Pickleball in the Time of Covid

 “That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.”

― Emily Dickinson

“You mustn’t wish for another life. You mustn’t want to be somebody else. What you must do is this:
“Rejoice evermore.
Pray without ceasing.
In everything give thanks.”
I am not all the way capable of so much, but those are the right instructions.”

― Wendell Berry, Hannah Coulter

So far, it's been 6 months. We thought it would be 2, maybe 3 weeks. "No masks, no worries" morphed into "masks, hand sanitizers, distancing". Then they were on to bending the curve with quarantining followed closely by devastating economic suspension. Rules and regulations proliferated. Common sense ebbed. Fear flourished, confusion reigned, lives were turned upside down.

Meanwhile, our own daily routines remained relatively stable. We had no jobs to be furloughed; no children home from school. Our pantry is always stocked, our toilet paper stash was flush. We could cook, or fish;  Joe could work on home repairs and I could work on the garden. And we could play pickleball. We made do with phone calls or emails or texts to family and friends. We all hated Coronavirus, and wished that it would be over soon.

Strategies for the future, at least as I remember, slowly evolved. Like the frog in a pot of water with the heat slowly turned up, we were eased into thinking the process needed another couple of weeks, then the rest of the month, or the maybe the summer, or the year. Vaccine teases were scattered throughout. "The Science" kept changing it's mind about when and where the danger lay. Meanwhile, numbers- regardless of whether they actually added up- were always rising. 

What used to be normal now seems very far away. I really missed my children and grandchildren. I wished I could see my girlfriends at cards on Friday nights, or visit friends who were mourning a loss. 

While the weeks of waiting dragged on, it dawned on me that I was beginning to wish away my whole life while wishing the Covid plague would end. But there's no dispensation for time lost; no guarantees this plague is the last; no pixie dust to make wishes come true. So I am following yet another route back to the beginning again. Pay attention! Count the blessings before you! Don't wait!

In June I went ahead and took the opportunity to visit Susan and Saultopaul a few months after Carl's death. I had not seen her or the farm in several years and I missed both. It was a two day drive  across to western Georgia, punctuated by a stop at another Susan's in SC. We all prepared carefully, and had been living mostly isolated lives anyway.

 

I was rewarded for my efforts with a wonderful, warm and new look at that gorgeous farm thru the eyes of it's new mistress.  We walked, talked, cooked and ate our way thru the significant and insignificant topics of the day and the world. We read. We made art. We did not wait. 

I also checked in at the garden house on the lake both out and back. That is always a comfortable visit full of beautiful scenery and captivating conversation. So nice to touch base there.

      I       

Just this month, my wonderful husband and friends threw me a surprise birthday party. It was appropriately distanced physically, but warmly close and cozy socially. It was a bit of a risk, but we could sit out on the deck on what just happened to be the first cool night of the fall season. It was loud, chatty, delicious, hilarious. There was drinking.

I have never been so surprised; never wanted to share an evening with friends more; never made a better memory to savor. My birthday wasn't going to wait, but thank goodness those lovely people did not, either. 

 

 

And then, of course, there was pickleball. Early on, Carole said pickleball would save us. We could be outside, we could get exercise, fresh air and some laughs. We could maintain at least some of our friendships, and make sure those friends stayed safe. Even during the worst of the lockdowns, Joe and I could play together and still get all but the social benefits. 

Now we are back to playing as often as possible. We made it thru the heat of the summer, and  look forward to the cool breezes of fall, and even the cold dark of winter to continue our play. We've all gotten much better at the game. We've gotten much stronger physically. We count on the exercise, the interaction, and the laughs. We appreciate every opportunity to gather and play. For us, pickleball makes the "new normal".

I have said before how lucky we are to live where beauty surrounds us. And in that spirit, I am making a point to appreciate each and every day. We're not waiting to love the sunrise, or the moonrise, or the spectacular, yet completely different sunset from yesterday's. We all feel that way, and share pictures and tales about dolphins, eagles, lightning storms, morning mists.

There is only one thing now that we will wait for. When we've safely crossed over into the new year, we will have another grandbaby. Boy or girl, it doesn't matter.

Vaccine or no vaccine, mask or no mask, distance or no distance. More than anything else I can think of, this baby represents the hope for the future we all need; the light at the end of that very dark tunnel we are in. Until then, and after....there's pickleball.

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean- 
the one who has flung himself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down,
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what should I have been doing?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do 
with your one wild and precious life?

MARY OLIVER 1992

The End of an Era

Art is a little bit larger than life - it's an exhalation of life and I think you probably need a little touch of madness.

Laurence Olivier

When he spoke, he was definitely southern. But don't be fooled. His wit was light years ahead of his own voice. He had a big head full of big ideas. He was busy; always busy. He was larger than life; legend; chef; the King.

Early on, I was faced with the prospect of leaving a voice recording on his home phone. I got this message: 
" You have reached the Cofers. Please leave your name and number at the beep. We would prefer verse or song." 
To say I was a little afraid of him would be an understatement.

We started small. I would visit Susan. Carl would be working. I would visit Susan at the farm. Carl would be busy. Little by little, I began to know Carl by learning to love that farm.

First of all, I need to say that it wasn't just any farm. It was hundreds of pristine acres in the valley of the NW Georgia mountains. The view from the house- a reconstructed antique log cabin- held 300 degrees of mountain ridge: Pigeon Mountain to the east, and Lookout Mountain wrapped around to the west. The field in front led down to a beautiful man made pond with a perfectly scaled church and school house to represent a vista across the valley. They were props, but they were perfect.

The farm had cows, but not just regular cows. Carl had longhorn cattle grazing the pasture. He said he liked the look of them, and when he started, he planned to grow a few for the annual county rodeo. He had a big red bull named Lucky, who "got lucky" with many of the cows across that valley. By the time Lucky passed, the herd had gone from white to almost pure red. I don't know that they have the annual rodeo in Walker County any more, but the farm still produces Longhorns.

Imagine walking down a path in the woods next to a stream. When you emerge, you see this little cabin across the field that was original to the property. This picturesque little gem was tucked in long ago at the end of the lower field, but was used at first as a weekend base for the Cofer family. The Buckhead lawyer and his wife and children spent every weekend for years in and about a one room cabin without plumbing or power.

Other buildings came along over time, including the house on the hill. Each addition - guest house, studio, office - was also made from old reclaimed log cabins, in keeping with the rest of the fiefdom.  There were hand split rail fences, hand painted signs, old fashioned whirlygigs on fence posts. 

As Carl had more time, he began more extensive projects around the farm. He heard, for example, that there were small abandoned churches in Nova Scotia . So he went up there, bought one, had it taken apart and shipped back to the farm where he resurrected it piece by piece. He and Susan placed it precisely where it would feel cherished and at home, and filled it with congregants again for all sorts of occasions. 

There was an area on the property that had strata of huge limestone pieces near the surface of the soil. Carl began to take his backhoe there to dig pieces up.

First monoliths, then stone sculptures of fish, dogs, whales, and men appeared around the farm.  

Then a labyrinth of smaller stones, meant to hold the attention of the walker while opening the door to spiritual centering  and greater creativity. 

Finally, a mini Stonehenge materialized at the bottom of the hill, equally in scale with the schoolhouse and little church.

I am sure there are a million other stories of projects and production. I am now happily savoring the times I got to tag along. We were there when they laid out the labyrinth and just after the new covered bridge opening. We did some painting at the barn on Hog Jowl road. We bumped over the fields and up the hills to see the new acreage. He took us to The Pocket in spring, and Rock Town in the fall. He marched us out to see the full moon at night, and to see the sun rise over Cofer knob in the morning.

By now you must have the picture. The man had vision. He had drive. He had a common sense perspective, and a sense of humor about it. He knew what he wanted, and he went after it. 

In the beautiful film by John Summerour (https://www.buildsxsemagazine.com/2016/08/saultopaul-documentary-film-john-henry-summerour/) titled Saultopaul, Carl said he liked having a quest.  Surely one of his most successful missions was to find the consummate mate. On his own road to Damascus, I think Susan was the bolt of light that changed the man.

And so in Saultopaul, one can see the fine details of their quest to embrace nature, history, art, and each other in a creative life. The land was his medium, and he was a master.
I believe that quest included the opportunity for both he and Susan to share their vision and home with lucky ones like me and my family. For that, we will all be forever grateful, and also changed.

I will remember "FDR....Pick your bird." Good advice, indeed, and a fitting epitaph. But I also found this quote from Robert E Lee. In remembering Carl, this seems to fit.  I don't think he would mind if I used this one, too.

“Shake off those gloomy feelings. Drive them away. Fix your mind and pleasures upon what is before you. All is bright if you will think it so. All is happy if you will make it so. Do not dream. It is too ideal, too imaginary. Dreaming by day, I mean. Live in the world you inhabit. Look upon things as they are. Take them as you find them. Make the best of them.

 Turn them to your advantage.”

― Robert E. Lee

Nana has Magic Shoes

"You don't stop laughing because you grow older. 

You grow older because you stop laughing."

Maurice Chevalier

In these days of vicious politics, plunging stock markets and scary infections, it is nice to have a comfortable place to turn. Down here in way eastern NC, we have a degree of isolation that feels safe. 

In addition, all the old ladies in our group have been preparing for years with gloves, masks, disinfectants. We had to !!  Our new cherubic grand babies were trying to kill us!

We've also got stockpiles of food, outdoor containers of fresh greens,

plenty of wine. But in my opinion, the best safeguard we have is pickleball.

What? 

In the past year our group of friendly, outdoorsy neighbors has started playing a game that is a cross between ping pong, tennis, and badminton. It is easy enough for old people, but will give you a real workout. The rules are a bit obscure, and the scoring seems designed to be an exercise to prevent dementia. It gets the competitive juices flowing. It gets (almost) all of us out in the fabulous fresh air regardless of temperatures. It has become an obsessive pleasure we need not even feel guilty about!

We've had our learning curves. There have been a few falls, bumps, bruises. There are minor complaints about knees, hips, tendons. You know....the kind of topics we were gonna be talking about anyway, but with the game happily in common. 

We've indulged in clothes and equipment and shoes revolving around pickleball. Just recently one of our regulars, who had fallen early on in play, got a new pair of shoes to steady herself. All of a sudden, she could get to every ball. She could volley cross court. She could return a laser serve with equal speed. Maybe she was just getting incrementally better. But we were convinced there was magic in the shoes.
A new grandmother superhero was born that very day. 

Another of the regulars is tall and extremely coordinated. That serves her well when she comes to the net to volley. We've nicknamed her "the Wall". She can get to most any ball whether the paddle is in her left hand or right- and she uses both. When "the Wall" approaches, she is rather intimidating. Most of the time I am already laughing when she gets to the net. Once in a while I can get a ball back, but I usually dissolve after that. It's hard to take a mean swing and a giggle at the same time. 

There are plenty of other characters, quirks, and anecdotes I could recall. Most all of them are funny. Bad bounces, bad bumps in the crummy cement court we play on, goofy swings, absolute misses, forgotten scores all add to the hilarity. It gets worse when we're getting tired. This is the most serious game not to be taken seriously; the team sport that relies solely on the good nature- not the skill- of each individual. It is an exercise we relish to build our muscles and our mood. 

While waiting for an end to the election cycle, or a beginning of the new vaccination cycle, give me some buddies on the pickleball court. Because, as someone once said, 

"Laughter is the best medicine!"