Life of Wry

What a difference a day makes, huh?  Today turned yesterday on its head.

With today’s change in weather, came a welcome change in mood…. and grateful are the unfortunate few who had to deal with yesterday’s darkness.

Here is a photo of the UCD water tower taken in the same spot as yesterday’s photo, for comparison.

Davis in the winter.

’nuff said.

…..  baseball season is soon to open.  This will be Peter’s last year in majors.    He is so looking forward to it.  As are his parents.

As usual, “skills assessment” included three chances to hit from the pitching machine, a run around the bases, 3 fly balls (2 thrown to second and one to home), and 3 grounders (with throws to first).  Then, they take first base for the next player.. and it’s over.

Here’s a shot of Peter’s at bat.

And here’re the coaches who are making notes on each player, and who will choose players  based on those evaluations in the upcoming draft.  In a couple of weeks, Peter will get a call from his new coach.  And with that, practices will begin.  The season will run through July, or thereabouts.

(Also: yippee!)

This is Walter Johnson.  But everyone calls him Swede.  He’s of Swedish heritage (well, yeah), grew up in the mines of northern Minnesota, and loves the Polka.  Really loves the Polka.

We met one another in the mid-80s when he walked into my office one day offering to volunteer.  For a few years, he filed.  He was a great filer.

He’s a veteran of the Korean war.  Following the service, he worked in the auto parts business.  After retiring, in addition to his volunteering, he became a collector and a distributor (he could find a recipient for just about everything he found on the street), worked as a box boy at Albertson’s, had his own business for many years: “Swede’s Cruisin’ for Carts” (the guy who rounds up errant grocery store carts), and now offers his time to the VA hospital pharmacy department.   He has a penchant for musical cards (you know the ones) and never comes to lunch without a few gifts and balloons.

About this time of year, we celebrate our birthdays with a pair of lunches.  He always has a boat load of friendly gossip, a few political opinions, and brings me up to date on his large extended family and current health issues.

The photo doesn’t lie: he’s got a ready smile and a generous heart.

What Monday morning isn’t about coffee, huh?

This is the bottom of cup number two, in cafe number two.  That was my morning…not unlike a lot of my mornings lately–hustled through morning mom missions, worked out, walked with people, drank coffee with people.

I’m a big fan of Monday mornings.  Because…

• I like beginnings.  I love a fresh start.  I like coming out of slothiness and into productivity.

• I love the morning.  I would start them earlier if I could end the previous day earlier.  Will work on that.

• I’m alliterate.

Anyway, on this particular Monday morning, the walk was with a friend’s mom.  She’s 81… and damn, she’s spry.  She’s so spry, it would be an insult to call her spry (I would imagine).  She is simply active, sharp & quick, engaged, competent.  Also, impressively, comfortable in her older skin–willing to admit when she needs help, and appreciative when she gets it.  (Filing that away.)  Every bit my match, and then some.  Exactly as you’d want someone’s mom to be; we want our elders wise.

I try to be mindful of not playing the part of younger person out with an older person.  I am remembering the words of my mom who, on a recent coffee outing, hissed at me: “do not talk to me like I am out on a hall pass.”  I got the message.  So did the barista, so did the people behind us.  Un.com.fort.able…but a point well made.

So, I’m thinking about all that…  Moms. Mondays. Mornings. Missions. Mindfulness.  (See? Alliterate.)

That’s the original picture –>

After days and days of either rain or dense fog in the valley, the skies cleared today which made an afternoon of bird watching a heck of a lot more enjoyable than it might have been.  We were there–the Cosumnes River Preserve and a side trip out to Staten Island–to watch the Sand Hill Cranes, who are here for the winter.

We witnessed a stunning sunset, too, with Mt. Diablo in the background and the wetlands in the foreground.  We watched thousands of cranes in mesmerizing formations come in to settle for the night.  The sights and sounds were just plain awesome.

And…. they’re off.

We sent the little one off on a skiing adventure this morning with his friend Quinn and a bunch of other teenagers.  On a fancy bus.

The above photo? That’s the fancy bus at its 5:45am departure.

It was an amusing pre-dawn scene.  We, the parents, clustered in small, awkward circles, in various stages of awakeness.  Most of us had responded to alarms that went off well before they should have on a Saturday morning.  Trip supervisors ran around busily loading food and gear, collecting forms and answering questions.. they were a lot more alert.  Good thing.   Kids–some in full ski regalia, goggles set just so on top of their heads, and some with their gear in shopping bags–milled groggily; some seemed apprehensive, some seemed cool.

Challenging logistics this morning were made trickier by the fact Peter had gone to a slumber party last night.. which meant little, and certainly not enough, sleep was had.  It also meant the mom of the slumber party host had to get up at an ungodly hour, find Peter in a dark room among a jumble of sleeping bags, revive him, and get him downstairs and to the front door for the hand-off.  In the car, he changed into snow clothes–clumsily–and off we went.   The changing-into-snow-clothes-in-the-car part?  With super tired and grumpy kid?  Yeah..

However, there is much to recommend this trip–great snow conditions and sunny weather in today’s forecast, a very squared away adventure organizing company, and of course the commute to and from.  I’m thinking two hours each way with a couple dozen other teenagers on a bus that includes pillow-soft seats and a bathroom should be at least as much fun as the ski lesson they’ll take, the chair lift they’ll master, the sunny deck on which they’ll bask and, I hope, eat a little lunch, and the green circle slope they’ll slalom down like slaloming superstar ski studs…

Should be a great, great day.

Very gray and gloomy here in the central valley on a cold winter’s day in early January.  Took myself out for a walk to try and distract my sinking mood, headache, hunger and need for coffee.  Such the winning combo.

Found little to cheer me up, so decided to work with what I had–a sad, empty bleacher on a dreary day in the off season.

However.  Turns out, baseball tryouts (ahem, “skills assessments”) are scheduled for this weekend–hard as that is to imagine.  So the season of testosterone and spitting, scorekeeping and cheering, red vines and sunflower seeds, freshly cut outfields and finely shaped pitcher’s mounds, is not too far away.  Can I get a wuhoo!

The moms of two of my closest and best friends from growing up commented on my last blog post.  Sally’s mom and Katy’s mom.  I’ve recently reconnected with both of them through social media.  How incredibly sweet and blessed.  Nothing says village more than that: to pick up a conversation that might have begun nearly 50 years ago with the moms of your friends growing up… moms in whose homes you spent incredible amounts of time, who knew you at 6 and 11 and 18, through Brownies, sleepovers, go go boots & fishnets, pimples, track meets, college applications, and a few other turns in the road too painful to imagine.

There they are, making comments, sharing their thoughts, validating my own.

I was feeling pretty exposed after posting the Dismantling Christmas essay.  I didn’t feel (too) badly about dissing the holidays, but I did feel chagrined that I am somehow allowing myself to be tripped up by them, that I’m just not taking control.  Figure it out, I thought to myself, move on; it’s not that hard. Felt very self-critical.  Wanting to be more evolved.. definitely not wanting to be a person at some boringly rudimentary rung of some I don’t know what ladder.  Maybe the ladder of “help I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”  Ye gods.  And while I don’t worry (too) much about others’ judgment, I did feel kind of out there, and not in a good way.

On the other hand, as I say to students in social media classes: social media is a new way to communicate; it’s raw and open, very transparent and best when it’s authentic and honest.  We’re just people.  So, I am a little surprised by my own reaction.

But then along come the moms and aunts, grandmas and friends–especially those moms of my oldest and best friends–willing to listen and talk about it, and offer their wisdom….and I guess it’s alright.

Also pretty cool.

[By the way, the photo is shot this morning at Putah Creek on a walk with Vicki .. very foggy and wet (note drips on branches).]

Roasted some chestnuts tonight.  The smell brought back memories of eating hot chestnuts out of paper cone cups while walking around a Christkindlmarkt in Germany–can’t remember which city–in December, I think in about 1984 and again in 1990.  Remembering cold, snowy night, hot mulled wine, hot sausages you had to eat before the fat congealed…

Davis version: Jim got a handful of chestnuts at the Food Coop and sneaked them into oven, while Peter and I tried to figure out, without looking, what was making the weird popping noises.