A Different Kind of Player.....

He had received straight A' on his report card. Now THAT was an achievement. He had enjoyed a very successful year at school. He worked hard for his grades and studied feverishly for final exams and it had all paid off. But something was tugging at the back of his mind that he just couldn't shake.

Of course it had to do with baseball . His parents just didn't understand the game and they certainly didn't understand why he loved it so. They were pretty understanding about his wanting to spend his allowance on baseball cards but worried that he didn't study enough. He liked school and tried to do his best but, well, baseball was fun. He didn't even mind practice.

He had made a new friend this year who shared his love of baseball. It didn't matter that his friend was a couple of years older and not too well coordinated. Something his parents called cerebral palsy. It didn't matter. His friend had a phenomenal memory. Why, he could quote practically any statistic off the back of all the baseball cards he owned. Somehow what was happening just didn't seem right.

So what if the coach had agreed to let him play "down" in the league. Just because he was older and bigger, all the other parents were furious. Even a twelve year old could see it took him a little longer to walk from the dugout to his position in far right field. And couldn't they see how hard it was for him just to hold his bat steady while waiting for the pitch? And for pete's sake, he struck out every time he got up to bat. What was their beef, anyway? And wasn't he the first one out of the dugout to congratulate each player who got a home run?

The parents were successful in making their point. This would be his friend's last game. All through the game he kept thinking about it. And they were losing. He could hardly stand to look at the other dugout when his friend struck out. The game was over. He got up slowly, kicking disgustedly at the dirt. He couldn't let himself cry. He had to be strong for his friend. It must feel a lot worse for him.

Suddenly, he was almost knocked down as the entire team rushed up and out of the dugout and swarmed around home plate. Eleven dirt-streaked twelve year old boys hoisted his friend onto their shoulders and boisterously carried him triumphantly off the field. They didn't get very far and ended up in a heap of legs and arms rolling in the grass.

He wished his parents had been there to see it all. When he got home, they asked him about his report card.

"Oh yeah,I got straight A's - but wait til you hear what happened at the game..."

Dog Days of Summer....

Oh say, can you see by the dawn's early light?

The petunias are leggy - the weeds out of sight.

The temperature's climbing - utility bills, too,

With the thermostat resting at eighty plus two!

The bathrooms need cleaning, the kitchen floor, too,

What with Cool-aid and Gatorade and Rotel dip goo.

The ceiling fans spin and toss into the air

Stray gum wrappers, dust and dog hair.

The sink is full of glasses, the refrigerator bare;

A matched pair of socks is extremely rare.

Donahue is boring and Oprah too chatty,

Telephone solicitation is driving me batty!

The mailman arrives and leaves us a pile

Of Glamour and People and Colonial Homes.

Glamour offers help for unsightly toes,

People describes celebrity woes.

But Colonial Homes hits where it hurts,

What with decorative doorknobs and table skirts,

And weekend retreats and gazebos galore,

And relaxing summer homes..but wait, there's more....

Floral motifs and needlepoint carpets,

Italian bathtubs and handwoven blankets.

"Soft palettes of color" and "walls of French gray,"

"Marbled obelisks from Venice" and paper-mache tray.

Fantasy foyers and leather fire buckets,

Tiger-maple cupboards and hand-painted baskets.

A piano-bar work table and "original rush seats",

Cote D'Azur bed linens (I think those are sheets).

I toss it aside and return to my chores

Of laundry and cooking and scrubbing the floors.

It's really okay, I don't really care.....

Who wants to read in a French country chair?

It's all too dramatic and cheery for me,

In the dog days of summer I'm happy to be

Surrounded by walls whose surface displays

The presence of children in so many ways.

No marble or damask or botanical engravings,

Just smudges and dirt and pictures worth saving.

Vacation photos and refrigerator art...

GOODBYE Colonial Homes! It's time that we part!

Camp's crummy and I want to come home...

My daughter decided in her ninth summer that going to camp might be fun. She decided at the last minute so we had barely a week to find a cheap on-sale trunk from Target and mark all of her belongings with a permanent marker. I bought her camp stationary, tucked loving notes from mom between the stacks of shorts and t-shirts and kept a stiff upper lip - until we got her settled in her cabin. Her face was full of terror and her eyes brimmed with tears as she suddenly decided maybe this wasn't such a neat idea.

I pushed the tears that were floating at the edges of my eyelids back so hard I'm surprised they didn't ooze out of the back of my head. My mouth quivering and my knees weak I gently "shoved" her into the throng of chattering little girls who collected on the steps of the cabin. I knew better than to look back as I walked away. Maybe we'd done the wrong thing. She was so young. And shy. how could she ever trust us. We'd probably ruined her for life. As soon as my hand was on the car door handle, I knew we had passed the point of no return.

I cried all the way from the piney woods of East Texas to Richardson. All I could think of was the snuggly little blue-eyed girl who I had always tucked into bed at night. "I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck. Good night. Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite." My gosh, there probably would really be bed bugs. And a whole week's worth of mornings without "seeing you in the morning light."

"I waited impatiently for the first letter. It arrived.

"Dear Mom and Dad and Chris (especially Chris), I really miss you. I've had a boring time. I WANT TO COME HOME! I've been sick sense I got here. I HATE IT HERE. I've been homesick, too. COULD YOU PLEASE PICK ME UP. PLEASE. PLEASE. PLEASE. I miss you a lot and I can't go to sleep at night cause I think about you. PLEASE COME AND PICK ME UP OR ALL. I LOVE YOU LOTSSSS. Love and hugs, Alyssa. P.S. If you don't come and pick me up I will hate you for the rest of my life. Everything is going wrong. PLEASE PLEASE COME PICK ME UP. HURRY. FAST. Love, Lyss. P.S. I'm never coming to this camp again or any other camp without you."

I didn't sleep much that night. The second letter informed us that she "through-up" on Thursday. Successive letters improved but there was always a P.S. "I still wish I was at Home Sweet Home and not at this crummy place." When Saturday arrived and we arrived to bring her home (we got there a LITTLE early and without getting a speeding ticket) the first person she greeted with cheers and an eager embrace was her kid brother! She talked a mile a minute, looked three years older and convinced us to stop three times on the way home for REAL food - McDonalds, Grandy's and Burger King.

It felt good to tuck her in that night - to both of us. The hug said, "I forgive you for not coming to get me. I really won't hate you for the rest of my life. I'm so glad to be home. I love you!"

There WILL be days this summer - oh, will there be days. But when my worth as a parent of an unpredictable pre-teen falls to it's lowest, I will quietly slip to my bedroom, close the door and retrieve the box from beneath my bed. A box full of special rocks, yarn crafts and the camp letters. I will read the letters, cry a little and be strengthened.

Battle Cry on the Fourth of July.....RUN!

It was my spot. I had found it. In the middle of amber waves of grain beneath spacious skies. A secret, secluded spot far from the congestion of Campbell Road. I enthusiastically spread the word. Willing to put it to a democratic vote but lobbying for this utopic plateau, I encouraged more and more friends to join us.

I went early to stake a claim. Afraid I would be obscured by office buildings sprinkled here and there or lost in the vastness of wide-open spaces, I told my friends to look for my flag. When I saw that thousands had arrived early, I felt like Randy Quaid. Now we're really havin' a party! Surely my friends would understand.

They began to trickle in. Blankets, lawn chairs, baseball and glove. A frisbee or football tossed around. Someone searched in vain for patriotic music on the jam box. No Prince or Rod Steward for this occasion. Toddlers rolled down the grassy slope, too young to know or care about Texas chiggers. The sun setting in the west provided relief from the sting of patriotic sunburns. A chance meeting with friends from church. Pass the cookies and lemonade!

My sheepish expression cleared. My friends' loyally decided that despite the crowd, the weather was perfect, the children were healthy and we were together. As dusk approached, adult voices quieted and even the children seemed to sense something special was approaching. Like looking over the shelves of candy and gum in a drug store, the anticipation was the reward.

The first hint that something was awry was the closeness of the hissing and the uncomfortable pressure coming from beneath the blankets strewn across the grounds of this office complex. Having been informed that July Fourth was the anniversary of the Battle of Vicksburg, it seemed appropriate that the battle cry was yelled by one of our Mississippi native.

"Run! Run! Sprinkler system!"

Those across the parking lot held their sides and rolled with laughter as they watched us scramble for higher and dryer ground. Their laughter turned to screams for help when they too were attacked by Ninja Sprinkler Systems fifteen minutes later! With Huckleberry Finn-like charm, some of the young ones playfully turned a sprinkler head toward a seemingly understanding young father. The wrath of God came down. The Baby had gotten wet. The Baby must not have had its First Bath yet. I can assure this novice parent that the Baby will survive the Sprinkler System of '89.

And the band played on. And those on the ninth hole did, too. I knew those who golf on Christmas, Easter and their mother's birthdays but to tee up on the Fourth? By now it seemed irrelevant that a fully lighted driving range was open for business just a few hundred feet in front of us. And they never even looked up when the sky filled with the colors and sounds of America's birthday,

As I walked home, promising to come back the next day for my car, I didn't look up as I passed my friends stuck in the congestion of thousands of vehicles. I did look up when i noticed card games in the back of station wagons, strangers sharing food and conversation across the median and children singing.

I looked the other way when I noticed the Ice Cream man in his little white truck and the apron-draped vendors selling neon necklaces. And I look forward to next year. Memory-makers. An affair to remember. Baseball, fireworks and sprinkler systems!