me, after not playing for five thousand years, I’m happy with that, it was totally my speed.. I was more concerned with hitting the ball cleanly, which I actually managed a few times.

I did play last January, also with Desmond, and did worse, so I’m trending in the right direction, at least.

Anyway, just nice to be out there.

Thing is, it was very crowded, and, how can I put this kindly …. I didn’t think there were that many old guys in the entire city of Davis.  Seems every last one of them was at Muni this morning, cruising around in carts, backed up at each hole.  Many, many old guys.  I felt like this youngster or something, rather out of place.  The two guys we were paired with included a 90-year-old.  I’m not kidding.  And he was really good, too.  Here he is: Wayne, 90, on left, and his friend from Indiana, David, a few decades younger:

Wayne has macular degeneration (which I wrote about last month, here) and is blind in one eye.  Most of the time, his buddy had to tell him where the ball went.  Then he’d have to tell him where to aim, since he couldn’t see the pin, either.

He still outscored me.

I’m a little beat (no, extremely beat, struggling mightily to stay awake here) and expect to be relatively immobile tomorrow, but it was worth it.  And it was lovely out there. I’ve always liked the course, off Road 29, in the middle of farmland.  Dodged a lot of wildlife, too. Look at the size of this bunny rabbit:

May be the biggest rabbit I’ve ever seen.  Honestly, looked like a small deer.  No exaggeration.

If I keep this golf thing up, I may have to update my equipment.  For starters, I played in running shoes.  I also used hand-me-down clubs that were generously passed along to me when my beloved clubs were stolen in 1994 (definitely remember that date, since the thieves also got my car, which is where I stored my clubs).  My new, old, clubs seem vintage 1950s–no high tech materials, just some kind of heavy, silver-colored metal–with very slippery old leather grips.  Then there’s my golf bag– anti-ergonomically designed, unwieldy, filthy, stained and torn.  I’m kind of an embarrassment out there.  Hard for a gear snob.

Anyway.  Golf today, in spite of high scores and funky equipment, was a thrill.

* you non-golfers know that’s golf spelled backwards, right?

Maybe you heard a vaguely erotic, moanful cry from somewhere along A Street just now?

Sweet Jesus.. whatta peach.

Whatta morning.

Been sitting in a lot of waiting rooms lately.  Three today.  Nothing serious, just taking care of business, trying to get to the bottom of stubborn, resolute tendons.  Complicated things by stepping on a nail.. that kind of thing.

So, my idea for this picture, since I have nothing I really want to say about all this, was to paste a poem in this spot, something about waiting.  Turns out, if you google waiting and poem, you get a sh*tload of poems.. all about waiting, written by people you know, like Robert Frost and Lawrence Ferlinghetti.  There’s even a site called In the Waiting Room that solicits poems about, well, being in a waiting room.

That was way too easy.

I’m not really sure how we even lived without the internet.

The highlight of my day was not stepping on that rusty nail in that construction site along B Street this morning on the way home from breakfast (right through my shoe, I might add).  Foot’s still throbbing a little and feels like I’m swinging a club, but I think that’s just the aftermath of the shocking little unexpected trauma.

But, having a hole in my foot gave me just the permission I needed to sit and read all day.  So I spent most of the afternoon reading High Time, Louise Hillary’s account of her family’s Christmas vacation in 1971.  Exciting!!  Why?  Because she’s the wife of Sir Edmond Hillary, the New Zealander who was the first to climb Mt. Everest in 1953.  In 1971, Louise and Ed took their kids–Peter (17), Sarah (15) and Belinda (13)–on a 270-mile trek through the mountains of Nepal.  For me, it was both the fascinating tale of a Himalayan trek to areas I’d visited last spring, and a generational story I could sort of relate to.  I am Sarah’s age, so it was interesting to imagine myself–a ninth grader in 1971–hiking those kind of distances in such a remote corner of the world.  And Belinda then, is Peter’s age now.. my Peter.. so I thought a lot about Peter doing such a thing at age 13.  In 1971, it was also very much a pre-tourist, pre-international trekker environment, but, culturally, not hugely different than it is today.  For many reasons, I’ve just been totally gripped by this story.

The real highlight of my day, however, was this: After a few hours of reading, I needed a break and decided to google Hillary family members to see what they’re doing now.  Turns out, Louise died in a plane crash in 1975, which I knew, but what I didn’t know was that daughter Lindy was also on that plane, and died, as well.  I was crushed to read this, since I’d been getting to know her pretty well through this book. I also googled Sarah and found that she is now an artist, lives in NZ and keeps a fairly low profile.  But, Peter, the oldest: he’s carried on a life similar to his dad’s: he’s an explorer, mountain climber and philanthropist (Sir Edmond Hillary Foundation, the American Himalayan Foundation,  the Himalayan Trust, and others).  AND, he leads trips.

So I go to his website  and find out that not only does he do trips to Nepal–visiting schools, hospitals, and friends, as well as trekking–he leads trips to Mt. Kilimanjaro and Antarctica.  MT. KILIMANJARO…. a trip we’ve put on our list for next year.

The website invites you to contact Peter (himself, I gather) for additional information about the trips, so I did.  And that was the highlight of my day–writing a personal email to Peter Hillary, inquiring about a trip to Africa next year.

How cool is that?

Saturday.

A nice day not to be in a hurricane (thinking good thoughts for friends on the east coast dealing with Hurricane Irene today).

Meanwhile…

Davis Farmer’s Market was its usual bounty of people, and all kinds of organic produce.  Some shots:

I do love the quality of Blackberry photos.. these pictures just take themselves–color, composition and all!  (Further thinking.. a Blackberry’s kind of the perfect camera for a Farmer’s Market, no?  Berry.. produce.. market… get it?)

Well.

Came home and laid my haul on the counter, grabbed a better camera and got some closer-up shots:

Have a little fuzz with your peach?

Or a little sugar with your elephant ear?

Or a few wrinkles with your tomato?

Or some dimples with your strawberry…

My favorite, however, are the white nectarines.. which are not too camera worthy.. so didn’t bother.  They ARE the best eating, though.

Awesome to live in farm rich, central valley California in the summer… and three blocks from Farmer’s Market.

Neglected to take a photo today… too busy having coffee with people.  So.. went into the archives to find a picture; thought I would look for one that said: coffee or cafe or conversation or friendship or books (because it seems most of the conversations today were about, or related to, books and writing) …   I don’t know, something that conveyed the theme of this day spent in Davis’ finest cafes.  But instead, I went into the archives and got stuck on this little bathroom photo series from 2003.  Nothing at all to do with today (which doesn’t mean I won’t try to tie it in, we’ll see how that goes..).

Here we go.

How many adults does it take to raise a child?

Evidently, one to do all the hard work, the other to capture it for posterity.  Totally, Peter will kill me later for these, and years after that, hopefully, will laugh or roll his eyes, or both.  Or just think he had a couple of weird, old parents who maybe thought they’d never have kids but then did and therefore did all these stupid things… like document toenail cutting. It’s not picture worthy, but then it kind of is, because it’s so what day-to-day life looks like.  And, really, those tend to be my favorite shots.

But, believe me, nobody’s laughing at herself more than I am.   Is that just goofier than all hell, or what?  Look how silly I look bending down to get just the right angle.    I should be, but I’m not even that embarrassed.

I am sorry the bathroom mirror has toothpaste spit all over it.

I am reaping what I sow, however.  As of this writing, I have 28,531 photos in my iphoto digital library.  This is after a huge dump (with oh so many more to go).  And, hilariously, it doesn’t include most of the first few years of Peter’s life, as those pictures exist mainly in physical form (pre-digital days).  That era–newborn, preschool–was my photo heyday when I really took a lot of pictures and god only knows what I’m going to do with all of those.  They’re not sortable, not editable, not face-recognitionable… they’re just in boxes, lots and lots of boxes.

Anyway, I’m not concerned.  I will get to all those pictures and make beautiful sense out of them all; I’ve shown myself to be a good project taker on-er, and I know I’m good for it.  Long as I don’t get hit by a mack truck before I get to this great family life documentation project.    

So, after the toenail cutting event, there was the ok-we’re-all-done-cutting-Peter’s-toenails shot.  See how pleased Jim is to have this picture taken? That left eye most definitely says, This is ridiculous, Kari, put the camera down already. Jesus.

Peter seems pretty into it, though. (And god, look at that underwear; that’s worth the shot right there.)  Actually, it looks like he’s saying, You’re kidding, right, mom?  Except he’s too young to have mastered sarcasm and irony.  He’s only 4 here.

I’ve run on plenty about toenails, old photos, life documenting and whatnot, but have not been able to bring my comments around to my wonderfully enjoyable three cafe day.

… Except to say, I didn’t manage to document it… and that’s a good sign.

Some back lit Dr. Seussian plantage, down Putah Creek way.

The arboretum was pretty today, but definitely in transition.  I’m still pretending we’re in the dog days of summer, even though school’s now started and some of the trees are clearly exhibiting fall behavior.

By the way, know where the term dog days of summer comes from?  The Romans associated hot weather with the star Sirius. Sirius happens to be the greek word for scorching.  Sirius is also called the dog star because it’s the brightest star in the constellation Canis Major, Large Dog.  (Sirius is also the brightest star in the night sky.)  So… hot days, scorching, Sirius, dog star –> dog days of summer.  Dog Days are the hottest, most sultry days of summer in late August.

That’s how we get there.   So says Wikipedia.

Also from Wikipedia: Dog Days were popularly believed to be an evil time “when the seas boiled, wine turned sour, Quinto raged in anger, dogs grew mad, and all creatures became languid, causing to man burning fevers, hysterics, and phrensies” according to Brady’s Clavis Calendarium, 1813.

Anyway, where was I before I went down that rabbit hole….  oh yeah, Dr. Seuss and his funny trees.  I saw one today in real life.

This is my office..  and also the guest room (note futon).  Most importantly, it’s my little den of torture (and sometimes pleasure) — my workout room.

I’ve had this set up for years, but there are some new additions (and more on the way), that are specifically used in addressing my achilles issues… which… I’ve recently learned is not garden variety acute tendonitis; instead it’s something more like chronic tendinopathy.  Which may also be garden variety for old people like me, whose tendons and sheath-like things are not what they used to be.  (From a useful website, quote, Unfortunately, achilles tendinopathy ranks as one of the biggest nuisances to sports medicine providers and athletes. End quote.  Yuck, huh?)

Not really wanting to use this blog to whine about my tendons, which I do a lot of, but thought I’d provide a tour of the gear.  Because I’m a gear head.

First, note the thick foam pad on the floor.  Heavenly.

Then some built-ins: those two horizontal bars are great for stretches of many types.  Love those bars; super heavy duty, you can do anything on them.  On the lower one, you’ll see a thick plexi-glass incline board (really, an insert that came with some computer we’d recently ordered) with no-slip bathtub strips stuck to it (it’s got a lip that hooks over the top of the bar and is easily removable).  This provides a perfect calf muscle stretch.  Presently, I’m using a brick riser to decrease the slope (and that brick has a dishtowel wrapped around it so I don’t scratch the floor).  The brick does double duty, as well.  Also built into the wall is a thick, heavy ring that holds various stretch tubes for all manner of arm and torso workouts.  Really awesome.  Just like a real gym.

Thanking the gods for crafty husbands.

On the ground, an array of weights–a few different sets of ankle weights for various leg exercises and some free weights for numerous other arm exercises.  There are also two different instruments of torture used to loosen one’s IT bands and other intractable fibers, sheaths and tendons.  The foam roller and the roller stick, much as I hate them both, are my best friends right now.  That Gerty ball, purchased today at Alphabet Moon, is something I’m supposed to use for a couple of stretches the physical therapist has been working with me on.  Also not my favorite stretches, but I like the ball.

Also on the ground is a heating pad, something I’m using a lot these days.  Poor my tendons.

There’s a clock; that’s for timing the length of certain stretches (30 seconds seems to be the magic number).  And all that paper on the wall.. those are charts and graphs and lists and things like that.  Because I have to write all this stuff down.

Out of camera range is my cool radio, so I can listen to NPR.  Good way to keep up on news, because I am certainly hearing a lot of it while on this road to recovery.

This little bit of ethereality is brought to you by me.. who couldn’t react fast enough to get a good parting shot this morning, on this, the first day of school.  It’s Peter on his new bike (a Rockhopper, very neat).  He was so eager to get to school that he just sped off in a blur (really?!).  Later he told me it was just because his bike is so fast. 

I actually was able to get the obligatory picture of Peter’s first day, the one I take each year in front of the sycamore (the sycamore we planted when he was born, more or less, and the one he refers to as “my tree”), which he agreed to, not even begrudgingly.

The 8th grade version on left, the kindergarten version on right (maybe I didn’t need to say that):

First day of school is tomorrow.  Peter starts 8th grade.  I am the one filled with anxiety.

I used to be sort of glad to see summer come to an end.. the return of routine and structure, and the predictability of the days.  These days, however, everything seems more of a struggle and I’m expecting a year of rough roads and power struggles.  Our darling, hormone-enriched teenager is far less manageable, what with having a mind of his own and all.  This junior high school business is a whole nuther level of independence, attitude, capability, responsibility, attitude, interests, motivation, and attitude.  I know y’all know what I’m talking about, so I’ll not go into detail.  It’s just a mixed bag.  Sometimes, he’s a sweet, polite, engaged kid who’s a pleasure to take shopping for school supplies and ice cream after… and other times he’s challenging things that are utterly un-challenge worthy and exhausting to be around.

But here we are; he’ll be leaving for the first day of school in exactly 9 hours and 20 minutes.  And, (1) he’s already in bed; (2) the get up time’s been agreed to; (3) the new backpack is packed with new binders and pens; (4) stuff he chose has been bought for the week’s breakfasts and lunches; (5) a weekly schedule’s been roughed out that allows for four baseball practices, plenty of social time, adequate homework time and even some media time; (6) we agreed to reasonable sanctions for failing to comply with a couple of workload management strategies (devised by his counselor at the end of his 7th grade year);  (7) we negotiated some rewards for hitting goals in the coming year (cash incentives, if you can believe that, very much a first in our household, but an experiment we’ve decided is worth trying, in spite of its feeling enormously crass and bribish); and (8) as you can see above, his desk’s been cleared (not to mention rebuilt and fortified) and is ready for service.

This all seems good and well-thought-out and organized, but that’s never the measure of a good school year.  It all comes down to his motivation and focus and whether the genuine interest he has at the beginning of the school year can last beyond the first semester.  And whether my patience can endure in the face of his motivational and behavioral lapses, and whether I can avoid turning into that shrew mama person along about the 3rd quarter.

So, I need to get to bed, too, since it’s also my first day of the school year.   Hopeful and optimistic with a clean slate…