Yellow Snow?

I think we are still not over the effects of the Covid debacle that had us hamstrung five years ago. We were stuck at home so long, were taught to avoid the physical presence of people, figured out how to order all our stuff online or with the touch of a button or two...so we became those floaty people in the movie "Wall-E." Or at least I am heading perilously close to that. I used to enjoy the whole adventure of shopping, but now my patience monitor has gotten extremely short and I can feed the instant gratification monster with a few clicks while I wait for the light to turn. They'll have my hairspray waiting on the front porch by morning, in its own bag. I have guilt, for all the bags and boxes that are flooding over here. Well, apparently not enough guilt to change my ways. It seems to be the human default, to take the easiest path home. 

We have numerous activities looming: a week-long camping trip with family and church family; Easter and the joy of Good Friday and morning service at church (my favorite remembrance of the year - He is alive!); the eventual cessation of the pollen; a trip to Ken's brother's in Florida in May. Then comes the heat... Thinking about what to do, to get moving more. My trips to the pool are too infrequent and the conveniences of restaurants and pre-packaged food might be killing us all. What a dour attitude. Get going, sistah.

My favorite greenhouse is open now: Georgia Bluebird Greenhouses in Rockmart. I have been waiting all winter for them to unlock the doors. Their plants are rich and green, and their staff knows what to do with them. Years ago, I planted Creeping Fig all along the wall that abuts the street. If you don't know this plant, just head yourself to Charleston and note all the vines decorating its beautiful self, the ones that have smaller, sweeter leaves than ivy. That's Creeping Fig and I want it everywhere. Will see if the Bluebird has some to add to my collection, plus some ferns, succulents, groundcover and anything unique to gussie up my Victorian yard. We quit putting weed killer on it years ago and let the clover and moss take over. Now the bees have their way and it's much softer on  bare feet. I'd head there now, but the pollen reading was 14,800 -- 5,000 more than any earlier levels. 5,000. More! We are gonna die. I'll give it a week or two and then head there, so I won't suffocate in the pollen when I go to planting everything.

But it's finally spring, thank the Lord, bringing hope and light and joy (as well as the elephant sitting on my chest from the allergies). There's nothing as dreary as a Georgia winter, but then nothing as wonderful as a Magnolia Street, Villa Rica spring.    

Breathing In the Musky

We recently watched the movie "Hoosiers" again, one of my all-time favorites. I love a good sports movie, where there's the struggle of rising above defeat and the limitations of bodies to find victory. Think: Rocky, Remember the Titans, Rudy, Coach Carter, Glory Road... In seeing Hoosiers again, however, I was transported back to my youth. Even though this movie was set in the year 1951 and my basketball days started in the 70s, there were many similarities. I could smell the musky, dusty, antiquated locker rooms of my beloved McEachern in Powder Springs, Georgia where grades 6-12 were all on the same campus. One of the gyms was a big, white building that seemed to be a hundred years old, with barely room enough around the playing box to even walk. They called it the "Girls Gym" and we did P.E. and practiced basketball in there. It was also the best Battleball arena because the walls were high, with grates on them.  My sister and I played intramural ball of every kind during middle school years in that old white gym. I wish I had those legs back. The larger gym was still older than dirt but was considered the "Big Gym" where games were held. 

The trials of Middle School must be eternal. I remember fifth grade at Powder Springs Elementary, where I was on top of the world. They now say that you should go back in your head and find your ten-year-old self and try to emulate the good things that were going on at that time (this isn't true for everyone, and who is "they" anyway?) But if my life were my a mirror of that season, then the world is my oyster. Confident, fun, successful, dancing on chairs. Then sixth grade happened, not just to me but everyone. My elementary grade friends emerged from that summer, changed, alien, strangers. The world became scarier overnight and the walls fell away. New faces joined us as we started changing classes instead of being cozied up all day with the same teacher. When you are eleven, it seems that the whole world is cavorting away on Friday night at the skating rink while you're stuck watching The Brady Bunch with your siblings. The culture was telling us that everyone who was anybody already had a boyfriend and was applying layers of makeup, while my country self was still combing the fields around us for tadpoles and daisies and playing ball with Daddy and my sister. I'm truly thankful for good parents who kept me grounded. 

It was with great relief that high school finally rolled around, because it affected another sea change in my life. I clearly remember the day it was announced that basketball tryouts were coming up and we were to meet in the Big Gym. The new ninth grade coach was introduced -- strong, tough, no-nonsense, intimidating. That was how I loved my teachers and coaches -- Daddy was our first coach when we were little softball players, and even though he was the sweetest of men, he ran us hard and expected our highest efforts. He believed in us; we were pushed hard and encouraged to the maximum. How lucky could I be, to have that kind of man raising me?

Coach Brown was like a drill sergeant, running us over hill and dale, teaching us Maravich drills and learning to pump iron in the weight room (this was new to women's sports). Before we even touched a ball, he had us in good shape. I couldn't wait until classes were over every day to hear the thumping of balls on the court and face the challenge of stretching ourselves to the brink. Every spare minute at home was spent shooting hoops in the driveway on the plain, small plywood backboard Daddy made. If I missed, the ball would roll down the hill, motivating me to rebound before it got away. 

Those high school years were wonderful. I ate, slept and dreamt basketball. There were so many life lessons learned there -- how to endure beyond what I thought possible, how to give way to others, how to follow leadership, how to see nobility in the daily grind, how to reach deep. Those things translated to so much of what I have had to do as an adult...I've pushed out and raised four strong-willed Viking babies; the slow and difficult constancy of keeping little humans and husband alive and fed; years of fixing up and maintaining impossible houses; all manner of cottage industries done from home; homeschooling said humans despite my frailties and crazy-brain; ladder-climbing of all sorts as I've painted the world; and so much more.

Yes, basketball has been very, very good to me. I miss the musty gym, the sweaty and earthy connection to the struggle. That rangy, coltish girl is still in there. I must visit her soon...   

Chillin' Poolside

We meet up of chilly mornings at the local pool. Two Blonde Bobbers, not to be mistaken with Blonde Bombers (which wear rollerskates and try to knock each other off  small roller rinks with obligatory disco balls overhead) -- though we might have done such doings, back in the day. She hails from New York and I from here. We've lived through the disco days, husbands, babies, dozens of pets and years of playing in community wind ensembles (she on the saxophone, me on flute). That's where we became friends a decade ago. She was my beautiful roomie when we toured and played Italy last summer, urging me to not give up when my feet were begging to give up from all the walking we were doing. Where we might have been disco divas back when it mattered, the years have left us queenly, still blonde, but just extra. We decided we needed to exercise some of that "extra" off. Since my Achilles has never been the same since Italy, I thought swimming, particularly treading water, was all I could manage. Thus the pool... People look at us strangely, as we don't wear flotation belts or join the "deep aerobics" class. There ain't no doing laps or jogging through the shallow end. We just make our way to the deep end, tread water and ratchet-jaw our way through an hour. It is amazing how quickly the time goes when you get two women together who have full lives. If we didn't force our arms and legs to move, we might not even call it exercise (in all fairness, I did say something about bobbing earlier).

There is a richness to a middle-aged woman. I actually mean a three-quarter's woman, because middle-aged might be 40 or thereabouts, mere child's play. She has weathered the silly years or the bitter years, the disappointments, the triumphs, the stretching-out of everything that was once taut. She sees the world behind her like a rapidly-accelerating time warp and faces the unknown sprawling before her with some trepidation. She didn't intend on losing her strength or all the B-B's that seem to keep dropping out of her brain (because it's already so full). No one told her that people would ever consider her irrelevant or passe, but it happens. The wake fanning behind her is considerable, whether she realizes it or not. The humbling eventually comes. There are those younger, stronger, quicker, smarter, more beautiful, more skilled that will take our place. This is always the truth and is the way of life, as long as time continues. We think we will live forever in full bloom. It's true in heaven, but not down here. Circle of life and all that... 

I've known the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat, many cycles in different arenas. Life is not merely meant to be a competition, though we do it to survive, to fight for meaning, and sometimes just for fun. I've learned  and had to do a lot of things all along the way that have often been uncomfortable. Trusting God has been the big mountain before me, because each step is an unknown. Now, I am challenged to learn about how to keep moving (how?!), to continue growing, to bless others even when strength ebbs, to gracefully accept that sometimes it's just someone else's turn and that I don't have to do every single rootin-tootin' thing. Maybe say no to the next silly dog-and-pony show, let go of things that pride is making me hold onto, and throw out (or give away) half of the crap in my china cabinet. 

And while I'm at it, go jump in the pool with my friend...