Cartwheels in the Outfield

 365

When someone asks you your favorite sport

And you answer Baseball in a blink

There are certain qualities you must possess

And you're more attached than you think.

In the frozen grip of winter

I am sure you'll agree with me

Not a day goes by without someone

Talking baseball to some degree.

The calendar flips on New Year's Day

The Super Bowl comes and it goes

Get the other sports out of the way

The green grass and the fever grows

It's time to pack a bag and take a trip

To Arizona or the Sunshine State

Perhaps you can't go, but there's the radio.

So you listen-you root- you wait.

They start the campaign, pomp and pageantry reign

You claim the pennant on Opening Day

From April till fall

You follow the bouncing white ball

Your team is set to go all the way.

They fall short of the series

You have a case of the "wearies"

And need a break from the game

But when Christmas bells jingle

You feel that old tingle

And you're ready for more of the same.

It will be hot dogs for dinner

Six months of heaven, a winner

Yes, Baseball has always been it.

You would amaze your friends

If they knew to what ends

You'd go for a little old hit.

The best times you've had

Have been with a bat and a ball and a glove.

From the first time you played

Till the last time you prayed

it's been a simple matter of love.

Jack Buck

When I was a kid, I used to spend time in the country at my grandparent's house. It was a totally different experience. My brothers were left at home. Life was much slower.  I had the full attention of both my grandmother and grandfather. There are lots of things I remember from that time, but one I am reminded of every spring is how I learned about baseball.

My grandfather did not like football. He said it was too violent for sport. He liked baseball. I watched the game of the week with him on Saturday afternoons, and he'd laugh along with Pee Wee Reese and Dizzy Dean. He'd also talk about the strategy behind the play. It took me a while, but I learned over time that this was a seemingly boring but in fact a very sophisticated game of individual skill, team play, and an underlying game of offensive and defensive moves and counter moves.

The game also has a very smooth and calming cadence. There are big exciting moments; there are crushingly disappointing moments woven into those nine innings. But much of it is pitch and catch, or pitch and swing, or pitch and hit in a very methodical format: ball one, strike one, foul ball, a ball and two strikes, etc. I loved going to live games, or watching them on TV. Later, especially when working at the nursery, I would listen to games on the radio as I worked. It was the perfect backdrop of imagining the game pitch by pitch while preforming some mindless but necessary task such as transplanting.

This year, in the early, blustery days of the new baseball season, I had the opportunity to watch my 7 year old great niece play in her first softball game. I loved the idea that she was learning the girl's version of baseball at such an early age. It would be fun to talk strategy with her. 

There she was, all decked out in her beautiful pale blue uniform with red socks and cleats. She certainly looked the part. Yeah, ok, the batting helmet looked a little big, as did the glove. But her stance with the bat on her shoulder at home plate was about perfect.

Maybe you can just get a hint of the rest....Each batter got about 10 strikes. Some needed more to get a hit. But if you could make contact, for sure you could get a hit, because fielding the ball and throwing it to a base- any base!- was nearly impossible. 

So you get a hit. What next?? RUN!! 

But where? and then what? The next batter gets a hit. Where should you run?? Or even when??

Meanwhile the bleachers full of parents and extended family members were screaming directions to each and every kid on the field.

"Run!!" "Stop!!" "Throw it!!" "Tag her!!"  "Go home!!" "The base is over there!!"

The coaches were doing their best to keep things calm, and to instruct after the fact. The bleacher crowds cheered. So did the batting team. For each batter, the girls on her team would chant the cheer:

Come on, (batter's name), you can do it

Put a little power to it

Hit the ball! Over the wall!

And get a hooooome run!

They were so good at the cheer. So good, in fact, that the cheerers quickly lost sight of their batting order. "Where's my helmet? Where's my bat? Am I next?"

When their turn came to play in the field, they all tried incredibly hard. After all, it was only their first game. Getting used to catching that ball with the gloved hand (which you may know is NOT the preferred hand), figuring out what to do with the ball once in the glove.....These were all skills that would come with practice. 

And sometimes, when play was delayed, one or

two outfielders could use the time for practicing other things.

Somewhere near the 100th hit- or about the 3rd inning- my niece brilliantly scooped up a hit ball and ran to first base. OUT!! The very first out performed by either team! She was the hero, and her grandmother- one of the most vocal of the bleacher bums- almost ran out onto the field to congratulate her.

When the allotted time was over, and the next two teams lined up to play, we all walked back to the cars. In addition to lauding her with the highest praise, someone asked "How did you like it?" 

Big smile. "It was awesome". 

Grantland Rice said "It's not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game". I expect that this little band of girls will continue to improve the way they play the game. Their physical skills will mature. They will learn the thinking process behind the physical play. But I might add one more thing: I hope every time they get out on the field, it will be awesome.

Baseball is 90% mental and the other half is physical.

Little League Baseball is a very good thing because it keeps the parents off the streets.

Yogi Berra

Ephemeral Certainty

  

 

A Light exists in Spring

Not present on the Year

At any other period —

When March is scarcely here

 

A Color stands abroad

On Solitary Fields

That Science cannot overtake

But Human Nature feels.

 

It waits upon the Lawn,

It shows the furthest Tree

Upon the furthest Slope you know

It almost speaks to you.

 

Then as Horizons step

Or Noons report away

Without the Formula of sound

It passes and we stay —

 

A quality of loss

Affecting our Content

As Trade had suddenly encroached

Upon a Sacrament.

EMILY DICKINSON

 

  The Osprey pair came back last week. There's no 

mistaking that high pitched, mournful cry as they soar overhead. 

I forget about that sound over the winter, since they migrate south together. But I instantly recognize those long whistles as they return early each spring to the site of last year's nest in order to make a new one for this year. 

 I know about Ospreys, because this pair of birds has been nesting on the next door neighbor's broken boat lift for the past few years. They didn't bother anyone, and no one bothered them. I watched them construct their big messy nest, take turns incubating their eggs, fish and feed the young hatchlings and finally send the whole family for a spin overhead.

 The problem for these birds is that their former nesting site had been ripped down, 

covered with spiked caps, and replaced with a boat.  

After a few days of circling overhead, they seemed to have

 solved that minor problem with ease. They just began to build their usual nest on the T Top of the boat instead. 

 

What else would one expect them to do?

       It is still foggy, cool and gray here, but other signs of spring are beginning to flash.

                                 

    

    It is not at all obvious. But maybe, as the poet says, you can feel it. Look closely.

     Of course I look more to the plants.

 The early bud swell, the soft, often hairy fingers of leaves,

the grasp relaxing around flower buds is slow and sensual.  

The unveiling is provocative. The anticipation builds.

 Yet as slow as it is, as she says, it is changed- gone- in a relative instant.

That magnificently folded plant flesh will soon be

 a full, open, elegant structure.

        

The clouds of yellow pine pollen are not so

 subtle, well known signs of spring. Yet that pollen seems to sneak up on us every year.

 

         And sticks to everything...

                

             including water.

 It will happen this way year after year, without need of a calendar

reminder. If I am lucky, I can enjoy the light of those early, 

deliberate moments all over again.

 

If I am luckier still, I will feel it first.

"She turned to the sunlight and shook her head,

and whispered to her neighbor: 'Winter is dead.”

 

A.A. Milne     "When We Were Very Young"

 

Patience

 Next time

Next time what I'd do is look at

the earth before saying anything. I'd stop

just before going into a house

and be an emperor for a minute

and listen better to the wind

or to the air being still.

When anyone talked to me, whether

blame or praise or just passing time,

I'd watch the face, how the mouth

has to work, and see any strain, any

sign of what lifted the voice.

And for all, I'd know more -- the earth

bracing itself and soaring, the air

finding every leaf and feather over

forest and water, and for every person

the body glowing inside the clothes

like a light.

Mary Oliver

There's something fantastically irregular happening here. I have reached the age where many of my peers race to check off their bucket list boxes. Especially after the Covid years, folks lined up for cruises, flights abroad, VRBO reservations. I, on the other hand, have thrown my list away. I now live where I would most love to visit. I am married to the man of my matured dreams. My children and grandchildren are thriving. 

I don't long for the rare sights, the extravagant adventures, or the exotic tastes and smells. Instead, I crave routines that take me to the waterfront, and to the garden day after day. I can't wait to see what boats are new on Front Street, and which of the ones I saw yesterday are still there today. I look forward to each and every sunset. Like snowflakes, no one is ever the same. I treasure every ripening fruit or swelling bud as sun or rain or heat influences their outcomes.

They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks. And believe me, I could be an old dog. But if the subject can hold my attention, I find a soothing, yet refreshing focus that puts me into the bigger scheme of things.  Let me give you an example:

 My "job" in the summer and fall months is to catch blue crab in the crab pots at the end of our dock, and then steam them and pick the meat. When we first started this, we would buy bait to put in the pots, or Joe would occasionally fish and end up with bait that way. Over the years, I  learned which bait catches more crabs, but that bait was available to me only by luck. Then I learned how to throw a cast net so that I could catch my own bait. 

Over the last couple of years I have grasped the seasonal cycles of the best bait fish, and of the crabs, too. To my delight, I realized a few months ago that I can now tell when the bigger Menhaden- the best of the best bait- are running in the fall just by the flick sound they make in the water. I can just walk out on the dock and hear it even if I can't see them. I can go get my cast net then and fill the bait freezer with a favorite crab bait. I have also found that Menhaden is a favorite pin fish bait, too, so I can catch pinfish with the Menhaden, and then use the Pinfish in the crab pots. The crab like them, too.

I am absorbing the seasonal crab molting routines, and now we isolate the females if we find them "covered" by a male. That means that she is just about to shed her hard shell, and we'll end up with a delicious softshell when she does, plus her suitor, who goes into the steampot. As our untraditional tradition is developing, we freeze the softshells to feast on for Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner.

I have come to relish the big jimmies (males) in the last of the days of warm weather. Sometimes I catch flounder in the pots. More than once I have caught a slot sized red drum. I usually let the fish go, but happily take note that they are hanging around. The more I work at it, day by day, the more I learn; like the sound of the Osprey returning in spring, or the kingfishers call in fall. And when that big shadow comes over my shoulder headed towards the water, I can get my phone out quick and catch the bald eagle before he dives and flies away with his

 catch. 

I am also trying to learn how to think like a red drum; to watch for places the water slows down, turns a corner, flows around some grass or under a dock. These beautiful fish are hungry eaters, but also a little lazy. They would rather find a protected place to hang out while letting the water bring them a meal. The more I can spot these locations, the better chance I have of enjoying a drum dinner. 

The routine gives me a small goal each day. But the routine also opens up time to notice little details, or to think about how they all fit together. Perhaps now, at this stage in my life, I can try to fill my bucket with patience.  It is the one thing I have never had much of, and maybe the only thing that can take me where I really need to go. 

Adopt the pace of nature. 
Her secret is patience.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Patience attracts happiness; 
It brings near that which is far

Swahili Proverb

Sowing Hope

 

To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.

Audrey Hepburn

The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago. The second best time is now.

Chinese Proverb

Where flowers bloom, so does hope.

Lady Bird Johnson

I have been worrying recently that this blog is turning into an obituary page. On the one hand, I feel moved to memorialize those dear friends I have lost. On the other hand, I feel the need to remind myself that my life now is full of things worth honoring, too.  Last week just such an event crystalized that memory.

I have been helping Wonder Connection renovate a courtyard garden at the UNC Neurosciences Hospital in Chapel Hill. This organization works with hospitalized kids and teens through hands-on science activities, and they planned to use this garden with psych patients from the children's ward.

The space had been planted many years ago. It had some lovely older specimen trees, but was greatly in need of cleaning out, limbing up, coloring in. The project was funded by a generous grant for new plants, soil rejuvenation, tree work, and mulch. Much of the cleanout muscle work was staff or volunteer driven. But the vision of the new garden was provided by the patients themselves as they explored what a garden should be, what feelings a garden invokes, and even what specific kinds of plants might generate specific feelings.

My contribution was to take all the kid suggestions and to make a coherent design that would honor their thoughts while also fitting specific plants to the garden conditions. There were shade areas as well as sunny spots. There were areas that could use a little privacy, and ones that might be a quick glimpse at a happy spot for staff and patients alike. 

Put yourself in that place for a second. What is a garden to you? What do you think about when you imagine a garden? You'll probably come up with many of the ideas and feelings these troubled kids did- calmness, excitement, kind grandmothers, peacefulness, comfort, happiness. Even before they saw the finished product, they could see the benefits of creating such a space. 

Wonder Connection did not stop there. Over the course of several months, they had the kids plant all the plants that they had envisioned. The kids were supplied with trowels and gloves and sometimes even shoes so they could get out into the newly cleared out space and make that garden appear before their eyes. Many kids had never planted anything. Most needed to learn about roots and shoots and leaves and flowers; about sunlight and water; about color and texture. This garden has a little bit of everything: tall plants, grassy soft plants, groundcovers, colorful flowers, colorful foliage, herbs, aromatics, ornamental bark, berries, and lots and lots of seasonal change. The kids will also plant seeds and watch them grow, learn what they need, and what their various parts do. 

In addition, a couple of kids suggested the idea of a labyrinth as a garden quality. So besides the flagstone path from one door around to the other, Wonder Connection staff mulched winding paths through the garden beds to give up close and also varied views of different parts of the plantings instead of just an overall outlook. Now the kids really can "hike",  explore, and roam (supervised) even while in a hospital setting. Using the instinctive curiosity and wonder of young minds, this garden project opens the doors to learning and healing.

Engagement in this project has been enormous. Kids that have never done this work jumped into it. Kids that had not wanted to participate inched into it. Kids that had not wanted to work at all with staff were willing to try watering, or even just sitting in the garden watching the rest. And the staff response has been no less enthusiastic. I have gotten so many comments about how the garden has made their patient interactions easier, and even their own breaks calmer.

So here I sit, writing and crying. This time, not from loss, but from the profound blessing I have witnessed. I am reminded over and over why I do this work. The gifts a garden can share are deep, heartfelt, immediate and long lasting. They function across all levels- age, culture, economic. They contain the most basic of life lessons. In a word, a garden is hope; something I think we could all use more of.

An Observation

True gardeners cannot bear a glove
Between the sure touch and the tender root,

Must let their hand grow knotted as they move

With a rough sensitivity about

Under the earth, between the rock and shoot,

Never to bruise or wound the hidden fruit.

And so I watched my mother's hands grow scarred,

She who could heal the wounded plant or friend

With the same vulnerable yet vigorous love;

I minded once to see her beauty gnarled,

But now her truth is given me to live,

As I learn for myself we must be hard 

To move among the tender with an open hand,

And to stay sensitive up to the end

Pay with some toughness for a gentle world.

May Sarton

That's A Wrap.

 

Not My Age

Unknown Author

 

That’s not my age; it’s just not true.
 My heart is young; the time just flew.
 I’m staring at this strange old face,
 And someone else is in my place!
 
 My body’s not in disrepair.
 I’ve not much grey in my brown hair.
 I sometimes feel a little tired
 But go for jogs when I’m inspired.

 This old age thing is not for me.
 Concessions given, prescriptions free.
 I’ll just pretend I’m in my prime.
 To age too fast would be a crime.

 I’m just not 60 in my head.
 It’s still so long till I am dead,
 So please don’t see me in that way.
 I’m staying young, if that’s OK!

  I turned 70 this past fall. It seemed like a bigger milestone than others. 70 is a grandmother age. Oh, wait,  I am a grandmother. But I am a vigorous grandmother with three beautiful, vigorous grandchildren that I have to keep up with. 

I walk at least 10000 steps a day. I do lots and lots of yardwork. You ought to see me on the pickleball court. In fact you ought to see all of my over 70 pickleball players on the court. Now granted, there are a few bad knees out there, but nothing a little physical therapy and a knee brace or two can't take care of. I did jam my wrist the last time I fell, but Amazon sent me a wrist wrap in a couple of days, so I was back at it pretty quick.

 By now, between us, we're sometimes quite bound. Compression socks, arch supports, orthotics for plantar fasciitis, wrist braces, knee braces, gloves, water bottles, ice packs, ibuprophen, and at least one first aid kit are as much a part of our gear as paddles and pickleballs. 

As our uniform, we are clothed in comedy; if not light footed, surely lighthearted. We talk trash. We talk too much. We exercise our bodies and our moods, and both are in much better shape because of it. 

My daughter asked me just recently if I felt as old as I am. She's gotten to the age where she and her friends are starting to examine where they are in that scenario. I said I have always thought older was better, and that I seemed to be happier, if not exactly more pliable, as I aged. I don't actually know how old I feel, but retirement has allowed me to do so many fun and different things that I almost feel younger than I did, in spite of the splints and supports.

The wisdom from all those years has also freed me from conventional protocols that seemed so important in youth. From fashionable attire, to social media trends; I am just not bothered by unimportant standards anymore. Instead, I can concentrate on the deeper relationships that fill us all with optimism, passion, and aspirations. It is hard to look backwards while anticipating the future.

I paint a pretty rosy picture here, and mostly it works just this way. But there's one catch that has recently ripped a hole in this canvas, and in my heart. Just when I think I have come to that comfortable cocoon of existential fulfillment, someone is going to die.

   She was a tall, handsome woman with very short hair, and a very wide smile. She had a sparkling, commanding presence. She claimed she had once been shy, but I found no vestige of that early self. She was full of questions. I used to call her the "Question Lady". She explained that she was a "Process Guy"; she made evaluations by the Socratic method in order to solve problems. On the one hand, she was definitely organizationally driven, with her method and procedure surpassed only by her performance of the task at hand.  She worked tirelessly implementing the Affordable Care Act. She was the perennial president of her homeowner's association. She was a faithful poll worker, League of Women Voter, Washington Post reader, Russian Rummy player, brilliant Army wife, mother, grandmother, friend.

Her curiosity led her in different, unstructured ways as well, some of which I was privileged to share. We learned to watercolor together, and became each other's gentle critics. We exchanged photographs of our beautiful surroundings, and took to heart Mother Nature's daily bounty. We experimented with cooking, and found one reason after another to celebrate a dinner. We told tales of our grandchildren, played board games, went on garden tours, listened to folk music, drank lots of red wine. We found a deep-seated way to connect- two old women with young hearts and old souls. 

  Now I am looking for the bandage that will bind the gap between here and eternity. She was "a lion of courage and something precious to the earth." We don't wonder if she made herself "particular and real". She made her mark on innumerable lives. Today, she serves as a reminder for those of us who are left. Embrace courage, wonder, curiosity; cloak ourselves in kindness and new ideas, as she did. We must do more than just visit, before it is time to finally wrap it up.

 When Death Comes

Mary Oliver

When death comes

like the hungry bear in autumn;

when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;

when death comes

like the measle-pox

when death comes

like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:

what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything

as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,

and I look upon time as no more than an idea,

and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common

as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,

tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something

precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder

if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,

or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.