booandbunny

Took the new camera out this weekend ... fiddled ... tweeked ... fun! The first two were on the banks of the Missouri. The last one is the bluffs along the Mississippi.

It’s one of those weeks where Laini and Meg’s prompts seem to have some special telescope into my life. So, without further ado, Bedtime.

Once upon a Thursday in a room just up the stairs lived a little boy who wasn’t much for maternal expressions of affection. His idea of showing her his love was a high five, or maybe a roundhouse kick to the rear end. Curling up next to her as his sister and brother did … well that was for girls and kindergarteners.

When he was six months old he developed an arching in his back that he used to tell his mother to put him down. He used it often. By 18 months he had a little show he’d put on … plucking the kiss off his hair with a tiny fist and saying “Bam it to the wall!” as he made a throwing motion. By the time he was 5 his mother had started getting the message. He would permit a hug and a kiss before leaving for school or at bedtime, but not much more … unless he was sick or had had a bad dream.

But even then he wasn’t like his siblings. This independent creature would sleep on the floor next to his mother’s bed, never crawling into her arms in the middle of the night. And so his mother learned and the boy grew, all the while guarding his protective bubble.

It’s a safe zone, a place of delicate construction reinforced with strong will. His arms and legs swing freely inside his bubble, set to full strength, ready to punch, pivot and hook kick should anyone make it through. All this, his mother finally determined, is an unconscious but well orchestrated effort to defend the gold inside his chest. After years of worrying he didn’t know just how much she loved him, he grew old enough to send her signs.

More than once he would push her sleeve up when she tucked him in at night, rubbing his favorite blanket on the pulse point she marked with perfume each day. The scent would move to the blanket, which he tucked under his head with a purr.

Sometimes during a favorite after-dinner TV show he would sidle in next to her on the sofa, sometimes sharing that same blanket. As soon as she was aware of his closeness she had to fight the urge to pull him closer still and kiss his hair.

At 7 he was showing tiny signs of manhood. His shoulders were broader than she ever remembered and months of concentrated karate had cultured new strength in his compact form. He had his own opinions and his own ways of doing things and finally, finally, they had negotiated the terms under which she might show him her affection.

But yesterday was something else. A cold, rainy fall afternoon found him on her lap, worming his way into the denim button-down she often uses as a cardigan this time of year. She’d been pulling it over her turtleneck all day … and a few times the day before that. Angling off to see her eyes he smiled and said, “You smell good.” Then, to her surprise, he shoved his arms inside her sleeves and rested his head on her shoulder. “Can I wear your shirt?” he asked.

“Well, I’m kind of wearing it now,” his mother said and they laughed. “But you can use it for an extra blanket at bedtime.”

This made him happy and so they moved through the rhythm of the rest of the day. And when at bedtime she leaned in for her negotiated kiss he said, “You forgot to give me your shirt,” she laid it over that favorite blanket and turned off the lights.

When he came down for breakfast today he was wrapped in that denim shirt, hanging down past his knees. And he didn’t take it off until he dressed for school.

“I got to snuggle him all night,” his mother thought, sipping coffee and watching him butter a bagel. “And he wasn’t even sick.”

They are the words of the late Jack Buck, who taught me most of what I know about baseball. I used to listen to him call the games with Mike Shannon on the radio while I watched the game on TV with the sound off. (Yes, I am a woman.) But these 20-something-year-old words are all over Cardinals Nation this weekend after Jack's son Joe announced on Fox that the Cardinals had won the 2006 World Series.

I'm so happy for this scrappy team of walking wounded, a group of athletes I actually don't mind my kids admiring. They play hard (MVP David Eckstein). They play hurt (Scott Rolen, Jim Edmonds, most of them really). They respect their opponents (Albert Pujols) and they play as a team (Hello, starting rotation!).

But mostly Hubby and I were laughing because, whenever we see the World Series Trophy all we can think of is this character dragging it behind his car around a fictitious parking lot. Of course we would be saying this into his megaphone: "Attention American Leaugue! Your long run of dominance is over! Go Crazy Folks! Go Crazy!"

P.S.--Click on the top photo for coverage from the Cardinals' hometown newspaper, which has done a bang-up job covering this team. Click on the Trophy photo for the team website.

It was in me. I knew it was in me. But I needed the silence and space to set it free. Aack. So, better Wednesday than never for a Sunday Scribblings post. Click for more Good Stuff.

Group was such a loathsome place. James wasn’t sure what kept him going back.

“Nowhere else to go,” he thought to himself, pouring a measure of bad coffee and eyeing the veggies and dip alongside a platter of hastily arranged Chips Ahoy. The paradox pulled a grin across his face. It recoiled as he turned to face the rest of the room.

The chairs were in their circle, but there were more this time. “Boy, you miss one meeting,” he thought. James figured somewhere a handful of new sentences had been handed down. This, too, pulled a short-lived grin. “Sentences,” he muttered to no one in particular, tucking the almost smile away for safekeeping. Didn’t want to make any friends here.

“Let’s get started,” Dr. Love said, creaking a chair across the floor.

James knew most everybody there, so he stared at Eve L.’s shoes as the introductions came around. Rising from her stiletto heels were her obligatory fishnet hose which took their time getting to the hemline of her tight red dress. “She needs to get with the times,” James thought. Where he once had been tempted by Eve’s tawdriness he now found her tired and overdone. But, that was why she was here, wasn’t it?

A stretch of chairs remained unused and James wondered when the new folks would arrive. “Always late to the first meeting,” he said, remembering the power of his own denial. Then he she crossed his mind and he found himself wondering where she was as the twins introduced themselves … again.

Tragedy and Tragic had started coming to this meeting about 20 years ago, not too long after the first cable news network rendered them useless. A few months later they were joined by Amazing, Unbelievable and Shocker, all emasculated by the rising number of sports journalists in the 1980s. Scandal arrived in the mid-’90s, done in by the Clinton administration.

James himself was one of the founders of this little band and so had seated himself in the middle of the empty chairs. He was saving her a seat and knew full well that Love would leave his introduction for last, banking on some juicy morsel of self-indulgence after James’ absence last week. No such luck. James just hadn’t felt like coming. He’d heard all these stories a thousand times.

“Why are you here?” Love would ask.

“I’m not sure,” the newcomer would answer. “I guess to find new meaning. I mean, there once was a time when I had more power than I knew what to do with, I crystallized an undeniable human emotion (or condition or experience … this was a fill-in-the-blank spot for James). Now I’m reduced to rhetoric, sports headlines, fashion or food critiques. I’d love to reclaim that meaning in my life. I guess I’m here to figure out how.”

James was snapped from his flashbacks as tonight’s newcomers came in. They didn’t make a sound as they moved toward their seats.

Love motioned for him to move to one end of the available chairs, allowing these 12 to sit together. He did as he was asked, leaving a seat between himself and Love. She’d come, he knew she’d come. The 12 all came with that inconsolable grief on their faces, the same one he had worn in those early years of recovery. The fact that you’ve been used up is a tough pill to swallow. One by one the 12 introduced themselves and James stared in disbelief. There was Truth, Honesty and Charity. Twins Conservative and Liberal clung to their cousins, another set of twins, Left and Right. Morality came in, said he goes by Moral for short, and promptly bit into a Chips Ahoy. Finally Integrity held the door as War was carried in by Crisis and Conflict.

James couldn’t take it. He just stared at the now cold coffee in the trite foam cup. He heard Love’s voice but didn’t respond.

“James … James introduce yourself. James … GOOD!”

James finally looked up, snapping out of the depression he shared with all these tired, overused words who felt impotent and meaningless.

“Election season,” he sputtered as tears came to his eyes. “Wonder if any Good can come out of this.”

“Of course it can,” she said, shoring him up with a strong hand on his shoulder. He knew she would come. She laced her fingers into his as she took a seat.

And James Good was so thankful that he could always count on Hope.

Exciting and frightening all in the same moment. There are no excuses now. I must seize the moment. It is here. Right here on my desk, arm’s length. Its tomes of manuals are just daring me to pick it up and create something. I simply must load the software tonight so I can get out and snap some of autumn before it is whisped away. A new digital camera. I’m very excited. So, hopefully, when I post next, it will have pictures!

Almost a whole Sunday later and the Scribblers still have me thinking about time. For whatever reason, playoff games always make me think about time. For instance, when Adam Vinatieri kicked that last-second field goal to win Super Bowl 35. I remember staring at the TV … “Surely there’s more time? That can’t be how it ends!” But time had run out and the moment was gone. More than the other situations in the average day of an average American, I think playoff games offer us a true appreciation for “That one moment in time.”

My husband used to be a volunteer firefighter. He’s seen people die. He’s touched the dead. People with such jobs have a taste of time us regular folk don’t get. In an immeasurably small moment the life energy stops flowing and, after that, nothing is the same.

I’m not trying to compare life and death to a playoff game. I just have no other reference. It’s a means to explore my appreciation of the infinitely small measure of time that can change circumstance completely.

The actual contact point of bat on ball is a fraction of a fraction of the entirety of either surface. The time that the two spend in contact with each other is infinitely small in the scope of a two-and-a-half hour game. The consequences are irreversible. There’s an absolutism about those tiny playoff moments that offers new understanding to life in a larger scope.

Moments aren’t always what we make them. Sometimes they are made for us, as when the opposing player puts that fraction of bat onto that fraction of ball and launches it 400-plus feet in the ninth inning of Game 7. Then we are left wishing we could stop time and change a few things … put more spin on that pitch … boost that outfielder another half inch into the air … take back those hurtful words blurted in anger … stop that bullet … fasten that seatbelt … say “I love you,” or “I’m sorry,” or “Stop!”

Life turns on immeasurably small moments. But is it possible we might stretch them out a bit? Put down the phone? Turn off the computer? Close the entertainment center and block the TV from view? (Not during a playoff game, of course!) Is it possible to make the technology stop flowing and rejuvenate the life energy flowing through us and around us?

Of course it is.

We don’t have to sit in the stands with our hands over our mouths, tears in our eyes, wishing we could have made that slugger swing rather strikeout looking in the bottom of the ninth. We can pick up a bat; take a swing and leg out a double. We can dive for the foul ball, pull it from our glove and hear the cheers. We can stand in the cold autumn rain and smile as it splashes our faces, dance like little children and bottle that moment so we can drink it in again on a less glorious day.

A fraction of bat on a fraction of ball for a fraction of a second can change everything. Where did I leave that metaphorical bat and ball, anyway? It’s time for some B.P.

I can’t feel it running through my fingers, but I know it’s there. Sometimes a twinge, sometimes a tickle, but otherwise I don’t notice its motion.

The touch hasn’t changed, though there are more hands on me now. Your hands, our children’s hands … They reach out to show love, to receive love, to grow love, to believe love. And between these touches it has been running through my fingers and I haven’t noticed.

Those eyes haven’t changed, though there are more of them now. Our children are such a blend of the two of us. While two have eyes that favor mine in color, all four of you have eyes that disappear when you laugh, swallowed by the apples of your cheeks as they somehow kiss your eyebrows. And under the laughter there has been a rustle of movement that I haven’t noticed.

I still feel like that 18-year-old you met, like that 22-year-old you married. There has never been a time when you haven’t made me feel beautiful and, to be honest, I’m generally surprised when I look in the mirror each morning. Who is that middle-aged mother?

I see them growing up, and so I know it moves. I hear them growing wiser, and so I know it passes. It tickles my fingers as it passes over, but otherwise I don’t notice its motion.

It’s been moving all around me, over the outside of me … furrowing my skin and graying my hair … but it hasn’t touched me inside.

Inside of me time has stopped and we are still and will always be those college kids in love. Hair or no hair. Wrinkles or no wrinkles. Parents of young children or empty nesters. Extra pounds or frail with illness. The stages of life can’t touch us because inside us time has stopped. Burdened with the weight of this amazing love time is too feeble to trudge forward. In its pause we’ll grow old together without realizing. Even as we tally each October 17th as it passes, it will feel as though time hasn’t passed. 14 … 15 … 50 … forever … Happy Anniversary.

I have always truly, truly loved Liz’s senses posts, and now her new spin on them, which keep me feeling close to what’s going on with her. I’ve found myself in a whispy mode … the kind where my posts sweep through my brain like those paint-brush clouds stroked across the October sky. Any of these things could have been a post, but they flitted from my head too quickly. And so I dare to snatch them. Some days I’m SpongeBob, happily trapping an idea and milking it for all the jelly I can get. Other days I’m Squidward with a Monty Python voice over: “Run away! Run away!” Too many ideas and not enough time to explore them. So, Liz, I apologize for stealing your style, but I’m

Admiring
all you do and the way you do it.

Planning
Too much, really. Classroom parties ate my week last week, but being there really gives me a good taste of what my kids are in each day. There will be more parties in December and February. Let the competitive momming continue!
Costumes for Halloween, which finally came together the other day with the final test of a black king-sized sheet as a Hogwarts robe.
The holidays, which will be here before I know it. Somehow, in my desire to see my brothers I’ve invited 5 people to my house for an indefinite stay. Without knowledge aforethought I found my pen scribbling menu ideas whilst eating my lunchtime salad the other day. Ugh. I’m not certain we can afford it financially, but I know we can’t afford to skip it emotionally. Kids don’t believe in Santa forever … Grandparents don’t live forever. Sunday Scribblings has me pondering time and so I know this Griswald Family Christmas is something I must do.

Savoring
The sigh of the Earth that is the relief of autumn. It was 90-something here earlier this month … summer’s last gasp. Today the ground is mushy after the rains of last night and the leaves are sticking to the pavement after finally being blown loose from the trees. I could never live anywhere with fewer than four seasons.

Reading
I’ve been working with the kids a lot. Book reports for second and third grade. Check out the Molly books by Valerie Tripp before the next American Girl movie comes out in November. Take a stab at Cowardly Clyde by Bill Peet, a fun story for boys. And remember the Sound Box series by Jane Belk Moncure as your pre-reader moves into reading. The Kindergartener also has been enjoying The Sneetches and Other Stories by the one and only Seuss. As for me, Jerusalem an Archaeological Biography by Hershel Shanks.

Learning
Karate. I’ve been taking classes now for just over two months. I can’t believe I haven’t quit yet! There is no measure of the new strength I have found just by spending these few hours a week alone in my head, in my body, forcing them to actually work together. And, bonus, my jeans are loose!

Loving
The power of this family we have built. I have watched my children stick together, support each other, (beat on each other), laugh together, (torment one another), open their arms to new friends and grow. Together the five of us can take on just about anything.

Fearing
The news. I can’t take it anymore, which is no way to deal with things. Am I to wander my days in blissful ignorance of the current state of things? I have no energy left for my anger with our “leadership.” My realization that no one is listening has robbed me of my voice. The desperation I feel when I take in current events stoops my shoulders and buckles my knees. And yet I must press on, lest they win … whoever they are … since NO ONE on any side is listening.

Wishing
I could get back on the blog horse. I’m just not doing very well at it lately, but I’ll keep trying.

Creating
A mess in my dining room! There are scrapbook supplies and half-finished pages. I finally got rid of the party supplies for the classrooms, but replaced them with craft supplies for our annual handmade gifts. It will be so much fun to dip into all of these projects and watch people as they receive them. Right now, however, it’s just a mess. The Halloween candy is on top of a cabinet where the kids can’t reach it. (Wish I couldn’t … there’s a whole bag of Twix up there!) Oh, and let’s not forget the chair at the end of the table, the only flat surface left bare. I haven’t vacuumed it in some time. It has a lovely layer of snow white kitty fur across my burgundy slip cover! Her favorite place to nap.

Watching
Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip … love it. Shark … James Woods rocks. The Amazing Race … always worth the time, if only for the scenery.

Tasting
Double-baked potato soup … yum-a-licious on a rainy fall day.

Thanking
The higher power for my many, many blessings ... which is something I often forget to do.