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April 24, 2010
Take Me Out to the Ball Game…
THIS AFTERNOON GREG and I took our grandson and his family to watch the Reds play the Padres. It was our belated birthday gift to Justin (age 7) and his first live baseball game. When he and his family arrived at our house Justin and Jayla donned the Red’s t-shirts and ball caps I purchased for the occasion and off we went.
The sky was blanketed with heavy gray clouds. Rain was forecast for the entire day. As we drove to the stadium I kept repeating a single prayer: No rain. Please, no rain.
As we walked to the entrance of the ballpark the wind kicked up—a harbinger of the rain certain to follow. Sure enough, shortly after taking our seats it began to drizzle.
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Grandpa Greg, Justin & the baseball
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By the fourth inning, Justin and Jayla had devoured peanuts and ice cream and slices of pizza the size of Delaware. Jayla was nodding off in her mother's lap. Justin was fidgeting and asking if we could leave. Just when it looked as though our afternoon outing was going to be a bust the most remarkable thing happened.
The Red’s batter hit a foul ball. It sailed over the Red's dugout and into the stands. We all jumped up in unison to watch it bounce off the railing above us. Greg reached out, caught the ball on the rebound, and handed it to Justin. Eyes big as saucers, Justin couldn't believe his grandpa had caught a ball and given it to him.
Justin held the ball throughout the remaining innings of the game—all thoughts of leaving had vanished. Turning the ball over and over in his hands, he read and re-read the “Official Major League Baseball” inscription. He rubbed the ball against his cheek and told me it felt like champagne (probably the most exotic thing his seven-year-old brain could imagine). He whispered in my ear that now he had another birthday present and leaned over to thank his grandpa again. Greg sat there grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
When the drizzle grew heavier we moved to seats under the shelter of an overhang. We cheered for each Reds batter. When the trumpets sounded we shouted "Charge." We clapped to the music of the Mexican Hat Dance. When the Padres batted we made raspberry sounds and sang along with the song "We will, we will rock you." And when the game ended, the Reds had earned a surprising 5-4 win.
While driving home, I pondered this ironic turn of events. My prayer had been for no rain. Instead, it rained all afternoon. But Justin went home with a priceless souvenir of his first game; Greg was elevated to hero status; and the Reds earned a much-needed victory. I got nothing I asked and more than I could have imagined. Some gifts come in fancy packages covered with ribbons and bows. Others arrive in the plain gray wrapping of a rainy day.
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April 19, 2010
"Let the waters settle. You will see stars and moon mirrored in your Being." -Rumi
MY FATHER DIED thirteen years ago, but I still hear his voice when I am cooking reminding me to sautée the garlic over low heat to keep it from turning brown. We did not connect much on matters of day-to-day life. His drinking came between us. But we had a deeper connection, one that circumnavigated the realms of reason and logic, and dove straight into our hearts.
During the summer I was thirteen, I filled in as a file clerk at his office. I was stunned when the women in the office flocked to his office to joke and flirt with him. He was charming and witty and, most surprisingly, happy. This puzzled me. How was it he used up all his happiness during the day and had none left for his family when he returned home each night?
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April Showers
Painted Hands by Kathryn & granddaughter Jayla
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But there was another side of my father. He had two abiding passions: cooking and music. On Saturday afternoons, the notes of Satchmo's trumpet, Heifitz's violin and Pete Fountain's clarinet drifted through our house, mingled with the aroma of sauteing onions and garlic (cooked over low heat, of course).
On those days I would watch him from a distance. I tried to take up as little space as possible in his life. But seeing him happy made me feel happy.
Through those impromptu Saturday concerts, I first experienced the music of the Spanish guitarists Andres Segovia and Carlos Montoya. I would listen from my bedroom as they cast musical spells with their twelve-string guitars.
When I was twenty I convinced my husband to take me to hear Carlos Montoya in concert. I sat in the darkness and ached from the beauty of the music—or maybe it was for my father.
We were estranged at the time. It was my choice. His darkness had become too much for me to bear. I had quickly married and moved far away. Eventually, he stopped drinking and we reconciled. The memory of those few years is sweet.
When I am cooking, I listen to the music he loved and think of him. In spite of our differences I loved and still love my father with a fierceness that defies logic. I’ve come to understand that it’s a matter of the heart, and the heart often defies logic.
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April 4, 2010
"Live the life you have imagined." -Thoreau
TODAY THE WEEPING cherry tree planted this past fall bloomed along with miniature iris and tulips planted at the same time. All around, the world is waking up. It makes me feel so small and humble, and fills me with hope.
My overzealous dog, Barley, has been digging in the garden. He’s after a mole that apparently is doing a residency in our yard. Like the cartoons from my childhood, I keep expecting a Chinaman to poke his head out of the deep holes. Each time I yell at Barley to stop digging holes to China, that cartoon image pops into my head and I start laughing. Barley thinks I’ve lost my marbles. I’d say that makes us even.
I haven’t been seduced into believing these warm days are here to stay. A bit too early for that. All the more reason to savor them while they last.
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Granddaughter Jayla (age 4)
24x30, acrylic on canvas
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My grandson, Justin, celebrated his seventh birthday this week. Like most kids, he has succumbed to the lure of electronics. He enthusiastically coaches me on how to keep Mario’s car from slipping on the banana peel that appears on the road. What banana? I’m still trying to figure out how to steer. Justin shouts a warning. Too late. Mario's car careens over the guard rail and plunges into the stream below. Justin sighs and offers, yet again, to show me how to operate the controls.
I’ve also noticed how quickly his younger sister, Jayla, is maturing. When I arrive at their house to babysit, we no longer go through the ritual of her proudly tugging at her pants to display her newest "big girl" panties and then demanding to see mine for comparison. I've never won this ‘showing of the colors.’ Even my brightest offerings are no match for hers covered with Dora the Explorer.
It appears that, at the ages of four and seven, my grandkids have already trumped me. I can’t operate a Nintendo DS and my underwear is just plain boring. But they both say I make the best fried chicken they’ve ever eaten. So I’ve still got that going for me.
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