Passing the torch on is critical to truth. Remember the best teacher you ever had, or the coach who inspired you to perform herculean feats of endurance. The mark of a good mentor is to generate excitement in the subject matter in reliable pupils who will pass on their enthusiasm in like manner.
Have you ever ice-skated ladies? Could you now? I had a rude awakening a couple of years ago when my grandsons persuaded me to join the family free-skate time the winter they played hockey. Confident I could glide around the rink with grace, I laced up my boots and stepped onto the ice. After all, I was on skates at the age of three; but neither glide nor grace were to be. Luckily I did get around the rink, hugging the boards.
As I write, the 2018 winter Olympics are in progress and I am being drawn in—must be a little of the Canadian winter in me still. Besides, I may know the sports better than you southerners. For instance, have any of you ever “curled”? Do you know what “icing” is?
About a month ago my daughter cracked one of the bones in her foot while tumbling. Though it was painful physically, it was even more painful due to the timing. She had just made the volleyball team for her school. She was so excited to play, and her competitive nature made it hard for her to slow down.
A few months ago I came across a plant sale. Most of the plants on this rack looked a little pathetic. However, some rose trees in the back caught my eye. There were no roses, only some slightly yellowed leaves on a couple of tiny trees. Most people had passed on them because they were not very remarkable. I then remembered a friend’s rose tree.
The other day I was taking off my jewelry, and I must have pulled too hard on my ring. It flew off the end of my finger when I pulled it over my knuckle. I heard it hit the carpet. I immediately got on my hands and knees to look for my ring. I must have looked for 20 minutes before I decided to stop and try again later. After looking later, I still could not find my ring. I knew it was there, and I also knew that I would find it with continued searching.
Once my daughter and a friend of hers got into a little disagreement. As I asked the girls what the problem was, each girl began telling her side of the story . . . simultaneously. When they realized that neither was backing down, each girl spoke louder and louder. My son was standing right beside me, and his observation was, "That's too many words!" I laughed and had to agree.
I almost missed seeing it, but I glanced over to Lily, the teen foster girl seated at the kitchen table next to me. The current group at the emergency shelter was finishing eating their dessert—two scoops of ice cream. Lily grimaced as she took a bite of the chocolate ice cream. Her response was in sharp contrast to her delight over the vanilla scoop.
“I can do it, I can do it!”
Those were my exact words, directed to my dad as a child, while I stood clenching a fishing rod, on the bank of a lake in the Rocky Mountains. I’d watched my dad’s technique so many times I was sure I could cast into the lake and catch a big trout.
How easy is it to release a suitcase onto the conveyor belt at a busy airport check-in counter with the possibility of never seeing it again? Airport baggage handlers are trained and responsible to correctly tag luggage for airline flights, but there are no guarantees that suitcases will travel on the same flight and be available to reclaim on the other end.
I had no idea what to do with all the little bags that just kept appearing after every trip. Each draw-string bag contained smooth colorful stones my husband selected from bins in souvenir shops. I usually remind him that the stones do not necessarily come from that area but a distributor supplies them to the stores.
I watch it over and over and laugh each time. It’s a video of my son-in-law on his four-wheeler dragging a long rope attached to a small plastic swimming pool. Round and round they go over fields of last year’s freshly fallen snow.
No one said anything. They just pretended it didn’t happen.
My friend had suffered her second miscarriage in six months. Devastated, she felt her dreams of motherhood fading away.
I don’t think I’ll ever have children. I don’t deserve to be a mother.
I looked over at my friend. She dropped her head, tears filling her eyes.
After the funeral, we all converged at my uncle’s house. Casseroles lined the counter. Dishes filled the sink. He’d become accustomed to cleaning up the kitchen since my aunt had gotten sick. As he started covering bowls with aluminum foil, he recounted the last few hours of her life.
I knew something was wrong before I started bleeding. I hadn’t felt as “pregnant” as I did the previous two times, but I had no choice but to wait and see. When the spotting started, I knew it was the beginning of the end.
I sank into the overstuffed rocker and massaged my throbbing forehead.
As a young wife and mother, I thought I had the perfect blueprint for our family. My intention was to have two children. No more. Within a few years we had two wonderful little boys. When I learned that I was expecting baby number three, I was extremely upset.
