Miss Tiger

The sun shone brightly on the greens, a crisp, 80 degree Oregon summer day.  The breeze gently cooling the back of my neck, I squinted as I stood beside him.  His hair had greyed since we met, but his shoulders remained strong and his blue eyes soft.  He was wearing the new golf shirt I purchased, though not in his taste.  Whoosh… the ball rocketed past me on a straight and narrow path, down the fairway 200 yds to land 6 feet from the hole.  He grinned. 

He was not a boisterous man, rather humble, modest; but, I had learned the subtleties of his moods.  Today his lie had been off to the left, to the right, but this, this was good, this was great. 

I smiled and turned to duff yet another ball.  Unlike him, my game had peaked at the second tee and was now barrelling rapidly down hill as fatigue chased me on the back nine.  However, my first private lesson behind me, my drive was definitely on the up swing.  Even I had pounded out a few cruisers today. Though, as always, I made an even trade; distance at the expense of my short game, picking up a putt here a putt there, chipping back and forth across the hole… ever closer, never in. 

Today had been unusual however, not only were we out playing together, the children tucked safely at home for a nap, we were in for a little twist. Having missed our planned playing partners by showing up at the wrong course, we were paired with two, not just one, other women singles.  What were the odds.  Sue, an older asian woman, cheered us on with lofty jeers. “Mr Tiger!” she would call out, as my husband plopped yet another ball easily into the hole for birdie.  Cheryl,  more quiet, was reserved, yet out to play.  “Are you a professional athlete?” she asked me, “no, no” I replied, nearly choking on my water with laughter.  She obviously had not seen me play when she hastily made this conclusion… 

 It must have been my outfit… cute, crisp and confident… great shorts. 

Regardless, I think our trio threw my “tiger” for a little loop.  I don’t think he had been heckled by three women on the course before.  In the end, he pulled through in his usual fashion, the sleeper, the ace in the hole. Showing up with beat up clubs, old shorts and socks pulled to the mid calf, he could wrangle a few bucks off most smug players.  Course, he had cleaned up his act a bit, sporting new Mizunos, shorter socks, and his new shirt; still, as he pulled out his 1980′s driver, so small it looked like a fairway wood, a hush would fall over, maybe even a snicker would trickle out,  followed hastily by a “wow!”  from the women as he sent his ball soaring. 

I don’t think I’ll ever tire of watching him play… or of trying to play like him, so even keeled, so consistent, so humble.  Hopefully, he won’t tire of watching my attempts, so flustered, so annoyed, so vocal.  It was fun though, seeing his face when the women stepped up, having the tables turned for once.  I don’t think we really ever made him nervous, none of us being very good, but it’s kind of fun to pretend.  Grrrr.

Peach Berry Skies

I looked out at the grey skies hanging over our house, the air cool on my face as I stood in the doorway.  It was a pie day.  I closed the door and sulked back to the kitchen, the warmth of the oven pulling me in.  Sweet fruit aromas wafted from the oven, the sticky juice bubbling over, sizzling as it dripped down.  The crust was taking on a beautiful golden hue as it basked in the oven’s rays. 

I pulled the pie from the oven watching the steam rise from the center poke holes. 

I sat next to my dull day prize, lazily reading quips from the paper. 

I tapped my fingers impatiently as I sipped my afternoon tea. 

I could wait no longer. 

I cut a huge swath from the pie, holding my breath to see if it was too dry or too runny.  Breathing a sigh of relief, I carefully placed the soft centered piece, still intact, on my plate, the berries just barely oozing out the sides.  Spoon in hand, I gouged a huge divet from the “hogs and dogs” vanilla and watched it slide to the side of the plate as it melted.  Nervous about the peach berry combo, I took a small lick of the filling…juicy, tart and sweet.  The buttery crust held up to the juice but melted in my mouth at the end of the bite…mmmmmmmmmm.

What are you humming about? my husband asked.  I snapped to and looked at the three hungry faces staring at  me.   I looked outside, still grey.    Freshly picked raspberries, blue berries and black berries were tumbling out of a large bowl; fragrant peaches were stacked high on the counter.  It would be a scrumptious pie day.

Remains of the Day

Life at the zoo

We trudged back to the car, one asleep in the bjorn, one dragging her feet, two whining for snacks, and three perturbed by the others.  It had been a long, though entertaining, morning at the zoo.  I, like many other fortunate individuals, did not have to work today.  It always surprises me how many people do not have to work, moms, dads and grandparents included.  Regardless, we arrived at the zoo shortly after the gates opened, along with the herds of others, eager to catch a glimpse of the wolves, the cougars or the sun bear.  We had to settle, as usual, for the reliables: the wart hogs, the bald eagles, the bats.  I am coming to find that my favorite animals are not necessarily the ones I find most interesting, but the ones that are always available.  Like many aspects of society, we want to be able to have or get or see what we want when we have the time.  This sent my brain on a path of unpleasant thoughts about my experience at the zoo.  I was saddened by the pathological dance of the polar bears and the greenish discoloration of their fur, which my 8 year old niece reported was a fungus.  I was disheartened by the mottled appearance of the penguins and disgruntled by the ever under construction monkey exhibit.  It seemed all ever more apparent through the eyes of my sister, here from New York to visit.  I had always thought our zoo to be well layed out, in tune with the surroundings, friendly to it’s inhabitants, but today, it seemed, well, like most zoos, sad. 

I thought what it would be like to live in a cage, unclothed, and have people gawk and hoot and holler at me, watch me copulate, clean my self, and defecate.  I wondered if this was what prison felt like, a place for “animals” injured, damaged, unable to survive amicably and safely among their own kind.

We decided to board the train.  We took the pleasant journey to the rose gardens and playground and back.  Picnic in the park, cool breeze, warm sunshine.  I forgot about the incarcerated.

“Help, help, Mommy! I’m in a cage” my daughter was exclaiming from behind the jungle gym rail.  “Oh, may I help you out?”  “No, I like it in here” she said matter of factly.  Could that be, I thought?  Did the animals appreciate the chance to survive that they were given, did they enjoy their surroundings, enjoy the attention?  I looked at the bear walking back and forth in front of the window, over and over and over.  Impossible.  They knew they were trapped.

It’s almost time to renew my zoo membership, and I’m sure I will.  Sometimes, I feel like my house is a “zoo”, so why do I come?  My kids love the zoo and it is important from an educational standpoint.  Or is it?

Voice lessons

I looked over at my husband happily chewing his food.  He had his protective ear muffs on, the ones I had bought him for hunting to block out deafening levels of noise.  In my professional opinion as an otolaryngologist, I had to agree, this could certainly be ear damaging, short in duration, but piercing. 

I winced as he repeated the note, a high pitched shrill that turned heads where ever we went.  I looked over at my little squealer, arms out, fists shaking, his soft, chubby cheeks reddened with frustration.  We plainly did not understand his lingo, we were remedial learners.  He glared at us with his beautiful big, baby, blue eyes, tears welling.  I could see that he was perplexed.  How could two people, both well educated, not be able to comprehend… and were we deaf?  Could we not hear him screeching?  It was right there, in front of our eyes, yet somehow, we were too thick to figure out what “it” was. 

Idiots he thought.

Exasperated, I quickly picked up every item on the table until he exclaimed, “dis dis dis”.   His fists loosened as he turned to me and gave me his best cheeky front tooth grin.   

Melting, I rubbed my ears, now sore from the shrills.  If anyone could prevent a third, it was this one.  Maybe that was his goal I thought, show us what he was really made of, make us suffer so much we would never desire, or have the energy to produce, another child, then the attention would be all his.  Why didn’t more kids abuse this tactic I thought, I mean, isn’t that what we all want, more attention.  I apparently telepathed this idea to my daughter, brighter than most, who instantly started shrieking.  

My Chorus

I looked at my husband, now relaxed, happily listening to only the sound of his own chewing.  I smiled as the screaming escalated, tomorrow I would wear ear plugs.

White Haired Wonder meets Big Bad Brown

The wiley veteran and his two young padres stood on the bank surveying the terrain.  Twenty steps out, across three strong currents, down 32 degrees and behind the large rock, he was there, a well fed, 25 inch brown waiting to play.  They spoke in hushed tones formulating the best strategy.  Much to there chagrin, a young novice, unskilled in the art of crossing, hurriedly rushed out mid stream, poorly suited, and splashed in the hole.  They grimaced and chuckled, huddled,  reformulated.  Then, he stepped forward.  Armed with a 9 foot 4 weight Sage, shin guards in place, sun protective, mosquito repellant shirt tucked neatly at the waist, wading staff in hand, he went in.  Wading cautiously at first, then proceeding with deft speed down river, he took aim.  He cast, then cast again, and again, and again.  With the skill of a seasoned angler, he touched the fly to the waters edge, twitching it gently, baiting his prey.  The veteran brown could not resist the sight of the well placed treat.  He streaked to the surface, retrieving the snack. 

To the bold brown’s dismay, he had been tricked by the wits of a fellow veteran.  His speed and agility would save him he thought.  He raced down stream, pulling his captor along with him, knee deep, waist deep, chest deep then fully under.  He would bring the wiley veteran down he thought, a win for all future fish on the West fork of Kelly Creek. 

Then, just when he thought he had drown the old man, he felt a strong tug on his upper lip.  The trusty wading staff had lodged deep in the crevice between two boulders.  With the strength of just his finger tips, the white haired wonder turned back the tide.  A strong grip now round the middle, he pulled himself to his feet and began to reel in his bounty.  After much struggle, the old brown agreed to submit, proud to have been wrangled by such a worthy opponent.  On the banks, the crowds were a light, fretting at first at the veteran’s disappearance under the water’s ripples, then cheering with delight as he surfaced, fish in hand.  He trudged back to the banks, across the slippery rocks, to be embraced by his two young, proud padres.  They beamed as they helped their teacher, their hero to a grassy seat.  The wiley old veteran would live to fish another day.

Fly me to the moon

I stood watching, head back, eyes focused overhead, camera ready. Any second, it would come back. I heard the roar of the engines in the distance and then, there it was, soaring up over the horizon, a sunshine yellow biplane screaming low over the kelly green crops, skimming just above our heads. We had spied the plane hopping up and down over the hillsides from the last bend in the road and had pulled over to catch a shot of the yellow jacket in action. Funny, I have seen hundreds of planes, and flown in as many, but I never tire of looking at them. There is something mysterious about flight that leaves us longing to see just one more.

My daughter and I love to lie on our backs in the cool grass and gaze up at the clouds moving in and out of shapes. Our house and nearby park are along the southern route to the airport and we frequently spot planes cruising over head, exclaiming with excitement “a plane! a plane!” like Fantasy Island’s Tatu. And we’re girls. The fascination is definitely heightened, and perhaps inherent, in little boys, mine being no exception, squeeling and waving his arms and legs as he points upward to the sky. “One day I will grow wings and learn to fly like a bird”, my daughter adds. “Not in my lifetime” I quip, “but perhaps in yours”.

I was born 4 years after Apollo took it’s “giant step”. While in elementary school, I watched, horror struck, as the Columbia burned up in space, teacher and all. Growing up in Houston, we took frequent trips to NASA to marvel at the massive rocketships and watched each flight on the TV with anticipation.

“Zoom” my daughter shouted, as she soared high into the air on her swing. “Weeeee” my little boy exclaimed. “We’re flying!” I imagined what it might be like to fly in the yellow plane, the world rushing by, hair back, wind in my face; I imagined what it might be like to look down and see Earth hushed, still, gleaming back at you in the night sky…exhilarating.

Today, on the 40th anniversary of our first steps on the moon, I wonder what the next 40 years might bring. Perhaps, we’ll see what spring is like on jupiter and mars. Regardless, we will always be fascinated with flight.

Bobble head

He hopped along the waters edge, nimbly, like a frog, bouncing from rock to rock.  No mind to the trees or brush that walled his back side, his line would deftly sweep out across the river and land pointedly at the target.  It was beautiful to watch really.  He was calm and content and yet so focused and eager.  I made aims to imitate his form, as I usually do…golfing, tennis, even bowling… but to little gain.  You are great… for a girl… he would always add, never belittling, always humble, but never his equal.    As I bobbled uncomfortably, teetering on this rock and that, nearly losing my balance as I pushed my way in and out of the waters edge, my frustration seeped into my game.  That was the key, and though I knew this, I could not get past it…I had to relax.  He often became lost in the enjoyment of what he was doing, it didn’t matter whether he was successful or not.  I took a deep breath and eased my line out gently towards the ripple, slow, easy…zing…a nice healthy 12 incher.  I looked over at him, pleased.  He was watching me, smiling, a large bend to his rod…