I woke up this morning thinking about Torchy’s Tacos. I love their tacos, and they are so ample that one is all I need. Well, one and some queso. You have to try their queso. Plus, the tacos have cute names like Tipsy Chick, Trailer Park Trashy, and The Hogfather. But, this is not what I want on my mind before my first cup of coffee.
Bob had already gone to play pickleball when I awoke this morning. This gave me plenty of time to refocus. He is a morning person. My best time of day is to be determined. We are zeroing in on 10 am until 2 pm, but it can fluctuate or not really happen at all. I’m a low energy person, but I will rally for Torchy’s Tacos.
By the time Bob came home from pickleball, I had managed to put Torchy’s far from my mind. We sat down to talk, and I wanted to share a revelation that I had about my need to cut down on caffeine, which seems strange because that is one of the things that energizes me. So, I started to inform him with an opening of, “Okay, so…”
Bob replied, “Queso?”
And that’s how we ended up at Torchy’s for lunch. It’s like it was meant to be, and the queso, as always, was amazing.
My favorite book series that I have ever read is The No. One Ladies’ Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith. This charming series features a traditionally built lady who lives in Botswana. She is ready to begin life over and starts a detective agency. Mma Ramotswe has no credentials for being a detective, but she is wise and kind and helpful. Those three qualities along with her hiring of a quirky woman who boasts 97 percent on her graduation tests from a secretarial school, are all that is needed for this agency to take root.
From the very first book, the love of these characters and their home in Botswana also took root in me. Mma Ramotswe lives a quiet life, and she is endearing and traditional of all things Botswana. She drives a little white van, which she loves dearly and which her mechanic husband manages to hold together in response to her repeated protests when he suggests she buy a new vehicle. I just finished the 25th book in the series, and that little white van is still going.
I drive a little white car – not a van but an SUV. I remember back in 2014 when Bob suggested that it was time to look for a new car for me. At that time, I drove a 2002 white Ford Explorer. I loved that car because it had a third row, and I had space to corral grandchildren in it. Alas, he talked me into upgrading it to a 2014 Ford Escape.
This car had so many new features. It even would parallel park on its own (pretty much – I had to pull up near the parking spot correctly and man the brake). It also had heated seats, which was a new thing for me that I even took advantage of down here in Florida. The best feature was the ability to remotely start the car so the air conditioning could engage before we opened the door on a hot day and not be knocked over by the heat whooshing out the doors. I loved this car and never looked back on my former Ford.
When Bob and I recently began a conversation about upgrading my car, I was all in. Actually, it was my idea. We have several family members that would love a good used car that’s lived in a garage and was driven by a grandmother. That’s good marketing, but I had my sights on our 19-year-old granddaughter who wants to go back to college. Sometimes God lays out a direction so clearly. I love it when that happens.
I’ll cut through the details here. Ella is now the owner of my sweet ride, and I am driving something that is altogether different from my first car – a 1974 Toyota Celica. If I had thought about this car back then, I could have written sci-fi books. It is that different. My standard-shift Toyota didn’t even have AC as a standard feature. My new Kia Sportage has air-conditioned seats. And that’s not evening mentioning all the cameras around it. It’s like having paparazzi monitoring my every move. Honestly, it’s a little intimidating, but I’ll adjust.
The night before my Escape went to Ella, I was a little anxious and didn’t sleep well. It took me a minute to figure out that I was sad to say goodbye to my faithful Ford. When I finally figured that out, my first thought was – that’s ridiculous. My next thought – but not unexpected.
Goodbye, old friend.
The first night that the car was in Ella’s possession, I dreamt about Ella driving my little white car and hitting a deer. Oh dear! What’s wrong with me? Emotional about a car? As it turns out, yes.
Then I thought about Mma Ramotswe. I know in the future there will be a book written about her having to replace her little white van. When I read that book, I know that I will understand her inner turmoil and the sadness of losing a four-cylinder friend. There will be no judgement from me, and I will shed a tear with her as she sends it off into the sunset.
The jet lag from our Hawaii trip has passed. They say to recover from a trip, it takes a day for every time zone, so in this case, that’s five days. I always double that because my typical posture in life is lag. It’s been over two weeks now, so I’m back to normal – just my regular, daily lag.
My current issue is that I haven’t gotten over not being in Hawaii. That’s different from failing to get over any other trip or struggling to adjust to regular, day-to-day life. Hawaii gets a hold on me and won’t let go. Part of it is the island pace. I was made for island pace – nice and slow and whatever pace you like works. Perfect for me. So, it’s going to take a while.
To prolong my issue, I’m constantly faced with reminders about Hawaii, including a separate section in my closet which is devoted to t-shirts from Hawaii. The oldest is a Crazy Shirt (Crazy Cat shirt at the time of purchase 25 years ago on our first trip there, so it’s considered vintage). I also have a ballcap with the state fish stitched on it, including the spelled-out name, humuhumunukunukuapua`a. It wraps around the cap and is a conversation starter here on the mainland. It’s a big name for a little trigger fish.
My Facebook account still thinks I’m there and is constantly suggesting I take a snorkel tour off the Napali Coast or go pick pineapples. Speaking of pineapples, I have become a pineapple snob. Our tour of Kauai Sugarloaf Pineapple Farm was eye-opening. These are the best pineapples I have ever eaten and now I’m ruined for any others. You can even eat the core! They are more addicting than M&Ms, and that’s saying something.
We planted, picked, and partook of pineapples at Kauai Sugarloaf Pineapple Farm.
Wailua Falls pictures show up on my Facebook more than pictures of my grandchildren! I’m also becoming obsessed if not addicted to Kauai Coffee, at least it appears so by my feed. I have no idea what my friends and family are up to because my feed is laced with surfers. It’s insane watching them hang ten at Pe’ahi Jaws Surf Break. I know what Jaws is because, you know, I’m obsessed with Hawaii. By the way, don’t go surfing there. I think it’s safe to assume that anyone reading my blog should not be attempting 60-foot waves.
After an intense session of surfing, it’s time to relax and watch sunrise over Kauai, or sunset. I’d keep expounding, but it looks like it’s time to take a hike in the Waimea Canyon. Or maybe a nap. Either is good.
But this goes deeper. I’ve been so consumed with Hawaii that now Facebook thinks I live there. Hawaii News Now just informed me that all public schools in Maui will be closed until Friday due to severe weather. I may or may not have a problem. But, whatever, dude.
E-biking! I explained to the woman at Hele on Kauai Bike Rentals (and Boutique) that I had never ridden an electric bike. That seemed fine, but the pre-rental briefing included the question – so, you’re avid bikers?
Avid seemed to be a big word but I do know how to ride. She was satisfied but warned me that these bikes would be heavier than what I was used to.
Surprisingly that wasn’t a big issue for me, just a small one whenever I started up from stop. I adapted fine except when it was time to ride through the tunnel of trees. For some reason that was disorienting to me, but Bob went through fine. Of course.
Before our trek, we dropped our daughter and her family off at a trailhead for Donkey Beach. This is our effort to find them along the way.
Why is there always a hill?
Eventually we found them. The surf was too high for their planned snorkeling but there was plenty to explore and enjoy among the rocks.
Two hours along the Kapaa Bike Path was about perfect for me to sit on a bike as my body can only last as long as my posterior can endure even with frequent stops to take in amazing views.
I would do this again in a second. Especially after Bob explained the throttle. I was perfectly fine pedaling along enjoying the assist the bike offered even while wondering why Bob pedaled so much less than I did.
Let me tell you, the throttle was a game changer – no pedaling necessary. I was hooked.
Why is the place which we vote called the polling place? There are so many polls being taken to see who has the edge before we vote. That makes calling the voting place a polling place confusing to me. According to Webster’s Dictionary, a poll can either be the process by which we vote or a head. Score a point for the confusing versatility of the English language. If I had overseen the compilation of a dictionary, I would not have touched that assignment with a ten-foot poll, I mean pole. Essentially, the origins of the word polling place came from getting a head count for an election.
Now that we’ve learned something, it’s time to go to the polling place and vote. Although it is not on the ballot, fun has my vote. Smiling at people and joking with them while thanking them for serving at the polling place also has my vote. You can learn a lot about a person by how they respond to a joke.
Scene:
It’s early voting time, and Bob and I approach the polling place, a former Party City which now welcomes all parties, Democrats, Republicans, and Independents alike, into their location. Two people wait to greet us and direct us into the building. Before entering, we need to deposit my mom’s and sister’s mail-in ballots in the monitored collection box. They are examined for signatures, and Bob and I are given the once-over in what I assume is their effort to see if we are padding the ballot box.
One of the workers is a man close to our age. He’s jovial and hands us Just Voted stickers to take home. The other worker is a woman who seems friendly enough. I am a little out of step here, so I affix a sticker onto my shirt, proclaiming to all that I just voted. Only I didn’t.
That was questioned at the table which we stopped at once inside the building. I was helped by a woman around my age. (I guess we have more time on our hands than a lot of people.) She looked at my sticker and said inquisitively, “You voted?”
“Oh, no,” I responded and went on to explain to her that I guess my sister wasn’t getting a sticker after all. The records verified that I indeed had not yet voted.
She then made a comment to the tune of Florida isn’t like California. Immediately she looked embarrassed, but I assured her that a little joke at the expense of one of our united fifty was okay with me, especially if it was California. Her guffaw was safe with me. She seemed relieved.
I know this is a serious election. They all are. Have you noticed that almost every presidential election people say is the most important one of our lives and the state of the republic hangs in balance? I guess I’ve voted a few times now, because that line has gotten old, even if it is true.
I do believe it is an important election, mainly because the sides are so starkly opposite each other, and I fear a truly united United States is impossible. I do believe that we can try harder not to hate each other though, especially since it may be that half the country is going to be disappointed and sad (hopefully not angry) next week.
But I digress. After painstakingly filling in all the bubbles, I proceeded to the last usher in my journey. She tells me to place one ballot at a time of our two-page ballots into the machine. After I do, she hands me a sticker and looks confused.
Just at that moment, when I decline the sticker, anonymous California joker comes over to explain and join me in some more banter. I tell them both that my sister won’t be getting a sticker this year. You must be present to win. California girl and I laugh and high five. The other woman smiles politely.
As we leave, we pass the first two poll workers. I tell them that I’ll see them tomorrow when we can do this all over again. The man chuckles. The woman tells me that I’ll be going to jail.
My conclusion – there are two kinds of people in this world, and I have no idea if they are Democrats or Republicans, but I like the ones who laugh at my jokes.
Preface: If you are a regular reader, you know that I travel a fair amount, usually with my husband. This is helpful in many ways, but none more than in his ability to read a map and know which way is north. I am directionally challenged and get overwhelmed when I’m taking in a lot of information. He keeps me headed in the right direction and has almost an eidetic memory when it comes to geography.
“Really?” you may ask. Well, that is my opinion but don’t tell him because it will go right to his head. Even if he doesn’t, he makes his claims of what-is-what with such certainty that I rarely question him. Then I can go merrily on my way to whatever comes up next.
On this trip, Bob was not my travel partner. I was privileged to travel with my friend, Kim, who is also somewhat navigationally impaired. But I digress. First let me tell you where I went, but savvy reader, I know you are quite the smart cookie, I’ll bet you already know. Following is the account of my trip:
Yosemite rocks! My jaw dropped at the fresh beauty of every turn, but after three and a half days of taking it all in, I remained confused as to the true identity of the granite wonders. You might take it for granted that I could identify the main rock formations and waterfalls since I have been to Yosemite twice, but it’s been twenty years, so I needed to refresh my knowledge. There are a lot of players, so I knew I’d need to smarten up a bit. No problem I have a smart phone.
Smart. That versatile little adjective. One can be a smart aleck, a smarty pants, book smart, street smart, regular smart, i.e. intelligent, or a smart dresser. While I may not be considered a smart dresser in my travel outfit, I made smart choices of walking sandals paired with compression hose for my cross-continental flight. Since San Jose, CA, was hitting 100 degrees when I landed, I could easily let my Florida feet out of their confines once I disembarked from the plane.
One can and likely does have a smart phone, which should make the owner appear even smarter with all the knowledge of the universe in the palm of your hand.
It doesn’t always work that way, though.
I was stoked to embark on a trip to Yosemite with my friend of many decades, Kim Sutter. Kim was having quite the adventure retracing the eight-week trip which her grandmother and her grandmother’s friend made from Michigan westward through many national parks in 1930. Unheard of at a time when most women didn’t know how to drive, these intrepid twenty-something year-olds drove a 1929 Model-A Ford Standard Coupe and were guided by a 1930 Shell Oil Company map. Kim and I traveled in an air-conditioned Toyota RAV4, which is quite the improvement.
Kim, who lives in Oklahoma and is a member of my zoom writers’ group, is writing a book about these parallel adventures and the impact her grandmother had on her life. Her journey was the best kind of research and extremely well-planned by my super-organized friend. As with any trip, there were a few things for which she could not have planned. Not unlike the deaths of celebrities, Kim’s changes of plans came close together and in a set of three.
Thankfully they weren’t as dire as someone dying, but they did involve a death of Kim’s original plan. Each of her two adult daughters and her mother had been set to do separate legs of the trip with Kim. All three of these women had circumstances prevent them from the original plan within about two weeks of Kim’s scheduled departure. Kim called me to give me the updates and I could hear the sadness in her voice. Yet, she was determined that God knew what the plan ultimately would be and that she would take the fifty-day trek on her own. She is brave.
As I recounted these new details to Bob and told him I wished I could go be with my friend, I could see that travel spark in his eyes. Within a couple of hours, we were on the phone with Kim proposing that I join her in Yosemite and encouraging her to take a few days to respond to our idea so she wouldn’t feel put on the spot. Long story short, I booked a flight to California.
It had been years since Kim and I were together in person. Our journey together was easy, and our conversations covered a wide span as we took in the beauty of Northern California.
Cedar Lodge in El Portal is one of the closer hotels to Yosemite National Park – a lovely 15-minute drive to the entrance. It affords exquisite views of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, some of which we could see through the gaps around the entry door to our room. If you are staying near the national parks, you should know that the hotels are pricey and may not have had updates since the Roosevelt administration, but that’s part of the historic charm of the areas.
We assumed that the flying insects around the light fixtures in our room, which must have found entry through our door-gap view of the mountains, were part of the outdoor experience. Kim admitted she did not pay extra for them. The insects were on the house.
Access to the internet should also not be assumed when traveling to these remote areas. I inquired of our innkeeper if there was a maximum number of devices per room to obtain use of Wi-Fi. He laughed out loud, which disturbed the lobby full of people who were trying to get close to the hotel’s Wi-Fi source. Kim and I found three usable outlets to charge our devices (one in the bathroom and another hidden behind my bed). Reminding yourself that you are roughing it and seeing some of the most beautiful sights which God created is helpful to keep things in perspective. Kim’s grandmother would have gotten a kick out of our lack of modern conveniences.
Although I can pull up a map on my phone that shows grids for ease of navigation, much of Yosemite was off the grid, so checking in with the park ranger is a smart thing to do. While their maps are not inclusive of every turn, they are vital to getting around because sometimes signage can be missed while you are gawking at the latest magnificent waterfall or rock formation.
Bridalveil Falls was the highlight of the waterfalls for us, mainly because the other falls we could have seen were dry due to a prolonged dry season. You can see from the picture how wide the falls typically can be.
One day while we were finalizing our plans with Ranger Mark, I asked him to help me identify the main rock formations. My smart phone was driving me crazy.
Half Dome
Three of the most famous rock formations of Yosemite are Half Dome, El Capitan, and the Three Brothers. Half Dome looms large over the park at 5000 feet over the valley floor. My iPhone is obsessed with Half Dome. I showed Ranger Mark my picture of what I thought was El Capitan, which I had captured outside of the Yosemite Valley Welcome Center. I clicked the little i icon and it revealed the landmark Half Dome. I clicked on a different picture of El Capitan, and it said Yosemite National Park. Ranger Mark assured me that my picture was not Half Dome, as my alleged smartphone claimed. It was El Capitan. Half Dome may be the big deal of the day, but it is not everything!
El Capitan
My conclusion is that my smartphone is not all-knowing and Ranger Mark agrees. He said I should report it but that sounded like work to me, and I was on vacation!
Instead, I bought myself a handy-dandy rock identifier to help me along my way. But now I have doubts, and I am still semi-obsessed with having my iPhone identify things correctly.
This morning before I sat down to write this post, I took a picture of a bird on my feeder. I used my iPhone, of course, and zoomed in and then clicked the stupid little icon to identify the bird. It said, “Look up landmark.” This was not helpful, but I did take the time to report it to the good people at Apple. They need to get their act together before the whole world is unable to tell the difference between El Capitan and Half Dome. At least the phone did not identify the bird on my feeder as Half Dome.
For now, I’ll leave you with a cliffhanger appropriate to the park. Will Bonnie ever figure out the names of the rocks? Part 2 is to come…
The party’s over. We had a good run – one with a lifetime guarantee against chipping, cracking, breaking, or peeling. Tupperware has filed for bankruptcy.*
I wish I could give a 21-bowl burp salute to Earl Tupper, the chemist who in 1946 brought us the polyethylene bowls that would change the way people stored and served food, and the man who taught us to burp the air out of our Tupperware bowls to seal in freshness. Separate honors should go to Brownie Wise, who created the Tupperware home party.
“What is a home party?” the young person asked.
It’s a form of direct sales that took place in the second part of the 20th century which consisted of a dealer (not drug dealer) of particular merchandise who would bring their wares into a home for demonstrations. The dealer would arrive at the home of a hostess (in my four years as a Tupperware dealer I only had one male host a party for me). The hostess would invite friends, neighbors, and workmates. I’d play games with them, have giveaways, demonstrate our products, and sell plastic containers.
When I was a young mom, I attended many different home parties. There were Longaberger baskets, which Bob discouraged me from because they were super pricey. Mary Kay was popular. There was Princess House, which sold crystal. Having a family of four young kids didn’t exactly draw me to those parties, but I was always drawn to Tupperware. It fit my lifestyle.
At one point in the late 1980s, I was trying to figure out how I could augment our family budget without going back to work. I loved being a stay-at-home mom, so when I was at a Tupperware party and the dealer talked to us about possibly doing this ourselves on our own schedule, I was intrigued.
I talked to Bob, and we decided to give it a go. I say “we” because it would require me being gone at night to do maybe two parties a week after he got home from work. We would do a tag-team thing and see how it worked out. Our four kids ranged from one to nine years old.
It was more successful than I could have imagined and suddenly I had more parties than I truly wanted, but we looked at it as God’s provision for helping us knock out our debt. It was work, but it was fun, too. I loved playing games with the guests at the parties so they could win the prized kitchen gadgets. Demonstrating the Tupperware products was second nature as I was constantly in the kitchen at that time of life.
The practical luncheon plates, cereal bowls, and bell tumblers came in four different colors. This was perfect for our family as I assigned each child their own color, thereby making it easy to see who had not cleared their dishes. My daughter was assigned pink, which she hated, but she was the only girl and using a pink plate was her cross to bear. Plus, it made a fun story at parties. I sold a lot of plates.
Me demonstrating a colander at an outdoor party circa 1990.
Tupperware introduced a microwave cooking product line – Tupperwave. I taught microwave cooking classes at some of my parties. The irony of a person who only had a microwave for a year or two and mainly used it to reheat or employ its easy-to-use timer is not lost on me. I learned along the way.
Soon I was approached to manage my own team, which I did not want to do. It required more time away from the family in the way of team meetings. Tupperware franchise owners had goals to meet, so I was granted manager status without having to attend those extra things. I’m sure that didn’t make me popular at the time, but it did afford me the opportunity to qualify for the Tupperware minivan. I was hitting my stride.
My biggest week of sales was over $3000 dollars. That was in the late 1980s. The delivery method started with the dealer going to the dealership and picking up all that Tupperware, which was thrown in large boxes to be sorted. I barely could fit them in my car. Before I could do inventory and pack out individual orders, I came down with the flu and was in bed with a high fever. Poor Bob had to pack all the orders. We were a team.
Late 1980’s me at a national Tupperware convention in Orlando.
As the saying goes, Tupperware has been very good to me. I’ll bet if you look in your cupboard, you’ll find some well-used pieces, too. Most of mine are over thirty years old and still going strong. We particularly loved the gadgets. When I found my Tupperware funnel in the garage being used for oil replacement, I was glad I was a dealer and could replace the coveted item. Bob was glad, too. Now, if I can find out what he did with my one-cup dry measure. I know it’s out there somewhere!
Tupperware freezer mates keep 1:25 lbs. of ground beef frozen. I don’t know what I’d do without these.
Recently I was posting on Nextdoor, and I was contacted by a woman who asked, “Do you remember me? I was one of your dealers while I was in college?” I did remember her. Now she is a grandmother. That was sobering!
We all get older if God allows. We change. We don’t look or function the same way we did decades ago. Sometimes we burp out loud or smell like Listerine and Icy Hot. Sometimes we get icky sticky like a vintage Tupperware bowl. There is no amount of baking soda paste that can get rid of that. If that’s combined with that funky old-Tupperware smell, against which there is no guarantee, it gets chucked into the garbage.
Like me, Tupperware lives on, even if at some point that lifetime guarantee cannot be claimed. (My lifetime guarantee is Jesus, so I’m good.) We still have function even if our fashion has changed. And if we get to smelling funky or feeling sticky, like we’ve been out cleaning debris from a hurricane, we can take a shower and start again the next day.
*This doesn’t mean Tupperware is completely gone. As recently as this week I have contacted them to have a cracked piece replaced. I figure it might not pay to wait. There is also a report of Tupperware potentially being bought.
Go O’s! My family are lifelong Oriole fans, and my mother is the leader of the pack. I have fond and confusing memories from when I was a kid back in the sixties. I would knock on her bedroom door late at night and find her listening to the ballgame on the radio in the dark while wearing her glasses. She said it helped her to focus, and you do what you do to keep your eye on the ball when it’s dark and you can only hear the game.
A few weeks ago, Bob and I ventured to my home state of Maryland for my fiftieth high school reunion. It was held in Annapolis, just down the road from where I was born and close enough to Camden Yards in downtown Baltimore for us to stay over a few days and catch a game.
I was super excited. Bob and I had on matching orange Oriole shirts, and I donned my thirty-year-old Oriole earrings and a brand-new, flowered Oriole ballcap. We had front-row seats down from the third baseline near the foul pole – a great view of our favorite left fielder, Colton Cowser. Unfortunately, he didn’t start that day.
That was the least of the disappointments for us that drizzly Tuesday night in Baltimore, but there was a silver lining on all those rain clouds and all that was required to take advantage of it was showing up at the stadium two hours early and waiting in a light rain to take advantage of the first ever Oriole’s Yard Sale. Usually, you have to pay for things at a Yard Sale, but this one promised free overstock giveaways. That was right up my alley and totally worth a long wait in the rain.
We made friends with people in line who were season ticket holders, and they showed us the ropes, including how to sneak a cowbell into the stadium. They were our escorts to the “sale.”
The cowbell was a gift from my sister Linda to Bob and was in honor of Colton Cowser. When Cowser comes to the plate, the entire stadium moos (not to be confused with boos). People come dressed like a milkman and there are cow prints dotted throughout the stadium. Linda gave Bob a cow-print hat, too. It was a shame that Colton didn’t start. He was one of many not in the starting line-up due to injury or manager’s decision.
The Oriole mascot showed up in the stands behind us. Note the cow headgear.
But back to our SWAG. Our arms were overflowing with 6 t-shirts, 2 ball caps, 2 mini tote bags, 2 water bottles, 2 Oriole Hawaiian shirts, 2 ski caps, and 0 bobbleheads (You can’t have everything!)
After standing in line for quite a while to receive our SWAG, a nice young man escorted us to our seats and even used a chamois to wipe them off for us, but our hands were so full and everything was so wet, we could not put anything down. Bob managed the loot while I hightailed it to the Fanatic Store to buy a tote bag, which they did not have on supply, but they happily gave me a big shopping bag.
We crammed our stuff in the bag and were able to sit down and take in the enormity of the stadium. The distance from home plate to the outfield corners and the center field wall is much greater than it appears on television. The distance from our seats, which were protected by a net to keep us from being beaned by an errant outfield hit, was also greater than we figured it would be. Bob and I looked at each other and said, “We’ll never be able to see what’s going on from out here.” The one thing we could appreciate from our angle was how fast the pitches were. Amazing.
Our original plan was to eat at Boog’s BBQ. Boog Powell is the renowned Oriole first baseman of my childhood during the glory days of the Orioles. He was quite the power hitter, and I met him once at Boog’s BBQ 17 years ago. I don’t think he remembers. The garage sale took too much time, so we opted for chicken nuggets, a cold hotdog, fries and drinks. This was one of the most expensive meals of our trip, but we were at a ball game!
Two years ago, the Orioles showed signs of being a good team again. It had been a long rebuilding time. Then came last year. They were exciting from the get-go, and we followed them all the way to the playoffs. Shortstop Gunnar Henderson was named rookie of the year. I was proud to wear my Oriole shirts in public again. In prior years whenever I wore Oriole garb, I was greeted with shaking of heads and maybe next year. It was rough.
This year they started off with a bang, which led to a fizzle after the mid-season All Star game in July, which I blame partially on ESPN giving Gunnar Henderson custom-made shoes with a Lego motif. Gunnar’s game fell apart like an imitation Lego tower. Poor Gunnar. (I hate you ESPN.) Thankfully, we had such a big lead in our division that it was enough to keep us in the playoffs even if we didn’t win the division. (As I type this, our season is over much too quickly. Maybe next year!)
Going to a ballpark is a different experience from watching a game on TV. While television is preferred if you want to see everything, have a bathroom handy, not pay $12 for a hot dog, or not walk through the streets of Baltimore at night on your way back to the hotel, there’s nothing like the roar of the crowd and the sound of the organ to put you in the mood for a game, plus they showed us o TV.
Where else but at an Oriole game would everyone stand and actually sing the National Anthem. I mean everyone. I loved it. At the part of the song that goes “O, say does that star-spangled,” everyone yells “O.” It’s Oriole tradition. It’s fun. It’s America at its silliest and finest. I love it and I’m glad we went, regardless of the 10-0 loss. Maybe I’ll go again in another 17 years.
Bob and I, no worse for the wear, on Eutaw Street after the game.
January started off active for Bob and me. He had been suffering with issues from pinched nerves in his neck for some time and finally succumbed to fusion surgery. It went well, and he was told to rest and no driving for six weeks. Several days after the surgery, he noticed one of the veins in his arm had become more pronounced than usual and was uncomfortable. We were off to get an ultrasound – doctor’s orders.
It was convenient for me to drop him off as I had a doctor’s appointment just a few miles away from the imaging center. (Such is life for the over 65 crowd.) It was even more convenient when, as I was talking to our doctor (who’s also our friend) at the end of my visit, his nurse received a call saying that Bob needed to go to the ER. That place on his arm was a blood clot. I was literally talking to the doctor when the call came in. I would be there in less than 10 minutes.
I don’t know much about blood clots except they can be serious and you don’t want one. I picked up Bob and we arrived at the ER in short order. The ER insisted on running their own ultrasound. I guess they don’t take just anybody’s word for anything. It was a busy evening at the ER, so after the imaging, Bob and I opted to get away from all the people coughing up their lungs and blowing noses like they had stock in Kleenex. We waited outside on a bench with a heated blanket provided by the kind nursing staff.
As we huddled under the blankets on this atypically chilly January evening, a young man walked by. I read his shirt and obeyed.
He looked at me when I screamed, “Ahhhh!” He seemed a little taken aback, but he kept walking.
Bob shook his head and very soon we were called in to get the official word. Yes, he had blood clots in his arm, but no they were not in a serious area and not life-threatening. We were sent home with instructions to use a heating pad on the area several times a day and they should resolve on their own, which they ultimately did.
As we walked through the parking lot to our car, that same young man with the scream shirt passed us. I greeted him. “Hey there. Do you know why I screamed when you walked by us earlier?”
“Not really. I just thought you were crazy,” he replied.
“You may not be far off,” I laughed. “I just read your shirt and did what I was told.”
He smiled and we went our separate ways until I almost immediately turned back to him as I felt that prompting that I should say something else. He was smoking when he walked past me. “You know you should really give those things up. They are so bad for you.”
He responded politely that he had tried in the past and it didn’t work.
“Do you know Jesus? Talk to God and ask him for the help to quit,” I said.
He told me that he had prayed in the past and that he would again. He thanked me and we went our separate ways.
I’m thankful for my impulsive response. I have no idea why I screamed when I read his shirt. That was even a bit much for me, but how else would I have had an opening to talk to a 20-something-year-old guy without screaming to get his attention first. I love how God gives us little opportunities in our life to speak to people and encourage them toward him. What funny openings have you had that gave you an opportunity to speak into someone’s life?
Just for fun. My grandkids said Bob looked like Darth Vader when he wore his neck brace. Bob chose his shirt to accent the positive and submitted to a photo. There is good in him.
I’ve been thinking about how long I have been blogging and why I keep doing it. Is it just for me to get the words out with the hope that they uplift, encourage, or entertain somebody along the way? Or a way for me to keep a record of my life over the years? It’s more than that.
It’s a way to spread some magic.
And hopefully bring a smile.
But this morning, as I looked in my memories of this day in 2011, I more clearly remembered why I started.
Since those early days 13 years ago when I wrote under the name A Ship Bound for Tarshish, I have had a lot to say. I realize that many of my current friends – both physically in my life today and on social media – may not realize that I do this pretty much weekly. If you’d like to subscribe, you can follow me (see the box on the right) and you’ll never miss a post.
Here’s a link to my 2011 post to sum up what my blog is all about and why I write it. As always, I appreciate everyone who reads my stuff! There’s a lot out there to take up your time! Thank you.
P.S. The cuties in the pictures are two of my precious grandchildren, but I’ll bet you guessed that already!
Life on the Lighter Side 